he once had for Rachel North," was the low answer, given with a good deal of malice in her tones. "I now "Thanks," said monsieur. thoroughly understand our_game, I am playing for a wife-unless I change my mind. Adieu, my friend." And monsieur having bowed over his companion's hand, walked down the road; while Rachel sauntered slowly back to the house, and found that the whole household were uniting in a grand search for Rose's lost ring, and she kindly joined in the hunt. Monsieur managed so dextrously, that even in the next three weeks people surmised that it was just possible that Rose Maple was being consoled for the absence of her lover. Rachel, whose scheming brain had resolved upon success, made no scruple to prevent the one letter that Rose sent to Roland, before he started for home, from ever reaching its destination. She sincerely wished monsieur might have the first telling of the ring story to Roland. Notwithstanding appearances, monsieur knew inwardly that he had made no impression on the heart of Rose; but she liked to be with him-he amused and interested her, and she was thankful for anything that should help get away the time that still remained before Roland would come. Monsieur could very well bide his time; he felt sure she would turn to him when the crisis came, and Rachel knew the proud temper of Roland too well to expect he would seek an explanation after having listened to the story awaiting him. Monsieur had business in Dover the day Roland was to arrive; and it was he whom Wallace first saw when he sprang upon the wharf. He had only seen the Frenchman for half an hour, once, in company with Rachel; but he knew he was Rose's teacher, and he greeted him cordially, and accepted his invitation to dine with him. When monsieur removed his gloves, and poured out a glass of wine to celebrate the happy return, Roland's eye was caught by what seemed a familiar spark on monsieur's hand, but thinking himself mistaken, he drank his wine, then looked again at the well-shaped fingers. Yes, there it was, or the facsimile of the ring which had been one of the first things his baby eyes had seen. He stared hard at it, neglecting his dinner. Meanwhile monsieur was gaily chatting, but Roland heard not a word of what he was saying. At last he exclaimed excitedly: "I hope you will pardon me, but I must ask where you procured that ring? peculiar. I could have sworn there were not two rings of the same pattern in the world." It is Monsieur's manner became instantly one of delicate confusion, and Roland's heart grew more and more fiery, his face flushed, his eyes burned, it could not be possible. The glowing hopes with which he had left the steamer were crushed back upon his soul. "The ring was given me by one very dear to me," said the Frenchman, in a carefully modulated tone. "I have nothing to say on the subject, save that if a lady, young and inexperienced, finds that she has given her troth to a man whom she discovers that she does not really love, it remains for that man, if he is a gentleman, to release her honorably, and stifle his pain as best he may." It is impossible to describe the sweetness of monsieur's tone-the pity, the deprecation, and yet the firmness of it. Roland listened as to the voice of doom. Rose had been mistaken; this Frenchman had been her companion during many of the days of his absence, and she had discovered that she had given her troth to the wrong man! "It remains for that man to stifle his pain as best he may." These words rang dully over and over in his brain, which seemed suddenly deadened. He sat silently for many moments, leaning his head on his hand trying to recall his mind to him, so that he could think contentedly. At last he looked up and said, "Allow me to take the ring a moment?" Monsieur took it from his finger, and handed it to him without speaking. Yes, there was no mistaking it-there was the very stone-one or two scratches on the gold he remembered, and the words, "Faithful forever." He returned it, saying, in a high voice, "Thank you. Miss Maple showed extremely strange taste in bestowing this upon you. But love may explain everything." He rose from the table. "Excuse me; I wish to catch the next train." Monsieur felt that he must know if he was going to Rose, though he hardly believed that possible, and he said, "For Maidstone?" "No," was the reply, haughtily; "for my country-seat in Hampshire." And Rowland walked out, very erect, with a very white face and glazed-looking leasing Rose, and he hoped he might aid in restoring serenity to her mind. "How is she?" he asked of Rachel, who came first into the parlor. "She is well, apparently-only fully ten or twelve years older than when you saw her last. There she is; I don't care to be enlivened by her presence. You've done admirably.' And