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Title: Wanderings of French Ed

Author: J. Adelard René

Release date: July 24, 2013 [eBook #43292]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jerry Kuntz

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WANDERINGS OF FRENCH ED ***

Produced by Jerry Kuntz

Wanderings of French Ed

by Joseph Adelard René

Published 1899

Wright & Company, New York

The beginning of life is like the morning of a spring day and dreams are to one's soul what sunshine is to that day—often too brilliant to last; but human nature needs a stimulant, and that stimulant is the ideal which takes place in the soul of every human being when ambition for the future is born.

Who does not remember nursing golden dreams in days gone by? Such is the human heart; it lives on fiction, and feeds on happy dreams for the future.

When about twenty years of age, Edward Cottret was at the end of his schooldays, and the desire to realize an old cherished dream was uppermost in his soul. That old dream was to go to the United States, make a fortune, come back home and astonish the natives.

The little village where Edward was living was all excitement when it was learned that old man Cottret had decided to let his boy Ed go to the States. Some blamed him, others thought it was proper, but they all joined in wishing the boy godspeed and good luck.

The day to depart had arrived, and at the little station parents and friends were assembled to bid him farewell. His mother and sister were taking turns kissing him, while crying, and his father, sad but solemn, stood by, waiting for a last chance to give him, his only son, fatherly advice. The shrill whistle of the locomotive was heard, and then it was like the last part of a funeral ceremony, and even Edward, who up to this time had succeeded in hiding his emotion, felt his heart growing too big for his chest, and when he held the quivering hand of Marie Louise, his sweetheart, he completely lost the power of speech, and when she said: "Ed, don't forget me," he could only stare at her.

The train was now ready to start, and standing at the end of the car, Edward was holding his father's hand, who also felt tears in his eyes. The last seconds were painful to all, and it almost seemed a relief when the train moved and handkerchiefs fluttered in the air his last farewell. Had it not been for the noise made by the moving train his sobbing would have been heard by those on the platform.

The last ones to leave the station were his father, his mother, and his sweetheart. They stood there until the smoke from the locomotive could be seen no more. Edward saw the last houses of his native village grow smaller, and long after he could not see them he stood at the end of the car while tears were coursing down his cheeks. When he went inside he felt a strange sensation of loneliness which seemed to increase as the distance grew between him and his village. When the train stopped at the next small station Edward was tempted to get out and walk back home; but at this his pride revolted, and the train as it moved again seemed to mock him.

Try as he might he could not revive in his soul the old dreams for the future, and when night came, stretched on the hard benches of the second class coach, he slept just long enough to dream of his mother and his village. Once he woke up, thinking he held the quivering hand of his blue-eyed sweetheart.

After a restless night, morning found him aching in every limb in his body, but glad that he was nearing his destination. Worcester, Mass., was the city where he expected to first walk upon American soil, and after searching in vain upon the yellow time-table to find the exact time he would arrive, he turned to a fellow-passenger, a big fat fellow, whom he addressed in French, saying: "A quelle heure arriverons nous a Wor-ces-ter?"

The big fellow look puzzled at first, then smiling, he said: "Talk

United States."

Edward failed to understand the meaning of "talking United States," but answered "thank you," trying to look satisfied with the answer.

About two hours later the conductor came in and said: "Worster!

Worster!" and shortly after the train stopped in a large depot.

Almost everyone stepped out except Edward, who had no idea that

"Worster," as the conductor called it, and "Worcester" were the same

place. "Don't you want to get off here?" asked the conductor.

"No, I am going to Worcester," answered the French lad, but the conductor picked up some of his things and smilingly informed him that he was at the end of his trip.

After finding his way out of the station, Edward stopped an instant to look around and immediately he was surrounded by a lot of cabmen yelling, gesticulating and wanting to take hold of some of the boy's parcels. Surprised and almost scared he tried to make them understand something in French, but failed, and he was getting in a rather embarrassing situation, when an old gentleman, who had witnessed the proceedings, stepped up to him and asked him in broken French where he wanted to go. "God bless you!" thought Edward as he looked up into the kind old gentleman's face, and told him where he wanted to be directed to.

The old gentleman walked part way with him, and then gave him directions to find a hotel kept by a Frenchman, where he said Edward would be well treated. After a few minutes Edward found himself in front of a cheap-looking boarding house, bearing the name "Hotel de Montreal," and he walked in. Every one in the place spoke French, and he felt at once like a new man. His face brightened up and his old-time courage came back as he told the proprietor that we wanted to stop there for a few days.

The remainder of that day was spent in sight-seeing and in gathering information about addresses given him by his father and friends of some compatriots in business in that city, from whom Edward expected to receive employment and get his start in American life.

Early the next day he started to call at each place, sure that he would have no trouble in finding employment, but his enthusiasm was somewhat cooled when compatriots in business informed him carelessly that they could do nothing for him. At each succeeding place he met with the same fate, until a call had been made at every address.

His modest pocketbook was depleted, and the light of hope that bums in every man's soul was getting dim, and its rays were like those of a flickering candle. Golden dreams had left his heart one by one to make room for the cold and cruel reality. Was that the United States he had read and heard so much about? Where every one could make money? True, there was much activity, but it broke his heart to think he had no part in it. He felt small and lost among these strangers who passed by him without noticing him; he, who in his native village was used to be quite an important personage. He would have given ten years of his life to be back home, but alas! his money was now nearly all gone.

That night he went to bed earlier than usual, not to sleep, but to cry in despair. In the stillness of the night he thought he could hear the sobbing of his old mother, and in the darkness of his little room he imagined he could see the sad face of his blue-eyed sweetheart. He had never thought that life could be so bitter, and to his young soul the weight of his sorrow was indeed great.

The next morning, sitting in what they called "the-waiting room," Edward noticed a young man enter, carrying under his arm a large package of frames. Edward was attracted by the strange and unhappy light in the young man's eyes, and the hyper-sympathetic nature of the French lad made him forget his own misfortunes while looking at the newcomer. There is a certain affinity between unfortunates—miserables. After placing his package on the floor the stranger sat down near Edward, and after rolling a cigarette he turned toward Edward and asked him for a match, which was handed to him, and this proved to be the beginning of an acquaintanceship which brought about a friendship of the kind that endures, and is one of the greatest gifts to humanity.

Misery accelerates acquaintanceship, and in a very short time they knew all about each other. Edward's new-made friend was a Russian, and his limited knowledge of the French language was a great help in their conversation.

Benjamin Oresky, his new friend, told him his story, and with all the impulsive generosity of his nature, the French lad felt a great wave of sympathy in his soul for the young Russian. Poor Ben! After running away from Russia, on account of some trivial political trouble, he had learned that the government had arrested his father, accusing him of helping his son to run away to America, and as a result of this trouble, his mother had died; and he felt guilty of her death.

After learning the Russian's sad story Edward felt that his own misfortune was not near so great as Ben's, and he decided to do all in his power to help his new friend, at least in a moral way.

Benjamin Oresky was twenty-one years old; indescribable suffering had caused premature wrinkles in his handsome face, and the streaks of silver in his black curly hair told of unhappiness, while in his brown eyes shone a light born of martyrdom.

The brotherly love that had sprung up between these two young men was the result of a condition of circumstances that brought this mystic virtue in all its purity. It came to their souls like a soothing balm, and it gave birth to ambitions that otherwise would never have been felt.

They were each other's confidant. Their interests were mutual, and in their friendship they found the nucleus of courage to hold them up in days of adversity.

