CHAPTER VIII

"Turn where'er I may I findThorns where roses bloomed beforeO'er the green fields of my soul;Where the springs of joy were found,Now the clouds of sorrow roll,Shading all the prospect round."

These lines of George P. Morris came to mind, and they, too, recalled Jim Hosley and the early days when I began to be the middleman in his love affairs, and gave my aid to his amorous cause by writing his love letters. I had worked Shakespeare, Scott, Burns, Byron and Morris (the only five we had handy) in relays to support his fervent song of love, for behind the scene with my pen Jim said I was a wonder in stringing this fetching gush together. But I tried to be modest about it. There was enough in those five to marry the inhabitants of Europe to those of Africa. I understood that anything Jim said to a woman would be taken in good part, and those love letters in which the green fields of his soul must have appeared well irrigated by those bubbling springs of joy, undoubtedly pleased the fair dames and, I supposed, did no harm. But a joke is the most dangerous thing a middleman in the love business can engage in. The business is full of danger anyhow, but joking is worse than dynamite.

If the mechanical part of our arrangements had been seen by the young women—Jim generallyasleep and I copying the poetry from a clumsy, big book and scratching my tousled head for sentiment enough to glue the verses together in a prose somewhere near the same temperature—I don't suppose there would have been many victories. Perhaps there were none; Jim never spoke of results; he kept them to himself and I don't know what he did with them. All the margin there was in it for me was the literary exercise which in value hardly covered the cost of the ink. Perhaps he had married each one of the women and had killed them off, because he enjoyed the excitement of courtship's gamble more than the sure thing of matrimony. If so, I was undoubtedly an accomplice, although entirely innocent. A jury, however, might not take that comfortable view of it, if a handwriting expert were called and took seven weeks to tell them his story. They would certainly hang me to get home.

So first my grief and loneliness recalled the lines of the poet whose music I had used to Jim's advantage, and then followed the matters attached to the same chain of thought. The moment was ripe for one of those coincidences that occasionally arise to startle us. It came sure enough, and gave me the worst shock of all, for when I afterward considered its full meaning, I realized that I had for ten years been the innocent tool of the criminal whom Tescheron had discovered after an investigation of six hours. Had the truth been revealed to the world, thought I, with evidence of Hosley's guilt, my bust would be lined up on the same shelf with his in the Hall of Infamy.

"Must I to the leesDrain thy bitter chalice, Pain?Silent grief all grief excels;Life and it together part—Like a restless worm it dwellsDeep within the human heart."

More of Morris came to mind. I was sitting alone in the sun parlor at the hospital that morning, gathering strength in the abundant sunshine that poured through the glass windows on all sides, reaching from roof to floor. Wrapped in a single blanket, in my cushioned wheel chair, I was as comfortable as a man with a half dozen or so newly knit bones could feel if he sat perfectly still and did not exhaust his energies by worrying over the slow ups and the rapid downs of life, as one who had dropped five stories into the depths of solitude might, if not careful to turnto the saving grace of his philosophy and political economy. Learning is the only thing a man can count on in the bottomless pit, and then it won't help him unless he has a little humor for a light. Alas! my light had gone out.

Well, I was sitting there sunning myself and thinking how deep a hole I had fallen into, when Hygeia appeared, as ever a vision of loveliness, a picture of a merry heart gathering the sweets of life and scattering the seeds of contentment by passing busily from one task to another, full of the joy of sound health and thankful for the privilege of service. How did she find time to pursue a course in medicine? Her ambition amazed me.

"A gentleman wishes to see you, sir," she said, and she handed his card to me. It read:

A. OBREEON,30 West 24th Street,New York.Private Detective Service.

I felt that light was about to break on a dark subject, and I was not mistaken. A. Obreeonwas as much Dutch in appearance as French in name; he had a rosy, round face and cheeks that were like a picture of two red apples. He seemed husky enough to be a corner groceryman, who benefits incidentally through the fresh air advantages bestowed on his vegetables to keep them marketable. His beard was trimmed to look like a farmer's, with a clean-shaven upper lip—a form of barbering that prevents bronchitis, but not soup. No one would suspect him of anything except tight boots, for his mouth and forehead were wrinkled as if he were suffering from acute cornitis; you might call it "an injured air," for a man who has just run a sliver in his toe shows the same symptoms.

Mr. Obreeon seemed interested to the point of being worried when I asked him to have a seat, and at this and every suggestion he was taken with violent shooting pains, and his lips were pursed for a drawn whistle of discomfort. A smooth man was never so ill at ease. Any promoter who will abandon his air of supreme confidence and adopt the Obreeon principle of disinterestedness in all worldly affairs except his agony, will pull millions from the pockets that now begrudgingly yield ten thousand dollar allotments in return for smooth talk concerninggigantic ventures, as viewed from the sub-cellar of enterprise.

Obreeon apologized for coming; said he ought really to be home, he felt so badly; had been so wretched, etc.; but he had waited so long, if he was going to do anything with me, it must be done now. Then he would draw a few whistles, pinch up his face and screw his mouth around in a way that convinced me he had no axe to grind. No one but a philanthropist would go out to see a man when in such pain.

"There is a matter which I wanted to see you about before going to my friend Smith," said Mr. Obreeon. "Of course, I know he is working on this case—we tip each other off sometimes, you know, and would like to have this bit of evidence." He pointed to a small leather bag. I eyed it, but failed to identify it as a Hosley exhibit. "Some of my men gathered this evidence at the fire," he continued. "Of course, what I have found out won't be of any use to them unless they have plenty of Hosley's handwriting for expert examination—"

Hosley's handwriting! My swallowing was on walnuts. I could see that they were close on Jim's trail, but I dared not reveal where I stood in the matter or that Tescheron had not been nearme. If there was any handwriting it must be mine, moreover, for Jim never wrote; he sent telegrams in great emergencies. I pulled myself together, offering to get Mr. Obreeon a drink or a drug that would ease his intense pain, so that he might be persuaded to remain and divulge all he knew. This man was at work independently of Smith, and might help me. No, he would not take anything, thank you, as it might cause him to collapse! Gracious, but I was afraid he might collapse. He assured me he shared my fears, and made me promise he would be taken at once in the ambulance to the address on the card, should the worst happen. My assurances calmed him and he proceeded, but with great effort:

"Yes, I have here one hundred and sixty-two letters written by Hosley. I—"

At that moment the collapse was on me. I fell back in my recovery a clean two weeks, because of the nerve force squandered in trying to take that in.

