gaze. The Cloak-Model stood, trim, stately, be-pompadoured as usual, trying on a "Prince-chap" coat for a customer, but pinned upon her dress she wore a large bunch of hot-house violets!

Billy looked at her in stony silence for a moment; then he kicked his own despised offering under the seat in the elevator and slammed the iron door viciously. He knew only too well whose violets those were! Hadn't he seen Davidson, the floorwalker, coming out of the florist's that very morning?

Then, with a sudden afterthought Billy got down on his knees, drew out his flowers and carefully brushed the dust off on his sleeve. After all, it seemed too bad to waste them; Mamie would like them anyway. He put them into a tumbler of water in the basement so that they should not wither.

That night, the Cloak-Model rode down on Billy's elevator. Billy looked at her smart picture hat and stylish shirt-waist with worshipful eyes and took courage afresh from her friendly smile. After all, violets weren't anything great, he thought to himself with scorn. His roses beat them out of sight, and if it hadn't been for that floor-walker! Billy sighed gloomily.

But Mamie liked the roses. Mamie was little and dark and shy, and she looked upon Billy's brass-buttoned uniform with large eyes of admiration. Billy was rather glad, when he saw her radiant face, that he had not thrown the flowers away.

A few days afterwards his glorious inspiration came to him. It came very suddenly during a downward trip of his car, and in his surprise Billy nearly stopped the elevator midway between floors. Why hadn't he thought of it before! He would invite the Cloak-Model to go to the theatre with him!

"Gee!" murmured Billy excitedly to himself, "that's the idea-she'll be keen on that! What show'll it be?" Billy pondered long over the respective merits of "Why Girls Leave Home" and "The Self-made Widow." It was a weighty question.

"There's the swellest villain at the Palace-a perfect beaut," he thought enthusiastically, "but there's a real bang-up murder in the 'Self-made Widow,' besides a run-away engine with the heroine tied to the tracks. It's hot stuff! I bet she'd like that. It's the Widow' for mine." Billy suddenly awoke to the fact that the elevator was urgently desired on the street-floor.

That noon Billy bought the tickets. He spared no expense,

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procuring two highly desirable seats near the front of the first balcony. Such luxury was not usual with him, but the very thought of taking the stately Cloak-Maker into his beloved peanut gallery" made him shudder with horror. The seats cost a good deal, but nothing was too good for Her. Billy went back to the store clutching his tickets joyfully and whistling "Girlie " three octaves too high.

It was a rush afternoon and the elevator was in constant demand. Billy was forced to delay his invitation until nearly closing time. Finally, however, with a sigh of relief he deposited his last load of passengers at the street-floor and raised the car to the suit-and-cloak department with wildly thumping heart.

In a far corner the Cloak-Model was standing before a mirror putting on her hat. Billy's eyes watched her adoringly, then, suddenly a familiar name caught his ears and he started out of his abstraction and glanced around quickly. Behind him two girls were chatting together as they put away their goods.

"Say, when did Gwendolyn tell you?" one of them was inquiring shrilly. (The Cloak-Model's name was Gwendolyn.) Billy listened shamelessly.

"This afternoon," he heard the other answer. "I was tellin' her about my gentleman friend that works down to Klukie's, and she up an' tossed her head an' she says, 'Well, what do you think of Mr. Davidson ?"" Both girls giggled gleefully. Billy's heart nearly stopped beating. "An' then," continued the informant impressively, "then she says, 'I'm engaged to him,' and she shows me the stylish ring he give her; real elegant, too-"

Billy did not wait to hear the rest. He cast one awful glance of speechless reproach at the unconscious figure before the mirror and lowered his elevator to the basement with reckless speed.

The queer, shaky feeling that he always had in the theatre when the villain ran away with the heroine seized him now. He felt about in his pockets for the tickets and laughed bitterly as he looked at them. Never again would he enjoy seeing a play; his heart was broken, he told himself darkly.

He wandered homeward with dragging feet and contemplated suicide as the best way of leaving a treacherous and heartless world. The hero, Billy remembered, always committed suicide

when he was crossed in love. He took a grim pleasure in planning how terribly She would feel when he stood before her, pale and stern-faced, and pulling a pistol from his pocket, placed it to his heart and fell lifeless at her feet. Then, perhaps, she would be broken-hearted-perhaps, she would fall wildly weeping, as the heroine always did, by his side. Billy became so interested in his gloomy reflections that before he realized it he had reached the "court."

