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(DR. FRESTON'S BROTHER. SEARCH OF YEARS AND HOW IT r WAS HAPPILY ENDED. T Ttr ■' sister in a large male surgical ward ► the > wn hospital 'n South Wales at cuired"16 w^en following incident oc- dis^st^eW nion^'s previously one of those Hion .'rous colliery explosions, only too com- and ^n.our neighbourhood, had taken place, iniur *§ men> P°or fellows, all badly ward ^een brought into the accident our h 6 a lieavy time of it, and comnwT suroe0n—never very strong—had I hia j 6 broken down under the strain of H |?t,&d attention to his patients. casft« r the satisfaction of seeing all the th« 0Jle exception) fairly started on cam r°a^ to convalescence before he, too, iyi 8 °n the sick list, and was ordered abso- fW,. re^ ^or several months. No man ever deg^ed a. rest more than he. co,n,s^ant an(l unwearied labours of on A1 had -earned the blessing pronounced kjc. f i,011 Adhem as "One who loved oW '"men" e greatly missed his into^,l,r.es0Ilce in the wards, and felt small f "lom '> .^e ^ctoT who came as his his pj^' fe6lmg sure that no one could take how** ^r8st°n. the temporary house surgeon, ever, made a. favourable impression on ft. ^rival, .and soon showed that he 1<e, Ouo'ily knew his work. lie had a- quiet, ffitkV manner, and we had worked to- m', 8l" some d-av.s before I learned anything thfJ'6 .!a^x>llt him. Then an accident, if m e such a thing, showed me the real ret) ?ne evening, on going his rounds, I i T+ a new case, just come in, to him. in +cas a 1Ban had been found lying I ylg ^0ad. He. had evidently fallen against I rpj and had received a scalp wound. ( pTl "e ^'as a stranger in the town was I ino^'v some papers in his pocket, show- „ fi. *lmi to have been discharged from a | vio^f Tossel at Swansea, a few days pre- f j have not made out his history vet I said; "he seems to be very poor, and ap- Parellilv has no friends." •^o friends repeated Dr. Freston, with expression I had not seen on his facej °.re- "Very few of us realise what those or<ts mean, sister. It means more than uu ^endlessness. It means a man's life f? influence for good upon it— i restraint to keep him from sinking to the |^West depths: no anchor to hold him back -sunering shipwreck on the rocks which r) Pro,1D(l us some seen, and some hid- ones more dangerous than all. No • e seemed to have forgotten he was speak- Self me' aDcl remembering, checked him- T We see so many such lives in our work," 1 said. i. Yes," he said, slowly and absently, as if ls Oughts were far away, "it must always i Look, sister! he said, and his strong liand shook as he held it towards me. .————————————— UtW sight, even if those who suffer are 56 dangers to us." then turned round to faca me, ^°r0e }> 6 more quickly, as if lie wished to ',nj> "imself to say something. all k 018 the most pitiful sight of J|?auss I am haunted by the feeling be a j/^e^vhere in this world there may now Hlv t w'ho is friendless and alone through ttiay i Every fresh face I see I think %e +i e his. Every morning I wake with I 1 OUght that I may see it before night." "'o"Oed at him with intense interest. My L ftie ,s instinct, which so seldom errs, told le had never spoken of this to any to hine ore, and that it was a great relief 1 l; to do so now. readlolftled to hear more. He seemed to welat the- syinpath;,r expressed in my face and "I h n Inore quietly: °aly tac* a younger brother. There were ^ts, 0 of us. I was older by three in appearance and character I y iiiy f^tally "unlike. He had been spoiled Va 'er' wh° always let him have his ^troj|g >T.' chiefly, I fancy, on account of the ^iecl -vyV, ness he bore, to our mother, who t ford 611 ^e were quite young. I was at t CJ xford,We were quite young. I was at eri&g fading for a degree previous to en- kild I be hospital, when my father died, i 1 bore you? I have no right 8'^vays j a'jl thig 0n you, but somehow vou ? other ri °°k as if you were used to hearing Coittes + Ple's troubles. I notice everyone I'Plea^0 you-" I i, /if0 on-" Icould say no more. ? i^ti^o. a™er had had a nasty fall in the l ^Ore r 'd, and wras almost at the last &l,fect to hom. All his affairs were in ^8lwavt,r i'.r' hut he was anxious about Jack [i 'k"'Yon'ifi m ^*r,Su thought." r °ftikP after him, Tom,' he said. ^0u ftrom-me y°u will look after him. If ff^ise i ,lSe kriow voii won't go back. A +,f a Promise Avith. you, Tom I could I 1 di(j' U8fc ^°U-' | j ^r°Wise, again and again, and God J-iAthej. ^-eaR^ to keep my word, and my k W/led.