fianly face from his short squat figure, “and we'll take our own time, too. He's made us suffer, and now he shall suffer a bit, if I know myself."

The women shuddered as, with an ominous growl, all the men went out together.

"I misdoubt they'll hang him," said Mrs. Malone, shaking her head as she looked after them.

"Or worse," said the miner's wife.

Then the two departed, and the parson was left alone. Did he cut off the service? No. Deliberately he finished every word of the sermon, sang a hymn, and spoke the final prayer; then, after putting everything in order, he too left the little sanctuary, but he did not go homeward, he took the road to the mine.

"Don't-ee go, sir, don't!" pleaded the Englishwoman, standing in her doorway as he passed. "You won't do no good, sir." "Maybe not," answered the parson, gently," but at least I must try."

He entered the forest, the air was still and cold, the snow crackled under his feet, and the pine-trees stretched away in long white aisles. He looked like a pigmy as he hastened on among the forest giants, his step more languid than usual from sternest vigil and fasting.

"Thou proud, evil body, I have conquered thee!" he had said in the cold dawning. And he had; at least, the body answered not again.

The mine was several miles away, and to lighten the journey the little man sang a hymn, his voice sounding through the forest in singular melody. It was an ancient hymn that he sang, written long ago by some cowled monk, and it told in quaint language of the joys of "Paradise! Oh Paradise!" He did not feel the cold as he sang of the pearly gates.

In the late afternoon his halting feet approached the mine; as he drew near the clearing he heard a sound of many voices shouting together, followed by a single cry, and a momentary silence more fearful than the clamor. The tormentors were at work. The parson ran forward and, passing the log huts which lay between, came out upon the scene. A circle of men stood there around a stake. Fastened by a long rope, crouched the wretched prisoner, his face turned to the color of dough, his coarse features drawn apart like an animal in terror, and his hoarse voice never ceasing its piteous cry, "Have mercy, good gentleDear gentlemen, have mercy!"

men!

At a little distance a fire of logs was burning, and from the brands scattered around it was evident that the man had served as a target for the fiery missiles; in addition he bore the marks of blows, and his clothes were torn and covered with mud as though he had been dragged roughly over the ground. The lurid light of the fire cast a glow over the faces of the miners, behind rose the Iron Mountain, dark in shadow, and on each side stretched out the ranks of the white pine-trees like ghosts assembled as silent witnesses against the cruelty of man. The parson rushed forward, broke through the circle, and threw his arms around the prisoner at the stake, protecting him with his slender body.

"If ye kill him, ye must kill me also," he cried, in a ringing voice.

On the border, the greatest crime is robbery. A thief is worse than a murderer; a life does not count so much as life's supplies. It was not for the murderer that the Lynch law was made, but for the thief. For months these Algonquin miners had suffered loss; their goods, their provisions, their clothes, and their precious whisky had been stolen, day after day, and all search had proved vain; exasperated, several times actually suffering from want, they had heaped up a great store of fury for the thief, fury increased tenfold when, caught at last, he proved to be no other than Brother Saul, the one man whom they had trusted, the one man whom they had clothed and fed before themselves, the one man from whom they had expected better things. An honest, bloodthirsty wolf in his own skin was an animal they respected; indeed, they were themselves little better. But a wolf in sheep's clothing was utterly abhorrent to their peculiar sense of honor. So they gathered around their prey, and esteemed it rightfully theirs; whisky had sharpened their enjoyment.

To this savage band, enter the little parson. "What! Are ye men?" he cried. Shame, shame, ye murderers!"

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The miners stared at the small figure that defied them, and for the moment their anger gave way before a rough sense of the ludicrous.

"Hear the little man," they cried. "Hurrah, Peter! Go ahead!"

But they soon wearied of his appeal and began to answer back.

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What are clothes or provisions to a life?" said the minister.

"Life aint worth much without 'em, par

If he is guilty, let him be tried by the legal authorities.

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We're our own legal 'thorities, Parson." "The country will call you to account. "The country won't do nothing of the kind. Much the country cares for us poor miners frozen up here in the woods! Stand back, Parson. Why should you bother about Saul? You always hated him."

"Never! Never!" answered the parson earnestly.

"You did too, and he knowed it. 'Twas because he was dirty and couldn't mince his words as you do."

The parson turned to the crouching figure at his side. "Friend," he said, "if this is true, and the heart is darkly deceitful and hides from man his own worst sins, I humbly ask your forgiveness." 66 'O come! None of your gammon," said another miner impatiently. "Saul didn't care whether you liked him or not, for he knowed you was only a coward."

"Fraid of a dog! 'Fraid of a dog!" shouted half a dozen voices, and a frozen twig struck the parson's cheek, and drew blood.

"Why, he's got blood!" said one. "I never thought he had any."

"Come, Parson," said a friendly miner, advancing from the circle, "we don't want to hurt you, but you might as well understand that we're the masters here."

"And if ye are the masters, then be just. Give the criminal to me; I will myself take him to the nearest judge, the nearest jail, and deliver him up.'

"He'll be more likely to deliver you up, I reckon, Parson."

"Well, then, send a committee of your own men with me

minister, throwing up his arms towards the sky.

For an instant his words held the men in check; they looked at each other, then at him.

"Think of yourselves," continued the minister. Are ye without fault? If ye murder this man ye are worse than he is.'

But here the minister went astray in his appeal, and ran against the views of the border.

"Worse! Worse than a sneaking thief! Worse than a praying hypocrite who robs the very men that feed him! Look here, we won't stand that! Sheer off, or take the consequences." And a burning brand struck the parson's coat, and fell on the head of the crouching figure at his side, setting fire to its hair. Instantly the parson extinguished the light flame, and drew the burly form closer within his arms, so that the two stood as one. "Not one, but both of us," he cried.

A new voice spoke next, the voice of the oldest miner, the most hardened reprobate there. "Let go that rascal, Parson. He's the fellow that lamed you last spring. He set the trap himself; I seen him a-doing it."

Involuntarily, for a moment, Herman Peters drew back; the trap set at the chapel door, the deliberate, cruel intention, the painful injury, and its life-long result, brought the angry color to his pale face. The memory was full of the old bitterness.

But Saul, feeling himself deserted, dragged his miserable body forward, and clasped the parson's knees. With desperate hands he clung, and he was not repulsed. Without a word the parson drew him closer, and again faced the crowd.

"Why, the man's a downright fool!" said the old miner. "That Saul lamed him for life, and all for nothing, and still he stands by him. The man's mad!"

"I am not mad," answered the parson, and his voice rung out clear and sweet. "But I am a minister of the great God who has said to men, ‘Thou shalt do no murder.' O men! O brothers! look back into your own lives. Have ye no crimes, no sins to be forgiven? Can ye expect mercy when ye give none? Let this poor creature go, and it shall be counted unto you for goodness. Ye, too, must sometime die; and when the hour comes, as it often comes in lives like yours with sudden horror, ye will have this good deed to remember. For charity,—

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He ceased, and there was a momentary pause. Then a stern voice answered, 'facts won't alter, Parson. The man is a thief, and must be punished. Your talk may do for women-folks, not for us."

"Women-folks!" repeated the ruffianfaced man who had made the women shudder at the chapel. "He's a sly fox, this parson! He didn't go out to meet Rosie Ray at the Grotter yesterday, oh, no!"

"Liar!" shouted a man, who had been standing in the shadow on the outskirts of crowd, taking, so far, no part in the scene. He forced himself to the front; it was Steven Long, his face dark with passion.

"No liar at all, Steve," answered the first. "I seen 'em there with my own eyes; they had things to eat and everything. Just ask the parson.

"Yes, ask the parson," echoed the others, and with the shifting humor of the border they stopped to laugh over the idea. "Ask the parson."

Steven Long stepped forward and confronted the little minister. His strong hands were clenched, his blood was on fire with jealousy. The bull-dog followed his master, and smelled around the parson's gaiters the same poor old shoes, his only pair, now wet with melted snow. The parson glanced down apprehensively.

"'Fraid of a dog! 'Fraid of a dog!"

iously. The fun was better than they had anticipated.

"Is it true?" demanded Steven Long, in a hoarse voice. "Did you meet that girl at the Grotter yesterday?"

"I did meet Rosamond Ray at the Grotto yesterday," answered the parson; "but

He never finished the sentence. A fragment of iron ore struck him on the temple. He fell, and died, his small body lying across the thief, whom he still protected, even in death.

THE murder was not avenged; Steven Long was left to go his own way. But as the thief was also allowed to depart unmolested, the principles of border justice were held to have been amply satisfied.

The miners attended the funeral in a body, and even deputed one of their number to read the Episcopal burial service over the rough pine coffin, since there was no one else to do it. They brought out the chapel prayer-books, found the places, and followed as well as they could; for "he thought a deal of them books. Don't you remember how he was always carrying 'em backward and forward, poor little chap!"

The Chapel of Saint John and Saint James was closed for the season. In the summer a new missionary arrived; he was not Ritualistic, and before the year was out he married Rosamond Ray.

He had married Emilia knowing that she cared nothing for him, but knowing also that she cared for no one else, and presuming that his devotion could warm the stone to life. In fact he had not been sure that he would not rather have it so than otherwise; and perhaps he had pic

In the first moment that he had seen Emilia, still young himself and she far younger, he had adored her. He was calling at the country-house of a friend, when the beautiful thing coming in at the glass door, tall and slender and with her arms full of flowers, paused waiting for her com

panions who had lingered on the lawn outside. A flower-like face it was that Ordronnaux saw-so soft and bright, with the pale carmine of the cheek, the snow of the forehead, the deep violet of the blacklashed eye, the violet shadows around it; and he neted all the beauty in a glance, from the pearly oval of the chin to the glitter of the chestnut hair waving in ripples of gold and brown about a perfect head, whose stag-like carriage gave such alluring intimation of that shy reserve which one longs to penetrate, as one does some hollow of the woods, whose wealth sunbeam and sudden shadow half reveals and veils. As she turned and saw him, a little startled, she dropped a part of the roses and honeysuckles that she held, and bent to gather them again. He sprang to help her; he touched her warm, white hand, a lock of her hair brushed his face, he looked in her great sweet innocent eyes, and when he rose he had resolved to marry her! Then her companions came in, and there were greetings and presentations and gayety and confusion; and presently Louise was singing at the piano, and Alice and Captain Harriman were waltzing down the room to her song; the others were flirting over the photographs; and through all the commotion Emilia sat calmly in the embrasure of the window, weaving her flowers, without speaking-it seemed to him as serene and inaccessible as a star.

He placed himself beside her, and passed the spray towards which she stretched her hand. But though she responded gently to his sentences, she said almost nothing herself; he imagined then that her silence was more eloquent than words; when she lifted those violet eyes, he felt the same emotion as when reading an exquisite poem; when the white lids fell it was like the ceasing of music. In three months he married Emilia.

She

hounds, and the picture had impressed her unpleasantly; the lovers in her romances were always in full dress. But Ordronnaux followed her home; he took the hearts of father and mother by storm,—such hearts as they had; he told them what Emilia had said to him, and they added their persuasions to his. It was a home whose poverty, if it did not just escape squalor, was yet very hampering, especially to high-born tradition; she had just left that other home, the home of her late schoolmates, Alice and Louise, where luxury and beauty were the handmaids, and she felt the wants and restrictions here as though the place were noisome-the little rooms, the shabby furnishing, the scanty table, the weary and irritable nerves of her mother, the fierce humors of her unfortunate father. did not know any way to avoid them all; she had not been educated for work, but for display-for the treasure of her beauty had been early discovered, and it had been intended that she should make a brilliant marriage. Now that the chance had come, and she had declined to take advantage of it and of the means of restoring her family to its old place, peace was allowed her neither by day nor night. Well-Ordronnaux' home was like the one, leaving which had so lately made her feel as if the gates of Paradise had closed: if she married him, he would take her there, he would provide for those she left behind. It was the selling of a slave; but yet she might learn to love him,-there was no reason why not,-only that he had loved her too suddenly and too much, and had suffered her to feel it, and had so repelled her, as a flower might shrink from the too ardent sun. There are women who need to be compelled, and who feel only contempt for the suppliant.

