text: r t fir : A 'MI Mfr IK " < & IF c,b£ II a® KT. 1 L » mk ? IfL 40 •. !p. w k 4 hi w ELEANORE CUYLER MISS ELKANORE CUTLER had dined alnna with her mother that night, and she was now sitting in the drawing-room, near th* open fire, with her gloves and fan on the divan beside her. for she was going out later to a dance. She waa reading a somewhat weighty German review. and the con trast whleh the smartness of her gown presented to the seriousness of her oc cupation made her smile slightly ns she paused for a moment to cut the And when ths bell, sounded In the halt she put the book away from her altogether, and wondered who It might be. It might ba young Wainwright, with the proof-sheets of the now story he had promised to lot her see. or flowers i for the dance from Bruce-Brice, of the ’ English Legation at Washington, who ' for the tlmo being was practising diplomatic moves in Now York, rr | some of hsr worklng-glrls with a new perplexity for her to unravel, or only one of tho men from ths stable to tell her how her hunter was getting on after his fall. It might be any of these and more. But It was rather a relief whzn the man opened tho curtains and said. "Mr. Wainwright. - ’ and Wain wright walked quickly toward hsr. tag ging at his glove. "You are very good to see me so late," he said, speaking as he entered, "but I had to see you tonight, and I wasn't asked to that dance. I'm going away." He went on, taking his place by the fire, with his arm resting on the mantel. He had a trick of standing there when he had something of interest to say, and he was tall and well-looking enough to appear best in that position, and he was used to it. He was the most frequent of her visitors. "Going away," she repeated, smiling up at him; "not for long, I hope. Where are you going now?" "I'm going to London," he said. "They cabled me this morning. It seems they've taken the play, and are going to put it on at once." He smiled, and blushed slightly at her exclamation of pleasure. "Yes, it is rather nice. It seems I was a failure, and they've taken it off, and are going to put on 'School,' with the old cast, until they can get my play rehearse. And they want me to come over and suggest things." She stopped him with another little cry of delight that was very sweet to him, and full of moment. "Oh, how glad I am!" she said, "How proud you must be!" She sank back on the violin, and. Shook her head doubtfully at him. "When will you stop?" she said. "Don't tell me you mean to be an Admirable Crichton. You are too fine for that." He looked down at the fire, and said, slowly, "It is not as if I were trying my hand at an entirely different kind of work. No. I don't think I did wrong in dramatizing it. The papers all said, when the book first came out, that it would make a good play; and then so many men wrote to me for permission to dramatize it that I thought I might as well try to do it myself. No. I think it is in line with my other work. I don't think I am straying after strange gods." "You should not," she said, softly. "The old ones have been so kind to you. But you took me too seriously," she added. "I am afraid he answered that you do not know how seriously I do take you." "Yes, I do," she said quickly. "And when I am serious, that is all very well; but tonight I only want to laugh." And after the New York managers refusing it, too. They will have to take it now, now that it is a London success. "Well, it isn't a London success yet," he said, dryly. "The books went well over there because the kind of Western things I wrote about met their ideas of this country—cowboys and prairies and Indian maidens and all that. And so I rather hope the play will suit them for the same reason." "And you will go out a great deal, I hope," she said. "Oh, you will have to! You will find so many people to like, almost friends already. They were talking about you even when I was there, and I used to shine in reflected glory because I knew you." "Tea, I can fancy it," he said. "But I should like to see something of them if I have time. Lowes wants me to stay with them, and I suppose I will. He would feel hurt if I didn't. He has a most absurd idea of what I did for him on the ranch when he had the fever that time, and ever since he went back to enjoy his ill-gotten gains and his title and all that, he has kept writing to me to come out. Yes, I suppose I will stay with them." Mlm Cuyler's face was still lit with pleasure at his good fortune, but his smile was less spontaneous than it had been. "That will be very nice. I quite envy you," she said. "I suppose you know about his sister." The Honorable Evelyn, he asked. “Yes; he used to have a photograph of her, and I saw some others the other day in a shop-window on Broadway.” “She is a very nice girl,” Miss Cuyler said, thoughtfully. "I wonder how you two will get along?” and then she added, as if with sudden compunction, “but I am sure you will like her very much. She is very clever, besides.” "I don’t know how a professional beauty will