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V H of Heaven feu Continued from First Page. iliom when they left Greenhays, ami some of ttaem .still young:. it was a. great thing that the eldest, Annie, was so steady ami motherly that, as far as possible, she took the mother's place. It was a trust the mother had given her on her death bed. "Took after father and the little ones. Annie,” she had said. Annie had kept her trust, even to putting away the one chance of marriage that .presented itself to her. It wottfd be so long before by any possibility she could leave father and tiie children that it would not be fair to keep Tom Blake waiting. She had sent him away, but he would keep coming. I lis face was as familiar a one in the chimney corner as t lie face of any one of the family. But it was quite a long time now 'since he had said anything of love or marriage. He seem ed to have grown content with friend ship; and. oddly enough, Annie, who bad bidden him be so content, was secretly sad at his obedience. Tbe children would not have John work. I'Jddio took a. clerk’s stool in a. newspaper office; Charlie went out to South Africa and joined the police there, anti sent home so much money every month that John was fretted lest lie ■should be pinched himself. Kntty, the next girt to Annie, went into a milliner's. Xora had been promoted to teach in her school at an infinitesimal salary. And there were still four liitle ones, who had healthy appetites, and must he fed ami . jollied and receive some sort of school ing. it was a Ivitter pill for John to see his children working in humble positions, and doing without things they needed so that the little house might he kept going. When he had married their mother lie had been a yeoman farmer, who had ridden to honndts. like, the gentry, and bold his head high. The life, of confinement in "lose spaces and scanty food agreed ill witli the children. Eddie, who had been as straight a lad as ever lived, contracted .bowed shoulders at the newspaper office. He bad ;ui alarming cough, and tbe doe- tor spoke of getting him away from his sedentary life in the unventilated but draughty office. TCa-tty used to come home Ixirely able to crawl and often wet through since she could not afford even a tram drive. Nora. had headaches con stantly. and Annie suffered from chronic indigestion. Yet they had been a bonnio flock at Greenhays. No. to be sure, John could not sit with folded hands and let the children work for him. Ho went about looking for a job day after day, week after week—almost year after year—coming (hewn in his preterxelons as time went, till be was ready to lake any honest job that offoreri. 'ITte city was a cruel place, where men were pushed to the wal at 60. When at last be got a jo** at a pound a week, to look after the distribution of fodder in the stable yard of a great brewery, ho was so haippy about it that lte forgot to think what a groat come down it was in the world. He only remembered that he need not eat the children's bread row, and that there was a deal to be purchased in their now, humble way of living out of a pound a week. Tlw children cried and stormed when they hoard what he bad been doing. T’ne idea, of a Hurst of Greenways coming down to be a yardman at a brewery! But it was impossible for long to with stand John's cheerful face. He had the ih'.ue eyes and rosy cheeks of a child under his white hair, as he had the heart of a child. JTe was so depreca tory. so apolegetic with the children that it ended as such things always did end. in their hugging hLs white head. And, U> be sure. Anfiie, though she had pro tested the loudest, found that pound a week a great help in the housekeeping. They had a little red house, one of a long street of little houses exactly alike. i‘* was very narrow and scrimped and ugly after the farm; but John Hurst was always so full of thanksgiving fo- the mercies tliat came his way that the children learnt from him and forgot to grumble. To be sure, it was rather a low neigh borhood. and a good many things hap pened which used to make Annie call, up her little flock from the windows and distract their attention from what was being said and done in the street or in the narrow, unlidded boxes called by courtesy the gardens of Minerva Ter race. It would have been so ( lean aiul sale at Greenhays for the children. Here, it often seemed to Annie, that there was so much evil about them that she did not know how she was going to keep them unspotted from the world as her mother had bidden her to. John found his job at the brewery not altogether an uncongenial one. For one tiling, it brought him among the horses. Then there was