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In all of England, hill to breaking sea,
There is not he who holds thy gentle art,

There is not he who knows thy welling heart
Or turns its vintage to such ecstasy.
Thy kind are few, great soul, thy mystery

Is lost in all its making. So apart,

Thou stoodst in that great busy mart,
To note the ways of men: so lovingly.
They say thou hast thy voice from hallowed past,
Yet down the clanging bustle of the years

Thy word we hold in closest memory.
For of the dear ones who have worthied tears,
Thy name is best whose art was first and last

In all of England, hill to breaking sea.


“It is a ride until nightfall, to Langford, sir.” "An inn?" “A quiet one for gentlemen, sir. And does mud on a boot or a winded horse deny a traveler ? Nothing, save you, sir-but bloody hands." “And why they?”

"Because the High Sheriff smokes his evening pipe in the taproom, sir."

“The road to open country-"
“Is to the right, sir.”
“Good night!"
"Good night!"

X., '02.


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T was nine o'clock on a cold winter evening when Katharine

Gray left the train at the Worcester station. It seemed so

good to come once more within the radius of active, stirring human life! She thought with a shiver of the little Vermont village from which she had started that morning, and looked with delight upon the brightly-lighted, crowded street. “I do believe I'll take a carriage, just for once,” she said to herself, with a loving little shake of the purse which contained her meager teacher's pay for the past month,—“it is rather late, and it is such a long walk from the cars to the house.” So, calling a cab, she gave the driver directions, and nestled back among the cushions with a sense of luxurious ease, thinking happily of the cosy home awaiting her, and the little mother, who had never been left alone until that year. Ah, there was the house, with the front windows all lighted up, in expectation of her coming!

She ran lightly up the steps, turned the knob,—and found the door locked. A little chill of disappointment spread over her, and she rang the bell violently. Her ring was answered by a large, stout woman whom Katharine recognised as one of her mother's friends, for whom she herself had always felt a somewhat unreasoning aversion. Surprised, and far from glad to see her, Katharine gasped a little, and cried, "Why, how do you do, Mrs. Capron, is mother ill?”

"Oh no indeed, Miss Gray, she only went out in the diningroom to look up a recipe for angel-cake that I wanted, and asked me to come to the door.” Katharine placed her traveling-bag on the floor, and was beginning to take off her wraps, almost crying with disappointment and wounded feeling, when a door opened, and Mrs. Gray crossed the hall, with a peculiar, hesitating walk, characteristic of her. She welcomed her daughter with all her usual affection, but had no time to ask or answer any questions, for Mrs. Capron, who seemed bound up in her theme, engaged her in an eager conversation respecting an investment late made by her husband, Doctor Capron.

Every now and then she and Mrs. Gray would exchange glances and wise nods of the head, and once the visitor appealed to Katharine, with a side-glance at her mother, saying, “Now shouldn't you think that that would be a valuable investment, Miss Gray?"

"Really, Mrs. Capron, I am afraid I don't understand such matters,” Katharine answered wearily, and then rising, and turning to her mother, said, "If you'll excuse me, mother, I think I'll go to bed; the long ride in the train tired me."

"Why, Katharine, there were so many things that I wanted to talk over with you,” cried her mother, reproachfully, and then, with a martyr-like air, “but I suppose they're of so little importance they can wait till morning."

"Perhaps it will be best, mother dear; good-night!” and Katharine fled up-stairs, leaving the two friends still talking stocks. It was all so different from what she had planned! Her mother didn't seem to care that she had come home; of course she did care, only she was so much engrossed in the chatter of that horrid Mrs. Capron. Katharine leaned her head against the window-pane, and almost wished that she were back again in her cold little room at Derby, with its appalling green-banded water-pitcher, and its hard, "hubbly" bed.

Everything seemed more cheerful, however, when she went down stairs the next morning; the sun shone in brightly upon the glossy leaves of the ivy and begonias in the bay-window, and upon the Maltese cat, who was curling his paws and twitching his tail in the midst of a delightful slumber. Katharine gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she sat down to a cup of creamy coffee and a hot muffin ; at the farm-house where she had "boarded out" the regulation breakfast had consisted of fried salt pork and corn bread. A slight shadow came in to mar her comfort, however; it seemed to her that her mother was much more nervous than usual. She fluttered about the room as she talked, moving the dishes upon the sideboard, and straightening the table cloth. Presently she caught up the morning paper and cried, with a surprise which was manifestly feigned, “Why, here's an advertisement of that firm that Mrs. Capron was talking about, James F. Harris & Co! Just look, Kathie; they guarantee to pay twelve per cent a month dividends." Her hand trembled a little as she held the paper, and her cheeks flushed. Katharine set her cup down, and, looking at her mother, said almost sternly: "Mother, why are you so interested in that firm? Have you invested money with them?” Mrs. Gray started and gave an embarrassed little laugh, “Why what an idea!” she said ; "what makes you think so ?" Katharine paled a little, and the elder-sisterly air which she had unconsciously assumed of late years became more pronounced.

“How much have you invested, Mother?" she asked. Mrs. Gray's pitiful subterfuge gave way, and she replied, deprecatingly, “Well, you see, Kathie, Dr. Capron knows all about them, and has put in a large sum, and besides, I wrote to a man whose name they gave for reference, and see what a fine, open letter he sent back.” As if she had prepared it for the occasion, she drew forth a letter from the bosom of her dress, and spread it out before her daughter. It claimed that the writer had had investments with the said company for some time, and had always found them thoroughly honorable and responsible. It was signed, “George H. Gordon, Cambridge.”

Katharine glanced up from the letter :"Do you know anything about this man, mother,” she asked quietly. “N—no, but Dr. Capron says,"— “I suppose you have read in the papers about the great deception practised by just such a firm as this, in New York, and how the managers escaped with two or three million dollars ?” The tears came into Mrs. Gray's eyes, and her lips began to tremble. “Now, Kathie, don't be so hard; you al


ways oppose any of my plans, and—” Katherine's face softened, but she went on relentlessly, “You haven't told me yet how much you invested.” “Well, Dr. Capron put in ten thousand, and I thought that if he was willing to risk as much as that, our five would be safe !” “Mother!" Katharine rose from her seat with a frightened look upon her face. The five thousand dollars, in addition to the little home, part of which Mrs. Gray rented, comprised all their possessions. The income from the money, together with Katharine's small salary, had cared for them since Mr. Gray died intestate, a year ago. Thus two-thirds of the property was really Katharine's, but she and her mother had always had everything in common, and she had not disturbed her mother's placid belief that it was all her own. Only, Katharine had always managed the money matters, just as her father had done; for her mother, with the best of intentions, was no business woman.

Now, as Katharine, after a moment's thought, ran with determined step up-stairs, Mrs. Gray followed her, crying, “Kathie, Kathie, what are you going to do?” “I am going to Boston, mother, and find out if it is too late to do anything. It will be all right you know, I can stay with Aunt Clara.” As she spoke she was hastily gathering a few things into a bag, and now began to put on her hat. Mrs. Gray sank down on a chair and cried,—“How can you go off and leave me all alone, when you've only just come home," she sobbed, "and what can you do abort it anyway?” Katharine came and put her arms around her mother, and tried to comfort her, “Maybe it is all right, dear; I an only going to find out, you know. Now don't cry any more, I may be back tonight; and if I'm not, I'll write you from Aunt Clara's.” After more assurances and promises she tore herself away, and reached the station just in time to take the morning express for Boston. She bought a paper, intending to examine the advertisement that her mother had read to her. In looking for it she chanced to notice a paragraph which ran :

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