Edward's old dreams of fortune came back, and he succeeded in getting his new friend to share some of them. A partnership was arranged between the two, and from this time Edward began to peddle frames from house to house. It was hard and far from the realization of his old dreams, but it was better than starvation, and the hope of better days, combined with the example of the Russian, gave him courage to follow this rather humble trade.

At times, when they met at night, after a lucky day and counted their receipts, they were elated, while other times, not being so fortunate, they felt discouraged. More than once, Edward decided to write home for money, but at the last minute his pride stopped him.

"No, never! I will not let them know that I am poor, humiliated, a failure!"

It had been decided that they would go west as soon as they would have saved the necessary capital, and at last, after three months of hard work and close economy, they found that they had enough money to abandon the frame business and start for the West.

Edward was all excitement. His golden dreams had all come back. After buying a new suit, he went and had his picture taken, sent one home, another to Marie Louise, and told them of the wonderful things he was to accomplish out West. Preparations were made and tickets bought for St. Paul, Minnesota, and as he stepped aboard the train to leave Worcester he could not help but think of the difference between his departure from home and his leaving Worcester now. His heart was overflowing with gladness, and there was nothing but happy tidings in his soul. There was no sad parting at the station. No, his only friend was going along with him, and he felt a keen pleasure in leaving a city which had been so ungrateful to him. The luxurious palace car was a revelation to him, who had never seen anything like it, and he felt like a man who is traveling toward success. He could hardly refrain himself from singing when the train started, but his friend Benjamin was indifferent, and when Edward began to speak about the wonderful things they were to do out West, Benjamin simply smiled.

"Won't we be happy, Ben, when we have lots of money?" asked Edward.

"I may find distraction in making money, and pleasure in seeing you happy, Ed, but there cannot be any happiness for me," answered the Russian, with sadness. Then he spoke of his dead mother feelingly. As to his father, it was a queer anomaly, but the Russian had none of that filial love of which Edward's heart was so full. No; there was some mysterious cloud between Benjamin and his father, and Edward pitied his friend from the bottom of his heart.

The rumbling noise of the fast train, as it moved toward the West, was music to Edward's ears, and he enjoyed it too much to be able to read, and while Benjamin was reading one of Tolstoi's novels, Edward rested his head on the back of his seat and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander in dreamland.

When night came they decided not to buy tickets for the sleeper, in order to economize, and both slept well, stretched upon the benches of the palace car. Morning found them both quite fresh, and the Russian went back to his novel, while Edward studied the faces around him.

There were all sorts of faces. Some told of happiness and health, others spoke plainly of sadness and misfortune; others still were enigmas—they told of nothing, and if they had known of stormy days, and drank of some of life's bitter cup, there were no traces left. A few seats ahead of him Edward noticed a tall chap with his arms around the waist of a woman with golden hair. Her face told of new matrimonial bliss and he seemed to be so happy that he was satisfied to look at his bride without speaking. Edward thought how he would like to have Marie Louise as his bride and going West also, when he heard something falling and turning around in the direction where the noise came from he saw a beautiful young girl who was vainly trying to pull off part of her sleeve from under the window-shade, which had just fallen, causing the noise. Edward hesitatingly got up, and succeeded in releasing the young lady from her awkward position. She thanked him, and when he looked into her large brown eyes he felt that they were the most beautiful he had seen in all his life. He went back to his seat, and felt sorry at once for not having spoken to her. The more he thought, the more he wanted to speak to her, until at last, he got up and boldly walked up to her seat, but imagine his surprise there—he found himself unable to say a word. She looked up, and seeing his embarrassment, said something that he failed to understand, but her kind smile brought back his courage and his power of speech. Picking up her things, she made room on her seat and he sat down and began the conversation in broken English.

A woman of twenty, with a mass of auburn hair-that color that is three in one, golden in the sun, brown in the shade, and dark in the evening. Her eyes were large and soft, shaded by long eyelashes. It was difficult to tell their color, but they possessed a magnetic power that Edward felt at once, and every time he looked in her eyes he felt dazed. His whole being seemed to become involved in a spell of strange happiness, and listening to her, he felt that she could make him her slave. When he told her of his going to St. Paul, Minnesota, she said that she had often been in that city, and had many friends living there. Her conversation was easy and fascinating, and Edward did not dare to make any comparison between her and Marie Louise, whose name came to his mind more than once. After an hour or so of conversation she told him that she could speak French, and immediately proceeded to talk that language, to his astonishment, and he mildly reproached her for not having spoken that language before.

"I just love to hear any one speak English the way you do," she said.

While talking French she held Edward spellbound. She spoke of Daudet,

Zola, George Ohnet, Chartrand, and many other modern novelists of the

French school, and it developed that her favorite authors were also

his.

"Why don't you stop in Chicago and see the city?" she asked him, at the same time inviting him to call at her home, and giving him a dainty, engraved card upon which he read her name: "Nellie King," with her address written with a lead pencil.

Edward could hardly believe his ears, and said that he would be delighted to stop in Chicago, but he was not alone, and his friend might not want to.

"I am sure that you can induce your friend to stop a day or two, if you care to, and I would be very glad to entertain you while in the city," she said with her most winsome smile.

"If you really care to have me stop, I will, even if my friend does not want to," said Edward, entirely decided to do so.

He went over to his friend Ben, who was just awakening from a doze, and mentioned the idea of stopping in Chicago.

The Russian was surprised and said: "Why, Edward, we know no one in

Chicago; what's the use to stop there and, spend time and money!"

"Yes, I do know some one there," answered Edward, blushing like a maiden. "I know a lovely girl who would like very much to have me stop."

The Russian looked surprised, and asked Edward where he had met that girl.

"Right in this car," answered Edward.

Ben smiled pitifully, and said: "Poor boy, you must not let your heart run away with your common sense; we cannot stop in Chicago."

Edward was thoughtful for a minute, and then said: "I will stop anyway, Ben—I have made up my mind to.

"Well, if you have, I will also stop; but Edward, look out, it is dangerous to get acquainted too quick with a girl, especially a Chicago girl," he added.

This last remark made Edward angry, and he was tempted to take offense, but he knew that his friend had no intention but to give him good advice, and then they were to stop in Chicago—that was what he wanted.

When they arrived at the great metropolis of the West, Edward offered to see Miss King to her home, while the Russian was to wait at the station until his return.

When Edward came back, his friend asked him: "Did she cry when you left her?"

"Ben, I don't like to hear you speak this way about her. No; I won't permit any joking about it."

"All right, Ed, but what do you know about her?"

"I know that she is a good girl, and that she is not making sport of me."

"How do you know it?"

"She told me so."

"Oh! la! la! la! She told you so, eh? Don't you know that women can say anything?"

"Never mind, Ben, you are not my keeper. This is a personal matter."

Edward knew that his friend was an enemy of womankind, and therefore he saw fit to close the discussion as soon as possible.

They left their baggage in the check-room and went to a cheap hotel where they had lunch, and afterward the Russian asked Edward about the program for the afternoon.

"My program is already made," said Edward. "I shall call on Miss King." They walked together in the direction of her home, where they parted, after having agreed to meet later at the hotel.

When Edward rang the doorbell his heart was beating so hard that he could bear it, and when the colored servant came to take his card, he felt as if walking in a dream. The servant led him into a beautiful boudoir, where he sat waiting for Miss King, ho soon came in.

"I am so happy you came," she said as she entered.

Edward murmured something about being very happy himself, as he held her hand in his. Everything in the room was exceedingly rich and artistic. In one corner a Venus de Milo seemed to be smiling at him, while from another corner a Cupid was apparently ready to shoot at him. It was more luxury than Edward had ever thought of, and the whole thing was like a dream.

