house she gave vent to her feelings, and cried until her tears were spent. Then, with swollen eyelids and her thoughts still in wild confusion, she continued her walk. She had been most unfortunate all her life, but as she could not know that, it seemed to her that ill fortune had just begun to come, and with a violence past all parallel. She realized that she must leave the only shelter she knew in all the world, but she was as ignorant of what lay before her as a tropical fawn that escapes from a menagerie in the North in midwinter.

As she walked, Jack Lamont drove by and noticed her. Her dress and carriage suggested that she was a lady. Her face, though swollen by crying, strengthened the suggestion. To meet a lady, hatless, in tears, on a lonely road, piqued his curiosity.

"I beg pardon," said he, reining up. "You are in trouble. Can I help you in any way?"

"Thank you, sir; I don't need assistance," she replied, stiffly, from instinct.

“A friend in need—you know the rest. And I am willing to be yours," Lamont persisted.

"I don't need any assistance, thank you," said she.

Feeling rebuked, but vowing to himself to keep this pretty girl in mind for possible future sport, he drove on. And thus the two persons for whom the fates were mixing a witches' broth met in ignorance of their relationship, and parted unenlightened.

Darkness soon fell, and Laura Balm crept to her chamber, there to indulge her hopes in the face of an uncertain future which she knew must begin with the morrow. Of only this was she certainthat she must step forth into a huge uncharted world in the morning to make her way alone; to make her fortune, or to mar it worse. Then came the supernatural visitor to break the oblivion which youthful sleep had brought, and to make Laura recall her pressing misfortunes down to their dregs.

"I read her mind and her memory almost clearly now," Editha thought; "but she does not faintly approach a knowledge of me. I will try again.... there, a little harder willing and I should have almost made myself visible. But she only murmurs Mother,'' Mother,' and fancies herself with her. But I really have

made some progress. She conveyed her thoughts to me, at least. Laura, I am no mere friend. I want to be your other soul, your wiser self. I will give you the power to face the world with a brave and a calm heart. I will try to influence all who are about you to bring you to your home and your kin."

"Stay with me, mother,” Laura murmured once again in her sleep.

Day was sending its first messengers to rouse the east, so that the kindly influence of the Etherian, which could only be exerted between sunset and dawn, must quickly end. Reluctantly Editha threw around the sleeping girl a last intenser effort of her personality, and focussed her mind, with its message of hope and courage, strongly on the sleeper's brain, as if to bathe her in an assurance of security. Then she kissed Laura's cheek and was gone.

She paused a moment at her husband's bedside, and charging Mrs. Lamont, who was still there, to assist her in arousing the Colonel's mind to the existence of this new found niece, both Etherians combined their powers toward that end. They left the bedside together, and presently began to feel that relaxation of their energies which, in their state, corresponds to our sensation of sleep.

Laura slept peacefully and late that morning, with a smile upon her innocent lips, dreaming of walks by her mother's side, amid flowers and bright sunshine, when the two foresaw nothing of the misery which had since come to both. Some hours passed, and she was rudely awakened by a rough hand on her shoulder. Bill Heintz had entered her chamber. Wake up," he said, in a hoarse whis

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per. "Listen! I'm going to take Mrs. Turley to the village this morning and keep her there. You be by the postoffice at noon. 'Sh-h-h, she'll wake up. I am yer friend. You can't stay hered'ye see? I'll get you out of this. Be at the post-office at noon. Bring anything you've got that you kin sell. You'll need everything you have, and more besides."

CHAPTER III.

FROM BAD HANDS TO WORSE.

LAURA was so startled that when Heintz had crept out she scarcely knew whether or not the incident was part of a dream. But now she heard him call

ing to Mrs. Turley, and, besides, her recollection of his touch upon her shoulder and of his startling proposal to her to fly from her home was too strong to be doubted. She weighed the reasons for and against accepting his offer of a rescue, reasons all born of her ignorance of life, and reluctantly decided to accompany him. Having the hopefulness of youth as an only substitute for worldly experience, she fancied that good fortune must befall her. The manner of taking the step, as planned by Heintz, weighed most against her going. It gave it an underhand, surreptitious look, like a flight. It was not in her nature even to contemplate such a procedure. The idea of it stung her with its implication of moral cowardice and dishonesty. The straightforward course must be hers-to notify Mrs. Turley, and to leave the house with the same freedom and sense of dignity with which she had entered it. She dressed very slowly, to span the time until the landlady should be heard descending the stairs. Then she followed, and made her announcement in such a manner as gained for itself and for her the respect which the coarse creature, when sober, had never been able to deny to her lodger.

"I shall leave here to-day," said Laura. "I shall not come back, except to give you what I owe and to take away my things."

"I'm sorry yer goin', miss," said the

woman.

