she was the love of his youth! He had formed other ties,-deep, sacred ties. Could it be that the old love was still alive-that love which he had fought so hard to cast out of his life? But his reverie was broken at the sound of her voice, saying: "My husband will be glad to know you. And do you know, Jack, I kept the promise you extorted from me, never to mention your name after we found out our mistake; and I have thought of you so often, and wondered where you were, that I nearly broke the

CONSTANTINOPLE-HOWLING DERVISH.

promise several times. I wanted to tell Pete about you. I know he would be interested, though he seldom speaks of men to me, and I have sometimes thought his life is so taken up with our two girls and myself that he never thinks of other people. But, come-you will, I know, find Pete O'Connel one of the best fellows you ever knew."

Jack had taken her hand while she was speaking, and at this last sentence he gripped it so tight that Florence could scarcely keep from crying out with pain;

but he suddenly dropped it. He could find no words in which to answer her, but a feeling of intense hatred sprang up in his heart against the man who had won this fair woman-a feeling of almost jealous revenge. He did not tell her that he knew Pete, but tried to take her back with him to the old days.

Little did he think that the jealous eyes of Pete were on him then, as he devoured the beauty of the woman and lived over again the days when they were sweethearts. But Florence's mind was on the

gayety around her, and she wished to dance. So they waltzed-once-twicemany times. How divinely she waltzed! Now rushing over him came those other days. How he longed to hold her always as in that mad waltz! How he wanted to take her away-keep her for himself! He thought that if he could only carry her away to some far-off island, to live-to breatheto smile for only himself! But these were wicked thoughts for noble Jack Cavanaugh, and very foreign to his more sensible and honest nature.

Florence laughed, chatted, danced, little dreaming what was in her partner's mind. But it troubled her that she could not find Pete to introduce to him her old friend.

So Jack left her after promising to see her at the reception next day at Lady Grey's home.

*

When Mrs. O'Connel found Pete, she related her meeting with Jack Cavanaugh, saying: "He is an old friend, dear, and I wish you could have met him, and you will tomorrow at the reception, for he has promised to be there."

Pete did not say much at this announcement for he reasoned that if Jack had spared her the pain of relating their unfriendliness, he surely would spare her.

"Well, Jack Cavanaugh, you are worse than I thought, and I have surely found you out. I knew you were much pleased with yourself and all swelled up on your undeserved advancement, but realÏy, I did not think you were so low as to try to steal another man's wife, and I will watch you, curse you, and if in any way you seek to turn the current of

a pure woman's life, I will kill you." Florence wondered tonight as they walked to their hotel what made Pete so unusually kind and attentive. She compared the handsome lover of her youth with Pete, and she could not help but admire him, but she was happy and never for a minute had she been sorry that she married"Honest Irish Pete," as he was called, for he was really the love of her life, and a kind and adoring husband.

It was 3 o'clock, and the guests had commenced to arrive at Lady Grey's. The fine lady soloist had disappointed the committee on entertainment, but they had learned in time of the remarkable voice of Mrs. O'Connel, and had luckily obtained her consent to assist with the music.

Her voice had never seemed in better condition, and Jack Cavanaugh hovered near enough to watch every expression of her sweet face. Oh, was he mad! All the old love seemed to be gushing over his soul. He was completely enveloped in the past; the room was hot; the walls seemed to be swimming around. He must get out into the open air, or he would suffocate. Little did he care for the angry eyes of Pete O'Connel, which did not leave his face once. But just as he is seeking the open air-stay, what is that song she is singing? He will hear it out. "Tis a low, sweet lullaby-a mother singing to her babe. Florence's face gradually fades away, and in its place another comes, singing that song-an infant clinging to her breast-his child and hers. He hears again the voice of Alice singing to their first-born, sees again her head pillowed on his shoulder, hears the low sweet whisper, "Yes, Jack,

I love you. I think I must have always loved you, dear, even before I knew you." Ah, he was mad! Had he never after all appreciated the pure, sweet love of his little wife? Were years of devotion and the tender care of his offspring as nothing?

Ah, he had been remiss. As the last notes died away, so died almost ere it was born, his unholy love.

When he found the open air all the world seemed to echo Alice's words of

years long gone by, "I love you, Jack. I always loved you.' "How he longed for her now. A new love seemed to have been born for her in the last few minutes. Ah! she would have been repaid for all these years of devotion could she have seen his heart now.

But as he is communing with himself, someone breaks in on those sacred thoughts. "Sir, I wish to speak with you. ." It was Pete. They walked farther into the garden. Here hot words passed between them, for as always, it was

NORWAY-TROMSO LAPLANDER

useless to reason with a jealous person. Pete refused to believe Jack when he candidly told him how Florence's song affected him, and how it had made a different man of him, how that his own wife had never seemed so dear to him as at the present moment.

But Pete was stubborn and they parted in anger. Jack went home that evening. Pete and his wife went home the following day.

Another three years roll around and

find Jack and Pete on speaking terms, but not much better friends.

It was about 10 o'clock P. M. Jack and his son Arthur, who had caught his father's engine out the last trip, were preparing to leave the engine when Pete's engine came flying down the main track and struck the big locomotive with terrible force. For one awful second they reared in the air like two gigantic monsters, then Jack's engine leaned to one side and fell. Jack was in some way caught and held under the cab. His son Arthur was thrown some distance and scalded.

voice, Pete, Pete, for old times' sakePete, help me. Break the news to Alice -tenderly-you-Pete-Oh, God! What have I done to merit such suffering-"

Poor Arthur Cavanaugh was lying some little distance away and the suffering of his father almost crazed him. He imagined that Pete had caused the wreck through revenge, because his father, though a younger man, was pulling a

passenger.