"Where are her father and mother?" he asked himself, and she seemed to guess his thoughts, and said: "I am Chez-moi, not Chez-nous; my family lives in Montreal, and I must tell you I am an actress."

"An actress!" he repeated, stupefied.

"Yes, an actress, and my name is not Nellie King; but I will tell you all about this later."

"How can you be an actress and live like this?" asked Edward, in his simplicity, looking around.

"Oh—I make lots of money—I have been successful," and then she told him her life.

Stage-struck, she had left her home three years before, and her parents knew not where she went. Her voice bad won great success for her from the beginning, but when the excitement of the first success had passed, she found herself lonesome, unhappy, craving for some one to love, some one who would care for her, and not for her success. She spoke of the men who sent her baskets of flowers and begged to be her slave; these men she despised, she said, "because they care for me only on account of my success—let my voice fail and they will stop sending flowers. It flatters them to be seen with me, because I am a success; but when I have grown old, and my voice will be gone, what will they care for me then?" and tears came to her eyes when she said these last words.

"Why don't you go back to your home in Canada?" asked Edward, feelingly.

"My mother has died since I left, and how I have cried! I have felt that I was the cause of her death, and I know that my father would never forgive me."

"Poor Nellie," Edward said, holding her hand, tempted to kiss it.

"Oh! Edward, motherless, and without any real true friends, don't you pity me? The only time I am happy is when I look back to the days of my childhood; then I smile as one must when dreaming a happy dream in the quiet of the night."

During all this time Edward had listened with tears in his eyes. His sympathetic nature had thrown open the doors of his heart and soul; he was enraptured, and it was all he could do not to fall at her feet and tell her of his love. He wanted to live his life with hers; he felt drawn toward that strange nature, and loved her intensely, as he sat there holding and pressing her hand. There seemed to be an established current of a mysterious magnetic fluid that drew his whole life to her.

"Have you ever loved any one, Edward?" she asked him, looking him in the eyes.

For an instant the name of Marie Louise fluttered in his mind, and then he said: "I don't believe I have until now."

She did not appear to take any notice of his last words, but a satisfied look came over her face. She changed the subject and asked him if he was going to St. Paul on the morrow.

"I will have to—my friend will not want to wait any longer."

"Let him go alone," she suggested.

"But what will I do here?"

"What will you do in St. Paul?"

"Well, I do not know—but we will likely go into some kind of business, my friend and I, and then I can come back and see you."

She looked at Edward for an instant, and a queer light came in her eyes, as she said: "You will not go; you can do just as well here as in St. Paul. As to your friend, let him go; or, if he will remain here, I will help him to find something to do."

Not go! It was a new turn of things, and Edward did not know what to say.

"Tell me that you are willing to remain in Chicago, Edward, and I will arrange the rest with your friend," pleaded Nellie.

"All right," said Edward, "if only you can induce him to stay, I will be glad."

It was decided that they should both walk to the hotel where Ben was waiting, and talk the matter over. Nellie went into the next room, and coming back in her street costume, they started at once to meet the Russian.

Edward was dubious. He feared that his friend would think him crazy, and he felt keenly the injustice of compelling him to remain in Chicago on his account, but love was in his heart, and he would have done anything rather than displease Nellie; in fact, he was no longer his own master—she held full sway over his mind.

When they arrived at the hotel, the Russian was much surprised to see Edward with a lady, and he was really embarrassed when Edward presented him to Miss King. Nellie sat in front of the Russian, and after a few moments of conventional talk the main subject was touched. At first the Russian could hardly grasp the idea. Why should they stop in Chicago, when they had taken their tickets for St. Paul?

"You can sell your tickets at a broker's office, at a small loss," said Nellie, "and the chances of finding employment are just as good here as in St. Paul, in fact, better, because I can help you here."

"You can help us? How?" asked the Russian.

"If you tell me what you expected to do in St. Paul, I will answer your question," said Nellie, while Edward followed the debate between the two without saying a word.

"Well, so far as I am concerned I am willing to do anything honorable and earn good wages," said Benjamin.

"All right; remain here, and I will see that you get an offer of a position before to-morrow night. Will you stay?" and she looked him straight in the eyes, until the Russian said "Yes."

Edward walked back to Nellie's home leaving his friend wondering what in the world was to happen next. In the evening when Edward came back he hardly dared to look his friend in the face. He felt guilty in compelling Ben to stay in Chicago, and felt that if misfortune was to result, he would be responsible; but to his surprise his friend seemed perfectly pleased and said that if things did not go well in Chicago it would always be time to go further West.

The next day when the two friends were coming out of the dining room, a letter was handed to them addressed:

"Benjamin Oresky, Esq., 1620 Twenty-third Street, City."

Benjamin tore the envelope open and read:

"I am in need of a secretary, and I would like a young man who could do my work and study medicine. If you are willing to accept such a position, and feel inclined to the study of medicine; call at my office at eleven o'clock A. M to-day. Yours, Dr. P. J. McNaughton, Professor Chemistry. No. — — Street."

"What is it?" asked Edward when he saw Benjamin turn pale.

"My God, Edward, just what I have always been wishing for! A chance to study medicine is offered me. That Miss King must be an angel."

At the proper time the Russian called on the author of the letter, and was told what would be expected of him. The doctor was a professor in a medical college, and he wanted some one to attend to his correspondence, help prepare his lectures, etc., and would pay for the course of lectures to be attended by his secretary as well as pay him a sum of money every month.

Everything was satisfactory, and all the arrangements were made. During their talk the doctor stated that his friend, Miss King, had strongly recommended him, and for that reason he was given the preference over many other applicants.

That day, when the two friends met the Russian was happier than Edward had ever seen him. To study medicine had always been his greatest ambition, and all at once his wish was to be gratified.

"We will go to the theater to-night," suggested Edward, who produced two complimentary admission cards.

"All right, old boy, I'll go anywhere you say," said Ben, in better spirits than Edward had ever seen him before.

At the theater they were led by the usher to a sumptuous box, where they could enjoy a full view of the whole audience, as well as of the stage. As they sat watching gorgeously dressed women pass by, accompanied by men in full dress, they felt somewhat out of place, and it would not have been necessary to be a close observer to see that it was their first taste of high life.

The play was a modern one, in which the tragic and the comic sides of life are brought out, and from the first, the two friends were entirely taken up with the action on the stage, forgetful of everything else. Now they laughed so loud that the people around them were surprised at them; then during some sad scene, they both wiped tears from their eyes, to the extreme amusement of many.

All at once the music from the orchestra became soft and sweet, as if brought from far away, then, a woman whom Edward recognized at once, appeared on the stage, and the whole audience seemed to go wild. Nellie King, the star of the play, and the wonderful singer, was used to such ovation, and after smiling and gracefully bowing to the audience, she sang a love-ballad. Her voice, sweet as melody itself, carried to the audience the loving words of the song, each word pure and distinct. At times her voice was low and plaintive as if pleading, emanating sadness to the listeners, then it rose until its volume filled the whole building; it was violently passionate for an instant, and then again the words came with so much sadness that they seemed to come from the shadow of death. It spoke of unsatisfied love and despair, and the singer's voice was so true and fascinating, that when the last words had been sung, many in the audience were surprised to feel tears upon their face.

Edward was so affected that he could not speak, while the Russian was saying, "Jerusalem! What a voice!"

The whole audience seemed mad, and flowers were thrown upon the stage, hats in the air, and they were calling for Nellie's reappearance.