Rachel left the room as Rose entered from the garden. Monsieur, well poised as he was, could not refrain from starting slightly as he saw how correctly Rachel had spoken. This woman who greeted him coolly and composed, had, indeed, the features and figure of Rose Maple, but the features were sharper, the eyes large and cold; the figure had an erectness that suggested almost an aggressive selfreliance. With amazement, monsieur found that he could not resume his former familiar manner, and on every successive visit he became more and more convinced of the fact. She gave up her French lessons; but he begged the privilege of calling and it was accorded in the same manner she would have loaned him a book. He persevered in his acquaintance for a year, and at the end of that time he decided that Rose Maple wasn't the girl he thought she was, and he dropped her from his friendliness, heartily wishing he had never touched the stolen ring. Meanwhile Rachel North had made it convenient for her to spend the greater part of the year in Hampshire, near Roland's abode for he had suddenly decided to remain at home for a while. She saw him often, but he did not even remember that he had ever fancied the dark and not unhandsome face of Rose's cousin. Failing entirely where she hoped for success, Rachel suddenly married a wealthy widower, and blossomed as one of the most fashionable women at the Westend. Not many months after her marriage, Roland received the following note from Monsieur, who finally discovered he had a heart and conscience, though not oversensitive ones: "My dear Monsieur Wallace-Pray let me relieve myself from a wicked secret. The ring you gave to Rose Maple was stolen from her-though not by meand given to me to do as I did with it. Consequently, Mademoiselle Rose knows not, to this day, why you released her. I return the ring with my blessing. As I do not know the precise time it requires for the train to reach Maidstone from Roland's abode in Hampshire, I cannot tell how much time passed after the receipt of that letter before the ruby ring was again on Rose's finger, and Rose's weeping face hidden on Roland's shoulder.-Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper. The Death of the Old Year. ALFRED TENNYSON. Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, Old year, you must not die; He lieth still: he doth not move: He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, So long as you have been with us, He frothed his bumpers to the brim; Old year, you shall not die; He was full of joke and jest, Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, How hard he breathes! Over the snow Shake hands before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 'Twixt Game and Salad. The game course was just being removed when the first message was delivered. The butler whispered it to Harrison, their host, and Harrison leaned toward young Grant with the "I-hateto-alarm-you-but-be-prepared-for-the worst" air. What he said was, "Something wrong up at your mother's, Harry, and they want you at once." Grant turned sharply. Where"From the club, Jenkins says.? The pretty girl on his left murmured, "I'm sorry," and tried to gather the frou-frous of her chiffon gown out of the While he was pulling on his top coat the second call came. He went to the telephone in person. It was a cousin by marriage. "Hello! That you, Harry? Awfully glad to have reached you. They've been telephoning all over town for you. Something wrong with your mother." "What?" demanded Grant, sharply. "Can't say, but they seem on edge to get hold of you." Young Grant hung up tne receiver, grabbed his hat from the hands of the man servant and dashed down the steps. At the next corner was a cab stand. He offered the Jehu an extra dollar to make extra time, and the cabby took him up. B. Emerson, 380. A. Rubrig, 376. way of his feet, which had suddenly turned as heavy as lead. Murmurs of conventional sympathy rippled the length of the rose-lit table. Young Grant turned in the doorway. The pretty girl-her name was Ethel Merrifield-way playing with her salad fork, and he thought there was just a trace of anxiety in her face. Was it for him and his? No, he remembered as he bowed gravely to Mrs. Harrison and slipped through the curtains-his feet had become tangled in her frock. Doubtless, he had ripped the frail fabric into shreds.. They plunged through the black mist of the rainy fall night. The hansom swayed and banged mercilessly. The cabby was making good his promise. The door of the hansom was swung shut with a vicious bang and caught Grant's finger. He pulled it away with an indefinite realization of pain. Then there came to him suddenly a mental picture of his mother's slender figure, arnica bottle in hand. To be sure, there had been times when he had resented