roared the man. 'Well, if I had n't ditched my machine-! A puppy dog, indeed!'

Stanislaus was turned over to Miss Lyman for very severe chastisement. He shed bitter tears, and in the midst of them his instigator's name came out. 'G-gwey said he al'us barked at aut'mobiles dest barked an' barked at 'em - dest whenever he got weady,' he sobbed.

'If you ever do such a dreadful thing again, I shall give you the very worst whipping you ever had,' Miss Lyman scolded. 'Little blind boys have got to learn to be careful where they walk.' To which Stanislaus made the astonishing reply,

'Gwey says he dest walked anywhere he got weady when he was little 'fore he got his eyes open.'

That was the first hint that Miss Lyman got of it. Afterwards she and Miss Cynthia - Stanislaus's teachercaught constant glimpses of a curious idea that dodged in and out of the little boy's flow of talk. A queer, elusive, will-o'-the-wisp idea, caught one minute, gone the next, yet informing all the child's dreams and happy castles of the future.

It is probable that these two loved Stanislaus better than any one else loved him in all the world. Certainly if his father cared more for him he did not take the trouble to show it, having seemingly washed his hands of the little fellow after turning him over to the school. It was partly his delightful trick of individualizing people in general, and his friends in particular, that had so endeared him to these two. 'I al'us know when it's you,' he confided to Miss Lyman, as he played with her chatelaine, "'cause I hear vese tinkly fings coming way and away, 'fore you gits here.' While to Miss Cynthia he said, 'I al'us knows you by vat sweet smell.' And often he surprised them by such remarks as 'You don't like wainy days, do you, Miss Lyman? I heard you tell Miss Cyn-fee-ia' (he always had to break that difficult name into three syllables) 'vat wainy days de-de-depwessed you-' He got the big word out after a struggle. 'I fink,' he added, 'vat wainy days de-depwess me too.' Which last remark was simply an extra flourish of politeness on his part. Nothing ever really depressed him, and when he said, 'Miss Cyn-fee-ia says s'e likes to laugh; I fink I like to

'What do you suppose Stanny has got into his head?' Miss Lyman demanded of Miss Cynthia. 'When I told him that Kent Woodward had a little sister, he said, "Has s'e got her eyes open yet?",

'Yes,' agreed Miss Cynthia, 'and when I happened to say that Jimmie Nickle was the biggest blind boy in school, he said he must be awful stupid not to have got his eyes open yet.'

But afterwards they both by common consent avoided the subject. This was because each dreaded that the other might confirm a fear that was shaping itself in their minds.

truth. He did like to laugh, and he loved life and all it had to offer him. Each morning was a wonderful gift to him, and his days went by like a chain of golden beads strung together on a thread of delight.

It was because of his delight in life, and because they loved him, and could not bear that Fate should prick any of his rainbow bubbles, that both Miss Lyman and Miss Cynthia avoided the subject after they had once discovered what tragic little hope his mind was fostering.

Miss Julia, however, was different. Her sensibilities did not lead her into by-paths of pathos; therefore, when

she chanced upon Stanislaus's little secret, she joyfully proclaimed it.

'Well, if that little Stanislaus is n't the funniest child I ever did see!' she began one evening in the teacher's hall. 'Why if you'll believe me, he thinks that children are like kittens and puppies, and are all born blind, and after a while they get their eyes open just like cats and dogs. He thinks he is big enough now to have his eyes open 'most any day. Well, I did n't tell him any better, but I thought I should die laughing.'

Here Miss Lyman and Miss Cynthia rose with one accord, and left the teachers' hall. Upstairs in Miss Lyman's room they faced each other.

'You knew?' Miss Cynthia half questioned, half asserted.

'How can I help knowing!' Miss Lyman cried passionately. 'He's always telling me what he's going to do when "I'm big an' can see.' It is n't a foolish idea! It's a perfectly natural one. Some one has told him about puppies and kittens, and of course he thought children were the same way. It is n't foolish, it's ’

'You've got to tell him the truth,' Miss Cynthia interposed.

'I won't,' Miss Lyman declared. 'All his dreams and hopes are centred on that idea.'

'If you don't tell him, the other boys will find it out soon and laugh at him, and that will be worse.'

'Well, why have I got to tell him? Why don't you?'

'He loves you best,' Miss Cynthia evaded.

'I don't believe any one will have to tell him,' Miss Lyman took her up, hopefully. 'I believe it will just drop out of his mind as he gets older. He'll just cease to believe it without any shock, without ever really knowing when he found out it was n't so.'

