of chest and shoulders, there was no hint of the prizefighter in the noble face and head that crowned them. It was a strong face, distinguished-looking rather than handsome, with a determined chin, a beautiful and sensitive mouth, a broad upper lip covered with a brown mustache, a fine nose, and clear blue eyes. He was evidently a blond, but training in the hot sun had made his skin for the time being a mass of tan and freckles.

For a moment they looked into each other's eyesthe hero of that great race, whose friend had declared him brainy and brave as John Denman, and John Denman's daughter, whose beauty would have distinguished her among thousands. But more striking than her beauty were Miss Denman's inimitable grace of motion, and the strong, proud character manifest in her radiant features and large dark eyes.

"We came over from Newport to see the race, and have n't been disappointed," said the senator. "We did n't have anything like this in my college days. They say it's the best on record. I congratulate you, Mr. Craigin."

"I'm glad Yale can accept congratulations,” replied Craigin. "But honors are about even, Senator Clifford -only three feet difference in four miles."

The terribly dry, choking sensation, and the feeling of having been rasped internally from lungs to throat, were gradually passing away; but the athlete's voice, naturally clear as a silver bell, still trembled and was broken and husky. There was a pallor under his brown skin, and under his eyes were large black circles. How could it be otherwise? He had put his life into that race.

Senator Clifford noticed it, and the modesty of the young man's bearing and answer. It was the bearing of one accustomed to good society and perfectly selfpossessed, yet evidently flattered by an introduction to the famous statesman.

"Ah!" said the senator, "that won't do! I gave you a non-negotiable congratulation, as we lawyers would put it, one you can't indorse over to Yale and Harvard. The others did well, but I'm enough of a sporting man, Mr. Craigin, to know that you won that race only by putting your own brains and your own life against victory. You see, they all understand it," he remarked, as his voice was drowned by the deep, harsh, guttural cry, in perfect time, from hundreds of students in the street below: "Breke-kek-ex ko-ax ko-ax! Breke-kek-ex ko-ax ko-ax! O op, O op, parabalou! Craigin!"

The conversation became general, and, sitting opposite Miss Denman, Craigin forgot all about his triumph and that he was under the doctor's care.

While the carriage was waiting to take the Cliffords and Miss Denman to their train the senator took Craigin aside for a little private conversation.

"My boy," he said, "I'm very glad I 've met you. If you 'll permit it, I want to say that I've taken to you greatly. I like you; I believe in you. I hope the time will come when I can serve you."

"I'm very glad, proud, to have you feel that way toward me."

"Tom says you 're going into journalism."

"Yes, I've intended to for a long time."

"If you are satisfied that that 's your vocation, I

don't know as I would want to influence you against it if I could; but I'm an old man, and have seen a great deal of the world, and I know you 'll take it as kindly as I mean it if I suggest something for you to think over."

"I certainly will. I shall be very thankful.”

"You 're not a man for a subordinate position, to be a mere editorial writer; and the managing editor of a great paper is the slave of the counting-house, of private interests and political expediency. He can't have a nice conscience and be a success."

"Do you think so?"

"I know so. He can't be honest any more than a politician can be, nor half as much."

"But, Senator Clifford, you 're a politician, and everybody, even your enemies, says you 're honest."

"Because I'm honest according to the world's standard. I never had a dollar that was n't fairly mine, never was false to a client, never went back on the Republican party, and I think I never lost a good chance to give the Democrats hot shot-that's my religion; and, as to the rest, I take the world pretty much as I find it. I've got a low standard, don't profess anything else, and live up to it. You've got a high standard, and I believe you live up to it. One reason I take to you so much is because I 've found the genuine article of your grade scarce as hen's teeth; and another is because I love a fighter-all the world loves a fighter."

"Do you think it's easier to get on with a nice conscience in law than it is as a managing editor?"

"A hundred times. It may handicap a young law

yer at first, but there's a class of clients in business centers who are willing to pay large fees for absolute honesty with brains and learning, and the profession demands such men for the bench."

"Senator Clifford," said Miss Denman, returning and laying her gloved hand on his shoulder, "the train goes in seven minutes. If we don't start now we shall all be left."

"Gad! is n't she a bird?" exclaimed one of Craigin's classmates, thirty seconds later, as Craigin handed her into the carriage.

"A bird!" retorted another. "I say a pair of birds! And a finer pair never was mated."

That night Craigin left the banquet early by doctor's orders, and went to bed and slept, and in his dreams there came to him, not the mighty voice of thousands of men shouting his praises, but a few and simple words of a girl of seventeen.

III

ON THE "MYRA-GLADYS "

HE Earl and Countess of Throckmorton and their two sons, Viscount Stadwick and the Hon. Mr. Langdon, on their yachting trip

along the coast, stopped over a few days at Newport. Years before the earl, as British ambassador, and Senator Clifford, as American minister, had represented their respective governments at one of the great European capitals. The acquaintance there formed had ripened into an intimate friendship, and so it happened that when they met at Newport, just after the great regatta, the senatorial party changed their plans and went yachting with the earl's up the coast of Labrador.

The senator had spent his boyhood on a rocky New England farm. He had worked his way through college by swinging his scythe in summer and teaching district schools in winter. Unaided he had struggled to front rank in his profession and to leadership in American politics. His distinction was personal. No son could inherit it. Even his modest fortune was almost sure to be scattered or lost in the second or third generation. He was a representative product of democratic institutions, as his friend was of a great and