being "babied," but there was always comfort in that phrase, "Brave little man," the tonic employed after the binding-up process was over. Somehow he had forgotten the rose-lit dinner table, the gracious hostess, the polished, confident host-even the pretty girl on his left. He leaned forward to see the name on the next street lamp, and the window of the hansom blew in, the framework striking him full in the face. It was an ugly blow, and again he saw the mother of his boyhood days. There had been a nightthe memory returned vividly at this moment-when his mother had sat by his side through the grim watches of midnight and the cold, pulseless hours of dawn, never relaxing the divine grip of motherhood on the little life he had tried to snuff out at a premature Fourth of July celebration. He groaned aloud. To be sure, when one's mother insists upon making her home with a married daughter possessing three noisy children and a shiftless husband, the son who has business and social prospects cannot be blamed for taking up his abode at bachelor apartments, but then he ought to see his mother once a week at least-no, it ought to be twice a week. The hansom stopped with a jerk that nearly threw him through the door. He tossed the man a bill, and asked no change. He sped up the steps, and was still holding the electric button with a nervous pressure when the astonished maid threw open the door. He pushed her aside and ran into the dimly lighted hall. Of course his sister must economize, but at a time like this, why didn't she He paused and drew his breath sharply. There, in the narrow circle of lamplight, in the small drawing room, sat his mother, her hands clasped on the cover of a new magazine, her white hair piled in stately puffs and draped with the familiar mantilla of Spanish lace, a mildly expectant expression on her thin face. "Mother!" 'Harry, my dear boy, I am so glad you have come! Here's a letter from a lawyer. It has been worrying me all day." Young Grant took the letter mechanically, and his mother prattled on. "You know, dear, I am so afraid of the law. It beggared your father, and drove Aunt Maria into an asylum. I wish you would not go to law. Is it anything important, Harry?" Harry Grant crushed the letter in his hand. He wanted to say things. "Just a note from the lawyer who straightened up that little affair of yours with the Dobbins brothers. After I paid his bill I sent him a case of wine. He had been particularly decent about the whole thing. This is a note of thanks for the wine, that's all. Then there came back to him the memory of the rose-lit table, the gracious hospitality and the girl on his left. "Why, in time-" he burst out. Then he caught the happy, child-like relief in his mother's face and he laughed. He kissed her, and they spent the rest of the evening together, and she told him for the twentieth time the story of how the law had beggared his father. "And Grant laughed. He said, to save his soul, he couldn't help it. It was all so absurd, the nasty half hour he had had in that cab all for nothing, and the placid way in which his mother took the whole thing. Think of being yanked away from one of the Harrison dinners and laughing about it! It's funny what a fuss women make over nothing. Now, the old lady might have known that a business letter sent to a chap's house is not important. But they must do just so much stewing! It's a wonder he didn't swear instead of laugh!" It was Jack Follensbee who spoke, and Ethel Merrifield smiled at him across the tea table. She was serving at the Art Club tea. "Do most men swear under such circumstances?" "Well, rather," said Follensbee, carelessly. Then he added over his shoulder as he moved away, "I know I should." The crowd had thinned somewhat when Harry Grant arrived and claimed his tea from the fair server. They carried their cups to a corner among the palms, but the tea turned cold. "I am afraid I spoiled things a bit the other night at Harrison's," he was saying. "I was awfully cut up, somehow, and I have an idea that I ruined your gown when I stumbled away from the table." "What makes you think so? she inquired gently. "Oh, you looked a bit anxious, and I thought I'd put my foot in it literally." The girl's hand trembled. She was rich and proud. Young Grant was rich in family connections only, and he, too, was proud. Her voice was low and tender. "Yes, I was anxious-for-you." Grant looked straight into her eyes. Then he took away her cup and set it beside his own on the tabourette. "I-I hardly dared to think you cared." "I wasn't quite sure myself-but that laugh decided it." And though she tried to explain, Harry could not understand. Perhaps that was because he was too happy to be logical. Perhaps it was just because men do not understand how light a feather will turn |