But she reckoned without Mr. Grey.

He, it appeared, had fixed a date for the great event.

'Gwey says,' Stanislaus announced, 'vat he got his eyes open ve day he was five, an' he dest bets I'll get mine open ven too.'

Thereafter, all his dreams and plays were inspired by the magic words, 'When I'm five an' can see.' The sentence served as a mental spring-board to jump his imagination off into a world of wonder where he could see, 'dest dest as good as big folks,' or 'dest as good as Gwey.'

Every day his fifth birthday drew nearer, and Miss Cynthia's eyes said, You've got to tell; and every day Miss Lyman avoided them.

At last it was the day before his birthday. He waked with the words, 'Tomorrow is my birfday,' on his tongue, and scrambled out of bed, a little nightshirted figure of ecstasy. His dressing that morning-the putting on of his shoes, the scrubbing of his fingers, the rather uncertain brushing of his hair all went off to the happy refrain of "To-mowwow is my birfday, my birfday, my birfday!'

Some deep wisdom kept him from letting the other boys suspect what Mr. Grey had foretold for his birthday, but when he came to Miss Lyman that she might look him over before he went to school, he pulled her down close to whisper, 'I'm goin' to look at you ve very first one of all.' And to seal the matter he deposited a kiss in the palm of her hand, and shut her fingers upon it.

'Keep vat till I come back,' he commanded, and went jauntily off to school, where in all probability he made the same engaging promise to Miss Cynthia, and sealed it with the same token. But if he did, one may be certain he hid the token safe away in her hand. He was always shy about kisses, not being quite sure but that they might be visible. You could certainly feel the things,

so why might n't they be seen as well, sticking right out on one's cheek for seeing people to stare at? For this reason, he refused them on his own account, "cause vey might show'; and those that he gave were always bestowed in the palm of the hand, where the fingers could be closed hastily upon them.

Miss Lyman sat in the clothes room that morning, and sewed and waited. Her needle blurred, and her thread knotted, and the patches seemed more difficult than ever, and all because she had told herself that presently she must take a little boy up in her lap and shatter his dearest hope with truth. She had made up her mind that when he came from school that morning she would have to tell him. Therefore she sat and sewed, her whole being tense for the sound of his footsteps. She knew just how he would come with a sudden scamper up the steps outside. He always ran as soon as his fingers were sure of the rail, because much of his time he was an engine, 'An' vats ve way twains come up steps.' Then he would whisk around the corner, fumble an instant for the door-handle, and burst in upon her.

But after all, none of these sounds came. Instead, there was suddenly the trampling of grown-up feet, the rush of skirts, and Miss Cynthia threw the door open.

'Oh, come come quick!' she panted. 'Stanny is hurt He ran away Oh! I told him to come straight to you! But he ran away down the road, and a

motor -'

Together they sped down the long corridors to the hospital. They had brought Stanny there and laid him on one of the very clean little beds. Such a tiny crushed morsel of humanity in the centre of the big bare room! But his hand moved and he found Miss Lyman's chatelaine as she bent over him.

...

'Gwey said he al'us dest barked an' barked at aut-mobiles.. Let me hold ve tinkly fings so's I will know you is vere.' And by and by he murmured, 'It'll be my birfday soonweal soon now, won't it?'

'Very, very soon now,' she answered, and clinched her hand tight to keep her voice steady.

'Why,' he said, his restless fingers chancing upon her clinched ones, 'why, you is still got my kiss all tight in you hand. I'd fink it would be all melted by now.' A little startled moan cut him short. 'I hurts!' he cried. 'Oh, I hurts!

'Yes,' she answered breathlessly, 'Yes, my darling, it will hurt a little.' 'Is it - is it 'cause my eyes is openin'?' he gasped.

'Yes, lovey, that's the reason.' Her hand held his tight. 'But it won't hurt long.'

'Gwey never never said it would hurt like vis,' he sobbed.

The doctor stooped down and made a tiny prick in the baby arm, and after a little Stanislaus lay still.

'He may be conscious again before the end,' the doctor said, "but I hardly think it is likely.'

He was not. He tossed a little, and murmured broken snatches of words, but he was too busy going along this new exciting path to turn back to the old ways, even to speak to his friends.

Miss Lyman sat beside him all through the bright afternoon, through the tender dusk, and through the dark. Late in the night, he stirred, and cried out with a little happy breath,

'My birfday! It's come!'

drew up all the curtains that the room

DEAR MRS. CONEY,

CAMP CLOUDCREST, Sept. 12, 1914.

