Not 'cause they got no money, but 'cause I won't sell! Da's all. Ha! ha!" "You have lived here a long time, have you not?"

"Yes, yes. I was in Seminole war." "Do tell us about it!"

"You say 'us,' but you don't tell me is the young lady your daughter?"

"No, she is my friend, and it is for her use I wanted to get the cabin down by the sea-wall; it would be such a lovely studio to show her work."

"Tha' ol' place for studio? How odd you speak!"

"Tell us, though, about your being in the Seminole war."

"I was just seventeen years old, just. They said my father must go. I said no. When his horse came up to join de cavalry, I just jumped on in his place, and I called out good-bye. I never came back till de wa' was over.

"Yes, I tell how. My father had wife, seven children, his old papa and mama, and they cry if he be killed; then he must stay home any way and take care of all, so I went in his place. I always thought that a very entirely unjust war, but then I got back of trees an' fight just like Indian. I never minded captain when into a fight; just pitched in best I could. Always I minded orders in camp and hadn't anything else to do. "Did young lady ever read 'bout Osceola? I knew him well. A man under flag of truce said: 'Come here to me, I want to talk to you some.' He talk, then they shut Osceola up in big fort. I always thought time to catch a man when he fighting, not when he talking, but some think different. I always think that war unjust anyway. I knew the Indian that started it. He worked for a man I knew. That man had two

most got killed, I say, not what books say. Are you tired with my talking?" "No, no; tell us more, if you will." "I sit here and think. Sometimes I laugh. My wife so religious, she don't like to see me laugh.

"No, I never drink, da's reason I'm alive. I took coffee pot, tin cup and bag of coffee hung by my saddle. Yes, I drink coffee now. I'm seventy-three, very smart in de head, same is ever, only my legs don't move much. I catch rheumatism by swamps in the Seminole wa'.

"My wife she can walk 'round and work; she don't have to think, but who's going to stop me, an' in my own house? If I got anything you want, you just tell me, I give it. Come every day. Take all you see! God bless you! Come again."

We bowed ourselves out, determined. to go the very next day and make another effort to get the use of the cabin. So upon the very next day Don Sanchez answered the question about the seawall cabin.

"Live in it if you will."

"How long may we live in it?" "As long as you will."

So we lived there, not for many weeks, but long enough to have Delphina's work win her entrance into the life for which she longed. There we heard the tide rise and fall and saw the great luminous beam from the lighthouse shed its light over the waves, and over the far sky, and come to us again.

In due time the great artist came and admired the quaint studio, but better still he approved so heartily of the little artist's work, that he said if she had not work enough(?) he could send her all she could do, and that when it was too late in the season to stay by the sea-wall she could come and have a studio joining his own.

So, by a happy series of small circumstances, Delphina was lifted from the

"Slough of Despond" to more happiness and content than often falls to the heritage of mortals.

A wheeling chair had found its way to Don Sanchez' house and they surmised it came from us. When we came to say good-bye and voice our thanks, Donna Sanchez would hear no word of

gratitude from us; she pointed to the chair and said:

"You have blessed us, and you shall

be blessed."

Her rosary always at hand, we could catch just a word now and then, "Sancta Dios," "Mary, Mary, pray for all of us."

S

IXTY years, thin grey hair, a round little face, hazel eyes sparkling under big spectacles: thus was Miss Margaret the embroiderer, known to everybody in D. She lived modestly and in a very regular fashion, rose and retired at the same hour all her life, but was not devout, which scandalized her next door neighbors-the Misses Tippel, two withered, long-tongued spinsters.

Margaret was, however, a favorite, having never injured anybody, and having never required a neighbor's help. Left an orphan at a tender age, she had been able to find enough work to enable her to meet her few wants; and she passed through life quietly, serenely unknown.

However, disease laid for the first time. its heavy hand on her frail shoulders. And in spite of her endurance, Margaret was not able to shake off the burden which overwhelmed, undermined, and drew her insensibly towards the tomb.

Each neighbor then paid a little attention, bringing a contingent of consolation and gaiety; and the gossips seated themselves near the high bed to retail the current news.

The Misses Tipple came only once; serious, austere, grave, they approached the patient, and after a few confused circumlocutions, declared her state alarm

ing and decided that she ought to go to confession.

"No! never!" replied Margaret energetically. "If you have nothing else to tell me pass through the door and don't come back." And they came no more.

The two sisters had scarcely left when there appeared in the threshold a young and elegantly dressed woman, the sight of whom caused a great joy to the patient.

"Oh, you are good to come to see me, Mrs. Bernard. You amuse me so much with your pretty stories! It is so dull lying still doing nothing; and to add to my misery those stupid neighbors who come chattering death and confession to me!"

