Classic Audiobook Collection - Dr. Deanes Way, and Other Stories by Pansy ~ Full Audiobook [religion]

Episode Date: March 20, 2025

Dr. Deanes Way, and Other Stories by Pansy audiobook. Genre: religion In Dr. Deane's Way, and Other Stories, beloved Christian storyteller Pansy (Isabella Macdonald Alden), joined here with her friend and fellow writer Faye Huntington, gathers a handful of warm, earnest tales about ordinary people confronted by extraordinary moments of conscience. The title story follows Dr. Deane, a physician whose influence reaches beyond medicine as he tries to choose a path marked by integrity, humility, and faith when easier options tempt him. Around it, the collection moves through sharply drawn domestic scenes: a household ruled by an overly strict father and his spirited daughter, a chain of small 'just happened' events that may be coincidence or providence, memories shared by two struggling medical students, and a minister pressed by a dilemma that tests what he truly believes. Interspersed are brief sketches of children and families, each offering a clear moral lesson without losing the texture of daily life. Throughout, Pansy blends gentle humor, keen observation, and steady spiritual urgency, inviting listeners to consider how character is formed in the quiet decisions no one applauds. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:17:10) Chapter 02 (00:31:26) Chapter 03 (00:44:42) Chapter 04 (01:02:35) Chapter 05 (01:12:04) Chapter 06 (01:21:45) Chapter 07 (01:31:06) Chapter 08 (01:38:21) Chapter 09 (01:44:27) Chapter 10 (01:56:39) Chapter 11 (02:03:29) Chapter 12 (02:10:06) Chapter 13 (02:18:31) Chapter 14 (02:26:14) Chapter 15 (02:35:03) Chapter 16 (02:51:17) Chapter 17 (03:02:14) Chapter 18 (03:09:23) Chapter 19 (03:18:01) Chapter 20 (03:24:47) Chapter 21 (03:34:51) Chapter 22 (03:57:37) Chapter 23 (04:20:45) Chapter 24 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Faye Huntington and Pansy. Dr. Dean's Way by Faye Huntington, Chapter 1, A Little Fire. I think, Lois, you'd better not. Why can't I I should like to know? Your father wouldn't like it. He never likes anything, Lois. Well, it's so. I can't do this and I can't have that.

I can't go there and I can't stir here. at home because father won't like it. I'm just sick of hearing that same old story. Lois Dean sat by the stove, swinging her hood by one string, while she thumped her heels impatiently against the legs of her chair. Mrs. Dean was stirring gram gems in the pantry. As she sifted the coarse, grayish meal through her fingers, she expostulated, but my child, your father certainly knows what is right and proper for you, and as a physician, he is the best judge of what is healthful, and of course, he has a right to regulate your expenses. Health and economy, I've heard those two words until I fairly hate them. And the rapid thumps of the heavy winter boots gave decided emphasis to Lois's words.

I'd gladly be sick and extravagant for the sake of once being and doing like other folks. One thing is settled. I shan't have a little. my lessons tomorrow if I have to sit in this room all the evening with father and Professor McDon. And I don't care a snap. I'd just like to know what is the use of having a stove in my room if there is never a fire put in it. I don't think it is a very ornamental piece of furniture. I'll sell it and buy something to eat besides gram gems. Mrs. Dean whisked the batter spoon about, passed it carefully around the sides of the yellow earthenware dish, and began to pour out her dough, but made no reply, partly because she was used to Lois's outbursts, and partly because

she sympathized with her. Hi, what's up now, Miss Pout? The speaker was Tom Dean, who now appeared in the doorway laden with school books and skates. I guess you'll be master Pout when I tell you. replied Lois shortly. Old McDown is coming to talk politics and such stuff tonight, and we are so terribly poor that we can't have another fire, so you and I will have to study in the sitting room and not dare to breathe for fear they will be disturbed. That's what's up. And another thing, for fear you'll be a dyspeptic, you've got to eat bran all the days of your life. Nice, isn't it? Lois. Interpre. Interpre.

proposed her mother as she deposited the despised bran cakes in the oven. You are getting unwarrantably excited and bitter. You will probably be sorry someday for what you're saying. No, I won't. It is every word true. I don't like the way we live, and I may as well say so. Tom, do come in or go out and shut that door. We can't afford to warm two rooms, much less all outdoors.

Whistled good-humoredly as he hung his skates in the closet and put away his books before attending to his evening chores. There were no idlers allowed in the Dean family, and Lois had her own work to do, so she started up as Tom went out and took her wraps to the closet. Tom had some way made a mistake and appropriated her hook for his skates. Now one of Lois' greatest trials was that she was not allowed to skate. Dr. Dean did not think it proper for girls to skate, and the sight of Tom's new pair made her angry. Had it been any other article out of place, she would doubtless have removed it, and so ended the matter, but she went to the door and called, Tom, Tom, come in right away! Tom was busy feeding and petting Black Jenny,

but supposing it to be an important matter, he obeyed the summons at once. What's wanted? Anybody killed? Take your old skates off my hook. I want to hang up my rubbers, was the ungracious command. Well now, I'll give up. My lady has lost the use of her hands. How long since you were taken? Mother, got any what you call it, liniment cure all or something? Better have them attended to before they get bad. And the thoroughly good-natured boy whistled himself away. "'Lewis, Dean, I think that was a real mean thing to do. I wouldn't have done it.' "'It was Kitty Dean who uttered this exclamation. Like her brother and sister, she had just come in from school, as usual, a little behind them.

"'Of course you wouldn't, but then you are perfect and I am not. That's the difference between us.' "'But, child,' said Mrs. Dean, it was not kind.' I know it, but the sight of Tom's skates makes me feel ugly, just as if girls didn't want to have a good time as well as boys. There is going to be a skating party Saturday afternoon and tea at Libby Kimbles, but as usual, I have to be left out. For answer, Mrs. Dean only sighed as she placed the chairs at the supper table. She had long ago given up pretending to have a way of her own. A quiet, meek-faced, little woman, she was spending herself for her family, sometimes sorely puzzled as to the ways and means of gratifying her children without crossing the prejudices of her husband. As a young girl, she had indulged

in dreams and aspirations which had died out in the cold, unsympathetic atmosphere in which she lived, and she thought of them sadly as she looked into the faces of her young daughters and wondered if all the sweetness and innocence, the longings and cravings for a different sort of a life would be quite crushed out. There were great possibilities in Lois Deans' character, but oh, how much she needed wise and loving guidance. Had Mrs. Dean possessed a stronger character, she might have gained her children's confidence, and, working for the mental and moral needs as earnestly as she did for their physical, kept them from follies. that brought wretchedness in their train. The town in which the Dean family lived was not large.

Indeed, it was so small that you might know your next-door neighbor sufficiently well to lend her your last magazine, or send her a dish of strawberries from your garden, and borrow her napkins in China when you gave a tea party. The Dean's lived in a plain, comfortable-looking house on a quiet and thoroughly respectable street. Dr. Dean had taken care to put three blocks between his house and the public school, lest his quiet should be disturbed by the shouts of happy children who had not yet learned the art of repression. He hated noise, as his own children early learned, and his homecoming was the signal for putting away noisy plays. There was a sort of a subdued air about the people who lived on Elm Avenue, Boisterous shout and song were seldom heard. The children rolled their hoops and trundled their

carts quietly until they reached the corner of Elm and Main Streets, where a new atmosphere seemed to await them, and they were quickly transformed into the noisy, rollicking, and sometimes rude beings that are the especial torment of nervous people. If everybody had been trained according to Dr. Dean's idea, a very different sort of people would have inhabited this world. Very little variety of taste and habit would have been allowed, but everything and everybody would have been gotten up in a correct and proper style, moving on in straight lines, no jarring or chafing, not even a thumping of elbows. Things being very different from his views, he thought the world all wrong, and he meant that the little part which he had the control of

should be set going right. But he found that the material he had to work upon was none too pliable. Theirs was a very plain, matter-of-fact way of living. Work to earn your bread, eat your bread to sustain life. Live, for what? Ah, I think that was where Dr. Dean failed. if he could have taught his children the secret of true living. As it was, he succeeded in making life somewhat hard for them. Truth was, the doctor was a dyspeptic. Nothing agreed with him, either physically or mentally, except the very plainest of food, both for body and mind. He had dyspeptic patients whose views of life were equally somber, and not content with prescribing for these and himself a rigidly plain diet, he insisted that the active, vigorous natures, the eager,

expanding minds of his children, should be sustained, grow, and develop upon the same food. He forgot that people cannot and will not all follow in the same groove, and that, unless there is a chance for them to diverge naturally and easily, there is danger that they may break over in perilous ways and places. Professor McDown was an old college friend, and when he came to take charge of the academy, Dr. Dean seemed to throw aside his cloak of reserve and warmed into something quite like geniality toward the professor. It may be that in spirit he was carried back to the days of early manhood, before he had met with the reverses of fortune and suffered from the falsity of others, things which had helped to sour his temper and darken his life.

Tea being over, I mistake the beverage was not used in the Dean family, the evening repassed being over, the center table was wheeled a little nearer the fire, and Dr. Dean and his guest sat down with the chess board spread out between them. Chess playing was the doctor's sole pastime, but mind you, he did not call it pastime, He played for the sake of the intellectual discipline it afforded. On this particular evening, the game seemed to lose its interest, and the two fell to talking over old times.

Tom and Lois were eager listeners. The large lamp on the table did not light up their corner very well. Tom couldn't find the cities and rivers on the map in the dimness, and Lois didn't care whether she had lessons or not, so both fell to listening. Ah, better had it been to let those old-time follies remain buried. Had Dr. Dean once looked toward that corner, he would have seen two pair of eyes filled with wonder and excitement. Could their father, grave and taciturn even to sternness, as they had always known him, and stately Professor McDown have been the heroes of those exploits, wild and fantastic

as they were? Do you remember? said the professor, how we confiscated old Jack's pears, and I don't believe there were ever pies like those you handed through Widow Stone's pantry window. But the greatest game of all was when I passed you off as my sister. I tell you, Professor, you've lost your girlish looks. And the two old chums laughed heartily at the recalling of their pranks. Even Mrs. Dean smiled, pleased to see her husband in such unusual spirit. Tom and Lois went to bed that night with ideas in their heads that they did not get between the covers of their school books. Months later, Lois exclaimed in her anger,

If you hadn't been so stingy as not to let me have a fire when I wanted it, I should never have got into such a scrape. As Tom shivered his way into bed, he said to himself, Who, father wasn't always such a sober stick. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't think it was such an awful thing to miss a recitation or go off on a lark. I'll take my share of fun after this. Ah, if Dr. Dean had only been in his boy's confidence that he might have said, Tom, my boy, your father was a wild youth. He sowed his wild oats, and they brought a harvest of shame and sorrow. As for Kitty, she curled herself up in a corner of the sofa and was fast asleep, long before the interest in the game of chess began to flag.

Kitty Dean was very unlike Lois in many things. For one matter, she was not afraid of her father. She was never disobedient, for she did what she liked, went where she pleased, took what she wanted without so much as asking permission. If her father chanced to reprimand her, sometimes she pouted, sometimes she laughed, and always said, I don't care. When the doctor was displeased, he called her Catherine, which vexed her. When a very little girl, she would stamp her foot and exclaim,

Don't call me that. She didn't mind cold rooms, but as for gram bread, she flatly refused it. Once, when she was nine years old, her father said, Catherine, you must eat brown bread or go without your supper. And she went without. The next morning her father passed the bread. One look into his face told her that he was in earnest. She took a slice and swallowed it. Then she said pleasantly, Father, I ate that to please you. Did you? He said, surprised. Yes, sir. And now won't you please not to ask me to eat another piece? Anyway, not for a great, great long time. For some reason best known to him, Dr. Dean thought best not to press the matter, and thereafter Kitty ate her baked potato or her porridge and drank her cup of milk contentedly. Lois once passionately declared that Kitty was the favorite, which was her mistake. Kitty was not her father's favorite. Her ways did not please him, but upon the one or two occasions when he had undertaken to manage her, it had proved such a

wearisome job that he gave it up and left the task almost entirely to Mrs. Dean, only throwing in a stern rebuke now and then by way of doing his duty. Truth to tell, Dr. Dean did not understand child nature. He had outlived his own childhood, what little there was of it. He had no sweet and tender memories of a loved and loving childhood. There was stern discipline in the early home, and prompt obedience born more of fear than love. But as much could not be said of his own children. They grew up saucy and rebellious. At least this was true of the daughters, Tom was different,

and Dr. Dean could not understand it. If Mrs. Dean understood it, she could not help it. She thought her husband too strict, and without knowing it, she encouraged their waywardness. Though the Ten Commandments were early-drawn, drilled into their memories, they had never been taught to honor father and mother in their lives. They never considered that because he was their father, he had a right, God given, to their respectful obedience in those things not contrary to God's requirements.

End of Chapter 1. Section 2 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the podcast. public domain. Dr. Dean's Way, Chapter 2. How great a matter at Kindleith. Jenny Mattson was a boarder at the seminary boarding house, and she was Lois Dean's particular friend. Among schoolgirls, that phrase means that they shared each other's secrets under the strictest promises, never to tell, shared each other's nuts and candies and all other schoolgirl treasures, met with loud expressions of delight after the separation of a night, and when school hours

were over, parted with lingering step and many farewells. They never missed any opportunity of being together, and ignored for the most part the existence of their schoolmates. However, there were four or five other couples, which, standing in the same relation to each other, formed with these a sort of click. Now, a set of schoolgirls made up in this way are capable of the most wonderful achievements. By their cunningness and keenness, their ingenuity and audacity, their sauciness and their sweetness and simplicity, they carry their points. By some of these means they manage their superiors, and really nobody seems to know that they are being wheedled and coaxed into some absurdity. Lois and her friends were assembled in Jenny's

room during the long recess discussing plans, a committee of ways and means. I'll tell you, said Lois, what to do? Let's have a masquerade party. Some night I'll stay here with Jenny and we'll get together after the nine o'clock bell and fix up in all sorts of costumes. Splendid, said the others, all in a breath. Such scheming and contriving as followed. What will we do about refresh?

questions, asked Jenny. Several plans were suggested, such as asking Cook to give them supplies, using their pocket money to buy the necessary articles, but these modes were altogether too correct and proper for their purpose, and just hear the teachings of that fatal evening again developed themselves, and Lois came forward with her plan. You know, she said, the day scholars bring lunches, we'll help ourselves out of their baskets. And perhaps we can get into the storeroom downstairs, said Jenny. There's the sliding door. We can climb through that if we can't find the key. So the plotting went on. It required several days to perfect their arrangements,

but finally the party came off and was pronounced a grand success by the participants, and of course they knew. it brought out all of lois's strategic powers to gain the necessary permission to stay all night with jenny and once the plan seemed near failing entirely for want of so simple a thing as this but finally upon her showing that she and jenny were learning a duet that required much practice together and which they were to sing at the coming examination the desired object was gained but only because tom was laid up with a lame foot and could not go for her at nine o'clock, as Dr. Dean had at first insisted. The brilliant idea of pilfering the lunch baskets had been successfully carried out, and little Minnie Frink had squeezed herself through the slide and handed out a whole pie and a lot of pickles with cold meats.

Julia Wright's room, being the largest, had been selected as the scene of the play. Those who were busy with their toilets when the underteacher went, her nine o'clock round, had simply responded to her tap, light out at once, and no mischief was suspected. Five minutes later, a strange group was assembled in Julia's room. The costumes had been kept a secret. Remember, their secrets were in couples. And here were two in boys' dress. Who could they be? Of the ten girls engaged in this frolic, Lois Dean was one of the last to be suspected of such an improprietious. but when the masks were removed, the exclamations were, Lois Dean, Jewel, right. How could you? That's what you had your haircut for, was it?

Before I'd have done that for the sake of a little fun. Little fun, said Julia, I mean to have considerable out of it before I'm done. How did you get your dress? I found a way. and Julia never told. There are ways found for many things that parents and teachers never dream of. Oh, mothers and teachers seek the confidence of the young girls, save them from the follies that, in a greater or less degree, bring shame and remorse. Said a lady, not long ago, I am filled with surprise when I look back to my school days that I was not utterly ruined in health and mind, body and soul, and I was a steady girl compared

with many of my companions. The masquerade was over, and they were not found out. Just as the clock struck twelve, one by one they glided stealthily through the dark, lonely halls to their rooms. The room was cleared up, all traces of the feast put away, nothing left about that could tell the story of the night's frolic. After all, the eating had been the principal part of the entertainment, and if there is truth in the old saying about stolen fruit, they must have had a deliciously sweet repast, for everything was stolen. Of course, the girls did not employ that ugly word. Lois remembered that her father and Professor McDown had used the newspaper word confiscation, and she introduced it for their use. The girls who were in the habit of leaving their baskets in the cloakroom had missed

their lunches, and the cook knew that the storeroom had been invaded. But the suspicions of all parties pointed to the boys' hall. The girls chuckled over this and congratulated themselves upon their expertness. "'Isn't it jolly?' said Lois, as she talked it over with Jenny. "'I'm glad everybody don't believe in Graham, I don't know what father would say to my eating such things. He would feel worse about that than about your stealing it, wouldn't he? laughed Jenny. Lois flushed. It isn't stealing, not real stealing. It is only for fun, you know. There can't really be any harm in it, for it is precisely what Professor McDown told about doing and laughed over it as a good joke. And I suppose that when we are 40 years old,

we may tell of it and laugh over it, but we don't exactly want to be found out now, do we? I reckon not, replied Lois, horrified. It would be hotter for us than the pickled pepper you fished out of the jar and took in your mouth when you thought you were going to drop it on the stairs. My, wasn't it hot, though? This was only the beginning of a series of mad frolics. It seemed as if the very spirit of mischief had entered into these girls. A tide of insubordination swept through the school, and none could tell where it rose. Certainly, the dean and Madsen-Click were, to all appearance, most exemplary in conduct. But their sport came to a sudden stop. Someone had said, Lois, your own father would never recognize you in that costume. And straightway, Lois was possessed with a

wild desire to try the masquerading outside Julia Wright's room. With wits sharpened by practice, they made their opportunities, and one bright evening, Jenny Mattson found herself walking out with her cousin from Buffalo. But Dr. Dean's eyes were keener than Lois's schoolmates had predicted, and his anger more intense than they could have imagined. Lois was marched home, Jenny was reported to Professor McDown. Pretty soon, the whole story came out. Lois, Jenny, and one or two more of the leaders were excused from farther attendance upon the sessions of the school, and order was once more restored, much to the relief of the puzzled faculty. After the first outburst, when Dr. Dean poured out his wrath upon the

head of his offending daughter, he rarely spoke to her for weeks. He gave orders that she should not leave the house unless accompanied by himself or her mother. But this could not last. The unaccustomed confinement soon affected Lois's health, and the practiced eye of the doctor saw this, and he was sorely puzzled. He felt obliged to allow her more liberty, though he did not trust her. Meantime, the fruits of that careless talk were cropping out in another quarter, but fortunately only to be nipped in the Some time before the humiliating ending of the girls' fun, Tom Dean sat perched upon a desk in one of the recitation rooms, surrounded by half a dozen boys, to whom he was recounting the stories of the professor and the doctor. Now, boys, say we go in for some sport. Say we do, said Will Arnold,

there's no use in going on in this pokey fashion. And then and there, a plan was laid for a while adventure, a plan which was never to be carried into execution. The fire in Professor Morris's room was a failure that morning. It smoked and smoldered and finally went out altogether. The professor shivered and growled and threatened to complain of the janitor. Then, gathering up his books and his papers, he rolled his armchair into the hall, stationing himself beside the register close by the recitation room. Thus it was that the talk of the boys floating out through the open transom came to his ears. What should he do? He was very busy, and the quickest way to end the matter and spoil their sport

would be to report to Professor McDown. There were reasons why he disliked to do this, and he decided upon another course. Laying aside his work, he tapped lightly at the door and entered. He was a favorite teacher, and the faces brightened at his entrance. He swung the door wide open and brought his chair into view, and smiling, said, Well, boys, I have been driven to the hall by the coldness. If one of you will go out there, you will find out how distinctly every word of our conversation can be heard. The boys looked crestfallen, and Professor Morse continued. You've been listening to some interesting stories. Suppose I tell you some to match them. The boys were reassured and looked up brightly. Yes, do, said Will Arnold. Well, I don't suppose you will like mine quite as well,

but they are true. When I was preparing for college, we Academy boys were as ready for frolic and adventure as any of you. No matter who suffered in person or property, so long as we had our fun and were not found out. Sometimes we stole fruit. Sometimes we rang doorbells at midnight. Once we carried away every gate on Main Street and hid them in the woods. But that was a sorry night's work, for having been watched, we were compelled to carry them back by daylight. Another time, we borrowed Mr. Grimes's new cutter to ride downhill and ran against a stump, and in consequence, our father's had the privilege of paying $20 a piece to keep us out of jail. I can tell you, boys, such kind of sport don't pay. I cannot think now where we put our manliness at such times, for we all aspired to the

name and position of young men. Some of those very boys entered college a year or two in advance of me, and were there to bid me welcome, and it was a welcome that I never forgot. Professor Morris walked with a crutch, and as he spoke, he glanced at his shrunken limb. He continued, sadly. It was a bit of sport that had become an established usage, and had never resulted disastrously before. But I was made a lifelong sufferer by it. I can't tell you that story. But, boys, I wish you wouldn't carry out your plans. We won't, said Will Arnold promptly. I'll have nothing to do with it. Nor I, nor I, said one and another. Thank you. Such things are not manly, not worthy of one who aspires to the title of gentlemen, and certainly they are not Christian.

I know they are common, and even supposed to be a necessary part of one's school and college life, but I cannot see why an act which ordinarily would subject a young fellow to a fine and imprisonment should be tolerated and even commended in schoolboys and collegians. End of Section 2. Section 3 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Dr. Dean's Way, Chapter 3, held back. Dr. Dean was a Christian man.

He was anxious that his children should become Christian. but he wanted them to come into the kingdom in his way by the path he had marked out. Their Christian experience must be such as his own had been, or it was no true experience of Christ's love and forgiveness. He expected that the lambs of the flock would walk wisely and soberly and discreetly, even as those who had the wisdom of years to guide them, and the cares and sorrows of life to subdue them. He wanted to lift his children,

out of child world at once. Wise in many things, he was lamentably deficient in his knowledge of his own children's hearts, and he could help them very little in their seeking for Jesus. Dr. Arnold was pastor of the church to which the deans belonged.