When she came again, her face was pale, and her eyes wandered until they seemed to rest for an instant upon the box where Edward was sitting; then as a smile passed over her face, she sang in French one of Albani's favorite songs. It is the song of an exile. It is full of pathos, and tells of the longings of the exile for his far-away home. Once Edward bad heard the same song in Canada, sung by Albani herself, but he had failed to be fully impressed by these lines:

"Rendez-moi ma patrie

Ou laissez-moi mourrir.

Rendez-moi mon pays,

Ou laissez-moi mourrir."

After the play Edward was in such a state of mind that his friend was actually unable to get a sensible answer from him, and, arrived at their room, he wanted the Russian to stay up and speak of the woman whom he now fairly adored; but Ben, while full of enthusiasm and admiration for the same woman, was doing some hard thinking, and he could not bring himself to believe that such a talented person could be so taken up with Edward, to be in real earnest in her actions toward him. When Edward gave him a chance to speak, he said: "Edward, my boy, you have that woman on the brain, and I am fearful of the results. In you she has found a source of diversion, and her actions now, I am afraid, are the result of a fancy which might pass away at any moment, and I advise you strongly not to let your enthusiasm run away with your heart and common sense."

"What? Do you mean to say that you believe that Nellie is not sincere?" asked Edward, turning pale.

"I do not say that; but, Edward, she may be misleading herself. She is impulsive by nature, and you came in her life at the proper moment to allow her erratic imagination to create a romance with you as the hero; but you know that there is something else in life besides romances and illusions."

"True," answered Edward; "but this illusion, if illusion it is, is worth the reality to me, and every hour that it will last is worth a year of the life I have lived heretofore."

When they retired later, Edward could not sleep. He was in that nervous state that increases the activity of the mind too much. As his excitement about Nellie began to subside, a faint picture of his first sweetheart came to his mind. First, it was only like a passing glimpse; but it persisted in coming back, and after a while Edward's mind was impressed with a vivid image of Marie Louise. Every detail was perfect. Her large blue eyes, so true and so innocent, were full of a reproachful expression which brought sorrow to his soul, and then the sad face would vanish and make place for Nellie's picture, whose large brown eyes never failed to set his brain on fire. His sleep was only a continuation of these emotions, and in the morning he was tired and nervous.

After breakfast the Russian went to Dr. McNaughton's office, to make final arrangements about his position, while Edward sat in their room, trying to fathom the mysteries of the future. Getting tired of this inactivity, and knowing not what to do until the afternoon, when he was to call on Nellie, he decided to take a stroll and see something of the great western metropolis, that immense agglomeration of all nationalities, where men of all colors can be seen, but where every one seems to be in a hurry. People in Chicago seem to be always on the run; they rush along, knocking each other, sometimes they get jammed, and then they swear, but push their way, and on again they rush. The millionaire and the gamin who blackens shoes rub elbows. The fakir who is always on the lookout for a victim, and stock brokers go through the crowd side by side; the African, the Chinese, the Jap—in fact, representatives of almost every nation under the sun are seen in the great flood of humanity.

Edward drifted aimlessly with the moving mass. No one paid the slightest attention to him, and he felt lost in that human sea. He was overcome by a sense of smallness which he had never felt before. The atmosphere was loaded with a dense fog, and his clothes were soon saturated with a moisture that made him feel heavy. Once he got caught in a jam, and when he succeeded in extricating himself, he was considerably bruised and scared, besides having lost his bearings: in fact, he had to ask a policeman to direct him which way to go to find his hotel, where, disgusted, he decided to go, feeling that he could never find any pleasure in living in Chicago.

Arriving at the hotel he was handed two notes. One, from his friend Ben, telling him that he was at work, and would not come to the hotel for lunch; the other was from Nellie, asking him to come and have lunch with her. This invitation was to him like a ray of sunshine through a clouded sky. He went to his room and carefully made his toilet, his linen being all soiled from his morning's excursion.

When he met Nellie at her home she was radiant and made him feel at once that he was most welcome. The minute he looked into her eyes he felt the same charm overcome his whole system, and all at once life again was nothing but happiness.

She spoke of the play and asked him if he had enjoyed the French song, "Rendez-moi ma patrie," and Edward told her that never in his life had he enjoyed anything so much. Their lunch was a dainty one, served by a colored maid, and after drinking a small glass of fine wine, Edward felt the most happy sensations tingling through his whole nervous system. All the poetry of which his nature was capable came to the surface, and he was surprised himself at the way he could speak to Nellie. He spoke of his dreams when he left home, and she told him that she would help him to realize them, and he believed every word she said. The whole afternoon was spent in the most delightful tête-à-tête, and when darkness came, Edward was surprised that it was so late. Upon leaving her it was agreed that on the morrow they were to take up the question of his future life in Chicago.

After holding her hand in a caressing way, he bade her good-by, and the next instant he knew that the charm had left him. He was seized with a chill, caused by the Michigan Lake breeze, and the delightful intoxication of a moment ago gave way to the feeling of morose unhappiness. He felt a great shame come over his soul when he remembered that he had sworn to Nellie that never in his life had he loved any one but her; again Marie Louise's image came to him, and he walked to his hotel, carrying a great load of unhappiness and misery. At the hotel Benjamin was waiting for him, waiting with a satisfied smile upon his face, the very picture of contentment.

"Well, Ed, everything is fixed. My work is not much, and I am given a free course in medicine. I attended the first lecture to-day, and I can't tell how glad I am, my boy! How about you?" he asked.

"Oh! I don't know yet—I may not remain in Chicago, Ben," answered

Edward, trying not to appear too discouraged.

"Why? Can't she help you to get some employment, Ed?"

"Will see to-morrow," answered Edward, going to his room, where he threw himself upon the bed, and felt much like sobbing. His head upon his hands, he remained in that position for a long while, thinking over the situation. He did not have the fascinating presence of that wonderful woman, Nellie, to brace him up, and the future seemed very dark indeed. Suppose she could not find him a position? What would he do? His money was nearly all gone. He would not allow her to support him. His manhood revolted at that thought.

If she did find him employment, he hated Chicago; he could certainly not be satisfied in that city. His friend, the Russian, had a position, but his salary was so small, that he knew he could not depend on him for much help. He knew now that the happiness he so keenly enjoyed when in the presence of Nellie was only momentary, and always gave place to excessive depression afterward. His exalted idea of honor compelled him to realize that his conduct was dishonorable toward Marie Louise, to whom he had promised to remain faithful. And what would his good and religious mother say if she knew that he was in love with an actress? These thoughts were not conducive to happiness or peace of mind, and Edward did not know what to do.

The next morning Ben went to the clerk of the hotel and settled their bill. Then he told Edward that he had found a good and cheap boarding-place, where they could both stop for less than one-half what they were paying at the hotel. This change pleased Edward and kept him busy part of the forenoon, because he had to see to the moving of their baggage to the boarding-house, Ben being obliged to go to his duties.

This new place was one of those many cheap boarding-houses patronized mostly by poor students and clerks, and as it was in a back street, it was comparatively quiet, a fact that Edward noticed with satisfaction. It was kept by an old, motherly Irishwoman, who seemed to take a special liking to Edward from the first, which was greatly increased when she learned that he was a Catholic. She asked him many questions, and finally wanted to know what was the nationality of his roommate.

"Russian," said Edward.

"Roosian? Faith, that's a Jew!"

"No, just a Russian," said Edward again, laughing.

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Benjamin Oresky."

"What's that?—say it again."

Edward repeated his friend's name, but the good Irish lady could not grasp it, and she said: "Sure, that's a Jew, your friend is, and look out for him; he may be an exception, but people that killed Christ are not good people. It's me that do tell you this, and kape it to yourself."

At noon when Ben came, Edward told him of his conversation with their landlady, and they both bad much fun about it; and all during their lunch they could not help but smile at the way she looked at Ben.

After lunch Ben went back to his work, and later Edward was on his way to Nellie's place. This time he was firmly decided to speak business and find out if Nellie could help him get a situation at once. "I can't live on love," he said to himself, as he stood at her door.

When Nellie came in the boudoir where Edward was waiting, she noticed the change in his face. He was pale, and the dark rings around his eyes told of sleepless nights. She greeted him with more cordiality than ever, if possible, and Edward felt her charm creep upon him like the sensation which follows drinking old wine.

"Poor boy," she said, holding his right hand in hers, "I am afraid you don't feel well, or that you have been worrying," and she looked him straight in the eyes.

A smile of beatitude spread over Edward's face under the influence of her gaze, and he answered: "To tell the truth, Nellie, I have been a little anxious about my future, but I guess it will be all right."

"Of course it will be all right," she said, and inviting him to be seated, she asked him if he would not like to become an actor.

"An actor?" he repeated, "I be an actor? I never thought of it, and then, how could I become an actor in the States when I can hardly speak English correctly?"

"That part of it is all right, Ed. I have a friend, who is now writing a new play, and there will be a Frenchman in it, and you would be just the man to take that role."

"Well, but I have never done any acting; in fact, I know absolutely nothing about it," he said.

"There is a beginning to everything. Your voice is good. You are tall and handsome,'' she added smilingly.

"Oh, bosh! Nellie, you are making fun of me. I know I was not born to be an actor, and never will be one."

"Won't you try for my sake?" she asked him pleadingly.

"For your sake, Nellie, I would do anything, but please don't ask me to make a fool of myself."

"No, no, nothing of the kind, Edward. You can take lessons in elocution, and later try the role I spoke about."

"Take lessons in elocution? Dear, it takes money and time to do these things, and while I have the time I lack the other.

"I will loan you the money, Edward, and later, when you make lots of it, you will pay it back to me. Can I tell my friend, the author, that I have his man for the role of the Frenchman?"

"I don't know, Nellie; I must have time to think it over," answered Edward, who was too surprised to grasp the full meaning of this proposition.

"All right, you will let me know to-morrow, won't you, Ed? and please take my advice and accept this chance to become an actor. I feel that you would succeed on the stage—truly, I do, Ed."

After talking over this new scheme, Edward left Nellie, and went to his boardinghouse, where he wanted to consult with his friend Ben.

The Russian saw no reason why Edward should not follow Nellie's advice, and he strongly encouraged him to do so; but to Edward, there were many points to consider. What would his parents say? What would Marie Louise think of him, if she learned that he wanted to become an actor? Had she not in her last letters begged of him to be good and true to his promises? He had not answered that part in which she also complained of the chilliness of his late letters. Another point that he felt keenly, was the eventual necessity to accept pecuniary help from Nellie; of course, he reasoned that it was to be paid back, but his sensitive nature made him realize that even then it would leave him under moral obligations to her, and his spirit of independence revolted strongly. But what was he to do?

"Try it on condition that if you don't like it, you'll go into something else," suggested the Russian, and Edward made up his mind to do so.

The next day, Nellie was delighted to learn from Ed ward that he had decided to follow her advice. She immediately gave him two hundred dollars, which he accepted after much hesitation. He wanted to give her his note, but she would not have it. They went to the writer of the new play, and Edward was introduced to him as the gentleman who was to fill the role of the Frenchman. The author seemed pleased with Edward's appearance, and predicted success for him.

The next thing was to find a professor of elocution. Nellie knew where to find one, so they went to him, and it was agreed that Edward was to take three lessons a week; and he felt much encouraged himself.

That night Edward wrote home that he had found employment, but failed to give any details, and it was with much difficulty that he succeeded in writing a few pages to Marie Louise and these were certainly disconnected, and lacked considerable of the old lover's style which he used in other days. In a postscript he pleaded nervousness as an excuse for the nature of the letter, and hoped that she would not mistrust him.

During the following day, he settled down to work with all his energy, with the result that he had very little time to worry. The more he studied the play in which he was to take part, and of which he had been given a copy, the more he liked it.

He called upon the author, with whom he at once became on friendly terms, and met many actors there, who seemed to be very nice people; gradually Edward became more and more one of them. Every day he spent some time with Nellie, who was most pleased with his success, and once more the world seemed to be right.

The company of which Nellie was the star was billed to in New York City about a week later, and when Nellie told him that she would be absent for four weeks, they felt that they would much miss each other, but agreed to write every day, and then four weeks would soon pass.

While Nellie was gone, Edward was induced to join an actor's club, and was given an opportunity to study the life of that class of society.

Edward spent much of his leisure time in the club rooms, where he could read many journals published in the interest of stage people. The membership of this club was composed of actors out of employment or playing in the city. Edward became acquainted with a great many of them and was surprised at the number of bright young men who were wasting their time, apparently waiting for a mere chances of some engagement.

Some of them were young in years, beardless yet, but they looked old, and were "old-youngs," showing upon their faces the ravages of fast life. The walls of the club rooms were covered with lithographs of modern actors, among which Edward noticed Nellie's. Among the members of the club he felt a special liking for an old man, who; in turn, seemed to take much interest in him. This old actor, past sixty, had been at one time a very famous man; in fact, had enjoyed a national reputation-but unfortunate speculations and old age had reduced him to poverty, and he was living on a pension paid him by some benevolent actors' society.

He offered to help Edward in his work, and was so kind to him that Edward made a confidant of him. When the old man heard Edward's story, tears came to his eyes and he said: "Poor boy—my life was started like yours—and I pray you to abandon the idea of going on the stage. The life of an actor is the most miserable any one can live—of course, there are exceptions; men who are born actors, and find success at each step—but they are not many, and even among them you will often find unfortunate beings whose life is a drudgery. You are young, you left good parents who expect much of you; you have a sweetheart in your little native village, whose love is of the truest kind. Hers is not the result of a passing fancy and you don't want to break her heart, do you?"

"No," said Edward, greatly affected by the old man's talk.

"And," continued the old actor, "suppose you should meet with some success on the stage. That does not mean that you will make money, no, the salary that you will command for the next ten years, granting that you will be successful, will not be more than enough to pay your expenses; and remember, my boy, once an actor, you will never be good for anything else; unless you are an exceptional man. Of course, you are starting under good auspices. Miss King is a great singer, and somewhat of an actress, but she does not know how soon her voice will fail her. She is of an erratic nature and possesses a golden heart, but she is a mere slave to her emotions, and the proof is the way she became interested in you, my boy. I do not want to be harsh on her—no—she has befriended me more than once; but, Edward, she has a right to cause her own misfortune, not yours. It was through an accident of this kind that the doors of the stage were opened to me. I was young then, young as you are. I loved a woman, and she said she loved me. I left everything to follow her on the stage, and the only sunshine of my life was during the first few years of our married life. But what is a couple of years of happiness when a whole life of misfortune is to follow? I will not tell you what happened," said the old man, feelingly, "but she tired of me. Her emotional soul made her heart beat for another, and we parted! She died a miserable death—craving my pardon, which I gave her, because she was not to blame. It was her nature, and her vocation was conducive to such things: I have never told this story to another, and to-night, when I tell you, it is because I want to save you-for your sake, for your parents' sake—for your sweetheart's sake!"

Edward was stunned. He could not speak; he simply stared at the speaker, who wiped his eyes.

After a moment of silence he said, "My God, what will I do?"