"I think they prove he was connected with the woman down-stairs, for after the fire my men found them in one of her private boxes, tied up with a lot of her letters. But I have here only those written by him."

"Perhaps another man named Hosley wrotethem," I ventured, after recovering, "if you found them so; Hosley is not such an unusual name."

"Well, now, that's just what I want to get at, Mr. Hopkins. Maybe you're right, and so, of course, I wouldn't want to bother Smith with 'em, you know, if they are only a false clue; he'd only laugh at me, you see. As you, I understand, are friendly with Tescheron and against this Hosley as much as he is, I thought I'd consult you first and find out if these letters were really written by your Hosley or another. If they are his, I think I have the evidence you all will want."

Letters written by Hosley, and found with that woman's things! Then I had written them and they might prove to the world that I was his accomplice in crime, for if he had won her heart with these letters and had done away with her, as alleged, and Smith had the evidence to prove it, then I was his pal. My protestations of innocence would not avail. There were the letters and Smith had the specimens of my handwriting in the many messages sent to Tescheron at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. But how lucky for me that the sleuths of Obreeon and not those of Smith had found them! How I clutched at that thought! Surely all luck had not left me. How fortunate that Obreeon did not suspect me as an accomplice,for with those letters he might have convicted us both!

How eagerly I reached for them as Obreeon took them from the bag while undergoing a wave of pain that I felt sure took his attention from me! They had been written for Jim several years before in one of his most severe cases. That villain, Hosley, had certainly fooled me. I could see that I had been his dupe all through. I, his chum from boyhood, blinded at every turn by this clever knave! But at last I was getting wise to the trickery of the world; from this time forth I would be wary of every suggestion and live and die alone to insure the preservation of my innocence. What a harvest of whirlwind these letters would have brought me had they passed into the hands of Smith or the authorities! Here's where the profits come in, thought I, when a fellow sets up to do a jobbing business in love, as I read on and on through the first pile, pretending to have some difficulty in recognizing Hosley's handwriting. A few off the top of pile No. 1 ran as follows:

April 4,——My Dear Miss Brown:You have not forgotten the honor granted tome at Mrs. Pratt's. May I call to-morrow evening? I shall be eager to hear from you.Sincerely,James Hosley.

April 4,——

My Dear Miss Brown:

You have not forgotten the honor granted tome at Mrs. Pratt's. May I call to-morrow evening? I shall be eager to hear from you.

Sincerely,

James Hosley.

April 10,——My Dear Miss Brown:You and I in H, middle aisle at Daly's, to-morrow night. Jolliest show in town under these rare circumstances. If I come early, you must pardon me, for I shall be so eager to meet you again.The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees,Their minstrelsy unite,But all are drear, till thou appearTo decorate the night.Sincerely yours,James Hosley.

April 10,——

My Dear Miss Brown:

You and I in H, middle aisle at Daly's, to-morrow night. Jolliest show in town under these rare circumstances. If I come early, you must pardon me, for I shall be so eager to meet you again.

The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees,Their minstrelsy unite,But all are drear, till thou appearTo decorate the night.

Sincerely yours,

James Hosley.

Great Morris! It must have made him squirm in his grave.

April 12,——Dear Miss Brown:Thank you for the kind invitation for to-morrow evening.Sincerely,James Hosley.

April 12,——

Dear Miss Brown:

Thank you for the kind invitation for to-morrow evening.

Sincerely,

James Hosley.

April 14,——Dear Miss Brown:What a delightful time we all had at Mrs. Pratt's last night! I shall call to talk it over with you to-night.Sincerely,James Hosley.

April 14,——

Dear Miss Brown:

What a delightful time we all had at Mrs. Pratt's last night! I shall call to talk it over with you to-night.

Sincerely,

James Hosley.

April 15,——Dear Miss Brown:What a pretty name Margaret is! I had no idea all your friends called you that.O lingering rose of May!Dear as when first I met her;Worn is my heart alway,Life-cherished Margaretta.And when we parted last night, believe me,As morn was faintly breaking,For many a weary mile,Oh, how my heart was aching!Sincerely,James H.

April 15,——

Dear Miss Brown:

What a pretty name Margaret is! I had no idea all your friends called you that.

O lingering rose of May!Dear as when first I met her;Worn is my heart alway,Life-cherished Margaretta.

And when we parted last night, believe me,

As morn was faintly breaking,For many a weary mile,Oh, how my heart was aching!

Sincerely,

James H.

April 17,——Dear Margaretta:How long are you to be gone? Write me daily when away, that the period of your absence fromtown may be as brief as you can make it, to lessen the anguish of the one who "at the trysting place, with tears regrets thee."I shall be with you early this evening,Yours as always,Jim.

April 17,——

Dear Margaretta:

How long are you to be gone? Write me daily when away, that the period of your absence fromtown may be as brief as you can make it, to lessen the anguish of the one who "at the trysting place, with tears regrets thee."

I shall be with you early this evening,

Yours as always,

Jim.

April 23,——Dear Margaretta:The time drags heavily, and were it not for the cheerful letter that arrives every morning, so full of your enthusiasm for the unfolding beauties of the spring and your tender assurancesoccasionallygiven in return to the pleadings that pour from my overflowing heart, it would seem that I could not bear the struggle against life's disappointments. Time? What has time to do with love?Love cannot be the aloe tree,Whose bloom but once is seen;Go search the grove—the tree of loveIs sure the evergreen;For that's the same, in leaf or frame,'Neath cold or sunny skies;You take the ground its roots have boundOr it, transplanted, dies!

April 23,——

Dear Margaretta:

The time drags heavily, and were it not for the cheerful letter that arrives every morning, so full of your enthusiasm for the unfolding beauties of the spring and your tender assurancesoccasionallygiven in return to the pleadings that pour from my overflowing heart, it would seem that I could not bear the struggle against life's disappointments. Time? What has time to do with love?

Love cannot be the aloe tree,Whose bloom but once is seen;Go search the grove—the tree of loveIs sure the evergreen;For that's the same, in leaf or frame,'Neath cold or sunny skies;You take the ground its roots have boundOr it, transplanted, dies!

