IT

That I could never answer, Nay."

It

T was a dreary, raw Saturday in November. The wind blew angrily over the bare hills and dashed down the streets of the young western town of which we write. tossed the branches of the few trees that offered a feeble resistance to its onslaught and, as if not satisfied. with so easy a conquest, it wreaked its remaining fury upon the few pedestrians abroad.

One of these toiled painfully along, weary, faint, travel worn, and sad at heart; for hundreds of miles separated him from a loving wife and three darling little ones. And not only that, but, though he had unselfishly denied himself of all but the barest necessities, he had been able

to leave them but a scanty store to provide for their wants, and he knew that, unless charity interposed in their behalf, starvation would soon stare them in the face.

What more were the woes from which this poor man cried for relief? Pain, distress of body attended his every step as he dragged himself slowly along the railroad track that led into the town.

No

He presented the appearance of a plain, industrious workingman. one would have dreamed that he had not one cent in his pocket with which to buy a morsel of food. No one would have known that the wistful sadness that rested on his face and sounded in the tones of his voice had come from pain, from hunger, and because he was no longer able to shield his dear ones from suffering.

It was through no fault of his,

through no lack of effort on his part, and yet this knowledge could not take away the pain of the sympathy he felt for those dearer to him than life itself.

In his affliction, he did not call upon God, for he had no understanding of his fatherhood. Yet there were in him the principles of noble manhood, principles that God and all good men respect. There was in him the integrity that bade him do all he could to help himself and not to seek unnecessarily to impose a burden upon others, and there was also about him an honesty and sense of self-respect that made it impossible for him to beg, that permitted him to ask help only

in dire need.

But, though this untaught soul looked not up to the great Helper, that pitying eye that sees all the woes of men was upon him and must have guided his weary steps.

He reached the town and following the track to the station, he entered the well-warmed waiting room and sat down to rest his tired limbs.

He had been there but a short time when a tall, keen-eyed man came in. It would need no second glance to show that in him there was an almost

total lack of cultivation, more than that, in his younger years, there must have been wild, rollicking blood in him, for there lingered about him still a certain air of defiance against restraint.

Yet in this man whom the dainty slave of fashion would pass by without a look or thought there was a vein of tenderness that she could not touch, while it welled up and overflowed in little kindly acts for the pale-faced sewing girl who always had a pleasant smile for him and a bow so respectful that it made him feel like respecting himself. And not for her alone, but for all such there was in him that fountain of kindness, of generous feeling.

His quick eyes scanned the tired stranger, and, lounging near to him, he accosted him and soon drew out the story of suffering and want. While he bears the stranger off to a warm and comfortable dinner, let us look into another home in the same

The

town. It is clean and comfortable. There are no luxuries, but there are all the necessaries of life. In the little sitting room a ruddy fire glows in the open grate giving an inviting air of comfort and good cheer. carpet though well worn is one of dark colors and oriental pattern that enable it to "hold its own to the last;" it still looks well. There are some pictures on the walls, a few blooming plants in the front window, some easy old rocking-chairs near the fire and other ordinary articles of useful furniture about the room.

Near a window, where the light falls upon her work, sits a delicate looking woman darning stockings. By the fire, bowed with the weight of many years, is the aged grandfather, gazing at the dancing flames and crooning softly,

A poor wayfaring man of grief. Near him is a young woman who apparently has just come in from a walk and is warming herself by the fire.

The mother looks up from her work asking:

"Well, how did you stand the walk, Emma?"

And Emma shivers a little and an

swers in a tone that though quiet has no ring of brightness in it:

"O, very well. I don't feel any worse, though I found it pretty hard walking against the wind. I think I'm getting better slowly, but how I shall get back and forth when the snows come on I am sure I don't know. It worries me every day, for I know that another heavy cold will just lay me up for the winter. And it does seem," she added after a pause, "as if I had enough to bear before this neuralgia began to trouble me."

"I know it," assented the mother. It is too bad. But," encouragingly, "maybe there will come a change for you sometime. Something good may turn up yet."

"O mother," and her tone grew decidedly dolorous, "things don't turn up any more in this world. Times are hard and no one need look for anything but what he makes by his own hard toil."

"Well, I didn't know. I'm sorry it

is so," and the patient mother went on with her task while Emma glowered at the fire and the grandfather, whose dull ears had not heard, sung on, happily oblivious of the unhappy girl by his side.

And the girl leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes while thought sped back over her pathway, and she mentally soliloquized: "It's just been piling up these ten years, one trouble after another. The first of it all was when Hugh went away, and then there followed thick and fast sickness, death, poverty until now there are left but we three weak and almost helpless to fight the hand to hand battle of life. O, I do get so tired! I wonder what the world seems like to women who do not have such care, who, safe at home, need not dread to see the clouds gather for snow or rain, who need never think when they sit by a good fire what it costs to have the luxury, who would open their eyes in astonishment to hear it called a luxury. If I only Hugh -"

The thought remained unexpressed, as if the hopeless longing of weary years had proved itself unutterable, and yet, had she been counting up her gains instead of brooding over her losses, and could she have seen with the clear light of divine wisdom, she might have seen that what seemed to be her crowning sorrow, in the list of her blessings led all the rest. So little do we understand God's dispensations; so childishly do we cry for things in mercy withheld.

A sudden thought interrupted her musings and she spoke:

"Mother, I'm five dollars poorer than when I started out."

"How is that?" was the question following the statement.

"Well, when I got down there (down there meant the home of her uncle who was prostrate with a fatal illness) I found them in such need that I gave them the bill that was to have seen us through this week. We must be very careful now until I get more money.'

"I am very glad you had the money. to give them," said the mother. "It may be the last we can do for Uncle John. He surely cannot live much

Fifty-two cents I have."

"And twenty cents I have." "Seventy-two cents is our cash capital, then," said Emma, "and it must do us for this week."

Just then happening to turn her head, she glanced through the window down the street, and quickly leaning forward she exclaimed,

"He's coming, grandfather."

"Who is?" asked the old man breaking off abruptly from his singing.

"Your poor wayfaring man of grief," answered Emma. "I see him coming up the street. He's very lame and walks with a cane. I wonder," she added with a short laugh, "if he's coming here to learn what I do for neuralgia."

The man approaching was the stranger whom we left at dinner. Refreshed somewhat he had made what haste he could to pursue his journey lest night should overtake him on an unknown road.

He walked straight on looking neither to the right nor to the left until he reached the house where Emma sat watching with interest to see where he was going.

Without hesitation he opened the gate and walked up to the door.

"Well, he is coming here," said Emma in a low, surprised tone. "Who can he be and what does he want?"

In the meantime her mother had opened the door, and as the cold wind swept in, she said urgently, interrupting the man as he began to speak,

"O, come in. It's so cold to stand here "

Without further words he stepped in and, accepting the joint invitation of mother and daughter, sat down and immediately stated the object of his call by saying,

"I just stopped, ma'am, to ask if you can give me a cloth that I can use for a handkerchief."

Emma opened her eyes wide at the unexpected request from this wellappearing man, and he continued:

"I'm a stranger here, ma'am, and traveling, and I ran out of means,