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IjKWIS >1. GRIST, Propi'ietor. j Jwlepriulent <d?imilp JJeirspaper: ^ the promotion of the' political, Social, 3tgi;iciiltural and Commercial Jntrrosts of the ,^outh. jTERMS?$3.00 A YEAR IX ADVANCE, fc VOL. 39. * YOEKVILLE, S. C., VEI>jsrESDA.Y, MARCH g?>, 1893. NO. 1'2. ? ? < BY JAMES KJ [Copyright, 1SJI2, by American Pres CHAPTER VIII. As time passed he grew more and more depressed, and would sit for hours | brooding over the remembrance of those dreary years. Lina watched him with i?J 4. ? teuueieai wuumuc. "You must have some change," she i Baid at last. "You must get out of | yourself. Why do you not go away for ; a time? You might go down and see George." He looked at her a long time without j answering, then he said slowly: "Yes, that will be best. I should have 1 known it before. I will go away." "Will you go down and see George?" j "No. I am afraid I should hate him if I saw him happy and prosperous and , . contented." L "Why, that is what you wanted; that ' is what you did it for."" "Yes, I know; that is what 1 wanted, | but that is not why 1 did it. But 1 will j go; perhaps that will be best." "And you Tfrill come back again be- j fore long, will you not?" He had got up anil was holding her I hand in silent farewell. He looked at J her searchingly and made a movement i as if to draw her toward him. Then he ! raised her hand to his lips, let it fall | again gently and wont away. The trip south did not serve much to ! divert him. He felt a sense of isolation J from his fellow passengers; felt as if in j some way he were a marked man; fancied that they could discern from his bearing that he had been in prison. This j made him morose, and more than once I he was inclined to turn back. But he ! kept on, finally deciding that he would j go down where George was, get his j money out of the business as soon as ! possible and go abroad, where no one j wonld know him. After he had crossed the Mexican line i he began to take more interest in his surroundings. He liked the genial warmth of the climate, even the hot, > glaring sunshine when it reflected back j from the saudy soil at midday. It was , in such blessed contrast to the dull, cold j and ever gloomy interior of the prison. | He would like to lie dowu there in the j sand and bask in the sunlight as the | brown, half naked children did. Ho [ liked the dark, friendly, ignorant faces J of the pecple, so full of human interest were they, so in contrast with the brutal, vicious types with which he had been so long surrounded. Sometimes *? he wondered if his own face had taken on such a lowering cast as theirs. He had heard that one would grow to resemble those whom they were constant- j ly about. How would George receive him? Would he be grateful for all that had been done for him, or would he look 1 down upon his brother because he had , been in prison? These thoughts tor- i mented him so that he stopped in his journey and gave himself up to them, j and idled and hesitated for a week when ^ only a day's journey distant from the end. But at last lie summoned up all his resolution and went ou. Pie would , put the matter to its final test. "Duty is duty," he snld. It seemed strange that he must inquire I for himself?for Ogden Chalmers?but I this was one of the j>enalties. He had | given up his own name for another, and that other was only a number upon the records of a prison. He found the office of Ogden Chalmers easily enough; a clean, busy, bustling ' looking broker's office in a good part of the city, and he found Ogden Chalmers, there too?a suiug, respectable, successful looking man of business. Chalmers could find no fault with his brother's greeting. He had recognized him at once, and with arms about his neck had dragged him iuto the private office and closed the door behind them. ' "Dear old boy," he said, "I have been afraid you wouldn't come." "There was no other place for me to go," answered the other without emotion. "I have lost touch with the world." "Yes, you have been out of it a long ! time, and all for me." Then with a sudden outburst of feeling he went on: i "Look here, Ogden, have you thoughti I would be ungrateful, that I wouldn't; appreciate it? I know it looked so when ! I let you do it all. But I couldn't help I that; I wasn't strong enough morally. And I knew that term there would wreck me, unman me, make a brute of me like the rest of them. I could see it j all before me. But you had more resist- ' anceinvou. I knew you would come through unharmed." "Yes; it hasn't hurt me in the least," returned the other. "No, I don't mean that. Of course it hurts any man to live in such a devil's hole. But I knew it wouldn't lower you morally." "Yes: the associations are elevating." "This isn't like you, Ogden," said the younger man quietly. "But I don't blame you. I know it was more than if you had given your life for me?more to me than to barely have given me life But I would like to make you understand that I am sensible of this, that 1 am not ungrateful, for indeed I am not. Whatever I can do now in the way of money or position or name" He stopped suddenly there for a moment and then went on. "Why, of course; or name, either. For the very name I am using here is a borrowed one, is yours, like all the rest?" "I don't know that I want it. A number does as well as a name. Number thirteen hundred and seventy-six souuds pretty well: don't you think so?" The younger brother placed his hands affectionately on the other's shoulders. . "I see, Ogden," he said,"it's the disgrace, ; as you fancy it. that has hurt you. It ought not to. You did nothing wrong: . if you had been in iny place, now." The last was an unfortunate sentence. It stirred all the deep, rankling, ugly memories that Chalmers had been struggling so wildly to keep down. "In his place!" Had he not been there through long, weary days of prison toil, ?through longer, drearier and more hideous nights of restless tossing upon his prison bed. praying for the coming of the morning light? And then, when 1 it had come, praying again for night, that the pall of darkness might hide his misery at least from sight. And so for days and months and years no thought Put this?that so much of his life might speed by into eternity. And now this man, for whom he had done it. talked of "doing something" in return?of money and position. Did he not know that if he should grovel before him for i all his life he could not make up for the bondage of those years? r is t* H? JAPP REEVE. is Association.] Chalmers had repressed himself so long that it had grown to be habit, second nature almost. But now hot, bitter words, taut: insults, curses, began to form themselves in his mind and leap for utterance. He would let them have way for once; he would humiliate this sleek, prosj)erous man of the world before him; and then he would go away, he cared not whither. He would not be truculent; he would look him squarely in the eye while he told him every bitter word, even to the last one. He looked up. resolved and intent upon his purpose. But just inside the door which had been closed behind them stood another man, a stranger. George recognized his presence at the same instant, and turned angrily upon the intruder. ' What is your business, sir?" he demanded. "This is our private office." "Very well. My business is private; at least I suppose you would rather have it so." "What do you want?" For answer the man threw back the lapel of his coat, disclosing the bright shield of an officer. "1 hope we won't have any trouble, gentlemen," ho said obsequiously. "I'll