cover the disguise; and a new fear came to the desperate woman. She had not taken her eyes from the men before her, however, and her musket was still at her shoulder.

The officers glanced at each other, and the sight of those motionless gun-barrels on either side of the road could not be concealed; and, moved as by a common impulse, the trio wheeled and started swiftly up the road. Hannah stood and watched them until they disappeared.

And yet not quite, for there in her hand was the letter; and, recalled by the sight, Hannah quickly called to her sister, and the two women swiftly began to retrace their way to the house. Martha was trembling like a leaf, but on Hannah's cheeks there was a bright red spot that was not born of the heat of that hot June day.

"We're not through yet," said Hannah as they entered the house.

man.

The reaction from the terrible strain through which she had passed, and the uncertainty concerning the letter she knew Nathanael Greene so much desired to obtain, also combined to render her restless and anxious. Sleep did not come that night, and she spent much of the following morning on the piazza looking for the approach of soldiers, or of some one who could give her some information concerning the movements of the armies. But no one came.

Just before the sun set, however, a band of men swept into sight. The numbers increased, and when they marched past the house of the widow Martin the three women knew that it was Greene's army in swift pursuit of Rawdon's men. The country people were sadly perplexed by the sudden transformation of the pursued into pursuers; but, then, they knew nothing of a letter General Greene had received on the preceding day—a letter not

"'Tis but the beginning. The harder task is yet before us.”

I must go to my room," said Martha, “before I stand before neighbor Collins in my husband's garb. But I know not what more we can do, Hannah."

Hannah made no reply as she left her sister and entered the room in which she had left her mother-in-law and neighbor Collins. Her story had just been completed when Martha entered in time to hear her say, "'Tis not all done, however. Your horse is here, neighbor Collins, and I must carry that letter to General Greene."

"That you will not," said Mr. Collins, quickly. "I am greatly refreshed now, and, besides, I must seek a surgeon's aid for my broken arm. There is a band of Sumter's men not five miles from here, and I can go as far as that. They will forward the letter to General Greene and provide as well for me." Mr. Collins had risen from the couch in his eagerness, and although Mother Martin and Martha added their words to his, Hannah still hesitated.

"It is not seemly for you to ride forth clad in a man's attire," said Mr. Collins at last, and then Hannah yielded. The horse was brought out of the forest; the wounded man was assisted into the saddle and soon disappeared up the road.

Still Hannah Martin was troubled. At times she blamed herself for intrusting such a valuable letter to a wounded and suffering

four had dispatched from Charleston by a courier to Colonel Rawdon to inform him that Stewart had been recalled from the field, and that Rawdon must return in all haste. The courier, indeed, had delivered the letter, but not to Colonel Rawdon, for, as he afterwards explained, "he had been held up by two rebel boys and compelled to surrender the missive." Somehow the letter had come into the possession of General Greene, and as he passed Hannah Martin standing on the piazza of the widow Martin's house he had it upon his person, though he knew not at the time the part the woman had played in gaining it, nor did she know that it was then in his possession.

It was because of that letter that he had directed his hospital and heavy baggage to be forwarded to Camden, and sent Lee and Marion and Sumter to gain the front of Balfour's men, who were then on the march for Friday's Ferry; while he himself set forth with all due speed to pursue the retreating Rawdon.

All this Hannah Martin learned from her husband when he fell out of the ranks for a few moments as the army passed his home; and when he hastened to rejoin his companions, and disappeared beyond the bend in the road, she said to her sister-in-law:

U

PON ground long occupied by a pioneer military post and Indian Agency, Chicago now dedicates a free public library building costing $2,000,000, and, worthy of comparison with any structure of its kind, erected under municipal auspices, in the United States. In at least one particular this edifice is of international interest, and is unique in the history of modern architecture. Its interior walls are embellished with a greater quantity of fine glass and marble mosaic work than has been put into any other building since the completion, in the thirteenth century, of the celebrated cruciform cathedral at Monreale, Sicily. The household of books sheltered by this splendid structure enjoys a larger circulation than that of any other library in America, and it is wholly probable that, from a utilitarian standpoint, this building represents the highest achievement which has yet been attained in library construction.

To the people of Chicago the completion of this noble edifice has a significance which cannot well be appreciated by those who are not citizens of that municipality. Peculiar circumstances, independent of ordinary civic pride, have conspired to make, in the dedication of this building, a more powerful appeal to local sentiment than has ever been produced by the erection of any public edifice in the entire history of the city. The completion of the structure stands for the triumph of almost twenty years of patient and unremitting toil on the part of those far-seeing and public-spirited citizens who had at heart

the highest intellectual interests of their community, and who were able to anticipate something of the future greatness of their municipality. Early in the eighties the present site of the Chicago Public Library building was selected for the purpose which it now serves, and since that time the most obstinate and vexatious opposition and discouragements have failed to check the ardor or dim the devotion of those who were determined that an adequate library should adorn the choicest section of the old Fort Dearborn Military Reservation, which was officially established in 1804 and abandoned as a post in 1839. The location is a commanding one in the business center of the city, overlooking a broad boulevard used exclusively for pleasure driving, and the harbor front. As the lake shore, at this point, is soon to be cleared of buildings and converted into a beautiful park, the view from the windows of the library will be almost ideal, embracing a foreground of lawn and landscape offset by the harbor's ships of commerce and fleets of pleasure craft, with breakwater piers, cribs, and lighthouses in the middle distance, and the imposing expanse of Lake Michigan, stretching away to the far horizon-line, as a background.

Appropriate to so varied a setting is the Roman classic style of architecture in which the exterior is conceived. While its general lines are stately and imposing, it admits of sufficient ornamentation to avoid the effect of coldness or rigid severity. The entrances are from Washington Street at the south and

Randolph Street at the north, the entire eastern frontage on Michigan Avenue, one block in length, being unbroken save by the long rows of windows. This gives to the lakeward elevation an appearance of massiveness which is emphasized by a simpler and somewhat more classic style of ornamentation than that which characterizes the ends of the building. The foundation terminating at the sills of the ground-floor windows is of granite. Then

begins the use of blue Bedford stone in a simple stylobate sustaining the majestic windows which embrace both the first and second floors. These are crowned with heavy Roman arches, embellished with elaborate chiseling. Above is a stately colonnade of fluted Ionic pillars with scroll capitals, supporting a heavy entablature and an openwork balustrade. The frieze ornamentations are in richly chiseled wreaths and lions' heads.