Before him, over on one of the doorsteps, a speck of blue rocked back and forth crooning a soft little lullaby. Mamie looked sweet and dainty in her fresh print gown. Billy stopped short in wondering admiration. He had never known that Mamie was pretty before. The thought of suicide gradually receded in his mind and he looked down at his tickets thoughtfully. It was a pity not to use such fine seats when Mamie would be sure to like to go. Mamie was certainly pretty! To be sure, she did not have a big fluffy pompadour, but Billy suddenly realized that he was a little tired of pompadours.

With a queer, little, new hesitation, Billy went up to the steps and stood before her. In his hand he held the tickets but a strange bashfulness had come over him, and he found no words ready to his tongue. The thought of the Cloak-Model had grown dim and shadowy. With an effort at his usual unconcern, Billy held out the tickets.

"Come on, Mame," he said carelessly, "get on your glad rags an' le's go see the 'Self-made Widow!"" but he did not add, as he usually did, "It's too bad to waste 'em."

DOROTHY DONNELL.

UNREST

What do you give me? A love that is warm
And sweet as the wind of the south,
But O! for the rush of the wind of the north
And a kiss like a flame on my mouth!

What am I lacking? Not comfort or care,
Or love that is sober and sane,

But only the love that is selfish and strong
To enfold me and thrill me again.

ANNE COE MITCHELL.

AN AUTUMN MEASURE

Come join the dance of the autumn leaves,
Hither and thither,

Come blow about with the autumn leaves,
Whither? Whither?

Where do they blow?

Where do they go?

Hither, thither,

To and fro.

Come join the dance. They will not wait.
Come join the dance with a shout of gladness,
Join the merry whirling madness.

Leave pale thought behind

And follow the wind

Whither? Whither?

Where the leaves go,

Where the leaves blow,

Hither and thither.

MIRIAM ALMA MYERS.

The "Freshman rain" was still falling on the Monday after college opened and a dull gloom had settled over one of the "offcampus" houses. Polly yawned, and laid down her history.

Heads, She Wins;
Tails, He Loses!

"A cheerful freshman," she announced, "would be exciting, but a letter, any letter, on a night like this, would be positively thrilling."

The postman came. There was a letter, one for Polly. "Oh!" she said, disgustedly, "from him, is it? Oh, just some one I used to go to school with. Known him all my life. He's so simple and so easily seen through that he is no fun at all. I just tolerate him, but to-night-"

Polly tore open the letter and began to read. Her face was a study.

"What does he mean?" "Well, I never!" "This is certainly thrilling!" "I shall die of curiosity!" were just a few of her exclamations.

"For goodness sake, Polly, what is it?" I cried when I thought I, too, was in danger of dying of curiosity.

"Well, just listen to this! 'Polly, you must have heard of the-what shall I call it ?-yes, disgrace that has befallen us at

home. Otherwise, I should not have mentioned it. It has been. brewing all summer, as probably you know, but I hoped that it might be averted after all that has been done and tried. However, its awful realization and confirmation came Wednesday night. Polly, much as I enjoy and prize your letters, much as I value the gift of your friendship, I should prefer that all communication and association between us should be broken off, if you so think wise.' And so it goes on indefinitely, in that perfectly aimless way. Now isn't that the limit ?" "But what is the-er-disgrace?" "Why, I don't know, and he doesn't say. heard it from home, but I haven't."

Supposed I had

"What do you guess it is? You surely must have some idea." "I haven't the remotest. But I'm just crazy to know. Must be an elopement or a divorce or something serious like that. But there's ten o'clock. Oh dear! Where did I put your umbrella? Have you got your Bible? Oh, of course you have; you always have everything. Now, I haven't a word, as usual. Good-bye."

I was so busy for some days after this, trying to arrange my course without any afternoon recitations, that I did not think to ask Polly about her "mystery," as she called it. But the next Wednesday night, we were in her room for a rarebit when the episode of the letter recurred to my mind.

"Oh, Polly," I asked, when there was a sufficient lull in the conversation and I was able to make myself heard across the room, "how about your Southern friend ?”

Polly looked at me with disgust written on her countenance. "Oh, don't!" she cried, "it was all a joke!”

"A joke!" said I, "but how?"

"It was this way," she said, seating herself on the couch by my side. "One night this summer, when he was at the house we got into a discussion, for lack of anything better to do. He said that women are more gullible than men-another sign of their inferiority, you know. Of course, I said they weren't, and moreover I knew it and could prove it. So we bet a five-pound box of Huyler's-the winner to be the one who first succeeded in making the other believe some wild tale that he or she invented. And now I've lost! Oh, I was so mad! But of course he was decent enough to send the candy just the same. Have a piece?"

BEATRICE LYONS.