HIS REWARD.

THE best way to propose to a girl is not to think of what you are going to say beforehand.”

Castleton muttered this sternly to himself as he walked swiftly along with defiant stride. "Yes, sir," he exclaimed, "it's the only way, and I am not going to make a fool of myself. I've made too many after-dinner speeches, learned them by rote. beforehand, and failed at the last moment, not to know that these premeditated outbursts are absolutely unreliable. I don't know what I am going to say, and I don't care. It's sink or swim. I want that girl to marry me, and I'm going to tell her so. But, hold on! I musn't think of a word of it."

Castleton began to whistle, set himself more firmly together, and hurried on to the scene and the issue which were to determine his fate. Seductive phrases of persuasive love presented themselves to him at every step, like sirens to the ancient mariner, but he fought them off one by one. He was determined that his mind should be a blank, and with grim courage he hurled himself up the steps and rang the bell.

When he finally faced her, it was harder-a great deal harder than he thought, but he never flinched. He had made up his mind that he would say what came to him when the instant arrived, and he plunged like a bold swimmer into an unknown

sea.

"Dorothy," he said, calling her by her first name for the first time, as he turned and faced her, "I-the fact is, I am dead in love with you. I want to marry you, and that's all there is to it!" She looked at him swiftly and then lowered her eyes. He could almost feel that she trembled slightly. He felt a sudden. sense of relief, even in this brief moment. He had done it and nothing had happened. The earth continued to revolve.

"Yes," he said, gathering courage with every word, "I don't

know when I began to love you, but I think it was the very first time we met. I couldn't help it exactly, and indeed I didn't want to, for I don't know of anything finer than just to let yourself go when you don't want to stop. I remember how beautiful you looked to me on that first day, and how your grace and charm have grown on me every day since, until all I can think of is 'Dorothy,' 'Dorothy' all the day long."

He reached forward and took her hand. It was all so easy now. The floodgates of his soul were open.

"All that is beautiful, and tender, and harmonious in the old world," he said, "seems to have entered my heart, and, indeed, it bends so with the weight of this great love, that unless you, my darling, accept it, I am afraid that it will break. Can't you say something to me, Dorothy? Something to show me that what I am saying is not all in vain? Can't you tell me that you do love me just a little, and that there is some hope for me? Beloved, speak to me!"

She lifted her eyes to his. There was an uncertain look in their clear depths.

"I wish I could believe it," she said, doubtfully. "But I just know you couldn't talk that way to me unless you had been practicing all your life on other girls."

HER JOURNEY.

SHE was undoubtedly a beautiful girl.

When she came out of her house in the little suburban hamlet in which she lived, with a small hand satchel in her hand, Jones, who had come out of his house at the same instant, to catch the same train, ran nearly a quarter of a mile to help her with her satchel.

"Ah, good morning," said Jones. "Let me take that; but I insist!" And they trudged on toward the station together.

Jones hated to carry anything. He never would do it for his wife. But this, of course, was a different proposition.

When she got on the train bound for the Metropolis, the car was crowded.

She was, however, as has already been remarked, a beautiful girl. And so a dozen men sprang forward.

"Won't you have this seat?"

Her pretty lips closed in a dignified "thank you." All the married men who had been too late sank back to their papers, each of them envying in his heart the one who was now obliged to stand. She was such a beautiful girl.

When the train rolled into the Metropolis she passed through the station and out into the street, where she stood on the corner and lifted her dainty hand to the first motorman who clanked by. This motorman was particularly cruel and hard-hearted. He was about to give his car an unusual burst of speed. Suddenly, however, he slowed up-and stopped. He, too, had noticed that she was a beautiful girl.

The nearest man in the car was industriously reading the paper as she entered, but by some subtle alchemy of the soul he rose at once and offered her a seat. It took him but an instant to divine how beautiful she was.

She got off at a dry goods store. Three men tumbled all over themselves to give her passage way. Two men on the outside got off to give her room. Two more men who were getting on bowed and waited obsequiously while she alighted. The conductor, who had been shouting "step lively" to everyone, acted as if any kind of hurry was the last thing in the world for him. The man at the door of the dry goods establishment swept it open as if she had been a queen. The floorwalker hurried to her side as if she had been a magnet, although a moment before two old ladies had been looking for him in vain. She was a beautiful girl. She stepped to the ribbon counter. "I would like to see,"

she said, and then followed some minute description of the thing desired, couched in feminine terms.

"What's that?"

She went over the description again.

"Maggie, have we got?"

"Naw, don't think so."

"All out. Next week, maybe."

"Well, have you?"

"Naw, we don't keep such t'ings."

The beautiful girl—and she was a very beautiful girl—passed on, while Mamie, the first saleslady she addressed, turned again. to Maggie, the second saleslady.

"Say, she t'inks because she's a good looker she's entitled to the earth. Well, I wouldn't show her a t'ing."

PHILOSOPHY.

WHEN man first became convinced that there was no cure for Love or Dyspepsia he invented Philosophy.

The gentle art of fooling other people is all that the average man aims at. Only in this way can he make enough to live on.

The philosopher, however, is on a higher plane than this. He believes in fooling himself.

All philosophers are, therefore, a great success in their own line.

Philosophy is, in fact, divided into two parts-the real and the pseudo. The real philosophers are all dead. The pseudo are either on the yellow journals or are Christian Scientists.

To be a first-class philosopher all one needs is a readiness to believe any old thing in particular, and an incredibility about everything in general. Also some one else to support you.

Philosophy never appears at christenings, weddings or funerals, or when there is a note coming due.