THE PROTECTING POWER.

"ELDERWOOD, twelve miles.”

There was no chance at all, then, of getting home that night. I started off along one of the roads, determined to walk until some sort of shelter might offer itself. A rumble of thunder broke the stillness of the peaceful twilight. I walked on a little faster.

And then it seemed to me that I could hear some one singing. Yes, and it was a girl's voice too,-I could hear it distinctly now, rising clear on the evening air. And what was the song?

"And 'twas there that Annie Laurie

Gave me her promise true."

I walked on, my step quickening,—I turned a bend of the road. Ah! there she was, walking slowly along, her back toward me. In her hand she held a hatful of flowers, and the fair hair floated to the breeze. At the sound of my footsteps, the song ceased abruptly. She bent her head for a moment, as if listening; then turned and half faced me; slowly I came closer, and through the gathering dusk I could see a sweet face, and dreamy, far-away eyes.

"I beg your pardon," I began, not knowing quite what

to say.

"Yes, sir? What do you want?" The voice was just like the eyes, far-away and dreamy.

"You see,

"Could you,—could you tell me where I could find a place for the night?" I was getting on better now. I've lost my way, and home's a good way off."

She stood for a moment, as if thinking. Then,-"I don't know any place round these parts, sir," she answered in her low voice. "Not many houses round here."

Another silence; then,-"I'm goin' home myself," she volunteered. "If you want to come with me, why I'll see if Dad can put you up for tonight.

"Thanks very much," I answered, and we walked on together.

"Hear the thunder over there!" she exclaimed softly, waving a hand to the hills.

“Yes,—the rain will be here before long.”

We walked on again. It was almost dark now. I volunteered again, "Do strangers like me come along here often?" "No, sir, not at most times," she replied. "I knew you for a stranger the minute you started to talk." The same

dreamy way of speaking. "I can tell.-they sent me away to some sort of a school once,-I've forgotten where. And the folks there talked like you. But I came home soon,-it's so lonely anywhere away from home."

She put her hand on the rail of a little bridge, and turned up slowly into a path through the woods.

"Short cut home this way," she explained.

It was so dark that I hadn't noticed any path at all. "You must know this way well," I exclaimed, "to find it in the dark like this!"

"Yes, I do, I've travelled it all my life. It doesn't matter to me whether it's day or night here."

I didn't catch the last words, I was wondering why she didn't walk any faster, as it might rain any minute. All of a sudden we came upon a house,-a large, comfortable-looking sort of farmhouse. Through the thickly gathering darkness I could see an old man standing on the steps.

"That you, Molly ?" he called.

"Yes, Dad."

"Who's that with you?"

"Oh Dad," she explained, "it's some one who's lost his way. He wants shelter for the night. You can fix him, can't you, Dad?"

"Fix him; I guess so," he replied. "Yes, sir, come in." We shook hands. He was a kind, fatherly-looking man, of the well-to-do farmer class.

There came a loud rumble of thunder.

"Come in, sir, out of the rain. It's startin' already." "Oh, Dad!" cried Molly, suddenly. "I've dropped my hat and flowers! I'll run back and get them,-I know about

where they are! No, sir,-I'll go myself,-you couldn't find them!"

"Wait, Molly!" called the old man. "Let 'em go! It's startin' to rain!"

But Molly had disappeared in the darkness.

"Now, how in goodness' name does she expect to find those flowers in the dark?" I began. "She oughtn't to have gone!"

"She oughtn't to ha' gone,-it'll be raining hard soon," soliloquized the father. "But it's all right, she'll be back right off.-Oh, about the darkness, sir, that doesn't make any difference, if she knows where she dropped them. She's blind, you know. Why! didn't you notice it?"

"Blind," I shouted. "Your daughter blind! And she wanders round by herself this way!"

"Oh, she's all right, sir. Don't you worry," came the answer. "But I wish she hadn't gone."

Just then there was a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder; and with a sudden rush down came the rain. And it fell with an onslaught. In a moment the wind arose, sending it hither and thither in tremendous gusts. I started up.

"Come on!" I shouted. "We'll have to find the girl! She'll be lost!-Never mind about the rain, come on!" "Wait a minute, sir," called the father. "Just a minute." His voice came quicker. "I'll get a lantern, and then I'm with you!"

And together we rushed out in the storm and rain. It seemed to be growing wilder and wilder every moment.

"It can't be going to last much longer." I thought, as we plunged on through the soaking woods. "It's only a shower. But the girl"

At that instant there came a blinding flash, and together with it a crash of thunder, deafening in its power.

"Somethin's been struck right 'round here," shouted the father. He turned his dripping face,-by the light of the lantern it looked deathly pale. “Come on, over this way!"

And he dashed off through the bushes, I struggling to keep pace. For some minutes we kept on. I hardly noticed that the wind was falling now and the rain ceasing almost as quickly as it had begun. Then suddenly the old man stopped. His face was paler than ever, but his jaw was set hard. "Wait, I'll give a call! Listen for an answer!"

But there was no answer. Silence everywhere, except for the rain-drops dripping from the branches above us. We pushed on, a kind of vague fear in our breasts.

"I'll call again from here." He spoke hoarsely. And he drew in a breath,-a long breath.

"Wait!" I cried.

Listen!"

"Stop-don't you hear something?

And faint in the night air there rose a voice,—a girl's voice,—she was singing.

"An' for bonnie Annie Laurie

I'll lay me doun-"

"Come on!" shouted the old man, his eyes on fire with

eagerness. "That's her!"

off in the direction of the

"That's her!"

"That's her!" And he plunged

voice, through bush and brier.

And guided by the song, we came nearer and nearer.

And then at last we saw her.

There in the middle of the woods lay a great oak, felled by lightning. Its whole side was bare, stripped of its bark. And there, close by it, sat Molly,-poor blind Molly!

"Daughter!" It was one yearning cry of joy from the

heart.

The song ceased.

"Oh, Dad! At last! I'm so glad you're here, so glad! The old man took her in his arms, speechless. She broke into a flood of tears, her face hidden on his shoulder.

"I lost my way in the storm, Dad," she explained, and the dreamy voice trembled with sobs. "But wasn't it lucky,—a big tree,―fell right close to me,-and never hurt me a bit! I was a little scared,—so I sang to myself. Did you hear me?"

The old man kissed her forehead. Still he couldn't speak. "And oh, Dad!" she exclaimed, "I never found my poor hat and flowers after all!”

J. H. Auchincloss.

THE GUN-CASTING.

In the furnace-glare the anvils rang
With an ever reëchoing rattle and clang,
Where the hot metal gleaming

With bright flashes streaming,

As on it the ceaseless hammers sang,
Made sound everlasting.

Prepared for the casting

The molten steel, like Vesuvian flood

In the dusky caldron seethed and glowed.

They swung it over the gaping mold,
Massively yawning dark and cold,
And the liquid lightning,

Their tense faces brightening,

Slid over the edge, and crackling rolled
Downward. Now the iron lips

And flaming throat of the caldron drips
A fiery slaver. All around

Sputter the sparks.-With booming sound
The metal bubbles beneath the ground.

Horace W. Stokes.