My dear sweetheart, my love for you is the evergreen, and write me, darling, not of the budding trees and the wild flowers so tender in the morning dew, for there is an aggravating indirection to such devotion. Write me, my dearest, so that I may feelThose tender eyes still rest upon me, love!I feel their magic spell,With that same look you won me, love.Oh! these spring days and thoughts of you combine to swell my song to bursting. When, Margaretta, do you return? for I would behold againThy form of matchless symmetry,In sweet perfection cast—I miss thee everywhere, beloved,I miss thee everywhere;Both night and day wear dull away,And leave me in despair.The banquet hall, the play, the ball,And childhood's sportive glee,Have lost their spell for me, beloved,My soul is full of thee.Your story of the springtime is very sweet. The descriptions are true to life, and as I read on and on, I behold the exquisite beauties of your character, for as you so lovingly and simply tell of the birds, the flowers, the brook and the mist enshrouding the lowing kine, you artlessly sound the great depths of your own soul.How I envy the winged denizens of the country! even those black beetles you so playfully refer to on page 18, line 56. I wishImight come in somewhere:—Has Margaret forgottenme,And love I now in vain?If that be so, my heart can knowNo rest on earth again.A sad and weary lot is mine,To love and be forgot;A sad and weary lot, beloved;A sad and weary lot!And, of course, it pleases me to know they are making much of you up there in the country. I can see the swains for miles around polishing their manners and taking astonishing pains with their Sunday's best, to make a good impression. They, too, are baring their hearts to your melting glances, completely enchanted under the spell of your womanly graces. But believe me, my darling Margaret,When other friends are round thee,And other hearts are thine;When other bays have crowned thee,Morefreshandgreenthan mine—Then think how sad and lonelyThis doting heart will be,Which, while it throbs, throbs only,Beloved one, for thee!And oh, how I fear, not the spring songs of the birds so mellow with love's endearing persuasion, the whisperings of the soft winds, nor the caprice of the beetles, but the gentle pastorals of those sturdy rural bards. List not to their tender minstrelsy, my darling! List not to the country poet's song, but hie thee home to thy awaiting Jamie. List not, for—How sweet the cadence of his lyre!What melody of words!They strike a pulse within the heart,Like songs of forest birds,Or tinkling of the shepherd's bellAmong the mountain herds.Can't you hurry home, Margaret? The town has not lost all its fascination for you, I hope. Are there no other joys in life but the top notes of the birdies and the murmurings of the awakening forest?Come, come to me, love!Come, love! Arise!And shame the bright starsWith the light of thine eyes;Look out from thy lattice—Oh,lady-bird, hear!Write me, my darling, the good news of your home-coming, that I may greet you at the Grand Central. Oh, promise me that you will hasten home, and name the minute the train is due, that I may be there an hour early.'Tis then the promised hourWhen torches kindle in the skiesTo light thee to thy bower.Your only, devoted, well-nigh distracted, but fondly trueJamie.

Those tender eyes still rest upon me, love!I feel their magic spell,With that same look you won me, love.

Oh! these spring days and thoughts of you combine to swell my song to bursting. When, Margaretta, do you return? for I would behold again

Thy form of matchless symmetry,In sweet perfection cast—

I miss thee everywhere, beloved,I miss thee everywhere;Both night and day wear dull away,And leave me in despair.The banquet hall, the play, the ball,And childhood's sportive glee,Have lost their spell for me, beloved,My soul is full of thee.

Your story of the springtime is very sweet. The descriptions are true to life, and as I read on and on, I behold the exquisite beauties of your character, for as you so lovingly and simply tell of the birds, the flowers, the brook and the mist enshrouding the lowing kine, you artlessly sound the great depths of your own soul.

How I envy the winged denizens of the country! even those black beetles you so playfully refer to on page 18, line 56. I wishImight come in somewhere:—

Has Margaret forgottenme,And love I now in vain?If that be so, my heart can knowNo rest on earth again.A sad and weary lot is mine,To love and be forgot;A sad and weary lot, beloved;A sad and weary lot!

And, of course, it pleases me to know they are making much of you up there in the country. I can see the swains for miles around polishing their manners and taking astonishing pains with their Sunday's best, to make a good impression. They, too, are baring their hearts to your melting glances, completely enchanted under the spell of your womanly graces. But believe me, my darling Margaret,

When other friends are round thee,And other hearts are thine;When other bays have crowned thee,Morefreshandgreenthan mine—Then think how sad and lonelyThis doting heart will be,Which, while it throbs, throbs only,Beloved one, for thee!

And oh, how I fear, not the spring songs of the birds so mellow with love's endearing persuasion, the whisperings of the soft winds, nor the caprice of the beetles, but the gentle pastorals of those sturdy rural bards. List not to their tender minstrelsy, my darling! List not to the country poet's song, but hie thee home to thy awaiting Jamie. List not, for—

How sweet the cadence of his lyre!What melody of words!They strike a pulse within the heart,Like songs of forest birds,Or tinkling of the shepherd's bellAmong the mountain herds.

Can't you hurry home, Margaret? The town has not lost all its fascination for you, I hope. Are there no other joys in life but the top notes of the birdies and the murmurings of the awakening forest?

Come, come to me, love!Come, love! Arise!And shame the bright starsWith the light of thine eyes;Look out from thy lattice—Oh,lady-bird, hear!

Write me, my darling, the good news of your home-coming, that I may greet you at the Grand Central. Oh, promise me that you will hasten home, and name the minute the train is due, that I may be there an hour early.

'Tis then the promised hourWhen torches kindle in the skiesTo light thee to thy bower.

Your only, devoted, well-nigh distracted, but fondly true

Jamie.

Whew! Shade of Morris, forgive me for the base uses to which I turned your love songs!

When I had finished going over the letters I proceeded to be extremely wise and diplomatic.

"These letters seem to bear Hosley's name," said I; "they might help us—in fact, I am glad you took the pains to bring them to me. Are there any more?" He might not have noticed how anxious I was to have them all.

"Yes, you have the complete and most damaging documents in the case," he answered. "They only need your identification, or if there should be any handwriting for comparison, you can understand—yes, just so—why, it would be easy without your evidence. I see you appreciate their enormous value."

This fellow was getting around to talk cash in a way that made me squirm, and as he eased off again his pain kept him engaged and gave me a chance to think. When I wrote those letters I thought they were pretty nice, but I never put any cash value on them, and never supposed there would be any market for them.

"Mr. Obreeon," said I, "about what would compensate you for your trouble in gathering up those letters?" I was calm.

"One thousand dollars." And as he said it his pain left him and shot into me.

I rocked and gripped the chair. I could see there was no use to get mad and talk loud, for he had me where there was only one move I couldmake without getting in check, and that was into my pocketbook. Besides, if I talked too much he might find where I came in on the thing.

"Five hundred, cash down, I'll give you," said I, trying to look disinterested, as if I dealt in autographs and letters of great men.

"One thousand dollars, hair and all," said he, rubbing his palms in a net-price manner.