do this business as quietly as I can. I have papers for the arrest and extradition of George Chalmers, wanted for escaping from the Columbus penitentiary February ?, 18?." He stepped forward and placed his hnnrl rmrm tlin slinnldpr nf t lirt nlrlpr tnm> "I believe you are my man," he said. Chalmers was about to shake the fellow off indignantly and exclaim as to his real identity, when he was arrested by a sudden movement of his brother. "Stop," he said calmly, "I am George Chalmers. Now explain yourself." The officer looked from one to the other suspiciously. "Play fair now, will ye, gents:" he slid, " 'cause I don't intend to let either of you get away, at least not until I'm sure of my bird." "Don't be afraid," returned the other contemptuously. "Now explain this business," "Well," said the detective, still eying the two men questioningly, as if trying to establish their identity in his own mind, "you may remember a little exchange of prisoners that was made in cell number thirteen hundred and seventy-six one night somo years ago. I was on duty in the prison then, and have had my suspicious ever since and have been trying to follow 'em up. But, you see, 1 couldn't find out where the one that went away had gone; so I just waited till the time of the other one was up, naturally supposing he'd follow the first one then." "But what do you want now? The state has been satisfied, because the sentence of prisoner number thirteen hundred and seventy-six has been served in full." It was Ogden Chalmers who said this, and he spoke with so much repressed passion in his voice that the officer nrwni*> r>v\/l rvni'A Ui it l/\nf# 1aa1? luiucu a^am auu nun a auij^ iuua. "I guess you're the one that served most of it," he finally said; "you've got | the prison look. A man never quite gets I rid of it after so long a term. Then it's the other one I want. But you do look uncommonly alike." ? "Yes." said George Chalmers impatiently. "I am the one. Let me see if | your papers are all right." As the officer opened and began to I read the warrant, Ogden arose and , crossed over by his brother. "Let him take me, George," he wliis- j pered. "It won't make any difference, and I shall be as well off there as here. Didn't you hear what he said? 'I have the prison look.' Let me go back again. Then the past won't have been wholly in vain." "It has not been in vain; believe that, ; Ogden, whatever happens now. But : you shall not go back; I am not weak enough to allow that." George clasped I his brother's hand firmly as lie spoke. "I must?there is no other place for me," insisted the other. "1 will go i quietly; there will be no disturbance? | nobody here will know." "No, no. Ogden. I have been a crimi- j nal once and a coward once, but 1 will i not do this. If either of us must go it j shall be me, and do you stay here, with j your own name and your own interests.' j "Sorry to interrupt you, gents," said me omcer, coming nearer uiem. At tne same time he drew a pair of handcuffs j from his pocket. "Duty is duty," he said, "if it is mighty unpleasant sometimes, and until we can settle which of you is which I guess I'll have to make sure of both." As he spoke he extender the handcuffs toward the cider brother ! meaningly. For a moment there was again a fierce ( contest of passion in Chalmers' breast. All the hot hatred of his nature against wrong and injustice and oppression, so ; long restrained, leaped up and took form in the sudden movement of his strong right arm. For an instant he thought to fell this man who had dared to offer ! him this insult to the earth, but in a t moment he had mastered himself again j and put out his hands in submission. The man moved nearer to place the circlet of steel about his wrists, when George Chalmers' arm came like a flas li of lightning between them and the fel- 1 low went down like a stone before it. "That was not wise," said the older i man quietly. "It was not worth while. I thought of it?wanted to do it; but it will only prolong the matter?make it worse." Then lie looked steadily at his brother, as if considering the whole j affair. "But I am glad you did it," he said finally. "I know now that you care. I was beginning to doubt that as the fellow came in." " I am glad you believe it," said Hie other simply, "only I wish 1 could prove it better than this : I suppose now j we must see to this fellow." He went to the door and gave some quick directions to a clerk, then came j back and sat down beside his brother. ; "I have sent for my lawyer and for an American doctor," he said. These soon came. The physician examined the man, who lay in a stupor I where he had fallen. " He is not badly hurt," he said. " We will get him off to the hospital, and no use of any fuss about it." Meantime the lawyer had examined I the papers that wore scattered about the | floor. "These are all palpable forgeries," he said; "the fellow is evidently a blackmailer. I can take care of him for you ?if he gets safely out of the hands of j our friend, the doctor." CHAPTER IX. This little incident of the attempt at i blackmail seemed to make an impression upon Chalmers that was out of all due proportion to its importance, but on the whole its effect was for good. It turned out that the man was himself the guard who had been on duty at the prison the night of the exchange; he had found out, too late, that he had been duped, but was afraid on his own acrvmnt tlifin tn ovimsn the matter. After the expiration of the substitute's term he 1ih<1 followed the thii^t up as a private speculation, thinking the brothers would buy his silence at a good figure. Before he was ready to leave the hospital he was thoroughly frightened into the abandonment of his scheme anil his future silence insured by Chalmers' lawyer, who promised him a good long | term in prison himself fur the attempt at blackmail and for personating an ofti- ; cer if ho should ever meddle with the ' j I j "Do you love mc.Oadcu?" she asked sojtly. matter again. George, after this, with the ready ! carelessness with which lie dismissed [ I most serious matters in life, gave it 110 1 further thought; but with Ogden it was j different, and seemed never absent from | his mind. He delighted to recur to the i whole scene, and would linger especially j | upon his brother's action when he threw himself with such tigerish ferocity upon j i the man that he had nearly killed him j ; with a single blow. 1 "I was doing you injustice, George," j he would say. "1 had brought myself j to think you didn't care; that was why ! I was so willing to go back." "I am glad you know now," George : would answer each time and then would { let the subject drop. One day, however, J 1 he took up the subject of their personal relations himself. "I wish you would make up your mind i to go into things here," he said. "You ; 1 would be happier, better contented, if j j you could assimilate yourself with the j I life here. It is a full, free, wholesome ! j life; perhaps not quite so prudish as that of the north. If it was, of course Leonie j j wouldn't be here with me: but it's a life j that suits me." This was the first time that Leonie's name had been mentioned between them, and in answer to Ogden's look of inquiry his brother went on: "I guess that is the only thing in which 1 ilidn't do as you said. But I didn't send for her, Ogdeu, until after 1 had made some money of my own. and i then I spent and risked only that." j "We will let that pass," returned the , other. "Perhaps 1 went as much* too far in one way as you did the other. You i were made to live your own life out in ! your