wear if one sees her every day at breakfast,” he said. "One always associates them with functions and varnishing days and lawn-parties. You will write to me, will you not?” He added. “That sounds,” she said. "As though you meant to be gone such a very long time." He turned one of the ornaments on the mantel with his fingers, and looked at it curiously. “It depends,” he said, slowly—“it depends on so many things. No.” he went on, looking at her; "it does not depend on many things; Just on one." Miss Cuyler looked up at him questioningly, and then down again very quickly, and reached meaningless for the book beside her. She saw something in his face and in the rigidity of his position that made her breathe more rapidly. She had not been afraid of this from him, because she had always taken the attitude toward him as a very dear friend and of one who was older, not in years, but in experience of the World. For she had lived abroad while he had gone from the university to the West, which he had made his own. In books, they were both very young. She did not want him to say anything. She could only answer him in one way, and in a way that would hurt and give pain, to them both. She had hoped he could remain just as he was, a very dear friend, with a suggestion sometimes in the background of his becoming something more. She was, of course, too experienced to believe it in a long pleasant friendship. In her mind, the thought that, so matter what he urged, she must remember that she wanted to be free, to live her own life, to all her own sphere of usefulness, and she must not let him tempt her to forget this. She had next to consider him, and that she must be hard and keep him from speaking at all; and this was very difficult, for she cared for him very dearly. "You do not show much interest in the one thing that will bring me back," he said. He spoke reproachfully and yet a little haughtily, as though he had already half suspected she had guessed what he meant to say. "Ah, you cannot tell how long you will be there," she said. lightly. "You will like it much more than you think. I — she stopped hopelessly, and glanced, without meaning to do so, at the clock-face on the mantel beside him. "Oh," he said, with quick understanding. "I beg your pardon. I am keeping you. I forgot how late it was, and you are going out." He came toward her as though he meant To go. She stood up and made a quick, impatient gesture with her hands. He was making it very hard for her. "Fancy," she said. "You know I want to talk to you; what does the difference matter? Why are you so unlike yourself?" she went on gently. "And it is our last night, too." The tone of her words seemed to reassure him, for he came nearer and rested his elbow beside her on the piano and said, "Then you are sorry that I am going?" She looked up at him without a sign of the effort it cost her, frankly and openly, and said, "Sorry? Of course I am sorry. One does not have such many friends that one can spare them for long, even to have them grow famous." "Yes," he said, slowly, "I fancy the change will be very pleasant." He was not thinking of his words or of how thoughtless they must sound. He was only anxious to get away without showing how deeply he was hurt. If he had not done this; if he had let her see how miserable he was, and that plays and books and such things were nothing to him now, and that she was just all there was in the whole world to him, it might have ended differently. But he was untried, and young. So he buttoned the left glove with careful scrutiny and said, "They always start those boats at such absurd hours; the tides never seem to suit one; you have to go on board without breakfast, or else stay on board the night before, and that's so unpleasant. Well, I hope you will enjoy the Dance, and tell them I was very much hurt that I wasn't asked. He held out his hand quite steadily. "I will write you if you will let me," he went on, "and send you word where I am as soon as I know." She took his hand and said, "Good-by, and I hope it will be a grand success; I know it will. And come back soon; and, yes, do write to me. I hope you will have a very pleasant voyage." He had reached the door fund stopped uncertainly at the curtains. "Thank you," he said; and "Oh, he," he added, politely, "will you say goodbye to your mother for me, please?" She nodded her head and smiled and said, "Yes; I will not forget. Good-bye." It was a month after this, simultaneously with the announcements by cable of the instant success in London of "A Western Idyl," that Miss Cuyler retired from the world she knew, and disappeared into darkest New York by the way of Rivington Street. She had discovered one morning that she was not ill nor run down nor over-taxed, but just mentally tired of all things, and that what she needed was change of air and environment, and unselfish work for the good of others, and less thought of herself. Her mother's physician suggested to her. After a secret and hasty interview with