During the latter part of the winter, he had united with the pastor of two other churches in holding extra meetings, hoping to advance thereby the cause of Christ. God was present with them by His Holy Spirit, and every evening some souls were one for Jesus. Dr. Dean looked on disapprovingly. He didn't believe that different denominations could work together harmoniously. He didn't mean to stand in the way of good being done, but he couldn't feel like

taking hold of the work as he should if the meetings were conducted according to his mind. Why, several ladies had spoken in. in the prayer meeting. He could not countenance such a thing. Yet he hoped that his children would be awakened to a sense of their sin and danger. He thought Dr. Arnold was apt to encourage children to think they were Christians without a deep and thorough experience, and sometimes where there was no marked change in the life. He must guard against their making any mistake. As usual, Kitty came and went as suited herself. She attended the inquiry meetings. To her pastor, she said, I want to be a Christian. I think I love Jesus now. I think about him all the time.

I try to think about my sins and to feel sorry, but I can't. Just as soon as I begin, I think right away how he promised to wash away my sins, and then I am so glad and love him so. Tell me what I must do. My dear child, go right on loving him. He will show you your work soon, I think. Only try to keep near to him by prayer and study of his word. May God bless and keep you. There was a change in Kitty. Dr. Dean could not deny it. She was more respectful to her father and mother, more thoughtful of the comfort of others, and more patient under reproof. But no word passed between her and her, and her parents as to the new life she had entered upon, until one afternoon she came in just

after her father. "'Where have you been, Kitty?' he asked. "'Down to the church?' "'To the church,' he repeated in surprise. "'What for?' "'Why, you know,' she said, hesitatingly. Those who want to unite next Sunday were asked to meet the committee this afternoon. Did your mother know? I didn't tell her. And you went without consulting anyone. Kitty, I am surprised that you should take such a step upon your own responsibility.

Why didn't you come to me first? I thought you would be glad. You prayed this very morning that we might all belong to the invisible church as well as the church on earth, or something like that. I didn't like to speak about it. I thought Dr. Arnold had, though, or I shouldn't have gone. I'm sorry you don't like it. Kitty, said Dr. Dean, I cannot consent to your taking such a step at present. I am very glad if you have really passed from death until life, but you are young to join the church. You cannot understand the responsibilities involved. Father, I understand that Christ said, do this.

Yes, child. Still, I think you had better wait a while until you are certain that you are not deceived in this matter. I am afraid that you do not understand the principles that underlie the Christian hope. Is the plan of salvation clear to you, Kitty? Kitty was silent. Finally, she said,

Dr. Arnold didn't ask me any such questions. He only asked me why I wanted to come, and if I was willing to belong to Christ, and a few more things like that. Yes, I know. Dr. Arnold has some very singular ideas. I will see him myself and explain the matter. I think you must wait a few months at any rate. And poor Kitty, who longed to follow Christ's command, looked down from the gallery upon the solemn scene, when, with many other, three of her dear girlfriends belonging to her Sunday school class were allowed to sit at the Lord's table. Her heart was very heavy, and the tears would not stay back as she bowed her head, saying simply, Dear Savior, I wanted to obey thee, but they held me back. And Jesus himself was her comforter, and Kitty went out from the feast at which she had been only a witness, with her soul strength,

and with a quiet happiness that did not grow less as the days went by. But when another communion season came around, and still her father kept her back, she became almost discouraged. She had been so unfortunate as to incur his displeasure by being thoughtlessly gay, and he said, Kitty, I cannot consent that you should take this step yet. I do not feel satisfied. We are enjoined to walk soberly, and you do not seem to realize what a solemn thing it is to be a Christian. But, Father, I am so happy I can't help being lively. I don't feel sober nor solemn, and if I thought I must, I wouldn't want to be a Christian. I don't believe that Jesus wants me to feel that way either.

I think it is a great deal more solemn not to belong to him than it is to know that he is our best friend. friend. Kitty, you speak of Christ too familiarly. You should remember the infinite distance between the king of kings and poor worms of the dust. Now, Kitty had learned to think of her savior as an elder brother as an ever-present friend. As she had known him, there was not an infinite distance between her own soul and her redeemer. But her father's words made her feel very sad. He had been a a Christian a long time, of course he knew. He was a great deal wiser than herself she very well knew. It must be as he said, that she was not steady and sober enough for a Christian. Oh dear, she would have to wait a great while.

Meantime, Tom had been led quietly to accept Christ. In the early part of the revival, he had spoken of his desire to follow Christ, and some way. weeks later, he said, I am glad I set out to seek the Savior and would say to my companions that if they will seek him, he will be found, and will reveal himself a great joy and an ever-willing help. Dr. Dean felt it his duty to interfere. He had not known that Tom was passing through any great struggle. He had not seen any signs of deep depression, of great sorrow for sin. He was too anxious too fearful that Tom's experience was not thorough. So he questioned.

Tom, I was glad to hear your voice tonight. I did not know that you had passed through the crisis. When did it occur? What, sir? Why, when did you find peace in believing? Oh, I have been trusting in Christ for several weeks. I suppose that always brings peace, answered Tom. Yes, but will you tell me the circumstances

of your conversion? Why, Father, there isn't much to tell. I got interested. Professor Morse talked with me about youth being the best time to begin to serve Christ, and I thought so too, and I began to pray and ask him to receive me and forgive me. And after a while, I don't know how long, I thought he had accepted me. Now I am asking him to show me what I ought to do for him. But Tom, can't you you tell the time when you yielded to God, the time when your burden of sin fell off, and a new and sudden light broke in upon your soul? No, sir, I don't think there was anything sudden about it. I just began to pray and kept on, and slowly I seemed to get nearer to Jesus. Tom, said Dr. Dean solemnly, it is a fearful thing to be self-deceived. I think one ought to be able

to tell exactly when and where the change takes place. When one gets peace without knowing how or where he got it, I am afraid it may prove a false peace. And this conversation and others like it got Tom to doubting. Why couldn't Dr. Dean let his children come to the Savior as they seem to be drawn? Why couldn't he have known that the spirit does not operate upon all hearts alike? As for Lois, the one for whom both her parents felt most anxious, no persuasion seemed to affect her. She appeared hardened and reckless. Sometimes she went to church, and her father relaxed his guard over her to allow her to accompany some of her young friends upon one or two occasions, but he repented this when he discovered how recklessly improper was their conduct. Not content with

standing aloof while others were flocking to the the cross, Lois and her companions attracted attention and called out a mild rebuke from the pulpit by their unseemly behavior in the house of God. The father was saddened by all this, but I am not sure that he was not more angry and mortified than sorrowful. Lois was certainly very trying, and seemed bent upon going the wrong road. What was to stop her? If she would only come to Christ, I think he would not have minded the manner of her coming, and perhaps if she had been gently and tenderly urged, she might have come. But when her father put it in this way, she would not. Lois, he said, I wish you would pay more attention to religion. This would be a good time to make your

salvation sure. Under the circumstances, it would be well for you to come out a Christian. It would help you to regain your character. No, said Lois to herself, willfully misapprehending her father. I am not going to put on a cloak to cover up my wickedness. I'm bad and I'll show bad. Many were gathered into the church during that year, but Dr. Dean's children were not among them. Whose fault was it? Lois continued to attend the private school, but things did not go on smoothly at home. Greatly exaggerating the disgrace Lois had brought upon herself,

and as he imagined upon the whole family, her father looked coldly upon her best efforts, and between discouragement and anger, Lois kept in a chronic state of unamiability. More than ever, she needed tender, loving counsel. Her mother was loving, but, truth to tell, Lois could manage the mother a great deal better than the mother could manage Lois. Dr. Dean was puzzled.

End of Section 3. Section 4 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. The Slibervok's Recording is in the Public Domain. Dr. Dean's Way, Chapter 4. The Beginning of Something New. All at once, a thought came to Dr. Dean. which seemed to him like a sudden inspiration. So exactly did it accord with his mood

that he determined to act upon it at once. He remembered the stern discipline of his boyhood's home and recalled the relentless severity with which his boyish faults were punished and said to himself, I'll take Lois to my mother. She will know how to manage the girl. I'm thinking my lady will have to walk straight

if she once gets under that roof. Lois was dismayed at the proposal, but dared not rebel openly, and Mrs. Dean knew that opposition was useless, so the two quietly and hastily made their preparations, and a week from the day the plan was broached, the father and daughter were on their way. Never mind, Lowy, said Tom at the parting. The ogress won't eat you up. She'll find a peppery dose if she undertakes it, interrupted Lois, laughing through her sobs. That's so, responded Tom. But see here, don't you go to sprinkling pepper or throwing snaps the first thing? If you are only a mind to do your best, you can get on the right side of Grandma, and then you'll get on all right.

Just you look sharp to that. What chance to get on the right side will there be, I'd like to know, after Father has told everything he can think of? said Lois bitterly. Oh, father won't tell, he's too proud. You needn't worry about that. But Lois did worry all that long day's journey. She longed to ask her father how much he meant to reveal of the past

to the new friends to whom she was going, but she did not dare. Very little was said on either side, though Dr. Dean was kinder in voice and manner than he had been for a long time, and the stern look on his face seemed to soften. I think that, as he journeyed toward the old home, a throng of memories pressed upon him and stirred his heart, until somewhere from its depths arose the tender emotions of his nature which he had so long ignored.

The last ten miles was a stage ride, and they were the only passengers. Lois shrank from being alone with her father, but he tucked the robe about her so careful, and thoughtfully arranged a satchel for her feet, speaking so gently that the tears sprang to her eyes. Noticing her emotion, the doctor said, Lois, I have not meant to be harsh, but your conduct has been a sore trial, and its consequences very mortifying. As for sending you away from home, I have done it for the best. You would not find it easy to break away from old associates, and build up your character again at home, while at your grandmothers you will have a chance to

start fresh. But Lois, you must learn deference to your superiors and obedience to those in authority. My mother will not brook a disregard of these duties, nor will she put up with your hoidenish propensities. Dr. Dean had not seen his mother or the old place for nearly twenty years, and he had little idea of the changes that had been going on. True, through the medium of a regular, though by no means frequent correspondence, he knew that one by one his brothers and sisters had gone out to make new homes, that his father had been dead several years, and that his mother had charge of the farm. And, two, various improvements about the house and grounds had been mentioned in the letters from home.

but after all it was the homely, wood-colored house standing in the shadow of the great hill toward which he seemed to be traveling. It was a home full of young life and busy, bustling activity. They were all there, the hard-working father, grave and somewhat stern like himself, the noisy boys and blooming girls, and his mother. Ah, had lowest known of the picture in her father's mind, she might have wished yet more earnestly that the stage-ride, unpleasant as it was, would never end. Old Mrs. Dean was emphatically a strong-minded woman, with a stateliness and reserve that seemed like coldness, and lack of love and sympathy, with an intolerance of youthful follies, and a power of restraining those under her authority from entering foolish ways, that,

irksome as it had once been, now seemed to the distressed doctor the very embodiment of virtue, and such was the memory of his home and his mother, that he was utterly bewildered when the stage stopped. There was the two-story house, longer than he remembered it, and seemingly lower, and there was the hill, but they were not the same. The house had been extended at the side and in front. The color was a pale buff with dark brown trimmings. There were piazzas and a bay window. The road had been built lower down so that the lawn was wider. The wild berry bushes were gone from the hillside,

and an air of refinement as well as of thrift pervaded the scene. Everything seemed to be of generous proportions, house, barns, lawns, garden, and orchard. All this Dr. Dean took in at a sweeping glim, as the man unfastened Lois's trunk and took down the doctor's satchel. And did that calm, sweet face, shaded by the soft, merry border of her widow's cap, belonged to his mother? The old roundness and freshness were gone, and with it much of the severity of expression.

She sat in an armchair before the fire, and welcomed her guests without rising. "'My son!' she said, clasping. his hand and drawing him down until his lips met hers. Dr. Dean could not remember that his mother had ever kissed him before in all his life. Doubtless in his babyhood, such a thing might have happened, but since he could remember any expression of affection had been rare indeed, and the grave, taciturned man, was for a moment disconcerted and embarrassed. As he drew back to give place to Lois, the old lady said. And this is my granddaughter, whose acquaintance I have so long desired to make. Ah, Thomas, you have kept your treasures well to yourself all these years. Never mind,

we shall make it up now, won't we, dear? Then turning to a young lady several years older than Lois, who had admitted them, she continued, Thomas, this is my friend and companion, Miss Halsey. I have written to you of her. Probably she had, but her son had forgotten, if indeed he had ever taken in the idea of such a person's existence. After their introductions were ended, Mrs. Dean said, Alice, you will please attend to Lois's wants now. Is her room warm?

Perhaps she had better wait here until you called George to carry up her trunk. And as you go through the kitchen, tell Jane to give us something hot with our tea. I forgot to mention it when she came for orders, but there is time enough for muffins and cutlets. Hot bread and meat for supper, thought Lois, and she stole a look at her father to see what his face expressed upon the subject, but the room was growing dark and she could not read the look. The travelers were soon shown to their rooms, and when they came down again, they found tea upon the table. Poor hungry Lois must have thought this the opportunity for which she had once longed, to eat and be sick. There was fragrant tea, the whitest bread, and the

lightest muffins, a fried chicken with jelly and pickles, with some late peaches smothered in sugar and cream. And Dr. Dean, what did he do? Why, just as the rest did, eat what was set before him, and he was much more likely to be kept awake by his thought than by his supper. Truth to tell, he could not believe his senses. As we have said, he had never realized the changes of the twenty years of his absence. Indeed, it had been thirty years since he had been at his old home for any length of time. He remembered his mother young and vigorous, in a dress of dark blue print and a check apron, taking her plain meals in the low kitchen. He saw the table now, with the brown homespun tablecloth, sometimes without any, and the blue-edged crockery,

the tin teapot, the little Japan pepper box, and blue glass salt. And the contrast was so great that the doctor was bewildered. Here at the head of this generous table, with its handsome appointments, sat a woman 70 years old, a specimen of beautiful old age. She had grown old, but the peaceful triumph written on her face told how. Everything about her was in keeping, the soft bombazine dress, with folds of lace at throat and wrists, the comfortable chair in which she sat, and in which she was wheeled to the table by Alice without rising, the bright, well-furnished room, and the cheery face of her companion, all spoke of plenty and of great happiness. When they were all seated at the table with bowed heads, Mrs. Dean's voice, low but clear,

broke the silence. I will bless the Lord at all times. His praise shall continually be in my mouth. Oh, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt his name to gather. The next morning, Mrs. Dean said to her son. I am sorry that you could not have the old South room. It would seem so much more home-like, but Mr. Hastings occupies that when he is here, and I did not like to have his books and papers disturbed. Oh, no matter, replied the doctor. My room is very pleasant. But who is Mr. Hastings? Well, to be sure, don't you know? He is our minister. You see, his folks live over at Greenville, and he preaches there half of the time, and when he comes to the valley to preach,

he stops here. He has gone home now to stay over the Sabbath. So you have a minister in your family, said the doctor, wondering, what next? While they were at breakfast, Mrs. Dean said to Alice, I presume that Lois will want to unpack and put away her things this morning. See that the fire is lighted.

It is very chilly. If this weather holds, we shall have to get the furnace going. But I wanted to have Bailey come over from Greenville to put those registers in your room and Lois's before we start it. Mr. Hastings is going to speak to him about it. Turning to her son, she asked, Do you heat your house by a furnace? Lois would have answered, we don't heat it at all. But wisely allowed her father to speak for himself.

Already Lois was delighted with the home to which her father had brought her. Everything is so comfortable, she had whispered to herself as she came into the breakfast room and toyed with a kitten before the fire, while Jane was bringing in coffee and hotcakes. As for the doctor, he began to suspect that his daughter's banishment would turn out quite an agreeable thing, but he had committed himself for a six-month trial of it and could not draw back, Besides, he still had faith in his mother's ability to manage the girl. As Tom had predicted, he had not revealed the whole story of Lois's misdoings, only in a general way given his mother to understand that the child was hard to manage,

and that he thought a change of associates desirable. Before leaving, he was about to deliver some charges concerning Lois, but his mother interrupted him. Now, Thomas, it won't do for you to say that Lois must do this and mustn't do that. Very likely she will and will not, as the case may be. But you have committed her to my care, and I want no restrictions. With God's blessing, I hope to return her to you sound in body and with a clean heart. So the doctor said his farewells to Lois with no word of admonition,

and laid no commands upon her. Once during his visit, he had expressed surprise at the remarkable change in his mother and her manner of living. Mrs. Dean replied, You know that for many years before your father died, we were wonderfully prospered. I do not know, but I have thought that the Lord saw that we could bear prosperity, and so gave us an abundant reward for our toil. Your father was a faithful steward and gave freely to the church at home and, abroad. He fitted up the homestead. He said he wanted to make it a pleasant place for the children to come

back to once in a while, and he left a provision in his will, as you know, that if any of them or their children should be in want of a home, its doors should be open. As for the change in me, here a voice tender in speaking of her husband grew solemn. Thomas, it is of the grace of God, Fifteen years ago he gave me a blessing so rarely given because rarely sought. Call it what you will, I call it the gift of peace. It is promised, you know, to those whose minds are stayed on God. My mind is stayed on the Lord. I have my cares and some anxieties, and as you well know, we have had some heavy trials.

But the Lord has always helped me over the rough places. When I became a confirmed invalid, he sent me my faithful Alice, who brought perpetual sunshine into the house, and it is she who has, in some measure, broken up my old still reserved habits. Well, mother, responded the doctor, I am glad to find you so comfortable in your old age, but I tell you plainly that Lois needs a firm hand. I am afraid you will be too easy with her. Now Thomas, said the old lady, my ideas of the strict training of children have undergone no change, but having experienced so much of the love and tenderness of my heavenly father, perhaps I have come to think of more gentle measures.

Think of the patience and forbearance of the Lord towards us, and say if we ought not to bear more with the waywardness of our children. Maybe you are right, we shall see how you get on, was the reply of the doubting doctor, who went on his homeward way, thinking in this wise. Mother overrates the power of love. I'd like to be around when the first Tiff comes off. Lois can't keep out of mischief long, and her high temper is ready to go off at a touch. That Miss Halsey seems a pleasant person, a little too lively. If she wouldn't laugh so often and make so many trifling remarks, she would appear much better.

If Miss Halsey had heard him, she would have said, Thank you, Dr. Dean. I might appear better, but I should not appear myself, and I'd rather be myself than somebody better. It is a good thing, soliloquized the doctor, having the minister there so much. His presence will likely prove a check upon, Lois. I am sorry I could not have met him. Then, meditatively, Hastings, Hastings. Why, there used to be a minister by that name in Milton. That was 25 or 30 years ago. He must be an old man, but I shouldn't wonder if it were the same one.

And the doctor settled himself complacently for his homeward journey, reflecting that, with such experienced advisors as his mother and old Mr. Hastings, Lois could not fail of improvement. End of the story Dr. Dean's Way. End of Section 4. Section 5 of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Faye Huntington and Pansy. The Sliberbox recording is in the public domain. How It Happened by Pansy, Chapter 1. Baby Nell

Baby Nell has ten little toes. Baby Nell has two little hose. She always stares when the hose. go on and thinks that her ten little toes are gone. There she sat, the very baby Nell of whom that immortal poet wrote those lines. At least she looked as though she might be the self-same baby, as she watched with those astonished blue eyes of hers, while Sister Elsie poked and squeezed the fat pink toes into the bits of stockings. Sister Elsie, meanwhile, lecturing her after this fashion. What a naughty, naughty baby you are to pull off your stockings so many times a day.

Keep poor Elsie racing after them and putting them on from morning till night. What do you do it for? Don't you know you're a troublesome, mischievous, perfect little torment of a precious old darling? And having finished the singular scolding and squeezed one foot into place, Elsie stopped to smother the baby face in a perfect torrent of kisses. Then she went on with her work, Nell staring the while and occasionally making a remark in German, which, as nearly as I can judge, she spoke fluently. Elsie!

Called a clear ringing voice from the room above, and Elsie answered, Yes, Mama, I'm coming. I'm putting on baby Nell's stockings. keep your foot still, baby. Don't curl your little toe up so. How can I ever put a stocking on such a funny little ball of a foot? Oh dear, let go of my hat. You'll have it off. Oh, my patience. Don't pull my hair. All of which orders, baby Nell minded as much as young Mrs. of her age generally do. After gazing a while at things in general, she suddenly bent forward and dived both fat hands into the masses of yellow curls, that were bobbing about her face, and Elsie, in despair, dropped the pink-toed foot, unbent every one of the ten determined fingers, and saying, Go barefoot then, naughty darling, ran hastily to obey her mother's second call. Baby looked after her thoughtfully, then reached over and felt of every one of her dainty bare toes, then gravely tugged at the other stocking, uttered a triumphant,

da-da-da-a-a-a. At her success, when it came off with such a jerk that it nearly tipped her over, and looking about her for something to do next. It was house-cleaning time, and Mama and everybody else was very busy, which explained why Baby Nell was left alone for even so few minutes. Generally, they knew better than to leave the little mischief-maker out of sight of watchful eyes. She spied a crumpled bit of white paper over by the window and went for it as fast as hands and knees could take her, gave several eager little chuckles over the crackling sound, then crept to the stovepipe hole and solemnly dropped it down. Then she sat up straight and gave a satisfied little sigh. That work was successfully accomplished. Mama and Elsie came in together, Elsie talking rapidly.

Mama, do look at Baby Nell. I do believe I've put her stockings on 20 times today, and here she is barefoot, and she curls her foot up just like a little ball of cotton when I go to put them on. Where in the world is the paper that this was wrapped in? Mama, what do you suppose has become of it? I unrolled it the minute I came in the room because baby snatched at it, and her fingers were wet with milk, and I was afraid it would soak through and spoil the ribbon. Now, where do you think it can be. I don't know, dear. Take some other paper and make haste, for Miss Johnson is waiting. And Elsie, you must stop at the store and tell your father to send up some fresh biscuit for tea. Mama, there isn't a paper here to tear. There never is when I'm in a hurry. May I tear a piece from this one

just this once? It is a week old, and I heard Papa say it was awful dry. Mrs. Porter was stamping her foot softly and saying, No, no, don't touch, baby mustn't. Then she said, despairingly, oh, dear me, when will that baby learn that the stove will burn her? Then to her other

daughter, yes, yes, child, take a piece of anything, only hurry. Mrs. Porter was not a crosswoman, but you see she had been cleaning house. The paper was torn and the ribbon rolled up and Elsie on the street,

was joined by her very particular friend, Carrie Cox. The two went gleefully on together, glad that their errands lay in the same direction. Down Ferry Street, up Franklin, they came at last to the milliner's shop, and Elsie unrolled her ribbon and laid it on the counter, giving her message all in one breath as she was apt to do. Mrs. Smith, Mama says this ribbon is too blue, too light, I mean. She must have it two shades darker. She wants it to match Baby Nell's eyes, and if you haven't it, will you please send for some, and she'll wait to finish the sack. No ribbon the color of Baby Nell's eyes was to be found, which was no wonder, for if you had

but seen those eyes, you would have thought that nothing short of a piece of the sky could have matched them. Out went the bustling girls, Elsie talking as usual. Now, Carrie, what is your errand? If it is more than a minute long, I can't go with you, for I've got to hurry. Mama wants to know about the ribbon, because if Miss Johnson can't finish baby Nell's sack tonight, she wants to go out and match the marino for her dress before dark. I'm to call it Miss Draper's for her sleeve pattern.