own way, and I am glad you are having the chance. The reason 1 was so hard on you in that was because it was ; wrong toward Lina Tennant." "I was not fit for her, and perhaps the only way she could ever have seen it was just this way. And I did hope, old \ fellow, that matters would all come | right between you and her. i thought j that was what you went to Cleveland j for." "Maybe it was. 1 don't know." George wanted to ask another question, but hesitated, because it coined like trying to force his broth: mfidence. Finally his curiosity preva..e l. "How much does she know." he asked. . "of this whole matter?" "Everything. She was at Columbus when I was released." "Good heavens! and she had come to meet me as she promised." "No; only to tell you goodbv." "She knew part of the story, then?" . "Yes; and then I could not help telling her the rest. I would not have done it if I could have helped." "And then?" "That is all. There is nothing more to tell." "And you did not tell her, then, that you had cared for her all your life?" "No; how could I?" Chalmers gave a suggestive shrug that implied the memory of all those hated years. "She should have made you: she should have thrown herself at you. She would at first have cared more for you than for me if you had not always so persistently exalted me to her." This and other conversations in the same lino led to no end, and as time ; passed Chalmers sank further and fur- | ther back into the state of listless de- i Bpondency. From this he only emerged ; at times to speak of the affair with the ! psuedo officer, and to thapk his brother j again for the timely blow struck in his j defense. It was the only thing the poor fellow could remember having been done for him in long years by any human be- : ing, and the reason why it was done, j The attending circumstances, even tho original fault behind it all that was cer- , tainly not his, all these sank into insig- j niticance besides the one central fact that it had been done. No words could ' have told him so eloquently that his ! brother did care for liim, and he had been longing strangely for human love and sympathy. George noted with alarm his brother's growing despondency and exerted himself without avail to find means of di verting him. The business was extending rapidly, and some matters in Eng- j land finally demanding personal attention, he suggested the trip to Ogdon. The latter agreed to it with more readiness than his brother had expected, but without any apparent anxiety for the change. As he went into the details of . the business that would employ him, however, he gave himself with all his old time thoroughness to their mastery. "1 hope the trip will be pleasant and that it will do you good," said George, as they clasped hands cordially at parting. "1 don't know that 1 am ill,' was the answer, "but it may give me something besides myself to think of." He went northward by rail, and was to take steamer from New York. As lie neared that city lie could not resist the temntation to turn aside for a stop at Cleveland. He did not know that he should go to see Lina Tennant?thought probably that he should not, but he wanted to be near her once more. He had some idea that he might stay nbroad: in that event it world be just as well to see her. and say goodbv. By the time he readied Cleveland he had fully decided on this, so he went to her I at once. Miss Tennant was shocked at his up I pearance. "Have you been ill?" she asked. "No: I am very well." She waited for him to go on, to say something of himself; but he sat passively and looked steadily at her. It became embarrassing. "Did you find George well?" "Yes: very well, very happy, very contented." "Did you enjoy your stay there?" "No: 1 enjoy nothing. All places are the same to me. But a pleasant thing happened." His face lightened up with the memory as he recalled it. "What was that?" she asked expectantly. "George nearly killed a man forme." Miss Tennant shuddered. "That was horrible," she said. "1 tell you it was fine," lie cried. "It is so good to know that one will do something for you. I shall never forget that." "But there are other and better .hings to do for one." "1 don't know what they are," he said moodily. "George is a splendid fellow. He would have killed the man quite if I had wanted him to." "You are not yourself when you talk in this way," said Lina. "You hurt i me." "I don't want to do that. There are hurts enough in the world now," lie an- j swered. "Poor fellow," she breathed softly. "Don't," he said impatiently: "don't do that. 1 don't want to be pitied. , Don't pity me. 1 can't stand that." "Oh, how von have suffered!" she I 1 continued, not heading his appeal. "Does George understand'/" "Yes. He would not let?that?be done again: he cares for 111c now." "And do you think that no one else cares for you'/" For a moment the blood tingled in his I veins, and he bent toward her with a quick, searching look. But he was quickly himself again?calm, composed, expecting nothing. He would not let himself be deluded again by any fancy. He would expect nothing, hope for nothing, from any man or woman. Then there would come no more disappointment. "No," he said shortly, "I don't expect any one else to. That man he struck said I had the 'prison look'?that 1 would always have it. One can't care for a man with the 'prison look.'" "Yes, 1 can; I do, Ogden. 1 can't bear to see you like this." "No, you can't care for me; you pity roughly given, and the voice was a man's. "You mean you won't. Kate, and there's an end of it." Then the girl whispered something that J did not catch, but I could hear the man half push her from him as he exclaimed: "I am a ruined man without it, and you won't lift a finger to save me." This, would never do; they evidently fancied me still asleep, and would be talking over all sorts of private affairs, so I coughed, moved uneasily, rustled my newspaper, and, as the first distant gleam showed that the train was nearing daylight, planted myself firmly in my corner prepared for apology or defenso, and when we rushed out of the darkness found myself absolutely alone. This was absurd: I had been asleep, indeed, but yet, as I looked around and turned to the window to see trees and Sclds gliding past, 1 knew I was wide awake now, and began to dislike the situation. For I still heard the two talking, though not so clearly, and could only conclude that they were in the compartment occupied by the racing set, that these last hud got out at the station we had evidently passed while I slept, and that their places were filled by the two whose voices reached me with such unnatural distinctness. And yet how improbable that the men who were so evidently going to the races had got out before the junction. Horror! 