require him to crow or bark or go on his hands and knees around the room, but they meant it for a high distinction. Frederica, wishing to make the old man happier, had named one of her daughters for his little child who was gone. He made an idol of the little girl. But he still called her Mary. He could not give her that other name.

Just now she and her sister came up the stairs calling him. He put his hand to his mouth glancing at the door. "Hush, hush, they'll think I've gone out," he whispered.

The little girls beat at the door. "Come play, Grandpa," Mary cried, "we're tired waiting; we've got to go to bed in two minutes, Grandpa."

But he did not move. His eyes grew wet and he hardly could get his breath. "I won't go out," he said. They kicked at the door a while, and then, suddenly finding that they were in the dark, turned crying and ran to the stairs.

What was this frenzy of horror and fright which was new to him? He was conscious of it, and thought it was no doubt due to that senile decay of which Mrs. Cross had talked to him so fluently.

"Weakness is a symptom inseparable

VOL. XLV.-8

"Oh, yes. I see it. I see it!" he cried now, beating his knees with his fists. "A dead-weight! A dead-weight! I know it. I haven't earned my salt in years! But why didn't Tom tell me I ought to go? Or Joe? Why did they send that canting woman to break it to me? She said they'd be glad to find me gone to-morrow. Well, I'll be gone to-morrow."

He heard old black Sally put the children to bed and then for a moment he started out of his room as she passed. She noticed that he stood looking toward their room a long time, and that he tottered as he turned.

"Let me mix you some toddy, sir," she said. "You took no supper."

"No, Sally, nothing." He took out a

gold pocket-piece which he had carried for a long time and gave it to her. "Goodby. I mean good-night," he said. Then he went back and locked himself in again. Presently he heard Frederica come home. She stood talking with Sally a moment and then later ran up to his room and tapped lightly at the door. He kept still. He could not say good-by to her. She had been like a dear daughter to him. She tapped softly again, and then went away thinking that he was asleep.

When the house was quiet the old man put his clothes into a trunk ready to go. There was a picture over his bed, a poor faded copy of the Ecce Homo. Jenny had earned the money to buy that on their first Christmas day together. It had hung there ever since. It meant-only God and he knew what it meant.

He stood looking at it a long time and then turned away. Mrs. Cross had told him no pictures or luxuries of any sort could be brought into the Home.

The old man, like most miserable watchers, probably slept more than he knew

through that long night, but with the first dawn he was up tottering about making ready to go. He would not go down for breakfast-he never would face Frederica and the children again. He locked and strapped his trunk and wrote on the tag, "Send to the Home for Aged Men."

Now all was finished. He had nothing more to do than to put on his overcoat and hat and go away. He had planned to go through the little room that he and Jenny had called the library. He had built that room and put up the shelves, with Jenny helping him. He looked in the door now.

"We called it the library and we had not a hundred books!" he said, and laughed aloud.

Old Sally ran out of the kitchen. "Lahs sakes, Doctah! Yoh's not goin' out wif no brekfus'. An' yoh eaten not a bite las' night! I'll hab de coffee in two minutes-" He muttered something and hurried away, the garden gate slamming behind him. "Foh grashus! De Doctah's gone mad!" she said, going back to beat her biscuit. He wandered about the silent street until the

test in the sun against the tranquil beauty of the woods and dark winding river. Over the door in huge letters was painted "Home for Aged Men." The Doctor walked up to it and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a tall woman whose lean face and neat figure seemed to be a perpetual protest against all the disorder in the world. The old man took off his hat.

"Well, what's wanted?" she said sharply. "I am Doctor Paull," he said.

"Ah? The new inmate? You are not expected until ten o'clock." She was about to close the door in his face, when Mrs. Cross came running down the stairs.

"Stop, Miss Wynn, stop! Admit Doctor Paull. It is not in order, but-" she caught him by the hand, smiling. "In an establishment of this kind rules must be stringent, you know. But for this onceCome in. I will show you to your chamber."

As she led him briskly to the stairs, the Doctor tottered and grew pale.

"What ails him?" said Miss Wynn. "I hope I am not going to begin with an invalid?" Miss Wynn was the experienced woman whom Mrs. Cross had brought from Connecticut to be Matron of the Home. "What ails you?" she demanded of the new inmate.

The Doctor looked up and tried to smile. "I really think I am hungry," he said. "I feel so weak. My legs-I did not eat any breakfast."

The women whispered apart. "It's quite irregular," said Miss Wynn. "But if you say so-Go to the eating room." She motioned to the old man. Mrs. Cross went forward with him, taking him kindly by the arm. She wished that Clara Wynn's manner was less abrupt. It really was not necessary to remind the inmates every moment that they were paupers! She had long been tired of the soft, kindly drawl of the Oakford people. But Clara's voice cut like a knife!

The house was scrupulously clean. The bare wooden floors were painted brown. Here and there lay an imitation Turkish rug of brilliant color. On the walls was a bright yellow paper. Almost every room boasted of a mirror and one or two chromos --all in much begilt frames. The pictures for the most part were the heads of simper

ing "Rosalies" or "Gladyses." Mrs. Cross had bought them all in a lot at an auction shop in Philadelphia. She waved her hand to them now complacently.

"You see, Dr. Paull! I have tried to make your new home cheerful and attractive. I am no artist, but I appreciate the beautiful wherever found. The heating arrangements, too, are perfect and very handLet us have beauty as well as comfort." She pointed to the huge brass pipes for hot air in each room, and then suddenly pausing, laid her hand on them.

some.

"The furnace is not lit, Clara!" She turned to Miss Wynn. "The house is as cold as death."

"I suppose the sun will warm it presently," said Miss Wynn placidly. "I never allow a furnace to be lighted until November the 10th, never. Order, my dear Mrs. Cross, is Heaven's first law. And mine."

Mrs. Cross reddened. "Oh, certainly. Come into the dining-room, Doctor," leading the way into a square apartment, in the middle of which stood a table covered by a pale yellow buff oil-cloth. "More pictures, you see? Colored photograph of myself," waving her hand. "My friends thought it appropriate just here—the hostess smiling and welcoming her guests. Scripture subject over the mantel-piece. Miracle of the Fishes. Multitude fed. That picture seems to me especially suitable and timely."

Miss Wynn summoned Sam Darrah and Dan Paine and placed the three old men side by side at the table. The Doctor hesitated, bowing courteously.

"Will you not be seated, Madam?" he

said.

"Me? I do not eat with the inmates," snapped Miss Wynn.

"You are going to have no table-cloth nor napkins? And you use tin plates, Clara ?" said Mrs. Cross.

"Certainly. For sanitary reasons. No germ can remain on metal plates if they are properly cleaned."

Before each old man she placed a thick slice of bread, a tiny pat of butter and a glass of skimmed milk. Dan Paine promptly declared that the butter was rancid. The Doctor passed it in silence and ate the dry bread. He lifted the milk to his lips, and put it down. "I am sorry," he said timidly, "but I never have been able