The fit that had come upon me like a hideous nightmare seemed,

Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed.

For a time the box had vanished-I'd worked like a mere machine

My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard

nor seen.

With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek.

Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak;

There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight

That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips

white.

It was all in one awful minute-I saw that the boy was lost;

He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed;

The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here, And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to

clear.

I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel

its breath,

And right on the centre metals stood my boy in the jaws

of death;

On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the centre

line,

And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God! was mine.

Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. 'Twas that! what could I do?

Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question

flew

"What shall I do, O heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear

On the wind came the words, " Your duty," borne to my listening ear.

Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick.

"My boy!" I cried, but he heard not, and then I wen blind and sick;

The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rust before,

I turned the mail to the centre and by it flew with a roar.

Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face

I had given my child to heaven; his life was a hundred's

grace.

Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying

mail

To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail! Where is my boy, my darling? My boy! let me hide my eyes.

How can I look—his father—on that which there man gled lies?

That voice! O merciful heaven! 'tis the child's, and he calls my name!

I hear but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame.

I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell as I heard the boy;

The place reeled round, and I fainted-swooned with the sudden joy.

But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bed,

With Alice's arms around me, and a strange, wild dream in my head,

That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about

the lad,

And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad→

She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view,

And she leaped on the line and saved him, just as the mail dashed through.

She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound

The moment they stopped at the station she ran here and I was found

With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white;

I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night.

Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind?

Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind?

If I hadn't a done my duty-had I ventured to disobey

My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day.

GEORGE R. SIMS.

JEAN VALJEAN THE CONVICT.

[Adapted from " Les Miserables" by H. SCOTT SAXTON, President of the Scott-Saxton College of Elocution and Oratory, Denver, Col.]

ONE evening in the beginning of October, 1815, the Bishop of D- had remained in his bedroom until a late hour. At eight o'clock, feeling that supper was ready, and that his sister might be waiting, he closed his book, rose from the table and walked into the dining

room.

There was a loud rap at the front door. "Come in," said the Bishop. A man entered and stopped; the firelight fell on him; he was hideous. It was a sinister

apparition.

My name is Jean Valjean. I am a galley-slave, and have spent nineteen years in the bagne. I was liberated four days ago, and to-day I have marched twelve leagues. On coming into the town I went to the inn, but was sent away in consequence of my yellow passport. I went to another inn, and the landlord said to me, " Be off!" I went to the prison and the jailer would not take me in. I got into a dog's kennel, but the dog bit me and drove me off I went in the fields to sleep in the starlight, but there were no stars. I thought it would rain and, as there was no God to prevent it from raining, I came back to town to sleep in a doorway. A good woman pointed to your house and said, 'Go and knock there.' I have money, one hundred francs, fifteen sous, which I earned by my nineteen years toil. I will pay. I am very tired and frightfully hungry; will you let me stay?" "Madame Magloire, you will lay another plate, knife and fork."

"Wait a minute; that will not do. Did you not hear me say that I was a galley-slave, a convict, and had just come from the bagne? Here is my passport, which turns me out wherever I go: Jean Valjean, a liberated convict, has remained nineteen years at the galleys.-five years for robbing with housebreaking, fourteen years for trying to escape four times. The man is very dangerous.' All the world has turned me out; will you give me some food and a bed? Have you a stable ?"

"Madame Magloire, you will put clean sheets on the bed in the alcove. Sit down and warm yourself. sir. We shall sup directly, and your bed will be got ready while we are supping.'

"Is it true? What? You will let me stay; you will not turn me out-a convict? You call me sir! I really believed you would turn me out, and hence told you at once who I am. I shall have supper; a bed with mattresses and sheets like anybody else! For nineteen years I have not slept in a bed. What is your name. Mr. Landlord ?"

"I am a priest living in this house."

"A priest! O, what a worthy priest! Then you do not want me to pay ?"

"No, keep your money. How long did you take earning these one hundred francs ?"

"Nineteen years."

"Nineteen years!" The Bishop gave a deep sigh. Madame Magloire came in bringing a silver spoon and fork, which she placed on the table.

"Madame Magloire, lay them as near as you can to the fire. The night breeze is sharp on the Alps, and you must be cold, sir."

Each time he said 'sir' in his gentle, grave voice the man's face was illumined. 'Sir' to a convict is the glass of water to the shipwrecked sailor. Ignominy thirsts for respect.

66

This lamp gives a very bad light." Madame Magloire understood and fetched from the chimney of monsiegneur's bedroom two silver candlesticks, which she placed on the table ready lighted.

66

'Monsieur le Cure, you receive me as a friend and light your wax candles for me, and yet I have not hidden from you whence I come."

The Bishop gently touched his hand.

"You need not have told me who you are; this is not my house, but the house of Christ. This door does not ask a man whether he has a name, but if he has sorrow. You are suffering, you are hungering and thirsting, and so be welcome. And do not thank me nor say that I am receiving you in my house, for no one is at home here excepting the man who is in need of an asylum. I tell you who are a passer-by, that you are more at home than I am myself. Why do I want to know your name? Besides, before you told it to me you had one which I

knew."

Is that true? You know my name?"

"Yes, you are my brother-you have suffered greatly?"

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'Oh, the red jacket, the cannon ball on your foot, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, the set of men, the blows, the double chain for nothing, a dungeon for a word, even when you are ill in bed, and the chain-gang! The very dogs are happier. Nineteen years! And now I am forty-six-and the yellow passport!"