The Graydon Mining matter could not be postponed, so Gunnison did not reach the laboratory, with its fateful bottle, until 1 P. M. the next day.

Merriweather had left. The office boy was holding the place in solitary glory. Gunnison entered the laboratory and closed the door behind him.

On the table, as he had left it the previous evening, stood the bottle. He snatched it up angrily, and raised his arm as if to dash the thing to bits.

That would settle it. Either the bottle held morphine or it held bromide of soda -death or life. Which? Neither he nor any other could tell without analysis. Gunnison had 'resolved never to learn.

But suddenly a flashed over him. shatter the thing?

new aspect of the case Suppose that he did Might not the very act later loom up as a transparent trick. Gunnison caught his breath. Intentionally or otherwise, the bottle must not break. He replaced it upon the table with the utmost care.

For an hour he paced the floor, trembling at times in an agony of indecision. He dared not destroy the stuff. Dare he analyze it?

The chemist uncorked the bottle with a firm hand, selected a clean test-tube and poured out a little of the liquid, waterwhite and enigmatic. He reached for one of the reagent vials on the shelf-and paused again.

Suppose that it should prove to be morphine? What then? The news would be transmitted through Carney to the Coroner. An inquest would certainly be held. Carney would give his testimony. Ellen, the maid, might positively identify the bottle and swear that her mistress had given of its contents to Golden. They would call it murder. Then they would look for a motive-and find it in Golden's will.

Almost with loathing, Gunnison sprang away from the table and the bottle.

The afternoon grew and waned. Gunnison tramped on and on and on, heedless of the passing hours, wrestling with his problem; now, maddened with the uncertainty; now cursing himself for not undertaking the analysis.

The closing of a door caught his are. In an instant his brain had cleared. The emergency was upon him. Merriweather had returned. And, on the spur of the moment, quite a simple solution of the difficulty appeared to Gunnison.

He glided across the laboratory, uncorked the bottle once more, quickly inverted it over the sink and watched the liquid disappear down the drain. He hurried back to his desk, drew forth a note-book and hurriedly set down a spurious record of the analysis. He produced a report blank, the report for the Coroner, and inscribed in a neat hand the information that a bottle submitted by one Dr. Carney had been found to contain a solution of bromide of soda, free from adulterants.

The chemist mopped the perspiration from his forehead, bathed his burning face in cold water, smoothed his rumpled hair, and, picking up the report, walked to the door of Merriweather's office.

The doctor was at his own desk, writing away under the incandescent bulb.

"I'm through with that stuff from the Coroner's office," Gunnison said, rather hoarsely.

"Eh?" Merriweather whirled about in his chair.

"That bromide of soda bottle." "Pshaw! Have you been working at that, Gunnison?"

"Yes. I-9

"I meant to tell you-rather, to leave a note for you, about that," said Merriweather. "I went at it myself this morning-made an analysis out of sheer curiosity."

The report crumpled audibly in Gunnison's hand. Merriweather had analyzed it-yes, and reported it as well!

"What-what did you-find?" the assistant chemist managed to ask.

"Ei-yah!" Merriweather yawned and

stretched, and to Gunnison the operation consumed hours. "Why-ah-there was nothing under the sun in that bottle but a dilute solution of bromide of soda.' Merriweather turned back to his desk and hunted for a cigar, as he talked. “I tell you, Gunnison-nothing personal in this, of course-if there is one thing worse than a young chemist, it's a young doctor. This Carney chap must have a head full of dime-novel romance that he's trying to fit into everyday life. Positively, from what he himself told me yesterday-eh?"

Merriweather realized with considerable astonishment that he was alone in the office.

Below in the street, Gunnison was pushing frantically through the crowd. An echo of the night before dinned in his ears" But if I only knew!" And he sacrificed the toes and ribs of the populace, in the speed of his transit; for she could know-now.

A Woman's Pleasure.

BY SYBIL CONSTANCE BARLOW.

"Lucky fellow, that Barry Seymour! On the high road to fame and fortune,' remarked Lord Donoghue, and when his Lordship said anything it was not to be contradicted, so the listeners tried to look interested, and remember who Barry Seymour was. One of the many rising young artists who had two pictures on the line in last year's Academy, and was now going to paint Lord Donoghue's daughter, the beautiful Alixe. Barry Seymour himself was very delighted with his good fortune. Many a time he had longed to paint that face, the face which had more charm for him than any other, the face which haunted him so very, very often.

66

You really promise to sit for me! You're divine," exclaimed Barry, gratefully.

"I know it," returned Alixe, surveying her old friend with a saucy air.

"When shall we have the first sitting?"

"Whenever you like.”

"Tomorrow at eleven?"

"You look hopelessly fashionable," he said. "Now I am going to transform you into a picturesque maiden, like this," and he showed her a rough sketch.

Lady Alixe cast off her hat and cape, and calmly rearranged her hair.

"That is better," said Barry. "I will set to work."