^ite happy with my promise j. ? to aT"1? in his ears* and his eyes rest- t- ,ftVeFj he last on his darling Jack. He for6Sp rne for a, i)v-"ixent. How could 11 y°tt +f 1 am thankful he died .happy, t kept' „ Unk he knows now, sister, how 1 «Cy,roi(i?" t 'j \vpt(.m7 head, but did not speak. t!6^ t],„ back to Oxford, and Jack en- h • -At SaiUe That was the mis- aad +t ^is-tance—if I had only seen him °Ug}i. tften—ye nxio-ht have got on well W » at my elbow, always bursting Vl5! r0_°°m when I wanted to read, filling T-vith friends as noisy and light- J1 aJl si(1/UlliSelf, spending money recklessly to 4 jo] anfl turning everything I said fte^a11 th3s was a daily annoyance i it vTew intolerable. I had no sym- e/rew- uj0a ^vitli any of his pursuits, and if u^atJ)6 °0^ an(l reserved, until one day, %V i rfK)re than usual, I told him that Jij; to g° to the dogs he might go }j,Q e- jj-. His temper was as quick as &Uie answer drew a sharper one "ich roused him to a fury. 'You won't see me again, so you need not trouble your head about it. I can work for myself,' and he was gone. Even then, sister, if I had gone after him, I might have stopped him, but I was mad with him, and was glad that he was gone. As glad then to hear that he was gone a,s I should be now to hear tha,tonce again on this earth I might hope to see his face. I live for that, and one day it may come." "And you never heard of him again?" "No sound from that day to this. He went without money, and he could draw none except through me." "Perhaps," I suggested, utterly at a loss what to say, "he found some work or-" "Work! Jack never did a day's work in his life; he was not made to work." "Do you think that some of his friends ——" I began, rather hopelessly. "No," he replied, with a deep tone of sadness in his voice; "no; not one of his friends ever heard of him—that's four-no, five years ago. Five years—and night and day I think of these words, 'You will look after Jack, Tom. There was a., silence I did not know how to break. I think, sister," he added, looking up with eyes which long sorrow had filled with won- derful depth of expression, "I think I should have put an end to my life before now; but I knew father's first question would be, 'Have you looked after him, Tom?'" The door opened to admit the stretcher with a new case from the surgery, and Dr. Freston was in a moment the professional man, absorbed in investigating the extent of the new arrival's injuries. Before leaving the ward he turned to the bedside of the patient whose friendless con- dition had led to our conversation. He took down the head card to iiii up the details. "N a'Ine, sister?" "George Thomas." "Agef "I do not know: he looks about forty; but he is very weather-beaten." The doctor glanced at the tanned, scarred face, nearly hidden by bandages, and stood hesitating, pen in hand. "Occupation—do you know?" "Sailor." "No other particulars, sistsr?" He hid the card on the table and wiped his pen carefully-a. methodioal and orderly man in every detail of his work. "I only found a few coppers and these old papers in his pocket," I said, 'showing the contents of a pocket-book much the worse for wear. One crumpled piece of paper had the words, "15, Back Wells-court, Swansea," written upon it; probably the address of his last lodging. I proceeded to unfold another piece, and found an old, plain gold locket, worn thin and bright; one side was smooth, on the other was a monogram still faintlv legible, "J. F." I felt it suddenly snatched from my hands. Dr. Freston had seized it, and, carrying it quickly across the ward, turned the gas full on, and gazed on the locket with eyes that seemed to pierce it through. "Look, sister!" he said, and his strong hand shook as he held it towards me, "there can be no mistake. I remember this locket so well. Jack gave it to my father with his photograph inside before he went to school, and after father died Jack kept it. It was an old joke of theirs to take each other's things, because they were marked with the same initials. I could swear to this any- where, and I see quite oloariy how it came here. Jack met this man at Swansea; per- haps he came off the same boat, and if he was hard un—but he must have been hard up before he would part with this, and then it's not much use to anyone else. No one would give a shilling for an old thing like this, but