Bellefonte, Pa., September 25, 1908. SE ————————————— THE SONG OF FAITH. Day wil! retura with a fresher boon; God will remember the world! Night will come with a newer moon: God will remember the world! Evil is only the slave of good, Sorrow the servant of joy, And the soul is mad that refuses food Of the meanest in God's employ. The fountain of joy is fed by tears, And love is lit by the breath of sighs; “The deepest griefs and wildest tears Have holiest ministries. Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm, Safely the flower sleeps under the snow, And the farmer's hearth is never warm Till the cold wind starts to blow. Day will return with the fresher boop; God will remember the world! Night will come with a newer moon; God will remember the world! — (J. G. Holland. SURRENDER OF WALLIS, THE CORN. Cornwallis, Jr., was six years old. His full name of Cornwallis General—a coun- junction of names which any reader will admit to be most trying. Is was so trying, in fact, that when the mother of Cornwallis | pet bad—at a period antedating my story by aboas eight years—first met the man pam- ed General, she had remarked so her bosom friend that there was ove wan whom she never in any circumstances should even dream of marrying, because of their two names. But she bad obaoged her mind and mar- ried the man a year after—a way that young ladies have of doing—and young Cornwallis General had appeared later and taken the burden of the inevisable as the baptismal font. Young Cornwallis didn’s mind being the bearer of his reversed title, though; his trials in regard to nomencla- ture were of guite another sort ; it was not that his name savored of too much and too unigue a digoity that he rebelled—it was because he was almost altogether denied the use of it, such as it was, Young Cornwallis was a person of great distinotion; at two he had become an indi- vidual with one paramount object in life— not to be treated longer as a baby. It is difficult at two years of age to overawe one’s saperiors, and Cornwallis had a hard time, even though be made it an iovariable rule to refer to himself only as either ‘‘he’’ or “‘Tanwattis.”” ‘“‘Tuowattis’’ merped into “Tornwally’’ a year later, and when “Do you helieve that ?”’ Cornwallis asked, turning to bis grandmother. “Of course I do, Master Soips,’’ said his grandmother. Cornwallis winced slightly and wens to his mother. “Do you believe it?”’ he asked her. “Of course—of course—"’ she cried, langh- ing. And shen he found to his Jrugish that he had gone too near, for she him pulled tight up against ber chair and was kissing him ferociously, aod saying, ‘‘Bat no matter how many other babies come, darling, you'll always be my baby, my first, my dearest, my —"' a Foi he Ao 4 ed to free himself, and with a red face and much-tumbled hair, resumed his examination of the bask- et “When will it be done?’ he asked Mrs. Tray. ““Tonight,’’ replied Mrs. Tray, sewing | very lass. “We will set it tonight, then,” promul- gated Cornwallis and Grandmamma ran to | Mamma’s desk and made a note on an en- velope so shas she would not forget to re- peat tbat clever speech to Grandpapa, either. And so that night that baby-catcher was carefully baited with a little pillow and a love of a quilt, and set by the fireplace to spap up any errant baby. Cornwallis’s nights, buat when be woke he was wild to see if he bad caught a baby. He tore off to his mother’s room at once, and found things most painfully as usual. His mother was in bed, his father was shaving in his dressing-room, the basket was as pink and as empty as on the night ore. “Well, Tom Thumb,’ said his father, pleasantly. “Tam into bed wiz me,’’ said his moth- er. *‘No, thank you," said Cornwallis, with great stress upon the lofty politeness of bis diction. ‘*Nellie must be waiting to bathe me." And he left his parents and their drivel in disgust. After breakfast his father wanted to take him down to the office with him. “You can ride back with Peter,”” he said. “No, thank you,” said Cornwallis, *‘I think thas I will play in my mother’s room and wateh the basket.”’ *‘Ob, you’d better come on with me, Captain Jinks,” urged his father. Captain Jinks !) “I don’t wants the baby alone with Peter; suppose the horse runs away,’’ said his mother. (The baby !) “But I don’s want the little one to both- er you," said bis father. (The little one !) ‘‘He isn’t going to bother anyone,’’ said Mrs. Tray. “I'll look out for Buster Brown."' he was four be prooounced every syllable with an emphasis that should have shamed | ( Buster Brown!) No his father wens away, leaving Corn- his father, who said “Major Tros,” his | Wallis with tears of real rage in his eyes at nurse, who called him “Toddy Butterball,”’ | his grandmother, who oried out ‘‘Oh, my itty Blessin’, '’ whenever she saw him, and his grandfather, who would stop anywhere on the avenue and inquire, with a oheer- ful smile that added insult to injury, “Well, how's Skiddy-winks today ?"’ Bas although all these were bad —very bad—it was his mother, bis dear, sweet mother, who was the very moat awfully oroel per- son of them all, for in all the interminably long existence that they bad shared togeth- er, she bad never yet mentioned him by any other name than the one which he de- tested worst of all—*‘Baby.” Oh, how he did hate to be called ‘‘Baby”’ ~=his small teeth and hands used to clinch, in spite of himself, whenever he heard it. He bad hoped that when his curls went she would stop—bus she didn’t. Then he hoped that when be graduated into knicker- bookers she would stop—but she didn’t. And then he shought that when Santa Claus brought another baby she would surely stop—but—bat that is the story. I must digress here to explain that Grandpapa and Grandmamma Cornwallis lived away oat on the avenue in a huge, white marble hoanse, and had three motors, a garden, chickens in the latticed yard, and ever so many waids sod men, and that Papa and Mamma General lived much nearer town and just bad Norah and Nellie and Mrs. Tray (who came and went spas- modically) and Lotty, who onoked, and the runabout, and Star to drive. There was a telephone between the two houses, and a system of inter-domwestio dining and lnoching far too intricate for me to eluoi- date, avd Grandpapa always came ab six o'clock and took Mamma out in the motor, and Cornwallis went regularly on his veloei- pede to see Grandmwamma every day at ten in the morning, and again after his nap at balf-past three in the afternoon. It was during one of the latter calls that his grand- mother asked him his ideas as to Santa Claus's brirgiog a baby. Caronwallis’s lace fairly radiated at the suggestion—not be- cause he wanted a baby, but hecanse he thougks that the haby would surely absorb all the nicknames. “You would love a bahy dearly, wouldn’s you, you Sagar plum, you ?’’ said Grand- mamma. Cornwallis’s radiance turned dark. ‘‘No one would call me ‘Baby’ then,” he said, coldly, not quite liking to be so pointed as to mention the offensive “‘Sagar-plam?’’ to a grandmother whose cook made cakes full of them. Grandmother lnoghed a great deal over this and went at once and wrote it down on her pad, #0 as to be sure to remember wo tel) Grandpapa bow clever their only grand- son was becoming. Then she ordered out the biggest antomobile—the dark blue one —and took Cornwallis and Nellie and the velocipede home in state, When they all three went up to Mamma’s room they found Mamma rocking id ly avd Mrs. Tray trimming a oiothes- hasket. Grandmamma whispered Cornwallis’s bril- liant remark in Mamma’s ear, while that Jouok man walkel aronnd Mrs. Tray and task. It was gunite a novelty to him, for he had never seen such a clothes-hasket before. It was not only that they bad guilted the inside with pink silk, bat Mrs. ray was sewing a great flonnoe of the same silk around the outside, and draping white lace and big knots of nbbon over that. “Well, Babykin,” said Mamma, smil- ing, aud holding out her band to the small hoy whose face was so full of curiosity, ““what do you think of it $"* Cornwallis ignored the hand, knowing that it would drag him to a loug and smothering kissing siege. “I suppose thas it is for your dresses,” be said “Not 80,” said Mrs. Tray, threading her needle with wonderful ease, ‘‘this is a baby-catoher.”’ “A baby-catoher !" ted Cornwallis. ." y s0,”” said Mrs. Tray. “All you have to do ie to set this basket by the chimney every night when you go to bed, 3d shun lee morning you'll find a baby n the way they all made a fool of him. Twenty minates later Nellie came in and took him off to see Grandmamma. They hadn’s gotten a block away from home be- fore they met Grandmamma going down- town in the motor with Grasipaps, and they were taken prisoner, velocipede and all, and carried right along. Grandmamma insisted on Cornwallis’s sitting in between them for safety’s sake, and kept her arm around him at that, and Grandpapa said : “Well, Snoddy-boggins, how goes it?" Cornwallis stood it as beet he could, bus the arm around him was most humiliating. ‘Now, Skeeziks,” said Grandpapa, pres- ently, “bave you jorfonin what I told you about this car yesterday ?'’ **No, sir,’ said Cornwallis. *‘What is the name ?*’ “It's a—"' Cornwallis hesitated, *‘—it’s phantly. ‘Oh, give me a pencil, quick—I must write that right down,’”’ squealed Graud- mamma, and as no one else had a pevcil, they had to stop while the chauffear lent her his. ‘‘You know, he really is too bright,” she whispered audibly to Grandpa and Grandpapa gave him a dollar aud called him “Tiddledy-winke” ia commendation. They took a long drive in the country later and bad lunch at the Race Club, and then when they went home Cornwallis was #0 dead with sleep that he did not resist when his grandmother called him ‘‘Piggy- wigey’’ and Nellie carried him up stairs, But he did not forget to set the basket out again when be went to hed thas night, and the next morning his disappointment was agaiu keen when he found tbat no baby bad heen trapped. “Santa Claus doesn’t come in the sum- mer, anyhow,” he said, wrathfully, to Nellie. : “Quite right, Tommy Tucker,” said Mrs. Tray. Cornwallis could have slapped her. The next afternoon the baby came—when the hasket waan’s set out as all ! Cornwallis was ap at Grandmamma's, adjusting a marvelons new railway system all over the billiard-room rug, when Grand- papa marched in, looking uncommonly beaming, even for him, aod said : ‘Hooray. Snooks, there's another girl in the family !"’ If there was one epithet more especially and superlatively detestable to Cornwallis’s eats than anv other, it was ‘‘Soooks ;'’ hut he swallowed his wrath and 7ose, with a ! locomotive in one hand and its tender in the other, to repeat: ‘‘Auother girl, Grand papa ?"’ ‘“Yes ; you've got a little sister.’ “But I'm not a girl,”’ said Cornwallis, indignantiy. “Your mother is, though, isn’t she, young Winkum-Wankam ?”’ replied | Grandiather. ‘Come on ; you and I are invited to go and have a look as the baby.” Cornwallig’s spirits suddenly turned to joy indescribable, ‘‘The baby’’—here she was, the individnal who would get all the pames now. Oh, bliss ! Oh, ecstasy ! **What shall you call her, Grandpapa ?"’ Cornwallis asked, ravenons to see whether he was to be that instant quit of ‘‘Skiddy- winks" forever henceforth. ‘“‘For her mother, Skiddy-winks, for her mother, of coarse,” said Grandpapa, and then he snatched him up in his arms aod called him ‘‘Snooke’’ and ‘“‘Snoddy-hog- gins" all the way to the motor. They fairly flew down the svenue, and Norah was in the drawing-room window watching for them. Cornwallis wondered what could be np when Norah was watch- iog for them from the drawing-room win- dow. Papa must have heen watching, too, for be opened the door before Norah coald get to it, and the fires thing he said was: “Eyes just like Elaine’s,” whioh seem- ed silly to Cornwallis. but not so silly as the way Grandpapa sat down at once and hid his face in his handkerchief. “Well, Jobony Jump-up,’’ said Papa to Cornwallis then, ‘‘the have protiyiesd to us all today—do you know $ ’ “They told me there’s a baby come,” The night was very short, like most of a Fearless Kerosene,’ he annoanced trinm- | POC said Cornwallis, wondering what he should be called next. Grandpapa revived just then, put up bis handkerchief, and said : “I suppose the Chipmunk and I will be allowed a 1? Cornwallis looked at his grandparent with displeasure unutterable at this, but Papa was saying : ‘‘Come right up,”” and leading the way to the staircase, where they found Nellie standing, whispering : “Sh-h-h I" : They went softly vp, and at the tarning they found Grandmamma, also saying, “Sh-h-h ! and with a soratch-block all ready to perpetuate Cornwallis’s firet re. mark after seeing She baby.only she had forgotten the again, “In here,” said Grandmamma, and the all went intothe corner room. ‘‘Wait here,’’ added Grandmamma very import. antly, and sli away. oF course aged % called Elaine?" said Grandpapa, suddenly getting out his ket-handkerchief again. “Well, I should say so,” said Papa, and then he suddenly and irrelevantly exclaim- ed, *“What do you say, Paws-and-Claws ?" to Cornwallis. fall of his recent hopes, and was preparing Grandmamma suddenly entered and said, *‘Sh-b-h !"’ worse than ever. Right behind ber was Mrs. Tray with the pink olothes basket in her bands. She at it on the big divan, and Papa took took hold of hands as if they were ohil- the hasket, Mrs. Tray lifted a veil, and a quilt, and a shawl, aud another thing, and turoed back the corner of something else, and Cornwallis, looking close, saw a little round, dark head and a listle pink fist, and then—why, then Mrs. Tray began to cover gone, baby, basket, and all. “A very nice little baby I" said Granod- emphatically. To ro Cornwallis down on the di- foolish manner, *Sh-h-h !" said Grandmamma. of her 2’ Papa asked. does Puass-in-Boots think ? that should he with the soratoh-book. Bat Cornwallis #aid not a word. He was disappointed and outraged. The baby bad come when he wasn’t prepared, had reliev- ed him of none of the awful odiam and ig- vominy to which he was continually sub- jected, and appeared most unpromising as a social proposition. Escaping out of the clutches of his fond relatives, Cornwallis fled the room. That evening, a wonder far greater thau the coming of any mere baby took place in Cornwallis’s existenoe—he went to Grand- papa’s to sleep! He had never slept out- side of his papa’s honse before—except at the cottage by the sea which Papa bought some summers—and so he was all excite- ment when Nellie told him. They bad asked Nellie to come, too ; Grandmamma was going to let them bave the room next to the billiard room. It was most pleas- autly important to pack up, and bundle the velooipede into the tonneau of the Fear- less Kerosene, and Nellie liked it, too. Gravdpapa and Grandmamma went home at the same time, and Grandmamma's Nel- lie helped Cornwallie’s Nellie to unpack, and called Cornwallis “‘Lambie’’ whenever she tri over him in so doing. By nine o'clock he was all in hed, and Grandmam- ma came in and felt of his fees, and Grand- papa came in and asked him how more track and another switch would suit him in the morning, and if it was worth saying “Peter Piper’ for. It was one of Grand- papa’s favorite bargains with Cornwallis, this tradicg new toye for the recitation of ‘‘Peter Piper,” but Graodmamma interfer- ed and said it might give ber Sweetest Su- gar-plom brain-fever if be recited ‘‘Peter Piper” at that hour ; so they each kissed him Pyles, and after cautioning Nellie about draughts, matobes, extra covering, and other matters of whioh Nellie, at thir- to go and look out of the window, when | dren, too, and everyone gathered around | Cornwallis felt fairly blue over the down- | wallis up just as it he were avother baby, and Grandpapa and Grandmamma it over again, and the next minute she was | ! nor on the next day, nor all the week. | to bis grandmother, whom be foond sitting . in her room, looking oat of the window. van and began to tousle bim in a fearfully | : house,” he announced, abraptly. “Well, Major Trot, what did you think | . very little thing. “That’s it,”’ said Grandpapa ; ‘‘what Grandmamma began to feel for the pencil | . he asked iz & kind butslightly severe tone. His grandmother contorted her features | most singularly. IT'S ALL FIXED. Prom The Philadelphia Record, Sept. 13, 1908. ty-five was presumably ignorant, they went away. The next day, the next, and the next were one baloyon dream of undiluted bliss to Cornwallis. He almost forgos his trials in the avalanche of his joys. Tracks, switches, elevators, domp-cars ; his Nellie and Grandmamma’s Nellie both to help op- | erate them al! day long ; convenient launch: es of ginger-bread and milk and apples for- ever on tap. Grandmamma was away a | good deal ; Grandpapa, too ; his father and mother be never saw ; the baby he almost forgot. The realities of life were the rail- road and the fascination of sending the lit- tle trains careening aronnd the track, the opening and shutting of the wee sigoals, and the hoisting and lowering of freight before She Sle raion, en Sunday came, Papa a red sud- denly in the door of the a nod- ded to Cornwallis without saying anything —and went away again. This was such unprecedented behavior on the pars of his fatber that Cornwallis abandoned a sort of stoppage from over-loaded trafic which he was just then engaged iv disentangling, and hurried after him, But be was gone ! The