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M ISS ANNA SPARRER lingered at her breakfast table, dividing her attention be tween an open letter lying by her plate,' and it teaspoon she was balancing on the edge of her cup. She lived alone, and felt her loneliness keenly. She was rather a bright , woman, and she tried to be a good one; but she wasn’t pretty, and she had never had a lover in her whole life. All the other Sparrers had gone to try the further life of the unknown. Even the housp had been changed, as one-half of it had been sawed oil and moved away; and the scars were covered now- by a huge grape-vine that grew as if it knew what was expected of it. She had covered part of the inside wall by her beautiful ■ mahogany secretary with its bevelled glass, its brass inlay and exquisite metal mounts. She expended much time and labor on that brass; and she always felt that her dead and gone people were doing something for her as she did so, since at such times she was unable to 'think of her loneliness. Miss Sparrer’s loneliness oppressed her. She looked at other women with their husbands and chil dren with silcpt envy. If one of those boys were hers! But she checked the thought as an indelicacy. And there I . If she had ten sons, what in the world could she have done with them? Site, who could barely keep herself! But it would be so pleasant to see them growing, their minds and souls expanding, to have only one of them come storming in in snowy weather, to have" his love and companionship, his arms clasped round her neck, his head lying on her shoulder when at twilight she told stories and sang songs and they ex changed the day’s confidences together. Oh, how bit terly lonely she wasi She hadn't even a cat, for she couldn’t afford meat for one, and there wasn't a mouse in the house. And she didn’t like cats, either. She was afraid of them; and they made her snecae. She would have been glad of a dog. But there again—a dog liked his bone. So one dull day was like another; and al though she was not unliappy, she constantly felt how ’ much happier she might be, with some one to love and some one to loye her. Miss Sparrer held herself rather loftily. Her father had been the village ne’er-do-weel, indulged, beloved, ' pitied and pardoned by every one. But his father had been the Doctor, and the father before that the Law yer and Squire of the place. There are some things that long descent make obligatory, fine manners, and a certain kindly condescension among them. And in those Miss Sparrer never failed. She maintained the tradition of her great grandfather’s hospitality by a tea- party in Winter, along towards March when her hens were laying well, at which ail the parish was made wel come; die relcction of which, it was understood, was to be scrambled eggs, her famous cream o'tartar bis cuits, with some of the honey of her two hives, and a dish of peach preserves. The little peachtree, if the Summer were warm, gave her a few. jars, and they were treasured so long that they were candied. In Summer she gave a garden party to the same gtfests, who each'brought her own basket. And if with any generous intention they brought more than could be used, the next day Miss Anna made a round of brief visits, taking to Mrs/ Grecp some of Mrs. Brown’s de- licidus cakes, and to Mrs. Brown some of Mrs. White's flaky tarts, and to Mrs. White some of Mrs. Green’s delicate rusks, so it could be seen that none of these dainties were reserved by herself. On the contrary, she often bestowed charity. There was Andrew Machine—how many a time had she called him in and given him a slice of bread and butter, spread thickly with brown sugar? How many a time lad she given him a penny? She had gone without her dinner more than once, in order to feed a hungry tramp. It gave her a sweet sense of the bountiful behavior of some fictitious lady of the manor. Andrew, at any rate, had an idea that Miss Sparrer was a person of vast riches and exalted rank; and he always stopped pitching coppers and swearing at the other boy when she passed by. But Andrew knew ndthing of her multitudinous economies. To him she was the "lovely lady richly dressed” of the ballad. Even those who did know of those economies felt, in some mysterious way, that she was one defrauded of her rights. Some of the splendor of the old squire hung about her still; and they took her on her own, val uation, as people will, and felt honcred by her recogni tion and her calls. They would have been sure that any thing she chose to do was propriety itself, and they enjoyed their