1 thought, the blood rushing to my face at the bare idea, I cannot have slept past the junction too! No, my watch showed that 1 had not been forty minutes in the train. I pulled myself together and looked around. The carriage in which 1 sat was old and dirty, as 1 have said: opposite to me, just where, with my eyes shut, 1 could swear that a man and a girl sat talking, the dingy brown cloth was I me, tnat s an, ne answered nioouny. He got up to go. Lina placed her hand in his. "You will come and see me again, will you not, tomorrow?" "Did 1 not tell you? I am going away ?to England." "At once?" "1 had meant to start tomorrow." "Must you? Is there any need?" "There is 110 hurry. Nothing that I do is important." "Then you will see me again?" Ho promised and went away. Once more by himself and there began an hour of struggle as bitter as any that had come before in the whole course of Chalmers' life. When Lina Tennant had said that she did care for him it had demanded the whole strength of his nature to keep from reaching out and taking her in his anns and telling her the wholo story of his love, and how the sacrifice of those long years had been made for her sake. Now lie thought over her words and the look in her deep eyes, and if he could have divested himself of the harrowing belief that her kindness had been only prompted by pity lie would have gone back then and asked her to be his wife. Ho walked 011 and 011 through the long night. Should lie ever he able to throw off this feeling of abasement that was now always with him?to hold up lii3 head among men, to believe that lie could be valued by them at his real worth, instead of being pitied and shunned because of what he had been? He wished lie might never have to see men any more. The stars shining above him were quiet and congenial companions. They asked no questions; they let their light shine out as freely for him as for any. He stopped beside the still river and watched the reflection of the si;ars in its 6ilent bosom. "A man might go down there," lie thought, "and sleep with them and be quiet and still and content forever. I wonder if that would not be best after all?" But no; that would not be right toward George, who had sent him on this business and trusted him with it. He would attend to that first; then, maybe, he might?rest. And then George would care, too; I10 knew that now?had known it over since he struck that detective fellow. Lina had said she cared too. But did she? How could he tell? Siie had done nothing for him. Perhaps she had never had the chance; well, he would give her one now; lie would ask her to marry him and go to England with him. He found his way back to the hotel, and with this new resolve firm in his mind slept long and well. Then he arose, bathed and dressed with unusual deliberation and went to her again, keeping his errand steadily before him. She made it easy enough for him doubtless, but lie had 110 longer his old steadfastness of will. She saw his hesitancy. "You came to ask me something,"she said. "Is there anything you want? Is there anything I can do for you?" "Yes, there is something I want. I want you." Womanlike, she could not resist playing with him at the last. "Why, you have ine now," she said. "I will stay here with you as long as j you like, and 1 wish you would come here often." "Yes, but 1 want more. 1 came to ?sk you to marry me, but I won't do it how." He spoke moodily, and voice and manner were without the fire of passion or of love. "No, I won't do it," lie repeated, "for if you should it would bo from pity?not from love." He did not look at Lina, hut let his gaze wander restlessly about, and spoke again, half to himself. "You won't do it, though, even from pity," lie said, "because I am an cx-convict, a 'prison bird;' because I've got the j prison look.' " He laughed bifterly. f Lina rose and came toward iiim, drop- ! ping 011 her knees beside his chair. "Do you love me, Ogden?" she asked softly "I love you. Perhaps I have always loved you." Ogden looked at her carnesllv. Then he rose to his feet and lifted her with him. "Do you mean it, Lina?" "Yes." m There was a new light in Chalmers' eyes as he bent down and kissed her; new spirit and courage and manliness. "My time is out now, Lina," lie said. "I ; shall never regret the past again. I am j well repaid." THE END. THE EMPTY COMPARTMENT. I am not a racing man, and therefore looking at others through myself after the manner of my kind 1 did not imagine that I should be delayed 011 my journey homeward by the fact that the ilnv up inv ri'tnvn was tlm irrrnt dav at F races. A fortnight of my slimmer holiday | had been devoted to fly Ashing on eer- j tain well preserved streams in north J Wales. 1! had Ashed from tiie bank, 1 had waded through mountain torrents-, ; and every evening had come back tired and happy, and laden with silver brown i treasures, jeweled with specks of am- ! her and vermilion. And now the nets were up r.t sea and 1 was waiting, waiting for the great salm- ' on that were surely hurrying toward me. j For dnvs 1 had nictured tin i coming, ! had stood by a pool through which they , must pass, had studied the tiy, gaudy, J but not too gaudy, with a glint of pea- I cock amid its pheasant's coloring, and j one touch of crimson in the silk which bound it, which no salmon of any curi- I osity could resist. And just then, just when 1 had heard , of fish six miles below me, when weather j was perfect and long patience about to j be rewarded, a telegram summoned mo i home and blackness settled upon every- i thing. The landlord sympathized with me at j the little Angler's inn, where I was i staying, but when I told him the serious nature of my telegram he did not like to refer to the pleasures that j.waited me if 1 remained, but only pointed out the dangers on my path if I left, "Those dreadful F races!" One train only would get me to Lon- j dun that night: by starting at once 1 ! could run to an important junction, a j couple of hours away, change there and j be in town by eight or nine o'clock. ' j Now this junction was on the direct , line to F races. I reached the station a trifle late, for ! it had been quick work to take my rods j to pieces and get my flies that were on the casts tenderly into my book. IIow- ' ever, I was in time, and found a rather noisy set of h.ulf. a dozen men on the [ platform whom 1 took to be bookmakers, why I cannot say, as I do not know any ' signs to distinguish a bookmaker when j I see him, and 1 may be mistaken. I gathered that one train had passed I somewhat stained, and tlieie was a long, jagged slit, apparently cut with a knife, out of which the stuffing of the cushion hung miserably. This slit would account for the distinctness of the voices I heard. 1 argued with a sophistry 1 would have scorned in another. No, it would not account for it, urged common sense; but it must, or my eyes were playing me false. Just as I decided this, half hearted];-, a loud guffaw from the racing men assured me that they at least were still in the other compartment. Then where were my two companions? Talking in whispers, pleading, disputing, with four or five rough, noisy men, side by side with them, their voices coming to me through the horrible jagged cut in the faded cloth opposite. Or ?or where? Here with me, not to be seen, though 1 rubbed my eyes and looked out of the window, and forced myself to look back at the spot where the voices sounded, just above that horrible slit in the cloth. For it was horrible. 