here it is,- and here's the address of where the man stayed. It's the first clue I have ever had, sister," and his face was bright with hope. "Jack may be still there; I must go without losing a, minute. I may catch him before he goes on further. Is there anything else you want me for to- night?" He was already near the door. "No, not to-night; the others are all very comfortable; but do you not think it would be worth while to ask this man where he got the loc- ket? It may not have, been in Swansea at all, ajid you would have the journey for nothing. Give me the locket, and I will ask him." He handed it to me without appearing to follow what I had said. The idea, of his brother being within reach had taken such a hold of his mind that he could hardly endure a moment's delay before going off to seek him. I bent over No. 7's bed. "I found this among your things," I said. "Is it your own, or did someone sell it to you ?" He looked up quickly and suspiciously. "What do you want to know for?" he mut- tered. "I only want to know whether the man who owned this first was with you at this address in Swansea." He looked at me sharply, and did not answer for a minute. "Yes," he said, slowly, "the man who owned that was there when I was," and he turned round, as if unwilling to say more. I had learned all I wished, and repeated the information to Dr. Freston. "Thank you very much," he said, simply. "Good-night, sister I may not see you for a; few days." He was already on the land- ing. "Good-night, Dr. Freston," but I doubt if he heard me. He was half-way down- stairs. T- Next day Dr. Freston's work was done by the junior surgeon, and the ward routine went on as usual. I could find out nothing more of No. ,7's history, except that his real age was twenty-eight. He looked at least ten years older. He was knocked about a good deal in the world, he told some of his fel- low-patients. His injuries proved to be very slight, and on the evening of the second day he was allowed to sit up for a short time. On the day following, when it was grow- ing dusk, the door of the ward opened, and Dr. Freston came quietly in. I saw at a glance that he had not been successful in his search. There was nothing more to be learned at that address, he told me. The people there remembered quite well a man who gave the name of George Thomas sleeping there for one night a week ago, but they were sure they had no other lodger a,t the time. They knew nothing whatever about the man. He was evidently very poor, but had paid for what he had had. "I ought not to have built so many hobes upon so slight a foundation," he said, with a poor attempt at a smile and a tone of weary sorrow in his voice, "I have waited so long that I ventured to think that, per haps, at last he—"then, checking himself, and with an effort turning his thoughts elsewhere—"but I am late, sister. I must catch up my work. Have you anything for ma to-night?" "Will you sign No.-7's p ap er ? The wound was very superficial, and Mr. Jones dis- charged him this morning. lie is anxious to get on." "I must speak to him first; he may be able to tell me something more," a.nd he turned towards No. 7, sitting by the firs, and for the first time he looked him in the face—the first time for five years, rather; for I saw Dr. Freston pause as if trans- fixed, and the next moment he was at his brother's side. "Jack!" he said, "Jack!" and could not say another word. But that was all he had to say. Jack had been the thought of his life, night and day, for five years. And now Jack was there, and he held him fast, what should he say but repeat "Jack!" again and again, until he could realise that this was no dream, but father the awakening to a better and happier life than he had known bafore. Jack said nothing at all. For one moment he had looked around as if wishing to escape; but if he would he could not. And where in the world that he had found so hard and irer- ciless- could he hope to meet the warm wel- come which strove to find utterance in his brother's happy eyes, which gazed on the ragged figure before him as if he could never look, enough? That is all the tale. It gave the patients something to talk about for a day or Two, and was then forgotten—in the "ward, at least. But there are three people from whose memories no word or act recorded here can ever be effaced. Need I name them? They are Dr. Freston, Jack, his brother, and myself, Tom Freston's wife.