Mrs. Cuyler, that change of air was good, but that the air of Livingston Street was not of the best; and her friends, both men and women, assured her that they appreciated her much more than the people of the East Side possibly could do, and that they were much more worthy of her consideration, and in a fair way of improvement yet if she would only continue to shine upon and before them. But she was determined in her purpose, and regarded the College Settlement as the one opening and refuge for the energies which had too long been given to the arrangement of paper chases across country, and the routine of society, such dilettante interest in kindergartens. She found a cruel disappointment at first, for the women of the College Settlement had rules and ideas of their own, and had seen enthusiasts like herself come into Livingston Street before, and depart again. She had thought she would nurse the sick and visit the prisoners on the Island, and bring cleanliness and hope into miserable lives, but she found that this was the work of women tried in the service, who understood it, and who made her first serve her apprenticeship by reading the German Bible to old women whose eyes were dim, but who were as hopelessly clean and quite as self-respecting in their way as herself. And what made it very hard was that wherever she went they seemed to talk of him. The papers seemed to be always having him doing something, and there was apparently no one else in London who could so properly respond to the toasts of America at all the public dinners. She had had letters from him herself—of course bright, clever once—that suggested what a wonderfully full and happy life his was, but with no reference to his return. He was living with his young friend Lord Lowen and went everywhere with him and his people; and then as a final touch, which she had already anticipated, people began to speak of him and the Honorable Evelyn. What could be more natural? They said. He had saved her brother's life while out West half a dozen times at least, from all accounts; and he was rich, and well-looking, and well-born, and rapidly becoming famous. Miss Cuyler walked back to Rivington Street from the luncheon; composing the latter she would write to him, congratulating him on his engagement. She composed several. Some of them were very short and cheery, and others rather longer and full of reminiscences. She wondered with sudden fierce bitterness how he could so soon forget certain walks and afternoons they had spent together; and the last note, which she composed in bed, was a very sad and scornful one, and so pathetic as a work of composition that she cried a little over it, and went to sleep full of indignation that she had cried. It was about six months after this, in the early spring, while Miss Cuyler was still in Livingston Street, that young Van Bibber invited his friend Travers to dine with him, and going later to the People's Theatre, on the Bowery, where Irving Willis, the Boy, was playing "Are You Looking For a Fight?" He asked the actor, was playing "Nick of the Woods." Traveling despatched a hasty and joyful note in reply to this to the effect that he would be on hand. He then went off with a man to try a horse at a riding academy, and easily and promptly forgot all about it. He did remember, as he was dressing for dinner, that he had an appointment somewhere, and took some consolation out of this fatt, for he considered it a decided step in advance when he could remember that he had an engagement, even if he could not recall what it was. The stern mental discipline necessary to do this latter would be hoped, come in time. So he dined unwarily at home, and was, in consequence, seized upon by his father, who sent him to the opera, as a substitute for himself, with his mother and sisters, while he went off delightedly to his club to play whist. Travers did not care for the opera, and sat in the back of the box and dozed, and wondered moodily what so many nice men saw in his sisters to make them want to talk to them. It was midnight, and just as he had tumbled into bed, when the nature of his original engagement came back to him, and his anger and disappointment were so intense that he kicked the clothes over the foot of his bedstead. As for Van Bibber, he knew his friend too well to wait for him, and occupied a box at the People's Theatre in solitary state, and from its depths gurgled with delight whenever the Boy Actor escaped being run over by a real locomotive, or in turn rescued the stout heroine from six red-haired cowboys. The night was pleasant and filled with the softness of early spring, and Van Bibber turned down the Bowery with a cigar between his teeth and no determined purpose except the one that he did not intend to go to bed. The streets were still crowded, and the lights showed the many types of the "Thieves' Highway" with which Van Bibber, in his many excursions in search of mild adventure, had become familiar. They were so familiar that the unfamable of the hurrying