That won't take half a minute. Miss Draper's, let's go down Vesey Street then. No, let's go down Stone Street. That's the quickest. So they stopped at the corner, and one pulled one. way and one the other. The wind decided it at last, Elsie said, for it blew them around the corner of Stone Street. Now I'll have to stop in Papa's store, she said. I've got an errand. So have I, only let's go to Miss Draper's first, because I've got to carry my errand home from

your Papa's store, and it will be heavy, and Miss Draper's is only around the corner. It will be longer, said Elsie, thoughtfully. Oh, no, it won't either. Why, Carrie? I've got an errand away up North Street. Stone Street was right after all. See here, Carrie, I'm taking this piece of paper with me. It was what the ribbon was rolled in. How came I to bring it away with me, I wonder. I'll give it to the wind now. Oh, you awful girl, Carrie said, catching a glimpse of it as it whizzed away. Mama never allows me to tear a religious paper. We don't tear them either, and I suppose that's the reason they're always on top of the heap when I go to look for one to tear.

But today they were all religious papers, and Mama was in a hurry, and she said, Take anything. There's nothing on this one anyway. Away went the paper, whistling round and round, then straight ahead, then taking a zigzag course, as if it made no difference where it went. There was a bakery on Stone Street. There was a smell of fresh, warm bread, and whiffs of hot rolls stealing out on the air, as the great glass doors constantly opened and shut. There stood a boy outside, looking in, with, oh, such a longing face, a ragged, forlorn, hopeless-looking boy. His hat was torn, his jacket was torn, and the dirty sleeve of his shirt was torn and hung in strings.

But they were as nothing compared with the hungry look in the boy's eyes. A man opened the bakery door and came out, basket in hand. Then suddenly, he set the basket on a standard outside and hurried in again. Up came the wind and seized the paper that had been tucked around the fresh rolls and whirled it away into the air. Then the ragged boy turned his hungry eyes on the rolls. What if he should take one, two? Nobody was looking, and he was so hungry.

The man would not miss two, no, one. He wouldn't take but one. Like enough, the man would give him that if he knew how hungry he was. He must have just one. End of Section 5. Section 6 of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. The Slibrovox recording is in the public domain. How It Happened, Chapter 2

Rolls and Buns and Chances My friend Bobby, to whom I told this story the other day, when I reached this point, said, Oh, what a mean scamp he must have been to want to steal just because he saw buns. Why, I pass a great splendid bakery every morning, and there's lots and lots of magnificent things in the window, and I never think of such a thing. and his wiser sister Nellie said, Yes, and you eat 17 buckwheat cakes before you start. We will hope, for the sake of Bobby's stomach,

that Nellie meant seven instead of 17, but the moral is the same. Bobby, with a full stomach, not only was not tempted to take buns, but had no sympathy for the hungry boy at the door. Well, whiz came the wind around the corner, and blew into that boy's very eyes a piece of paper, Elsie's piece, with nothing on it. He seized it. There were large letters on one side, great printing letters. He could hardly have

helped reading them. Thou God seest me. Now, this ragged boy remembered the time when he was about five years old, remember that he had a beautiful blue and black plaid jacket, and that he stood at his mother's knee and spelled slowly out of a great book, pointing out with his fat fingers to every letter. T-H-O-U-G-O-D, S-E-E-E-S-T-M-E. He knew what it meant then, his mother told him. If you want to know how a boy who once had a good mother and a nice jacket and fat fingers came to be the ragged, homeless, hungry creature that he was that day, it is very quickly told. It was all because his father bought liquor of a good respectable man who kept a few barrels of it in the back room of his store, and the father drank and drank, a few drops more every day,

until at last the respectable man wouldn't sell him anymore, and then he went to a cellar grocery and drank rum. and there by that bakery window stood his homeless, friendless boy. He crumpled that bit of paper in his hand and stuffed it into his ragged pocket, while he muttered, it's queer I should have forgot that. Then he went after the other paper. It was tired of its frolic, and lay still on the edge of a stone step. He picked it up, brushed off a bit of dust, discovered that the other side was still fair and clean, then he came and resolutely tucked up the rolls with a firm hand. There's a lad who, if I mistake not, has fought a battle and come off Victor,

said a man who was looking out of one of the great windows, standing so that he could not be seen from the outside, and yet could see all that was passing. Porter, I'm going to ask him in to get warm. What is it, some wretched nuisance of a boy? I wish they were all in Oregon. "'Poh, no you don't. You are at your wits' ends for one this very minute. Come in, my lad, and warm your fingers. What's your name, my boy?' he asked, as the boy promptly accepted the invitation. "'Steven Turner, sir.' "'You are not very warmly clad for such weather. Where do you live?'

"'Jones's alley, round the corner from the brewery.' "'Your father live there?' "'No, sir, he's dead. Have you a mother?' No, sir, mother died six years ago. With whom do you live then? Nobody but myself. There's an old woman lets me sleep in her basement. I pay her for it. What employment have you?

None at all except odds and ends and not many of them. How do you live then? By my wits mostly, the boy said, gravely, warming his blue fingers by the fire. Don't you want to work? at this question Stephen Turner looked up with a kind of grave surprise at the gentleman's face, but he only answered, Yes, sir, of course.

Porter, why don't you give this boy some work? The gentleman asked, turning quickly towards the busy man behind the counter. Looks like it, said Mr. Porter briefly. As for Stephen, he looked neither surprised nor disappointed. That's what they all saw. say, he exclaimed, I never earned enough to buy my clothes. The people kept coming and going, and pretty soon came Elsie and Carrie. They eyed the ragged boy curiously. At least Carrie did. As for Elsie, she was talking.

Papa, Mama wants you to send fresh biscuit for supper. And, oh, Papa, Mrs. Carter was in Dr. Phillips. Mama sent me to Dr. Phillips, and Mrs. Carter said it was very fortunate for her that I came in. and she wants her rolls an hour earlier than usual. Because Mr. Carter is to take the seven o'clock train, he's going to New York, and Papa, he's going to bring little Katie a music box, and she wants them fresh and hot. She's a nuisance, sputtered peppery, Mr. Porter. You go back and tell her she can't have them at all. Tell her both my boys are sick. Boys are always having measles or mumps. I've had them both. Interrupted some. Stephen gravely.

"'There,' said the gentleman, "'what better recommendation do you need? "'Try the boy, Porter.' "'Stuff and nonsense. "'Do you know where Mrs. John Carter lives?' "'Yes, sir. "'How many rolls will you eat "'if I send you up there with hers?'

"'Steven was very grave and simple in his answer. "'Not one, sir.' "'I doubt it,' Mr. Porter said quickly, "'but I've got to try it.' An hour after that, Elsie Porter was putting on baby Nell's stockings when she looked up quickly and said, "'Mama, here comes Papa's new boy that I told you about. He's got a note for you, I guess.' "'What a looking boy,' said Mrs. Porter, and then Rosie let him into the room, and Mrs. Porter read her note. "'Dear Alice, find some clothes, can't you, for this rag-bag? And give him some supper. I've hired him for a

week on trial. He went to Carter's and back quicker than any boy I ever had if he went there at all, which I rather doubt. Yours hastily, husband. Mrs. Porter went to look up clothes, and presently Elsie sat Baby Nell on the floor and ran after her. Stephen looked at the small, sweet face, and nodded and smiled. Baby Nell smiled back. Stephen nodded harder and whistled a little, and baby Nell laughed outright. Is Rosie in the dining room? Mrs. Porter asked of her daughter. No, ma'am.

Then run right back. We don't know anything about this dreadful-looking boy. Perhaps he may be tempted to steal something. Elsie ran back, but she was not quick enough. Stephen had stolen something, and he went away with it too. It was Baby Nell's heart. Baby Nell shed some tears because the boy went away, but was consoled by a red-cheeked apple,

and as she tried with her two pearly teeth to bite a hole in the smooth skin, she forgot all about Stephen Turner. In fact, she had not the least idea that she had anything to do with his life, nor once imagined that because she just happened to drop a piece of crackly paper down the stovepipe hole, therefore Stephen Turner had a good supper and a new jacket and had been hired on trial for a week and baby Nell was not a bit less wise than her elders Mama isn't he a funny-looking boy Elsie said as she watched him from the window

I'm glad Papa hired him he looked so sad isn't it queer that he happened into the store just as I came to tell Papa that Mrs. Carter wanted her roles earlier Stephen Turner, as he walked back to the bakery in his new gray jacket and with the taste of the cold corned beef still in his mouth, said to himself, I got my supper, good supper too, and I didn't take the man's rolls. I'm glad of that. It's odd how that bit of paper happened to come flying into my face just then. That chap happened in at just the right time. Mr. Porter said, eating his supper in his supper in his, and telling wife and daughter about the day's troubles between the mouthfuls. So they all talked about the things that happened,

and not one of them seemed to think about that great father of them all, who planned all the happiness that there is in the world. End of Section 6. Section 7 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Slibervok's recording is in the public domain. How it happened, Chapter 3 He was the boy that Mr. Porter engaged for a week trial, you know. You remember him?

Well, at the end of a week, Mr. Porter said, I guess you and I will try it together for a month, my boy. He isn't brisk, Mr. Porter explained to his wife when she asked about Stephen. You'd call him slow and dull and think he wasn't going to amount to much, but somehow when he gets started he keeps started stays in motion you know until the thing is all done up when i see him shoulder his basket and start for murray's up on the hill i'm just as sure of his going steadily there as i am that he has started you remember that spry little jimmy norton that i had well jimmy would be up the street and around the corner while this boy is getting ready to open the door but half an hour after you'd find jimmy no way further than just around the corner, watching a dog fight or rolling marbles maybe, while Stephen would be trudging down the hill with his empty basket. So you see, what he lacks in briskness, he makes up in stick-tuitiveness. I've had a good many boys to deal with, and I always noticed that those who

stick at their work in spite of dogs or marbles or horses come out at the top of the heap after all. At the end of the month there was nothing said about another contract. I think Mr. Porter forgot it, but Stephen did not, and his heart was in his mouth, until just as he was leaving, feeling very sad and discouraged, Mr. Porter said, I shall want you half an hour earlier than usual tomorrow morning. Will you be on hand? Yes, sir, said Stephen, with unusual briskness, and vanished. At home, or at the place he called home, the cellar where he paid for the privilege of sleeping, by the window stood a little girl flattening her nose against the pain, a dirty, ragged, forlorn girl

who had yellow hair and never combed it. Her eyes were gray, and her skin was freckled. Her nose didn't need flattening, it was short and broad enough already. She did not turn from the one dingy window when Stephen came in, but spoke quickly. Well, are you different? discharged? No. Hired over? Why, I don't know, said Stephen, slowly and thoughtfully. Yes, I think I am. Huh, the little girl said, in rather a scornful tone. It's queer, you can't tell for certain. I could decide which it was awful quick. Then they were silent while Stephen ate his supper. I suppose you think there was a table, spread, with a white cloth and clean dishes on it, and bread and butter, and cake, of course.

Nobody has supper without cake, only maybe it wasn't in a cake basket, since they were so poor, but on a common plate. Let me just tell you about it. There were just three plates belonging to that family, and they were in the cupboard this minute, and held, one a loaf of bread, one, a very little lump of butter, and one, four cold potatoes. These things were for the little girl and her grandmother's breakfast and dinner next day. Stephen boarded himself. He went into the corner at the foot of the bed, took a biscuit out of one pocket and a dried herring out of the other, and with these he made a hearty meal. When there was just the tail of the herring left, he spoke suddenly. Dick, have you had a herring lately? Then you would probably have looked around for a stout boy named Dick to answer this

question, but the little girl at the window answered, not in ages. Then Stephen eyed the herring's tail. He wanted it awfully, but at last he said, come over here and get this bite. And Dick answered him as promptly as before, I shan't, eat it yourself. No, he said firmly. He said firmly. gathering strength for his great self-denial? No, I want you to have it. Here. And he came over with the dainty morsel and held it temptingly before her eyes. There's just one bite left, and you shall have it. When Mr. Porter pays me, I mean to buy three of them and treat all around.

Dick swallowed the tail without more ado, and when it was gone, said, Why don't he pay you? He must be mean. "'No,' said Stephen thoughtfully. "'It isn't because he's mean, I don't think. "'Only he handles heaps of money every day, "'and mine is so little, you see, he forgets it.' "'Dick turned back to the window and flattened her nose again. "'Pretty soon she said, with a long-drawn sigh,

"'I'd like to earn some money myself, Stephen.' "'Well,' Stephen answered, hopefully, "'like as not you can. Who knows? I don't know. Chances come. You look and look for a way, and there isn't any, and you feel like fighting or stealing or something, and then all of a sudden comes a chance. Chances have to be gone after, Dick said crossly. No, they don't, was Stephen's positive answer. They come. How did I get this place? I didn't go after it, nor know anything about it, and it come right along. I didn't do a thing. It just happened.

You see, Stephen knew no more about the bit of tissue paper that baby knell threw down the stovepipe hole, and Elsie's search for it, and the torn newspaper, how it came to flutter to him and the man inside the bakery looking on, and the great God who overruleth it all, than he did before. Then I wish it would happen to me, that's all. This Dick said wearily, very much as if she didn't believe in any such thing. You might be getting ready for it. What do you mean?

Why, you might wash your wreaths. face, you know, and comb your hair. How would that get a chance to earn money? Besides, Stephen, you said you didn't do a thing. I suppose I don't quite mean that. I walked along the street, you know, and look around, and if I had not been there by the bakery, you know, I would not have been called in, though how I came to be there at just that spot instead of any other, I don't know. but then you see there might come a chance to you that would take you if your hair was combed and wouldn't if it wasn't. I haven't a comb, said Dick gravely.

I might lend you mine, and Stephen drew forth a wooden comb that had seen much use. My hair would snap that all up in a twinkling. The young lady said, with a bit of scorn in her voice, You might comb it one little speck of a lock at a time, and then it would go all right. Well, Dick said after a little pause, I'll wash my face and comb my hair, and you walk along the streets and look around and see if any of your happens will come to me. Only don't begin until day after tomorrow, because I shan't get my hair combed before that time. I'll keep a lookout, was Stephen's grave answer. something'll happen you'll see if there don't then he went to the cupboard set the bread and butter and potatoes on the highest shelf and went to bed on the straw spread over the floor

mrs porter was almost in despair she was trying to set the table for the cook was also the washerwoman and it was monday baby nell was on hand she had climbed a chair and tilted herself half out of an open window her mama took her down with a scream of terror and closed the window. She had set one dainty slipper sailing in a five-court pan of milk. She had slipped into the pantry unawares, and stepped with one slippered and one barefoot into the box of sugar under the shelf, and standing so had reached up after a pan of flour and showered it over her curly head, all this and much more in the space of one distracting hour. No wonder her mama's cheese, burned like fire, and that the first thing she did when she sat down to the dinner table was to fan herself violently with her apron.

End of Section 7 Section 8 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. The Slibervok's recording is in the public domain. How It Happened, Chapter 4 I am just completely tired out, and that's the whole. of it, she said wearily, such a forenoon as I have had, baby Nell has done everything, and then followed a history of some of her pranks, at which father and daughter laughed until they made the tired mother laugh too. Stephen Turner had come in with the mail,

and he lingered and nodded and whistled softly, and clapped his hands at baby Nell, and finally took her in his arms to show her two cats. sitting on the next neighbor's piazza in the sun. The mother breathed more freely. At least Baby Nell was out of mischief for a few minutes. She was always good with Stephen. I wish he was a girl, Mrs. Porter said, looking with admiring eyes at the careful manner

in which he held the fluttering morsel. Then I should keep him to take care of baby. She is very fond of him. Stephen looked eagerly interested. "'He didn't wish he was a girl, not he. He would much rather be a boy, but if this should happen to be the chance that he had been looking for.' "'Mrs. Porter continued, "'I have made up my mind that I must have someone. "'Kate grows cross her every Monday because I have to hinder her so much, and I couldn't be hired to live through such another day as this. "'I had to keep Elsie at home until after ten this morning.'

That won't do, Mr. Porter said promptly. Elsie ought to be in school. No, of course it won't do, but how am I going to help it? I can't find a girl. It certainly was the chance, and Stephen came forward with baby Nell in his arms. I know a girl who would like to come and take care of baby, he said earnestly. Who is she? Her name is Dick Bates.

She is... But at this point, Stephen stopped, abashed at Mrs. Porter's exclamation, Dick, I thought you said it was a girl. So she is, ma'am, and her name is Harriet Ann Bates, but folks have gotten the notion of calling her Dick. Where does she live? She lives in the basement where I do. It's her grandma that lets me have the closet to sleep in.

Is she the girl who had a pitcher the other day when you was at the pump, Stephen? Elsie asked this question, and Stephen nodded. "'Mama,' said Elsie, "'she's an awful-looking girl. Her dress was torn criss-cross every way, and so dirty and a fright, Baby Nell would scream if she looked at her.' Mrs. Porter looked as though she didn't mean

to give her a chance to try it, and Stephen, somewhat downhearted, yet determined to do his best. She has combed her hair since then. He said eagerly, She got it all done this morning, and it looks real nice, and she mended her dress and washed her face, and she wants a chance real bad.

Is she a good girl? inquired Mr. Porter, and Stephen hesitated. Was Dick a good girl? She was sometimes rude and saucy to Grandma, and slapped the children in the next room to theirs, and quarreled with the boys who lived in the attic. But then Grandma was cross and the children needed slapping, and the boys teased her. Finally, he said, slowly and thoughtfully,

She ain't very good, I suppose, but I guess she means to be if she gets the chance, and she don't lie nor steal, and she would love baby now. What do you say, Alice? asked Mr. Porter. Will you give the girl her chance? I'm sure I don't know. said poor puzzled tired mrs porter how do i know but she'll be ugly to baby to be sure i could keep her with me and watch her and i can't find anybody else as i see but then dear me i don't want such a set around me oh my patience This last sentence was for Baby Nell. She had slipped down from Stephen's arms and pitched upon this particular time to climb a chair over in the corner, and from that to a table, and pull with all her

little might at a pitcher that stood on it. Over it came at last, and the water splashed delightfully, and the pitcher made a grand crash as it bumped on the floor, and Baby Nell gave a yell of glee over the success of her plans. When the hub-up was over, Mrs. Porter said excitedly, That's the way it has been every minute this day, and is every day. The very second my back is turned, she finds somewhere to climb and something to tip over. Stephen, said Mr. Porter, decidedly, you go home and get this girl, and then stay here till baby Nell gets a little acquainted with her. We'll try it anyhow. "'I don't suppose baby will have anything to do with her,'

"'Mrs. Porter said, doubtfully, "'you know if she takes a freak not to go to her, "'she won't, and you can't help yourself.' "'Well, then, you can send her home, "'and you'll be no worse off than you were before you tried. "'Go ahead, Stephen.' "'And Stephen went. "'I found the chance,' he said,

"'bursing into the basement, as Dick was eating her cold potato dinner. It happened along just where they always do, where you ain't thinking of finding them, and here it is. I don't see it, said Dick, coolly eyeing Stephen as she chewed the last mouthful of potato. And then Stephen told his story. She won't come to me, Dick said positively,

you see if she does, babies never do. She will if it's your chance. Stephen answered as positively, and Dick, whirling suddenly round to him, said, Stephen, what do you mean when you say that? I don't exactly know, said Stephen soberly. Some queer notion had got into his mind that there was a chance somewhere for everybody if they only looked out for it and went to work at it. At least he thought it was a queer notion.

but you and I know that it was the same idea that the good man had who said, God has a plan for every man. End of Section 8. Section 9 of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. The Slippervox recording is in the public domain. How It Happened, Chapter 5. It was very much the same idea that you will find in your Bibles, in the tenth chapter of Matthew and the 30th verse.

But Stephen didn't know about that. Dick had managed to mend her green dress until it looked whole at least, and the business of combing her hair had been finished that morning, so although she did not look much like Elsie Porter, whom she met in her flesh-buff peak dress and white ruffled apron, on her way to school, yet on the whole she looked better than Mrs. Porter expected,

and after talking with her in the basement a few minutes, she took her upstairs to see if Baby Nell would agree to the arrangement. Stephen had gone up to entertain the little lady while Mrs. Porter went down to receive Dick. Now, Baby Nell was full of unaccountable freaks, one of which was to take violent dislikes to people, for nobody knew what reason, to scream with terror when they looked at her,

and to go off into a succession of heart-rending, reeks if they attempted to touch her. The performance might be kept up for weeks, and whether she would choose to receive Dick in this fashion, no mortal knew. Stephen stood before the door, holding the precious little tyrant in his arms, looking her sweetest and brightest. Dick slipped in after Mrs. Porter, and Baby Nell looked at her. Dick's heart beat fast, not that she knew that this moment was to be the turning point in her whole life, not that she had the least notion of the power that lay in this roguish-looking baby to make her what she was not, but she wanted some work. Baby Nell didn't know it either. She hadn't the least idea that if she screeched like a little

steam engine, Dick would be sent home in disgust and disappointment. Oh, none of them knew anything about the plan that God had for her, and for all of them through her. But they waited anxiously, and Baby Nell stared. So far good. At least she hadn't yelled. Dick nodded her head and smiled, and Baby stared. Then Dick ventured on putting out her hands with a coaxing word. Baby turned halfway, half hit her head in Stephen's neck, then thought better of it and peeped out again. Still, the coaxing hands were held out. Baby leaned forward a little, then drew back and hid her face, then peeped out, and suddenly, with a quick little squeal of glee, bounced herself fairly into Dick's outstretched arms. Once again, all unbeknown to her silly little self, baby Nell made a

great change in another life as well as in her own. It is a fortunate thing for me that she chanced to take a fancy to the girl. Mrs. Porter said, with a relieved sigh, as she watched Dick's careful handling of baby now, "'For once in my life, I'm in luck,' Dick muttered to herself as she squeezed baby's fat foot into her blue shoe. And Stephen, as he walked away from the door, said decidedly, "'That's her chance for certain.' They were packing and jamming themselves into the carriage. Mrs. Porter and Mrs. Willard and baby Nell filled the backseat. The Mrs. Willard took the middle seat, and Elsie was in front with the driver and Fred. "'Dear me, Mama,' said Elsie in dismay. "'Where will Dick put herself? We are all squeezed up now.'

