with Marion, who was quite tired. We came back along the bluff by the river, and when we had reached the Point, where there is a splendid view, she sat down on a low boulder to rest a few minutes. I sat on the grass, with the scar turned toward her.

"Isn't this Heaven?" she sighed contentedly, drinking in the scene before us. If she only knew what it really was!

'She is more beautiful than I ever dreamed. A tendril of hair was blowing around her cheek, unheeded in the pine-laden breeze, and her face was a delicate pink after her exertion-it hurts me even when I write about it! She knows my name is Bob and suddenly she said: "Bob-Bob is a very nice name-have you another?"

'I laughed the question off, and she went on:

"I had a friend named Bob once. It was the saddest thing I think I ever knew. He was a fine fellow and we all loved him. One day he became ill-consumption, and then went off to the mountains. After that we never heard from him very much-now, none of us know— where he is."

'Her voice broke, and on the cheek that was half turned from me something glistened. There are the cuts in my hand now where my nails bit into the flesh, but I kept thinking: "I'm a coward to tell her. I cannot ask her to live with me up here and then waste away day by day," and I kept silent.

'After a moment we walked back slowly to the camp, and her eyes were misty and sad.

"I don't know what made me tell you that," she said, "but something brought it back stronger than ever to-day."

'I knew the moment I saw her eyes in the mess room that a great sorrow still hung over her life. If she does still care it is all the more reason why I should not let her know. Still, sometimes I think I would give anything-undergo anything, for just one more glimpse of Paradise -but is it fair to her?'

"May 16th.

"Things have gone along in the same old rut. I see Marion only at meals, and at intervals in the woods. She is very kind to me. She leaves in two days, and for that I am thankful. It takes my whole strength to keep my lips sealed.'

"May 17th.

'To-day has been another soul-racking one, and to-day for one short moment, all my long-tested strength of which I was quite confident, failed me. I was at work trimming, when McGraw came up and asked me if I had seen Miss Morgan. As I then observed, a very heavy thunderstorm was blowing up pretty fast, and he said no one had been able to find any trace of Marion about the camp. I had seen her near there, walking about among the trees, and had an idea that she might have gone astray in the thicket. We got up a search-party on the spot, and I went off in the direction I had seen her last. Soon the thunderstorm broke furiously, and the darkness underneath the pines, the loud crashes and frequent bolts, must have been terrifying to a sensitive girl. I called

loudly in the storm lulls, and after some time I thought I heard an answer. I hurried off in its direction, and there, standing under a great tree, her garments soaked through, her eyes gazing wildly and aimlessly about, I came upon her.

'At sight of me all the terror and awe seemed to go from her face, and after I had put by coat about her, we started back. She talked brightly, and only when the louder crashes came did she tremble and shrink toward me. However, I knew of old what fright a storm inspired in her.

'Suddenly there was a terrible crash and we seemed to be in the midst of crackling light. It shocked me considerably, hardened as I am, and to Marion it must have been appalling, for she turned to me with a wild cry as if by some strange instinct, and in a flash I had her in my arms. Then I dashed reason—honor-everything aside, and told her the whole story from beginning to end, repeating my love for her again and again. I waited anxiously for her to answer me, trembling between anticipation and self-condemnation at my weakness. There was no move from the tangled mass of brown hair on my arm.

'At last I took her chin gently in my free hand, and turned her face up to mine. "Tell me," I began and stopped short. Her cheeks were deathly pale, and her features perfectly expressionless-she had fainted and heard no word of my outburst.

'I let her sink gently against an old tree, and began the work of resuscitation. Gradually I began to come back to my senses too, and realized with a tremor how near I had come to making added misery for us both. At last the old resolve came back with its full strength, and I knew I should never tell her again.

'Then I did what may have been an unwarranted thing, but all I know is that I could not help it, and feel sure she would not have denied me that one feeble solace had she known all. I kissed her.'"

The old doctor took off his glasses, wiped his eyes and blew his nose loudly. "I'll read only one more," he said in a queer voice.

"May 18th.

"To-day I stood on the Point and watched all that I loved and cared for in this life pass out of my sight forever. I am glad I have done what I did. I believe she would have wished me to do it, and though it is hard to be calm about it, somehow I feel as if everything were not so black after all. I will never see her again in this life—yet I feel in some indescribable way that she is mine more than she ever was before, and that somewhere-somehow-it will be all right.''

For a long time we sat in silence, while two silvery drops trickled slowly down the good old man's cheeks.

"Yes, I haven't a doubt that sometime-somewhere-it will be all right," he said.

C. L. Watkins.

BEHIND THE ARRAS.

A CHRISTMAS MASQUE.

(Yvrel, a damosel, and Noel, a page, speak in this wise, seated in a tapestry-hung corner of the King's great hall.)

YVREL.

W

HAT star has given thee its care,
My Noel, and has made thee fair?

NOEL.

Hark! With antic, and with mow
They drag the Yule block in; and now
The pompous steward tells them how.

What star has watched since I was born?
'Tis Mercury: That Christmas morn
There came a warlock to declare,
"Vain Mercury shall make him fair,
And he quicksilver shall be e'er."
He shook his cane,—one of those staves
Of yew cut from adult'rers' graves,—
And added, "The red cock shall sing
Twice seven Christmas nights; then he
This babe, the heart that most will cling
To him, will break by vanity."

The rascal lied; I am to you

As leal as angels, and as true.

(In the hall sounds the peasants' Yule Log song. Noel, careless of Yvrel's troubled face, listens to the song.)

CHORUS OF PEASANTS.

The Yule log, the Yule log,
It be where fays do dwell.
From out their house pell mell

They flicker in a noisy crowd.

I heard one stammering aloud,
"By Mary," quotha, "Mistress Spark,
Our good log house is cracking; hark!
The flame folk beckon through our wall,
Come, Mistress Spark, away. They call."

(A page enters with tankards. The peasants sing,)

Here comes the ale

With a flagon for me,
And another for thee,

To the good King; hail!
Wench Marian,

With the beggar man,

And a wand'ring mime beside,

All giggle and wink

With a skinful o' drink,

For 'tis the Christmas-tide!

(The peasants exeunt.

Yvrel speaks.)

YVREL.

Dear Noel, I believe you true.

You've sworn on Christmas eve to do
Aught I might bid; to break the spell
Of Barbarossa; or, through Hell,
Clean to the Nadir ride, and bring
Me up the trident of its king.

Last night the Princess promised me
As a novice to the nunnery;

Which, once a year, 'mid Christmas sport

Is given a maiden of the court.

Let's to thy Father's wild chateau!

NOEL.

Oh sweet Yvrel, I love you so

That, saving thee, mayhap I'll go

To-night and,

(There breaks in a chorus from masquers assembling in

the great hall.)

(Noel continues, excitedly peering forth at the gathering group.)

We'll flee, perhaps, upon the morrow.
Take cheer, like me; nor trouble borrow.
These carols, wassail, boisterous fun
Take all to-night; without ME none
Of all the sports were rightly done.

YVREL.

The nun's damp veil fills me with dread.

I hate it; I were better dead.

Oh sweet, tomorrow is too late.

For, by thy sunny dear brown head

These nuns will seize me if we wait.

NOEL.

It is a pity. Well,—I pray

That you'll be abbess there some day.
Were honor, or thy life, in need
I'd save thee, by death-daring deed.