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ONLY COUSINLY LOVE. "By Jove, but this is a night when a grate fire, an easy chair, and a pipe make a fellow feel that life really is worth the living. Whew! how the. wind howls and the snow lashes against the window. I'm sorry for any poor beggar who has 'to go out and rough it," and Jack Howard leaned back in his chair and compla- cently puffed his "English brierwood," watch- the, gray smoke as it curled and twisted, weav- ing its magic spell over him until gradually the room and his surroundings faded away into the dim background of a picture, against which, boldly outlined, stood one fair figure, and like Pygmalion of old, he worshipped the creation of his own imagination. "Well, old fellow, wake up! Are you going d, to sit there dreaming all night?" Thus aroused, Jack quickly collected his scattered senses and turned towards the door. "Ton my soul, if it isn't Arthur Drayton Where in the world did you spring from on a night like this ?" "Well, you see, you are such a 'gad-about, replied Drayton, "that one never knows when lie will find you, so I just thought this after- noon 'Let Jack Howard alone for venturing out in this storm,' and here I am." "I see you know me pretty well. But vou were a regular trump to come all the way up from town to see such a 'tramp' as I. Just make yourself comfortable in that smoking jacket and then tell me what you've been doing with yourself since last I saw you. By the way, how did you manage to get up town to- night? I heard that the cars had stopped running." "Well, I must confess," said Arthur, as he drew a Turkish chair before the fire and settled himself in it with a groan of satisfaction, "that we did make rather slow work of it, but you know I have a queer way of studying people's faces in a car or any public place, and as I had just eaten a hearty dinner, I didn't mind the delay, for it gave me an admirable oppor-. tunity of riding my pet hobby. "Did I ever tell you, Jack, about one of my 'character study' men, whom I saw one night on the Riverside line? No? "Well, that's queer, but you were out of town then, so that may account for it. "Well, he sat right opposite me, and I noticed that he had a most dejected, disconsolate look on his face. I really felt sorry for the fellow, for he looked as though lie had just received some sort of How which had overwhelmed him. Shortly after getting on he drew a letter from his overcoat pocket and began reading. As he read I could see the lines of his face har- den, and when he had finished the second page he stopped abruptly, and cramming the opened letter into his pocket, buttoned his coat, turned up his collar, and strode out of the car. Ilis very carriage had the -tir of ami was really half-tempted io follow h'm. "As I stepped on the bar to-night the first face that I saw was his, and as there was a vacant seat on his right, needless to say I took it. He had no idea of ever having seen me before, and it was an easy matter, during our long ride, to fall into conversation. I was greatly surprised, upon exchanging cards, to find that he was Devereux Jasper. "I have often heard you speak of his cousin, Nell Thursby, and quite naturally I asked him if he knew you. Jack, you should have seen the look he gave me when I men- tioned your name, as he muttered: 'Know him? Yes, I think I do! Would to God it were not so!' After that my remarks failed to elicit any reply, and as we rode on in silence noticed that same desperate look come into his face. "VVhat's in the wind, old fellow? I never imagined you had such bitter enemies in the world." "Well, Arthur, they say 'murder will out,' so I may as well tell you. This is the only thing that I have kept a secret from you, but it lies very near my heart and one always tries to hide such things, even from his friends. It's a long story, so just null your chair to the fire and I will proceed, as the girls say, to tell you all about it. "About five years ago I went, with mother and Bess, to England, and while there met Nell Thursby. Naturally we had a gay time, for Americans abroad usually do enjoy life pretty, thoroughly. We stayed in London to- gether for a fortnight, and then. separated, she and her party returning to America, while we started for the continent. "I did not see her again until the time of the Paris Exposition (you know she used to travel continually, so that one seldom saw her, except by accidentally meeting her away from home). As before, we were tog-ether but a shOirt time, and yet I must confess I found myself admiring her immensely. She was the style of girl who enters into a gay time with her whole heart, is truly sympa- thetic, and yet with it all ofttimes extremely- haughty. "During our stay in the gay metropolis I was not the only one who learned to admire her. Bess and she became fast friends, and it is owing to their friendship that i am sitting here telling you this litle oage from my life's history. "Last fall when I returned from that camping expedition of ours I was agreeably surprised to hear that Nell was to spend the montns of January and February with moiher and Bess, in Jacksonville. Needless to say, I made it a point to spend most of my time at the villa during those months. At first mother and Bess were surprised at my de- votion, for I had never been known to -L.,it GearleiHh Villa for more than a few days at a time, but they soon realised,that Nell was the attraction. "Art, call me a sentimental fool if you will, but until that winter I never knew what supreme happiness meant. I lived as though in a dream. Perhaps it was air-heavy with the perfume of orange blossoms or the endless blue of the sunny sky, combined with the companion- ship of a true woman, but Jack Howard felt his bachelor's theories and his old-time scorn of love and sentiment die out of his nature, and through every fibre of his nature surged that mighty passioR-love. Yes, I was deeply in love with Nell-Nellie, as f called her then. "How well do I remember the night on which I told her all. 