"Young man, what would you have done had you not met that woman?"

"I would have gone West," he answered.

"Well—go West now. Go, before she comes back and has you under her influence. Go, and you will feel all the better in time."

"But it would be dishonorable to go in this way, with her money," said Edward.

"Ah! would it not be much more dishonorable to use her money to bring unhappiness to her and to yourself? And you can repay that money later—in fact, you will repay her much sooner if you go away than if you stay and go on the stage."

In his heart Edward felt that his adviser was right, and he thought he could bear the voice of Marie Louise saying, "He is right."

"I'll follow your advice," said Edward, shaking the old man's hand tenderly.

"God bless you, my boy! I feel that I have done a good act in my late days of life, and I know that you will thank the day you met me when later you think of this. Where will you go?"

"I don't know," answered Edward; trying to smile.

"I have a friend out in Montana who owns a big ranch. He is an old classmate of mine and I often go and spend the summer months with him. I will write a letter which you will take to him. He will give you something to do; it may not be very fine work, but I will guarantee that it will be healthy and conducive to happiness. Do you like horses?"

"Do I?" spoke up Edward, brightening considerably; "I should say I do."

"Good! Meet me here to-night at eight o'clock," and the old man walked out.

Edward lingered at the club for a short time, then went to his boarding-house, where he found his friend Ben waiting for him.

"Ben, I am going to leave the city," he said, after sitting down.

"Going to New York, I suppose," answered the Russian, smiling, and thinking that Edward had decided to follow Nellie.

"No, sir, I am going West. I have decided to quit the idea of going on the stage."

"What! Going West? What's the matter; Ed, are you crazy?"

"No, I don't think I am crazy, but I may have been," and then he explained the whole thing to his astonished friend, who finally agreed with him, but was sorry to part with Edward, and told him so.

"Never mind, old boy, we will meet again, when we have settled in life," said Edward, beginning to arrange his trunk for his early departure.

After supper he and the Russian walked to the Actors' Club, where the old man was waiting, with a letter addressed to

Mr. Frank Goodnow,

Grass Village,

Montana.

The three sat and talked until late. The Russian took a great fancy to the old actor, who in turn was favorably impressed by Ben. This meeting was the beginning of their friendship, and they visited each other, finding much pleasure in their relations.

It was decided that Edward would leave the next morning, and the old actor agreed to be at the station to bid him good-by.

When they returned to their room, Ben went to bed, but Edward sat down writing letters until late in the night. Among these letters, one was difficult to write satisfactorily, and he wrote many before he was satisfied with the one he was to send to Nellie. He bad decided not to let her know his whereabouts; this, at the suggestion of his friend, the old actor. The letter he decided to mail to Nellie, read as follows:

"DEAR AND KIND FRIEND NELLIE: After much thinking, I have come to the conclusion that I was not born to be an actor, and furthermore, that it would not be right for you and me to carry on our little romance. Life is not a dream, and while I have greatly enjoyed our little trip in dreamland, I foresee the day when we would both have to face life in its reality, and I feel that bright as life has been with you thus far, the day is not far distant when we both would see the clouds of unhappiness accumulate over our heads—and I know it is better to part in sunshine than in the shadow of unhappiness. I cannot find words to express how grateful I feel toward you for your extreme kindness to me. I leave it to your kind heart to imagine the greatness of my gratitude, and the immensity of the sacrifice I now make. The moments spent in your presence were the happiest of my life, and my soul never knew how much a human being could enjoy the happy dreams of life until I came under your influence. I will always remember you as the brightest star in the firmament of my life, and I will pray that you may never know the bitterness of misfortune. With a last loving kiss, good-by, and forgive me! My friend, Ben Oresky, will some day pay you back the loans you made me. "Yours, with best wishes for your future happiness, EDWARD."

He could not help but shed tears as he sealed this letter, but at the same time he felt satisfied. He felt like a man after accomplishing a hard duty; but it was done and he was almost proud of the fact.

The next morning, at the station where Ben accompanied him, they met the old actor who, true to his word, was there to bid him good-by.

Once more Edward was carried to an unknown country, but this time he felt easy. He was strong with the feeling of having sacrificed much for the sake of his duty, and already there seemed to be much more room in his heart for Marie Louise, of whom he could not think without blushing. After a day and a half of fast traveling he arrived at Grass Village where he was met by Mr. Goodnow, to whom he had written. This gentleman was a real western type, and Edward was pleased with the cordial manner in which he was received. After being taken to the house, Edward gave Mr. Goodnow his letter of recommendation from his old friend, and went upstairs to a room to wash himself. When he came down, he met the whole family, and felt at home from the first.

While Edward was getting acquainted with his new duties, his letter to Nellie had reached her, and as she read it, she felt hot tears come to her eyes, and for an instant her heart felt as if pierced by an arrow. She had never realized until then how much she really loved that young man. As she eat holding his letter in her hands, she saw her dream of anticipated happiness crumbled to pieces, and such a despair as had never before entered her soul came to her. "My God! My God!" she said, and then closed her eyes.

The heart of a woman is a strange thing, and Nellie's heart was one of the strangest. Having never before known what love was, she had all at once felt her whole being infected by a mighty passion, a passion such as no human being can feel twice, and now the object of her love had vanished. He was gone without even saying where. Her sorrow was almost as great as her love, and from this time Nellie King was a different woman. She broke her engagement in New York and came back to Chicago, where she tried in vain to learn where Edward had gone. The Russian had promised Edward not to reveal where he was, and he was true to his promise, hard as it was to refuse Nellie, to whom he owed his situation.

For twelve months Edward had lived on Mr. Goodnow's ranch, and his reputation as the best and most fearless rider on the ranch, as well as the most graceful, was a recognized fact, and that was enough to make him popular. His little mare, a perfect type of that class of horses, called "bronchos;" was the prettiest and swiftest on the ranch, and he had named her "Nellie," and indeed, any woman would have been proud to give her name to such a beauty. There were twelve cowboys on Goodnow's ranch, and every week, one of them had a day off, which was spent at his own discretion.

Cowboys as a class are a queer lot of men. They are fearless and brave to excess, and being isolated from society so much, they are often eccentric; but their eccentricity has its charms.

The fraternal feeling which exists among these men is of the genuine kind, and they are exceedingly generous in helping each other in case of misfortune. They practice all sorts of manly sports, and the feats they can accomplish on horseback are wonderful. It is an easy matter for some of them to lean on one side of their saddle while going at a great rate of speed, and pick up a small object on the ground. They are skillful shots in many ways, and one way that never fails to impress the "tenderfoot," is the shooting of a clay pipe at a distance of twenty-five feet, while held in the mouth of one of them, who apparently does not see much excitement in the act. It is great fun for them to "break in" a "tenderfoot," by which name they call any aspirant to the vocation of cowboy.

The meanest bucking bronco is brought to him to ride and behold! if the poor candidate cannot hold on to the saddle while the kicking brute is playing circus, the cowboys add to the excitement by their yells, often throwing small stones at the bucking cayuse.

Edward went through all their initiatory proceedings, and came out with the respect of the lookers-on; his popularity counted from that time.

Since his departure from Chicago, Edward had received many letters from his Russian friend, but very little had been said about Nellie. He was now a different man, not only in his general appearance, which was much improved by the open air life, but also morally. He had sent two hundred dollars to Ben, who paid it over to Nellie, and while he still felt more than a kindly feeling toward her, it was nothing like the old passion. On their "day off" cowboys usually go to some saloon, where they drink and play cards, and generally have as exciting a time as they can to make up for the monotony of their life in the field; but Edward preferred spending these days at the home of his employer, whose daughter Grace showed much partiality for the French lad, or French Ed, as he was now called by every one on the ranch.

