The little sitting-room was just the same as he remembered it. Only the rag carpet and the hair-cloth sofa with its one sofa pillow were more faded and mended and new green paper shades kept out the light and the flies humming in the kitchen. On three walls were pictures of relatives long since dead, but on the other, all by itself, hung a beautiful copy in brown tints of Jean Bérant's "Mary Magdalen and the Pharisees." Burke had sent it to his mother for her birthday, but now he understood what a puzzle it must have been to her. The odors of frying meat and hot coffee grew stronger, and soon Burke heard the splash of water from the kitchen sink as his brother washed his face and hands in the tin basin. The meal following passed almost in silence. His mother had already told him all the neighborhood news and was now content to watch him, speaking seldom; his sister-in-law was stiff and ill at ease, making painfully obvious efforts to find something to talk about; Reid hardly looked up from his plate and Burke suddenly realized that his long absence had left no common ground on which to meet them. Reid went to bed soon after to be ready for the next day's work, and so Burke, too, made the excuse of unpacking and went to his room.

He opened his dress-suit case and arranged his brushes and toilette things of heavy silver on the bureau with a moment's sense of relief to have escaped the poverty of things about him. But it all came back to him when he lifted a massive silver frame from the case, and he looked down almost guiltily.

"Marjorie! . . I did not know but I ought to have guessed." Involuntarily he compared the woman whom he loved with his sister-in-law. "And Reid is twice the man I amı. What a hypocrite I must appear to him after the plans I made for mother and father and him. Twenty-three years like this! To the village once a week to carry off the butter, no vacation, no news from the outside world, no study, no books nor papers, nothing new, just the old routine of work with his hands! My God! why doesn't he hate me?" He took to walking up and down the room, and because he was a man of concentrated habit of thought he could think only of the tragedy of his brother's life. He painted his brother's life and his mother's as one dreary monotone with no interest, no hope. He did not understand that in simple lives like theirs, simple incidents, like a flowering plant, or a neighbor's troubles, supply a vary

ing train of interest as alive and vivid as the wider interests of wider lives. He blamed himself for his brother's failure in life, and hated himself. "I might have helped them years ago if I had thought. I shall give up getting the yacht this year, but I can never pay for the years I've let things go.' He stood beside the table for a long time with his head bent. Then at last he sat down and wrote it all to Marjorie. He made no excuse for himself for he knew she would like it better without, but he poured out all he felt, and knew she would understand.

Burke slept late and heavily the next morning. The early freshness had been burned away and the air was hot and dry. He was finishing dressing when he heard heavy footsteps come up the stairs, and Reid knocked.

"I didn't know but what you was sick," he said. "Your lamp was burning when I went out to milk about four o'clock, and Susie said she heard you walking around late last night." "No. I didn't feel like sleeping, that's all. Isn't it a splendid day for corn?" Burke answered.

66

"Yes, pretty good." Reid stood awkwardly by the bureau. He picked up one of the brushes and handled it curiously. "What are all these for?" he asked, simply.

Burke looked at the strong face of the other, and it came to him with a little pang that if his brother had been put beside himself at the beginning he would have been left far behind; and for answer he came and put both hands on his brother's shoulders.

"Reid, I've been a scoundrel. Think what I might have done for you! I've just been wrapped up in myself and my way of life. You remember how we used to plan and how you were going to school as soon as I could earn enough to hire a man for father, and you were to be-" he had forgotten what, so he hesitated. "I can't make any excuse. The artist Uncle Jason spoke of took me up, and I met many men who were wealthier than I, and the more I earned, the more I wanted to spend. Then you never mentioned going away, and I just let our plans go. I'd give anything to have the chance over again, but. Reid, you'll let me help you now!"

The younger brother spoke wearily, looking over the other's shoulder.

"It's too late, Burke.

I've worked here too long to be contented anywhere else. I'm too old to learn new ways now. If-"

But Burke broke in quickly, for in his heart he knew that what his brother spoke was true, and that he could do for him only what he had planned for his father twenty-three years ago. "You'll let me fix up the barns and house for you and hire a

man ?"

Reid hesitated. His pride rebelled against taking anything from the man who had neglected him so long, and he knew he could make Burke suffer by refusing. For a moment he played with the thought. But his mother and Susie-he raised his head, "Yes," he said slowly.

HELENE LILIAN FORD.

SKETCHES

AN OLD YEAR'S GREETING

Hear the bells ring out

And the people shout

To welcome the glad New Year';

Yet the same horns blew

And the bells rang, too,

In joy that I was here.

You are young and strong,
And you hear the song,

And the cheers that give you birth.
I, too, heard but the rousing cheer,
I heard not the sigh of the dying year,
In the midst of the noise and mirth.

And these words I say, you will not hear,
As I heard not the cry of the passing year.
MIRIAM ALMA MYERS.

It had been a hard day. Tony's bones ached with weariness, and the dragging weight of the hand-organ cut cruelly into his bent shoulders. People had not

The Invalid's Benefit wanted to listen to his beloved music to-day and Tony could not understand. He looked down now, his dark face very tender, and patted the organ's scarred surface lovingly. "Carissima!" he murmured, "Carissima mia!" Then he sighed again. He was glad that he was almost home. He would go through the Avenue to-night; that would save a longer walk.

The Avenue was broad and aristocratic, with tall, impressive houses drawing back from the publicity of the street and halfhidden under the sweep of magnificent elms. The shabby little figure of Tony, trudging wearily along, bent under the still shabbier hand-organ, was palpably out of place in the harmony

of the scene. To Tony, simple, childlike son of Italy, there seemed nothing incongruous in his presence there. He gazed with interested eyes around him. The white pillars of the houses, the smooth green lawns, the fountains stirred faint memories in his heart of things seen long ago beneath Italian skies. Suddenly his glance fell upon a figure on the veranda of one of the great houses and he stopped with an exclamation of pity.

"Da seek man! Allaway ees he dere. One, two, t'ree time, I com' by-aivery tim' I seea heem-so vera thin-hees eyes so beeg, so sad-"

Tony had forgotten that he was tired and discouraged. His bent back straightened itself beneath his load. Was he not strong himself-the saints be praised! What if he had to lie that way all day, never to play on his hand-organ! He shuddered. Then as he looked down at his organ, inspiration came to Tony, born of the kindness and the pity of his warm Italian heart. He would play his beautiful music for the "seek man to hear! Perhaps, who knows, it would make his face a little glad. Tony stopped by the gate of the house where the silent figure lay on the veranda and unstrapped his organ joyfully. He would play his very choicest music. That would surely make the sick man smile a little-such beautiful music. Tony glanced proudly down at the battered old box before him. "Carissima!" he murmured softly and began to play.

From his vantage ground of the piazza the Invalid had been watching the queer little figure creeping towards him, up the street, with a faint shadow of curiosity on his pain-drawn, weary face. There was so little to watch, so little to think about! One dull, monotonous day was so like every other. Even an old Italian street-grinder with his shabby hand-organ strapped to his back was welcome as a diversion. The Invalid smiled a little cynically and closed his eyes.

"Look at that fellow," he murmured bitterly to himself. "Ragged, penniless and hungry, too, I'll wager, yet he can go. about playing his wretched music, while I—"

The Invalid broke off suddenly and opened his eyes with a start of dismay, for the thin, tinkling strains of a popular streetmelody played on a rattling, squeaky hand-organ was filling the quiet, aristocratic air of the Avenue.

"Well, I'll be hanged if the little Dago isn't actually play