«1 am Tin danger,’ she invented
breathlessly; “in great danger—I can-
‘not explain now—here in Yorktown.
1 have not a friend within the walls,
no spot where I can be safe. I ask
you to take me away.”
«Let us go, then, toward the bas-
tions,” he said, turning.
“No, no!” She caught at his arm.
«I cannot go into the American camp.
Bethink you, ’tis night. I must get to
Gladden Hall. See—here is the river.
'Tis but a few miles. Could you row
me so far, think you, against the cur-
rent?”
He did not reply, but led the way to
a path which zigzagged down the bluft
to the river. It was the spot where
they had first met. Then the long
stretch had bristled with shipping;
now the wharfs had been pulled up
to build rat rotted lean-tos, the bank
was hollowed with dugout shelters
from the shells, wherein wounded sol-
diers played at cards by new lit can-
dles, and the water’s edge was a jum-
ble of ownerless barges and periaugers
and a tohubohu of shouts and wran-
glings. Along the line of craft, where
the tide scum shuddered in with spran-
gles of seaweed and chunks of wreck-
age, sentries patrolled ceaselessly with
keen outlook for river deserters.
Armand chose a narrow skiff, found
two oars for it and placed her in the
stern as a lieutenant examined their
pass. Then, with a strong shove, he
sent the boat darting out on to the
broad, smooth, unrippling current.
It had scarce drawn well away when
a figure blundered down the bank.
“Call that boat in,” he cried, “or
have the sentries fire on it! That
man’s name is Armand. He is an es-
caping prisoner.” :
“Qh, no, Captain Jarrat,” returned
the lieutenant composedly. ‘You have
the name all right, but he had a pass
signed by Lieutenant Colonel Dundas.
1 know the signature well enough.
This siege routine is playing the devil
with your nerves, captain.”
“A pass!’ shouted Jarrat frantically.
“By the ghost!” and went up the bank
on a run.
Colonel Dundas was gone from the
barrack, and Jarrat could no more get
speech with Cornwallis than could
Anne a half hour before. But the con-
ference at headquarters ended while
Jarrat waited, and the earl came out
in no pretty humor. As luck would
have it, Colonel Dundas was with him.
There followed an interesting scene,
which left Lord Cornwallis in nastier
mood than ever.
“She fooled Tarleton once,” he swore.
“Now ’tis you, Dundas. From under
your very nose, too!”
And Dundas, perspiring, wholly as-
~
“TI am. ordered to set you at liberty.”
tonished, hastened to order a longboat
in pursuit of the skiff on the bare
chance of overhauling the fugitives be-
fore they reached the American front.
Jarrat, however, made a different cal-
culation.
His cobra hate, inflamed by the sight
of Anne in the boat, leaped to a rapid
conclusion. She had discovered that
Armand had been exposed; they had
taken the river way—the only way to
avoid the Americans. So he argued.
And whither did they fly? Where else
than to Gladden Hall, now deserted,
where she thought to conceal him till
the hue and cry passed—where she
may have hidden horses. The long-
boat would probably be halted by the
shore pickets—the skiff might slip
through.
Two hours after this ratiocination
Jarrat was caught and held on the
right skirt of the besieging army as a
deserter from the town, and forthwith
he demanded to be taken to General
Hazen’s headquarters.
There the general, seated in his tent,
had just penned the last page of a let-
ter:
On the 14th, they had another Drobing.
To-day, 17th, I'd Cornwallis sent a flag
requesting a cess'n of arms & 2 Com-
miss'n’'rs to form a Capitulation for the
Army & the surrender of the shiping &
posts of York & Gloster. Thus has the
Earl been bro’t to anchor in the height of
his career. My next shall be more par-
ticular, in the meantime be assur'd of the
i
A
= Hearts ~ i &
Hi
= Courageous
3 Copyright, 1902, by THE SONA NERMI COMPANY
Sincerity of y'r real friend and Oob’'d’t
Humble Serv’t.
He was shaking the sand box over
the still wet signature when the captive
was brought in. .
“Three days ago,’ Jarrat began, “I
had the henor to send to you a letter
from the town in regard to a certain
Continental officer.”
The general sent the others out of
hearing and bent his gray-black brows.
“I have today heard of his condemna-
tion,” he said. “He is dead then. He
has atoned. So far as I am concerned,
his past shall be buried with him.”
