soon in the elm-shaded avenue of Old Deerfield.

This, too, is historic ground, as indeed is the entire valley. Deerfield was attacked by a body of French and Indians in February, 1704, and forty-two of the inhabitants were killed and one hundred and twelve carried off as prisoners. Every house in the town except that of Captain John Sheldon and the meeting-house was burned, and these were reserved as a depôt for the prisoners. Captain Sheldon's was attacked by a party of Indians, who found the door, which was made of oak, two thicknesses, secured with wrought nails, bolted and secured. After considerable labor they chopped a hole in the door with

their tomahawks, and, thrusting a rifle through the door, shot Mrs. Sheldon, as she was rising in bed with a babe in her arms. When they left they fired this house also, but the few survivors of the raid extinguished the flames, and it stood, a memento of the cruel foe, until within the last twenty years. The door is still preserved in the museum at Deerfield, together with many other curiosities and remnants of by-gone days.

After visiting the museum, the soldiers monument, and the site of the old Sheldon house, our friends resumed their seats in the carriage, and as the sun sank behind the western hills they drove into the lovely town of Greenfield, where they were to spend the night. Jno. R. Chapin.

HE children of Paradise Flats were bored. They sat in a row on the curb, watching for something to amuse them. One cannot forever fire stones at sewer rats, nor eternally drive tops into the wooden paving. Neither is the steady roll of wagon, cart and car of absorbing interest to those accustomed to the sight. It would be something to have the patrol wagon pass, or even the fire engine! There was no use of trying to stay inside of Paradise Flats. It was only the mothers who could stand the heat there, and the smells. Besides, Diego had died the night before, and was laid out in the hall closet. Diego had been a rare one at pitching pennies, and the children felt lonesome without him. Still they had no mind for staying in the house with him now. Diego dead was not the same as Diego living.

With such a dearth of popular amusement, it was a great relief when old Rod

Granger came down the back stairs in his sandwich suit. Rod lived up the third flight-rear entrance-in a room by himself. There was nothing the children enjoyed so much-except, of course. a fight-as watching Rod come down dressed for his day's work.

The old man wore a coat of cracked red oil-cloth, and walked between two sheets of canvas, stretched upon frames of pine, and having a printed invitation to all readers to frequent the Paradise Eating House, situated in the basement of the Paradise Flats. On his head was a battered cockade of glazed leather, and in his hands an umbrella of bright green.

He paid no attention to the children, although they followed him, pointing out on the canvas the letters they knew, and running their fingers over his shiny coat. His eyes, too used to the sights of the streets to heed them, were fixed on vacancy, as he walked with aimless and lax-muscled weariness upon his tattered soles. His face was wrinkled and almost coarse, the mouth loose-hanging in un

conscious slovenliness, the cheeks unshaven, and the mixed beard of red and gray left in bristling raggedness.

Heedlessly he turned up one street and down another, only taking pains to keep to the crowded thoroughfares. When the children of Paradise Flats grew tired of following him, others fell in to serve as his guard, so that all day, wherever he went, there was always a band of little ones dangling after him, and sending their shrill voices above the general clamor of the streets. They were glad, in spite of the excitement, to keep under the shade of the awnings, out of the way of the sun.

Only old Rod seemed unconscious of the terrible heat. The old legs, shambling in their soiled trousers, trembled with fatigue, and the hands which bore aloft the green umbrella, grasped the handle with the nervous energy of a hungry man. Yet he paid no attention when the noon hour was sounded by the great bell at the Chicago Board of Trade, and he let the long, hot, dusty, ill-smelling afternoon, pass, without food or rest.

True, he stopped once at a public drinking place, and thrice emptied the tin cup.

"There are worse things th'n water," said he to the iron griffin that pranced on the hydrant.

The street cars were carrying home the tired thousands from the city, and the awnings were furled above the windows of the closed shops before he got back to Paradise Flats. The children, dirtier and crosser by many degrees, were in their "apartments" suppering. Considering that he had plodded the streets for hours, it was wonderful to see how Rod climbed those back stairs! He unfastened the straps that held the sheets of canvas together, as he went, and even his coat was unbuttoned by the time he reached his door.

The canvas folded on hinges and consented to follow the shining coat into a chest which Rod opened for the purpose. When the handle was pulled out of the green umbrella, there was still room left in the chest for the cockade.

Rod closed the lid, turned the key in the padlock, hid it under the bed-clothes and broke into a smile.