one big tree in the brew ery yard, and in Hie spring the thrushes used to come in 'from the country and build there anil sing as sweetly, morning and evening, as they had sung at Green hays. Indeed, at Greenhays. John had not troubled very much to listen to the birds. In fact .lie had had a little en mity against them, because they played havoc with his garden—he had been an enthusiastic gardener. Now the songs amid the bare boughs in the new leaves brought the tears to his eyes, and he felt his heart melt with in nlm with mingled delight and pain. Also ho liked the big. dusky lofts which were his domain, where the light came in through ovals of lattice-works, and the smell was of hay and corn. And when the tree was in leaf all the soft masses of it waved before tho window ovals, and the sun streamed through the broad green leaves, and their shadows danced on the dusty floor; and, as John said, you might be in the country and not in the town at all. In the long evenings John still found time to cultivate his little garden, which was so chock full of flowers and vege tables that It was the wonder and ad miration of the neighborhood. IT was not so pleasant at the brewery when the winter canto, and John had to be out in the dark hours of the early morning in all weathers. And some times the men were unpleasant and in clined to pick a. quarrel with John; but not ofteit. for he had an open, simple way that made all the world la is friends. Then it was a distinctly pleasant thing to John, who turned to pleasant things ns a flower to the sun. when Master Roger, the son of the senior partner in Hie brewery, took Jcindly notice of him and showed an Interest In him. The young gentleman was always Master Roger to the men. who had worked for the brewery and their fathers before them, for many and many a year. Le Merchant's was a very good em ployment, and discontent bail hardly ever lifted it. * head among t lie men. The eldest son of the eldest son had always gone into the business, and Master Ro ger was no exception. He seemed to take quite kindly io the business, al though be came to it from Eton and Christ church, and looked, as the men said, no end of a toff. He was a fair, curly-haired, pleasant young gentleman, and John found it quite a good day when Master Roger would come into Ills little room and sit down for a chat. But. despite such alleviations, it was hard on a man of John's age not to be able to rest in the chimney corner when lie wanted to. Annie found it harder and harder to wake him in the dark morn ings. lie used sometimes to fall asleep after he had been called, and would go out into the cold, dark street at last, cheerful, but still half asleep. It Used to go to her motherly heart to break his sleep and send him out to earn bread at liis age when rest was ins due. ft was only on Saturdays and Sundays that lie could got out for a few miles into the country, and those were tho hours of the week to which he looked forward front Monoa.v ,.w*iiing. He used to go off by himself, with only old Fincher, (he grey Irish terrier they had brought from Greenhays for a com panion. and a thick stick to help him to walk. lie would get out among farms, and would pause at one live-barred gate after another to watch tho farming operations in progress. lie took as great an in terest in them as the owners of the land, and would lie elated by fine sea sonable weather, and cast down by too long drought or too much rain, like tbe farmers themselves. He used to enjoy t hose walks thoroughly, and to come back with a healthy appetite and full of things to talk about. He had told Roger about those walks, and Master Roger had been ln- terested, smiling to himself at John's concern over other men's property Ho had drawn from Joint the story of how he had left Greenhays farm, and had not said much, but It is pleasant blue eyes had been sympathetic. One day, in 11 to dark December weath- m or, John had an adventure and met with w a misfortune. He was going home at tho dinner hour, a relaxation he did not often permit himself, hut he had been feeling his age more than usual that day, when he met Miss Lily, the youngest daughter of the senior partner, and Master Roger's little sister, riding with her groom. He knew the little lady very well by sight and she him. He took off his hat to her with the delightful courtesy that belonged to him. and the child nodded and smiled. She was a very pretty little person, and John was devoted to children. He stood a second looking after the Jjulo blue-habited figure, with the fair hair floating about it. thinking what a pretty seat Miss Lily had in the saddle. It was rather a narrow thoroughfare and