"Why, you're not so very ill, my dear Miss Margaret," said Mrs. Bernard, with a gay smile, "you'll get better."

"Well, I think so. I am strong yet, though sixty. I must live, if it were only to madden those devotees."

"You'll live, and we shall see some more of your beautiful embroideries," Mrs. Bernard affirmed, taking the thin transparent hand in her own. And dropping this subject, she related such droll stories that Margaret laughed with all her heart, forgetting her illness, only repeating at intervals: "And after" And then?"

Night had fallen: the young woman retired, promising to come back. She

entered a church, prostrated herself a few minutes before the Blessed Sacrament; then went quickly home, feeling anxious as to the means she should employ to bring the patient to better sentiments.

The next day, she tried, however, to lead the old woman's soul to higher thoughts. In her stories she ingeniously tried to speak of the beauty of heaven and the divine mercy. She slipped in anecdotes from the lives of the saints. Margaret listened without the slightest exclamation. Nothing touched her. And all the while she grew feebler; it was now only an affair of a few days.

The Wednesday following, she received still more joyfully her spiritual and gracious guardian.

"I feel better," said Margaret, "and I am happy to say it, for I am thinking of my nephews, who would doubtless be glad to see me die, and who have certainly sent those two old jades to inform them of the moment; but patience. They shall have none of my little fortune."

"Do you wish to speak of it to a solicitor?" gently insinuated Mrs. Bernard.

"No, no, it is useless. You see, ma'am, I am not rich, but I've been economical, and I don't wish that they should profit by it. Besides," she repeated with her ordinary obstinacy, "I must recover.'

"And your nephews will be fairly cheated, as well as the Misses Tippel," added Mrs. Bernard with a sudden inspiration.

"Oh, those creatures! What can I do to punish them for having said such disagreeable things?"

"Live, that's the first point that will annoy them; then-"

"The ?" repeated Margaret, impatiently and curiously. And Mrs. Bernard leant mysteriously towards her, murmuring laughingly like a child who prepared for a good frolic:

"Send for a priest. That's what will send them into a rage."

Margaret recoiled as abruptly as her weak state permitted, darting suspicious looks on Mrs. Bernard.

"Just for the sake of teasing them," replied the latter with gaiety; "they'll see a priest coming in, will believe that you're dying, and later on, when you're quite well, they'll be furious on account of the mistake they made. Then what rage to see that you acted as they wished! As for you, it binds you to nothing. You will chat ten minutes and the role will be played."

"What a good idea! Ah, if it wasn't so late I should send for Father Healy." "I shall go immediately," replied Mrs. Bernard. Twenty minutes later she returned with the priest, to whom the innocent stratagem had been made known. At sight of him Margaret, whose enfeebled memory had forgotten the project of teasing her neighbors, apostrophized him :

"What do you come to do here?"

"Ah, ah," interposed Mrs. Bernard in a mysterious whisper, "the Misses Tippel are standing at their door, they saw us coming in, and if you saw their discomfited countenances!"

Margaret laughed; the conversation became friendly between her and the priest. The intelligent intermedial had nothing more to do; she retired. What passed between those two souls, one of whom had refused the peace that the other brought, nobody ever knew, not even the Misses Tippel, who listened at the doors.

But the following Saturday, Margaret, after having received the last sacraments, exhaled a last quiet breath, holding fixedly on the crucifix her grateful and s'veetly expressive little eyes. She was thinking no longer of the Misses Tippel.

When the nephews came for their inheritance, they found in a stocking coppers and white pieces to the amount of forty-three shillings. It represented the economy of half a century of labor.

THE PRAYER

T was eight o'clock, on a night clear and cold in January, 18-. New York, never quite at rest, was once more decking herself for the usual evening's festivities. Her busy streets were a scene of hurrying forms, vehicles and bright lights, all symbolic of the fact that sleep was not to be thought of until the minds and bodies of the people, exhausted by the strain put upon them, should refuse to exert themselves further; demanding the season of unconsciousness and repose to furnish them with renewed vigor to begin another day.

As one advanced farther up town, the constant din grew fainter, the atmosphere more rare; and here the mind was less confused than amid the gaiety of brilliantly illumined theatres, concert halls and restaurants offering many inducements to the pleasure-loving public.

In a quiet street in the upper portion of the city, where the glare of the electric light gave place to the more subdued rays of the street lamp, stood a long row of residences lining either side of a broad drive; and from their peaceful aspect, it was evident that the residents either were absent or enjoying a simple evening, mayhap grouped in family circles around cheerful winter fires.