"Hair?"

"Yes; there's a lock of Hosley's hair and some rings—everything is included in my price."

What was it worth to keep out of the electric chair? That is the way I figured it; it wasn't so much a question of letters and mere poetry and hair.

"That's an awful price," said I, "an awful price."

"Well, let me take them around to Tescheron. My price to him will be three thousand dollars, and I know from the prices Smith is getting that he'll pay. Glad to see you improving. Anything in my line, Mr. Hopkins, would be pleased to hear from you; old established house—"

"Sit down! Sit down, Obreeon! I'll split the difference with you and let you have my check." I touched a button and requested that my new handbag containing my checkbook and fountain pen bebrought. Thank goodness, my bank account had not burned and my reputation might yet be saved.

"No, Mr. Hopkins, I am favoring you, really I am, in this matter, you know, and I could not—I could not cut that price."

What was the use? It almost cleaned me out, but I never hankered after money if it meant publicity. You may say it was only a fad or fancy of mine. I drew my check for $1,000 of hard-earned cash, slowly gathered by years of saving out of a small salary, and gave it to him, making sure I had the goods and extra fittings.

Mr. Obreeon started for home with warm feet and a remarkably steady gait.

Well, I never thought any letters of mine would bring that sum in the open market, and as for Jim's hair, I had known him to pay a quarter to have a lot of it cut off and thrown away.

I did a little figuring with my pen after Obreeon left. Taking the hairs and letters combined, they cost me an average price of $5.55. I worked it out this way:

162—of my letters.18—of Jim's hairs.——180—total hairs and letters.

You then divide $1,000 by 180 to ascertain the average price of $5.55.

Or, if you want to get at the price of each hair, counting the letters as dead stock, you grasp at a glance that the hairs are just 10 per cent, of the outfit, so you divide 180 by 10, and that gives you 18; take this amount and you run it into $1,000, and you get the price per hair as $55.55. When you arrive at this answer you may note that you might have obtained it by multiplying the average price by ten. In other words, the hair, if entirely loose from the poetry, costs ten times as much. To get at the price of the poetry loose from the hair, you simply divide $1,000 by 162, the number of letters, and that gives you $6.17 as the price of each letter, wholly disregarding the hair. It will be seen, therefore, that the commodity of highest value in an ordinary love correspondence, such as this was, is the hair, so that it is important for purchasers to consider if it is worth the price should the poetry go out of style.

I have often thought I might have bought four or five Persian lamb coats for—well, never mind. There is no cold-storage expense keeping this fur of Jim's. Every deal shows its profit one way or the other, and sooner or later you'll find it.There is a heavy expense attached to making over Persian lamb coats, besides. What I have of Jim's coat I wouldn't alter for the world, because whenever I have a craving for poetry with hair, I turn to that and get all I want for some time to come, just at a glance.

Now that I know Gabrielle Tescheron, I am for giving woman the largest liberty in all matters; let her have suffrage if she will take it. I am for giving woman everything—just let her run loose, here, there and everywhere, and then you'll see the world tidy up. It's time the worldliness of the world was viewed with fresh eyes. Woman, so long held in restraint, in many ways is a better observer than conventional man. She is like a countryman newly arrived in the city. It takes a countryman to see the real sights of New York; of course, he won't let on or be surprised at anything, for he wants you to feel that the only metropolis worth while is the place he calls "down street," up home; he is taking it all in, however, like an old-fashioned sap-kettle, and if you have dumped maple juice fresh from the trees into one all day, you'd think it held the five oceans and the Great Lakes. For years afterward his views on New York illuminate locally every city scandal reported in the New York papers; he probably saw it coming when he was down, and can tell a lot of incidents there was no space for in the crowded papers.

At one of the Oswegatchie County dinners held in a swell New York hotel I once saw one of these confident, you-can't-surprise-me countrymen take a drink of water from a goblet with a scalloped edge; it stood fourteen inches high and six across. The waiter had placed it on the table near him full of celery, but when the last piece had been taken and only a few green leaves floated like lily pads on its calm surface, he knew the proper thing to do. He just blew off the stray leaves, stretched his mouth around the prongs on the edge, got his paw under it, turned it up and enjoyed his simple highball. All our strong men come from the country. They drink and see things straight. They are more particular as to contents than containers, for they are nearly all prohibitionists or very high license advocates. When they are "dry," they drink equally well from a spring-hole, a spigot, a dipper or a pail.

"Rather generous with the water at these dinners, Reuben," I said, addressing him across the table, as he covered his mouth with his napkin preparatory to resuming his composure.

"These fashionable glasses always cut my mouth," he replied, wrinkling his brow to emphasize his dislike for the fads of the aristocracy.

But when an out-and-out city man goes to the country, he can't see anything; it's all just like Central Park, in that there are no houses to be seen, only it's not laid out so well nor raked so clean. I have often seen these chaps when they came up to our place. The city man is as blind as a cave fish, and all he wants to know is when do they eat and are there any mosquitoes and poison ivy. The air suits him, only it's a little too strong; and the dirt is satisfactory—all else is away below par, and if it weren't for the air and the dirt, which the country-bred city doctor has told him the kids need, he'd like to be home, where he can be sociable in his sub-stratum of atmospheric poison, amid the clatter that consumes his vital forces and keeps him pleasantly anæmic and tolerably dead.

Did you ever go through the woods with a native New Yorker? There has been an incessant stream of startling things running before his eyes since his birth, with plenty of noise, dust and expense, so that when he is thrown out into the fields or the woods he finds he can't be one of Nature's Quakers and hold communion with thesilent worshippers through whom the Spirit speaks. His outdoor religion is in the Salvation Army class, and he can't warm up enough to admire a potted geranium unless he hears a bass drum or a hand organ to distract him on the side. If the sweet air and comforting silence of the country were to fall upon New York, the town would probably drop to even lower levels from the shock. The country boy, who has been used to concentrating on the wood-pile, runs the country; or, if it happens to be a city boy who runs it, he is a fellow who had the wood-pile grafted onto him in time to save his career. Gabrielle Tescheron, the woman in a new field, saw the world aright; there was no mystery for her at any time. Her intuitions guided her unerringly while we who reasoned became entangled.

Shrewdness in the country lad, however, is not commended very highly by me. It may be that the country boy has been tutored by the most unscrupulous politicians that ever got out a big vote on a moral issue—usually the one coined at the mint with unanimous consent and a cry for more: "In God We Trust." If the country boy has fallen, it may be that he was blinded by this, so that when he came to the city and took the prizes he used the same old methods. We find some ofthese shrewd country lads with abundant health, close observers, selling their birthrights here in the sort of deals that were regarded as clever in up-country politics, and so became legitimate in their eyes.

There's more politics in the country than they can dilute in their sermons, although they absorb about thirty times as many of these as the city man. Some day all the country fathers will reform, even if they have to change their politics and half of them die because of it. They will think it more worth while to save their sons than to save the country.

What about the morality of the city man? It isn't a factor because he isn't.

If the management of our affairs had been entrusted to Gabrielle Tescheron there would have been no trouble. Had her father been a wise man and allowed this only child to have her way—to have noted the whole situation from her fresh view-point, he would have found peace where he found an abundance of perplexing conditions and ample expense closely adhering to every bramble bush into which the tactics of Smith hurled him. Gabrielle could not save him and she did not try. Where the cause of the trouble is idiocy of the Tescheron quality, it has to go through a longcourse of pulverization, maceration and cure; if you hurry the process, the goods will be sour and hurt the business, if the lot gets out under the trade-mark. The best thing to do with it is to send it to the coal heap, for if you try to get your money back at a Front Street auction room, some hand-cart syndicate will nab it and cut your price. They'll undersell the direct trade, and when you have finished writing an explanation to the men on the road, you'd wish you had eaten the whole carload yourself.

It was part of the wisdom of this remarkably prudent young woman to thoroughly comprehend—by some of those fresh intuitions, probably—that her truly repentant father would plead for her forgiveness and ask her blessing upon his prodigal return only after a long, long wrestle with the wholesalers in blasted reputations, who so showily presented designs for a disgraced suitor that pleased him greatly. He had placed an order with these architects of infamous character to build one according to the plans and specifications presented, and as the construction work progressed there were extras, extras, extras! Gabrielle knew of these and never murmured. To her father's urgings, she guardedly replied:

"My dear father, I know my heart and I know yours. Some day you, too, will reach the truth and we shall again be happy."

There was no mystery in this situation for Gabrielle Tescheron, as I have stated. She would not tolerate it. At the time her father and myself were confused, she was sure of herself. He thought of his family, and I of my reputation, whose spots had never been advertised. Gabrielle thought only of Jim.

Gabrielle could not be swayed from her devotion to the man whose simple ways and sturdy honor made their silent appeal to her. He was nobody's ideal man but hers, perhaps, and people who knew them wondered what she saw in him to match her ambitions. Well, there was her wisdom coming to the surface again in a way to confuse those who would have managed her affairs differently. Gabrielle had a firm faith in herself. Jim was the complementary type of man; he approached her with qualifications that met all the practical conditions the careful father had a right to demand, prompted by his love for his child—at least, this was true according to her conception—and beyond that the father could not enter to live her life for her. She was at once convinced of her father's folly and paid no further heed to hisobjections. She gave full liberty to others, and firmly but not excitedly demanded it for herself. This was a manifestation of love's controlling power in the stress of storm that I, as a theorist, knew not, but having gained the wisdom through the course it prescribes in the school—I might say theCorrespondenceSchool of Hard Knocks, I think I am now qualified to have my name in the catalogue, if not as a member of the faculty, then as janitor—for no man was ever more ready than I to eat humble pie.

Gabrielle Tescheron was a graduate of Vassar. When only twenty she had her degree and an ambition to progress farther in knowledge by direct contact with the world of business. The opportunity came on her Commencement Day, when John MacDonald, an old friend of her father, playfully suggested that she come into his law office and be a Portia.

"Your black gown," he said, "makes me think you are a Justice of the Court of Appeals."

He smiled, and she became very happy with this thought to carry home. Even then I believe she had the good sense not to feel badly because he had not praised her essay on "Constitutional Provisions Bearing Upon Our Federal Control of Inter-State Commerce."

"Ten years from now, I'll tell you what I think about it," was all he had to say.

John MacDonald was getting well along in years, but was at the height of his active professional career when Gabrielle induced him to seriously confirm his suggestion made a few months before. This persistence of hers in the matter pleased him. He liked her self-confidence and that quiet manner which told him she would win by taking the sure road of steady, earnest endeavor to grasp the whole by taking each part, day by day. She began, he saw, with scientific methods and abundant enthusiasm. The plan was for her to master stenography and typewriting, become John MacDonald's confidante in the office, and at the same time take a law course at one of the down-town schools. The mechanical aids afforded by stenographic note-taking and the typewriter's rapidity gave her the short cuts to mastering the details and routine of the business—the shop-work of a law office. Mr. MacDonald, a kind, mild-mannered man, but an exact and careful lawyer, who demanded the utmost thoroughness from his subordinates, had known this girl from childhood and took a fatherly interest in her. She, in turn, admired him for his justice, and she felt that the progress she was ableto make in her work by keeping busy and taking pains, might not have been so marked under his tutorship were he not a man whose sympathy never ran to coddling and spoiling. He was in sympathy with her, that she knew; but he never went out of his way to tell her how well she was doing. He incorporated much of her original work in his own, and let her infer his opinion of her from this. This man was, I believe, the source of the girl's wisdom in the events which drove her father and me into the most unusual forms of insane conclusion. We assumed that we understood human nature. This girl assumed nothing. She walked with sure feet after she had gone over the case with some of the old-fashioned common sense that hovered around John MacDonald's law office. How fine it was for her to attach herself to some of the real problems of the world rather than bury her talents in the shallow social activities she might have entered into and come to regard as her limited sphere, when in reality she had the widest liberty for the mere seeking and deserving!

I was not present at the reception held at the home of mutual friends, Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, some three years prior to these events narrated here, when Gabrielle Tescheron and James Hosley first met. I was out of town that New Year's eve, and so missed the jolly party at the Gibsons', although I had been present usually on these anniversary occasions in bygone years, for the Gibsons were kind friends of ours and pitied our lonely lot. They lived in the cutest little home in all the great city—in the most romantic spot you could find when the waning hours of the old year were danced away by merry feet and jolly hearts sang the New Year in. Mr. Gibson was a mechanical engineer (not from Stevens', but from Cooper Union), and he was the superintendent in charge of the big Produce Exchange building, whose tall, red tower is one of the landmarks of New York. Their home was a conveniently arranged and tastefully furnished apartment high up in the tower just beneath the clock, where, perhaps, you have seen those round windows that look out upon the world of surrounding harbor and soaring skyscrapers, like tiny portholes. Those windows of the Gibson home are larger than you imagine when viewing them from the street. What a spot to meet a charming girl! Why, I used to lose my heart there every New Year's night as regularly as the big clock marked the minutes, but it always came back to me with a bounce six weeks later; the dense atmosphere ofromance hovering there made competition extremely keen. Who would not fall in love in that clock tower!—far up among the stars, separated from the dull routine below by encircling fairy lights of harbor, misty outlines of buildings and busily moving craft—all seemingly in mid-air, flashing the scenery of a joyland, while mellow chimes of the neighboring Trinity pealed their glad welcome to the New Year. At that magic moment, when you pressed far out of the window to hear the bells—she and you—suspended above that vast expanse of earth, sea and air shrinking away, as if you two together were flying aloft with arms entwined, you passed very close to heaven. The shouts from the street were heard but faintly, and awoke sighing echoes in your heart, like the minor chord accenting the ecstatic movement which seemed to hold the world in rhythm. How lustily you caroled the chorus to hide your tender feelings! Some of those round windows have such dear memories clinging to them—aye! clinging is the word—that I dare not look up at them any more from Broadway.

My story tells of Trinity bells,When chimes ring clearAnd harbor lights are flashing,Beneath the starry bower,Where a dying year brings not a tearTo young hearts in the tower.How sweetly swells—how merrily bells!The song of youth,To lift the soul enraptured—A glance may tell the story,Prompted by Cupid, now shyly hid—Anon he'll claim the glory.

My story tells of Trinity bells,When chimes ring clearAnd harbor lights are flashing,Beneath the starry bower,Where a dying year brings not a tearTo young hearts in the tower.

How sweetly swells—how merrily bells!The song of youth,To lift the soul enraptured—A glance may tell the story,Prompted by Cupid, now shyly hid—Anon he'll claim the glory.

Remember that Gabrielle Tescheron was enjoying herself like all the other girls that night—that New Year's eve, a little more than three years before the opening of our tale, and Jim Hosley was deep in all the fun. On the floor above the Gibson apartment, the young folks danced around the works of the clock to the music of a violin and harp, and from early evening till late—or early, as you please—they had the best kind of a time—the mothers, fathers, sons and daughters—for it was a family party. All the Gibson relatives and their friends were there, for it would not seem like New Year's to them to celebrate the coming of the year away from that romantic nest. Don't ask me to analyze the hearts of Gabrielle and Jim to the whys and wherefores, for thepotencies of love are beyond the analysis even of the purists, although they give us many words of explanation which get around at last to the old formula: "They fell in love." And it was as if they had dropped from one of the round windows as they leaned far out together to catch the sound of the chimes, so sudden and so deep was the fall.

Education and training in modern business methods had left Gabrielle just a simple girl, aside from all her accomplishments. Her laugh was the loudest and her zeal for a good time the strongest. She entered into the revels with zest, prompted Nellie Gibson to exhibitions of mimicry, recited, cleverly told anecdotes evolved from her own experiences, played, sang, danced and cheered for the host and hostess. It was well there were no neighbors to complain.

Jim, I have been told, was completely fascinated early in the evening, and his devotions became marked by nine o'clock; by ten o'clock he was lost to all the rest of the company in beholding her. Early the following year he was happy only when dancing with her, singing so that his top notes blended with hers at short range, or helping her to hear the chimes at one of the round windows. At 3 o'clock he started for Ninety-sixth Street with Gabrielle—her mother and father were notpresent—and there is no record of the time he reached our flat.

That was the beginning of a courtship which was carried on without the assistance of the middleman of former years, until the unexpected interference of the father-in-law threw the case into my expert hands.

Mr. Tescheron became badly involved by swallowing the bait, hook and line, in my joke about notifying the coroner. When I went to bed at last, wearied with deep thinking and the sending of messages, he began again on a new line which I had not figured on. I supposed he would see the folly of proceeding farther, conclude that I knew more about Jim Hosley than his man, Smith, return home and wait to see me again before going ahead. But he didn't seem to realize that I was only joking. I was so plain-spoken about it—put the thing so broadly—that I supposed any sane man would understand I was merely stating my loyalty to Jim in terms of sarcasm. All jokes to fathers-in-law of the Tescheron inflammable character should, however, be labeled in big letters, the same as the dynamite they ship on a railroad, accompanied by the Traffic Association's book entitled, "Rules for the Handling of Explosives."

To Mr. Tescheron it was a most serious matter to consider his family entangled in a betrothal following immediately the commission of an awful crime by the man who had won his daughter's hand. I had informed him in my little joke that none could escape the coroner's subpœna unless they left the State. He had traveled very little in this country, and knew few places out of the State where he could be comfortable with his family till the affair blew over. The Tescherons spent their summers at the quiet village of Stukeville, where they had a comfortable country house; it was not pretentious, but it was beautifully situated on a knoll, overlooking the neighboring lake, and from the broad verandas a glimpse of the distant, more densely inhabited portion of the town might be obtained. But it was not possible to fly to Stukeville, because that is situated in New York. He had once stopped at a hotel in Hoboken overnight, before taking one of the German steamers for France. He knew the place, and he would have his family there before eight o'clock that morning. He informed Smith that he would stop with his family in the Stuffer House, Hoboken, N. J., just beyond the jurisdiction of the subpœna servers of the New York coroners, and he accordingly hastened home to move in the earlymorning, his wife, daughter, one servant and enough of their belongings to supply the apartments of the Stuffer House with a few of the cosy comforts of a soft-cushioned and warm-slippered home.

Now, I meant no harm to anybody, and certainly not to the innocent women of the Tescheron family, when I airily lied about the coroner. At the other end of the line the joke exploded, and not long after I had touched the fuse with my last telegram. Think of driving the Tescheron family out of the State! Why, nothing could have been farther away from my mind, but what happened only goes to show that theoretical knowledge of love begets idiocy, while the XXX variety of A1 purity cannot be fooled, but travels with sure steps the path of service guided by wisdom that springs from a devoted heart.

"Marie, Marie! Wake up and dress! Gabrielle, the worst has happened! Quick, we must be in Hoboken in half an hour! Do as I say. Ask no questions. Arrest awaits you if you delay. What! Aren't you going to stir? Why do you lie there, Marie? Be quick!"

Briefly and excitedly Mr. Tescheron outlined to his startled family what had taken place. He told them of the awful crime and Hosley's connection with it, fully convinced that it had all happened just as Smith had reported and satisfied that the Jim Hosley of our household was the guilty villain. He heaped on a violent denunciation of Hosley, using many of Smith's phrases, and he illustrated his comments with a few additional incidents in that infamous career taken from the forgery cases and the borderland episodes. As a Californian would say, "he burned him up."

Thus at 4a. m., just as I was turning in to take my last nap in our dear, dilapidated paradise, and Jim was fidgeting himself into the mental attitude which would call for a turkey bath, Mr. Tescheron was sustaining the movement of the play by wildly arousing his family to flight.

"Albert, you are all unstrung again, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Tescheron, who was in no position at that time to be described. "Take some of those tablets to quiet your nerves—"

Mr. Tescheron had no time for the taking of sedatives. He rushed away to call Katie, the maid, and to telephone for a coach. When he returned, his exasperation knew no bounds, for his good wife had not stirred from her warm couch. This was too much. From that point Hosley received the worst denunciations; hisferocity made the wife murderers of criminal history and the cruel Roman emperors seem like mud-pie and croquet efforts in this line of infamy. The entreaty was then renewed.

"Come, come, Marie, do not be foolish, my dear. Get up and get ready. I have awakened Katie and she is here to help you pack a small steamer trunk and a dress-suit case. Gabrielle! Gabrielle!"

"Yes, father, let us start," replied Gabrielle, and she entered her mother's room, rosy and wide-awake, with her gown faultlessly arranged and her hat on straight. Her fire-alarm father found her right there to give him all the rope he needed to hang himself. Gabrielle's gloves were on and buttoned. Her neatly rolled umbrella was under her left arm and in her right hand she carried a new leather bag. There were no signs of wonder in her face; perhaps a touch of sadness might have been noted as she glanced at her poor mother in pity; but she was far above the influences which agitated her father and drove him into precipitate action. Gabrielle, with the assistance of the maid, soon persuaded Mrs. Tescheron and prepared her for departure into that foreign land vaguely situated on the map of the earth, as she remembered it. With heavy sighs and gasps she told wherethings could be found and how Bridget, the cook, was to feed the parrot. She would take the parrot, but she did not know if the air of Hoboken agreed with birds. While undergoing the process of hasty preparation, she remembered a number of things that would need attention that morning, so it was necessary also to bring Bridget in with a quilt around her—there being no time then for her to dress—to take orders.

When the drowsy Bridget was hustled in to receive instructions, she was not a tidy-looking cook, and until Mr. Tescheron withdrew, she kept the quilt entirely over her head, for her womanly spirit had not yet been stiffened to defiantly glare at man by those delicate touches—the pasting on of her front hair-piece; the tying on of her back switch to the diminutive stump of original tresses; the proper adjustment of her dental fixtures, her collar and tie and the various articles constituting the sub-structure necessary for their support. We cannot go into the details, because the plans and specifications are missing. Bridget held that quilt with her hands and mouth to keep behind the scenes as much as possible.

"Bridget, we are called away this morning," said Mrs. Tescheron. "Where to in Hoboken, my dear Gabrielle? We must leave the address."

Gabrielle called down the hall to her father, who shouted back so that Bridget might have heard if buried under the product of a quilt mill:

"Stuffer House! Stuffer House!"

"It's a pretty name, ma'am," said Bridget. "I'll bet their pancakes taste like this quilt. You'll not be gone long, ma'am? Is it near Stukeville, ma'am?"

"No, no, Bridget, it's nowhere near Stukeville. I wish it were. It's in Hoboken, New Jersey, Bridget. Gabrielle, please write it down for her. Tidy up this room, Bridget, and if anybody calls, say we are away visiting for a few days—"

"In Hoebroken, ma'am?"

"Out of town will answer, and write me how things are going. Do not use soap again when you wash the shell in the aquarium. If the parrot becomes lonesome—you can always tell because he goes back to swearing—let him hear the phonograph for half an hour night and morning, if you are too busy to ring the dinner bell to amuse him. Be careful about the gas—so many girls are dying that way now—but whatever you do, do not neglect the parrot; he is such a comfort to me and is such a good parrot. He has reformed so much since—"

"Aren't you ready yet, my dear? The coach is here!" shouted Mr. Tescheron, who was anxiously pacing the hall, watch in hand. It was 4:30; a whole half hour had passed and Hoboken had not yet been sighted, whereas visions of the coroner's agents and scarehead publicity were everywhere.

"Yes! Yes! Be patient, Albert; we are nearly ready. And, Bridget, I wish you would make up a pound cake and a fruit cake, and send them to me by express, for we shall miss your cooking so much." Mrs. Tescheron was a good manager of Bridget, who had served her over ten years, and she knew the value of a little appreciation. The last time they moved, Bridget had been hurried into the yard to bring the clothes-poles, but she was so long about it that Mrs. Tescheron went to look for her. Bridget in those emerald days knew little of clothes-poles, the sticks they used to keep the sagging line up, but was bent on moving the clothes-posts, an entirely different variety in the forestry of a city back yard. The four posts were firmly planted in three feet of hard-packed dirt. She bent her stout back to the task of bringing them up root and all, and with a winding hold of bulging arms and feet braced to the flagging she yanked, tugged and strained, turned boilingred and spluttered brogue anathema. Mrs. Tescheron found her thus engaged.

"The bloomin' t'ings is sthuck in the dirrt, ma'am, but I'll take the axe to 'em."

Mrs. Tescheron had frequently told this story with pride in close relation to some modern instance of Bridget's cleverness in domestic service to set off the then and now, with the reflections of credit for the mistress the historical anecdote involved. No harm could come to the home in Bridget's hands, Mrs. Tescheron believed; but no woman could leave without giving orders. When Bridget moved away, sure she had everything in mind just as it was to receive attention, Mrs. Tescheron gazed about the room blankly as if she knew something must have been overlooked, till her eyes rested on her calm, patient daughter, the harbor in every domestic storm.

"Gabrielle, my dear," asked Mrs. Tescheron softly, "are you sure this Mr. Hosley is the strong, brave man you think he is? Remember, darling, I have said little to you about him—but really he seems to have greatly upset your father, and having done that, of course, our home is involved. All I ask of you, my dear, is, are you sure? That is all. I know how easily your father is led away to follow the bent of his owndesires and I know you, too, my dear—you are my own sober, thoughtful father again. Tell me, Gabrielle, are you sure?"

"I am perfectly sure, mother. Father places more faith in hearsay and in the statements of the knaves who are leading him on, than he does in anything we can say. I am glad to have your confidence, mother. My plan is to allow father to do as he wills, so that he may run the full length of his folly. To me, it is most foolish and absurd; but why argue with father if we would convince him? You know all we can do is to let him act as he pleases. He shall not make you uncomfortable, mother. I will let him storm and rage, but he must not send you to some horrible hotel to live away from your friends. I will—"

"But you will stay there with me, Gabrielle, will you not?"

"I shall see that you are comfortably settled there and then I shall be with you as much as possible—but I cannot involve the office in these wild capers. Come, or we shall be scolded. Wouldn't it be fine, mother, if we could tame father? But cheer up, mother; we may laugh last about this. Let us see the bright side which is—Come! You hear him."

Mother and daughter descended the one flightof stairs arm in arm, preceded by the impatient guide, who was calculating on every circumstance that might arise between Ninety-sixth Street and the Hoboken ferry. Katie trailed behind with bags and shawl-strap bundles. A small steamer trunk that Katie had filled with things easy to find had been placed on the front of the coach by the driver, who evidently regarded the job as the early departure of a European party.

When the three women were stowed in the coach after less than an hour's preparation, with their sleep rudely disturbed and without even a cup of coffee to vanquish the chill of the early morn, it may be assumed that they were not more cheerful than the dismal gray of the town. The man of the inside party had been awake all night; he was feverish and fretful, but he had nothing to say in the presence of the servant. Katie probably believed there had been a death in the family, and they were hastily driving to the home of some relative. Most of the conversation was between Mrs. Tescheron and Katie, and was carried on in whispers. Mrs. Tescheron drew forth the information that about a dozen things she would not need were in the trunk, and several score of necessities had been left at home.

"I remember the Stuffer House," said Mrs.Tescheron, making bold to address her daughter. "Don't you remember four years ago we stopped there overnight? It's named, I suppose, for the proprietor, who told me he was of the same family as the Stevenses of Hoboken. Yes, I remember, he said Stevens, Steffens, Stuffens and Stuffers all came from the same family."

"I remember the stuffed birds everywhere," said Gabrielle; "many of them exceedingly rare specimens, I believe some one said. Somehow, I have always connected stuffed birds with the Stuffer House. It did not occur to me that Stuffer was the name of the proprietor. How odd!"

But conversation did not flow freely, for the tension of the occasion had been too tightly wound by the impulsive guardian of the family's honor. It was well that Katie was present to check his temper, through pride, or the poor women might have been scolded again for their dangerous delay, as coroners go forth early with their guns loaded for game hiding in coaches.

It was even more dismal, cold and damp in the ferryboat. Mrs. Tescheron fell quietly into tears there. This overflow of her emotions was not noticed by Mr. Tescheron, who looked steadily out of the window at the moving engines. Gabrielle saw her mother crying, and was at onceovercome with pity; to Katie it seemed as if she was on the point of sharing her mother's grief for the loved one now mourned. Katie could see that Mrs. Tescheron had thought a good deal of the person, whoever it might be, and that Miss Tescheron had shared in this regard. Mr. Tescheron, on the other hand, seemed to be provoked that it had happened until the boat struck the Hoboken pier, and then he looked out of the coach window with a smile, indicating a change of opinion. The smile was that of the conquering hero, outgeneraling in retreat allied forces outnumbering his small army a thousand times. A great head, thought Mr. Tescheron, may beat the law, especially if it keeps awake all night to be on the field early in the morning.

The Stuffer House, founded by the great-grandfather of the present proprietor, August Stuffer, was situated not far from the ferry and steamship piers. Its Colonial front and three stories of red brick, and windows with small panes, gave it the air of a Washington's headquarters, which Mr. Stuffer could undoubtedly prove it had been, for his tales were the most convincing arguments that the hostelry had been named by a whimsical fate not too dignified to stoop to punning. There were times when thehungry boarders thought the name facetious, but they conceded it to be quite exact in a descriptive sense, if its brick and mortar were intended to honor monumentally the tales of the host. His first name, August, was not an adjective of limitation as to time, for the proprietor was A. Stuffer every month and day in the year; and his son Emil, a quiet, inoffensive student of birds, a taxidermist, ornithologist and mechanical engineer, and a graduate of the neighboring Stevens Institute, world-famed for the breadth and thoroughness of its training, was a worthy son in practically applying to birds abundant science and all the art employed by his father to hold and encourage trade among the guests.

It was about 6 o'clock when the Tescheron coach drew up at the old port-cochère, and no one but the night clerk was about. He swung the great door open and welcomed them to the hotel office, a large living-room, with a wide brick and rubble fireplace in one corner, dimly lighted by a log fitfully blazing, fed by scant draughts, so deeply was it choked by the pile of ashes from the logs that had served to brighten the busy room the night before. It is important to note this fireplace, for long afterward, when I went forth to gather impressions at first hand, and there heardMr. Stuffer and his guests warm to the discussion of every topic under the sun, I decided that the glow of inspiration and the stimulating incense of resinous knots, arising from that corner, cast the witchery which wrought conviction in the minds of men less wary than Mr. Tescheron, who might, indeed, have renounced all his worldly possessions had he remained more than six weeks under its spell to escape the horrors of an entanglement in the meshes of foul crime across the river. I see now how it must have affected him—this fireplace talk. Steam heat is the only thing to preserve a man's common sense, and if he be shy of that desirable faculty he should be extremely careful when listening or talking, even under the weak spell of a gilt radiator. It is a fact of science that certain rays of light exert a hypnotic influence that may be employed to effect anesthesia for minor operations. Perhaps it was the influence of these rays; I know not. Nervous persons are especially subject to their vibrations, and when sitting before an open wood fire, highly productive of this subtle chemicalization, the victims become drowsy and fall easily into the mood of the most extravagant speaker. Minor operations, under which head we may include the extraction of a tooth or a bank balance, are then simple, if the operator be calm and skillful in the handling of his instruments—often mere words, but powerful tools under these favorable conditions.

The hotel clerk was assured that the Tescherons did not intend to take a steamer or a train; that they might remain a day or two, perhaps longer, and would need four rooms and a bath on the sunny side of the house, on the second floor, away from the elevator and the noise of the kitchen. They would take breakfast as soon as it could be served.

"No breakfast for me, thank you, papa. I am going right over to the office now. Good-bye, mother dear; Katie, look after her well. I shall return early. Good-bye—" and Gabrielle turned to kiss her father, having embraced her tearful mother. But he could not recover himself to display his affection at that time.

"Gabrielle, you surely are not going! You surely are not! Think of the consequences and accept my judgment in this awful extremity!"

"Father, you may have your own way in everything, but my business affairs must not be involved. The coach is going. I'll ride back in it."

Quickly she kissed him and darted out of the door and into the carriage and away.

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