paved. There were high stone walls to either side of it. As he turned to go on he saw a hooded laundry-cart coming down the street. For a second he thought there was nothing unusual. Then lie suddenly recognized that it was a runaway. At first the horse's pace was not very fast, hut tiie clatter of the cart on the paving stones, echoed by the high walls, terri fied him. The pace became faster and faster. John saw one or two men from the footpath spring at the horse’s head in an ineffectual attempt to stop it, and fall back again. Now it was coining at a mad pace. John glanced behind him, wondering Ir the equestrians were out of ...o street. -Xo, they were jogging along slowly. The sound of their horses' feet would drown tiie noise of tiie runaway. By the time they would hear it it would be impos sible io get out of tiie way. John imag ined the impact of the runaway horse with Miss Lily's pony and turned sick lor an instant. Then lie was our in the roadway, lie was yet wonderfully active, despite his age. As the horse came up he sprang and caught him by lire bridle. The horse plunged forwar 1, dragging John with him. Then Joint was down under tire horse's feet. But the horse had stopped, and was standing trembling and sweat ing. People seemed to arrive a? once from every quarter. There was a doctor m the crowd. A litter was sent for, and John was carried home. He had a ■broken leg; nothing worse, fortunately, but at his ago, said the young doctor, it would he a tedious case. Perhaps there would never be a complete cure. John might have to walk a bit lame for tiie lest of his days. It was very hard on John, with his ac tive habits. It was hard on Annie, with that pound a week gone. And John fretted that perhaps the place would not be kept open for him; and an invalid t« nurse, too. Since misfortunes never come singly, a week before Christmas Eddie, in a tit of coughing, brought up blood. lie con fessed to the doctor that it had hap pened slightly before. 11 is employment must he given up said the doctor. Mo must be nursed at home and have a gen erous diet while lie stayed; but as soon as possible he should go to a warmer cli mate. That month there was no remittance, no letter from Charlie. It was frighten ing beyond tiie lack of tiie money. Some thing must have happened to him, for lie was so thoughtful always, and had never forgotten to write. Then Katty’s milliner's shop shut its doors, and Katty was out of a situation. It was very hard for poor Annie to keep cheerful, seeing that site had al ways carried ul! tiie burdens. And then —there was a fear gnawing at her heart. Tom Blake was a less frequent visitor. His old content In her presence seemed to have vanished. The children had meet him one day walking with a' very pretty girl. Annie had never been pretty, and hard work and indigestion had not helped her looks, although, as her sister Nora said, any one who looked as ’'good” as Annie needn't want to be beautiful. It seemed like to be a very sad Christ mas for them all. They must be satis fied with very humble fare for the Christ mas dinner, such cheap scraps and par ings as Annie could purchase from the butcher in the hour before closing on Christmas Eve. She would make it into as nourishing a stew as possible. But she dared not look beyond. Fnless Char lie's money came how could she food them? It was characteristic of John that lie did not talk about Hip accident. He had quite forgotten to mention even to Annie that Miss I-51 y had been in the path of tho runaway. He freitej a deal in bis enforced idleness, watching Annie's har assed face. Xo word had come from the authort- ,; es at the brewery, although several of tiie men iiad comp to see him, and brought kind little offerings, which made ' John’s eyes misty as he received them. Tobacco and newspapers nearly always constituted the offerings. But, then, John , smoked little, and his thoughts were too troubled to lose themselves in the polic- i' al situation. To be sure. Mr. Roger was away visit ing friends. The manager, who was devoted to the Le Merchants, and had forty years of service, was a cut-and- driod. hard man, ,who believed in adding money on money to the Le Alarchan; riches. He sent no message to John, lint the men brought him word that there -..as a not her man on the job—for the present, at all events. Christmas Eve was a wretchedly wet day. Eddie coughed incessantly, and the children wore at home from school with colds. The youngest of all. aged seven, bad refused his dinner with indignation. Annie had to confess that it was not inv iting. Site looked out at Hie rain, thinking to herself drearily that perhaps soon they would not have this