«But if,” Jarrat continued—“if 1
should tell you that he is not dead;
that the report of his condemnation was
a trick; that he was not captured in the
first place, but used the night attack to
penetrate within Yorktown without ex-
citing suspicion and so carry to Corn-
wallis full plans of the American
works”’—
“Your proof of this?’ asked Hazen,
his teeth set like a vise.
“The proof is that this very night he
has been smuggled out beyond the Con-
tinental lines and lies at this moment
in hiding in a house a half dozen miles
from here waiting escape.”
“Where is the house?’ thundered the
other. :
Jarrat’s lean lips smiled. “Pardon me
if I make terms.* In return for my
freedom I will guide a detachment to
his burrow.”
«An this be true,” said Hazen. He
hesitated, but only for a moment. Then
he called a sharp direction to his or-
derly.
«I must see General Lafayette,” he
said to Jarrat. “The cavalry legion is
no part of my brigade. Colonel Ar-
mand was under division orders only.”
But the marquis was making a tour
of the works with the commander in
chief and could not be found.
“It must not wait,’ fumed Jarrat.
“He will be off.” :
General Hazen sat down and wrote a
hurried order. “An he is not there,
why, ‘twill be merely a ride for
naught,” he mused. “An he is, there
will be small question.
“Major Woodson,” he said as a staff
officer appeared, “take a relay of a
dozen men immediately and go to the
house this prisoner will show you.
Should you find there Colonel Armand
of the cavalry iegion, arrest him.”
“An he resists”’— said Jarrat.
“The usual orders,” the general an-
swered. “Go!”
A moon, lifted like a paper sickle,
silvered all the misty distance.
A mile away across the broad expanse
Anne saw the twinkling lights of
Gloucester and to her left the camp-
fires under the river bank slipping slow-
ly back. But the current was steady
and their progress necessarily slow.
Ahead loomed the massive star shaped
Fusileer’s redoubt, with the British
frigate Guadaloupe moored some way
outside, and, passing, she clinched her
hands till the nails struck purple cres-
cents in her palms in a dumb terror of
pursuit or alarm.
They were scarce come opposite this
when a shot, a shout and a sound of
oars tumbled upon thwarts came clear-
ly over the water behind them.
“They have found it out!” she cried.
“Row hard! Oh, would that I could
help you!”
“Found out what?”
“I must tell you the truth. I have
procured your escape by a trick. Twas
not a true release which I brought to
the barrack. ’'Twas false. They are
like to discover it at any moment and
pursue us.”
He stopped rowing. “You did that—
for me? You spoke falsely when you
said you were in terrible danger?”
“Row,” she pleaded, leaning forward
from the stern. “Stop not an instant.
I have fooled Cornwallis. Think you
he will forget that? Or, if they take
us, that I shall go scot free? Would
you see me in a cell?”
The boat shot forward with a jerk
that made her catch her breath.
“Where are you heading?’ she asked
presently, for he had turned inshore.
“The French battery is just ahead.
"Tis the extreme left of the circling
Continental front. Beyond that is safe-
ty, mademoiselle.” }
“I will not land there. You must
pass the American lines. You must
take me home to Gladden Hall.”
“But’—
“Row, row.”
“I beg you to allow us to land,” he
urged. “The regiment of the Gatinais
lies behind that bluff. They will not
dare to pursue into the French
trenches.”
“An you are afraid”—
Oh, what it cost her heart to say
that!
Armand bent to the oars and in-
creased his speed. Neither spoke, She
was suffering a like apprehension now
of arousing the American pickets on
the shore. At any other time, doubt-
less, there would have been challenges,
but on this night, the first of many
weeks, the Continentals rested and
made merry, waiting the signing of the
articles of surrender. The skiff passed
the danger point, and for awhile there
was no sound save the slap of tiny
waves like children’s hands against
CHAPTER XX.
S the skiff slipped out from the
confusion of the town edge the
the stem and the muffled din of the
pursuit, which drew on with dogged
persistency.
“They will not fire,” she said at
length in a low voice, “for fear of
arousing the Americans. They have a
ship's boat full, but they row crooked
| and uneven. Yet they come on fast—
fast. Tell me, could we get back to the
Continental works?”
«> ig impossible now. They are be-
tween us and them. Gladden Hall is
the nearest refuge.”
“Are you certain?”
“yes, mademoiselle.”
«Listen,” she confessed then. “I have
deceived you. I made you take me past
the Continental line because—because
you yourself cannot go there. You
must not go there. ’'Tis not only the
British who would seize you now. Ah,
do you not understand? You have been
denounced. ’'Tis known that you are
the same who. they think, would have
misled the congress.”