1 confessed this to myself at last, and drew my feet up on the seat of the carnage and felt the cold dampness of fear creep down my face as I heard a girl's voice, hoarse and eager, as it seemed to me, striving for calmness against growing terror. "Listen, Harry," she said. "This money is not mine. You do not understand, so I must tell you, though it isniv father's secret. He has owed this sum for ten years, and for ten years has worked and saved and starved for it. Little by little he has gathered it all, and I have watched him growing older and paler and seen the stoop in his shoulders and the dimness in his eyes until, Harry, my heart has nearly broken for pity. But a week ago the last pound was put in th? bank and he was free." "A week ago," the man's voice muttered harshly; "and why not have paid it a week aim and have saved toiimtiiiL' me':" The last words were said so low that I scarcely heard them, and the girl took no notice of them, and hardly even answered his question. "It was for my brother's sake, dear, tho brother you never know, who is dead, and who, but for his father, would be disgraced as well. He was weak, poor fellow, in body and mind. Ho was a clerk, and betted and lost, Harry;" ! and the poor little voice grew so pitiful j here that I could fancy I saw pleading j eyes raised to the other's face, "and he , took money, two hundred pounds, from | his master and" "Two hundred pounds!" Tho shout with which these words were uttered made mo tremble. "Never mind the | story, Kate; tell it to me another time; i it's common enough, God knows! Where is the money?" "No, Ilarry?no," she panted; "you shall not havo it. My fathei? Oh. Harry, let mo tell you. My father went to Frank's master and pleaded for him. he swore that if lie would forgive the boy he himself would pay tho money back, and at last it was agreed. Frank went to Australia and died there a year after, and my father worked on, faith ful to his promise. "Half way through the time he took one hundred pounds,to Frank's master. through too full for them to get seats, and I heard one say to the station master, "Look here, I gave you a good tip. and | it's hard lines if you don't put a carriage on for self and friends if the next's as ' full as the last." "The next" was full, if about six above the usual number in each com; partment constitutes repletion, and the 1 station master's gratitude led to the run: ning out of an old carriage from a shed, j into one compartment of which jumped "self and friends." Profiting by this importunity, but not i anxious for their company, I got into the next compartment, and was glad to find myself alone. I settled my rods in the rack above my head, disturbing dust and cobwebs as I did so, pulled a news! paper from one pocket and a traveling ( cap from another and read myself to ' sleep. We had had a long sitting in the ! smoking room the night before over the j momentous question of the salmon, and i I slept soon and heavily. I raul myself to sleep. How long I slept I cannot say, but 1 awoke in the roar and rattle of a tunnel ?awoke in thick darkness to hear the slow panting of the engine and feel the labored strain which told me we were going up hill: also to a more disagreeable consciousness, namely, that 1 was not alone, that there were other persons in the compartment and that therefore I must have passed a station. What a fool I must have looked, sleeping heavily in broad daylight, so heavily that two persons at least had passed me in getting in without disturbing my boorish slumbers. Two at least?for they were talking and I listened for a moment to their conversation, wishing to gather who my companions might be before daylight showed them to me. They were very near me, it seemed, on the opposite seat by the door, and tho first words I heard were these, spoken in a gentle girlish voice, but with a sad firmness in it: "I cannot, Harry!" The answer startled me, it was so J My father thought lie was surprised to see the money, A friend said lie could not claim it, now my brother was dead. Anyway, he told my father he would forgive him the other half, but father would not hear of that. He said for his dead boy's honor he would pay all, and this morning, Harry, he told me to go and get the money from the bunk, and tomorrow he will pay it over himself and be free and happy again. Now. Harry, you understand." The man's tone was changed when he spoke again. "Of course, dear, I understand," he i said more gently, and I could hear him ! draw her toward him; "and now you ! must listen to me. You know you are j mine, Kate; you have promised to marry me, and you ought to trust me a little." "1 do, Harry," she whispered, "only : you promised to give up betting." "You talk liko a woman, Kate, and a ! woman with 110 experience. 1 tell you i most men bet; it all depends how you do it. Now here I am doing nothing rash. I am behind the scenes. 1 have the trainer's word for it, and ?rohn of Gaunt ? 1 lb iia biuu LU \> in cia tuc uuijivi -Acia think he is safe to lose, ami that is saying a good deal. With a paltry five pounds in my pocket 1 am safe to make fifty pounds, and with one hundred , pounds?think. Kate, we could marry tomorrow!" ' I would rather wait than marry so. I dear," the gentle voice answered. "But, by George, Kate, 1 would not" : ?the briefly repressed fury burst out ! again?"and I tell you again the money I will save me. Lend it me, child; just ; for tonight; 1 will bring it you doubled i tomorrow, Kate. 1 swear! Doubled! You don't know how I'll multiply it. And hark you, girl?for I see your meek | eyes set themselves, and your lips, that i can tremble sometimes, press together? 1 you had better know the truth; your l brother's story will be mine without this money; I owe more than that weak boy dared venture. I love you, Kate, and I'll marry you if you are true tome; but, by heaven, if you think to put a 1 dead brother before a living husband ! I'll be more like killing than marrying!" "I must give you up, Harry; I can never be your wife now. When you are calmer you would despise me, as 1 should despise myself, for lending you | what was not my own. The money is in a dead hand. 1 dare not touch it." "What do you mean, child?" the man who laughed asked in a hollow voice; "what makes you talk of dead hands? Come near me. Kate. 1 will not give yon up so lightly; see, we will talk of other things. Don't look so frightened; come j and kiss me, Kate: you are a brave girl: we'll forget that cursed money." | I heard her creep back to her old place, hoard her crying as woilien cry after a tension of mind and heart has been removed, heard him kiss her and ask her forgiveness, and then, just ;is the cold fear that held seemed to relax its hold, I felt?no, 1 felt nothing, but 1 heard, close tome, now, in the silence, a movement of a trembling, fumbling j hand?a hand that Bought something, ; something secret, something that it j would grasp unseen. The two were not speaking now, or only in murmurs so low that the moving hand which fumbled near me seemed to claim my ear more than their words. My head throbbed with the tension of : listening; all the blood in me seemed to i be beating there, leaving my heart stone cold. Suddenly the groping hand passed | swiftly close to my face; I felt the waft j of the parted air against my wet temples, and then I heard a cry?ah! such a cry of surprise breaking into terror, of : terror overmastering love, as the girl's j voice shrieked: "No, 110, not that, not that: oh, father, ' help! help?help!" Help? Against what? What had the girl's eyes seen; what dread had forced that bitter, broken cry from the poor j lips? At last I leaned forward; 1 cried, : too, "Help, help!" At least I think 1 I did, but if any sound came from my dry j throat I knew not; before me I knew the man bent over something, something that moved a little, that moaned, that i sighed softly. And after the sigh the | bending form lifted itself and muttered | and searched. 1 heard the hands tearing at something: then I heard a quick exclamation, a rustle of crisp paper, and i then the door at my side was open. I j felt the rain on my face, for a heavy shower was passing over us. The bios.