cover over them. Stic was tired to death, trying to keep the fractious children quiet, and her fath er cheerful. All the Mine, through the discomfort of things, and the sick boy's coughing, that other trouble of her own v ould come into sight. She had got the children to bed, and ii’as about to sally forth to do tier mar gining. thinking miserably how very few shillings there were in her purse, when tl ere came ;t tremendous double knock at the door. She and Katty and Nora were sitting with the father. "It sounds like a parcel,” Nora said, as Katty went to open the hall door. "It must be a mistake,” said Annie. ‘‘There is no parcel to come for us. ’ Yet they listened with the sense of ex- pectation Which dies hard with the young. There was the sound of a couple of heavy things being humped down in thi hall. The door slammed, and Katty camo :n with her eyes shining. “There are two large hampers.” she said, “and there isn't any mistake for they're addressed to John Hurst, Esq.' .Oh, come and see what they contain'. \V e shall have to unpack them in the hall, for they are too heavy to drag in hero.” Even Annie was startled out of her unhappiness. Tile three eager girls set to work to unpack the hampers. Every minute they catne running in to display something to John. They were, indeed, magnificent hampers. In one, a ham, a turkey, with strings of sausages, a plum pudding, mince pies, apples and oragnea and figs and grapes and a huge Christ inas cake, with quantities of crackers, in tiie other was wine, old crusted port, as though the donor knew there was an invalid, golden sherry, claret, a boetie of whisky, with sweet sirups for the children, five pounds of tea, and a box of cigars. And not one word to tell where they came from. John would have it that it was Mas ter Roger. Well they must only wait and see. The youngest child thought 1 liev came straight, from heaven—and they might have, for the beatitude they brought into John's heart and Annie's. On Clirtsamas morning as Annie .as going to an early service, when the lamps were still alight in the frosty street anti the stars yet twinkling, she found Tom Blake awaiting her on her own door step. ”1 made sure you'd be going,” he said; and then he took her hand and drew it through his arm and drawing iter wool en glove off he slipped a little hard circle "over iter finger. "I've been trying to forget you,” lie said, “and it was no use. 1 never could care for anyone Hut you, so you must just take me. If we must wait. I’ll come to live in the house witli you and help you to work for your father and the res t. ” So Tom came back to breakfast after the service, and ‘the children, who were wildly excited over sausages for break fast. forgot to stare at Annie's rosy cheeks and shining eyes. About 12 o'clock, just as Annie had put the turkey in tiie oven, Mr. Roger Le Merchant called, and his sister Lily with him. ”! only got hack yesterday. John."' tie said, “and was sorry to hear of your accident. Your place will be kept open for you. and of course you'll be paid your salary while you're lying by—that is. if you make up our mind to stay with us.” “Thank you kindly for the hampers, sir.” said John. Mr. Roger smiled. ‘‘Only one came from me, John," lie said. “Yoij will have to thank someone else presently for the other.” •‘Why. Air. Hurst." put in little Aliss Lily, ”1 saw you that morning you got hurt. As James and I rode back tiie policeman told us. Of course, I didn't know it was you.” ”1 did it for you. Miss Lily,” said John, simply. "For Lily!” “For me!” “You were in the path of the runaway, Aliss Lily, you and your groom. 1 saw it all in a minute, what was going to happen. Heaven helped me to stop him.” "John: And you never let u.<? know." cried Mr. Roger. "Don't you know that there is nothing in the world my father any of us. wouldn't do for the one who did what you did? AN e will do anything now, John, for you and yours. But per haps you won't let us do much. There are others—that delicate boy of yours. T>r. Franklin has told us about him. He shall go to Atadeira. Nothing would be too much for the one who had saved Lily's life.” There was another rat-tat at the hall door. "Ah! here am some more friends. John, older friends than we are.” Air. Roger said. “I meant to have prepared you. T ant afraid what they can do for you will outweigh what we can.” Annie came into the room, and follow ing her closely a tali, fair-haired boy, and a brown, pleasant-looking gentleman with gray hair. "John.” cried the boy. running to him and seizing his hand. "Don't you re member'me. John, Master Hilary? And here is I'm Jo Hugo. AVe have come home to live. AA’o never knew that you had .gone. What a. shame it has been all these years! AVe should never have found you only for this fellow”—indicat ing Mr. La Alarchant—"Cm le Hugo l s going to marry Miss Le Merchant. And we have brought you a present. John." He thrust something into John's hand. The little ones came stealing into the room to peep, and Eddie followed them. He had a 1 dter in "his hand, the delayed letter from Charii* 1 . None of them had heard tiie postman's knock. John was holding something on the palm of liis hand and looking down at Order Kentucky’s Great Whiskey Express Prepaid from Distiller Direct to you 2 Gallons for jf5. of thoroughly matured highest medicinal, Pare Rye or Boar bon Whiskey or one gallon each, in Myers’ patent glass demijohns, and to PROVE Falton is the best Whiskey, you need send no money Weshipon thirty days' credit if you have your merchant or bxrik: write u» guaranteeing account. No O. O. D. . FREE 4 miniature bottlesof Selected Fulton with each 2 gallon demijohn or eight quart bottle orderaccomnaniea with cash. Full Quart Bottles of Rye or Bourbon are expressed prepaid in plain boxes, either 4 for S3-.f*for!so. or 12 for $9, If not satisfied with good3, return, and if paid for, all your money will be refunded by first Address MYERS & COMPANY, r-nvrorTnN KY. Out 0»K1U tt.S. ItHiniUD tliimLUTNo.n.ta Dur. m It. Y Y VJ J. Y p A • 18 . R*oi*t***d Ill.TriLtllT No. 25. Sr* Put. or Ct. Order* from Anion*. C*lir«rnl*. Colorado. I«»ho, gout***. N»T*d», NorMezino, Or**«D.TTt»h. Wajhlnuton or Wyoming «rat emit for ' -r 6 gallon* in domtjohna. or for 115.00 br prtptid freight. Writ* for oipret* t«rnu for them St«'.r- cither 20 fuii quart bottles. .Wrlt^o^uTbook^TairCustorwer^TnTpfic^ls^aaUdT A big. old-fashioned, rather rusty it. key. "It's the key of the farm.” he said, in a slinky voice. “What does it mean. Alaster Hilary—I mean. Lord st. Leger? Ir warms my heart to see your lordship again and Major St. f*eger. too.” It means that you're, all coming hack to Greenhays, John,” said young Lord St. Leger. ‘‘And when .vo.u've looked sit the key long enough, you’d better lot me have It. back again, for we’re going down tomorrow and I want to have the place in order for you. It will be ready for you early in the New Year. The crops are all in. I’ve compensated tiie outgoing tenant. There will be plenty for all your family to do on the farm.” ‘‘The key seems to fascinate you, John,” said Major St. Leger, smiling. “Isn’t it the Key to Heaven, sir?” said John. And the only people who looked at ail dissatisfied were Mr. Roger Le Alarchant and his sister, because, of course, all they meant to do for John was taken out of their hands. ELEONOR’S MOTHER. Continued from First Page. what T wns. Rapid! That auctioneer fellow never got over it. ' He chuckled as he thought of liis dis comfited rival, "the auctioneer fellow." “Mv dear dad.” said Dick, “it's all very well for you to be so cheerful. You've got what you wanted, and a son who is —ahem!—a credit to you.” “ ‘Oh would some power lHo giftie gie us’,” hummed tiie old man. "Well, he is a credit to us,” affirmed the old lady. "Dick dear, we want to know whether money stands in tiie way, because your father and I—” Lick was touched. ”Xol a bit of it, thank you all the same, mater. 1 could marry tomorrow if Eleanor said yes." "Then, why in the name of all that's infernal, said the old gentleman, witli great distinctness, “don’t you go an 1 ask her? You don’t think, you confounded puppy, that a lovely girl like that is going to throw herself at your empty, curly head?” “It's all very well for you to speak, dead; but you don't know ln-r mother?” "And from what I've heard ot her. f don't want to know her,” said the old gentleman, hotly. “Looks down on us, don't she? We ain't good enough for her.” "Don't say ‘ain’t', dear,” fleaded liis wife, “or she'11 he sure Of it.” "I ain't going to be dictated to by—” The old gentleman laughed. "Well, I ain't." "Look here." said Dick. "I'm awfully grateful to you both. You’re just too good io live. But we stick together. I'm not going to have you patronized by an old woman whose only claim to good works is that-she is the mother of Elea nor. I can't give up Eleanor, even if site won't have me. but I’m going to ask her to marry me. " ".Marry you. my dear boy! .She's a darling girl, and she’s too much good sense not to love you." Dick hugged liis mother. “You're the most comforting mother I've eve- had.' "Did you ever have more than one?” queried the incredulous old lady. "Yes; when I was fifteen. f fell pi love with a handsome young widow, and she offered to be a ‘mother’ to me. Tic n she married again and cast me off.' “Look here, Dick.” said ids father, “we ain’t—yes, I said 'ain't' on purpose, my dear—going to be circumvented by Eleanor's mother. Your mother will write a note to the old lady—you can tell her what to say—and”—he made a wry face—“we'll have 'em both here for Christmas. I like, as a general rule, to let myself go at Christmas, but for your sake, you young puppy, 1'H bottle myself up this time. I'll explain my plan to you presently. You go and see 'he girl this afternoon and have it out with her. You ain't going—yes, yes. I know, my dear; T will say -ain't' till they come —to be half starved any longer. I'll he summoned by the local authorities if you don't fill up a bit. ‘Shall T. wasting in despair-er-er. IJ>ie because a woman's fair-er-er?’ Xot much. You don't often get n top note like that. Dick, my boy. Now. my dear, we'll write that letter for you, and Dick shall take it round. Tie's quite baggy in the waistcoat, poor chap. That's rigtit. Dick, come upstairs to the smok ing room. I'll _ tell you of my little dodge.” • "She's a dear felrl. a. sweet girl.” mused the old lady; "but the mother of Eleanor! !T'U get Dick to lend me his Browning and learn some hard words to use to her. It's difficult, but. with a darling boy like my Dick, a mother must make some little sacrifice.” H. With Dick's aid. Mrs. Poynter con cocted a letter to Airs. Shepard, and the devoted lover, attired in sad-colored gar ments (Mrs. Shepard particularly ob jected to his taste in fancy waistcoats) at about 4 on the afternoon of the day before Christmas, rang hesitatingly at tiie door of the trim little villa in which the Shepards resided. Fortunately, Eleanor was alone. Slit lose to greet him with a heightened color, which did not escape the observ ant eyes.,of Airs. Shepard's elderiy maid —a bilious-looking female well stricken In years. “How do you do. Air. Poynter? .Mam ma's lying down. I must call her.” "Wouldn't it he unkind to disturb her?” "Site—she doesn't like being disturbed so soon after lunch. She always goes up to her room. And " “Mistress never expects callers till 5.” interposed tbe bilious-lined maid. •'A'oii call take the letter up to her, Maria.” said Eleanor hastily; and Maria reluctantly retired. "I dare say you wonder what it is all about?” hazarded Dick. "Is it so very important? You'll have some tea presently.” She laid her hand on the bell. "Don't, please; it will bring her back again." "Bring who?” "Your maid.” “Oh!” Eleanor smiled. “Why shouldn't she come back again?” “Because.” declared Dick, with al! a lover's ardor, “L'm not going to have my Christmas spoiled by interruptions, if I can help it. I've bee.n looking forward l" it for years,” he added, inconse- quently. "And so have T. I mean this partlcu- l ii one; but it is useless. Alania thinks Christmas so vulgar.” It was on Dick’s lips to retort that the vulgarity was not confined to Christ mas, but he prudently held his tongue. “I've a copy of the letter to your mother,” lie said, drawing it out of liis pocket. ”1 thought I’d like to read it to you.” Eleanor looked interested! “if it’s not a breach of confidence." "Of course it isn't. Only, I want to explain why." •'Why what?" “Why it's written.” ‘ 'Dear Airs. Shepard.' ’’ lie began, “•'It has occurred to my husband—’” ‘ How can you have a husband?” asked Eleanor. “Oh! I forgot to explain, it's from my mother, assisted by my father and my self. di has occurred to my husband and myself that at this somewhat noisy period of tiie year, when the majority of people give themselves over to un thinking aevjilry and mirth, it would be most kind if you and Miss Shepard would spend Christmas with us. We will (1. our best not to annoy you with any ol those senseless observances with which tiie middle classes disfigure this season of tiie year. Plain giving and high thinking will for once in our family life, form a marked contrast to the hign living and plain want of thought in our neighbors. Trusting that we may have the pleasure of welcoming you both to dinner on Christmas day. and with kind regards, in which my husband joins, be lieve me, dear Afrs. Shepard, yours sin cerely, 1SOBEL POYNTER.' It isn't really Ysobel.' ” explained Dick; “but we thought it would look more refined.” Eleanor's eyes smiled, although her lips did not. “You mustn't make fun of poor mama.” she said, seriously. "Fun! Ale! Why, 1 love your moth er.” he said, vehemently. Eleanor spoke rather slowly. “Then, I r.m to look upon you in the light of a ! ossible father-in-law?” "You may look upon me in any light you please."’ said the irrepressible Dick, • I rovided you look. 1 cante here this afternoon to explain " “About this letter?” “Oh, yes. Of course, yes. About this letter. Well, we're going to live up to vour mother. If she'll come and bring von to spend Christmas day with i.s.” “T don't think she will " Eleanor l-egan. But there was a knock at tlia doer. Dick hastily removed himself to the rrher enq of tiie sofa. and. holding a paper m side down. said. "I quite agree with you that the perspective of this drawing is not all that it might be. ' Mrs. Shepard's compliments." said Ala- r!a. stonily regarding an errant flv ou 'lie ceiling, which, deluded by Eleanors smile into the belief that the summer had come, had ventured out from a c: ack-"AIrs. Shepard's compliments, aid she will have much pleasure in accept ing Air. and Mrs. Pointer's kind invita tion fo r herself and Aliss Shepard for Christmas.” Then she went out and slammed the door. 7>i. k opened the door and called her \lark. "Of course. Ata.ria, you t e to come too”; and Alarm smiled frostily. “Oh, by the way”—Dick held out his hand as if going, but lie did not look au EJeanor—“there's ” He hesitated. "NVell?” unsuspiciously inquired Elean or. "There's one—one- “One what?" “One thing T wanted to ask you while I got the chance.” "Marin won’t come back.” said Elean or. hastily, "but I think I hear mamma getting up." “Just my luck. But—but—but there's no time to lose. I wanted to ask you if you'd ” •‘If'."' Eleanor smiled radiantly. "If you’d come too?” “Why, of course I’m coming." ••But' von don’t understand. Oil! tiiaiiK goodness, your mother appears to have gone to sleep" again.” ”L don’t understand you. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sitting down again and explaining?” Dick sat down beside her. “The fact is ” "I always distrust people when they begin with ‘the faci is’; but ” "The fact is. Eleanor. I love you with my whole heart and soul. Dearest, will you be my wife?” ‘‘Ye-es, Dick!” "You darling girl!” lie took her In Ills arms, and it was just as well that Marta did not reappear on the scene. Eleanor let him out. after a somewhat i.rotra.cted leavetaking. AY hen she went upstairs, even unobservant Airs. Shepard noticed her heightened color. ”1 have accepted the invitation or these good- natured bourgeois people.” said Airs. Shepard, “in tho hope of shewing them v,\ our example how Christmas ought to be spent.” “nil!" said Eleanor, with well-simulated indifference, “is It absolutely necessary that «ve should go. mamma?” AVhereupon Airs. Shepard firmly re solved that nothing should induce her to stay away; and Eleanor, ashamed of her duplicity, went up to her own Utile room and burst into happy tears. TTT. Airs. Shepard decided to unbend, to bring herself down to the level of the bourgeois people who really keep Christ mas. it is true she had clothed her self in sombre black: but Eleanor was radiantly lovely in some sort of mauvy- lilac creation with black lace over it. She wore a red rose—‘Dick’s gift—in her hair, and diffused an atmosphere of sun shine around her. In deference to Airs. Shepard’s recent loss (her "poor darling” had hurriendly departed from this world to a better some five years ago) Mr. and ATrs. Poynter and the girls all wore black. The two boys had put on black ties to go with their evening things: •the fire was half out: there was a dim. religious light: and not a truce of holly or mistletoe to be seen anywhere. The furniture, shrouded in dingy coverings, dimlv suggested a memorial service in honor of the departed Mr. Shepard: and an exceedingly bad dinner confirmed tills impression, for it consisted of a watery soup maigre. some attenuated fowls with yellow legs and a marmalade pudding, together with sour-looking lemonade and a few withered French plums for dessert. As the melancholy meal was eaten and the young couple talked in subdued whis pers, Airs. Shepard became more at- I more indignant, for she loved a goo-1 dinner. “J think,” she said, frostily, "at such a. season, if only in deference t" the feelings of those around us, w ought to—to unbend a little.” "I’m so sorry,” apolgized Mrs. Poynter. “Of course, as you were kind enough to come to us, and knowing your recent loss, we " "It was five years ago,” said Mrs. Shepard, with fierce emphasis. "We toned down our dinner and the— tiie general look of things." Mrs. Shepard said that sucli action on her hostess’s part was wholly unnec essary. She had been a martyr all her life, and, In accepting Mrs. Poynter’s in vitation, had ibeeu quite prepared to sac rifice her own feelings. “Perhaps.” declared the hesitating Airs. Poynter, “it isn’t too late yet.” She looked at the gloomy faces around her. Airs. Shepard was so wretched, so hun gry and thirsty and cold, that she was prepared to agree to anything. “If r could have