“Informed against?”
“Again?”
«Qh, what a ghastly thing for you
to say to me! Twas Jarrat—Jarrat.
Row ashore and fly.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere, anywhere,” she cried
wildly, “only so it be to safety! Haste!
They gain on us!”
«ff we land they are certain to take
us. You cannot go afoot as fast as
they.”
«I shall not go. You shall leave me
there. Row! Row!”
“And why should you care for my
life?” :
“Ah, will you stay when my heart is
breaking? There is no time to talk
now. What is anything they may do
beside your life? I beseech you—I com-
mand you to run in. I never intended
you to take me farther.”
«you would be safe if we could
reach Gladden Hall,” he said. Then
he stood up and threw off his coat.
Her tears came at this. “There is nc
one at the hall to protect,” she wept.
“Not a slave to beat them back. Not
a weapon. Tarleton sacked it. Ab,
you do not believe me because I de-
ceived you before! But this is the
truth—I swear it is the truth!”
He made no answer, but set the
boat's bow straight up the stream and
rowed as she had never seen a man row
before. She felt the timbers shiver and
creak, heard the deep intake of his
breath and saw the splendid play of
the arm muscles beneath his shirt
sleeve. Then, entering, ever more in-
sistent, came the creak of the pursu-
ing craft.
The moonlight fell whitely on the
shore they skirted. Two miles—three
miles—past the shallows of King's
creek and Corbin’s point. Every
tongue of land, every wedge of forest,
how well she knew them! But how
slowly they fell behind! There was no
longer danger of arousing the Conti-
nental pickets, and the pursuers’ voices
came clearly, gibing at the error of
their prisoner which had carried him
past the line of safety and made his
taking certain. Once Anne heard the
officer who led give sharp command to
put down a gun.
A scant 200 yards was all there was
between the two boats when Armand
sprang upon the wharf of Gladden
Hall. “Leave me,” she begged faintly,
«gnd save yourself! You have yet
time.”
“Give me your hand!” he command-
ed peremptorily. He took it and led
her, running, up the sloping lawn.
Its unkempt forlornness was softened
by the kindly moonlight, and not until
they reached the front of the house
did its gray desolateness become all at
once apparent. The panes in the win-
dows were broken, the white pillars
battered. the front door swinging. the
yard unsightly with rubbish.
«mis deserted!” Despair was in his
tone.
“I told you that.”
“Are there no horses?”
«The barns are burned. Leave me.
leave me and go!”
He hurried her to the front door, and
they entered, hearing as they did sc
the larger boat bump the planking.
Without a word he shot home the bolts
in the great door and drew her into the
dining room, now overscattered with
broken crockery. He locked both doors
of this room, smashed the sashes of the
porch windows with a chair, brought
together the heavy outer blinds and
slid the bars. As he fastened the sec
ond the pursuers came tumbling te the
porch. Anne, meantime, taking a clew
from him, had managed to fasten one
of the windows in the opposite side.
He sprang to secure the other Lefore
the soldiers reached the back of the
house.
This shut out the last of the moon-
he said.
light, and the room became a black
darkness. Outside was a deadened
clamor, curses and shouts to fetch ship's
lanterns and search the empty quarters
for an ax. Anne could hear Armand’s
convulsive breathing.
She had groped her way to the side-
board and opened its candle drawer. A
tiny half inch end rewarded her. Flint
and steel still hung in their accustomed
place. She struck them and lighted the
wick with trembling hands.
As she did so a heavy body came
hurtling against the .other side of the
inner door. “Better give up, you wea-
gel,” panted a voice. .
Armand answered loudly, “If I do
will you promise to let the lady go?”
“No, 10!” Anne besought in an agony.
“You shall not give yourself up to
them! They would not hold to such a
promise.”
With her cry, however, whirled a
geramble of curses. “We'll lay you by
the heels and take the girl back, too,
curse you!” And a rain of blows de-
scended on the door, while a crash
against one of the blinds shook the
wall.
Leaping back, Armand dragged out
the heavy mahogany sideboard, now
slashed and dented, and set it against
one door. The other he re-enforced
with the overturned table and bound
this to its place with the twisted win- |
dow curtains. Last, he wrenched an
iron from the fireplace and stood wait-
ing. At the same moment the candle
end collapsed, the wick dropped, flick-
ered and went out, and darkness fell
around them again.