-.d rain! The comforting, commonplace wetness reassured me. I felt i my terror passing and even reached a hand, half lieartedly shut the door, with a feeling that 1 had had a bad dream, i But some object was dragged against it, was forced through it keeping it ; open, until I heard a dull thud outside, | and then for the last time a harsh voice. | now in the doorway, mutter: "What devil drives me? There's the junction: I must leap!" The train slackened speed, the swinging door fell into its place slowly, as though released from the pressure of a restraining hand, and I looked up and saw a porter run forward as we steamed into the station. I caught at his arm as he came to the carriage. I saw him look in my face fiiriniKli' "Are you ill, sir?" ho asked. "Your carriage door was open; were you geting out?" L could not answer liiiu. "You hurt your hand, sir, I suppose; it is not safe to open the door too soon." "My liand! No, I have not hurt itwhy?" I managed to get the words out at last. The porter looked at me again queei'ly. "Well, you were staring at it when I came up as if you thought it would be covered with blood or something like." "I did, I did!" Then realizing what 1 was saying I broko off. "No, no, it is not hurt, but I am not well. I will stay here an hour or so: I cannot go on just yet." The porter seemed surprised, but helped mo out and then got out my things. As he did so ho exclaimed at the state of the carriage: "Who has been pulling this stuffing j out here? Were you alone, sir? This looks queer. Somebody's been cutting the cushion. I must speak to the station master." j But the station master was already there. Ho had noted tho delay and made his way to the carriage, glancing at me rather strangely and then looking into the compartment I had left. ".Ire you ill, sir?' he naked. "Who put this carriage on?" he called out. The guaril came up. "It was put on at B , sir. The train was full, anil all the stock had been sent on for the races; it was the only one they had, I understood." "That is so, sir," said one of thoi racing men, putting his head out of the window, "and dirty enough it is, too; but here we are, and here we mean to" stay, anil we'll be glad to be moving, j toward F . if convenient." I I thought the station master looked Inquiringly from me to the man who ipoke, and back again to me. Ilis face was pale, and he seemed about to tpoak. but looking at his watch, only signaled with his hands to the guard, and then stood apparently in much perplexity as the traiu slowly left the station. Then he glanced at me. "You look cold, sir," he said; "come and have a cup of coffee in my room. I suppose yon will go on by the next , train?" "Would you mind telling me, sir," he asked in the whisper I so well remembered my small brother adopting in the dead of night when we were boys, and ...l.w,l. n1ittn?*Li ttiorln ma fool " >>111111 ui?aj o iiiuu*? 1110 icct , "how that door came open?" "That's just what I don't know," I said, in the would be reassuring tone 1 always used to that small brother, and with the old result, namely, of blending ! our fears together and doubling their inI tensity. "1 was asleep?1 mean 1 had been asleep, and perhaps 1 kicked it." "Ah!" breathed the station master. "Why?" I ventured to ask. after a silence. "Only that four years ago, on the first j day of F races, that same carriage ran into our station with its doors open, as it did today, and inside was a woman in a dead faint. She came to herself in an hour and talked of a murder." "But that carriage?how do you know?" "This is how 1 know, sir," and the man got up and shut the doo.r, which opened onto the platform, and pulled his chair near mine when he came back, i "Some seven or eight years ago 1 was master here and waiting for the train passing through to the races, as it might be today, and as she came in I saw a door open, and going forward found the compartment in disorder, a knife on the floor, blood on it and on the seat and carpet and a slit in the stuffing of the cushion at the back just at the heightwell, at the height you saw it, sir, if it's as I think. We sent men back along the line and soon found a girl's body stubbed and thrown on the metals. "Thrown on the line?" "Yes. so they said. It was all found out quickly enough when her old father came to identify her; he said she'd been ' robbed, too, for she had one hundred i pounds in notes on her when she was murdered." I "And the man?he did not escape?" "No, the police guessed what he ha ' been up to, and traced him to the races, where they made out he had lost ever" note he stole. He had been betting j largely on 0110 horse" "John of Gaunt," I cried eagerly, but with some of the recent terror on uir ! again. ''John of (Jaunt," I cried eagerly. | "Yes, that was it. sir: you've heard the story before?" I shook my head and he went on: "Well, they followed him pretty well all over the country, public feeling was so hard against him that every one knew he could not hide long, and at last they came upon him half starved in a barn: he faced them and shot himself, and escaped hanging." I did not speak: I was going over my recent experience in the train. "The queer part of it, sir, is this," said tTio station master: "after the coroner's jury had been there and seen the carriage?left untouched for them, you'. 1 understand?we never used it; somehow the men did not like it, and one markr1day they sent it back to the station you came from, sir, and for years it was not used. Then four years ago, as I said, they hooked it on for the races, every bit of rolling stock being wanted, and j then it dfime in here with its door swingI ing, and a swooning woman inside, who ; told a strange story when it could bo got out of her. The men liked it less after that and sent it back again, and | now that fool down the line drags it out on race day of all days in the,year, and | puts you in it, sir, and in my idea it ought to be broken into firewood." Wo talked until my train came in, and 1 told him all I heard on that awful journey. "Poor soul." lie said. "I seem to know that girl." "By the bye," 1 asked, as 1 packed my things into a carriage in the train that was to take me on, carefully choosing a compartment full of smokers, "what was her name? Do you remember?" He curved his hand around his mouth and leaned toward me. "Kate Lee," he said. I do not often tell this story. Sometimes I have old it and seen an incredi ulous smile cross the polite faces of my ! hearers. 1 cannot account for its incidents or explain its improbability, but for me it has had one marked result?1 never enter an empty railway carriage. ?Murray's Magazine. Tiik Stuanukh at Ciiuu'ii.?The following problem is of sufficient im! portance to demand a special paragraph. If we were away from home among strangers, at the close of an earnest, faithful sermon, would any i of us feel it an intrusion to be spoken to, welcomed; and invited to come I again? The act would be deemed ac' ceptable Christian kindness by all; : and yet we stand back, afraid that an other would not so regard it. timer people are strikingly like lis, and , touched by the same thoughtfulness. A short while ago, a young lady of ! more than ordinary culture and ability ! found herself on the Sabbath out of reach of any church of her denominn! tion save a poor little German one. j She went there an entire stranger, 1 somewhat depressed by her solitariness. She was met by an old lady at the door, who cordially welcomed her, forgetting in genuine Christian courtesy that her own dress was poor while that of the stranger was of rich material. At the close of the service many i others spoke to her, assuring her of j their pleasure at seeing her. She left the little church with her heart warmed and refreshed, and expressed her purpose to return there again when she felt the need of Christian sympathy. For speedy and large returns for outlay of time and ellbrt,-a