"My God! O'Connel! What a cur you are. How could you do it-you who used to be father's friend-you did it on purpose, and you shall pay dearly for it!"

ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA, COACHMAN.

Pete had put on air and he and his fireman had jumped just in time to save themselves. When Pete learned that Jack was pinioned under the wrecked engines he waded in through steam and hot water and endeavored to drag him out. But it was useless with tons of iron holding him fast.

Jack was entirely conscious and his first questions were for his son, and when told that he was not badly injured he begged pitifully for death.

"My God, Pete-Pete! I hear your

He was too dazed to understand that his father's engine was on the main track instead of the roundhouse track where it should have been.

When the bystanders heard the angry words of Arthur Cavanaugh accusing Pete with causing the accident they let the words sink so deep in their hearts that they too believed he could have prevented the accident by putting on air sooner.

Although Pete was badly burned about the arms and hands, he did not seem to mind the pain. He made one more heroic effort to extricate Jack and then he realized that it was useless till further help came. He was so stunned with the cries of misery from Jack and the accusations from Arthur Cavanaugh, that strong man as he was, he fainted.

The wreck crew soon arrived on the scene and with them several doctors. Poor Jack was soon taken from the twisted 'irons that had held him captive. Soon after Pete had fainted the blessings of unconsciousness stole over Jack and though he lingered several hours, he never spoke again.

Pete himself filled the other missions Jack had left for him. He broke the sad news to Jack's poor little wife, which at first completely prostrated her.

After the sad rites of the dead were finished, Pete found himself under arrest for murder.

It had in some way leaked out that the men were bitter enemies. Truly they had been, but in that last terrible trial, the old friendship had sprung to life in

Jack's dependence on Pete and as he saw that poor prostrate, suffering form, Pete had buried forever that bitter enmity.

It was a strange trial which lasted for months, and to make it doubly sad for Pete, while in prison he lost his beloved wife, and the blow almost killed him.

Mrs. Cavanaugh had somewhat recovered, and with her two daughters was almost a daily visitor at the prison.

She knew that the man was innocent of crime before Heaven, and that it was her son's bitter words that had placed him behind prison walls.

Arthur Cavanaugh visited him often and did all he possibly could in his behalf, for it was really his fault

that Pete was behind the bars.

At last the trial was finished and the jury brought in the verdict: "We find the prisoner not guilty."

As Pete walked out of the prison, his two daughters and Arthur Cavanaugh by his side, one would hardly know the honest Pete of a few months before. His step is slow, and his hair has turned quite white. Pete never returned to the road.

Six years later we find Pete settled in a thriving town of the West. He has set up in business and is rapidly accumulating a fortune.

From the day Pete left prison he felt it a duty he owed to Jack, to look after and protect Jack's widow, and four years from that memorable day he married her.

Arthur Cavanaugh is engaged to beautiful Florence O'Connel. The wedding day is set and will take place in early June.

'Twas sent by a girl who kissed it once As she stood in the whirling snow, Where the lights from the corner store through the storm

Sent out a hazy glow.

But your Uncle Samuel must have guessed,
No matter what else might wait,
That letter must go, post haste! posthaste!
From here to the Golden Gate.

For across the river and over the hills
And the prairies on it flew;

It dodged a wreck, and it entered storms,
And once 'twas the last train through.
Then forth it put to the western sea,
Where the speeding waves upcurled:
And the cupids and love-birds sailed away
To the other side of the world.

tented, but people know who

look on the faces of father and mother

that their life holds a story.

A Soldier's Valentine.

It was only a square of paper lace
Where roses and hearts entwine,
And beneath them a loving word or two:
Only a valentine.

A frivolous thing, in an envelope
All covered with cooing doves,
Forget-me-nots, and hearts, and darts,
And little ecstatic loves.

O wonderful scrap of paper lace!

It went to a hospital bed,

Where a homesick soldier tossed and turned And would not be comforted.

And somehow the soldier felt that day
Soft arms, whose pressure he knew,
And home, and love, and health, and hope
Thrilled him through and through.

And he felt new love for our Uncle Sam,
Who had lent his trains and men
And ships, that the whole wide world apart,
Two hearts might meet again.

-Florence E. Pratt, in the Cleveland Leader.

Keep Still and Be a Force.

When trouble is brewing, keep still. When slander is getting on his legs, keep still.

When your feelings are hurt, keep still, till you recover from your excitement, at any rate.

Things look different through an unagitated eye.

"In a commotion once," says one, "I wrote a letter and sent it, and wished I had not. In my later years I had another commotion, and wrote a long letter; but life rubbed a little sense into me and I kept that letter in my pocket against the day when I could look it over without agitation and without tears. I was glad I did. Less and less it seemed necessary

real trouble meant; it has thrown all the sham worries and make-believe unhappiness into the background."

It is a rough and tumble world, where everyone has his own private little battle ground, and he is not much of a soldier who runs over and tells his neighbor about every little scratch.

Even when the great hurt comes-the real sorrow which shall transform the world for you, keep still.

But you will keep still then. As the depths of the river rush on more silently than a shallow, chattering brook, so the real grief sweeps noiselessly over the heart, numbing its cries to silence.

Silence is a massive thing. It is strength. It is grandeur.

Do not be a shallow, babbling brook.

to send it. I was not sure it would do any hurt, but in my doubtfulness I leaned to reticence, and eventually it was destroyed."

Time works wonders. Wait till you can speak calmly, and then maybe you will not need to speak at all.

When you have petty little worries and vexations, don't whine about them. Keep still.

At some later day you may come to know what real trouble is.

There was once a woman who never possessed real serenity of mind, until a great sorrow came into her life, then she said: "I never knew until now what a