next day there was a great bustle, and Grandmamma’s Nollie and his Nellie conversed mainly in whispers. Strange people came and went, new curtains were put up somewhere, furniture was moved, and then about four o'clock in the after- noon Mrs. Tray and the baby arrived to visit Grandmamma also. They bad the lovely pink and white bedrooms and bath right opposite Grandmamma’s own rooms, and Cornwallis went down to have a seo- ond look at his sister. There seemed to him a great change of sentiment in regard to the baby, no one manifesting any par- ticular enthusiasm over ber now. ‘I suppose that my mother will come to- morrow,’ he said, balf in question, to Mrs. Tray. Bat Mrs. Tray only murmured some- thing inaudible in reply. His mothe: did not come on the morrow, When Sunday came again, Cornwallis went “I'm about ready to go back to my own Grandmamma turned her head and look- ed at him as if he were a fly or any other ‘‘Yes, yes, Pettie, run away,’ she said —not ankindly, but as if he didn’s matter much—and turned to the window again. Cornwallis had never had anyone treat him like this before: he went up to his grand mother’s side and stood at her knee, and looked ap in her face. ‘What do yon mean, Grandmamma ?"’ “‘Are you going to sneeze?’ he asked | with curiosity. | Then she rose quickly, took him by the | band, led him out iuto the ball and across | into the baby’s room, and abandoned him | without one word. He would have feared | that his one and only grandmother had | goue suddenly ont of her senses, had it not | heen for Mre. Tray and the baby. Mrs. | Tray and the baby were sufficiently inter- esting at that minute to divert anyone's | mind from anything under the sun. Mrs. | Tray was sitting on a low chair before the | open grate, and in front of her was some- | thing like the stool Nellie carried down by | the water at the sea, only the part which i held Nellie up was gone. They put a kind | of bath-tub in there, and in t funny | bath-tub was the baby, her little ball of a! black head held up by Mrs. Tray’s hand | Corawallis stood and grinned foolishly at the sight. ! “Well, Hop-o'-my-Thumb,”” said Mrs. Tray, ‘‘can you think how I held you just this same way six long years back ?'* “*She looks so silly,” said Cornwallis. Mrs. Tray , and just as she Iaaghed she the whole little hit of a dripping, w sister up in her two hands, and rol her ap out of sight,— oust of sight. " ell, I declare !"’ exclaimed Cornwal- And just then. Nellie appeared in the door and told him that there were two white goats and a wagon down on the : could scream was awful. back lawn, and if he liked them—Corn- wallis forgot his sister as easily as he bad forgotten his grandmother just previously, and he and Nellie rushed a vay. The days went on and on. The baby oried a great deal. Grandpapa became very tilent. Grandmamma he rarely saw, Papa almost never. He and Nellie went , to matinees and dime museums galore, the gardener made him a garden, he had rab- bits boughs for him, white mice, too ; also a squirrel. Life was apparently one orgy of bewildering novelties. Then the baby began to be canning. If Cornwallis knelt close by Mrs. Tray and put his head closer yet, she baby’s little bands would flap against hie face and delight his very soul. One day when he was enjoying the feeble little blows, he suddenly madea remark which drove Mrs. Tray to give his sister to Nellie and rush from the room. The remark was a very simple one, bat it toid a long story—it showed that Cornwallis bad not been as completely dis- tracted by bis new life as those older and wiser bad hoped and believed. This is what be said as he huddled himself up close to his little sister's listle, aimless hands : “I should think that even if Mamma doen't care ever to see me again, she would like to see Elsinve—Elaine is so dear, and little, and funny.” He had always called the baby ‘‘Elaine” from the moment when Grandpapa had made that speech to Papa on the day of her coming, and no one had been able to make him change. Mrs. Tray had tried to tell him that the name was too big for so small a young lady, but Cornwallis was firm. “Ido not believe in nicknames,’”’ he said, looking into Mrs. Tray’'s face, with powerful and biting innuendo in his tone. And the morning after, being in his grand- mother’s room, he had thought to give her ber dose also and had said : ‘I think that