"'Dick can't go,' Mrs. Porter declared emphatically, "'what with shawls and cloaks and lunch and people, we have just as much in here as we can stand. Dick stood on the walk below, looking with sorrowful, submissive face upon these preparations for the long-talkive day to be spent on the beach. It was a white day to the Porter family. They had neither time nor money to spend very extensively in this way. One day by the ocean was the treat looked forward to by Elsie and Fred Porter, and talked of for weeks beforehand with eager delight. This year Dick had been counted in their plans, and had contrived to get up as much enthusiasm and more wonderment than themselves, for the sea was something that she had never seen in her life. "'Oh, Mama,' Elsie said, with a more dismayed face than before,

"'Dick must go. She has never seen the ocean, and baby Nell will be just as full of mischief as she can hold. We shall have to take care of her the whole day, and we shan't have a bit of a good time. Do please, Mama, let her go. Fred and I can squeeze closer.' Mrs. Porter looked irresolute. We certainly need her today if we ever do. did, she said thoughtfully, but there really is no place for her. The driver looked down at the grave, wistful face of the child. He had a little girl at home who dearly loved the sea. She might curl down here, ma'am, between my feet. She wouldn't take up much room, he said, addressing Mrs. Porter respectfully. Very well, she answered in a listless tone, and so the matter was

settled, and Dick promptly and gleefully curled herself into a very small space, and the carriage rolled away. End of Section 9 Section 10 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. The Slibervok's recording is in the public domain. How It Happened, Chapter 6. Only in hours' drive, then the Great Foaming Ocean rolled and tumbled itself in view. They in the carriage gave it various greetings. Fred and Elsie screamed and clapped their hands in

wild delight. The Mrs. Willard murmured, how perfectly magnificent. Mama Willard said cheerily, There it is, baby, Nell, something you never saw before in your life. Dick looked at it in solemn silence, with great, gray, astonished eyes. As for Mrs. Porter, I am not sure that she even heard the roar of the waves. The truth is she was thinking of something else. The carriage unpacked itself, and the inmates wandered off to indulge their various moods. Dick shouldered baby Nell, and stood still in the deep white sand, staring. The other children began a wild search after shells. The young ladies took to writing their names in the sand with the points of their parasols, and Mrs. Porter left the rest and moved away alone.

truth to tell she was in a very uncomfortable state of mind. The ocean might be all very well for those who liked it, but she was in no mood to enjoy it that morning. It seemed to her that the white waves made much ado about nothing, seething and boiling and tumbling over each other in mad haste, apparently to reach somewhere, and then suddenly falling back to do the very same thing over again, hundreds and thousands of times. She turned her back upon it with an impatient frown and continued her reverie. The subject was an important one. Her troubles were definite, but they could be expressed very briefly. She wanted a new parlor carpet and fresh curtains, and Mr. Porter had that very morning represented to her the impossibility of his incurring that expense during the present year.

His words had been very kind. He had assured her that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to gratify her if he could do so. Mrs. Porter was not given to foolish moods. Many and many were the things that she silently, patiently did without, but this had been a long-cherished wish, and the disappointment had come upon her suddenly, and at a time when she was rasped with a dozen other trifles.

So she turned her back upon old, Old Ocean, and looked contemptuously on her sister-in-law, Mrs. Willard, who had joined the children in their search after shells. Mrs. Willard, she said bitterly, can afford to play. She has nothing else to do. Mrs. Willard owned a grand house on Pennsylvania Avenue, and had Brussels carpets and lace curtains to her heart's content. She was stopping at her brother's house for a few days previous to her summer trip to the White Mountains, and the very force of contrast between her elegant, easy life, and Mrs. Porter's quiet, industrious one, made that lady look with hard eyes on her own laborious lot. She felt very much disgusted with herself for coming to the beach

that morning. What was the beach to her? Or why should she, who had so much to do, waste a whole day staring at the ocean. Of course it would have been a disappointment to the children. But what of that? She said gloomily. The children must learn to bear disappointment as their mother has before them. They will probably have little else to look forward to. I never have. Now, please do Mrs. Porter justice. She didn't mean one word of this. Her life had been a quiet but a very happy one, and she knew it, and she would have sat up and worked all night rather than to have her children lose that day at the beach. But it was so nice once in a while, when one feels in the mood, to be thoroughly and hopelessly miserable. At this point, Dick came plunging

through the sand, baby Nell in her arms, and called Mrs. Porter's name. The lady turned impatiently, That girl is the plague of my life, she muttered, Forever screaming after me and wanting something. What I keep her for is more than any mortal can tell. Then she spoke aloud and sharply. Put the baby down. What do you carry her in that absurd fashion for? Let her sit in the sand.

What do you want? If you please, ma'am, the little bit of a gold pin that fastens baby Nell's blanket is gone. We were walking along, and the wind just took us and blew us right around and blew off baby's hat. And when I got it and got her straightened up again, the pin was gone. Mrs. Porter's answer was prompt and decided, Well, then, you may go and find it, and don't come back until you have done so. I can't afford to buy gold pins for you to lose.

What shall I do with baby now, ma'am? questioned patient Dick. leave her where she is you don't give her a chance to play in the sand at all you just drag her around in your arms now go and mind you don't come back without that pin i don't think mrs porter realized her own absurdity the little gold slide wasn't an inch long and not much wider than a thread and of course the idea of finding it in that sea sand was absurd but when people are in ill-humor they seldom realized their own folly. Away went Dick to her hopeless task, and Mrs. Porter turned back to the sea, merely glancing first to see if Baby Nell was in a dry place.

Then she walked on a few steps, looking gloomily out into the surging waters, and continuing her gloomy thoughts. Baby Nell was in a high state of glee. She was not afraid, no indeed. Why should she be? Nothing ever hurt her. She fancied that everybody and everything loved her. She tossed the warm sand in her chubby little

fists and showered it over her feet, white feet, from which she hurriedly jerked her slippers and stockings. This fun lasted for some time, and nobody saw that the treacherous sea was creeping nearer and nearer to baby now. Nobody but baby herself. She saw it and liked it, and helped it along as fast as she could. She went, with swift little creeps, out into the wet and slippery sand, only glancing back now and then, and as no warning voice, said the familiar, no, no, baby mustn't. She went gaily on. The water came surging about her feet, and she only yelled with glee. She thought the sea was only a great splendid bathtub. She crept a little nearer. There came a great white wave, dashing in splurging and broke right around her, splattering the water all over her curly head and giving her

a taste of its saltness. She shivered a little at this and looked around and said her one little word in a wandering pitiful tone, Mama! But Mama was looking away out to sea and thinking sullenly about her carpets and curtains. And so there came another great swelling wave and broke away above her head and took baby Nell's strength and breath quite away. And when it slipped wickedly back again into the sea, it carried the baby with it. She gave a weak little cry, but the great sea roared and nobody heard the cry. Nobody knows what prompted the mother just then to turn from her carpets and look for her darling. And above the roar of ocean, the people on the beach heard the awful shriek, long, loud, and piercing that came from the mother's heart. It all happened in a very few

seconds. The shrieks of the mother, as she tried to plunge through the sand, terrified ladies following helplessly after her, and a way ahead of them all, a little swift-moving shadow dashing headlong down the beach and out into the very sea itself. Just a second more, and Dick had snatched the little white-dripping bundle that a great wave was just ready to devour, and, battling fiercely with the wave that broke in fury over her head, she made her way, panting and breathless, and laid the pale-faced, tired baby in her mother's arms, ere she sank down, utterly exhausted in the sand. What a time they had after that, with what eager, nervous haste they worked over that baby. How quickly the dripping clothes were torn

off, and the little body rubbed until it glowed all over. Then she was wrapped in blankets and shawls, and pinned securely like a little mummy. Then the whole party wedged themselves into the carriage, and drove rapidly homeward. They had had enough of the beach and the sea. Dick, very wet and very happy, was rolled in a great blanket shawl, and lay curled snugly inside the carriage with her head on Mrs. Willard's lap. Will ever anything look pleasanter to Mrs. Porter than did her own dainty parlor that evening, with the curtains drawn and the gaslight brightening the carpet, and the whole circle all complete?

Baby Nell, in a fresh white suit, danced and fluttered and jabbered as joyously as though the ocean had not almost swallowed her that day, and the thankful mother held her securely and looked down upon her with soft, happy eyes. Could it be possible that it was she who had cared for carpets and curtains that morning? How rich and cheerful-looking her curtains were, after all, and the carpet so much brighter than she had any idea of. She would not have new ones for anything. She shivered at the bare thought. But for thoughts of them, she would not have left Baby Nell that morning among those cruel waves. She is just the age that my baby was when I lost her. Did you think of it, Alice? Mrs. Willard asked, gazing tenderly on baby now, and the mother, too much moved to answer with

words, snugged her darling closer and shed grateful tears over her happier lot. If you please, ma'am, Dick said, appearing at the door, here is the little gold pin, I found it, and I was coming with it when I saw Baby Nell. Oh, dear child, said Mrs. Porter, tremulously, I wish you had thrown it in the ocean. I never want to see it again. If I had not sent you to find it, then she stopped with quivering lip and choking voice.

Just then, Baby Nell gave one of her sudden springs and landed safely in Dick's outstretched arms, and as they watched her cooing and nestling there, Elsie slid toward her mother and said softly, Mama, if we hadn't squeezed this morning and made room for Dick, what would have become a baby? End of Section 10. Section 11 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. How It Happened, Chapter 7. I am an old woman, nigh on to 80 years. Leastways I'm past 70, and 80 don't seem very far off.

I belong to this Porter family, of which you've heard tell so much. John Porter, he's my oldest son, and the only one I've got now. And Sarah Willard, she's my only daughter. I belong to the long list of very much troubled and pulled about old mothers that we read and hear so much about. Only, I'm on t'other side of the line. Part of the time I live with my daughter, Sarah Willard, on Pennsylvania Avenue, and part of the time I live down here in Stone Street with my son, John Porter. And there ain't a nook nor a corner of the Grand House on the Avenue, with all its handsome furniture, marble and velvet and damask and whatnot, nor of this cozy little house here in Stone Street, that every single soul on them don't think looks a little nicer and comfortable if Grandma is in it.

Whichever house I'm in when I begin to gather up my traps and pack my trunk and talk about going to the other place for a spell, there's the greatest hue and cry you ever heard tell of. The children, they hang around me as if there wasn't anybody in this world but grandma, and my grown-up children ain't a bit behind them. So, between both families, I'm kept in a kind of muddle, most of the time trying to decide which of them needs me most. I'm one of the old-fashioned kind. I wear plain white caps with close borders, and I wear very plain, short-waisted black dresses, but my daughter Sarah, she tends to the getting of them up, and they are nice and fine and soft, I can tell you. You ought to see my grand easy chair that was bought a purpose for me. It sits in the

nicest corner of the back parlor in Sarah's house, and when I am seated in it of a morning, Sarah, she brings her grand visitors out, and she says to him, this is my mother, as churk and proud as if I was a queen instead of a wrinkled up old woman. As for son-in-law Willard, I don't know as he ever came up to the house in his life that he didn't bring mother some oranges or some figs or some grapes or some new-fashioned candy or something or other. But, Lance Sakes, I don't know as the chair is a bit easier than this old-fashioned high-backed one that I'm sitting in this minute, and that daughter-in-law porter stuffed and covered back in sides and arms a purpose for me. And baby Nell, she sits in my lap and coos and smooths out the wrinkles on my old face with her dear teeny little hand, and kisses me with her

tongue and snuggles her curly head in my neck and goes to sleep as good as a kitten, times when the rest of them can't do nothing with her. As for my son John, I do really believe he thinks that there ain't but one mother in this blessed earth, and that's his mother. But I begun this a purpose to tell you a little story about my son John and my grandson Fred. This morning we had a terrible time. I never did see a house turned more topsy-turvy than this was for a little while. John, he flew about like a north wind. I knew by the signs before I heard a word that he was a hunting something. He always was a losing things and a huntin' of him when he was a boy. Well, how he did whizz around, to be sure. Pretty soon I heard his voice.

Where's my bank book, says he? I laid it right here on this table. Someone's taken it. Here, Elsie, have you been meddling with my bank book? Elsie, she said she didn't know nothing about it, and then he said, that's a likely story bank books didn't walk unless somebody walked them daughter-in-law porter she was very meek and quiet like but she looked under the table and inside the coffee pot just as people do when they're kind of flustered and don't quite know what they're about and she said it's very strange then john spoke up real sharp and testy and says he it ain't strange at all i never laid a thing down in this house and found it again. Never. The children are as mischievous and meddlesome as the day is long, and you'd let the baby have the glass pitcher and the hammer if she wanted them. And he glared at the children as if they belonged to some old vagrant and not to him at all. I declare for it, I guess we all felt relieved and rested like, when he finally got his hat on

and flew out of the house. daughter-in-law, she didn't say a word. She just gave the children a peach all around. And by and by, she says to me, John is hurried almost to death about his business. He does have too much to do sometimes. He is in such a hurry that he doesn't know what he says or does. We had a quiet enough day after that. John was so busy that he couldn't come home to dinner, so we had it all by ourselves. and baby Nell was the only real busy one in the house that day. I declare for it if she didn't make every bone in my body ache the way she trotted around. When I took her in my lap to try to quiet her, she pulled my specks from my nose and put them on herself

and pulled down my white hair to make it curl like mamas. When my own babies used to do mischief, I always used to consider it my duty to slap their fingers. But dear me, I always thought it hurt me more than it did them. Enough sight. And I'm glad them days are gone by, and it's no concern of mine to be slapping baby Nell's soft little fingers. End of Section 11. Section 12 of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Slibervox recording is in the public domain. How it happened, Chapter 8

Baby got her work all done after a spell and toddled over to me, willing to be taken up and padded and sung to sleep. And there she lay in my arms sleeping quiet as a lamb when her father came home to tea. He had got quiet too. He brought an orange for me and a fig for the baby, and he kissed her and talked to me good-naturedly a spell,

and then sat down to read his little. his evening paper. Fred was in the hall with his slate and pencil. He had been there quite a while working away, and once he brought his slate to show me. He was making a picture of a steam engine that he had been to see that day, and it was just the completest thing, screws and wheels all fixed. He explained to me as natural as if he had built the whole thing himself. I believe that boy is going to be a genius. It seemed as if everybody in the last half hour had wanted something of Fred. His mother called him, and the cook she wanted him, and then Elsie had to have something she couldn't reach, and so he was laying down his slate and pencil and bobbing up and down most of the time.

The next thing that happened, his pencil was lost. He hunted after it quite patient for a spell, and then he begun to fret. Now what has become of that pencil? I heard him say. I never did see the beat. A fellow can't make anything in this house. Where could it have got to? Elsie, Porter, I just believe you have been meddling with it.

I just wish you would let my things alone. And then there was a good deal of sputtering between him and Elsie. She's saying, I didn't, and he's saying, you did. Just then my son John jumped up and went out there pretty spry, and says he, Fred, what do you mean by such kind of talk as that, working up such an uproar about a slate pencil, and being so cross to your sister. I won't have such goings on. You can go to your room and stay there until after supper. We don't want such a cross boy to take supper with us. Then he came back and sat down to his paper again. I sat and thought quite a spell, and then says I,

John, did you find your bank book? He looked at me kind of foolish-like, and says he, Yes, I did, I found it in my other coat pocket. I had forgotten that I had changed my coat. Well then, says I, very grave and solemn-like, you can just go into that clothes press and get on the shelf, and you can't have no supper, because we don't want no cross boys to our supper. John, he looked at me a minute, and then he burst out laughing, and laughed so loud, I was afraid he'd wake baby now. Pretty soon, says he, Seems to me that's pretty hard on me, ain't it, mother? A bank book is of more consequence than a slate pencil. John, says I, that depends on.

how you look at them. You can be sure of one thing. Things look amazing different at 50 from what they did at 10, and I make no matter of doubt that when you was 10 or 12, a slate pencil was enough more important according to your notion than a bank book, especially if you had happened to me making a steam engine. Then I up and told him all about the steam engine, how cute and perfect it was. He listened as pleased as could be, and says he, Yes, he's a smart little fellow, no mistake about that. I don't know, but I was pretty sharp with him. I'll call him presently and let him come down to tea.

Then he read his paper for a spell, and I sought and thought. There's things that I've been wanting to say to him this long time, but I didn't know just how to set about it. finally I thought I'd say them just as it happened out of my heart without any fixing. John, says I, I've been thinking today about going home. I've been down here a great many years, and it stands to reason that I can't stay here very much longer.

I'm expecting the Lord will send for me most any day, and I'm willing and ready to go, only for one thing. How am I going to be certain? that I'll see you again after a while. John, you've been doing about everything you could think of for your mother all your life. Won't you do just one thing more? Let me be sure I can have you with me always.

I broke down there, my voice got all trembly like. You see, I felt it so much, this one trouble of mine. John, he looked kind of startled at first, and then his face got pale and tears came into his eyes. He came and leaned over my chair and kissed me twice, and says he, his voice all shaky. Mother, I'll try, but don't you talk about going away and leaving us. I can't bear it.

Then he went out of the room. I sat thinking about it a little spell, and the more I thought, the more I felt as if I must have it, Till at last I went and laid baby Nell on the bed in my room, and I got down on my knees by her to ask the Lord if there was any more that I could do. And after I had prayed a little, it seemed to me as if I heard a voice saying, Those lambs, Grandmother, coax those lambs into the right way, and like enough, the sheep will follow. End of Section 12. Section 13 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Faye Huntington and Pansy.

This Libravox recording is in the public domain. How It Happened, Chapter 9 Have you a handkerchief, Elsie? Mrs. Porter asked this, just as Elsie and her father were ready to start. Everybody in the house had been helping. Mrs. Porter had been up since sunrise, and it was an August day, so she was, she rose pretty early, and Grandma came in without her cap in her haste to help them off. Baby Nell had helped, too. She put the key to the valise in the water pitcher, and gave one of Elsie's

shoes to the dog under the window. But in spite of all delays and mishaps, they were finally ready. Yes, um, Elsie said, in answer to her mother's question, I have that hem-stitched one that Aunt Sarah sent me. It has no name on. Mrs. Porter said, hesitatingly, I am afraid you'll lose it. Well, never mind. There is no time to change it now. It has a name, Mother. It is marked saw in the corner. Marked Saw? What do you mean, child? Why, don't you know? S.A.W. are Aunt Sarah Willard's initials, and they are worked in the corner. Dick calls it my saw-handkerchief. And Elsie went away laughing. I want you to know that she was going to New York. Mr. Porter ran down to the city on business every two or three months, sometimes oftener. But although it wasn't much more than two or three

hours ride from home, Elsie Porter had never been there, and she had longed with all her might to go. last she had her wish. Fred went to the depot to see them off, and said, half-enviously, that he was the oldest he ought to have gone first. Ladies served first always, that is a gentleman's creed. Mr. Porter said, as he gave into his hands the change left from buying tickets. I know it. All right, thank you, father, said Fred, choking down his envy and smiling at the 63 cents in his hands. Then the whistle blew, and people crowded and pushed each other, and all tried to get on or off the cars at once, but found that after all, they had time enough to take it more quietly. Elsie put her shawl strap containing her crimson and black plaid shawl

in the rack above her head, shook out her linen polonaise, stuffed her hem-stitched handkerchief into the conspicuous side pocket, surveyed the buttons of her kid boots to see that they were in immaculate order, then looked complacently around the car. She was certainly a very well-dressed young girl, comparing favorably with any about her, and she was on her way to New York. Meet the 750 train tonight, Fred! She called out, amid the shrieks of the engine. She had studied the timetable and the business-like sentence, the 750 train, rolled glibly from her tongue. Well, said Mr. Porter, you are fairly started for New York at last, aren't you? Does it feel as nice as you thought it would? Then he bought her two apples, an orange, a pint of peanuts, and a box of prize

candy. After that, he read the newspaper. Elsie Porter was not by nature, a timid little girl. Thus far, she had found very few things in her life worth being afraid of, and she was perfectly astonished at the nervous way in which she clutched at her father's arm, and held on tight, as he pushed and elbowed his way among the throng at the depot. What a tangle of men, women, trunks, and children there were! More than half of the time, Elsie suspected that her father was hunting for something that he couldn't find, and didn't know what he was about, for no sooner was she seated in a street car, looking at the people, then he whisked her out of it into an omnibus, then back into a streetcar again,

and it seemed to her bewildered vision that they were going over precisely the same ground that they had just traversed. Suddenly he stopped on the sidewalk, rushed into a large house, through a hall up a flight of stairs, pulling breathless Elsie after him, and landed her in a large, handsome room. Now, Elsie, he said, I must leave you here a little while. I have some business to attend to near here, and you can rest until I come back. Then I will take you somewhere. Father, said Elsie, very much startled. I don't like to stay here alone. I wish you would let me go with you. wouldn't trouble you at all. You couldn't, child. I've got to go where there is a great crowd. It is as much as I can do to get myself through. Why, you're not afraid, are you? Elsie shook

her head resolutely. The idea of having Fred and Dick told that she was afraid, and Dick had lived in New York a whole year. Why, no, she said hesitatingly. I'm not afraid, of course. but then it's kind of strange and lonesome, you know. Whose house is this anyway, and where are the people? Aren't they friends of yours? Whose house? Why, it's French's Hotel. You don't think I pitch into private houses this way, I hope. This is the public parlor, and there's plenty going on down the street to look at,

and I thought you would like it. French's Hotel? repeated Elsie in great surprise. Why, I thought hotels stood away from other buildings and had long piazzas and ever so many doors. Her father laughed. You are thinking of the hotels at home, I guess, he said. They don't have any room for piazzas and extra doors in this part of the city. Well, what am I going to do with you?

If you are afraid to stay here alone, why, that's another thing. But meantime, all Elsie's native courage had returned to her. It was certainly splendid to be left alone in the public parlor of a grand hotel, just as if she were a lady. I'm not in the least afraid, she said with energy. What should I be afraid of? Sure enough, said the father. I don't see anything.

Well, now, you understand that you are to stay right here until I come back. "'I won't be long, and of course you won't venture out into the street alone.' "'Of course not,' Elsie said, and seated herself complacently in a chair by the window while her father hurried away. "'What crowds and crowds of people!' she said, flattening her nose against the glass. "'I do wonder where they can all be going, and what makes them in such a hurry. "'So many horses, too. I wouldn't be down among them for anything. Oh my, what splendid peaches. I wonder what Fred would say to them. He thought that one he gave me last night was big. I do wish I had one of those for him. They're twice as large as any I ever saw. If I was down there, I might buy some. I've got some money, and I don't suppose that father meant I wasn't to go just down there in front of the door. I could buy one for money. I could buy one for money. I'd be a lot. I've got some money, and I don't suppose that father meant I wasn't to go just down there in front of the door. I could buy one. I could buy one. I could buy one. I

other, too. How fast they are selling them! End of Section 13. Section 14 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Faye Huntington and Pansy. The Sliberbox recording is in the public domain. How It Happened, Chapter 10. As for Mr. Porter, he went with all speed down the stairs and was promptly lost to Elsie's sight among a crowd of men. He was at all times a quick-motioned man, but he hurried through with more business in one hour that morning than he often did in two. There was a new feeling about this coming to New York. For the first time in his life, a little daughter was waiting for him just around the corner. Let me see, he said, looking at his watch. I've been gone an hour. Elsie will be getting tired.