There might have been only fifteen minutes left, judging from the way he hurried. He took a tin washdish from its nail on the wall and carried it into an adjoining room, stopping to knock at the door. It was opened by a tall girl. Her eyes, large, black and mournful, were red with weeping. The old man laid his large hand on her shoulder.

"You're not lookin' very well, Creta," said he. "Now don't you sit here all night and cry. Come over 'n' spen' the evenin' with me. Y' can't do any good t' poor little Dago by stayin' here 'n' cryin' yerself sick."

"I could n't leave him, you know," said the girl sadly, taking the basin from the old man's hand and filling it at the faucet. "He's to be buried to-morrow and I could n't think of leaving him the last night. I've never left him a night since he was born. Mamma said: 'Creta, look after Diego,' and I've looked after him just as well as I knew how."

"That you have, Creta," returned the old man, taking the water from her trembling hands. "You have that, true an' faithful. An' Dago knew it."

"Diego knows nothing," cried the girl with passionate gesture. "The dead know nothing."

"The dead know most," said the old man solemnly. "We're the ones that don't know things, an' worry, an' puzzle, an' fret. Take my advice, Creta; don't you cry your heart out. Come in an' spen' the evenin' with me. Ray's coming tonight."

"Then let him come to see me," said the girl sharply, and she closed the door with a bang that grated on the old man's happiness.

"She's a temper, Creta has," said he to himself with a sigh. "I don't suppose Ray dreams of her temper. He always likes folks t' be good-natured. It 's right he should."

He could n't help thinking about it as he put on a clean paper collar and adjusted the rubber of an old-fashioned "butter-fly" necktie over his collar button.

"It was as pretty a razor as ever was made; an' there's that hone-no good without a razor-really no earthly good to anybody."

He took the hone, wrapped it in a paper, and, putting on his hat, made his way down-stairs to the Paradise Eating House. The Paradise Eating House, as its name implied, was a very unusual place. If the proverbial lion and the lamb did not lie down together there, as they are supposed to do in Paradisical precincts, there was no war waged between man and the insect creation. Lazarus, had he been there, would have fared well, for the crumbs that fell from the table were many and the traces of them were not removed from day to day, but were allowed to remain in odorous unreproach upon the floor. A smell of mold gave to the building a semblance of antiquity which might have pleased the modern apostles of ruin and decay. A fly-hung network of pink was draped over the mirrors, and the walls were further decorated by a large engraving of "The Burial of the Pet Bird."

Roderick ordered his dinner, with a cautious outlook toward the twenty-five cent limit placed on his meal.

"Now, don't ye make a mistake 'n' bring me a porter-house!" he called jovially to the waiter. "I don't want anything common to come my way, y' know!"

No one would have imagined he had eaten nothing for twelve hours. Hunger makes drawn faces and dull eyes, and Roderick seemed suddenly to breathe out health and happiness. Who could have guessed the painful miles his old feet had tramped to win the guerdon of that rank

smelling meal? But there were men with daintier meals who had not so good an appetite that night. He ate with as much haste as heartiness, and the last morsel was not well down when he was opening the door of the Golden Globe pawn-shop.

"We're closed for the night," the proprietor said, in protest at his entrance; but Roderick had the hone out on the counter and was looking across with a wistfulness which checked further remarks.

"What do you expect to get for that?" asked the man, rubbing his hand critically over the surface.

Enough for a cigar," said Roderick. "What a dude!" laughed the storekeeper. "To look at you, one would n't think it."

He gave the old man enough for a cigar-which Rod only purchased after much cautious inquiry.

"Y' see," he explained, "th' person I'm gettin' this fur, is very p'ticular 'bout th' shape of his cigars, an' hes fancies fur a special color."

"Must be quite a fashionable gent," remarked the tobacconist.

"He is!" returned Roderick proudly. As he climbed the stairs to his room again, he heard some one in earnest conversation with Creta. The voice of the person speaking was not such as the corridors of Paradise Flats were used to.

"The little robe shall be sent the first thing in the morning," it said gently. "and I will go with you to the graveyard, if you like. After that you are to come home with me-you really must, Creta! You have no excuse that will work with me at all! Now don't look so wretched! I can't understand you a bit! You know I like you, or I would n't want you to come. I believe you are proud, Creta. Well, then, if I must say it, I am not offering charity to you. You shall be as independent as you like.`

There was not a little embarrassment in the voice-a voice more used to bantering than to consoling, if one could judge by an undertone of merriment.

