"Scott-Henderson!"

This was louder, but the wind seemed to beat it back. The miner summoned all that remained of his force and shouted, hoarsely,

"Winnie-Henderson-help!"

There was absolute silence. The snow swirled fiercely about him. He tried to move, to forge ahead just so far as the door. His foot collided dully with a snow-covered rock. He floundered down, his one last rally of strength expended to prevent his weight from crushing the child.

Then out through the storm a lithe gray figure came, swiftly running toward him and crying in anguish, "Lincoln--Lincoln !"

Crooning his name, she fell on her knees where he lay in the snow. His arm had dropped leadlike beside him. The tiny form of little Hop Sing was partially uncovered as he lay there, so wan, so timidly gazing upward from his blanket.

A woman's low wail of maternal anguish aroused the man. He opened his eyes and wearily looked at the face so near his own.

"Winnie," he murmured, brokenly, "Scott can-shoot me if-he likes, butyou wouldn't - refuse to save the

Chow-chow-kid."

“Oh, Lincoln, and I loved you so!” she sobbed to him, tenderly. "I must get you in! I must get you warm! Scott never came home. He was drownedin the river. I rode back up-I saw you both-when you fell-that day. I tried to save him-I tried-I tried, but he struck on a rock-and he never came home. I'll get you in! I'll run for Mrs. Howes to help!"

66

y!"

Oh, Winnie--Oh God-I'm sorry! said the man, in a hoarse whisper; and then as he felt his light little burden plucked from his arm he sank in the stupor that comes to men who freeze.

He awoke, lying still, in a soft white bed. His hand was held in Winnie's two as she knelt at his side and watched his troubled face. His gaze wandered slowly from the blanket, and there, sitting quietly beside him, most strangely content, and smiling upon him with baby affection at last, was the wan but happy little Sing.

The miner blinked his eyes, but they dimmed despite his effort. He looked at Winnie wistfully.

"He couldn't, Winnie-he couldn'tsmile if the couldn't."

feud-wasn't-over-he

She could make no reply. She held his hand against her cheek, and the tears flowed down on his fingers.

T

HE highest lake in the world, on which there is navigation, is Lake Titicaca, 12,540 feet above sea-level, or almost two and one-half miles in a perpendicular line above the level of the ocean. To reach this lake, where steamers travel above the clouds, one journeys over perhaps the most remarkable railroad in the world. The Arequipa-Puno Railroad, which starts from the Pacific coast at Mollendo, Peru, is 327 miles in length, and its construction under the American railroad man Henry Meiggs was pleted in 1873, at a cost of $41,250,000. Mollendo is a small town, built upon an extremely rough, rocky bluff, beyond which are the dreary, bleak, arid sand-hills, so common to the Peruvian coast. Not a sign of any vegetation whatsoever is seen, excepting, indeed, one solitary tree, which has been plant

com

ed in the central "plaza," - if that word can be used to describe a small, open, unpaved square. Mollendo's buildings have quite the appearance of those in our small villages, being built of wood, as are also the sidewalks. The wood used in their construction is said to have been imported from the United States. Mollendo has the worst harbor on the coast, owing to many rocks and the tremendous ground-swell. Freight is landed with great difficulty, and steam-cranes are employed to raise and lower the passengers who sit in a large chair. Mollendo, through which passes practically all the merchandise which comes from the interior of Peru, is as well the most important outlet for Bolivia's commerce.

A passenger-train, leaving Mollendo every morning for Arequipa, skirts the sea for a short distance, after which it turns

abruptly to the north, passing over a sandy plain for some ten miles, when one comes to Tambo, 1000 feet above the sea, and which lies in a quite fertile valley. From the railroad one sees sugar-cane and corn-fields, as well as orange and fig trees. After leaving this station the tourists soon enter another sandy desert, with no signs of vegetation, save a very fragrant white lily, which bears one flower, on a stem some eight inches in height, and which has no leaves. This star-shaped lily is seen for many miles along this sandy desert, and is gathered and sold by the natives to the passengers at the stations. We next stop at several small, unimportant stations consisting of three or four mud huts, and then arrive at Cachenda, 3250 feet above the sea, where we breakfast at the railroad station. Then we come to the great sand desert called Pampa de Cachenda, where is naught but sand and loose stones as far as the eye can see, not even a scraggy cactus.

After passing another "town" of three or four mud huts, we enter the famous desert of Islay, on which are what I consider the most remarkable natural curiosities to be seen on this globe; for we are now among hundreds

nay,

thousands of pure-white sand crescents, on a plateau 4500 feet above the level of the sea and 54 miles from the coast, where all else is of a dark red or chocolate color. Whence comes this sand, and why always in a crescent shape? Professor Bailey, whom I afterwards met at Arequipa, in charge of the Harvard University Observatory, told me that scientific men do not agree as to the reason why the sand always forms the same crescent shape, although it is generally believed that the whirling eddies hereabouts are responsible; some, however, argue that such is not the case, since each one of these crescents has an opening toward the northeast. At any rate, the inner circle is an almost perpendicular wall, of the finest pure-white sand, and from the upper edges the crescents slope gradually away on the outside. They average about 20 feet in height, the inner circle having a diameter of some 50 feet, although I have seen one at least a mile and a half in diameter, which was, however, not much higher than the average. These crescents move, it is estimated, at the rate of three inches every twenty-four hours; and when, on the slow jour

ney, one comes near the railroad, it becomes necessary to shovel the sand across the tracks, after which it travels on, forming new crescents or mingling with some of the others. We pass through mile upon mile of red soil covered with these white crescents, which disappear at San José, at an altitude of 4850 feet. The entire desert is devoid of water, the winds always blow from one direction, and there is never any rain. The heat here is oppressive, the glare from the white crescents almost blinding, and the fine dust raised by the motion of the train compels us to close all car windows, this making the atmosphere almost stifling.

At Vitor, 76 miles from Mollendo, and at 3250 feet elevation, the grade becomes steeper, and we wind among the valleys and around the mountains in the most sinuous, erratic fashion. Sometimes we run along the side of a valley, then make a complete circle, when we find ourselves on the opposite side. Then, again, as we wind in a zigzag fashion up the steep grades, we can see in one place five sections of the railroad below us, over which we have passed. Along here I have seen what seems to be great patches of snow left after a thaw. But upon inquiry I find they are salt and pumice. We then pass several more stations of no account, except that in spelling them one is apt to twist the alphabet out

of shape-stations such as Quishuarani and Achumayo. Along here have been accomplished marvels of engineering, which, with the vast scale on which this section of the country has been constructed by the Creator, and its absolute sterility, place it among the wonders of the globe. At times we pass a fearful precipice, with a raging torrent at its base; again we are shut in between two rows of solid rock of all imaginable colors, hundreds of feet above us; then we come to another valley, through which winds the river Vitor, along whose banks are eucalyptus-trees and grass; but these we soon leave behind as we run again among rocks and volcanic refuse for miles, until between the lower hills we get a glimpse of the great, huge cone, the extinct, snowcapped volcano Coropuno, the highest peak of the Andean range-and therefore of the western hemisphere,-covered with snow. Beyond this is Tingo, 7275 feet above the sea, where we cross the only bridge on this line, which spans the river Chile, and we enter the great plains on which stands Arequipa, the second city of Peru, at the foot of the volcano Misti.

It is a pleasant sensation to see the green fields and the trees, all of which owe their existence to the many irrigating-canals which furnish the only water-supply. We pass several miles

along the fertile valley, in full view of the city nestling at the foot of the great volcano. Finally, late in the afternoon, we arrive in Arequipa, at a large iron and stone station, 107 miles from Mollendo, and 7550 feet in a perpendicular line above the level of our starting-point.

Twice a week passenger-trains leave Arequipa for Puno, on Lake Titicaca. The start is made at five in the morning, the cars and locomotives being like those we have at home. In company with Professor Bailey of the Harvard Observatory, and Sir Martin Conway, the celebrated English mountain-climber, I travelled in a private compartment at the rear of the train.

At the stations, which usually consist of depot and water-tank, and which are some 30 miles apart, one sees an occasional cultivated garden, but the only people visible are employees of the railroad and now and then a few Indians. In the stretches between stations may be noticed here a drove of llamas, again some alpacas, and rarely the wild vicuña. From Colca we see a beautiful snowy range, from one of whose peaks, the beau

tiful volcano Ubinas, a great volume of smoke arises into the air; then our train dashes through cuts of huge masses of lava, and between great mounds of snowwhite volcanic cinders which resemble banks and hills of chalk.

After passing Crucero Alto, the highest point on this road, 14,666 feet above the level of the sea, and where we are thus at a greater elevation than the summit of Pike's Peak in Colorado, we descend, and soon see two of the highest lakes in South America, Saracocha, 13,595, and Cachipascana, 13,585 feet above sea-level. These are small bodies of water, but very deep. No vegetation grows along their banks, and I noticed no boats of any kind.

The principal station along the line is Juliaca, which is 29 miles from the lake, and from which connection is made by rail to Sicuani, 197 miles distant, and thence by stage 90 miles to Cuzco, where the Incas, that wonderfully civilized race, had their seat of government before Pizarro's conquest. And at last we arrive at Puno, on Lake Titicaca, at 8 P.M., and our train runs upon the dock, where waits the steamer Coya, which is to con