a shawl.” she said, almost meekly. “Perhaps we might permit, for once, the young people to enjoy them selves." “Tf you really wish it. Are you not making too great a sacrifice?” asked Mrs. Poynter. "Oh, mama!” Eleanor looked at her mother rather wistfully. The selfish old woman’s heart was touched at Iasi. She had accepted tiie Christmas hospitality of these people, and they, with the very best intentions in the world, had made her so exquisite ly uncomfortable witli their long faces and woebegone habiliments that she would have given anything for a slice of roast turkey, a glass of good port, and a comic song. “Young people are very different from what the ywere to my day,” she said frostily to Airs. Poyn ter. “It is good of you to remember my bereavement; but if you will spend tiie evening in your customary manner, I will do my best to forget it.” “If you are not making too great a sacrifice, suggested Airs. Poynter. Airs. Shepard thawed at once. These people had instinctively recognized her position. Besides, she had heard they were very well off. “Won't you come up to my room?” tactfully asked Airs. Poynter. “There is a better fir© there, and you could rest while the young people make the place look more cheerful.” Mrs Shephard followed her hostess up stairs into a. snug little room with a blazing fire. There were decanters on the table, and all sorts of nice fruits. “Supper is generally the great event of Christmas day with us.” said Airs. Poyn ter; “that is why we go through the pretence of eating dinner. Let me give you a glass of this 1387 port, and make you comfortable on the sofa. Alt. Poyn ter has given my son Richard a Christ mas present of a thousand pounds on condition that he settles down. He thinks it a good tiling for young people to marry when they are young.” "Indeed!” said Airs. Shepard, almost genially. "A thousand pounds!” Report had not exaggerated the snugness of the family finances. "Oh. yes; but of course he will do more Richard if already very comfortably off." pusued this feminine Alacniavelli. absently pouring out another glass of port ,for Eleanor's mother. "If you don’t mind, then, we will have the usual Christmas supper. I’ll just make up the fire and leave you while I see about one or two little delicacies which might tempt an invalid's appetite.” Eleanor's mother had an enjoyoble nap. When she came down again to the hall a very different s one met her eyes. Wreaths of holly and evergreens were suspended from the ceiling. There was it great bush of mistletoe hanging from ■the hall lamp. Several pretty girls in equally pretty frocks w’ere dancing the lancers, and not a black tie could be seen among the Poynter family, old Air. Poynter energetically waltzing his part ner round, two bars behind time, and bringing her back in triumph to her place. The dancing lasted until ten. Even that interesting invalid. Eleanor's moth er, was prevailed upon to be led out by Air. Poynter just before supper. Tiie Christmas supper was worthy of the house of Poynter; it made Airs. Shepard hungry to look at it. She toyed with some mock turtle, trifled witli some real turkey and Alork ham (Mr. Poynter suggested a little champagne on t he York hani (just to give it a flavor), played with a slice of pheasant, ohlig- ingly assimilated a mince pie, found a pair of scissors in iter plum pudding, and, growing younger and friskier every moment, burnt her fingers with snap dragon. Three glasses of champagne and two of the 1887 port put her on the best possible terms with herself, with the Foynters. with the whole world, and when Air. Poynter insisted on lead ing her out in Sir Roger de Coverley she quite forgot to be unpleasant. As soon as Mrs. Shepard tired of Sir Roger. Air. Poynter took her to The most comfortable amebair in the room and sat down beside her. "Beautiful girl. Aliss Eleanor,” he said, fanning himself with his red handkerchief. "You must have been exactly—” Hk broke off hurriedly. "She is a good girl.” “And of such a good family too,’’ mused Air. Poynter. “All, if my son could only hope to marry into such a family, he might, under your care, >.e- .come almost worthy of it.” "I—I will do my best to influence my daughter," murmured Airs. Shepard, casting a look at Eleanor’s happy face as she came up to them. Eleanor's mother suddenly got up ami whispered to Eleanor. "Alost worthy people, my dear. They know how no- to presume on any attention one shows them., T understand that young Mr. Richard is well off.” "Oh. mama! .Then you think—” "NVe shall sec. You—you need not absolutely discourage the young m:m. or be unnecessarily harsh to him. Promise me that my love.” Eleanor promised. “(The End.)