Elaine will enjoy her ride on the veranda today." Whereupon his grandmother bad also *iten abruptly and left him alone forth- with. You can see that life was fast becoming a very mysterious affair at Grandpapa's and Grandmamma’s house, The weeks went on and on. was beginniog to make listle gurgles in her throat, and to have quite a good deal of strength in her bite of fingers. And she was crazy over Cornwallis ; when he came in, she quivered all over like a bird that is making the twig shake, too, as it sings, Cornwallis thought it was too wonderful, just to be allowed to be with her. *‘She does not make up for my mother,” be said one day to Nellie, “but I am very glad to have ber and for her to have me.” Nellie started to speak and then stopped. | f, It had been decided that any statements to Cornwallis regarding bis mother would be worse than futile in existing circomstane- es, The next day was another of what Corn- wallis bad vamed to bimself ‘‘the new kind of Sandays,’’ hecause they were so widely different from the happy Snodays of other-time,—those Sundays when his mamma and papa and he used to frolic to- gether and laugh out lond over how silly they were. The new Sundays were almost exactly like week-days, only still more sc. His papa came sometimes in the afternoon and looked at Elaine, and patted her hroth- er's cheek, but be hardly spoke and almost never smiled. Mrs. Tray did the talking, sod Elaine was afraid of her own father, aod cried. Elaine was almost three months old now, and all her black hair had rubbed off, and she bad fanny little yellow duck-tails tarning ap all over her funny little yellow head. She could shake a rattle, too, and when she was displeased the way that she She soreamed just that way upon this particular Sonday, soremmed right in Papa's face, screamed so fearfully that Mrs. Tray bad to carry her ous of the room. ‘You see, the doesn’t bardly know you,” Cornwallis said in apology for the little sister whom he was learning to love more valorously every day. * oried just so bard at the man who brought her bed. You see, I learned to know you when I used to live with Mamma ore she came, but she’s never had a chance to know you, and I guess she’s never going to see Mamma The baby | ' | ever.”” He sighed heavily as he terminated | his brief ,for be did sorely to know what bad really become of hb mother ; bat as all bis questions brought only the vaguest sort of answers, he had ceased repeating them. Papa aroseand began to walk up and down the room ; Cornwallis remained quiet- ly seated on the little stool by the chair that Mrs. Tray bad just quitted ; he still beld in his hands a toy with which he had been amusing the baby before his father came in. ‘See here, Captain,” his father said sud- denly, “would you like to go and see Mamma again ?”’ The woolly man fell out of Cornwallis’s bands. The woolly man fell becanse the | stall bands had become suddenly palsied— | suddenly palsied hecanse all the blood in | the child's body was pouring into his face. “Can I—ever—see her again ?”’ he stam- | mered. | “Ill take yon tomorrow,’ said his fath- | er, and left the room in the same sudden | way in which everyone seemed given to ! rushing away, these days. The next morning, just alter Elaine had | gove for ber nap, Papa came for Cornwallis, !Papa was in the runabout with Peter, | Nellie brought Cornwallis out to them, and they drove away—a long, long drive. **Doesn’t Mamma live in our house any more ?'’ the boy asked in surprise, when they were far outside of the city. ‘*No,’” said Papa, and said no more. Then they came to a most beautiful park, and well within it was a great white house, with countless: windows and bai. conies. There were a good many le all about, either sisting down or lying in long chairs, and ever so many gentlemen and ladies all in white, with white caps, walking around. Cornwallis was deeply interested. They drove to aside door, and he and Papa got down and went inside. ‘Now, Major, listen to me,” said Papa, not exactly crossly, but in such a way that Cornwallis fels he must be obeyed, what- ever came. ‘‘Your mamma is ill. She has been ill a loog time. She may not know you; she basn’t known anyone for all the long time; she doesn’t know that there is a baby—any baby except you. You mustn’s mind what she says, and you riustn’s mind it she says nothing.” pa paused, ‘‘I sha’n’t mind