Never had he taken more pains, and certainly never had he succeeded so well. The morning flew by all too quickly, but his model was gracious, and promised to come every day until the portrait was finished. I fear an unprecedented amount of sittings were required, and Barry soon found his model so fascinating that the studio was intolerable to him without her presence.

"I shall only come once more," she said, on leaving, and Barry assented. But when she came he found it utterly impossible to continue.

"I cannot paint today; it is useless to try," he said, at last, throwing his brush down impatiently.

Alixe came behind his chair and regarded her likeness critically.

"You are spoiling it."

"I know, but for all the world could give I cannot go on."

"Supposing," she said, hesitating a little, "that I did what-what you asked me to. Would it make any difference ?" Barry started up.

Alas, for the builder of dreams and fancies! One day poor Barry could restrain himself no longer, and very much astonished Alixe by offering himself to her. She was a little pleased at first (women don't often consider the feelings of their victims), then the capricious young lady grew angry at what she termed his presumption," and she left the studio.

"You must never speak to me like that again," she wrote, "I will be generous and come for you to finish my portrait, and then-good-by."

Two more sittings accordingly took place, but Barry's power seemed gone. În silence he worked away at his ease, but Alixe observed with annoyance that

"Oh, don't!" She drew away from him half frightened.

"Don't what? I have done nothing, but this is what I am going to do." Alixe submitted meekly, and I fear another day was lost, but after that Barry set to work in earnest, and it was not long before the picture was completed. Alixe came to see it when framed, and was well satisfied with the result.

"It is beautiful, much too beautiful to be like me."

There was something unusual in Alixe's tone, something jarring and unpleasant. Barry noticed it, and saw, too, for the first time, hard lines round her mouth, and a cold, haughty look in her eyes. He took her hand, but she drew it away.

"Why, Alixe, what is the matter? Are you vexed? Is it Mustn't touch' today?" "Yes," she said, low, but clearly; "today and every day, Mr. Seymour. I-I have changed my mind."

His white face puzzled her. She did not understand his expression, and felt pettish.

"Well," she said, breaking the silence, "you don't seem to care much."

"If I care," began Barry, passionately -but her silvery voice checked him.

"Oh, don't go into heroics! I can't bear scenes, you know; and I'm awfully sorry!"

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Sorry! That word from her lips, so spoken and so meant, was an insult to him.

"If you don't wish for a scene, leave me, for God's sake!" said Barry, huskily; and he turned away and stood by the window until Alixe had left the room, shrugging her dainty shoulders.

66

"Oh, yes!" she said to a girl confidante, "my picture is finished, and well done, too. I felt convinced he could do it if he set to work in the right frame of mind. Poor Barry! he nearly spoiled it in the middle; but I managed that.' "How?"

"Why, the silly fellow lost his senses," replied Alixe, glancing complacently at her reflection in the mirror, "and when I refused him, my portrait suffered. I was not going to let my reputation be spoilt by a daub, so I-I humored him for a little. By the by, do you remember Sir Douglas Probyn, and how I quarreled with him? He is just come back from abroad, and is now very rich. Aunt is going to take him to the Academy, and I have instructed her to show him my portrait and watch the effect. I hope—”

But Barry sat silently before his easel with untouched palette, and beside him lay the shreds of a torn canvas.

The Car Seat Hog.

BY VIRGINIA MILLER.

The day was hot and sultry and the train crowded, rendering travel anything but pleasant. Jack liked comfort, however, so he leisurely walked the full length of three coaches in search of a vacant seat, and finding one, appropriated it, placing his gripsack on the end next the aisle. At the next station several passengers came into the car, but Jack was too busy gazing out of the window to notice the longing eyes turned toward the resting place of his grip, until a young man, stopping by his side, asked, courteously: "May I occupy this seat, sir?"

"This seat is engaged," fibbed Jack,

glibly. "A gentleman stepped out just this minute, but will soon be back. He left his baggage purposely to hold it.”

"All right," said the young man, quietly. "But I am very tired, and, with your permission will occupy it and hold the satchel until he comes back," and, suiting his actions to his words, he lifted the grip and slipped into the seat.

Jack frowned and inwardly grumbled at his luck. At first he thought only of his own discomfort, and took no pains to conceal from the stranger that he resented the intrusion. Not until the conductor came along collecting fares did it pop into Jack's selfish little brain that he had fibbed himself into a ridiculous situation. What if the stranger's destination were beyond Springfield, his own station? He tried to see the young man's ticket, but failing in this, settled back in his seat with a hope, from station to station, that the next stopping place would see the last of his unwelcome seatmate.

The young man waited expectantly for the return of the stranger whose absence he was enjoying in the comfortable possession of a seat. He had accepted Jack's statement in good faith, but the man's prolonged absence, coupled with the boy's evident desire to get rid of his seatmate, made him suspicious, so long before Springfield was reached he had grasped the true situation, and had made up his mind to punish the selfish prig by his side for his deception and discourtesy.