When Roderick neared the top of the stairs, he found the speaker standing with her arm around Creta's waist. She was the taller of the two by half a head, and bent over her with a gesture of shy and delicate pity. The severity of her

gown betokened the woman of fashion more surely than any adornment could have done. Old Roderick could not help noticing the elegance of the walking-boot which rested on the broken edge of the top stair.

"Mr. Granger," said Creta, tearfully, "this is the lady who has been to see Diego since he was sick."

"I'm a Friendly Visitor," said the lady, with a depreciating blush.

"Oh," said Roderick, thinking it had a pleasant sound, and not knowing in the least what was

meant.

ity

"- from the CharOrganization,"

she explained, disconnectedly, "- not that I do very much."

There was a moment in which no one said anything, and then the lady suddenly forgot her shyness, and, seeming to yield to an impulse, whispered to Roderick that she knew he was a friend of Creta's, and that she would like to see him alone for a minute.

"You're quite welcome," ," said Roderick, "to walk into m' room, miss; tho' it ain't a place ladies often goes, an' I would n't like t' say how it looked."

It looked well enough, evidently,

"Why, no," said Roderick, slowly; "I can't rightly say as she hes, miss."

"So I thought," cried the young lady, "and so I can not understand why she does not seem quite willing to come with me. She must surely meet with all sorts of hardships here."

""Tis so, ma'am," said the old man, sadly; "she's bound to do that here." "She's no other relatives, has she?" "Not a soul, miss, now that Dago is gone. Smart boy, Dago-never see him peg tops, did ye, miss?"

for the lady to enter, and to make herself quite at home. Roderick could n't help wishing that Ray was there to see her. She sat in the old wooden chair with a manner so gracious and familiar that Rod could hardly believe that he was seeing and speaking with her for the first time.

I know you are a friend of Creta's," she repeated, "for she has spoken of. you to me. I want to ask you if she has any tie that should hold her here, now that her little brother is dead."

"Well, then," eagerly went on the lady, ignoring the last remark, "what does she want to stay here in this-"

"O, I know, miss," said Roderick, in answer to her apologetic stop, "as well as any one can know, that this ain't a healthy place, nor yet a good place for a young gurrl t' be who ain't got friends."

"But she must have some reason for wanting to stay," the lady insisted, though I cannot get her to give me a hint of what it is."

sir?"

What did Creta say your name was,

· Roderick Granger," said he, simply. The lady moved her chair nearer to the window, as if she found the heat oppressive.

Where is your son?" she inquired. "He's a comin' here in a little," he replied. He writes, Ray does, an' makes his livin' by his brains. It ain't always the rich men that hev the smart sons, ma'am. I call Ray a poet myself, though he always laughs whin I do it." "Writes, does he?" said the lady, absently.

"Beautiful," cried Roderick; "you might be glad t' know him yourself, ma'am; ye might, indeed."

The lady started up, as if to go immediately, but paused again.

'Did your son tell you he wrote this?" she asked, in a low tone.

"Wrote it? Of course he did. Don't y' suppose I know his handwritin'? Here's somethin' more, if ye feel interested, miss.'

"He did that," said Roderick, “an' many another thing, miss, which you could read if you had time. "But I have n't," she said, with a quick return of shyness. "I must go

"Plenty an' enough," the old man returned, with dignity; "they is lovers, is Creta an' Ray."

say."

He hes other affairs, lady, t'engage his min' with. It's but natural fur one as writes."

"That's so," returned the lady, breaking into a hard little smile. "Perhaps that explains it!"

"I'd like to show ye some of his poems, miss," said Roderick, with gleaming eyes, fumbling. as he talked, in the depth of an old-fashioned wallet. "Now here, miss, is somethin' I think as sweet as runnin' water. I'm not an edicated man, an' don't pertend to be one, but I

A dark flush crept over the old man's face.

"Well, ye see," said he, with a sudden stammer, "I-I prefers to take c-care of myself. Young fellows 1-like him what make t-their own livin' with their brain, hev all they ken do to git on themselves, eh, miss, eh ?" eh?" "Yes; what do you do?" "D-do, miss?" "Earn your living?"

"I-I advertises, miss-carries a sandwich for my meals. R-Ray don't know. If y' should ever meet him, please, I'd ruther ye did n't tell him. It might put a proud young fellow like that out."