anything,’’ said Corn. wallis stoutly. *‘I'll be too glad to see her again. She can kiss me all she likes, you can call me Captain Jinks, and Grandpaps can say Snoddy- ns—I won't mind one bit, becanse I'll be just so glad to see her again—'' He had to stop right there, partly becanse Papa was staring so, avd part) because the biggest lump he had ever ed { bad come up in hie throat all of a sudden. Papa held out his hand. “‘Come, Cornwallis,” be said, calling the boy by hie right name for the first time in his life,and then they went through a great many sweet, quiet, white halls and so came to the most wonderfully beautiful room of which Cornwallis had ever dreamed. It was not the delicate blue and cream of its walls and ceiling, nor the soft green of ise floor, nor the pretty brass bed, nor the lovely flowers, nor the yellow canary singing in the window-—it was the mother on the hed, the thin, changed mother, the same, unchanged mother, for whom a child- ish heart bad sorrowed so. Cornwallis approached the bed on tip- toe. A lady in white had risen and stood still by the head of the bed,and Papa stood still at 18s foots. A door opened softly, and a gentleman whom Cornwallis bad never seen slipped in bebind a screen, and the gentleman stood etill, too. Is was all strange, bat the strangest of all was the mother on the bed. She did not seem to pay any attention to anything, just la there, looking straight up at the draperies, and ber son saw how very big aod hollow her eyes were,and what pitiful, thin, bony things her soft white hands bad become. Bat still it was his mother, the mother of the old Sundays and the time before Elaine came. “May I kiss her ?"’ he asked Papa, look- ing backward. Papa jues nodded. Then Cornwallis climbed up on the white bed—he was all in white himsell, even to the white bows on his new white canvas praps aad put kis arms around her and issed her. She looked up at him with the same curious, wide-eyed stare, and then she frowned. Cornwallis didn’t see the frown, because his face was down olose to bers, and he was bugging her with all the strength not needed to keep down the lamp in his throat. But Papa saw it and saw her move her poor, bony bands, and saw her lips tremble. “Speak, Cornwallis,’”’ he said in a low, sharp voice. “Say whatever you please, bus say something.” ‘Mamma !I"’ he cried loudly, “it’s your baby 1!" He had It was his second surrender. | just dropped his shackles, apparently—at least, so far as one parent was concerned — aod now he slipped them on again for the pleasure of the other. Something heroio in that action—for a six year old ! There was a hush like death in the room, Even Cornwallis felt it. Everyone was waiting for something. “Mamma, he cried again, ‘‘please call me ‘baby’ just as you always do.” Then his mother’s eyelids fell over her eyes, which bad stared steadily so loug,and a little smile chased the frown from her ace. ‘‘Ch, yes,”” she said, in a queer sort of whisper, ‘‘he’ll sleep here tonight—the baby—'' and she turned her face in upon Corowallis’s clean white blouse exactly as Elaine always turned hers in upon Mrs. Tray's bosom, aud drew a funny little gasp exactly as Elaine always did—and went to sleep. Papa laid his finger on his lip, and Corn- wallis kept perfectly still. They brought ever 80 many pillows, big and little, and poked them in around him so skillfally that he was gnite easy in bis queer posi- tion. His mother put one of ber hands up just as Elaine always puts hers up when she slept—bher band made him think of Elaine's as it had been when she first came —like a thin little claw. He looked down at her face on his shoulder and thooghs how like the baby she looked in ever so many odd ways. Papa stood at the foot of the bed and smiled. The tears came into his eyes some- times as he looked at the two on the bed. The gentleman who bad gone behind the soreen slipped away and presently return- ed with two huge lios fall of tures. He gave them to the lady in white, and she set them up one ata time where Coruwallis ceunld see them. It was as as a piotare. and he looked at them with interest unsil—aunsil he fell asleep himsell. I don’t know how they ever ed it, bat when he woke up he was on the in his own room at Grandmamma's, and Smuausmun was sitting weeping beside m. [Continued on page 7.)
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers