and it was kicked about with hoarse and derisive cries and laughter.

A little further on he emerged into a lighted place, bareheaded and coatless, pelted and buffeted. Suddenly Davney appeared by his side, and the crowd fell back. Some one called out:

"Davney! Davney! Three cheers for Gil Davney!"

"Keep off now," Davney shouted.

He waved them away, and walked on beside Chantry without looking at him or speaking. A mob of boys and loafers followed, hooting, but no more molestation was offered. They reached Chantry's door. Chantry went in, and Davney stood on the threshold. June stood inside in the full glare of the lamps, speechless and motionless, her eyes upon her father, and her look made Davney feel as if he were in hell.

The battered man turned on him and cursed him, and tried to force the door upon him. He paid no heed, only barred the door with his body, and called to her:

"June! June!"

All things swam before June, and she turned about unconsciously; but it seemed to Davney that heaven and earth turned their backs upon him, and with one loud sob he wheeled away, and Chantry locked him out.

Chantry turned and spoke to June, as he never had before. She could not answer; she trembled as though at the point of dissolution. That could not be her fatherthat shaken, battered, wild-haired, bent old man with the dark face and blasphemous tongue! She shrank from him into a corner, and he turned his back and sat bowed before the fire. A dreadful silence followed, and lasted a good while. Then suddenly the father's body heaved; he lifted himself, covered his face, and began to sob. Swift

as a bird, then, the girl came fluttering to him and threw her arms about his neck. The fountains of the hard man's nature, that only she had kept from drying up, broke forth and he wept like a woman.

"Oh, June," he complained, "to think that you should turn against me! You were all that I had; I did everything for you; I never let you want for anything. I have been troubled many a day to know how to make my way, and I never showed you an anxious face or denied you anything. Whatever I have done was for your sake; I should never have come to this but for you. And now when the whole world turns upon me you take sides with them and

shrink from me; you choose between me and the man who has put me to shame. Go away; you are no daughter, but an ungrateful girl."

She clung to him, though his words beat her like murderous blows.

"Oh, stop, father!" she cried hoarsely. "You are mistaken; you don't know; I will not go away; I am your daughter; nothing shall separate us. Óh, why did you not let me know? I would have worked; I would have suffered anything. How could I know; you should have told me. I would have shared want or trouble with you gladly, and then worse would not have come. never mind; it has come now, and we will share it together. We will give up everything and go away. I can teach or sew, or do anything."

But,

He raised his face and looked into hers. He spoke to her once more, and she answered. Then she lay like dead upon his breast a good while. Finally she got up, brought a basin, washed his face and smoothed his hair, and made him clothe himself. She set out the supper that had been awaiting him and made him sit down to it, though she tottered now and then as she went and could not speak. Then she put on her hat and cloak and went out, saying only:

"I will be back soon."

How she went, hurried and shrinking, through the dark streets, and the more dreaded lighted places with their groups of excited men, she hardly knew; but she came to Davney's door and rang timidly. His sister Grace let her in. She asked for him, and the elder lady regarded her with a grave tenderness and drew her gently toward her.

"Come in, June," she said softly. "Gilbert is lying down. He is ill to-night, but he will come down to you."

She lingered a moment when June was seated. "Can I do anything for you, dear? I should be glad."

The tears sprang to June's dry eyes. She pressed them against the kind hand.

"Oh no, you're very good; but you can do nothing for me. No one can but God."

Grace soothed her with silent caresses, and went for her brother. He had heard the voice and got up. She met him in the hall. "June," she said softly, and he went in.

She was sitting still across the room, her face in shadow bent upon her hand. He leaned against the closed door, waiting

Presently she raised her head and looked at him with a far-off, unearthly gaze, as perchance our dead friends look at us out of heaven. She motioned toward a chair near her and he came slowly and sat down. Both were quite calm, and when Davney spoke after a little, his words, though very low, had the full, deep sound of a voice heard at prayer through cathedral aisles.

"Do you blame me, June ?"

"No. That is what I came to tell you. I could not come after to-night, I have promised."

He bowed before those unfaltering words, as they tell us great trees break silently under the sierra snows. But June was unshaken; the crushing weight seemed to have pressed her into the ground and fixed her immovably. She sat still. Then she said slowly, with a hoarse strain in her voice: "Don't do that, Gilbert. We have no time. I must go soon. Tell me what I must do."

He sat up slowly, calmed by her calm. "You must take him away to-night," he said. "To-morrow may be too late."

She started up. But he took hold of her, impelled by a rush of passion.

"Oh, June, you mustn't go; I can't let you go; I can't bear it! It is not right!"

She began to shake then, but she answered with a low but passionate intensity:

"Oh yes, it is right. The iniquities of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generations;' I am his child; I cannot escape. He has done everything for me; he has cared for nothing else. He did this for my sake. I have profited by his sin; I must share the penalty. I cannot escape. I have eaten the bread of robbery." Her eyes fell upon the ruby on her finger. "See, I have worn furs and jewels that belonged to the hungry and cold." She stripped the gold from her finger, her wrists, her neck and breast. She heaped it in his hands.

"Take them, they burn me! Sell them and give the money to the rightful owners. I have nothing; the clothes I have on are theirs. Oh yes, it is right!"

There was a strain in her voice like a cry of resentment that pierced him and broke him up. He poured the trinkets on the table and bent in still but irrestrainable sobbing. Instantly she was softened. She forgot herself; she sank on her knees and took hold of his wrists.

"Oh, forgive me!" she pleaded. "I was hard; I was wicked. But it's gone now;

VOL. XIV.-54.

I don't rebel; I am going to do my best and trust God. You know what we said last night; you will help me,-you will share it with me?"

"With you! Yes, I could share anything with you; but without you

She could answer nothing to that.

"You must take my place," she went on. "You must be my representative in righting the wronged. We shall leave the house and everything for their benefit, and I want you to take charge of them, and do what is right with them. You will, wont you?"

"Yes, yes," he mourned. "I will do anything for you, anything you tell me. Don't let me trouble you. But I can't give you up. I shall want to be dead and have to live."

"Oh, Gilbert!" Now it was her turn. She fell away from him and broke into abandoned weeping. She crouched on a low seat, and he threw himself down at her feet. He could only look at her and yearn impotently to save her from sorrow and pain; that pure flood washed away all selfish considerations, all resentment and hardness.

He did not try to stop her; he felt that her crying was the best thing for her bitterly full heart. But he half rose after a little and took her hands from her streaming face, and spoke to her.

"I am sorry, June. Don't mind me. I was selfish; I was a brute. But I will be good. I will do what you wish me to." She was still crying as she replied, but there was no bitterness in it:

"I know you will. I was hard too. Forget my wicked words. I do love my father; you know I would not desert him. He has loved me better than everything; he has no one else but me. And I had rather know the truth than live on in that dreadful way." "I know," he answered. "I knew it from the first. There is no other way."

Her voice grew more clear as she replied, and a light of inspiration came in her face.

"What does it matter? It is not what we have, but what we are. 'Man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble.' It is a little world; we cannot be far apart. The same sun will shine upon us and the same heaven inclose us."

They sat silent awhile; then both stood up. June said slowly:

"I trust you to act for me in doing all that is possible for the people we have wronged. I should suffer remorse as well

She faltered and could not finish the sentence, but went on with a tremor:

"I will think of you doing that and feel as if I were righting them myself. It will be a great satisfaction to me. Will it not to you? Shall you not like to think that you are doing it for me?"

The eyes that looked up at him were full still, and he turned his own aside. answered:

But he

There was one coming now who looked like her so far away, and the nearer she came the more like she looked. He stopped before her and put out his hand. She knew her ruby ring on his little finger before she looked up. "June."

"Is it you, Gilbert ?"

Neither seemed surprised. He held her hand. Neither said more for a moment.

He meant to bear up and not make it harder for her; but in spite of him his tone plainly said he did not expect great joy. She looked at him a moment with an expression between weakness and entreaty. He felt a loosening of the knees and sat down close beside her without looking at her. She looked in his face intently and then said:

"You wont let this hurt you? You wont be less steadfast or faithful? less gentle or true, because-because of me?"

Her eyes dropped, and her face grew more and more tremulous. He saw it.

"No," he answered, quick and strong. "No. I ought not. I will not. I will try to deserve

His voice broke in spite of him, but he would be strong. He put his hand on her forehead and cheek; he stroked her hair. "And you?" he said. Her eyes looked into his. "I shall not change."

She took one look, sighed and turned away. She would not let him come with her. Grace met her in the hall and saw her safe home. Then she went back to her brother. In the morning Chantry's coachman brought Davney the key of the house and asked him for orders. He said he had driven Mr. and Miss Chantry to the Northern Railway terminus.

Three years afterward Davney was walking in a city street. Among the thronging people he was looking, as always, for one face and form. There was no reason that he knew why any one of the passing thousands should not be she as well as another.

"I am very glad to see you," she said. "Have you been well ?"

"Yes, quite well. Have you?" "I am well. We have done nicely." She asked about Grace mildly, and one or two more. Then there was another silence in the midst of the roar of Broadway. "Is there any change, June?"

"No."

He did not go out again for a week, and no more was said till at the end of that time the two were sitting together. Davney asked abruptly:

"Gracey, do you think God is good or just ?"

She let her hands fall in her lap and looked away out of the window.

"He has been good to me."

He looked at her and his expression changed. He stood up and spread himself as if tired with long sitting in one position.

"Yes, and to me," he cried. "I would not change places with any man in the world." And he went out about his affairs.

THE polyzoa-or multiple animal, as the name may be freely translated-are always composite existences when mature. Each bud, as it develops, remains attached to the parent form, and in its turn gives rise to other buds,-the mode of gemmation common to vegetable, and to many simple forms of animal, life.

The form finally assumed by each polyzoan colony is dependent upon the particular mode of its gemmation. Some of these curious organisms spread their lacy meshes over the bottom stones, others spring in grassy tufts, each spear of which, under the microscope, shows itself to be a linked chain of elaborate cells; others again imprison the sea-weed in silvery nets, or creep over foreign bodies like delicate mosses, or wave their graceful plumes with every motion of the water. Here, we find great coral-like masses erecting themselves,-the work of myriads of tiny polypides; and there, the submerged stones, or broad fronds of algae, are incrusted by these fairy architects of the sea, with lamina of delicate frosted tubes, sculptured in the most wonderful and beautiful patterns. The edges of dark rock pools, and the deepest recesses in ocean caves, are adorned with mimic forests of microscopic proportions, all alike the work. of one or another member of the polyzoan group.

The beautiful forms-traces of which are found everywhere, on the earliest as on the

A, Paludicella Ehrenbergii a, mouth; b, spermatozoa floating in perigastric space; C, perigastric cavity; c, principal muscle; e, excreted shell;, funiculus; g, stomach; k, intestine; i, anus; j, gizzard; /, muscles of tentacles; m, circular muscles; ",", permanent invaginations; 0, ovary; P, tentacular crown; 9, tentacles; 4, testis; , cilia; x, ectocyst; y, endocyst; z, csophagus. B, same. (5 diams.). L, Tentacular disk from above: m, mouth; 4, tentacles; ", cilia. [After nature.]

and more to internal organization, proved them to belong to different kingdoms of the animal creation.

The delicate polyzoön, which spreads abroad its wreath of tentacles for the capture of prey, which shrinks into its cell for safety at the slightest alarm of danger, is found to be nearer of kin to a clam or an oyster than to an actinia or a hydroid, and belongs to the sub-kingdom of the mollusca.

Instead of being a simple animal sac with one orifice, the form rendered familiar to us in our study of the zoöphyte,—the polyzoön is an elaborate and complex structure. There are, it is true, certain points of resem

blance between our polyzoön and an actinoid, or a hydroid polyp. Like them, it is a sac composed of two membranes-ectocyst and endocyst. It possesses, in common with the zoöphytes, the power of secreting about its outer surface a shell, sometimes calcareous and sometimes chitinous. It has, like the polyps, at its upper surface a disk, around which are arranged tentacles, for the catching of prey, and in the midst of which is an orifice for its reception.

Here, however, the analogy ceases. The polyzoön, instead of being a mere animal sac, with one opening into which prey is received, and from which unassimilated material is ejected, really possesses a complete alimentary canal, with mouth,-osophagus, gizzard, stomach and intestine,-which is suspended in the investing sac.

A comparison of Fig. 1, which is a typical form of polyzoa, with Fig. 2, a representation of the structure of a fresh-water mussel, will show at once, even to the most casual observation, the structural resemblance between these two representatives of the mollusca.

FIG. 3. CRYSTATELLA MUCEDO.

ment, or ectocyst [Fig. 1, x], forms a cup or cell for the protection of the delicate internal organs. This cup is lined with the endocyst, y, a soft, organized, flexible bag which reaches above and beyond the upper rim of the ectocyst cup, and is gathered closely around the base of the tentacular crown, d. The sac, C, thus formed by the endocyst and its investing ectocyst, is filled with a perigastric fluid, in the midst of which hangs down, like a loop, the alimentary canal.

The disk, in most marine species, is circular, and around its edge is ranged the single row of tubular tentacles, which project upward and outward, forming a sort of funnel, from which is derived their name, Infundibulata. The disk in the fresh-water species is usually of a deeply crescentic form, the tentacles being disposed around both the concave and convex edges, giving to these species the name of Hippocrepia, or horse-shoe like [Figs. 3, 4].

The tentacles of the polyzoa [Fig. 1, A, 9] not only serve to capture prey, but they also perform the office of lungs, and aerate the

life-sustaining perigastric fluid. They are covered with tiny lashes, or cilia, whose rhythmic vibrations create within them a mimic whirlpool, into which myriads of the smallest of small fry are drawn. The tentacles are not contractile, but, at an alarm, coil up, and are drawn into the cell in a flash.

The mouth a is situated in the disk, conveniently below the vortex of the tiny whirlpool, and engulfs the food washed down to it. Below the mouth is a pharangeal chamber and a gullet, z, well furnished with vibratile lashes, that urge the food downward, and aid in the act of swallowing, which is mainly effected by a peristaltic movement, like that of our own gullets. In some species, before the stomach is reached, the gullet widens out into a gizzard, j, where a preliminary trituration of the food is effected. In the others, the stomach, s, is divided into two portions, the upper of which answers the purpose of a gizzard, and the lower, of stomach proper.

The polypide has no separate biliary glands like those found in the higher mol