Heintz listened with greedy and anxious ears, fearful that the girl was going to say that he was to be her companion. But, he thought, perhaps she was not going with him at all. This was a very different creature from the pale girl he had seen stunned with surprise, overwhelmed by abuse, and struck down in his presence yesterday. He doubted whether, if she really meant to be his companion, he would be able to carry out his part of the plan-with a proud, high-spirited mate so clearly of a world beyond his own.

"If you're a-goin' to pay me," Mrs. Turley said, "I don't jest see what makes you go away."

"I shall go at noon," said Laura. "I'm sorry fer what I done yesterday," said the woman. "I was clean crazy with my troubles, or I wouldn't have carried on so."

"Have my breakfast ready as soon as possible, please, and call me," Laura said. "Yes, ma'am," said the woman.

"She'll be goin' to her folks," said Mrs. Turley to Bill Heintz when the girl had gone. "They're fearful rich, I hear." "She's a thoroughbred, and no mistake," said Bill. "Where is her folks, I wonder?"

"I don't know where they be," said Mrs. Turley; "but I've heard they're very tony and all that sort of thing. I hain't never stooped to do no spyin' on her. Her secrets hain't none of my funeral. All's I know is I made a 'nation fool of myself a- drivin' her out'n the house like I done. I won't get nothing now, 'cept jest what she owes me, 'less I kin make up with her afore she clears out."

"Oh, leave her be," said Bill. "Whatever you say 'll make things worse. What you want is a good bracer of whiskey to steady you. Better come down the road to Cunningham's with me."

"You kin go an' drink-an' drinkan' drink," said Mrs. Turley, from out of a grand spasm of virtue, "but you can't come it over me with none of yer rum and them mis'ble Cunninghams whose house I was to yesterday. I got more'n paid fer goin' there wunst."

"Mrs. Turley, I'll jest hev yer to know-"

"You'll hev me to know nothing," said she. "I'm a-lettin' you know 't I washt my hands of you and your friendsthere! You kin stuff that in your pipe and smoke on it."

I will not even hint at Heintz's reply to this assault upon him. If it be understood that he, too, had been drinking heavily and was in a highly nervous condition, perhaps even the nature of what he said had best remain obscure. Mrs. Turley, instead of practising her own masterly powers of invective upon him, waved him to be gone, and flung herself out of the room in order to stand in the pantry and listen for his departing footsteps. When she heard the gate slam she returned to busy herself with preparing her boarder's breakfast. But first she poured out half a glass of Bourbon and swallowed it neat, to fortify herself for whatever was to come.

I doubt if she so considered it, but this proved a waste of alcohol, for Laura

would hold with her only what converse politeness demanded. To Mrs. Turley's clumsy apologies for her past behavior the young lady replied that it was best not to refer to that, and when Mrs. Turley tried with all her ingenuity to discover the whereabouts of the rich relatives to whom she was certain her boarder was betaking herself, Laura only replied, "My plans are not very definite, Mrs. Turley." The girl's pride and reticence vanquished the low woman, who kept her temper by great force of will, because she thought there would be a money profit in good behavior. At the door she handed to Laura her small reticule of plaited straw, like a schoolgirl's bag, and saying that she hoped Mrs. Balm "would soon come back to her faculties again," the two women parted - one to return to the bottle, in which she found most comfort, the other to face a world so cruel that had she even suspected what it held for her, she might have shuddered at the gay sunlight that bathed its face.

Ahead of her, down the brown road, she saw an old beggar called Christmas hobbling on the oaken third leg with which he made the best of his way, his natural legs being almost wrecked by lameness. He was called Christmas because of his white hair and beard, and, perhaps, because he drew all children to him. He had always a story for whatever child he met, and though not one of his tales-always about kittens and frogs, or crows, or dogs - seemed worth any adult's while to hear or repeat, children of every degree clamored for them.

"Ay, bad hands, bad hands, I tell ye. It's a warning that's on your brow and in your eyes."

"I wish I had a penny for you," said Laura. "Good-morning, Christmas." She went her way and left him looking after her, shaking his white locks with nods of approval of his own words, and with sidewise shakes in token of despair for her. Suddenly he hobbled after her, very painfully and quickly for him.

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'Ma'am; I say, ma'am!" he called. "Here's a quarter of a dollar for you for better fortune."

"I cannot take your money, thank you, Christmas," she said, with a sweet smile.

"You won't?" he asked.
"I cannot, really," she said.

"My God!" he exclaimed, dropping his staff and raising both hands. "Only a lamb would take to the road without thought of money. And do you know where lambs walk to? To the shearing first, and then to the-"

If he finished that sentence, it was with such a low muttering that she did not catch the last words. Again she started on, leaving him behind her.