Mr. Goodnow's only daughter Grace was a splendid young lady of eighteen, and quite a musician. She was very small and her face was too baby-like to be called real pretty, but her large blue eyes were soft and full of melancholy. She was a very interesting talker, and her horsemanship could not be excelled. She never failed to cause a smile of satisfaction on her father's face whenever she mounted Topsy, her spirited little thoroughbred black mare.

Grace always looked ahead to the time when French Ed was to come into town, because she took much pleasure in his company. It was great fun for her to ride his mare Nell, while he rode Topsy. Together, they would take long rides, sometimes taking their lunch with them, and stopping by some little running brook, where in the shade of some tree they would eat and enjoy life.

Grace was very much interested in everything that pertained to Edward's life. She too questioned him about his past, his schooldays, his folks, and one day she gave him one of her pictures to send to his sister. She never seemed to tire of hearing him talk, and he always found much pleasure in talking to her.

She admired him with that admiration that often leads to love, while he liked her with that feeling that is more than friendship and still cannot be called love. At times, Edward thought that he would like to take her little baby face in his hands and kiss her on the lips; but he knew what the result would be, and he contented himself in imagining how good it would be. Once, while Edward was singing a new song with Grace at the piano, he bent to see the notes, until his face rubbed against hers, and then he felt a strange dizziness come to his brain, and was raising his arms to put them around her neck, when she suddenly stood up and looked him straight in the eyes, and said, "Ed—"

Had she slapped him with her little hand he would not have felt nearly so bad as he did facing those large blue eyes, so reproachful and sad.

"Play 'El Diavolo,'" he asked her trying to hide his embarrassment, and she did.

Early the next morning Edward was on his way to his work. He had a distance of about twelve miles to ride, and the morning was so perfect that life seemed a blessing on such a day. It was one of those mornings that fill the soul with exhilaration, and makes you think of the greatness of the Creator of this wonderful world. The little wild flowers along the road were covered with dewdrops, which glistened under the first sun rays like millions of diamonds. The air was full of that sweet fragrance found nowhere but on the vast Western prairies, and Edward was thinking how good life was. He was nearing the place where thousands of steers were grazing, and was humming the air of a French song, when all at once he heard a rumbling noise. It was distant and much like the noise one hears when approaching the sea. Edward placed his hand to his ear and stopped the mare, in order to make out what was the meaning of that noise. Raising himself on his stirrups, he looked in the direction where the rumbling sound came from and saw a dark spot which kept growing as the noise increased, until a moment later the ground was actually trembling, while a big cloud of dust indicated the coming herd of crazed steers. It was a stampede—and while Edward had never seen one before, he knew its dangers. His little mare was now rearing and snorting with great evidence of fright, and Edward hardly knew what to do. He knew that to try and stop the maddened steers was an utter impossibility, but felt that it was his duty to try and do something to prevent the terrible disaster which is always sure to follow a stampede, when thousands of valuable animals fall of exhaustion and are trampled to death by the others, or, as sometimes happens, they dash themselves to death from some high precipice, where the first ones to reach are pushed over by the oncoming, until thousands have been sent to destruction. Edward knew this and he also knew that the stampede was now heading toward a dangerous marsh where thousands would perish, unless something was done to prevent them from going in the direction they were then taking. It is a fact that the best way to stop a stampede is to get the animals circling round, and this is often done by the cowboys, who ride with the leaders of the stampede, and lash them on the head until they gradually keep turning; but it is one of the most dangerous actions that a cowboy can be called to do. A stumble of the horse and both rider and horse are sure to be trampled upon by the frenzied herd, and of course, that means destruction.

Edward could soon distinguish some of the other cowboys, riding furiously by the side of the running herd, but apparently unable to reach the leaders, and in a moment he made up his mind to do it himself, and immediately starting his mare at a rather slow canter, he let the stampede come nearer and nearer until he could hear their hard breathing; then, taking his long lasso in his right band, he half turned himself on his saddle, and while at a very rapid gait, he kept striking the furious beasts in the face, until they began to alter their course, and turn to the right, which was exactly what he wanted. By this time the other cowboys had joined him, and the great moving mass was now beginning to circle around; but just then Edward's mare missed her footing and fell forward, turning a complete somersault and breaking Edward's right arm above the elbow. It was almost miraculous that he never let go of the reins, which he held with his left hand, but was again on the saddle as soon as his mare was on her feet, his right arm banging limp by his side, and causing the most excruciating pain as it moved with every motion of the mare. His face was also badly bruised, blood flowed freely from his mouth and nose, and when some of the cowboys came to his rescue he was riding on his saddle like a drunken man. They made a sling with a piece of lasso, and after bathing his face in the water of a near-by spring, they decided that two of them would go back to the village with Edward, while the rest would remain and watch the still excited herd. They started very slowly, knowing that the motion caused by cantering or galloping would make Edward's arm pain him much more; but Edward, after inquiring if his mare was badly hurt, and being told that except for some blood running from her nose, she seemed to be all right, they were surprised to hear him say: "Boys, let's go a little faster or we will never reach home."

The ends of the fractured bone could be heard grinding against each other at the galloping motion; but had it not been for the cold sweat that covered his pale face, no one would have known that Edward was suffering intense pain, except for the gritting of his teeth now and then.

At last they reached Mr. Goodnow's, and when Edward was helped into the house, he was so exhausted that he could not speak. The two other cowboys told Mr. Goodnow of the occurrence and of the heroic action by which Edward had saved many thousands of dollars.

"To hell with the steers!" said the rancher. "I would rather have lost the whole damned lot of critters than see this boy crippled and suffering like this."

When the doctor came, he said that Edward had sustained a compound fracture of the humerus and that it would take many weeks, in fact, two or three months before he would be able to use the arm. He also suggested giving chloroform, to reduce the fracture and set the arm, but Edward smiled faintly and said, "I guess I can stand a little more, doctor; go on with the job." After the arm was set, the doctor mentioned that it might be better if his patient was taken to the hospital, where he could see him every day.

"No, sir—we'll take care of him here, Doc; and don't spare the

expense. Come every day, and I'll stand the bill myself," said

Goodnow, and Edward noticed an expression of satisfaction upon

Grace's face.

She washed his face carefully, and tenderly, and from this time she was his nurse, and a more faithful nurse never lived.

When the doctor came the next day, he found that Ed ward had not slept all night, and that while his arm was not very painful, his head was a source of great suffering. After taking his temperature, the doctor anxiously examined his head and ordered ice-packs to be continually kept on it, and taking Mr. Goodnow aside, the doctor informed him that Edward was suffering from cerebral fever, and that he would likely become delirious very soon.

Late in the afternoon, while Grace was placing fresh ice upon his head, he suddenly raised himself in bed, and grasping her hand he began to talk excitedly; but as he spoke in French, she could not understand him. Still, from the strange look in his eyes, she knew that Ed ward was delirious, and she called her father in.

"Lie down, Ed, lie down, like a good fellow," said Mr. Goodnow.

Edward stared at him an instant, and then fell heavily back in bed, still speaking French. After a while, he sat up again, and this time excitedly began to talk in English, asking, "Where is Nellie?"

"She is in the stable; lie down, Ed, lie down, my boy; Nellie is all right," said Mr. Goodnow, carefully pushing him back.

"I want to talk to her—bring her in here-I want her to sing for me—please bring her in here!"

"Poor fellow, he is completely out of his head—he wants to hear his mare sing," said Goodnow, who could not help but smile at the idea of Edward's mare singing.