'Twas one of those soft, bright, moonlight nights, when the earth seems hushed to sleep by the gentle breeze. Nell sat on a rustic seat in the daintiest white gown, with a large straw hat lightly resting I on her curly hair. One arm was thrown up carelesly, as though holding her big hat in subjection, and as she leaned back against an old tree I really envied the soft wind and mellow moonbeams as they kissed her cheek. "Her answer was just like her:—'Jack, I admire and love you now, but, knowing as I do how much both of us enjoy change of life and companions, would it not be wiser for us to remain but friends for a year, and then if we still think the same of each other we shall journey through life side by side, loving and working for each other, and truly nothing could be sweeter ?' "I knew her far better than she did herself, and the look which followed her words and the kiss—ah the memory of it lingers still—which sealed our contract told me that she was and always would be my truest friend. "Our year was up last week, and. Art, I am the happiest man in the world, for early in June the'bells from the old church are to tell the world that she is mine. "I see by your face that you are still puzzled as to what connection Devreux Jasper has to this little love affair of mine. Well, he is really a double cousin of Nell's. It was a case of brother and sister marrying brother and sister. About a year and a half ago Carrie Thursby, Nell's sister, was married. Nell Devreux came from England for that affair. Until then he had never seen Nell, as he had been at school in France when she visited England. He fell wildly in love with her. but never betrayed it by word or look until one night shortly after she returned from Jacksonville. Nell scolded him soundly, telling him that had she loved him she would never have married him. 'The iaea, of cousins marryh1 and double ones, at that. too! Aren't you really ashamed of yourself, Dev?' "He at once surmised that some one else had won her heart, and he would never come to see her aerain, though he lived but a few squares from her. Occasionaly they exchanged letters, and in one of these she told him of the rela- tionship existing between us, and in reply she received a, most bitter note. saying that had it not been for me she would have married Em. "Jove! but he must be more conceited and thick-headed than the average Englishman to misjudge, Nell in that fashion. He swears that some day he will ha.ve his revenge, and in the meantime he is just ruining his own life by ratting in some wa,v to injure us. Nell and I jog on perfectly happy, regardless of him. A me What fools these mortals be "Come on, old fellow; let's go to the billiards room and roll a. game."—"Chicago News."

TOLD AT THE CLUB. Perhaps you will say that this is not exactly a club story. But my excuse for giving it to you is that the Old Beau told it to me one night while we sat in the cozy, curtained alcove just behind the buffet, and long before he had finished I called the steward to refill our glasses, for it sent a creepy feeling down my back. "I have been a member of the club for five and twenty years," said my friend, "and in that time I have come to know intimately the lives of many men. Some curious things have happened within these 'rooms, but none so. strange as this thing in the life of a man who was once the soul of our inner circle. There I did not mean to use that word, for before I have finished you may think it was mis- placed. But no matter. Other and wiser men than we have had their doubts. ■His name was Eugene Wallace. We used to sit here and talk, and drink 'B and S.'jusfc as you and I are doing now. One night we fell to talking about marriage. 'If I wanted to marry any woman,' said Eugene, 'which, thank heaven, I do not, nothing should stand in my way.' 'I can readily believe,' I said. for I liked to urge Eugene on, 'that you would permit no little matter of conscience or sentiment to stand in your way—or prevent you from accomplish- ing your desires. Yet I do think, my dear fellow, that it is possible there may be obstacles in this life which even you will find it difficuli to surmount.' a 'Don't Me sarcastic,' he returned, time enough to twit me with lack of conscience or sentiment when I have set up a claim to the possession of either.' 'Truly, Eugene,' I said, 'if a man could only throw overboard some little things that hamper him. from within, he might work to better advantage at times.' 'Nothing but the externals are worth considering,' he replied slowly. 'In fact, nothing is worth considering—much.' 