drawing a long breath of relief, said across the bed to the mother and the nurse, "We've conquered in this fight, thank God!" the two women clasped their arms about one another and their lips met. It was a kiss of gratitude and a token of friendship never to be broken.

The foundations of the world seemed to John Dorman to have given way beneath his feet in the hours when his child's life was trembling in the balance. Such experiences come to parents when the issue is not, as in the Dorman household, one of deliverance from peril and continued gladness. The man realized, as he saw his child lying white as a lily on her bed, that instead of having her still with him, an unspeakable joy, he might have had only the hush of death in the house and a grave in the cemetery over which to set a stone. All at once the paltriness of his obstinacy, its selfishness, its shamefulness, were revealed to him as by a searchlight. The doctor, going away, promised to return in the course of the morning, and said as he left, "You owe a debt which it will be hard to pay to Mrs. Sherwood. She knew just what to do and how to do it." Then, as if obeying an impulse, the doctor laid his hand on Mr. Dorman's shoulder. "Don't you think, friend," he said, "that you would better turn that fence of yours into kindling wood?" He awaited no reply.

Downstairs in the library Luther Sherwood alone listened for Mary to come to him. He had brought her over, and stayed in the house to see if there were anything he could do. Mr. Dorman entered the room, advanced and took his neighbor's hand. "Pardon me," he said; "I have been a fool and a mule and everything hateful. If you'll forgive me I'll be a better man and a better neighbor."

Thanksgiving that year was kept with the voice of joy and praise in two homes of Forestville. Mabel, completely restored to health, little dreamed how precious she had become to the father and mother who had faced the prospect

of losing her. The Thanksgiving they kept was without a flaw. The bungalow where Luther and Mary were host and hostess to a circle of kindred and friends was flooded with sunlight, and the beloved hills again wore, in Mary's eyes, the look of guardian angels. There was no sign of the spite fence. It had been split into kindling wood and had gone to the fire.

THE BEAUTIFUL MISS BLARCOM

HE "Blarcom girls," as they had been called in Hinck

THE

ley for forty years, had each a special characteristic. One was "The talented Miss Blarcom." She wrote poetry and painted pictures, and the townspeople were very proud of her fame, prouder than she was herself of the one book, "A Wreath of Roses," which bore her name on its cover. Another sister was "The amiable Miss Blarcom." She was splendid at fairs and festivals, and from her early childhood had possessed the rare and sweet distinction of settling the village quarrels, she being of that race, of whom our Lord said, "Blessed are the peace-makers." The third was “The practical Miss Blarcom." If it hadn't been for her I do not know how the Blarcom sisters would have managed to live as nicely as they did on the little income their father left them, such a small provision against the inroads of poverty. But Eugenia Blarcom knew better than most women how to make both ends of a narrow income meet. She took a lodger now and then; when artists came to sketch the fine points in the neighborhood, or lecturers to entertain the people of the place, or the teachers at the Academy needed a home outside of the school limits, all these could obtain comfortable quarters and be looked after carefully, by going to the Blarcoms' and putting themselves under the wing of Miss Eugenia.

But Adele had the prettiest adjective of all tacked to her name. Far and near this dear lady was known as the "Beautiful Miss Blarcom."

She was no longer young, that is her girlhood was well past, and she had kept her thirty-ninth birthday. When she was eighteen, she had met with an accident which had hurt her back, and from that time on Adele Blarcom had been an invalid, spending many quiet hours on her lounge, never able to walk beyond the garden, seldom strong enough

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to go for anything beyond a short drive, and often a great sufferer.

One would have supposed that the conditions of her existence might easily have robbed Adele of her loveliness of face, of the fine bloom on her cheek, the soft smoothness of her forehead, the starry luster of her eyes, the firm serenity of her mouth. Not so. As the slow years passed, and she still sat in the Master's own class, in his great school of suffering disciples, she grew constantly not only more attractive in disposition, but always lovelier and more captivating in her appearance.

Doctor Frazier had a new patient in his sanatorium. She was a Miss Reed, from a large Western town, a woman of fortune, who had had the world at her feet, and in having the world "too much with her, late and soon," had verified the poet's assertion. Living and spending had “laid waste her powers," and nervous prostration was the result. It was a stubborn case. Miss Reed defied Dr. Frazier's skill. She baffled him, and no matter what tactics he employed, she simply lay back in her easy chair, unable to lift a finger, and quite without the smallest interest in life.

The Doctor was talking about her to his wife, who, being a doctor, too, and a sensitive, up-to-date sort of woman as well, was her husband's best assistant.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Mrs. Frazier, or Doctor Polly, as she liked to be called. "We'll invite the beautiful Miss Blarcom here to make us a visit, and she shall help us cure Miss Reed."

"Do you think the girls will let her come?" asked the Doctor, doubtfully, pulling the long ends of his gray moustache.

"Oh, I'll talk it over with Eugenia, and make it worth her while to lend us Adele. I'll offer a fee for the privilege of having Adele under our roof for a fortnight."

"Well" said Dr. Frazier, with a little shrug of his shoulders, as who should say, "I shake off this burden and

leave the responsibility with you, my love"-"well, my darling, if anybody can manage the affair you can, only I don't want either of the ladies, Miss Reed or Miss Blarcom, to suspect the reason for our bringing them together."

"I wish," said Mrs. Polly, with much dignity, "that you did not always find it necessary, Jack, to treat me as if I was a child. I hate to be cautioned against telling this or that, and advised in matters concerning which I know as much as you do, more in fact, since you are only a big, blundering old fellow, as good as gold, but only a man, after all."

"I beg your pardon, wifie," said the Doctor, very humbly, stooping to kiss his small partner in business, and pinching her cheek playfully. "You have a sharp little tongue of your own, Polly, but you have a sound heart, and much good sense, and I never lay it up against you when you scold me."

"You shouldn't, Jack, for you are never scolded, except when you deserve to be," retorted Mrs. Polly, who always liked to have the last word.

Mrs. Frazier succeeded in her mission, convincing the sisters that a change would do Miss Adele good, and so, before the week was over, she was transferred to a sunny southwestern room in the sanatorium, with flowers in the windows, a canary in its cage, and a big gray cat which never glanced at the bird, basking most of the time on the soft rug before the open fire. No "fee" had been so much as offered, but the practical sister took the opportunity of Adele's absence, to thoroughly clean her room at home, and to newly paper the walls.

Miss Reed was lying back as usual, listless and vacant, in her chair, when there came a soft tap at her door, and in walked the beautiful Miss Blarcom. She had a cluster of lilies in her hand, and she resembled a lily herself, tall, white, graceful, and carrying about a subtle sense of fragrance, the faintest ghost of a sweet perfume.