Then Grace came in, and when Edward saw her, he seemed pleased, and trying to raise himself, he said: "Please, Nellie, sing me that old song—I mean that French song, you know?"

Grace looked at him, and tears came to her eyes when she noticed that tender and pleading expression on his face, and she hurried out of the room.

"She is mad at me, or she would not refuse to sing for me—oh, just once—let me hear 'Rendez moi ma patrie'."

From this time Edward was delirious and failed to know any one around him, and the doctor's prognosis was not very encouraging as to his ultimate mental recovery.

A great part of the time the poor fellow spoke French. It was much as if the cruel winds of adversity had blown back the pages of his life already lived, and he was apparently living them over again.

He spoke of his mother, Marie Louise, Benjamin, Nellie, but seldom mentioned the name of Grace. During many weeks he remained delirious. His arm had got well enough to permit him to move it without pain, but the light of intelligence seemed to have left him forever. His face was emaciated, and his eyes had lost their old-time brightness. A strange phenomenon was gradually changing the color of his hair from brown to white, especially on one side, where he had struck the ground when his mare stumbled, and his appearance was that of a man at least ten years older than he was. During all this time many letters bad been received at his address, but when handed to him, he never displayed the least interest, or tried to read them.

One day, Mr. Goodnow came back to the house with his friend, the old actor, who had taken so much interest in Edward, and it was really pitiful to witness the sorrowful expression on the actor's face as he held the hand of Edward, who failed to show any sign of recognition. When later, his old friend Ben came, it was the same thing, and the Russian cried like a child; but Edward showed no sign of any emotion, and his case was considered entirely hopeless.

He got well enough to roam around, but he never was allowed to go alone, and Grace was his most constant companion. She led him to the most beautiful places on the ranch, and once, while sitting in the shade near a flowing brook, where she read to him, she felt sure that he had given sign of returning intelligence when he had said, with a pleased smile, "Beautiful," but alas, it was only a flash, and his condition remained the same.

A few days later, during the quiet of the night, the horrible word "fire" was heard in the Goodnow's house, and the next instant the flames were coming through some of the windows. It seemed evident that everybody in the house was doomed to destruction, and when a great crash was heard, Goodnow leaped from a second-story window, where he expected his wife to follow; but the poor woman, thinking of the danger of her daughter, walked to the other part of the house, reaching the girl's room in time to see her escaping through the window. Then, already suffocating, she only had strength to reach the same window, but not enough to raise herself and leap over it, and the next instant the flames had enveloped her and she died a victim of her motherly love.

Grace, crazed by her anxiety for her parents, was running around and calling her mother and father, and when she found her father alone she knew that her mother was dead, because the part of the house where she slept was already nothing but a burning mass.

Until then, no one had thought of Edward, as it seemed useless to think of saving anybody who might still be in the burning house, and when Grace cried out: "Edward! Edward! where is he?" As his room was on the ground floor she went near his window, and smashing it, called him by name, and God knows it was not too soon, as the fire, which had apparently neglected that part of the house, seemed to come to it with renewed energy, and a moment later the whole house was wrapped by the cruel flames. When some of the neighbors, attracted by the glare, came to offer assistance they saw the most pitiful spectacle possible.

Grace was crying and running around calling for her mother, while Goodnow stood by, sobbing like a child. At a little distance from the house, sitting near a large tree, was Edward, looking strangely at the burning house, as if fascinated by the sight; and now and then clapping his hands, he would say, "Good play, is it not, Ben? But why don't she come back and sing again?"

A most horrible crash was heard, and Goodnow's home was no more. It was now nothing but a burning pile of cinders and it was with great difficulty that friends could induce Goodnow and his daughter to come away from the terrible scene, while Edward himself seemed to want to linger. At last they all went to the nearest neighbor, two miles from Goodnow's place. Later, they tried to find something of the remains of Mrs. Goodnow, but so well bad the fire done its work, that not a trace of the unfortunate woman could be found, nor anything of the old actor, who had failed to save himself from the fire.

Goodnow, with the energy which is characteristic of the western ranchman, decided to rebuild at once, and while doing it, he sent his daughter to Flatville, the nearest city, where one of his brothers was living, and Edward to St. Mary's Hospital in the same city.

Edward did not appear to realize that he was in a new place, and remained the same careless and helpless being, with the difference that he stayed in bed a great part of his time, while at Goodnow's home Grace used to make him take long strolls on the ranch. She was still his faithful friend, and every day she brought him flowers, and now and then she read to him as she used to.

After he had been in the hospital two or three weeks, a new sister came, and took charge of Edward, among her other patients. Her name was Sister Mary, and a sweeter face had never worn a hood. From the first time she came in Edward's room her voice seemed to have a peculiar effect upon him, and while she was near him his eyes always followed her, which fact was rather strange considering that he had, ever since his illness, paid no attention to any one. The doctor noticed this fact and jokingly told Sister Mary that she had come in time to save his patient.

One day, Sister Mary was surprised to hear her patient ask her to sing, and as she looked at him, he said: "Please, Nellie, sing that old song, won't you?"

Sister Mary turned pale and would have fallen to the floor, had the doctor not happened to be coming in.

"Please, Nellie—sing, only once, won't you?" Edward was imploringly repeating.

"Still wanting his old mare Nellie to sing for him," said the doctor, before he noticed Sister Mary; then seeing her reeling and ready to fall, he said:

"What's the matter, sister? Are you sick?" and held her up.

"Please help me out of this room, doctor," was all she said, and to the doctor's questions later, she answered that her name used to be Nellie, and that she used to sing, and she added. "I used to know him."

The doctor saw at once that there was a romance somewhere, and in his anxiety to experiment, he begged sister Mary to come back to the room of his patient and sing for him.

"It may be the key that will open his brain to let in the rays of intelligence," he pleaded, and at last Sister Mary consented to go back and sing.

"Edward, Nellie will sing for you," said the doctor to his patient, watching carefully the expression of his face.

"Good!" said Edward, clapping his poor bony hands together, and showing evidence of great satisfaction upon his face.

At the foot of the bed, facing the invalid, stood Sister Mary. Her face was pale and her lips were trembling, but by a supreme effort she sang:

"Rendez-moi ma patrie,

Ou laissez-moi mourrir,

Rendez moi mon pays

Ou laissez-moi mourrir."

At the first sound of the sweet voice, Edward sat up in bed, and watching eagerly the face of the singer, his eyes filled with tears. When the voice ceased he fell back saying, "My God! Nellie!"

"I have killed him," said Sister Mary.

"No, you have saved him!" answered the doctor, bending over his patient, whose face was covered with cold sweat, and every nerve twitching.

"Sing again," commanded the doctor, and once more the sweet and

tender voice of Sister Mary was heard, and Edward opened his eyes.

When the song was over, he looked strangely at the doctor, and said,

"Where am I? Where is Nellie?"

"You are all right," said the doctor; and Sister Mary walked out of the room, going to the little chapel of the hospital, where she prayed the most fervent prayer of her life. "My God. Give me the strength to keep away from him," she prayed, and her prayer must have been heard, because Edward never saw Sister Mary again.

From this time Edward's recovery was gradual and uninterrupted.

From the time he first lost his reason he remembered nothing. A month later he was in Chicago visiting his friend, the Russian, and from there he went to his home in Canada, where no one ever expected to see him again, except Marie Louise, his first love, who said that she always felt that he would come back.

"Tell me of your life," she asked him.

"It would do you no good," he said, and never told her; but he often asked her to sing, "Rendez-moi ma patrie."

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