rather ceremonious half hours in the par lor where the gencrstions-old carpet was too thread bare to discover the pattern, a room quaint with well- kept Chippendale and Sheraton furniture,—although no one there knew that it was Chippendale or Sheraton,— and Illuminated with bits of precious china. But they smiled at the ancient spindle-legged English piano, ' whose strings, with their cracked tinkle, had known no tuner in a half-century, but which might have been worth nearly its weight in gold for its maker, its age, its shape, its inlay of ivory. Poor as poverty. Miss Anna Sparrer sat in the midst of wealth but knew it not. This was Grandmama’s, and that was Grandpapa's; and In that harp-backed chair Mama was sitting when Papa proposed; and in the drawers of that low-boy she kept her marriage-cer tificate, and her fan, and her few love-letters; and at this thousand-legged breakfast-table, larger then by a leal or more, they had all sipped their tea or their port after blessing had been asked. The things stood to her in the place of people and of family; for they were thronged with memories. And when the old clock in her'little vestibule pealed the hour, she heard again her grandfather's voice as he drove into the yard on a snowy day, and the lingering cadence after it had struck was like the sweetness in her father’s voice when he sat singing songs of Robby Bums and sippng something he cal'ed mountain-dew. The gilt-edged cut-glass tumbler that held his toddy, * the spooa with whicn he stirred it. with its crest of a sparrewhawk, were things as sacred as if he bad been a saint instead of an immensely good-natured scamp, -1 pne day, when Andrew brought her daily pint of milk from Mrs. Burrage who gave him his living, such as it was, for his chores, she had him sit at the table and share her breakfast, and she gave him her own egg, and buttered him generous slices of toast, and made a bowl of coffee and stirred it with this very spoon. "My father would enjoy its doing a kind office, I know," she thought with a smile. She scoured it, how ever, a little, afterward. “Somehow, it always seems is if an. angel and a—an evil spirit, were contending in me,” she murmured, as she did it. But Andrew lad enjoyed his breakfast. It seemed to him banqueting, could go no further. To have such breakfasts as that,—she had added a little of her peach syrup to it,—Miss Anna Sparrer must possess un bounded riches. At Mis' Burragc’s he would have had cold porridge, and not enough of that. Miss Sparrer had chjoycd the breakfast, too; she had liked to see his hearty appetite,—her own picking was very dainty; it had been pleasant to see his eyes brighten, his freckled face grow rosy, to see him laugh and show all the white; teeth in his wholesome mouth. She had thought him a little dull, maybe; but it was plain that*' if his little body were .well nourished his intelligence, might .thrive with it. It was a pity, she thought, that “Heart alive!” said Miss Anna, when he had gone. "If religion's worth having, it’s worth paying for. And that dear man’s going to have a good, substantial new overcoat whether the box goes to Sinpooranbad or, not!” T!,! Minister's visit remained with Miss Anna like something uncomfortable in the digestion. And she was quite low-spirited, witii a sense of not having done all her duty, sitting in the twilight by her small fire whose flicker flatbed here and there and made a bright ness in the room, when she was startled by a noise out side the window, and then by the sight of the faces pressed so closely against the pane that the noses and lips were mere blue and white blotches. Immediately afterwards came a tap. at the door;—Miss Anna never opened the door after dark without inquiring who was there. "Oh, it's only us!" came a girl's voice. "We want to come in just a moment, if you’ll let us. We want to see you on some vety important business.” She opened the door carefully, the poker in her other hand, and two young women came in. “Oh,!" exclaimed one of them. “We were going by, and you hadn't pulled down your shades, and the room looked so like an old picture in the firelight ” "And we saw the shining of your wonderful mahog any I” cried the other, “And we felt we must see it mother had dressed to be married before it. It had re flected the young bridal beauty of her great-grand mother 1 Sell it I She opened the door, and the young women found themselves outside, and heard the bolt snap without another word spoken. And then Miss Anna pulled down her shades vindic tively, and sat down and cried with anger, and