A lull had come in the attack. Evi-:
dently a consultation was being held. :
The blackness seemed to lie upon
Anne's soul like a heavy weight, and’
Armand’s silence became unbearable.
“What shall we do?” she asked dully. |
“We cannot hold out for long.”
But there was no reply. |
“I—I am so frightened,” she said i
pitecusly. *’Tis dark! Come to me,
Louis!” |
She iistened, but he made no stir.
“You will not come to me, will not
pity or comfort me?’ she entreated
through the void. “Yet tonight I tried
to save your life.”
“For what end? You who took from
it all that makes life sweet! I trusted
you!” She shrank at tle ring of scorn
in his voice. “I trusted youl”
“And I you,” she answered. “I loved
and hoped and trusted too. After they
took you from here that evening, every
night when I went to bed I said a
prayer and kissed my poor hand to you
in the dark. And I have done so every
night since then—every night, Louis.”
Something like a sob sounded in the
room, and she stretched out her arms
toward it.
“J tried to keep my promise. You re-
member when they lashed the bond-
woman? She woke with a crazed brain,
and the packet—your packet—was gone.
All those months I searched and found
it at last by chance. I did not get to
Philadelphia with it till—that morn-
ing.” d
# There was no further answer, and
she slipped on her knees, feeling a
yearning that was like a poignant sick-
ness.
“7ou must hear,” she went on plead-
ingly, clasping her fingers, “and be-
lieve me or my heart will break. Fate
put me in the recess of the window at
the Red Lion tavern, Louis. I saw Jar-
rat give you the forged message—saw
you fight and run him through. I
knew you were true—true to your mas-
ter’s honor and your own.”
“You accused me!” The words stung
her. “Accused me to the Continentals!”
“Listen! Listen to me!’ she prayed
desperately. “I must tell you it all
now--now at the end. Jarrat showed
me the paper—the contract that bound
you to give your life—your life! And I
knew you would do it. Oh, what that
meant! I would have given my own
life a hundred times to prevent it. Can
you think what it cost me to stand in
that room and say that—that of you?
Your face was dreadful! I thought I
should die when you looked at me!”
“So you killed my honor!”
“No, no! Not that—I did not mean
that, Louis! I had such little time to
“Give me your hand!’
think—such small time to reason. I
had only time to feel—to feel as a wo-
man will, and to act. I had to defeat
the contract to keep you from going
back to the prison—to death. I thought
I could clear you at the last, I who
knew you were true, because I had the
packet—the true message. Only I prom-
ised my soul that I should not speak
within the month.”
Her voice broke a little here, then
went on in a sudden pathos of pleading:
“What know we women of soldier's
duty or soldier's honor—we who are
cherished and toasted all our lives?
We know only to love, to follow—and—
and—to save what we love in spite of
all the world!”
There was a movement now, a step.
“Then I took the packet, Louis, into
the congress to Dr. Franklin that very
hour, and I could not tell you what I
had done—and you escaped them. I
thought you had gone to your death.
And you didn’t know! You never knew.
Oh,” she sobbed, “if you would only
forgive me, only touch me, only lay
your hand on my head”—
She heard a stumble, a smothered
cry. The iron bar clanged against the
floor. An arm, groping, trembling,
touched her wet cheek.
“My God! And I doubted you!” Ar-
mand’s voice thrilled her in a great
burst of grief-wound joy. “You gave
the message? My darling, my darling!”
She felt herself caught up in his arms
in the dark, shuddering, crying, pant-
ing incoherent phrases, kissing his face,
his rough coat, his epaulets, strangling
with fierce terror and ecstasy of love
and feeling his passion strain and fold
her. It seemed to her that all of life
and death was concentrated in that one
embrace—that nothing existed in .the
world but the delirium of that single |
sweet bitter moment.
A medley of shouts and ax blows on
both of the doors at one time sent her '
into quick spasms of dread. A panel
splintered, a shaft of light and an arm
thpust in. Armand released her, struck
once with the iron bar, and the man
fell back, cursing, with a broken arm.
“Shoot!” one shouted. “Are we to be
bayed by this rat!”
“Don’t fire,” came the response.
order was imperative.
The blows began again. Another pan-
el crashed, and the holes let in more
light. It fell upon Anne’s pallid lips
The
and showed her Armand’s white sleeves-
and pale face, set, but calm. A blow
struck the lock of the other door. It
yielded, and the oak swung in against
the stout sideboard.
Anne felt her limbs grow cold.