To all outward appearances the house in question resembled its neighbor dwellings, save that there was but a solitary light visible. It glimmered steadily through the closely drawn shade of a parlor window. This light gave one the impression that the family had withdrawn to the back part of the house, but presently the shade was slowly raised, revealing, by the red glow of a banquet lamp, a young girl. She was clad in a

grey gown, the bodice of which was relieved by a cluster of scarlet berries; a spray of the same nestled in her dark hair, caught up in a loose coil. Many were wont to remark the sad, thoughtful expression her face assumed when in repose, and which sat strangely on a maiden of sixteen.

It were easy to deceive the world by a bright, light-hearted manner, especially in one so young; but to-night there were none to demand a smile or wonder at its absence; and her serious mood prevailed. Glancing up and down the street, and seeing that there was no one abroad to observe her movements, she sat in an arm-chair by the window, drew aside the curtain, rested her chin in her palms, and fell to musing.

And the young girl, thus meditating, was I, who am now imparting to you my story.

The streets into which I looked were deserted. Only the distant rumble of wheels, or the occasional faint cry of a newsboy broke the silence.

I wondered how many of the countless hundreds, hurrying to their different destinations, were giving one thought as to the end of so much ambition and pleasure. Could the gaily dressed women, in their opera-boxes, see the shadows lurking behind the gleam of their jewels?

Did the men realize that the very schemes they were exultingly planning, would perhaps to-morrow fade before the ashes of their dead selves?

Perhaps you think these morbid thoughts? Well, man's life is strange, all told! Even at my age, existence seemed made up of joys and sorrows, laughter and tears.

"It is hard," mused I, "to hide our thoughts deep in our hearts, that the cold unsympathetic eyes of the world.

may not gaze upon them; and to have no friend with love so true that he may anticipate and ease our heart-aches.

"No friend! Yes, there is One, and He is God! But heaven lies so far above the blue, and we cannot see beyond ourselves. There seem to be so many gates one knows not which to open. Surely so many ways of worshipping God cannot all be right, and each a contradiction of the other. Surely one of these gateways must connect humanity with the Divinity, in that close relationship. which God must feel toward those whom He has created a little lower than the angels."

Continuing in this strain of thought for some time, endeavoring in vain to solve these problems of life, I there, as if impelled by some hidden influence, laid upon the night winds a prayer, which I bade rest at the feet of God, until noticing it, He should send me back an answer; my petition was this: "Oh, great Creator of the universe! look down in pity upon me, Thy child, and tell me how best to adore Thee. If there be a true faith, teach it to me, for the way is so dark and so lonely, and I know not what to believe. Teach me the truth, O Lord, and I will be content!"

Having thus unburdened my soul I arose, and glanced once more about me; but the cold lamplight without, contrasting strangely with the rosy glow of the luminous parlor, and the fire of love in my own heart, shone on as aimlessly as before; and the night winds brought me no answer. So drawing down the shade I retired to rest, for the hour had grown late, and the others were sleeping.

once more I stood by a window, thinking of the changes through which every life must pass; but this time it was at the window of our dear old class room, facing the front grounds of the school; my grey gown, with its garniture of scarlet berries, had given place to the simple black uniform of the convent girls.

The slow, solemn tones of a neighboring church clock echoed through the stillness of the night, each of its eight strokes repeating the call for mortals to bend the knee in silent adoration to God.

My glance traveled from earth to the broad spangled dome of heaven; and suddenly a star shot across the sky, as in the twinkling of an eye! I tried to follow its course, but it vanished like a soul that, summoned from earth without warning, takes instant flight into the unknown region of Eternity.

And this is the destiny which we all must fulfill! Such a thought caused me to tremble; and I stretched out my arms. in yearning, voiceless supplication:

"Thou hast opened the flood-gates of Thy mercy, O Lord, that I may gaze thereon; but dost Thou know the terrible loneliness of being able to look upon the beauties of Thy kingdom with no power of drawing nearer to Thee? I am in Thy house, yet not of it; surrounded by Thy children, yet apart from them; there is a tumult in my heart, and I must subdue it all alone. Like Thomas, I would place my hand in Thy sacred side, to prove that the wound lies there. Grant me the boon of faith. Then I shall rest secure, and my prayer will have been answered!"

I had remained immersed in thought for fully half an hour, when my meditation was broken by the chapel bell ringing for night prayers. On leaving the room, I paused at the door and my eyes dwelt upon the Blessed Virgin's altar, stationed between the windows. Her statue, forming a central figure, rested on a drapery of pale blue silk and lace; at her feet burned a tiny blue lamp.