Well, I've done a good deal of work. I shouldn't wonder if. I could push into Central Park now. I've got to go pretty well up in that direction, and Elsie would like that about as well as anything. I wish I had time to go over to Brooklyn. Fred wanted her to be sure and tell him about the ferry boats, but I guess that must go until he comes. I'll bring him down next time. Here we are. I'll just take Elsie up to stewards with me she wanted to see the big store. And the eager father sprung up the steps of of French's hotel three at a time. A well-pleased father he was. He had succeeded in planning, so that quite a little time could be devoted to sightseeing with his daughter.

Up to the public parlor, and down its length he strode. The room had filled up during his absence. There were children of all sizes, but he saw nothing of Elsie. He shaded his street-blinded eyes with his hand and walked slowly back again, looking steadfastly at every little girl. She certainly was not there. A little startled, he stepped out into the hall and ran against a waiter. Do you know where my little girl is? The waiter, not being used to such curious questions, answered him with a stare and finally said, Who is your little girl? Sure enough, how should he go to work to tell? He hesitated, looked bewildered, but finally said,

She is about as tall as that girl by the end window, and has brown hair. She had on a brown linen dress, and... The waiter interrupted him. I beg pardon, sir, but the house is full of little girls of that size from morning till night, and they all wear brown linen dresses, or something like that, but they are generally in care of someone. Who did you leave your little girl with? "'Why,' said Mr. Porter, speaking fast and nervously,

"'I never thought of leaving her with anyone. "'She was to stay right here by that window until I came back.' "'She is probably taking a walk through the halls. "'They mostly do that,' he added, beginning to pity the anxious father. "'Then what a search there was! "'Mr. Porter grew excited and frightened every minute, "'and flew up and downstairs like a wild man.' the proprietor of the hotel was found and questioned but he knew no more about elsie porter than he did about the man in the moon did you book your name sir he asked of mr porter

why no said that gentleman eagerly i only left her for an hour you know then i was coming to get her we are going back home to-night did you leave her in charge of anybody chambermaid or any one poor mr Porter shook his head. He began to feel as if he had willfully thrown her away. Finally, the servant's bell was wrung, and all the people employed in the hotel, trooped together to the office, and were questioned. One of them, see a little girl about that size and dressed in linen, buff linen, with brown trimmings? Mr. Porter nodded eagerly. Well, I see her eating some peanuts, and the next time I went by the door, I see she wasn't there. And this was all. Mr. Porter's awakened hopes went down to zero. They were very full of sympathy, these servant girls. They searched promptly and willingly through every room, every hall,

every stairway, every closet from the attic to the basement in the rear. No, Elsie. Can you guess how nearly distracted Mr. Porter was by this time? Can you imagine what an afternoon he had? He ate No dinner, he meant to have had such a grand dinner, he and Elsie, at a hotel table, when she was to order whatever she chose to fancy. He did not go near Central Park or a Stewart's store. Instead, he hovered around French's hotel, questioning the boarders, loungers in the bar room, the policemen who stocked by on their rounds. All to no purpose.

If the earth had opened and swallowed Elsie up, she couldn't have disdaintinged. disappeared more suddenly and hopelessly. One policeman saw a little girl answering to the description trying to cross the street, and he called to her that she would better not, but there was a fracas at the corner just then, and he had turned to that. And what became of the little girl? Mr. Porter said, waiting breathlessly. The policeman smiled. That is more than I know. She crossed, I presume, without any accident. they mostly do. There was an accident about here, though, this morning.

A child run over, a bystander said. A girl? asked Mr. Porter quickly. No, a boy, I think. I went here. I heard somebody speak of it. Yes, the policeman said. It was a boy, I believe, and two girls yesterday. It is a dangerous coroner. Mr. Porter's face grew paler,

and he turned sick at heart. I thought you said they generally crossed safely, he said fiercely. The policeman smiled again. Well, a thousand or two of them did, but two got hurt. And that was all. To him, Elsie Porter was only one of a thousand or two of girls. To her father, it was as if there were no other girl. It was a half hour after the evening train had left the depot

that he bethought himself of the people at home who would be expecting them on that train. Now what could he say to them? Of course he couldn't go home. What, go home without Elsie? He could never do that. He might telegraph, detained until morning train. He would surely find her by that time, and this dispatch he finally sent, leaving them to bear the disappointment as best they could. If they only knew what detains me, he muttered, as his trembling hand wrote the message, and a great lump seemed to rise up in the strong man's throat. Night was setting down upon him, and where should he go to find all sea, and how could he live until morning if he did not find her?

End of Section 14 Section 15 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Libra Box recording is in the public domain. How It Happened, Chapter 11 Fred Porter stocked home from the depot in a very much disgusted frame of mind. He had been to meet the 1050 train the morning after his father's departure from home. They didn't come, Mother, he called out, as soon as he came within sight of her, waiting at the window.

There's another dispatch instead. I suppose they are detained until, night now. A nice time else is having. By this time he had reached his mother's side and stood looking over her shoulder while she broke the seal and read.

Take first train for New York. Bring baby and Dick. Mr. Porter had studied over that dispatch. Such a night as he had spent he never would forget, up and out all night, hunting aimlessly through the streets,

talking with policemen, visiting station houses, and morning found him without a single trace of Elsie. Now the family at home must have some word. He could not telegraph that Elsie was lost. He could never write it to them. Besides, her mother, she could find her. Elsie was a great mother child always. The mother would surely contrive some plan by which to get their darling again.

The mother must come. But she couldn't leave baby? No, baby Nell must come too. But what could they do with Baby Nell while they planned and hunted for Elsie? Dick must come. Baby Nell would stay with her day or night. So the telegram went, so it reached the family at home. Fred Porter read it over twice with fast blurring eyes.

Take first train for New York, bring baby and Dick. And not me, mother! Fred's voice showed. Elsie must be sick. The little mother said, with a quietness of tone that she did not feel. Father knows that his boy will be wanted at home to help us off and take care of things at home until we come. When is the first train, my son? It is at 12 o'clock, and it's after 11 now. Shall I get Uncle Hall to drive down with you, mother? Fred's voice had cleared and was strung and helpful. There was that in his mother's tone and words that had made a man of him. Mr. Porter was waiting for the two-clock

train, and he clutched at baby Nell with a nervousness that startled Mrs. Porter afresh. "'How is Elsie?' she said the instant her voice could reach his ear. "'Here is a carriage,' he said in answer. "'Get in, Dick, quick. Now drive to French's hotel. John, said Mrs. Porter, and she laid her hand on his arm. Tell me just exactly how Elsie is. I don't know how she is, he said with tremulous lips. If I could tell you that she was very sick and I was taking care of her, I should be thankful. Alice, she is lost. I haven't seen one glimpse of her since ten o'clock yesterday morning, and I can't get the least clue to her wearing. I am glad I cannot describe to you what the Porter family said and did and endured during the next

three weeks. The places they visited, the people they questioned, the times when they thought they had found her, and the awful disappointment when they discovered their mistake. It makes me sick to think of it, and nobody can describe such suffering. If she had only died with us taking care of her. would mrs porter cry out night after night with something between a moan and a groan and when mothers come to places where they can say that why there is nothing left that words can tell but she rose up the next morning and went about the search again Long before this, Fred had been told the dreadful story, and daily letters went home to him, where he bravely waited, bearing his hard, hard part, that of doing the errands for his uncle, and going to school as usual, and going to the store to see what message Stephen Turner had to send to father, and doing all those commonplace little things, instead of having the dismal comfort of helping in that dreadful search.

So the days wore on, and every morning they said with a touch of hopefulness, We shall surely find some clue today, and every evening they said with white lips, Another night without her. Ever so many people had come to know the small, pale lady who went about with such a quiet, sorrowful face, looking right and left about her, and staring at every child she met, and the restless, nervous man with haggard face and wild eyes, who gave himself time neither to eat nor asleep, in his vain search after the lost daughter. The papers were full of the sad story, the police were earnestly at work, and still no trace of Elsie. Dick's business during these weary days was to keep eyes and hands on baby Nell, who grew more lawless and full of mischief every else. hour. There was just one hour of respite for her. That was during Baby Nell's afternoon nap.

Regularly at that hour came Mrs. Porter from her search, and bolting the door against all interruption, knelt beside her sleeping daughter to pour out her heart's longing for the daughter who was not with her. Jesus knew where she was, and to Jesus this helpless mother was driven as she had never been before. This hour, Dick devoted to searching for Elsie. Her method of search was very peculiar. First, though she took the best possible means for succeeding, she always got down behind the great rocker in the corner, and said with great earnestness these words, Lord Jesus, help me to find Elsie Porter. Every day, just these words, nothing more, never less. Dick had but lately learned anything about prayer,

but she had what many a praying Christian might have envied, a very firm belief that her prayer was to be answered, of course. Wasn't she speaking to Jesus Christ, and didn't he always hear? From her knees she went directly down the walk in front of the hotel, and steadily pursued her plan of work, which was to speak to every single person who passed that way, saying always this one thing. Elsie Porter is lost.

do you know anything about her? Some of the people passed by her with an astonished stare. Some of them didn't hear her at all, but many stopped and inquired. There was a good deal of method in Dick's plan of work. This was the way she reasoned about it. If the people who pass by don't know anything about her, maybe they'll come across her this very day, and if I tell them about her, they will know where to bring her.

Besides, a great many people must have passed by that day she got lost, and if I keep watch and ask them all, maybe someone will go by who saw something happen to her and can tell me about her. It was fortunate for Dick's plan that the hour in the day that she was at liberty was the hour when there was the least passing by. As it was, there were many who escaped her question. these she sighed over but regularly found comfort in the thought I asked the Lord Jesus Christ to help me and it's likely he knows whether those folks know anything about her there was one other thought that comforted Dick

she knew what occupied Mrs. Porter at this hour she's a praying about it this minute she said over and over to herself and her faith was strengthened End of Section 15 Section 16 of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Faye Huntington and Pansy. This Sliberovac's recording is in the public domain. How It Happened, Chapter 12

It was three weeks from the day that Elsie Porter seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. Dick, fresh from her stronghold behind the rocking chair, had stationed herself on the walk below for her. her hour of work. There was a very ragged, very grimy-looking boy just at the corner. He had taken up his stand there, within a week, to waylay the passers by and beseech them to buy an evening paper. Dick had surveyed him with much disgust. He reminded her forcibly of the days before she found her chance and began to be respectable. On this particular day, she felt like having no possible loophole for information untried, so she resolutely marched up to him, and they had this

conversation. I suppose you don't know anything about Elsie Porter? What makes you suppose so? Well, do you? Can't say as I do. I knew that you didn't. What made you ask me then? A gesture of disgust from Dick, a chuckle from the boy. Meantime, people were passing. Dick darted towards a group and began her work. The boy grew interested. Who is she? He asked in one of the pauses. She is our little girl, and she has been lost for three weeks. Where was she? Tell us about her. Long practice had made Dick prompt and brief in telling this story. She answered with a hopeless sigh. She came to New York with her father. He left her here at French's hotel and was away, only an hour. When he came back, she was gone, and that is all we know about her.

The ragged boy whistled. That's a pretty tough thing now, ain't it? He said, sympathizingly, I wish I did know something about her. Three weeks ago did you say? Just exactly three weeks this very day, the second day of August it was. Dick said mournfully, and between his questions and her answers, she plied her trade of questioning the passers-by. Hmm, the second day of August. That's the day. Reader's note, text missing. Was off his beat. I was down here in these parts that day, and there was a girl got killed. Maybe your girl was saw. Who knows? There was a group of people coming, but Dick paid no attention to them. She turned with eager eyes to the boy and grasped his arm. Who is Saw? What do you mean? What do you know about her?

Oh, she wasn't your girl, the boy said coolly. Things don't generally happen that way, and I don't know who she was from Adam. She was rushing after a peach cart to buy peaches, and she dropped her handkercher, and I picked it up and was going after her, but some horses knocked her down, and they took her into that air house over there. That's a hospital, and she died, and I carried her handkercher over to her, and it was marked saw in one corner. Dick clasped her hands together with a moan of pain. It's our Elsie, she said in a low, solemn voice, Are you sure she is dead?

Yes, I'm sure, because I carried the handkercher over that very afternoon, and I asked how the girl was that was took in, and they said, dead. I'm going over there. said Dick, with quiet determination, there may be some mistake. There's mistakes to most things. Did they take the handkerchief? Yes, they did. But you can get it again if you prove property. They keep all such things for proof, you know. I'll go along with you and wet their memories. Threading her way across the street to the great building, Dick, by dint of being guided by her new acquaintance, and after answering

endless questions, got some information. There was a girl brought in here. She was unconscious and was supposed dead, but she rallied, then we discovered that she was Mrs. Wheeler's daughter on Fourth Avenue, and she was moved there. Is she the one the handkerchief belonged to? Dick questioned eagerly. "'Yes,' the woman said, "'and the handkerchief went with the rest of the things in the carriage. "'Was it marked? "'Yes, it was marked S-A-W in one corner. "'That was why I remembered this boy,

"'because he said the handkerchief belonged to that girl named Saw "'that was hurt. "'That was the way they came to know where to send her. "'They had heard that Mrs. Judge Wheeler's daughter was missing, "'and someone in the house happened to know "'that her name was Stella Ames Wheeler, Did she die? Was Dick's next eager question?

That the woman had never heard. She should think more than likely she did. She was heard about her head. Still, Dick was full of questions. Could the woman remember how she was dressed? Why, yes, I almost always remember to describe dresses. It is a part of my business to remember. She wore a buff linen suit with brown trimmings

and kid boots buttoned up, and she had a pretty big ring on her third finger with a stone in it. Dick interrupted suddenly. Please, can you tell me just exactly where that lady lives? Now I'm going to take a carriage and go to her house. She said emphatically to her ragged boy as she left the hospital. That woman described our Elsie exactly, ring and all. It was a short ride, and Dick,

half wild with excitement, found herself standing in Mrs. Judge Wheeler's hall before she had any idea what she wanted to say to that lady. She talked fast and without much connection when Mrs. Wheeler came to her. Oh, if you please, ma'am, was your little girl's handkerchief marked S-A-W, and did she wear a buff linen suit the day she was brought home? And did she die? Mrs. Wheeler was a small, pale woman, dressed in deep morning. Are you looking for someone you have lost? She said, and her voice was so low and gentle that Dick's excitement calmed down of itself, and she said simply, Yes, ma'am. My little girl was killed at a fire, Mrs. Wheeler said, tremulously, and the next day there was sent to me from the hospital a little girl whom they supposed to be mine. She was so very sick that I couldn't send

her away, and I have taken care of her ever since. She has had brain fever and has been very, very sick, and is not yet so that she knows where she is or can tell who she is. She has talked a great deal in her delirium about baby Nell, and sometimes mentioned Dick and Fred. Do you know any such little girl? It is our Elsie, said Dick, and then she sat down on the hall carpet, and cried so hard and so loud that she frightened everybody in the house. Tea was just ready at Mr. Porter's. Mrs. Porter set a huge dish of peaches on the table as the crowning touch. Fred, with baby Nell in his arms, stood at the window, watching Father as he came up the walk. Dick passed back and forth, setting chairs, bringing water, and answering

baby Nell's chuckle of delight. In a great armchair, pillows at her back, a footstool under her feet, sat L.C. Her hair was coming out in new soft little rings all over her head. Her eyes looked twice as large as they used to, and there were heavy rings of black under them. But there was a pleased smile on her pale face, for this was the first day that she had been able to sit up until tea time. She was getting well. Gathered about the tea table, they talked over the whole story for the hundredth time, just as people are possessed to do. I can't understand what that Mrs. Wheeler could have been about, that she didn't read the papers and find out you were lost. Fred had made very much the same remark twenty times before, and didn't seem to get much satisfaction. She had enough to be about,

said Elsie. I was awful sick, you know, and her own little girl was dead. But she advertised you in the papers. Why didn't she look in and see if anybody answered? She said she never thought of it, Dick said. Elsie was brought from the hospital, you know, and she said she thought she was some child without near relations. But she advertised her, for fear people were looking, but she never thought to look at the advertisements of other folks. I don't think that was strange. You see, she thought people would come and call on her if they wanted to know more about it. And she hadn't much time to read the paper, Elsie chimed in. It was no stranger than we did anyway. Mr. Porter said,

We all acted like a company of idiots. Why didn't we read the paper and find her advertisement? I never once thought of anybody else advertising. I thought we were doing it all. What puzzled me is that those people at the hospital didn't know more about her. They certainly must have found out when they took her there that she was not Mrs. Wheeler's little girl. This was Mrs. Porter's addition to the family puzzle. Dick shook her head positively. No, she said. They told me about that, too. The little girl, Mrs. Wheeler's little girl, you know, wasn't buried yet, and the house was full of people coming and going, and the girl who came to the door thought that it was a girl who was so sick

they couldn't carry her any farther, and of course they wouldn't turn her away. Then afterwards, Mrs. Wheeler went to the hospital and saw one of the doctors, but she said she supposed the nurses were not told about it. Oh, it's easy to understand after. all. Mr. Porter said, if you remember that it was in New York that it happened, one-third of the people might be killed without the other two-thirds knowing much about it. There's such a swarm of people and so many accidents and so many children that don't seem to belong to anybody. The wonder is that we ever found any trace of her again. Why, you'd have found me when I began to know anything about myself, Elsie said. But then, she added, with a little tremble of the lips, I guess maybe I would

never have known anything about myself or anybody if mother had not come just when she did. That was what the doctor said, daughter, Mr. Porter said tenderly. You needed something to arouse you, so you owe your life to your mother after all. Under God. Mrs. Porter said, Porter said softly, and then they were quiet a few minutes, until Fred burst forth with, "'I say, Dick, why didn't you speak to that fellow before?' Dick laughed a little and looked confused. "'He was such a dirty, ragged boy,' she said at last. "'I didn't want to speak to him at all. I thought it was foolish to suppose that he knew anything about it.' The wonder is that she thought to speak to him at all or to any of them, Mr. Porter said.

I'm sure it was a plan that would never have entered my head. How came you to think of it anyhow? Fred asked. I didn't, said Dick gravely. I never thought of it at all. The Lord Jesus told it to me himself. Fred whistled a little. He couldn't help it.

He was so surprised. The rest were silent. Suddenly, Fred spoke again. Well, I say it was queer anyhow that that ragged newsboy should be the only one of all the crowds of people who knew anything about it. During this talk, Stephen Turner had come in with a message for Mr. Porter and waited for his answer. He spoke out now, as if it came from his heart. It was his chance you may depend. "'His chance,' said Mr. Porter. "'What do you mean, Stephen?' "'His chance to do something good,

"'something to help people that would help him, too. "'They all have it, I think.' "'That's an idea,' Mr. Porter said, "'telegraphing a wise look to his wife. "'Have you had yours, Stephen?' "'Yes, sir,' said Stephen, with a quiet smile. "'Mine looked small, but it keeps growing bigger. And will grow bigger yet, if I have anything to do with it, Mr. Porter answered, laughing.

The way you managed things while I was away, surprised and pleased me. I shall not forget it. Dick had her chance, too. That was a great big one, I think, and likely to grow bigger in every way. Mrs. Porter said, with a tender touch to her voice, she has saved both our daughters' fore. us. And is our own little girl now forever? Mr. Porter said this in a very grave and solemn tone. As for Dick, or Mary, as they were trying to learn to call her, she cried for very joy and thankfulness. Mother, said Fred, with a sudden and entire change of voice and subject, are not these peaches splendid? I wish Elsie could have some of them. Do you think a taste would hurt her? Elsie shivered a little.

I don't want any. She said, Father, you said you would tell me someday what that peach I went after cost. Won't you tell me now? If you really want to know, child, I may as well tell you now and be done with it. It figures up about 750 odd dollars,

counting the printing and the doctor's bills and everything. Oh my! said Elsie with white lips. Her father hastened his sentence. A pretty dear peach daughter, but we'll call it cheap, considering all the lessons it taught us. You learned to be very careful to remember just exactly what father says, and your mother and I learned to remember that we had a father in heaven who had a much greater right to be obeyed, and all of us learned that he leads by strange ways, and that nothing happened without his knowledge. I suppose he even makes our chances for us, eh, Stephen? End of Section 16. Section 17 of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories

by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Santa Claus's mistake by Fay Huntington. "'What is Kiss Miss Mama?' asked three-year-old Freddy, who had quite forgotten the stir of last Christmas. "'Why, this is Kiss,' answered Mama, laughing a little as she stooped to caress the household, darling. "'And you are right in a must,' she added, "'looking about the room, which she had just entered,

"'and smiling upon the group who with busy fingers and busier tongues "'were making all ready for Christmas.' which was now only two days off. And so much as we have to do, said Mabel. Here are all these wreaths to make and put up, Papa's handkerchiefs to be finished, and, Oh, Mabel, Mabel! exclaimed Sue. You will let the kittens all out of the bag,

if you don't bite your tongue, or hold a pebble in your mouth or something. Mama, I wish you'd take Freddy upstairs. He bothers asking questions that nobody has. has time to answer. Freddy don't baza. Freddy don't want to go up tears, insisted the sturdy boy. Brother Tom, don't you like Freddy? He said coaxingly to the big brother who had proposed his banishment. Yes, darling, interposed Mama. Tom likes Freddy, but he is very busy now. We will go up to Mama's room until they get cleared out here, and I'll tell you all about Christmas.

Nestling in Mama's arms in the great easy chair before the fire, Freddy listened attentively while she told him about the dear Christ, whose coming upon earth we celebrate, how he loved little children and took them in his arms and blessed them. Then she told him of good old Santa Claus. And may I hang my talking white up on a nail? "'Yes, dear, when Christmas comes.' "'When will Christmas come?' Freddy asked. "'Tomorrow night you may hang up the stocking.' "'And may I hang it up all by myself?'

"'Yes, if you can reach,' answered Mama. "'And will Santa Claus fill it all up?' said the little questioner. "'I think he will,' answered Mama, smiling to think of the treasures waiting the hour. I want to hang it up white off now." Mama explained that it would do no good to hang up the stocking before the time. Freddy was quiet for a while, then suddenly he said in a troubled voice, "'Mama, my talkings are so idle!'