figure of a girl of his own class who passed in front of him down Grand Street brought him, abruptly wondering, to a halt. She had passed directly under an electric light, and her dress, and walk, and bearing he seemed to recognize, but as belonging to another place. What a girl, well-born and well-dressed, could be doing at such an hour in such a neighborhood aroused his curiosity; but it was rather with a feeling of noblesse oblige, and a hope of being of use to one of his own people, that he crossed to the opposite side of the street and followed her. She was evidently going somewhere, that was written in every movement of her regular quick walk and her steadfast look ahead. Her veil hid the upper part of her face, and the passing crowd shut her sometimes entirely from view; but Van Bibber, himself unnoticed, succeeded in keeping her in sight, while he speculated as to the nature of her errand and her personality. At Eldridge Street she turned Sharply to the north, and, without a charge in her hurrying gait, passed on quickly, and turned again at Livingston. "Oh," said Van Bibber, with relieved. curiosity, "one of the College Settlement," and stopped satisfied. But the fact had now become deserted, and though he disliked the idea of following a woman, even though she might not be aware of his doing so, he disliked even more the idea of leaving her to make her way in such a place alone. And so he charted on again, and as there was now more likelihood of he seeing him in the empty street, he dropped farther in the rear and kept in the shadow; and as he did so, he saw a man, whom he had before noticed on the opposite side of the street, quicken his pace and draw nearer to the girl. It seemed impossible to Van Bibber that any man could mistake the standing of this woman and the evident purpose of her haste; but the man was apparently settling his pace to match hers, as if only salting an opportunity to approach her. Van Bibber tucked his under his arm and moved forward more quickly. It was midnight, and the street was utterly strange to him. From the light of the lamps he could see signs in Hebrew and the double eagle of Russia painted on the windows of the saloons. Long rows of trucks and drays stood ranged along the pavements for the night, and on some of the blocks and fire escapes of the tenements a few dwarfish specimens of the Polish Jew sat squabbling in their native tongue. But it was not until they had reached Orchard Street, and when Rivington Street was quite empty, that the man drew up uncertainly beside the girl, and bending over stared up in her face, and then, walking on at her side, surveyed her deliberately from head to foot. For a few steps, the girl moved on as apparently unmindful of his near presence as though he were a stray dog running at her side; but when he stepped directly in front of her, she stopped and backed away from him fearfully. The man hesitated for an instant, and then came on after her, laughing. Van Bibber had been some distance in the rear. He reached the curb beside them just as the girl turned back, with the man still following her, and stepped in between them. He had come so suddenly from out of the darkness that they both started. Van Bibber did not look at the man. He turned to the girl, and raised his hat slightly, and recognized Eleanors Cuyler instantly as he did so; but as she did not seem to remember him, he did not call her by name, but simply said, with a jerk of his head. "Is this man annoying you?" Miss Cuyler seemed to wish before everything else to avoid a scene. "He—he just spoke to me, that is all," she said. "I live only a block below here; if you will please let me go on alone. I would be very much obliged." "Certainly, do go on," said Van Bibber, "but I could have to follow you until you get in-doors. You needn’t be alarmed, no one will speak to you." Then he turned to the man, and said, in a lower tone, "You want here till I get back, will you? I want to talk to you." The man said no attention to him whatsoever. He was so far misled by Van Bibber’s appearance as to misunderstand the altercation entirely. "Oh come now," he said, smiling knowingly at the girl, "you can’t shake me for no dude." He put out his hand as he spoke as though he meant to touch her. Van Bibber pulled his stick from under his arm and tossed it out of his way, and struck the man twice heavily in the face. He was very cool and determined about it, and punished him, in consequence, much more effectively than if his indignation had made him excited. The man gave a howl of pain, and stumbled backwards over one of the stoops, where he dropped moaning and swearing, with his fingers pressed against his face. "Please, now," boggled Van Bibber, quickly turning to Miss Cuyler. "I am very sorry, but if you had only gone when I asked you to." He motioned impatiently with his hand. "Will you please go?" But the girl, to his surprise, stood still and looked past him, his shoulder. Van Bibber motioned again for her to pass on, and