welcome to strangers in church oilers a capital ! investment. There are but few risks? not one in a thousand. Try it, and test the efficacy of the Golden Rule.? tikir Ludicrous deliverances are com| inon in advertisements, especially in those of a personal nature. Here is one that appeared not long ago in a New York paper: "Willie, return to , your distracted wife and frantic children ! Do you want hear of your old mother's suicide? You will if you do not let us know where you are. Anyway, send back your father's meerchaum." BStSf Mamma?What in the world are you making such a noise down there for? Roderick?To let you know how good I am. Mamma?Why do you think you are good when making so great a noise? Roderick?Because you ! always say I'm in mischief when I'm I quiet.?Harper's Young People. miscellaneous Reading. THE LOCATION OF HEAVEN. The people of Ilackensack have been talking a good deal for the past two weeks about their new Raptist , minister, the Rev. I>. I). Read. Mr. Read is delivering a course of lectures on "Heaven ; Its Locality, Inhabitants, I Occupations, and Life." He believes in a material heaven, built on the plan ! i oi anearuuy ciiy, aim loeaies u 111 me . star Alcyone. When asked for a brief i explanation of his ideas on the subject of heaven, Mr. Head said : "The soul is an entity and must have a dwelling place somewhere. There is no reason why it should not have a material dwelling place, since we know that there are material bodies in hcay- j ; en, as for instance, Christ, Enoch. Elijah, and Moses. The teaching of Christ : is explicit that heaven is a place, and i in the verse which I took for my tex^ ' Hebrews xi, 1(> it is written : 'For He hath prepared for them a city.' It is i i ; settled in my mind that heaven is a place, but where is it? Some say it : I is the sky, other that it will be the , ! earth purified by fire; but we know | that heaven is already in existence, 1 | since Christ and the angels came : 1 ! from heaven. "Both the Scriptures and astronomy ofi'er us light on the location of heaven. , There is no eonllict here between sci1 once and religion ; on the contrary, to .1 4 I 1 : * \\r? my niiiid inuy narmoni/a-. >? c } know that the earth not only moves | around tlie sun, hut tlie whole solar j system is traveling through space at an incredible rate of speed. Some astronomer has figured out that we | ' are moving in the direction of the star l'i, in the constellation Hercules, at a rate of 33,350,000 miles a year. There are other solar systems in space moving likewise. Maedler has shown that the motion of all-stars is around Alcyone, | | and that this fixed star is therefore the i centre of the material heavens. The earth moves about in an orbit of 20,000,000 of years. Alcyone shines with i a light equal to 12,000 of our own suns and is the brightest star known to us. It takes light 700 years to travel thence to the earth. What if here, at J the centre of the gravity, should he I the place where the King eternal, im| mortal, and invisible, the only wise ' (tod, reigns? Why should it not he ' so ? In Kphesians, iv, 10, it is written : j "Christ ascended far above all the heavens," and Paul says he was caught ; up "into the third heaven." The He- j I brews believed in three heavens. The first was that where the birds and 1 clouds fly through the air; the second ; was the stellar heaven, and the third i the heaven beyond our solar systems, i It seems to me that it is at this point that scientific and religious teaching converge. "All these theories of astronomy may ! be true, and, if they are, Alcyone is a i ; most fitting place for the eternal city. Hut remember, I am not speaking dogmatically. I am feeling for the truth. I I believe in a material heaven, where , we shall enjoy eternal life and recog- ' ni/.e our friends whom we loved on on earth." j "I)o you believe in a material hell ?" 1 "Well, f don't know. I don't say j that I do, but I have material enough I j collected to warrant me in delivering j a series of sermons on the subject, and | I may do that when I have finished | ! with heaven." Mr. Read went on to say that, hav- j ! ing demonstrated to his satisfaction that heaven might he in the star A Icy- ! one, he would in his next sermon ile- I scribe the life and occupations of the 1 heavenly inhabitants.?X. V. Sun. BY RAIL TO NAZARETH AND DAMASCUS. ! Up the rocky inclines of the Judean i hills the railway already climbs to the city of David. Jerusalem is now a terminus, as indeed, it ever was, and passengers are informed of the fact of arrival there in the usual way in which , the British porter announces the name of the local station. But there was another and a greater undertaking began during December?a railway from Acre to Damascus. In presence of a large number of English visitors, the first sod of the Damascus railway was I cut on December 12, last, by an Kngish lady. Acre, the city of the fifteen | i sieges, has always been considered the j key to Palestine, and its importance will he greatly increased by the fact j that it is the starting point of the most important railway in Syria. Two thousand six hundred years ago Shalmaneser took it, and fifty years ago it ! was taken by storm by Sir Charles Napier. Across the bay, immediately ; I under Mount Carmel, lies the modern town of Haifa, forever memorable to all readers of Laurence Oliphant's life and work as the place of his visions ami voluntary isolation while he waited on the Spirit. There in front is the Kishon, now clear as crystal, j which once ran red with the blood of tlu? iirrmhois of Baal, in number four hundred. The railway runs by Haifa, and under the haunted fastness of Carmel. A line sixty-foot viaduct spans the little river, never crossed in this manner before. Then eastward the rail makes its way through the gorge of the Kishon out upon the plain of Ksdraelon. ifere is Je/.reel station, where Allah's palace once stood. From a junction not far from i here, a branch line of a dozen miles ! will take passengers for Nazareth and Mount Tabor. A little farther on we pass over the spot where at Bethshan the Philistines nailed to the walls of the city the body of the first king of Israel?the hills of Gilhoa looking down on us as we go with the sadness ; of the most famous lyric in the world still upon them. Down into the valley of the Jordan the railway runs in steep gradients, till it crosses the river parallel with the ancient Roman . bridge which carries the old road to Damascus. Then up the valley of the [ Yarmuth, the railway will mount the high lands of Garada which lie on the east of the Sea of Galilee. Thence through the fertile Hainan, and with- i in sight of the snow-clad peak of Herlnoii, the railway will go straight on j till the passage of the river Pharpar j brings us to the gates of Damascus. I Steam vessels are to be placed 011 the Sea of Galilee, and a sulphur cure like that of Buxton may be looked for in I the neighborhood of Bethsaida. All this sounds like the exaggerations of an American humorist. Yet it is all serious and true?backed by English capital and being carried through as fast as English engineers can drive the picks of the Syrian laborers. It is ( indeed passing strange, and it sounds as if the old sacredness would depart ] when the tourist familiarly took cir- 1 cular tickets for half a score of Scrip- ' tni-r? sitos! hut after all. the sacred ness cannot depart. We take the re- j verent mind with us. or leave it behind. We shall realize the actuality i of our Bibles more when a cantilever , is thrown across the Bosphorus, and we take our