While she had been at her meal and on the road, Bill Heintz was lounging with two young idlers-semi-vagabonds, but better men than he-before the postoffice.

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Better come with us," one repeated. "You don't need a red cent, because if they engage you they take you to Ne' York free, and pay yer for the work you do on the way. And 'tain't hard work, nor bad work neither, looking after them horses and elephants and things in a big circus. They're short of hands, and I

"Miss! stop a bit. Let me look at you. Ay, I thought so. Give a copper to old Christmas, though he's got no good news for you."

"I have not a penny to my name, Christmas," said she.

"You're changed since I passed you last time-a couple of days ago-down the road. The fairies have been to you. I see the mark of 'em on your forehead, and what's in your eyes is a fairy light, nothing else. I hope it ain't a warning -and yet I'm 'bleeged to say you're in bad hands."

me, he says, if me an' my friends would meet him in Harrisburg at a certain time, he'd git us a job. And after that meals and beds comes along with the job."

"But wait till you see the gal," said Heintz. "I tell you, she's a jim daisy. She's a thoroughbred. They say her folks is the richest kind of swells, but she's stuck on me, and we're going to be pardners."

"Ah, what 're yer givin' us? If she's a swell she won't have nothin' to do with the likes of you, only as you kin run arrants fer her. Don't I know what them swells is?

VOL. XCVII.-No. 580.-73

Can't tell me nothin' new They don't mix with poor

folks. They might try, but it wouldn't work. They can't, anyhow; but who in ever heard of their tryin'?”

"Come along with us," said the second loafer; "don't make a monkey of your self. There's big pay an' easy work, and you kin see Ne' York to boot."

"We'll see about this here mixin'," said Bill, with a chuckle and a leer. "When she tumbles to what 'll happen to her before morning, through bein' along with me-just leave her to me, I say."

"Oh, that's the lay, is it, Bill?" said one of his companions. "That's dif

ferent."

"Danged different," said the other. "It means a trick in jail for you-if you have ordinary luck at that business."

"Ah, what's all this preaching?" Bill asked. "It makes me sick to hear you fellers. You haven't got the chance; that's what's the matter with youse. But, hullo! here she comes now."

As he spoke, Laura Balm turned a near corner, and approached the group with a quick, firm step. Her slender, muscular body, outlined with the promising curves of girlhood, was draped with a gown which fitted her as a deer is fitted by its fur. She held herself rigidly erect, her head was high, and in her blue eyes no more than in her gait was there any hint of misgiving.

"Good-morning," said Heintz, involuntarily straightening himself, and adopting the tone and manner of the humble before the proud.

"Good-morning," said she, as if she had not expected to see him, and forged ahead.

"I say!" he called. 'Hold up, will

you?" But she walked on, and he was obliged to catch up to her, looking over his shoulder sheepishly at his companions, who had taken the exact measure of his control over her.

"Is that little basket all you brought away?" he asked. "What's in it?"

She told him that she had brought with her only a little very necessary clothing and a few letters of her mother's. She had no right to take anything of value, she said, until her debt to Mrs. Turley was cleared.

"What! no joolry-and no clothes, neither?" he asked. He said he had reckoned she would fetch away things that

could be turned into money. He thought she ought to go back and clean out the place while he kept Mrs. Turley away somewhere. To this she replied that what he proposed would be dishonest, and she would rather he would not talk of such things.

"It was kind of you to offer," she added, "but I hardly see how it will be possible for you to help me."

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'Help you?" he repeated, as if he was going to repudiate the bare idea at the start. Then he finished the sentence more diplomatically. "I ain't in much of a fix to help anybody, but maybe I can help you, and you can help me-as things turn up-and, anyhow, we kin be pardners."

She searched his face with a look which turned his eyes to the ground.

"You advised me to leave Mrs. Turley's," said she, "and I thank you for that, though I had already made up my mind to go to day. But now have you any plan for helping me?"

"I jest said how-er-I reckoned we'd oughter be-er--pardners."

"Because," said she, disregarding what he said as unworthy her attention, “if you've nothing in mind, I think I will not trouble you any further."

He was nonplussed. His only plan. was not one that he could make known to her. Moreover, her attitude, her holding herself so far from him, was a thing he had not taken into account.

That is I mean-and let me find work-for you to earn money-you see, and—”

He was confused. Her bearing disconcerted him. Each searching glance made him wince at his own villany, and also made him feel the vast difference that separated them. Here was a duel between high character and low.

The country was now an open one. The only houses were behind them. The road lay between farm fences, with fields and pastures rolling away on either side. He noticed this. She may have done so, but she gave it no thought. She listened to his hesitating speech and gathered the truth, that his companionship was all he had to offer. Almost unconsciously she