"'Oh, you little greedy!' said Mama, hugging her boy so closely that Freddy, though he did not know what a greedy was, thought it must be something very nice. nice. The hours flew by, and everything was in readiness in spite of Mabel's worry. The dining room had that rare luxury in these days, an old-fashioned open fireplace, and the room had been made like a summer bower. The pictures looked out from evergreen frames, wreaths and festoons hung upon the walls, while scattered about were various devices, crosses and crowns, anchors and harps,

marvels of skill and beauty. A long row of stockings hung under the mantle, for although the children, except Freddie and six-year-old Nell, understood the mystery of Santa Claus, the pleasant custom of hanging the stocking was kept up, father and mother setting the example. Mr. Willard had given orders to have the fire lighted at five o'clock, knowing there would be some early risers on Christmas morning. And sure enough, just as the flames began to dart up the chimney and the shadows to play upon the wall and ceiling, quick footsteps were heard on the stairs and along the hall, and soon the clatter of tongues put an end to Papa's morning nap, and he soon joined the group. Mama was before him, with Freddy in her arms. Sure enough, Freddy's talking was so ill. It's

middle. It would not hold half the gifts Santa Claus had lavished upon the darling. What a queer-looking stocking it was, stuffed until it was ready to burst, with toys and picture cards and a little candy shop, and tied on at the toe, pinned on at the side, and hung on the nail above it, were blocks to build a small Chicago, sleeping cars and palace cars, and a whole menagerie. Freddy screamed and crowed and cried, Mama, Papa, see this, and this! And Mama looked in, surprise, and shared his joy. Why, Freddy, she said,

Santa Claus must have made a mistake. There's a great many things for one little boy. I am afraid some boy will have to go without. That's so, said Tom, teasingly. Some of these things must belong to some other boy, and he'll be coming around after them by and by. I shouldn't wonder if Santa Claus himself came back tonight to get them. I'll put them in Mama's boozo drawer and lock them up tight, said Freddie.

Just think, put in Maude, of the poor boy with an empty stocking this morning. I should not have thought old Santa would have made such a blunder. Oh, I don't wonder, responded Tom. He has so many boys to look after, but I'd like to know where these things do belong. They long here, to me, persisted Freddy. I rather think that some of them, but so many. Why, I have not half as many. Just here, Nell, who had taken her gifts to the window seat, exclaimed, Why, Papa, I don't believe that Santa Claus went to Mr. Randalls at all. There isn't a

bit of a track on the roof. Sure enough, said Tom, looking out upon the house across the way. I knew he had made a mistake. Poor Willie Randall! Mama saw that Freddy was beginning to look grave and checked the children's teasing, regretting that she had first suggested the idea. Late in the afternoon, Freddy was alone in the dining room, building houses and railroads. Mama had gone upstairs for a little while, but Tom and Maude were in the next room. Tom absorbed in one of his new books, and Maude trying the pens and paper in her new writing case. Sue, passing the door, heard Freddy say,

I wonder if Santa Claus did make a mistake. I guess Dee's car longs to Willie and Dees and Dis. Then she too went upstairs. Perhaps it was ten minutes later that Mrs. Randall heard a small voice say, "'Pease open his door!' answering the demand at once, she found Freddy with a shawl over his shoulders and trailing behind, and with Maud's hood on his head, and a basket held fast in his chubby hands, which were crimson with cold. "'Why, Freddy!' exclaimed Mrs. Randall. "'How came you here?'

"'I walked white across the wode myself,' said Freddy. "'I's come to bring dees. "'Santa Claus made a mistake, and a lungs to Willie I-Dass.' "'What makes you think so?' asked Mrs. Randall, laughing. "'Cause he left a great much of things to my house, "'and I can't see any bit of tracks on your roof, "'and Mama said he did make a mistake.' "'Did Mama know you came with these?'

asked Mrs. Randall. Mama did say Santa Claus made a mistake, persisted Freddy, who, having nerved himself to the sacrifice, meant it should be accepted. Meantime, four-year-old Willie had appropriated the contents of the basket, and already had a freight train en route for New York. Mrs. Randall was both amused and annoyed, amused at the little budget with trailing robes, standing before her with such a very grave face, and annoyed at the thought of Willie's disappointment when he found that the pretty toys must be sent back. Grace, she said, turning to her daughter, I wish you to go home with Master Freddy and take the basket of toys and explain to Mrs. Willard.

Brezer Tom said Willie ought to have part. almost screamed Freddy, and I bringed him right over for him. Grace shan't take him back again. Well, my dear, you shall leave them. Grace will take you home. Then to her daughter, in an undertone, she continued, tell Mrs. Willard that you will bring them over by and by. And she sighed as she thought of the meager gifts her own darlings had received, and wondered if everything was not a mistake. Not that she envied the family in the great house opposite, but it was so hard to be poor. Freddie marched off with Grace, who succeeded in explaining her part to Mrs. Willard, who in turn had to explain to Grace, telling her of the morning's talk. Then, in reply to her

proposal to bring back the toys as soon as she could pacify Willie, Mrs. Willard said, No, but ask your mother if she will be kind enough to let Willie have them. It will really be a great favor to me, for it will not be easy to make Freddy understand that our talk was all nonsense. You know he plays with Willie a great deal, and it makes little difference which claims them. And that is how Freddy mended Santa Claus's mistake. End of Section 17. Section 18. of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Our Ella

You have never seen Our Ella. She is a merry, chattering piece of mischief just six years old. She has a pair of the brightest blue eyes and a sunny smile lurking about the very rosiest of lips. We all love her very much, and I am afraid that we all pet her more than is for her good. This little girl is very fond of having her mother or cousin Sarah read nice stories and sweet bits of poetry aloud, and she really thinks that it will be a very nice thing to be able to read them for herself. But the truth is, our Ella is quite too fond of her play to learn very fast. Now I will tell you what happened the other day, and what a victory Ella gained. As our little girl is the only child in the house, she cannot be spared to go to school,

for what would father and mother do all the long day without their darling? So she reads a lesson, and patient cousin Sarah hears her spelling every day. But sometimes the words are long, or Ella feels a great deal more like play than like study. Then her indulgent mother says, well, my darling can have her playtime now and study her lesson by and by, or, tomorrow she will feel more like studying. And so, our Ella, has come to think that she need not study unless she feels like it. Two or three days ago, she had another hard lesson. After she had studied it over a few times, she brought the book to her cousin, who pronounced the words very distinctly.

But alas, poor Ella could not spell one of them. "'Now,' said Sarah, "'what shall we do about this?' "'I don't know,' answered Ella slowly and twisting her fingers. "'Are you going to give up? You know the lesson must be learned some time. It will not be one bit easier tomorrow. Don't you think, Ella, that you had better learn it now

and have done with it?' The little girl shook her head. I don't want to study it now. I want to go out and play. But Ella, if you always play instead of learning your lesson, you will never learn to read. I don't care, and the rosy lips pouted a little. Mama will read to me. But, replied Sarah, sometimes your mama is too busy or has one of her bad headaches and cannot read to you. Well, I can wait until she gets better, persisted Ella.

I know you can, but wouldn't it be pleasant if you could read to her when she is ill? No, because when Mama is sick, she can't bear reading. Besides Cousin Sarah, I never can learn that hard lesson if I tried a week. And the blue eyes filled with tears. And so you will give up, conquered by a few hard words. you'll never do to belong to a try company. A short pause followed, during which Ella tugged vigorously at her apron string.

After watching the workings of the little face a few minutes, Sarah said, Well, Ella, which shall it be? Will the long words conquer Ella, or will she conquer the long words? Ella waited a moment, still pulling at the string, which threatened to come off, Then she looked up brightly and said, I'll try the lesson again, cousin Sarah.

The poor despised speller was picked up from the corner, where, in her despair, Ella had tossed it, and once more the sweet little face was bent over the speller. It was a hard lesson. All that long afternoon she studied. It seemed as though the sun never shone so brightly, and the birds never sang so sweetly. and surely little Hattie and Mary Cole never laughed so merrily as they played in the next yard.

When Ella suddenly remembered that Hattie had promised to make her Dolly a new hat in the very latest style that afternoon, she thought she must go right away and take Dolly over there. But catching an encouraging glance from cousin Sarah, she did not yield to the temptation, but studied on until, with a certain air, she carried the book to Sarah and spelled every word correctly. "'There,' said her cousin, "'are you not glad that you persevered?' "'I guess I am.' And the blue eyes danced with triumph.

"'But it was very hard. I thought I could not stay in. I almost went two or three times.' Then, after a moment, she asked, "'Cousin Sarah, do you ever have to get your lessons over?' Sarah smiled as she patted the rosy cheek and replied, "'I once stayed after school until dark to learn that very lesson.' "'You!' exclaimed Ella, who looked upon cousin Sarah as a miracle of learning.

"'Well,' as she went on deliberately, "'I am going to stick to it now and see if I can know as much. much as you. Now the little round hat was tied over the sunny curls, and Ella skipped away to join her playmates. Do you not believe that she enjoyed her playtime all the better for the victory she had gained? Now I know other little girls, and boys too, who are like Ella. They are afraid of long words. Some, a little older, are afraid of difficult examples in their practical arithmetic, they say, I can't do it if I try a week. Oh, fie, girls and boys with bright, active brains, will you let a hard lesson conquer you? How many are ready to say, with R. Ella, I'll try the lessons

again. Don't give up. Oh, don't. These little victories are worth gaining, for they prepare the way for greater ones. A boy who always masters his tasks will be sure when he grows older to walk over all difficulties straight on to success. Don't give up. End of Section 18. Section 19 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Tom's fault. Boys, can you be trained? Rusted? Hoo! How your eyes snap and how your cheeks flush and your fingers tingle as you stretch them out to snatch

the pen that dares to ask such an insulting question. And a very bad pen it was. I've thrown it away and taken a new one, which I hope will not bring that angry flash into your eyes. It is true, a right-minded, honest boy does not like questions that imply a doubt. of his trustworthiness. Of course you can be trusted, and I'm glad there are so many of you. But when I began to write to you tonight, I was thinking of a boy, alas, there are some such, who failed in this particular. He does not belong in your ranks? Well, perhaps not,

yet he is a bright boy, and so fun-loving that he has never been able to keep out of mischief long at a time. Well, Tommy lives with Mr. Brown, who has a fruit farm. One day this last spring, Mr. Brown was suddenly called away from home in the middle of the forenoon. The call was imperative, yet he looked down the long rows of strawberry vines with dismay. Already he was behindhand with the work. It did seem as though it would not do to let those vines go another day. Tommy saw the look and understood the perplexity. Mr. Brown, he said, I think I can manage the cultivator, you know I tried it in the other field. Mr. Brown hesitated. He had been told that Tommy was one of the boys who worked better when the master was by, but there was no other way, so he handed the reins to Tommy with the injunction to give old Sorrel his oats at noon, and went off. Tommy worked very well until nearly noon, He was a stout boy and found no difficulty in the work. Suddenly, however, he heard shouts and loud laughter,

and then he remembered that it was Saturday, and the village ball club had an appointment to play on their grounds half a mile away. He was sure now that it must be noon, and hastily unclasping the traces, he drove old sorrel to the stable, and thrusting a bundle of hay before him, started for the ball grounds, saying to himself,

Mr. Brown always takes a good hours nooning, and I don't want any dinner, so I'll just run over and see how the boys are coming on. Reaching the place, he was greeted with a loud cheer. Hurrah, Tom, you're just the one. Our side is one man short, and you'll just fill the gap. I can't stay long, he said, but I'd like to join while I'm here. Now, will you be able to be.

believe me, all that long afternoon Tom tossed and ran and, oh well, you boys know all about what ball players do. I don't. I mean that he stayed, got excited, wanted to see it out, and did not think it was getting late, and then fairly forgot that he had anything to do until, well, it was nearly dark when he finally tried to steal in at the back door, dreading to meet Mr. Brown, and there at the very threshold he encountered that gentleman. I think that all you honest boys will agree that Tommy deserved the scolding which he received, not that you or I believe in scolding, and that if he had been sent home to his father in disgrace, it would have served him right. Now, this same Tommy had some excellent traits, and Mr. Brown was not unwilling to try him again

upon his promising to do better. But he took a night to think of it, thus leaving poor Tommy in a state of suspense. His reflections were not of the pleasantest sort. The truth was he feared Mr. Brown, he feared his father, and he feared disgrace. In vain he tried to excuse himself to himself. It was of no use. He knew that he had been unfaithful to a trust, and that was the whole of it. And there was enough manliness in the boy to make him feel a keen sense of shame and dishonor, to say nothing of the consequences.

And these consequences were surely to be dreaded. Mr. Brown had given him no word of hope. Of course he will be turned off. And his father! Oh, you boys with kind and loving fathers who deal gently and tenderly with erring sons, cannot guess at Tommy's feelings as he thought of his stern parent, who could never overlook a boyish folly, much less an actual wrongdoing. You cannot guess at the strength of the temptation that assailed him that night.

Once he had risen from his bed, and moving softly about, gathered up his clothes, as the resolution to run away from all the disgrace and punishment grew stronger. I can't, he said. I can't meet father. He will just about kill me. I was a fool to get into such a scrape, but I might as well get clear of it by running off as anyway. I can't be much worse off. I'm just as sorry as I can be, but Father always says, sorry don't mend things. And now that I've lost my place, he will be as likely to turn me out of doors as not. I'm just as sorry. I'm a lot. I'm I've a mind to stay and give him a chance. More bitter and angry thoughts of the father,

who had never won his love and confidence, followed. But after a while he paused, standing irresolute for a few moments. Then dropping the half-made-up bundle, he slipped back into bed, saying, Anyway, I won't sneak off in the night. I'll wait until the worst comes and stand it if I can, and if I can't, why? Well, I won't think any more about it. But he did think, as he tumbled and tossed through the night that seemed to be endless. And I think that he thought to better advantage than ever before. And I believe he prayed, promising God that if he would but help him through this dark place,

he would try harder for the future to keep his steps from straying. And it would seem that that God heard, for when, in the morning, Tom said to Mr. Brown, and there was sorrow and humility in his voice, try me once more, Mr. Brown, and if I do not do better, I will not ask it again. He found that gentleman ready to grant him pardon and farther trial. Now, that was not many months ago, and we cannot tell what Tom's course may be should weighty temptations assail him, but we trust that the resolutions formed during that weary, wakeful night, have thus far been kept, and that the habit of being faithful is growing upon him. Still, he has not got rid of a feeling of shame when he thinks of that afternoon, and sometimes,

when he is confident that Mr. Brown watches him closely, he wonders if he will ever entirely regain the confidence of his employer. Boys, I am glad you can be trusted. Faithfulness in the little things will give you a character for trustworthiness, and after a little while, you will find that parents, employers, and associates will be ready to place the fullest confidence in you, and you will not fail to find in that a considerable degree of satisfaction. Section 20 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This slibrovox recording is in the public domain. Rag pickers by Fay Huntington

They are not dirty, ragged boys of any five points, these ragpickers of whom I am going to tell you, but they are two as neat-looking lads as you often see. They are well acquainted with the use of soap and water, as well as well as. as combs and brushes. They belong to no ragged or industrial school, but five mornings of the week, the seminary bell summons them to their lessons, with which their work is never allowed to interfere. In short, they are just such boys as the sons of the Reverend Mr. Graves should be. And now what do I mean by calling them rag-pickers? That's what you want to know, isn't it, Harry? Well, I will tell you and the rest of the boys.

You all know what we mean by home missions? You know, too, that in many of our Sabbath schools, money is collected and sent away to help the self-denying missionary. Well, then, boys, George and Frank Graves were much interested in a letter which their father received from a brother minister, telling a sad story of the destitution and sufferings of the family. of one who was laboring in a mission church in the West. When they were going to bed at night, George said, I say, Frank, don't you wish we were rich men, so that we could give a great deal

to the missionaries? Yes, I do, though Papa says that the richest men are not often the most benevolent. Well, I would give away as much as I possibly could if I were rich, I am sure I would, said George. After a little, Frank responded thoughtfully. It seems to me that we might better be trying to do something now. While we are waiting to be rich, people will be starving. Well, I don't see what we have to give anyway, answered George. Now just see that, will you? Holding up the foot from which he had just kicked the boot and displaying a stocking with heel and toes sticking through it. If I don't need somebody to make me a donation, then I've made a mistake. Executing a comical flourish at the end of his sentence.

Frank did not laugh as he usually did at George's maneuvers, and after a while, his brother, noticing his quiet mood, said, Dear me, Frank, I am just as sorry as I can be for those poor people out west, but I haven't dissent to give them. And if I had, what good would our little do? So where's the use in fretting over it? Cheer up, old fellow, hear me go over my declamation for tomorrow. I reckon that'll put some laugh into you. Long after George was asleep, Frank was trying to think out some plan for raising money. but every scheme seemed to be quite impracticable, and mourning found him as poor as ever. A day or two after this, he was sent down street to get the old coffee pot mended. While he was waiting for the work to be done, a man came into the shop with a sack of old rags. As Frank watched the weighing and saw the man receive money for them, a thought shot into his head. Why not save regs and sell to get money for the missionaries? I'll do it.

And he did do it, not a thought that there might be anything degrading in the work ever entered his head. These boys had been taught that a proper motive and earnestness in pursuing the object ennobles any occupation. George readily entered into his brother's plan and now began the work. From Garrett and Cellar, from Street and Gutter, from Chapel and Playground, came daily additions to their stock. Papers, brown and white, printed and written, were seized wherever found. The good minister found himself obliged to keep a sharp lookout, lest sermons and notes should find their way into the General Vortex. Beryls of old newspapers, pamphlets, almanacs, handbills, etc., the accumulations of years, were hauled over, and Mr. and Mrs. Graves were compelled to give their attention to the matter and decide which should be saved for future reference. Not a pound of sugar came from the grocer's, or a slice of steak from the market,

but one of the boys was at hand to carry off the wrappings. Rags of all colors and textures, the clippings of mother's work, the cast-off garments of Jenny's doll, the worn-out apron and ragged cap, all helped to increase the collection. Mrs. Graves even imagined that George's elbows found their way out of his coat-sleeves with unusual rapidity in order that the garment might add to their riches. Almost every day the bag was brought out and weighed to see how much they had gained. It was a happy day when the boys received a bright, crinkling green back

in exchange for their good-for-nothing rags. Then even George could not say, We have nothing to give, and though his stockings and boots too might be out at the toes, he had no thought that the money could be used for any other purpose than was originally designed. In four months, the boys received $6.26 from the rag trade. If each Sunday school scholar would do as much,

we should not have such constant appeals from the Board of Missions for help. How many boys are ready for the work? You may not all be rag-pickers, but keep your eyes open and you will find a way. Gather up the fragments. Do what you can. If you cannot find a way to earn dollars, then earn pennies. End of Section 20.

Section 21 of Dr. Dean's Way and Other Stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This slipper box recording is in the public domain. Emma Russell's motto by Fay Huntington. Four happy people sat together in the pleasant breakfast parlor at Mr. Russell's. These were my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Russell, their daughter Emma, and myself. Emma, always one of my pets, seemed to me unusually bright and winning. I noticed a change in the child's face since I saw her last, a new glow, a brightness different from the old merry look, an unwanted light in her eyes, as if some great joy was shining out there. I had wondered a little if this were fancy, and if not what had

happened. I shall tell you how I found out all about it. We were talking of the beauty of the morning, and it was glorious. The sun shone brightly, and the snow sparkled as though millions of diamonds were strewn over its pure white surface. I did not wonder when Emma asked, Papa, isn't this a good morning for the sleigh ride you promised me? It is so bright and sunshiny, and Robert says the roads are fine. Do, Papa, please take me to R? And Emma slipped around to her father's side and laid her hand coaxingly upon his shoulder. Did I promise you a ride you mischief? asked Mr. Russell, smiling upon his little girl. Now, Papa, of course you did, and I know you mean to take me too. How do you know? Why, I know you always mean.

to do things when you have that queer look about your mouth. After a little playful talk, the promise was given, and Emma fairly danced about the room in her delight. Eleven o'clock was the hour, and long before the time, Emma had brought out an almost endless quantity of wraps, tippets, furs, and mittens, and was trying her best to curb her impatience, when her father came in and calling her said, My little girl, can you bear a disappointment? No, Papa, I can't. If you mean that we are not going, I can't bear it.

You promised you, no. And she gave a little laugh of triumph, for she knew her father kept his promises. Yes, my daughter, and I shall keep my promise unless you release me. And now I'll tell you why I wish you to do so. I was going to attend to some important business for old Mr. Warren, and Esquire Davis says that it will be necessary for Mr. Warren to go to R himself. So I came up to ask you to give your place in the slate to him for this morning. But Papa, urged Emma, why can't he go in the cars and meet you there? I'm already. I can't

stay at home now, and eyes and voice were full of tears. My child, Mr. Warren is an old man, and an invalid. He could not well go alone. Thus speaking in a very grave tone, Mr. Russell added, Emma, remember your motto. With a little start, Emma answered sadly, I forgot, I'll, I'll try to be willing to do as you wish, but, A great sob choked her, and she ran away to her own room. I remembered the passionate fits of weeping, which she used to give way to, and looked forward to her return to the parlor with swollen eyelids and sober face. Great was my surprise when she came down smiling,

with the same bright glow in her eyes that I had noticed before. She had a bit of canvas and some zephyrs in her work basket, and came over to my corner saying, Now, Miss Fay, since I can't go to ride, won't it be a nice time to learn that stitch you were to show me? That is, if you have time. I would gladly have set aside far more important matters than any I had on hand that morning,

for the sake of the dear child. I knew that it was a trial to give up the ride, for her father did not often find time for sleigh rides and riding out with Robert perched up on the driver's seat, and she alone in the sleigh was not pleasant. Together we mastered the new stitch, and dinner time soon came, and with it Mr. Russell, greeting Emma with,

well, have you moped the morning away and made the house too gloomy for anybody to stay in? She answered promptly, No, sir, Miss Fay and I have had a splendid time, haven't we? appealing to me. I think, continued Mr. Russell, that if you could have heard Mr. Warren thank me, you would have felt repaid for your sacrifice.

I am not a bit sorry, Papa, insisted the little girl. After dinner, as Mr. Russell was putting on his overcoat, he turned back from the hall to say, Emma, I think of driving over to A with the large sleigh, if you know of three or four little girls besides yourself who would like to go, have them here at four o'clock. Tell your mother that we will take supper at A and return before nine this evening. He was off before Emma, in her surprise and bewilderment, could stammer out a word. When she realized what her father had been saying, she exclaimed,

Oh my, won't it be grand to ride after those splendid horses with Papa? Have supper at a great hotel with a lot of girls, then to ride home by moonlight? Oh, Miss Fay, won't that be too splendid for anything? And Emma suddenly found that the second dish of pudding, for which she had just called, was a very unnecessary addition to her dinner. Now, Mama, who will I ask? Can Robert take my notes, or will I go myself? I think I'd better go. I can't keep quiet long enough to write notes. Of course, I'll have Annie Gates. Then there's Mary Lee and the Murray's. That will be six with Papa. As she talked, she was rapidly cloaking and hooding herself, and now danced away, but turned back to say, Mama, what do you think? Suppose I don't ask the Murray's this time. There's Amy Nichols who never gets any rides, and Fanny Green.