then, as she stood still, hesitated, turned and glanced behind him. Save for the girl and the roaring fool on the step, and the three figures closing in on him, he was quite alone. The foremost of the three men stopped running, and came up with his finger held interrogatively in front of him. He stopped when it was within a foot of Van Bibber's face. "Are you looking for a fight?" he asked. There was enough of the element of sport in Van Bibber to enable him to recognize the same element in the young man before him. He knew that this was no whimpering blackguard who followed women into side streets to insult them; this was one of the purest specimens of the tough of the East Side water-front, and he and his companions would fight as readily as Van Bidden would smoke—and they would not fight fair. The adventure had taken on a grim and serious nature. Turn, and Van Bibber gave an imperceptible shrug and a barely audible exclamation of disgust as he accepted it. "Because," continued his new opponent with business-like briskness, "if you're looking for a fight, you can set right to me. You needn't think you can come down here and run things— you—" He followed this with an easy roll of oaths. Intended to goad his right into action. A reformed prize-fighter had once told Van Bibber that there were six rules to observe in a street fight. He said he had forgotten the first five, but the sixth one was to strike first. Van Bibber turned his head toward Miss Cuyler. "You had better run," he said, over his shoulder; and then, turning quickly, he brought his left first, with all the strength and weight of his arm and body back of it, against the end of the newcomer's chin. The man threw up his arms and went over backwards, groping blindly with his hands. Van Bibber heard a sharp rapping behind him frequently repeated; he could not turn to see what it was, for one of the remaining men was engaging him in front, and the other was kicking at his knee-cap, and striking at his head from behind. He was no longer cool; he was grandly and viciously excited; and, rushing past his opponent, he caught him over his hip with his left arm across his breast, and so tossed him, using his hip for a lever. Seeing this, the second man, who so far failed to find... Van Bibber's knee cap, backed rapidly away, with his hands in front of him. "Here," he cried. "I'm not in this." "Oh yes you are," cried Van Bibber, gasping, but with fierce politeness. "Excuse me, but you are. Put up your hands; I'm going to kill you." The third man, still backing away, placed his arms in a position of defense, and Van Bibber beat them down savagely, and caught him by the throat and pounded him until his arm was tired, and he had to drop him at his feet. As he tugged dizzily, he heard a sharp answering rap down the street, and saw coming toward him the burly figure of a policeman running heavily and throwing his nightstick in front of him by its leather thong, so that it struck reverberating echoes out of the pavement. And then he saw to his amazement that Miss Cuyler was still with him, standing by the curb and beating it with his heavy walking stick as calmly as though she were playing golf, and looking keenly up and down the street for possible aid. Van Bibber gazed at her with breathless admiration. "Good heavens!" he panted, "didn't I ask you to go home?" The policeman passed them and dived uncertainly down a dark avenue way as one departing figure disappeared into the open doorway of a tenement, on his way to the roof, and the legs of another dodged between the line of drays. "Where did them fellows go?" gasped By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS Copyright, 1911, by The Wheeler Newspaper Syndicate The officer, instantly reappearing up the steps of the basement. "How should I know?" Or were Van Blbb4r, end added, with ill-time lightness, "they didn’t leave any address." The officer stared at him with severe suspicion, and then disappeared again under one of the trucks. "I am very much obliged to you, Miss Cuyler," Van B’bber said. Ho tried to raise his hat but the efforts of the gentleman who had struck him from behind had been successful, and the hat came off only after a wrench that made him wince. "You were very brave," he went on. "And it was very good of you to stand by me. You won’t mind my saying so, now, will you? But you gave the wrong rap. I hadn’t time to tell you, to change it. He mopped the back of his head tenderly with his handkerchief, and tried to smile cheerfully. "You see, you were giving the rap," he explained politely, "for a fire-engine; but it's no consequence." Miss Cuyler came to closer to him, and he saw that her face showed sudden anxiety. "Mr. Van Bibber!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I didn’t know it was you! I didn’t know it was anyone who knew me. What will you think?" "I beg your pardon," said Van Bibber, blankly. "You cannot believe," she went on. quickly, “that I am subject to this sort of thing, please do not imagine I <m annoyed down here like this. It has never happened before. 