Jack's nervousness increased visibly as the number of stations between the racing train and Springfield lessened, and when the engine puffed out from the last one, with the stranger holding his gripsack still aboard, he was in an agony cf suspense, while the man with the bag read on as calmly and coolly as if he were in entire ignorance of the drama going on by his side.

"Springfield," called the conductor, and getting on his feet Jack in sheer desperation reached for the grip. But he did not get it, for the stranger, with an air of surprise, drew it away from his touch, saying: "I beg your pardon, sir, but this is not your baggage.

"It isn't yours," stammered Jack.

"I do not claim it, but as I have it in charge, I propose returning it to its owner," was the cool answer.

"I'll save you that trouble," replied Jack. "I know the fellow, and shall take it to him," and he made another grab for the grip.

“Hands off !" retorted the guardian of the myth's baggage, in a louder tone than was necessary. Here, conductor!" he called. "Here's a chap who wants to walk off with somebody else's baggage. The other somebody put it into a seat to

hold it, of course, but he doubtless got left somewhere, since he has not put in an appearance to claim his property. There is no name attached to the bag, so this youngster is trying to make believe it is his, and wants to walk away with it." "Ho, ho," exclaimed the quick-witted conductor, catching the gleam in the speaker's eye. "There is but one thing to be done under such circumstances, and that is to return it to Columbus to be stored with other unclaimed baggage for identification."

"But the gentleman left the gripsack in my care, and I shall take it to him. He is a friend of mine," claimed Jack.

"Hold on, there!" said the conductor, flinging back his coat so as to reveal a police badge. "There's got to be more proof about this than your say so. Describe the man who left the bag? Was he young or old?"

Youngish like," answered Jack, and went on to describe the myth's appearance, but between the young man at his side, and a few sympathizing passengers who combined to confuse him, he became so tangled up in this attempt that he gave up and fled in despair from the train, leaving his grip in the hands of the conductor, and a smile of triumph on the face of the young man, who had the property returned to Columbus, whence, after considerable delay and expense, Jack succeeded in regaining possession of it.Young People.

In a Mexican Prison.

"Look out ahead there!" the engineer shouted as the big black locomotive darted around a sharp curve at the foot of a long down-grade. Beyond the curve there was a tangent for the space of three or four telegraph poles, and at the other end of the little stretch of straight track a long, low wooden bridge. The road had been rushed in real American fashion, and the steel structure that now spans the wide stream, had not been placed.

Rounding the curve, the driver glanced back to see if the green markers on the rear Pullman were still coming, for it seemed as if the speed of the train would snap the sleeper off as a boy flings a wet cob from the end of a stick. The engine appeared to hesitate an instant as she found the tangent, and then to give a wild leap forward. The sun's reflection glared up into the cab windows as the river flashed beneath. It was as if she had left one bank and alighted on the other.

"That's where my trouble began," said the driver, twisting on his narrow seat, and turning his head slightly, but not enough to take his eye from the track.

"I was pulling freight at the time," he went on, releasing the lever and giving her another notch as we struck the upgrade beyond the river, "and they were driving us day and night. We used to have to come down the canyon back there as fast as they would fall and fan 'em over the bridge as fast as we could, 'consistent with safety,' as Mr. Robinson would say. If you failed to hit this hill at the thirty rate, it was cut and double, delay freight, interrupt passenger traffic, and court disgrace.

The driver moved his left eyebrow slightly with the faintest possible glance at the steam-gauge, and the fireman who was leaning over the boiler, dropped to the coal deck.

"Of course, you understand," the driver explained, that these Mexicans didn't send for us. The few Yankees who, for the climate or other reasons, came down here, were taken under protest, but the railroad they wouldn't have at all. As often as there was an accident there was an arrest. Every time a peon perished a white man went to jail. The influential and more or less intelligent men were against the American and his fire-wagon, and the peon followed the fashion of hating the Yankees. He would go out and stand on a bridge out of pure cussedness, knowing the driver would stop rather than run him down, and, at the same time, run the risk of rotting in a Mexican dungeon. Well, this day of my downfall, I came round the curve with a big consolidation engine, and about a mile of traffic on my trail. As Irubbered round the corner I saw a pig of a peon just starting to walk over the bridge. I whistled, shut off, threw on the air and finally reversed the engine. The peon stopped, turned and scowled. Before the air could travel to the rear of the train, the heavy load had kicked the engine across the little level space. I leaned out of the window and watched the face of the fool Mexican. When he saw that the train was not going to stop he turned deadly yellow. I pulled the whistle-valve wide open, the peon crossed himself and sunk trembling to his knees, and at that moment the pilot picked him up and scooped him into eternity.

"We doubled that day, and when I got to the end of my run they were waiting for me. They marched me off, unwashed, to the court, and from the court to the jail. Here I had plenty of time (but no water) to wash, and time to rest and think it over. The railway officials appealed to the United States Consul, but the Consul was busy, or tired, or attending a banquet or something, so I stayed in jail.

"Months passed. Scores of prisoners, criminals of all classes, came in, sat in silence for a space, and passed out again.