We don't like her very well at school, and I don't think she treated me very well about that concert matter. But, you know, Mama, she is poor and thinks we girls who have rich fathers feel above her. Don't you think she would like going to A and having a grand supper for once? I'll have Papa order oyster pie and, oh, lots of nice things. "'Shall I ask Amy and Fanny or the Murray's?' she asked, in concluding her somewhat mixed and hurried remarks. "'If you do not think Fanny will spoil your pleasure, ask her by all means,' answered Mrs. Russell. "'I guess she will be good for once,' laughed Emma, but I must hurry.'

Five happier little girls than those who, wrapped in soft furs, tucked in among the bright cushions and fleecy robes of Mr. Russell's Grand Slay, dashed down the avenue and out into the street and a way out of sight, neither you nor I have ever seen. That evening, after their return, nestling down by my side, Emma talked over the ride.

The beginning and ending of the story was, such a grand time. And to think, she said, that I came near losing it all by going to R this morning. I shall be thankful to old Mr. Warren as long as I live, for having some bothering business

to keep me at home. Emma, I said, will you tell me how you happen to give up that morning ride without... Here I stopped. She finished the sentence. Without a storm of tears

and fretting that lasted half a day? That's what you mean. Well, I'll tell you, Miss Faye. and her voice was grave but full of peace. I am trying to be like Jesus. You heard what Papa said about my motto? The motto is, remember Jesus. Somehow, when I do that,

the angry goes right out of my heart. The sorry stayed a good while this morning, but afterwards I was glad that I could help that poor old man by staying at home. Here was the secret. I knew now what was the change in the child's face. I knew that it was the Savior's love that filled her heart and shone out in her eyes that made her so thoughtful of others' happiness, that helped her to put away the old fretfulness

and kept her from bursts of passion. Dear children, the same Savior waits to fill your hearts with this love and peace. End of Section 21. Section 22 of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. E. Taf. The Reverend Leroy Chapin. He was a classmate of mine. We graduated together and settled at the same time.

That is, I settled. He stopped at the village of blank. Ah, well, I will take sober second thought and not give you. you the name, because I wish to remark that the church there didn't know enough to call my friend, so they invited him to preach for some months, an indefinite number, with a view to settling. That always means, provided the candidate does not carry a handkerchief with too broad a hem or too narrow a one, or wear his hair too long or too short. Some one of these abstruse and important questions very often determines the question of settlement. I know, for my grandfather was a minister, and my father was a minister, and I'm a minister. I have never been sorry, despite the handkerchief and the

hair and similar worries. There are other things that compensate for even such trials as these. Well, Brother Chapin invited me to spend Christmas Eve with him and attend his church festival. I was settled only 20 miles away from him. My wife had gone home to her fathers to keep holiday. I was to follow as soon as I had performed the marriage ceremony for a couple who perversely chose Christmas morning for their entertainment. But weddings are not so plenty that I could afford to waste any of them. So here I was with a Christmas Eve on my hand, wifeless and babyless. Hence my invitation. And as Chapin had neither wife nor baby nor home anywhere, we thought we might as well be as comfortable as we could to gather. So I went, and his church held a festival. It was a brilliant affair. The church was a well-to-do one, somewhat in the country, plenty of wealthy farmers connected with it, and quite a number of people of culture. We had a very pleasant evening. I don't know when I have enjoyed myself better than I did there. It's queer to think, Brother Newton, that you were only ten miles away

from us, and neither of us knew you. And now you have come a thousand miles in one direction, and I, nearly as many from another, to be entertained at his home. This was what the Reverend Mr. Newton said, as he put his comfortably slippered feet on a velvet footstool, and leaned back in a luxurious easy chair. Exactly, life is a very strange thing. How many years is it since you spent Christmas Eve with Brother Chapin? Fourteen years tonight. It was Wednesday evening, I remember. Chapin is in his prime now. He has improved wonderfully, and I always thought he was a fine fellow.

What suggested that Christmas Eve to you? Simply the fact that it occurred for 14 years ago tonight? Oh, to be sure, that and some other things. I fell into a reverie and forgot my story. You remember Brother Chapin's leaving that church? Or did you go west before he left? No, he went some months before I moved west. I heard all sorts of twisted and contradictory statements, but never the correct one, I presume. I left that region so soon afterwards. How was it? That Christmas Eve was the starting point. They had, as I told you, a church festival, and I presume you know by experience how ingenious Satan is at creeping into these affairs. I really thought, though, that he had been left in the lurch that evening, at least so far as a

tangible form was concerned. There was no post office, nor ring cake, nor even a grab bag. They had a sumptuous supper, and everything was passing off delightfully. Over in one corner of the room, as much out of sight as possible, I noticed a pretty good-sized barrel. It had been covered with some sort of a spread early in the evening, and I mistook it for a table, but the cloth had slipped from it and disclosed a barrel. It struck me as rather singular. the other appointments of the hall were very good, and it did not seem probable that they were so hard up for tables. What is that, I said to Chapin, as we stood near it? That's a barrel, said he solemnly.

Suppose you mean what is it here for? And I have not the least idea. It must have been needed for some purpose, but I should suppose they would have had it removed. Before the evening was over, we found out what that barrel was. It was a most ingeniously arranged thing. We admired the getting up of it a great many times since. You see, they had prepared a card for each man, woman, and child in creation, or in that neighborhood at least. Each card contained a line or two, I believe it was two lines of poetry of a somewhat dreamy or mystical nature. Then they were piled up in a heap on the table,

and everyone bought a card. Oh, there were hundreds of them sold. Fifty cents apiece they sold for. Now it seems there are two cards that were duplicates, and one of these was tacked on to the head of the mysterious barrel. Only one young gentleman who managed the affair was in the secret as to which card was duplicated. Then the house was called to order soon after supper, and it was announced that the game of ETAF would be played. Nobody knew what Etaf meant. At least Chapin and I didn't, and we listened with the rest. We might have known that there was a secret, and that a good many were in it, for the din had been indescribable three minutes before this, but they were as quiet as mice after the game was announced. Somebody put a card into Chapin's hand, and another into mine, and irregularly stated

that whenever the word on our cards was spoken, we were to read the line on the other side aloud. I neglected to say that there was some common or queer word on each card in addition to the lines on the other side. It was then announced that the presiding genius of the game of ETAF had appeared to them in the form of a barrel, that whoever pronounced a sentiment entirely in unison with his feelings would have signal-proofing. of his favor before the conclusion of the game. There was a fellow in Chapin's congregation, at least his folks were in it. He was a lawyer in New York, a sharp fellow and a real wit. He came forward at this point and began to tell a story. It was so absurd, Newton, so altogether ridiculous, that I would give considerable to have you hear it. Every few sentences, a word from one of the cards,

would be introduced in a most ingenious manner, and up would start somebody and repeat the sentence on his card. I tell you, Newton, I never laughed so much in my life as I did that evening. Those quotations came in such a way as to make a complete absurdity. We were in the very height of the frolic when the word on my card was called, and I responded. The roar of laughter which greeted my reading had not subsided, when we were startled by a very sepulchral voice solemnly repeating the same sentence.

I wish I could remember what it was. I know it was ridiculous in the extreme. Well, so far as we could discover, the barrel had found its chosen affinity, and out it walked from its corner into the very middle of the room, halting directly in front of me. I tell you, for a minute, I actually was startled. There were great bursts of laughter, and voices called, Open it, open it! So there seemed nothing for me to do but obey, and I lifted the cover in a very gingerly manner.

Inside sat a youngster of twelve or so, with eyes as large as moons, and he held up to my view a single golden pippin, held it by a ribbon tied to the stem. I solemnly took it, and around it was pasted a strip of, paper, whereon was written, touch me not, the barrel is yours. I belong to the Reverend Leroy Chapin. And to that gentleman I immediately handed it. It was tremendously heavy, and I began to

suspect something. So on the impulse of the moment, I challenged him for a piece of it, and he, in the same spirit, produced his knife and attempted to cut it. As I suspected, the inside had been dug out, and its skin was almost literally full of gold dollars. At this instant, Chapin's Sunday School scholars, who had been previously instructed, began to call out from every quarter of that room, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas! And older ones took it up and shouted until you couldn't hear yourself think. Now, Newton, I want to know if you ever knew Satan to get up a more ingenious device for introducing a lottery into the Church of Christ and making the pastor of that church a leading participant in it. A lottery, said Mr. Newton with a puzzled face.

Why, yes, don't you see? They had sold tickets to everybody. Actually, hundreds of people around the country had bought. Only a select half-dozen or so were in the secret. The rest knew. that they were competing for a prize. Some of the money that was realized for the tickets, they converted into gold as a gift for the pastor. I think there were a hundred dollars, and they had a handsome surplus left for church and Sunday school purposes. I certainly never saw a poor man put in such a position before. It was especially hard for Brother Chapin, you see, for if there was anything that he hated with entire and righteous hatred, It was gambling in all of its forms.

What did he do? asked Brother Newton. He had taken his feet from the velvet ottoman and was sitting erect, his face full of sympathy for our brother Chapin. Do, he did what very few of us would have had the courage to do. For some minutes he didn't take it in at all. He saw the money and that it was a pleasant sight, for Chapin was poor. They gave him a starving salary, and I knew he could spend the hundred dollars a hundred ways for his actual needs. Presently he said to me,

Sanborn, what on earth am I to do? I can't keep this. Can't keep it, I repeated like a parrot and full of astonishment. No, I can't. Don't you see it's a lottery? They are talking all around us about having tickets, and it's even worse than an ordinary lottery. There was actually nothing but an old barrel to strive after. But they did it as a present for you, I said eagerly enough, for I was anxious for him to have the money. He shook his head. No, there isn't that excuse.

I heard young Butler telling someone that there was just six of them in the secret, and the rest of thought they were striving for a valuable present. But they understood that the money so procured would be given to you for a Christmas present, Chapin. They certainly must have been told that much. I said, still personating Satan, you see, but he answered me almost sternly. I cannot be put up at lottery at all events if I never have a Christmas present. And his eyes were pretty stern as he said it. I tell you I was at my wits' ends. Of course I foresaw a terrific storm if the gift was returned, and I loved Chapin like a brother. I couldn't bear to have him in deep waters. My dear boy, I said coaxingly, couldn't we arrange it somehow?

Reader's note, text missing. It is an error of ignorance. They want to do you honor, and it will grieve and offend and make trouble in your church to decline the gift. Can't you overlook the matter because of the motive that prompted? He turned towards me with that penetrating look of his. Get thee behind me, Satan, he said with an attempt at playfulness. Sanborn, you wouldn't have me do it. Overlook the act, tolerate a lottery, because it brings a hundred dollars to me, but frown upon it when the money belongs to others. That is what the enemies of Christ would say of me, and with good show of reason. I know I shall be misunderstood and lose many friends, perhaps lose my church, but I must not do evil that good may come. It just cuts me like a knife to think of

returning it, but I must do it. I believe it is right. The Lord can take care of me. He went forward without another word and called the assembly to order. I would give much to be able to tell you what he said. It was tender, gentle, grateful, yet earnest and solemn. It seemed to me that it ought to melt all hearts. There were tears in my own eyes, but neither tears nor melting were there, I can tell you. Why, it was a regular uproar! I had to leave by the very early train, and I went to Massachusetts the next morning.

But when I came home, the first thing I did was to run down and see him. I found him in deep trouble. The most outrageous stories were afloat, twisted and turned to suit the narrator's particular views of the festival, until it seemed to me that the very powers of darkness were arrayed against the poor man. My heart ached for him. went hither and thither through the village, trying to make things plainer and smooth some of the ruffled feelings. But I might as well have talked to a court of chestnut burrs. I couldn't reason with them any more than you can with pins. I never saw anybody who fancied that his generosity had been

undervalued that you could reason with. I asked Chapin if he ever felt that perhaps it would have been wiser, all things considered, to have kept the money and appropriated it to some public use, but he shook his head emphatically. I haven't been given over to that feeling, he said decidedly, though I think I have had every other discouraging one that ever mortal endured. But in this case, there wasn't room to doubt. It wasn't done in ignorance, Sanborn. If it had been, I do think they would have taken the explanation better. It is not so much that they are hurt as that they tried to entrap me and failed. It is a gambling community. The ladies buy their tea of those who offer a prize for every third pound, and the gentlemen buy their cigars in the same manner. The very

children, when they go to town on the cars, come back laden with prize candy and prize popcorn. The people know how I hate it all. I have preached against it and talked against it, and I am obliged to think that they, knowing my poverty, meant to give me a great temptation and arrange it so that I almost could not escape in order to silence my troublesome voice. The whole thing was abominable, Brother Newton said excitedly, and so that was the occasion of his leaving that church so soon? Just that, and not any of the 150 absurdities that were told at the time. I was mad for six weeks right straight through all the time about it.

Isn't it a strange thing, Brother Newton, that the Lord sends such trials to a man like Chapin, who seemed to need them so little? It is strange, Newton said thoughtfully. That is, it seems difficult for us to understand the why, but I presume the master knows just why he does it. It didn't crush Brother Chapin anyway. Oh, no, he wasn't crushed by any means, at least not for any length of time, but it was a bitter trial, and I never could get the least glimpse of the working together for good that there must have been in it. However, as you suggest, it is a great comfort to know that we haven't it to manage.

then we both left brother chapin's luxurious study and went down to his elegant parlors we were spending christmas together new ministerial friend and chapin the friend of my boyhood in the latter's beautiful city home he was not in the parlors when we went down but mr osborne a grey-haired member of the church was and arose to greet us be seated gentlemen mr Mr. Chapin will be back in a few moments. I, full of the story that I have been telling, said, as I took a rocking chair, I have been telling my friend, Mr. Sanborn, about the last Christmas Eve I spent with my brother Chapin. Ah, he said, in a tone of courteous indifference. Fourteen years tonight. He turned towards me promptly. That was in blank, bestowing a very much. Bestowing a very much. searching look. Were you there on Christmas Eve? Indeed I was. Then you know all about the golden Pippin? Decidedly I do. Did Mr. Chapin tell you of it? I did not need to be told I was an eyewitness.

It was my turn to be surprised. How was that? I asked curiously. Oh, it all happened, as we Christians have a reverent way of saying. I have a reverent way of saying. I have a an old uncle, or had in that township, and I ran down there that Christmas Eve for the sake of old times. Now, I've a mind to tell you something that Brother Chapin doesn't know himself. If I had not been there that night, and both seen and heard the Golden Pippen, in all human probability, Mr. Chapin would never have been our pastor. We love him for a thousand reasons now, but we began by admiring the noble, difficult, manly course that he took that night. Then the old gentleman came over to my side and bent down to speak in a lower tone.

Since you know about the other matter, I'll tell you another thing that Mr. Chapin doesn't know yet. There's more than one golden Pippin in the world you know. We have one for him that is free from any taint of gambling. We want to blot out the painful memory if we can and give him something pleasant to think of when he eats apples after this. I wonder we didn't think of it years ago. It is to be presented at our anniversary exercises this evening.

It isn't filled with gold dollars, but with very good representatives of them after all. It's pretty well filled up with national greenbacks. And how much do they can? count. I asked with eagerness. $1,000. The old gentleman answered me, pretty fair, isn't it? And it's the free will offering of a loving people. Every man, woman, and child in the congregation is represented, not because we couldn't easily have made up the amount without them, but because they wanted to be in it. The little children in the infant class, the very we,

of them are to present it. Our host came in at this point, and I could do no more than look my appreciation of the delicate courtesy. Things are working together all the time it seems, even though you and I can't see it. This was my brother Newton's aside to me as we went out to dinner. Seated in the elegant uptown church of which my brother Chapin is now the pastor, it was during one of the anniversary addresses to which Brother Newton seemed to be listening, that he suddenly turned to me, and covering his mouth with his hand, whispered, What does ETAF mean?

Despite my ministerial dignity that had to be maintained, I laughed as I whispered back, it was a lottery business all through, spell it backwards. End of Section 22. Section 23 of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Faye Huntington and Pansy. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Choker and Old Stuffy by Pansy, Chapter 1. I say, Tom, what an intolerably blue, black, cold day it is. Did you ever see its equal? The speaker was a sight to behold. His clothing, much too thin for the season, was short at the wrists and lower extremities. In the absence of a fire or an overcoat, he had wrapped about him an old-fashioned red and green comfortable,

from which the cotton grinned in a ghastly fashion at the mouths of many holes. He stood pressing his nose against the window-glass, looking down from his third-story perch, on the driving sleep below. book in hand he had paused a moment in his study to take in the dismal scene, and while he looked, his nose against the icy glass grew blue, and his teeth chattered with the cold as he spoke. His companion, very little better clad, had the remains of an old woolen shawl wound closely about him, and was pacing the room with rapid strides, studying vigorously. He read over part of the section that he was coaxing into his brains before he took time to ask,

What did you say, Dick? I said I was freezing, answered the young man thus addressed, speaking in sour and savage tones. Oh, is that all? I passed the crisis long ago. It isn't so bad after you get used to it. Study the harder, man. I can't study. My brains have frozen fat. to the back of my head, and I'll be hanged if my heart even beats any longer. Nevertheless, he took his nose from the window, shrank farther into the comforter, and betook himself with energy to his work. Silence reigned in the room after that, until the sharp, nasal peel of a bell clanged out on the frosty air. Straightway, the two young men threw down their books, divested themselves as rapidly as cold fingers would admit of their outer covering, Dick saying, with many a shiver and grimace,

Wish we could wear them into class, what do you suppose the faculty would think of us if we should appear in this rig? But his companion was half down the hall, and Dick, flinging the comforter on the bed, followed him. These two young men were medical students, and they had been undergoing what they pleased to term a cramming for several days, preparatory to a general review of the lectures. Study had driven them for the past week. They were both earnest students, bent on acquitting themselves well, and on this Friday afternoon came off with flying colors. Two hours, and they were back in their room, or their den, as they familiarly termed it, and that, it must be confessed, seemed a more appropriate name. Such a dingy, cold, cheerless hole as it was, guiltless of carpet or curtain,

the rickety bed, with its main covering in a ragged heap at one end, a little demon of a stove, ashes on the hearth, but never a fire inside. A three-legged table piled up with papers, pamphlets, magazines, books, all medical references, and two wooden chairs. One painted a dull yellow, and one with no paint at all comprised its furnishings. The two gentlemen gave each other that peculiar sort of long-drawn sigh, which betokens a letting down from some state of excitement or great mental strain, and Mr. Thomas Benton said, I move, we have some dinner.

Those three crackers that I ate somewhere in the vicinity of noon were gone long ago. I second the motion, but where in the name of the name of the same? of all that's comical is the dinner to come from. We can't eat the plate and knife, and that is all there is left. Let's go out on a raid. Dick shrugged his shoulders and replied dismally, I cannot dig, and to beg I am ashamed. At least it isn't the season for digging. It is for shoveling, though. It has snowed-like fun for several hours. I'm going to take the snow shovel and hunt a place to make paths until I earn money enough for a dinner, a real royal one. All right, I'll borrow the saw and sally forth and demand of every man I meet the right to saw a shillings worth of wood at his woodbile.

The shovel's the best, though, if we could only borrow two. Never mind, the saw may do it. Come ahead, then. In two hours, one of us ought to have earned enough to buy a dinner. Come back in two hours, dick, and if we've each earned something, we'll go shares. If I'm the lucky fellow, I'll stand treat. And what if neither of us should raise a cent? Then we'll go hang ourselves, said Tom cheerfully. You put on the shawl, dick, my coat is thicker than yours. Not a bit of it. I can't saw with a shawl on. I'll work myself into a perspiration, no doubt. be it understood that these two forlorn individuals boarded themselves, or rather starved themselves, in a systematic and scientific manner, both of them being members of families far away,

who were making constant, patient sacrifices, in order that they might spare to these two their precious time all they had to give to them. As Dick Graves buttoned his ragged coat about him, and further prepared as best he could to brave the cold, some sense of the pinched, cramped, starved life that they were leading rolled over him, and he burst forth savagely. I say, Tom, it's too confounded mean. So it is, said Tom sympathetically. Won't I give someone an awful dose of Ipecac the first day I am admitted to pay for it all?

Now, here goes for a dinner. Down the snowy street they trudged, Tom breathing out threatenings against a certain snow scraper that was preceding them. Now, see that thing, he said indignantly, taking away a piece of our dinner with every scrape, but the old fellow can't penetrate into backyards, that's one comfort. At the corner they separated, Dick with his saw under his arm and his hands in his pockets, whistled to sustain his courage and perhaps his pride. He had some of that inconvenient article, and his face tingled with more warmth than it had felt that day, when he came face to face with young Harlow, who passed him with a slight, preoccupied bow. Harlow was one of the students

whom fortune favored, wealthy, talented, hardworking, he was at once the pride and envy of their class, and Dick wondered, as they passed each other, what he thought of his classmate's appearance, and if he had any idea what was to be done with that saw. Never mind, he said cheerily, my shingle will stand as fair a chance as his when I get it tacked up. Harrah, here's a woodpile! Now, my fine old lady in there by the window, I hope and trust that you haven't a stick of wood sod, nor a single human being around to saw it for you, just for tonight, you know. But he was doomed to disappointment. The fine old lady was better cared for than that by loving sons. Down the length of that street, on either side,

around the corner, down another long street, with plenty of wood peering out from under well-stocked sheds, but not a person in need of any sawing. The two hours were fully passed when the hero of the saw presented himself at the den, tired and thoroughly disgusted. His chum was there before him, stamping the snow from his boots and blowing his fingers. What success? He asked cheerily, as Dick opened the door with a jerk and closed it with a kick. Exactly the success I expected, just none at all. Are you ready for the hanging? Not till after dinner, my friend. I had Gloria luck, found two blessed old maids who were in agony because they had company come to tea and couldn't get

to the well. I made them a royal path, and brought the water for them, and wished most sincerely that I had been the company who had come to tea. I had to tramp over half the town before I found them, though. However, I've got enough for the dinner. You fire up old stuffy, and I'll sally out again for the provisions. Dick, let's have toast and fried eggs for dinner. Butter we'll have to this once, seeing it's the first regular meal in three days. Do you vote for toast and eggs? I, answered Dick, who was already bending over old stuffy, so-called, from its propensity to wheeze and puff and smoke, and do anything rather than burn. Dick, however, was persevering and presently conquered. His spirits began, anter rise, the smell of fire was cheering, and the thought of toast and fried eggs was delightfully

soothing. There was nothing particularly humiliating in being indebted to his friend for a supper, as this was not by any means the first time that they had been reduced to equal straits, and he was often the successful provider for their mutual needs, so it was only a return of courtesy. It was quite a journey downtown to the provision store, and by the time Tom returned with his purchases, the room actually showed some signs of warmth, and the horrid little kerosene lamp, named Choker, in honor of her smoking propensities, was blinking away in the middle of the three-legged table, which had been cleared of its contents by being unceremoniously tipped up until they all slipped into a corner on the floor.