an as surance of having been treated with grievous imperti nence. And then she felt how miserably lonely she was, with no one to screen her from such behavior, and what a barren waste her life was, wilh no one to care for her, and the caring for no one. But as it was prayer-meeting night, and the bell just ringing, she put on her things, and went and forgot herself and her lit tle woes in the service, and walked home in the snap ping frost of the November night under an immense sky full of blaring stars that a high wind seemed to blow into white flame, quite light-hearted and content, forgetting for the moment how lonesome she was, and the way in which those young women had brought home to her the fact not of her wealth but of her pov erty. • She had just put away her cup and saucer, the next morning, when Andrew appeared at the door with a small turkey in hfs arms. “Mis' Burrage said mebbe you'd like to buy one o’ her turkeys,” he said. "She's got ten. An’ they’re good ones. I've tended on ’em all Summer. Taint vurry big. You can hev it fer a dollar," Tram WAS ANDREW SIACLANE—BOW MANY A TIME HAD SHE CALLED HIM IN AND GIVEN RIM A SLICE OF BREAD AND BUTTER SPREAD TRICELY WITII BROWN SUGAR? poor little Andrew had fallen on such hard lines. But what was .the use ? If she were a rich woman—Well, well if Rome had never fallen London had never risen. Occasionally the Minister came to see Mist Sparrer. He found her one day tewing on some garments that the Missionary Society was to send to Sinpooranbad, on the other side of the world. "Yes," said the Minister, as she displayed the work. 'Those stitches are exquisite. I think they can’t but satisfy the artistic taste of the natives." “Why, I thought you approved of foreign missions I” the said, looking up in amazement. "By all means, and every means. But the duty near est at hand seems to m« the one that claims us first. The families down at Starvcley Cove are suffering for clothes, and cold weather coming on.” "Well, I’m sorry,” said Miss Anna, her thimble on her lips. “But this doesn't belong to me. It belongs to the Society. And I don’t bciievc I have a thing myseif those people can wear. But I’ll tell the Society—it wants to do about what's right, you know.” “Certainly. Perhaps they can do this and not leave the other undone,” said the Minister. “There's that poor little Andrew Maciane, too. That unfortunate boy troubles me sorely. He is growing up to bad ends, where he Is; and there's good in him. Johnny Burrage is non compos, but he’s about as bad as if he had all his wits; and his influence—dear me!—What can I do? rve six mouths to fill, as it it I” To be sure he had, the poor man! It was a wonder he could do what he did. His overcoat was thin, and shiny and white at the Kama, and the weather would soon be bitterly cold.' nearcrl Oh, do excuse us!” as Miss Anna's manner grew yet more stately. “We shall have to confess the truth. We are dealers in old furniture, and we often go through the country villages at nightfall, because often then we can see through the windows what there "And oh, if you want to sell we want to buy, any of it, all of it—-” “And we give good honest prices 1” “I have nothing to sell,” said Miss Sparrer icily, not asking her guests to sit down, and angry with herself and with them that she to violated the laws of hos pitality. “Now you musn't be offended," said the first one, "it's nothing personal, you know. It's simply a com mercial matter. You don't know what wealth you have in these things! Perhaps you don't know that we could give you two hundred dollars for that secretary, and still make a profit on it, and one hundred for the clock, and as much more for the high-boy and the low-boy, and twenty-five dollars a-piece for these chairs " “Yci!" cried the other coming back from the little dining-room where she had ventured. “Any day you care to tell us the furniture in these two rooms, we can give you some good modern furniture, looking very much like it, only,—well,—made yesterday,—but your neighbors would never know the difference—and—let me tee—five and five are ten and ten and ten are twenty, and—yet, all of three thousand dollars in money. And of course," she went on so breathlessly that Mils Anna hadn't the chance to put in a word, “we won't ask you to decide on the spot. But there’s our card; and any day, if you should think well of it, after turning it over, you can drop us a postal, and we will attend to it at once.” "Only," said the other, “we srould advise you not to delay, because the craze for these things may stop any day and the orices go down. It would be a pity for . you to lose the chance. You are sure you don’t want 16 sell to-day? That old looking-glass, for instance?" That looking-glass I Her mother and her grand- COPYRIGHT if* pretty bad and quite Irresponsible. She knew exactly what had happened. Johnny had sold those turkeys to other people one by one, of course. There was.no one in the village wiio would buy ten turkeys at once. And he had spent the money at the tavern over by Starve- ley Cove. Now the question was, should she let the affair go, and remain under the stigma of having taken a poor woman’s property and refused to pay for it, or should she go over to Mrs. Burrage's ana have perltaps a vul gar altercation with her, and, any way, clullenge John ny with his wrong doing. Either way was difficult to iter. The third way, that of giving the woman ten dol lars, was not only to acknowledge nerself in the wrong; but was impossible. First Miss Anna looked at the note with its smears and blurs, written in pencil on a blank leaf torn from a book and then she looked at her teaspoon as if for in spiration and guidance. She had always supposed the crest on that spoon, worn to a mere outline now, was a sparrow, inferring that the family name was a corrup tion from flat word. But the Minister had told her that, on the other hand, it was a sparrow-hawk, and probably marked the robber prowess of her ancestry. That is to say their cruelty, she thought And she recognised the sparrowhawk in her nature that would challenge and defy Mrs. Burrage and her simple- minded boy. But that spoon—it was the one which had been al ways used by her ne’er-do-weel father who bad a kind word and an open purse—small though it was—for every one. And then she felt the father in herself while wishing she had the ten dollars to give and be done with it. Reluctantly Miss Anna warmed her overshoes, and dallied getting into her cloak and tying her bonnet and adjusting her tippet. My Johnny I" said Mrs. Burrage. indignantly. "Ain't you 'shamed, Miss Sparrerf A poor'feeble- . minded boy like that I” ' ' "Mrs. Burrage," said Miss Sparrer with dignity, "I bought one turkey, and I paid Andrew a dollar for it, and I bought no more.” “You paid Andrew a , dollar I He never give me no dollar; Thai's where ik is I That’s where it is I My Johnny, 1 guess! Herd" And she led Miss Anna, without asking if she would or no, into the bedrqom where Andrew lay burning with fever. "Andrew'Machine!" she cried. "You jest git up outer that bed this minute and tell me the truth about them turkeys I” There was a moment’s silence, and then B sullen voice muttered, "I told you," "No, you didn't. You told a lie to me. You—” “Hold you all I’m goin’ ter," said the sullen voice; “Ef you don't say jes’ what happened about them turkeys, Andrew, I'll send you to the poorhouse before dark! And I'll lam ye 'ithin an inch o' yer life inter the bargain I You hear me?" The boy said nothing. "You hear me?" she aaid again. "Oh, Mrs. Burrage, don't speak sot” exclaimed Miss Sparrer. "The child is sick.” Then Andrew looked up with his big burning eyes, startled and dazed, seeing the lovely lady. "Andrew, aaid she, "have you told the truth?” He closed his eyes as if to shut out a nightmare? but still he said nothing. Mrs. Burrage stood with her hands on her hips, waiting. "Andrew, you must sprak,” said Miss Anna. "You must tell Mra, Burrage the truth.”' Still obstinate silence. "Andrew I” said Miss Anna. She stood there gaz ing down on him, knowing that she looked domi nant and overbearing. But her heart was full of pity. She didn't know what to do, He must be made to speak, of course. But he Was so little, to poor, so 11L to wetk,—it was shameful of her to lake advantage of the difference between them. She teemed to herself an oppressor, a cruel and ignoble creature. She would let It go. She would tell Mrs. Burrage there had been •ome mistake and the should have her ten dollars when the next Savings Bank dividend came la A noise in the other room called Mrs. Burrage away n moment. Min Anna was just about to follow. And then the boy looked up again wilh those great shining eyes and burst out crying. "I meant to pay it hick I ' he whispered between his sobs. “Oh, Andrew I" cried Miss Anna. "I’m to sorry I” "Som II Oh, to’m II” he tobbtd, pitifully. “I— I ain't got no cold. It's jest because I done it; oh, I feel so awful bad I" "Andrew I Andrewl You poor child I” cried Miss Sparrer, stooping over him. "I forgive you this min- utel God will forgive you; I know He still. You'll "Bless the boy!" said