“Lost, lost!” she murmured and lean-
ed dumbly against the wainscoting.
Suddenly a fusillade of musketry
woke the echoes out of doors, and a| |
crisp shout garnished it. “File out of
that hall and lay down arms!’
There arose a saturnalia of revile-
ment from the hall. Then, as it died,
the voice asked, “What mean these ac-
tive hostilities in a period of armis-
tice?”
«ris a sortie for an escaped prison-
er,” came the jarring mirth of Jarrat.
“Well, major, I think you will have
need yourself for all the prisoners to
be found nere.”
Anne had gone from one terror to an-
other and bitterer one. “The Conti-
nentals!” she moaned.
The crisp voice approached the splin-
tered door. “Colonel Armand,” it said,
“1 arrest you in the name of the Unit-
ed States of America. Do you surren-
der?”
«By whose orders?’
“The general's commanding the Sec-
ond brigade.”
«I am a colonel of independent cav-
alry,” answered Armand clearly. “I
acknowledge orders only from the divi-
sion commander.”
Jarrat laughed.
Sharp directions followed. The axes
cut wider fissures in the panels, and
through these muskets obtruded and
took aim. “My orders are to take you
alive, to shoot if you resist. I give you
five minutes to open that door.”
Anne ran to Armand and threw her-
self into his arms. “Ah, you must not!
For God's sake, give yourself up! I
will tell it all to General Washington.
He will hear and believe me. I will”’—
“Think you it would be credited?”
he asked gently. “And if not’’—
She clung to him, weeping. “But
you have fought so. There is that!
Oh, twill give me your life—your life!
That is all I want! I care not for
shame or report, so I know it is not
true! Ah, pity me! And ’tis my fault!
Oh, this must be a hideous dream come
to punish me!”
«1 used to dream,” he said, ‘‘of you
and me as wed—in honor.”
“Qh, I would wed you in dishonor, in
disgrace, in death! See,” she said hur-
riedly, “here is my mother’s wedding
ring. I have always worn it about my
neck. I love you! TI love you!” She
laid it in his hand. ;
“Put it upon my finger,” she whis-
pered. “Say it after me, ‘I, Anne, take
thee, Louis, to my wedded husband.’ ”
A strange fire had come into his face.
«¢, Louis,” he repeated solemnly,
«stake thee, Anne, to my wedded
wife.”
« To have and to hold from this day
forward, for better, for worse, for rich-
er, for poorer, in sickness and in
health’ ”’—
«To have and to hold from this day
forward, for better, for worse, for rich-
er, for poorer, in sickness and in
health’ ”—
She was sobbing now so that she
could scarcely frame the words:
“To love and to cherish—till death
us do’—join, Louis! It cannot, it shall
not, part us!”
“My own love!” he said in choked
tones, and held her quivering against
his breast.
“The time is up,” said the voice.
Anne clasped Armand with her young
arms—tightly, desperately, as if her
warm, yielding body, her face fragrant
with white fragrance, could keep back
the death that looked from those muz-
zles. .
His hands disengaged her own to pin
to his coat a yellow bauble he had tak-
en from his pocket, and then, as she
clung, her strained senses became con-
scious of a wheeling plunge of horse-
men at the porch, hurried steps, a voice
shaking with a strange vibration, ask-
ing questions in broken English.
At the sound Armand threw back his
head and stood like a stone image.
There was a pause. Then—
“Louis Armand,” said the sibilant,
halting tongue, “I command you to
open thees door! You will not, eh? You
know who I am?”
The sideboard fell with a crash, the
splintered door tumbled upon it, and
Armand stood to attention in the blaze
of lantern light. At a glance Anne
knew the officer who stood in the door-
way, surrounded by a glittering staff.
He was the major general commanding
the division.
“You surrendair, then? Good! An’
where, Major Woodson, is the infor-
mair who has done such brilliant sairv-
ice to denounce—eh? Come stan’ be-
side me, M’sieu Jarrat, an’ let us over:
whelm thees villain!”
He advanced a step into the room,
his bright eyes on the pair.
“Ha! An’ you theenk I have never
recognize you, Charles, all thees time—
me who was your old brother in the
College du Plessis? Me — Lafayette?
Take off that wig! Take it off, I tell
you!”
Mechanically, Armand put his hand
to his head. He drew off the black
peruke, and, all at once unconfined, hig
brown, curling hair fell to his shoul-
ders, the ends just touching the yellow
Cross of St. Louis which sparkled like
a topaz on his breast. The act trans-
formed him. The set mouth was gone,
the face all softened to youthfulness.