'Thinking,' he went on presently, and in a manner calculated to give force to his words, 'is a heavy task, and it does not make things go any better in the end. If I wanted to marry any woman I should do it, and let the future bring what it would.' "It was not long after this that Eugene me Bertha Yoisdene. I must give you a word about her. Orphaned in childhood, she had been carefully reared within cloistered walls, and the dawning of womanhood had come out upon the broader stage of the world as unsophisti- cated as a child. Her youth and innocence charmed him as the attributes of no other woman had done. Now, .add to this that her father had been my boyhood's friend, and it will help you to understand what follows. "I soon saw how things were going between' them, and I knew what Eugene's past had been. No worse than yours or mine, perhaps, but he had lived the life of a man of the world. I am not meddlesome, but I felt I must speak < word of caution to him—and I did so. "'Ah, you are about to turn moralist,' he' said, lifting his eyebrows at me. 'But do you think it worth while to waste your maiden effort on so unlikely a subject?' < "'Miss Voisdene,v I answered, not heeding' this, 'has known so few men that any passably, decent fellow who might make love to her vio- ■ lently might interest her. There is no doubt you can succeed. But you have been through too many fires. If she should, later, find there was such a thing as real passion in the world, the result might prove a little annoying for. all concerned.' "Eugene answered this lazily, as if the, matter^' after all, did not much interest him. 'I told you once,' he said, 'that conscience should never stand in my way. The reason was—I think I have no conscience. Nor do J2 ,e think I have that other attribute which is sup-' posed to be co-ordinate with it-the soul, you know. That little place at the base of tha brain where the soul is supposed to reside, i; verily believe is hollow. If a clever anatomist ever has me on his table, I hope he will not neglect to investigate this matter.' 'What has all this rigmarole to do with Miss Voisdeno?" I demanded, growing im. patient with his nonsense. 'I am coming to that,' he answered quickly. 'By the way, it is curious,' putting his hand to the back of his head, 'that the saw-bones say the very easiest place to cut off life is just lere,; right below w-ere the soul—the incarnation of life-should bB. Now, it is true,' handling j*; long, thin knife such as surgeons use, 'it is true that such a thing as this, thrust right in at the base of the skull, would cut off that which we call life, on the very instant.' 'Yes, yes, I suppose it would,' I answered, annoyed at the way he kept from the question 'it would sever the spinal cord. But let us stop this idle talk. I would like to know what you intend in regard to Bertha Voisdene?' i "Ah, yes," he said, laughing a little; "I had; forgotten the important, matter in hand. I said' I would marry any woman, if I wanted to. But I don't want to, thank heaven. I love Bertha, Voisdene, and I think she loves me. But you are right in what you have said. I am not aj fit mate for that pure child." is ') "With the last word, so quickly that I could not interpose, he had driven the knife witE' which he had been playing directly to the vitaf spot—and what had once been Eugene Wal- lace and my friend—was only a lifeless tiling upon the floor. "An hour later I stood beside hi. body, alone with the surgeon whom I had summoned, and' his words came back to me with startling dis- tinctness. I told this to tha medical man, [ and, with the cold passion of an anatoT>V6t, ha, put his implements into play and laid blre the base of the skull, and deftly removed the neces- sary portions of bone. "Just as he had done thi3 the outer door o £ > the room opened, and I stepped hastily toward it. Bertha stood there, quiet, pale, beautiful. 'Where is he?' she asked.' He told me to come to him, here, at this hour. We are to fly, together.' -1 "This was the woman who had killed my. friend. I grew hard and cold towards her. "'Your punishment be on your own head, I said; 'you would have thrown vourself away for a man who had no soul. Look.' "I flung a book open upon the table before her, and pointed to a passage which the saw- bones had just shown me. These were the words:- 'The seat of the soul is in the oorpus callosum, a spongy little body at the base of the brain.' Then, motioning her towards the form, I threw back the wrappings and exposed the incision that had just been made. 'Look,' I said again, 'this man never had a soul.' "But poor Bertha Voisdene saw only the face .of him whom she had learned to love, and the eyes, now wide and staring, that had charmed her heart away. And, with a single cry, she fell fainting across the body of her lover. The old beau paused, while I hastily swal- lowed a glass of something warm to still that creepy feeling. Then my friend asked me, as usual: "Do you want the end of the story?" I nodded, though halt alfraid to hear it. _e "Well," lie said, quietly, "all this might have happened, I suppose, but it did not. I know no happier couple than my dear frienda.. Eugene and Bertha Wallace. We will go around and see them some night, and tell them this story. And, remember, young man, you need never look for such grim tragedies among the records of our club." Afterwards I asked the old beau why he had done this thing to me. "To show you fellows, who are so fond of spinning yarns for the public, that some others can spin yarns as weIL"J ame Knapp Reene.

"How many foreign languages can your. wife speak?" "Three-—French, German, and the one sh$: talks to the baby." Irate Mother, (strikingly) Take that, and that,. and that. Subdued Son: Not so fast. I'm not Ait instantaneous camera. "The piano is out of tune," remarked Mrs., Foster.. "H'm" retorted her husband. J'I wish was out of doors." Wilkins: Well," Cooper, how do Jyoù. fhiif; yourself? -1 Cooper: Oh, I M'ake up in the morning- and I aia.