1 waa nursing a woman, and her son. who generally ' goes home with me. was kept at hts work, and I | bought . could risk get ting back alone. You see.* she ex plained, as Van Bibber's face ehow*d he was still puzzled, "my people do not fancy my living down here; and *f they should hear of this they would never consent to my remaining an other day, and It means so much to me now.” •'They need not hear of it.* Van Bib ber answered, sympathetically. "They certainly won't from me. If that’s what you mean.* H* stepped to Miss Cuyler’w aids, and they walked on down the street to the College Settlement in silence. , *T haven't thanked you, Mr. Van Blb ben” tald Miss Cuyler. "ft was really fine of you, and most exciting. You must be very strong. I can’t Imagin'* how you happened to be there, but it was m*st fortunate for me that you were. If you had not. I— ** "Oh. that's all right.” said Van Bib ber, hurriedly. I haven't had so much fun without paying for It for a long time. Fun.' he added, meditatively, "costs so much.” ''And you will be so good, then, ns not to speak of It,** she said, as she gave him her hand at the dqpr. "Of course not. Why should I?" said an Bibber, and then his face beamed and coluded again instantly. "But, oh," he begged, "I’m afraid I'll have to tell Travers! Oh, please let me tell Travers! I’ll make him promise not to mention it, but it's too good a joke on him, when you think what he missed. You see," he added, hastily, "We were to have gone out together, and he forgot, as usual, and missed the whale thing, and he wasn't in it, and it will just about break his heart. He’s always getting grinds on me." he went on persuasively, "and now I’ve got this on him. You will really have to let me tell Travers." Miss Cuyler looked puzzled and said, "Certainly," though she failed to say why Mr. Travers should his head be broken, and then she thanked Van Bibber again and nodded to the officer and went to the door. Van Bibber told Travers about it the next morning, and Travers forgot he was not to mention it, and told the next man he met. By one o’clock the story had grown in his telling, and Van Bibber's reputation had grown with it. Travers found three men breakfast together at the club, and drew up a chair. "Have you heard the joke Van Bibber’s got on me?" he asked, sadly, by way of introduction. Wainwright was sitting at the next table with his back to them. He had just left the customs officers, and his wonder at the dirtiness of the streets and height of the buildings had given way to the pleasure of being home again, and before the knowledge that "old friends are beat." His mind was wide awake, and shifting from one pleasant thought to another, when he heard Travers’s voice behind him raised impressively. "And they both went at Van hammer and tongs," he heard Travers say, "one in front and the other behind, kicking and striking all over the shop. And," continued Travers, interrupting himself suddenly with a shrill and anxious tone of interrogation, "where was I while this was going on? That's the pathetic part of it — where was I?" His voice rose to almost a shriek of disappointment. "I was sitting in a red-silk box listening to a red-silk opera with a lot of girls—that’s what I was doing. I wasn't in it; I wasn't. I— "Well, never mind what you were doing," said one of the men, soothingly; "you weren’t in it, as you say. Return to the libretto." "Well, never mind what you were doing," said one of the men, soothingly; "you were in a red-silk box," suggested one of the men, reaching for the coffee. "Go on, Travers," said Travers, meekly, "tell me, ma, see; where was I?" "You were in a red-silk box," suggested one of the men, reaching for the coffee. "Go on, Travers," said Travers, "I'm not in it." First man. The two men were kicking Von Bibber. "Oh, yes," cried Travers. "Well, Van Just threw the first fellow over his head, and threw him hard. He must have broken his ribs, for the second fellow tried to get away, and begged off, but Van wouldn't have it, and rushed him, he got the tough's head under his arm, and pummelled it till his arm ached, and then he threw him into the street, and asked if any other gentleman would like to try his luck." "What did the girl do?" Interrupted one of the men. "Oh, yes," said Travers, hastily; "that’s the best part of it; that's the plot—the girl. Now, who do you think the girl was?" He looked around the table proudly, with the air of a nun who is sure of his existence. "How should I know?" one man said. "Some actress going home from the theatre, maybe— "No," said Travers. "It's a girl you all know. He passed impressively. "What would you say now," he went on, dropping his voice, "if I was to tell you it was Eleanors Cuyler?" The three men looked up suddenly and at each other with serious concern. There was a moment's silence, said one of them, softly, "that is rather nasty." "Now, what I want to know is, where is that girl's mother, or sister, or