“Iouis Armand, the impostor, seized
at Williamsburg!” shouted Jarrat. “Ar-
mand, who escaped the clutches of the
congress! Armand, the traitor, gen-
wuemen. ‘rear off his crossi’
One of the circle about Lafayette
turned facing him with an oath, but
the general was before him.
“No!” te cried. “No! Not Louis
Armand the traitor, but Charles Louis
Armand, colonel of Armand’s legion
and Marquis de la Trouerie!”
There was an instant of silence that
turned a babel behind the speaker.
«A le!” shouted Jarrat. “A lie! The
Marquis de la Trouerie is dead!” Anne
had risen, trembling, speechless, her
eyes fixed and glittering.
“Aye,” said Armand sternly, stretch-
ing his arm toward him. “He has
He advanced a step.
been dead these five years. But he did
not die when you supposed. That was
but a play necessary to deceive a dog
one would not wish barking at his
heels. He called himself a secretary,
and you—you jackal—you thought to
buy him, a Frenchman, to betray his
master, his king and these colonies!”
Lafayette laughed like a child. “He
bribe him to be—what you theenk,
gentlemen?—to be himself! A rare
pleasantree, eh? And the congress,
they theenk he trick them in seventee-
six. They would arres’ him yet, when
he is denounce’—even my General Ha-
zen!”
Jarrat had fallen back, his face black,
his fingers convulsively working, his
teeth gritting one on another like peb-
bles in the hand.
Armand’s eyes were upon Anne,
though he seemed to address all pres
ent:
“The marquis had a mission, and he
found it to his purpose to—to become
himself. He found many thorns in his
way. But he found one rose—one rose
so pure and fragrant that he wished
to gather it. He found a lady—a lady
of Virginia, who loved him and be
lieved in him. The marquis was liv-
ing then. He found himself in peril,
and he trusted her. And at last—he
thought she had betrayed him.”
“Ah, my friend,” cried Lafayette
wistfully, “these long months seeing
you, and I have never told you I knew
you—never asked wherefore you hid
yourself from all. Was I not a friend,
Charles?”
“Then,” Armand continued, “God for:
give his unbelief! Then was when he
died!”
A great lovely light had come tc
Anne's face and smiled from her color
less lips—a light more lovely than the
aurora over Snows.
“Is it true?’ she faltered, looking at
him in a sort of unbelieving wonder.
“Is it true? And will he live again?’ .
For answer he knelt down at her feel
and put his lips to her hand. She fell
tears upon it.
When they looked up they were alone
in the room. From the yard came the
rattle of bridle chains and the bustle
of mounting. Lafayette met them on
the threshold.
“I have search’ all the place for a—
what you call it?—sidesaddle,” he
laughed, “an’ there ees one at las’.
Colonel, ma’amselle, you shall ride tc
town wit’ me. We shall all be jus’ like
big children tonight! Ah, I have for-
get—you did not know that only two,
tree hour ago, Cornwallis has surren-
dair to the Americans!”
THE END,
Out of the Mouths of Babes.
Little four-year-old Helen was dining
with her mother at a neighnor’s, and the
hostess, in an attempt to he entertaining,
asked her if she liked kittens.
Helen looked suspiciously at the chicken
potpie on her plate, then replied: *I
dess not; I dess I'd ruvver have some
cake.”
Little Elsie’s big sister was explaining to
ber the wonderful powers of the sun, say-
ing : “It shines everywhere on the earth.”
Elsie, after thinking for a moment, asked :
“Then why doesn’t it shine in grandpa’s
bed-room 2?’
“Harry,” said the visitor, ‘‘do you know
your letters yet 2’ .
“No. ma'am.” replied the little fellow.
“I'm not the mail cariier.”’
‘‘Now, hoys,” raid the teacher, ‘how
many months have twenty-eight days ?"’
“All of ’em,’”’ promptly replied the
youngster at the foot of the class.
Little Dot—“My dollie’s mamma must
have heen an awful wicked lady.”
Mamma—'‘Why do you think so.dear ?”
Little Dot—‘‘She nr -er taught her to
say her prayers, ‘cause her kuees won't
hend ”’
A little five-year-old miss was standing
on the hotel steps gazing anxiously up the
street.
“Are you looking for a husband. little
girl 27 asked one of the guests.
“Yes, sir,’ was the prompt reply; ‘‘for
mamma’s husband.”