"'There,' said Tom, with triumph in his voice, "'I got six eggs, three apiece. "'I told you we would have a tall supper this time.' "'Wouldn't it be better to save two of the eggs for tomorrow?' "'Suggested Dick, very faintly. "'Not a bit of it. "'Tomorrow must look out for itself. "'We are to have three eggs apiece tonight.

"'Rake out some coals, Dick, and I'll have yours cooked in a jiffy.' not a bit of it you provide and i cook that's the program you break the eggs and cut the bread and then just give yourself to meditation until i have your feast ready at their own homes these two gentlemen were in the habit of sitting down to their meals with their families civilized fashion no doubt they would have enjoyed sitting down together on this particular evening but when one's household furniture or at a little bit of the house-old furniture or at a at least pantry furniture, consists of one plate and one knife, various expedients have to be resorted to in order to accommodate two borders. In this establishment, the matter had been reduced to a science, so there were speedily three good-sized eggs lying on the aforesaid plate, the plate resting on what the cook in question was pleased to call a bed of coals. To be sure, there was more blaze than coals, and more smoke than either, but the eggs were cooking, and the bread was toasting,

being stuck, three slices of it, on three sharp-pointed sticks, whittled for the purpose, and arranged in various positions around the blaze and the smoke. So, in less time than it takes to tell it, Tom was seated at the table, his supper before him, and Dick was preparing to toast more bread. For what are three slices? to a hungry man who has worked hard and eaten nothing to speak of in three days. Work proceeded very rapidly now, and at last Tom, with a very satisfied air, tore a bit of clean paper from an old lecture, and wiping off the plate very neatly, passed it over to his waiting friend.

"'They're splendid, Dick, done to a turn. I hope you'll enjoy yours half as much as I did mine. Now let me toast. You look after the eggs, though. I believe you understand that process best. Only a very few moments thereafter, there was a sudden, sharp report, a quick fizz from the smoldering fire, an exclamation of dismay from Tom, an absolute groan from Dick. then both stood and stared at the plate that had found the heat too much for it at last, and had split itself directly through the center, and tumbled, half of it on one side of the smoky stick, and half of it on the other, while the treacherous eggs gave one delighted fizzle over the whole affair, blazed up and were gone. Is anyone surprised to hear that these two idiots stood staring at the broken plate,

until they actually allowed the three toasting sticks to take fire, tip over, and burn the bread to a cinder? This was the climax. The loss was too serious to admit of laughter. The two gentlemen turned away from the scene of disaster in solemn silence, until Tom ventured to suggest, there's some bread left, Dick. It may stay left for me. Burst forth that irate young man. man? After being such a born fool as to burn up half a loaf, I'll go without, to pay for it. I won't eat a mouthful to-night, not a mouthful. And neither remonstrance nor entreaty could drive him from this heroic resolution. Presently, he strode out into the gray twilight, for the early winter night was coming on rapidly. He was actually too hungry to sit down in that room where the odor of

toast and egg still lingered. Besides, he was in no mood for study. The pressure that had been upon them for a week was over, and his brain fairly reeled with weariness. He was thus a prey to a genuine fit of gloom. He was a cheery nature, and it was not often that he allowed his grinding poverty to get the best of him. But somehow it had been a hard struggle all day, and tonight, hunger and cold and sullen repining had it all their own way. Very savage he felt, and also very sad, almost tempted to resort to that other expedient of hanging, much preferable it seemed to him to living any longer.

In the frosty twilight he could distinguish before the college gate two pying restless horses, shaking their bells with impatient curves of their handsome necks, and now and then staring determinedly forward, to be checked and smoothed by the muffled driver. Dick knew the handsome turnout. Well knew it was waiting for Harlow to take him to his elegant home only five miles away, and at that moment Harlow came down the steps, passed him with that courteous, dignified bow of his, walked halfway down the path, paused thoughtfully, then turned back, and to Dick's astonishment addressed him.

Come home with me, graves, and spend the night. I'm rather late, but we shall be in time for a supper and a bed, and the slaying is superb. The grand excitement of the evening sank into insignificance before this greater one. Harlow, the dignified, reserved, courtly student, with whom he had barely ever passed a dozen words, inviting him to his home.

The first impulse was to decline with thanks, but the invitation was winning in Frank, and there had been one powerful word in the sentence, in time for supper. Be it remembered that Dick Graves was overpoweringly hungry. He forgot his frayed shirt bosom, his two short and more than frayed coat sleeves, and finally, the invitation being heartily repeated and pressed, he tore into his den and with the exclamation, lend me your shawl, Tom, I'm going home with Harlow, seized it and rushed out again, leaving his chum aghast with surprise. How the cold and hungry man nestled under those fur-lined robes, and took in their comfort

and the thought of supper. Perhaps they would have cold meat, tea certainly, probably coffee. At least there was no harm in giving free rein to his imagination. How those horses skimmed over the five miles! In an incredibly short space of time, they dashed into an elm-lined avenue, then paused with impatient snorts before the marble steps, then gaslight and summer warmth in the great handsome hall, and elegant parlors with sofas and easy chairs, and couches and cushions, and elegance every one,

then a cordial, hearty greeting from father, mother, and sister Sarah, greeting almost as cordial for the friend as for the son and brother, greeting in which they seemed perfectly indifferent as to the frayed and rumpled shirt front, and entirely unconscious of the short and ragged sleeves. But oh, that supper table! Shade of toast and eggs sink into nothingness, cold meat in Indeed. There was oyster stew, such a stew as Dick had imagined but never tasted. There was coffee, hot, creamy, strong, every way wonderful. There was boiled chicken and cream toast and muffins. Young Harlow pronounced himself extremely hungry and ate as heartily as did Dick himself, and everybody seemed gratified that it was so, and acted toward their guest as if he were conferring

a delicate compliment on them in being hungry and enjoying their supper. It also appeared that from coffee and oysters down to cake, everything that seemed particularly delicious, Sister Sarah, had in some way the management of. So in many ways, Sister Sarah seemed to be a delightful and enviable person. After such a supper, it was late when the two young men went to their room. What a room it was! How the den suffered in mental comparison. Softly carpeted, richly curtained, and daintily upholstered, wonderful rose blankets on the bed, the door ajar into that elegant bathroom with its hot and cold water pipes and all its dainty appointments. And overall, that delicious sense of warmth that stole through every nerve of this

frozen young man. He never forgot that glimpse into paradise. Graves, his companion said, after a moment of silence, I'm in the habit of kneeling for a word of prayer before I retire. Will you kneel with me or wait for me? A curious expression hovered over Dick's face. It was a singular invitation, a new one to him. He had not expected it. He hesitated a moment, then said abruptly, I'd like to ask you a question first. How came you to invite me home with you tonight?

Harlow turned towards him with a bright, frank smile. If I am not mistaken in you, he said pleasantly, you are a frank, plain-spoken fellow, and like plain answers to your questions. Am I right? You emphatically are. Well, then, I had been reading in my Bible this morning

about the cup of cold water, and it has stayed by me all day. I concluded that I was an unsocial fellow who shut myself up in a shell and gave not even cups of cold water. I resolved to look about me and tried to find something to do. Tonight, when I passed you, you looked gloomy and lonely, I thought. I could think of nothing to do for you but to invite you home with me, and my father in heaven prompted me to do that. The queer look had deepened on Dick's face. So that was your cup of cold water, he said lightly. I prefer the coffee, I assure you.

But Harlow, I have not lived up to the conditions. I don't belong to him. I know that story, you see. It's one of my mothers. My dear fellow, won't you accept the conditions? and harlowe laid a gentle persuasive hand on the young man's shoulder. There was a little choke in Dick's voice as he answered. I'll kneel with you anyway, and thank him too if your ectomy was suggested by him,

for I thought I hadn't a friend in the world, and he only knows how near I was to despair. End of Section 23. Section 24 of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Fay Huntington and Pansy. This Sliberovox recording is in the public domain. Choker and Old Stuffy Chapter 2. Old Stuffy was smoking villainously, and the den was in its usual state of supreme disorder, when Dick Graves burst in upon his chum the next morning. A huge wooden packing box hoisted on his shoulder. Such a place, Tom, as your eyes have not be held in a month of Sunday. and such a supper as they gave us last night. And, oh, jolly, such a breakfast this morning,

buckwheat cakes and maple syrup and butter that smelled of June and strawberries. Beef steak done elegantly, no taste of smoke to that old fellow, and the coffee. Oh, the coffee! He said, striking an attitude and waxing eloquent, going off into a rhapsody, composed of all the six-syllabled superlative, that his versatile memory furnished. I can live off the memory of that swell for a week. He added, with a sudden descent in ordinary tones, "'That's lucky,' his companion remarked, succinctly, opening his lips for the first time

since the open door had admitted a rush of cold air on his half-frozen feet and the voluble dick at the same time. Why? Because the chance of are that you will have precious little else to live on. Don't you go to believing any such abominable croaking as that? What do you suppose is in that box that I nearly broke my back bringing in? I don't know, said Tom meditatively, glancing up from his book of medical statistics.

A skeleton, perhaps. I should not wonder, chuckled Dick. Two of them, maybe. The box was heavy enough for it, only I doubt if their bones are as plainly distinguishable as they will be by the time we are through with them. Now, Tom, just lay aside that book and give attention to business, and we'll unpack the thing. A little lunch, Miss Sarah called it. She evidently surmised that we fellows only lunched once a week or so on a cold cracker or two. You see, it was sent to you, old fellow. The way of it was,

When I was taking a sip of that glorious coffee this morning and preparing a wonderful buckwheat, I suddenly remembered you, sitting probably on the ash-strewn hearth of old stuffy, with your head inside of her and your cheeks puffed into a pair of bellows, trying to get up a blaze. And with something between a sigh and a groan, I said, Tom's at home, he is, or something to that effect. And so, of course, they inquired about Tom, and Harlow told them he was the star scholar of our class.

What do you think of that, my friend? And so Miss Sarah was very particular to say the lunch was for Mr. Benton and myself. Who is Miss Sarah? inquired Mr. Benton, tugging vigorously at the box cover and taking all the past information very composedly. She is a sister who makes the most amazing coffee and cake and muffins that a half-starved party ever swallowed. I say, Tom, what do you think of the skeletons?

Won't you go into the study of anatomy with new zest? There they cuddled amid snowy napkins, two of the plumpest, brownest chickens that had met Mr. Thomas Benton's gaze in many a long day. All around them lay little puffy biscuits, and piled high above them, those delights of gentlemen's hearts, donuts and crawlers, while one entire end of the box was devoted to tier-on-tier of

mince pies, great fat, crispy-looking pies, with raisins popping up from every tiny opening. A slip of paper was pinned on the napkin covering them, and on it was written in delicate chirography, which Dickett once decided could be no one but Miss Sarah's. If you keep these where they will freeze and only warm as you wish, to use them, they will keep a long time. We can obey that order to perfection, chuckled Dick. If she had said where they wouldn't freeze, we would have had to put them in old stuffy and build a fire around them, and then I wouldn't insure them if the wind were contrary.

I say, Tom, isn't this jolly? It is very kind and thoughtful, said older and graver Mr. Thomas Benton, with a suspicious, mist before his eyes. Some way, that box in its carefully packed contents made him think of his mother, and the things she would have done for her boy if she could, nay, of the things that she had done, of the shirts that he wore, sacred by so many darns taken late in the night by that dear mother. Kind, I should think it was, Dick said, talking faster than usual, to overcome a strange lump in his throat. They piled the kindness on a fellow, I can tell you. Why, Tom, there were as many as four blankets on the bed last night, and hot and cold water in the bathroom.

My, it made one feel as if he were somebody, and so delicately they did everything, too. She knew how gentlemen managed when they were hard-pressed with their studies, the fine old lady mother said, didn't take time to eat or sleep, and a nice little lunch came in handy now and then. Thinks I to myself, I guess it will. Tom, don't you think they packed Harlow a box more than half as large as this? What the mischief he will do with it is more than I know. He boards at the Archer Street house, you know, where they have everything that's going. Perhaps, though, they filled it with sawdust or something. I knew what they gave him a box for, of course. So I wouldn't feel awkward about taking mine, and I liked the thoughtfulness, exactly as well as if I hadn't seen through it. Bless their

kind old hearts. Then Dick Graves gave himself to the work of helping Tom bestow their treasure in the old chest, which they wheeled into the further corner by the window, Dick remarking as he did so, they'll freeze here tight as a brick no mistake how came harlowe to invite you home with him tom said skillfully moving the legs of the plumpus chicken to make room for a pie ahem said dick that was the one little thing that he had felt like leaving out of his story that about the cup of cold water and the kneeling together by harlowe's bedside not that he was ashamed of it he had had much and respected Harlow the more ever since. But he had a feeling that Tom wouldn't understand it, or sympathize with it, or at least that he didn't know how to tell it. So after thoughtfully clearing his throat, he said aloud, Why, I stood out there, feeling dismal, you know, and he passed by and saw me, and, well, I suppose he thought he would. No doubt, said Tom, and then both betook themselves to their books, Dick saying with a little sigh,

But that coffee, Tom, went ahead of everything. If I could just have pocketed a cup of that for you. I will take the will for the deed, said Tom kindly, and be glad that you had it yourself in the bargain. No, Dick, we mustn't speak again for an hour. It was the next evening but one that Dick, grave sat alone in his room. Choker was blinking vilely on the three-legged table and doing justice to her name. Dick sat with his boot heels on old stuffy's head, vainly endeavoring to coax a little warmth into his limbs. The night was intensely cold. It was Tom Benton's evening to wrap himself in the old shawl and sally forth in search of letters from home. In extreme weather, these two gentlemen rarely appeared on the

street together, because the red and green comfortable wasn't considered presentable to the outer world, and there was but one shawl. There came a tap at the door. Come on, growled the inmate, expecting to see some other shivering occupant of their end of the hall come to beg the loan of a match or a book. The door opened gently, and the handsome face and well-dressed form of Harlow presented itself. Dick brought his feet to the floor with an energy which made old stuffy's door fly open, and smoke and ashes come out. Harlow had never seen the inside of the den before. I am afraid I have disturbed your studies, said this prince of gentleman, courteously oblivious to smoke and kerosene and discomfort generally. But I hope they will admit a further disturbance

this evening. I dropped in to see if you wouldn't come around to our class prayer meeting. We hold them only an hour, and I think the change rests my brain and fits me better for study. Dick's brain's straightway became very busy. This to him was a novel invitation. Class prayer meetings, or indeed prayer meetings of any sort, he never attended. But for that cup of water administered so recently, the glimpse into this young man's home paradise, the hearty welcome there, the thoughtful attentions showered upon him, he would have been able to give a good-humored prompt refusal. But some way, the memory of all these things pressed in and made the meditated refusal seem churlish. I might go, it won't hurt me, he said to himself, thinking rapidly,

It's a little enough thing to do after his kindness. Then there arose another consideration, the shawl. Tom would not be back for half an hour yet, and the evening was very sharp. Aside from the feelings, it certainly would look badly for him to be out without other covering than his ordinary housecoat. At this point, his eyes rested on the comfortable. I might wear that, he said, still talking. to himself. Harlow had stepped to the table and taken up a book. And then a vision came over this absurd young man of the absurd figure he would make traveling through the streets beside

Harlow in his elegant broadcloth wraps, gotten up in the latest style, himself done up in the red and green comfortable, with the yellow cotton oozing out at numberless holes. And the vision was so very absurd that he seated himself down on the side of the bed and yielded to an uproarious peal of laughter. Harlow looked up inquiringly. I beg your pardon, Harlow, laughed Dick, still holding his sides. Something so extremely funny came over me just then that I was obliged to laugh or choke, but it had nothing to do with your invitation, I assure you. All right, said Harlow, in courteous good humor. But you are going to accept my invitation, I hope.

Tom sprang up briskly. Yes, he said, hunting among the pile of papers in the corner for his hat, I'll go, adding Soto Voce, I won't freeze, I guess, and even if I do, he's worth accommodating. Just here, my storyteller paused, and in place of the fun that had hitherto danced in his eyes, there came a tender, moved expression, and his thought seemed to go far away. You must know, dear friends, that I have been repeating to you a story that was told me one stormy night by our family physician, Dr. Graves. I have given you the story in my own words, because there were certain details connected with our noble doctor's heroic battle with the

world, that I knew he would leave out, and that I meant to tell you of. of, but somehow they haven't got in. It was a midnight story, and its starting point was the doctors complimenting me on the cup of coffee that I passed him. It was an unusual thing to hear Dr. Graves tell a story. There was much silver in his hair, and professional cares sat heavily on him. He rarely had time for other than the briefest of professional conversations, but this day had been to us one of special anxiety and fear. Sickness, sharp and severe, had been in our midst. The doctor had been with us during most of the day, and had been unremitting in his care. Towards evening, the burden had lifted, but it was not until midnight that the doctor left his patient, and came down with cheery face

to drink his cup of coffee, that had waited long. It was the reaction from the day's anxiety I think that disposed him to tell and me to listen to the funny story. Doubly funny when I looked at the dignified face opposite me. I thought of the respectful deference with which people were wont to listen to his opinions, and then imagined him enveloped in that red and green comfortable or frying eggs on his one cracked plate. I waited a little for the rest of the story, and finding him still silent, ventured at last question. What about the prayer meeting, doctor? The prayer meeting? He said, rousing himself with a

slight start. Oh yes, that was a precious meeting to me. It was on that very evening that the precious savior, who has been my guide and helper, and never failing support during a distracting life, sought after and found me. I can never forget that evening, nor Harlow's prayer for me, though I thought then and do now that perhaps he might have prayed for me until this time, and I had given no heed if he had not paved the way with his cups of water. In fact, but for his previous kindness to me, I should not have thought of such a thing as going with him to prayer meeting. And what about Tom? I asked after a little. Tom came too, he said with glistening eyes, he was my dear friend, and after I had discovered what wonderful blessings were to be had in this world,

just for the asking, I could not rest until I had coaxed him in. Harlow tried for him, too, and it wasn't long before our dreadful little den seemed to us to have been transformed into a very Bethel. Are these two gentlemen living now? Oh, yes, Tom is. Why, he is Dr. Benton of Philadelphia. You surely had heard of him? Yes, I had. Most people in our vicinity had.

He was not only known as a very successful physician, but as a Christian philanthropist. Still, it had not occurred to me that he could be Tom. And Harlow, continued the doctor, you are doubtless familiar with his name also. He went as missionary surgeon to southern India. A good man he is, and a grand work he has done there. He is coming home for vacation in the summer. Then we hope to have a reunion, Tom and he and I. Did you ever go to his home again? Often, he said, with a happy look deepening on his face.

Tom was included in the next invitation, and a jolly time we had. He didn't go as often as I, however. He was older and more sedate than I, and he could not forget his frayed shirts and wristbands. But, bless you, they didn't mind those things. The family didn't. They used to treat us as if we were princes in disguise. After waiting and studying his face a bit, I ventured on another question or suggestion. Doctor, I want to hear some more about Miss Sarah. The doctor glanced up at me quickly and gave a bright little laugh. You must ask Mrs. Graves about her, he said briskly. They are very intimate friends. Indeed, I may say they are inseparable. It all came about, though, from that first cup of wonderful coffee. And really, yours tonight has been almost as good.

after that he went back upstairs to his patient several months after this we received one day an invitation that filled me with delight it was a cordial little note from our doctor's wife inviting us to take tea informally with two very old friends dr henry harlowe then on a visit to this country from his home in india and dr thomas benton of philadelphia fame The note was signed, Sarah Harlow Graves. I never realized how much of a simpleton I was, until I stood confronting those two gentlemen, and found that I had actually been expecting to see in Harlow a handsomely dressed young medical student, and that Tom's shirt front would be sadly frayed. Gray-haired both of them.

Dr. Harlow with a stoop to his shoulders, earnest, hard-working, looking man, yet neither of them so old nor so professional looking as our own Dr. Graves, the merry dick of the story. None of them, however, were overmuch troubled with dignity on this particular evening. They all talked at once, they laughed uproariously. They made constant allusions to old stuffy, choker, and the den. Dr. Harlow seeming to be as thoroughly posted as though his early days had been days of poverty and sacrifice. When we were summoned to tea, our own doctor walked out beside me. We are going to have such a funny supper tonight, he said to me, with a comic air, that we thought we must send for you to help us appreciate it. Among other things, they had toast and

eggs. Very merry laughter greeted this dish. Did the plate break dick? Queer. Queer the Philadelphia doctor, and then shaking with laughter, Oh, Mrs. Graves, if you could have seen him when those three eggs slipped into the smoke. I saw him not long after, said Dr. Harlow, and he looked like a tombstone. I wondered then what awful trial had befallen him. Sarah, do you remember how you said afterwards that a special providence must have suggested broiled chicken and muffins for supper that even? "'Oh, my,' said our doctor, "'here is a dish of broiled chicken I forgot to serve.

"'It isn't equal to Sarah's getting up on that particular evening, though.' "'Nothing ever will be,' Mrs. Graves said, meekly, "'unless you happen to get lost in a desert and have nothing to eat for three days.' "'Tom, what became of the shawl?' "'Sudly questioned Dr. Graves. I have it, or rather my wife has, keeps it in her bureau drawer, I think, or somewhere, pleased to remember that I was wound up in it the first time she ever beheld me on that never-to-be-forgotten day when I went to shovel snow.

I'd like to know the fate of the comfortable, said Dr. Harlow. What about that, Dick? Our doctor laid down his knife and fork and burst into an absolute roar of laugh. There is positively the funniest story about that that was ever heard, he began. Now, doctor, his wife said, deprecatingly. Now, Sarah, he answered eagerly, do let me tell them. This is the very evening for all sorts of absurdities, and it is too rich to keep. You know, Tom, that comfortable used to lie.

Clang, sounded a bell, with one loud, sharp. peel through the house. The next instant, the storyteller was summoned from the table. He came back in a very few moments. All trace of the married Dick had departed. He was the grave, earnest-looking professional man. I shall have to be excused. He said, speaking to all of us at once, I am called to a very serious case. Dr. Benton and Dr. Harlow, I should be glad if you would both come down after supper. The office boy will show you the way. It is at Newton's Sarah. I may not be back tonight. Good evening all. Grave and dignified, he departed. And I never heard the story of The Comfortable. End of Section 24. End of Dr. Dean's Way and other stories by Fay Huntington

and Pansy.