tickets and seats at Lon- 1 j don Bridge in order to join the through train for Jerusalem! Tin-: Safkst Railroad Car.?"I'm very particular," said a commercial traveler at a down-town hotel, "what car of the train I select. I travel { thousands of miles a year and have made it a rule to observe in the ae- : counts of railroad accidents which cars . of the train am most often demolished. The result of my experiment?for I have been in a dozen smashups?and observation is that the middle cars arc I the safest. I never, under any circum stances, ride in the rear ear. I avoid the car next to the baggage ear, though this is selected by many as the safest. The greatest danger at present in railroad traveling is telescoping. When a man has been in a wreck and afterward seen the engine of the colliding train half way inside of the rear car, or rather what's left of it, it impresses him forcibly. The baggage car is usually heavily loaded, and in the collision its weight, together with the ponderous engine, generally smashes the next car to splinters, while the center 1 1 cars are comparatively unuijureu. When the train is derailed the baggage car and next coach, as a rule, go over. The roadbeds of our great transcontinental lines are so solid, each section is so carefully examined, the rolling stock is so much improved, that a broken rail, broken wheel or axle and like mishaps are reduced to a minimum. But when trains follow one another on a minute or two leeway and the block or automatic signals don't work?well, look in The Star the next day for further particulars and see if my judgment is not correct." GREAT PL'GlLISTS DIE POOR. The recent purchase of about $'">0,000 worth of real estate by Champion Jim Corbett and the statement that he aspires to he the richest pugilist in the world, reminds us that many of the best fighters have come at last to poverty and violent deaths. Few pugilists, no matter what wealth they may have accumulated in the golden days of youth and fistic supremacy, ever have enough of this world's goods to render comfortable their declining years. John Morrissey, of America, and John Gully, of England, were probably the most famous pugilists of their time, and in after years acquired wealth and legislative honors. Gully became a member of the English parliament and won a fortune on the turf and in speculative enterprises. He lost the greater part of his gains, however, in the latter part of his life, and was constantly haunted by the fear that he would ''die in the workhouse." He was saved that untoward fate, and patrons of sport were highly gratified in consequence. John Morrissey "picked up," to use a sporting phrase, more money than any gladiator who ever lived, not excepting the renowned John L. Sullivan, of Boston. Yet he died without a solitary silver dollar to glisten before the expiring light of his eyes. At one time Morrissey was worth $2,000,000 and conducted the greatest gambling houses in America? one at No. 818 Broadway, and one at Saratoga Spa. The latter was world , famous as the "Saratoga Club House." His wife, who once wore $800,000 worth of diamonds, is now working in a Troy collar factory and earns about a dollar a day. John C. Heenan,the conqueror of Tom Sayers, the champion of England, for a time rose to the crest of the wave, but he ultimately sank beneath the billows of poverty and despair. Sickness followed in the trail of pov ertv, and forgotten, forsaken, and in need, died of consumption in Colorado. By a strange coincidence his wife, the gifted but erratic Adah Isaacs Menken, the most beautiful actress of her day, died shortly before her husband in the most abject poverty, at. Paris, France. She was buried in Potter's Field. Tom Hyer, Mike McCool, Joe Coburn, all champions of America, died without as much us a shroud to cover their bodies. Subscriptions were taken by friends to bury them. Of tlusj three Coburn had at one time the most money. Millionare George Law was his friend and backer and gave him many a thousand dollar note, besides "placing" him in advantageous business spots. The history of the English ring is replete with even more heartbreaking incidents. Bill Perry, the "Tipton Slasher," for many years champion of England, died in the poor house at West Bromwich, Staffordshire. Tom Sayers, Perry's conqueror, and John C. Heenan's subsequent opponent, died in great poverty at Camden town, near London. In liis life time he squandered $60,000. The last $15000 he possessed, a purse given him by his admirers afters his battle with Heenan, he lost by investing in a country circus. Billy Edwards, once light weight champion of the world, had at one time $70,000. He made it in "lucky turns" in Wall street. The bulk of it has gone back there. Arthur Chambers, Edwards's great rival, at one time could proudly point to an $85,000 bank account. Now he is "broke." The horses got it. Of all the active pugilist before the public?Corhett, Sullivan, Jackson, Goddard, Choynski, Maher, Mitchell, Slavin, McAuliffe, Grillin, Dixon, Fitzsimmon's and Hall?hut three have money. These tire C'orbett, Mitchell, and Fitzsimmons. This is a thrifty trio. They "hold the coin." They let their admirers spend. Every dollar these cute gentlemen capture remains u prisoner. How Rt.ssians Kkkp Warm.?The Russians have a great knack of making their winters pleasant. Von feel nothing of the cold in those tightly built houses where all the windows are double, and where the rooms are kept warm bv big stoves hidden in the walls. There is no damp in a Russian house, and the inmates may dress indoors in the lightest garbs, which contrast oddly with the mass of furs which they don when going out. A Russian can allord to run no risk of exposure when he leaves the house for a walk or drive. He covers his head and ears with a fur bonnet, his feet and legs with felt boots lined with wool or fur, which are drawn over the ordinary boots and trousers, and reach up to the knees: he next cloaks himself in a coat with a fur collar, lining and cutis; he buries his hands in a pair of lingerless gloves of seal or bear skin. Thus equipped, and with the collar of his coat raised all around so that it muffles him up to to the eyes, the Russian exposes only his nose to the cold air; and he takes care frequently to give that organ a little rub to keep the circulation going. A stranger who is apt to forget the precaution would often get his nose bit if it were not for the courtesy of the Russians, who will always warn him if they see his nose "whitening," and will, unbidden, help him to chafe it vigorously with snow. Only Imagination.?People who are trembling at the possibility of a cholera epidemic may read a lesson in the following: A Scotch professor commenced a course of lectures on the heart. After his second lecture he had just sat down to dinner, when a servant came in and said Mr. Jones, one of his students, wished to see him. Hurrying into the next room he found Mr. Jones wearing a most anxious look. "Oh, sir, I was obliged to call; I am suffering from an acute attack of heart disease." The professor sounded him forthwith, hut could find no trace of the alleged mischief. He had scarcely dismissed Jones with this comforting assurance when Mr. Smith, another student, was ushered in. It was the same story, with the same result. In fact, every member of the professors' ' * ' - 1 class, witn iwo cxcepnons, linagincu himself to have heart disease ; and it was not as might be imagined, a preconcerted plot to play a joke on the professor: it was simply imagination, which has as many victims as disease itself.