brother? Have they anything to say? How any one else has anything to say? Why, one of Eleanors Cuyler's little fingers is worth more than all the East and West Blds put together; and she is to be allowed to run risks like—" "Yes, the fellow, quick," said Travvers; "Wainwright who writes plays and things. He's a thoroughbred sort, too, and he just got back from London. It's in the afternoon papers." Miss Cuyler was reading to Mrs. Lockman, who was old and bedridden and cross. Under the influence of Eleanore's low voice, she frequently went to sleep, only to wake and daunt ungratefully why the reading had stopped. Miss Cuyler was very tired. It was close and hot, and her head ached a little, and the prospect across the roofs of the other tenements was not cheerful. Neither was the thought of the rest. That she was to spend her summer making work! Happy on a farm on Long Island. She had grown sceptical as to working-girls, and of the good she did then—or anyone else. Corrigan, on the third floor, was drunk again and promised trouble. His voice ascended to the room in which she sat, and made her nervous, for she was feeling the reaction from the excitement of the night before. There were heavy footsteps on the stairs, and a child’s shrill voice cried, "She's in there," and, suspecting it might be Corrigan, she looked up fearfully, and then the door opened and she saw the most magnificent and the handsomest being in the world. But it was not the tan, nor the unusual length of his coat, that Eleanor saw, but the eager, confident look in his face—and all she could say was, "Oh, Mr. Wainwright," feebly. Wainwright waved away all such trifling barriers as "Mister" and "Miss." He came towards her with his face stern and determined. "Eleanore," herald, "I have a hansom at the door, and I want you to come down and get into it." Was this the young man who had been used to scold and advise and criticize? She looked at him wondering and happy. It seemed to rest her eyes just to see him, and she loved him ordering her so, until a flash of miserable doubt came over her that if she was confident, it was because he was not only sure of himself, but of herself one else on the other side of the room. And all her pride came to her, and thankfulness that she had not shown him what his coming mount, and she said, "Did my mother send you? How did you come? Is anything wrong?" He took her hand in one of his and put his other on top of it firmly. "Yes," he said. "Everything is wrong. But we’ll fix all that." He did not seem able to go on immediately, but just looked at her. "Eleanore," he said, "I have been a fool, all sorts of a fool I came over here to go back again at once, and I am going back, but not alone. I have been alone too long." He had both her hands now, and was pressing them against the flowers in the breast of the long coat. "Eleanore," he said. "I tried to tell you once of the one thing that would bring me back and you stopped me." Will you stop me now? She tried to look up at him, but she would not let him see the happiness in her face just then, and lowered it and gently said, "No, no." They were married in May, and Lord Lowes acted as best man, and his sister sent her warmest congratulations and a pair of silver candlesticks for the dinner-table, which Wainwright thought were very handsome indeed, but which Miss Cuyler considered a little show. Van Bibber and Travers were ushers, and indeed, it was Van Bibber himself who closed the door of the carriage upon them as they were starting forth after the wedding. Mrs. Wainwright said something to her husband, and he laughed and said, "Van, Mrs. Wainwright says she’s much obliged." "Yes?" said Van Bibber, pleased and eager, putting his head through the window of the carriage. "What for, Mrs. Wainwright—the chafing dish? Travers gave half, you know." And then Mrs. Wainwright said, "No; not for the chafing dish." And they drove off, laughing. "Look at them," said Travers, morosely. "They don't think the wheels are going around, do they? They think it is just the earth revolving with them on top of it, and so body else. We don't have to say 'please' to no one, not much! We can do just what we jolly well please, and join when we please and wherever we please. You say to me, Travers, let's go to Pastor's tonight, and I say, 'won't, and you say I won't go to the Casino, because I don't want to, and there you are, and all we have to do is to agree to go somewhere else.' "I wonder," said Travers, "what brings a man to the proposing point?" "Some other man," said Travers, promptly. "Some man he thinks has more to do for the girl than he likes. "Who," persisted Travers, innocently, "do you think was the man in that case?" "How should I know?" exclaimed Travers, impatiently, waving away such unprofitable discussion with a sweep of his stick, and coming down to the serious affairs of life. "What I want to know is to what theatre we are going—that's what I want to know." I'll o hr L. i i A' w I L- T • Sr 1 J'j \ dX'A 1. 