Mist Anna. "I don't know as I ought to have a turkey before Thanksgiving. And I'll be sick of turkey, if I do, before the real day comes, or before I can get through with it. To he sure,” she thought rapidly, “I can warm it up, lor the matter of that, and ask the Minister and Mrs. Hollis to dinner one day. And it’ll Hill do cold for supper and have Mrs. Green and Min Yes. Andrew, I'll take it. And 1 hope you’ll have good luck with the others. There's a bright silver dollar for Mrs. Burrage, and a nickel for you.” And then she looked for her sweet herbs, and decided that as she had the squash the had raised herself, and some barberries she had picked and made into jelly, she would steam a slice of her rich cake for pudding anil make a foamy sauce,—you could make it with one egg,—and have company, not wait ing for Thanksgiving. And so she did. It was the morning after this festivity, that Miss Anna Sparrer sat balancing her teaspoon on her cup, and glancing, between the feats, at the nnte lying be side her plate. She hid received it yesterday, and had tent an indignant reply by the Burrage child who brought it. "Mis Sparer; "Ef you cud pay me terday fer the ten tur- kies jess wells not that Andru soald you ide be obteeged si want the munny fer Tbtnktglv- in' the wust way. Andru is sum sik obed, his ize runs an hit knose an hit bak akes an his ^ted akes and hese hot an' coaid by spelt to Jonny will feeh the munny. Your respekle Missis Burrage." Ten turkeys! what in the world did It meant She had bought one, and had paid for it. Ten turkeys— she couldn’t eat them in a year; and of course she couldn't niy for them, and shouldn't I She had told Johnny Burrage so yesterday. But juft now Johnnjr had returned reiterating the demand, and had hurried off. Johnny was a big Coy, half wilted, and wholly hopeless, never do It again ” "Oh, you bet I won’t 1” sobbed Andrew, wilh deep conviction. “You get right up and come home with me. I won't leave you here another dayl" For In the Instant there flashtd over her the glory of a new world of possibili ties. That furniture I If she told It for any sucH ■urn as those young women said, and invested that, the interest would give her nil the money she needed to bring Andrew up, ana educate him, and then start him in life with the principal. She didn't want to do it;— she hated to do it;—but she mutt I You could see there was something fat the bog. She could not leave him here in these influences, let come what would come. She would not! She mutt tako him home and make an honest man of him. That is what the Minister meant. And ob, thank heaven, the would never be lonesome again I Almost at the point of tears herself with her throng ing thoughts, she bent and put her arms about the hot and fevered l>oy, end held Ills head on her breast, and kissed him, end began to love him from that moment “There—there ain't nobody killed tne elnce Bates was hung I” he sobbed. Miss Anna borrowed ten dollars of the Minister that day, and satisfied Mrs. Burrage. And the two young women who came with their vans the next week to bring her the modern furniture and take away the oki, stayed to hang their gift of tome pretty silk curtains at her windows, a I to put in place the new things made so much after the pattern of the old that she need not feel the difference very keenly. "I suppose you don't want to tell that old ellvcrl It's quite thin,” said one of them. “It’s really worth a great deal of money.” "Whjr, no," said Min Anna. "It It old family ilk ver. And roy bov—Andrew,—will grow up some da? and like li with the family crest on it. But I'm golnj to nuke you a present of two of the spn..n«. Eol you’ve made me a great, a tremendous, present 1 You'vi E ven me this boy, and diys and nights that will ncvei iow loneliness, and a heart lull of thankfulness 1" She took the boy on her knee when they had gone and te., lias cleared away, and told him a Bible story and sang him an old ballad; it was yet in hour be fori prayer-meeting. In the firelight the rooms lookei much as (hey had done before. It was only a matte of lentlment That was in a way dead sentiment Bin Ibis was alive, alive, and made life, worth living 1 She could love her own dear people still, without the! old furniture. But she couldn’t have this dear t>oy ti love, and the furniture, too. "Tomorrow is Thanks giving," she said, as she tucked him into bed befon the bell rang. "But for you and me, Andrew lad, I think hereafter it will be Thanksgiving every day <? our lives I” ^ Week; An Arctic Romance By Sir Gilbert Parker • • V ~^ —*r *• * — •