"I will make you happy!" he said as fervently as though he took an oath.

She did not know how to play with a man's sufferings; having given him hope, he might have all the rest-and she married him the next week.

What a hateful wedding-journey it was! They spent a day in New York, where a mistress of the modes, as she called herself, waited on Emilia in her rooms with fabrics and styles, measured her, noted her complexion and the color of her hair, in what Emilia felt as prolonged insolence; and then they were traveling where, as it chanced, Emilia's simple wardrobe answered all purposes, and on their return to the city a trousseau awaited her to whose preparation the dressmaker had bent all her resources, and to accept which Emilia found harder than she had found it to accept Ordronnaux.

But

As Emilia, preparing for the first ball given in her honor by Ordronnaux' friends, put on the royal silk, the web-like lace, bound the golden bands about her wrists, it all seemed to her a livery of service. As she lifted her hands the clink of her heavy bracelets was like the clank of chains; and her face burned with the disgrace. she did not tear the livery off, as in the first moment she had felt inclined. It was due to Ordronnaux that his wife should appear as he wished. "I am his wife," she said. "I pay the price-I have a right to this sumptuousness." But the color did not leave her cheek, for she knew that in her inmost soul she was no wife at all-only a creature that had been bought and sold. And she slowly began to hate the buyer.

But what a picture she was, as Ordronnaux came into the room for her-the white velvet of the toilette, with its satin facings pale-tinted as if a sunbeam had sifted through a rose upon them; the creamy Alençon lace, the dimpled arm, the waxen shoulder, the half defiant, half submissive air, the perfect head and face and bloom! He came smilingly towards her, and opening a box he held, he took from it and bound in her hair a bandeau of great solitaire stones, about her throat another, and flower by flower of diamond sparks he fastened together for her to secure upon her bodice till the stomacher was all ablaze. She shivered when it was done, and drew the lace across them, half shrouding their radiance-and then she saw herself in the mirror. Perhaps she would not have been a woman if there had not come a pulse of pleasure at the sight; but, directly, the lovely vision in the glass was blurred by the big tear that followed

it might have been so different if she had loved the giver. Ordronnaux did not see the tear; stooping he laid a kiss on the white shoulder, and then all at once he folded his arms about her and she felt his great heart beat. Quickly and angrily she freed herself. "Don't! Don't!" she cried before she thought. "Don't try to buy my love with gifts or you may buy my hate!

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Nor

A winter wind with all its frost could not have blown a bitterer breath across a blossoming field' than these words, this action, flung across Ordronnaux' new hopes. He drew back, chilled to his heart of hearts. It would have been impossible for him to sneer-but just then there came a rap upon the door. Mrs. Ordronnaux' carriage is waiting for her," said the servant with profound obeisance; and whether Ordronnaux felt it or not, Emilia felt a sneer in the mere circumstance. could she quite discriminate—it seemed to her that, after all, the sneer came from Ordronnaux, though he had only laid her cashmere on her shoulders and handed her without a word to her carriage. Yet when the night was over, and she returned triumphant to the hotel from the ovation which Ordronnaux' friends had rendered to his wife, she half repented herself. She was sensible that the homage was rendered to her own obvious beauty and fancied sweetness too, yet she knew well how much was owing to the position in which Ordronnaux had placed her; she knew from her brief month's experience in