I find I can't write to you as often as I at first intended; but I've a chance to-day, so I will not let it pass unused. We are in the last camp, right on the hunting ground, in the 'midst of the fray.' We have said good-bye to dear Elizabeth, and I must tell you about her because she really comes first.

To begin with, the morning we left the Holts, Elizabeth suggested that. we three women ride in the buckboard, so I seated myself on a roll of bedding in the back part. At first none of us talked; we just absorbed the wonderful green-gold beauty of the morning. The sky was clear blue, with a few fleecy clouds drifting lazily past. The mountains on one side were crested; great crags and piles of rock crowned them as far as we could see; timber grew only about half-way up. The trunks of the quaking aspens shone silvery in the early sunlight, and their leaves were shimmering gold. And the stately pines kept whispering and murmuring; it almost seemed as if they were chiding the

quaking aspens for being frivolous. On the other side of the road lay the river, bordered by willows and grassy flats. There were many small lakes, and the ducks and geese were noisily enjoying themselves among the rushes and water-grasses. Beyond the river rose the forest-covered mountains, hill upon hill.

Elizabeth dressed with especial care that morning, and very pretty she looked in her neat shepherd's plaid suit and natty little white canvas hat. Very soon she said, 'I hope neither of you will misunderstand me when I tell you that if my hopes are realized I will not ride with you much longer. I never saw such a country as the West, it is so big and so beautiful, and I never saw such people. You are just like your country; you have fed me, cared for me, and befriended me, a stranger, and never asked me a word.'

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "Tut, tut, 't is nothing at all we've done. 'Tis a comfort you've been, has n't she, Mrs. Stewart?'

I could heartily agree; and Elizabeth went on, 'The way I have been received and the way we all treated Mrs. Holt

will be the greatest help to me in becoming what I hope to become, a real Westerner. I might have lived a long time in the West and not have understood many things if I had not fallen into your hands. Years ago, before I was through school, I was to have been married; but I lost my mother just then and was left the care of my paralytic father. If I had married then, I should have had to take father from his familiar surroundings, because Wallace came west in the forestry service. I felt that it would n't be right. Poor father could n't speak, but his eyes told me how grateful he was to stay. We had our little home and father had his pension, and I was able to get a small school near us. I could take care of father and teach also. We were very comfortably situated, and in time became really happy. Although I seldom heard from Wallace, his letters were well worth waiting for, and I knew he was doing well.

'Eighteen months ago father died, -gently went to sleep. I waited six months and then wrote to Wallace, but received no reply. I have written him three times and have had no word. I could bear it no longer and have come to see what has become of him. If he is dead, may I stay on with one of you and perhaps get a school? I want to live here always.'

'But, darlint,' said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, 'supposin' it's married your man is?'

'Wallace may have changed his mind about me, but he would not marry without telling me. If he is alive he is honorable.'

Then I asked, 'Why did n't you ask about him at Pinedale or any of these places we have passed? If he is stationed in the Bridges reserve they would be sure to know of him at any of these little places.'

'I just did n't have the courage to.

I should never have told you what I have, only I think I owe it to you, and it was easier because of the Holts. I am so glad we met them.'

So we drove along, talking together; we each assured the girl of our entire willingness to have her as a member of the family. After a while I got on to the wagon with Mr. Stewart and told him Elizabeth's story so that he could inquire about the man. Soon we came to the crossing on Green River. Just beyond the ford we could see the gamewarden's cabin, with the stars and stripes fluttering gayly in the fresh morning breeze. We drove into the roaring, dashing water, and we held our breath until we emerged on the other side.

Mr. Sorenson is a very capable and conscientious game-warden and a very genial gentleman. He rode down to meet us, to inspect our license and to tell us about our privileges and our duties as good woodsmen. He also issues licenses in case hunters have neglected to secure them before coming. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had refused to get a license when we did. She said she was not going to hunt; she told us we could give her a small piece of 'ilk' and that would do; so we were rather surprised when she purchased two licenses, one a special, which would entitle her to a bull elk. As we were starting Mr. Stewart asked the game-warden, 'Can you tell me if Wallace White is still stationed here?' 'Oh, yes,' Mr. Sorenson said, 'Wallace's place is only a few miles up the river and can be plainly seen

from the road.'

We drove on. Happiness had taken a new clutch upon my heart. I looked back, expecting to see Elizabeth all smiles, but if you will believe me the foolish girl was sobbing as if her heart was broken. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy drew her head down upon her shoulder and was trying to quiet her. The road along