"And you remember the well?" with a laugh, the tears in her eyes. "Where you planted the gourdvine? We were very happy in Chester. I think that was our happiest time, Dallas?" Again their eyes met with a meaning which no bystander could have understood. There was a history between them which neither of them had ever yet put into words. Nor would they ever do it. "That is all over now, and I have come back to you, mother. To-morrow we will begin the world afresh.' Dallas Galbraith. DAVIS, RICHARD HARDING, American novelist and editor, born in Philadelphia, Pa., April 18, 1864. A son of L. Clark Davis and Rebecca (Harding) Davis, he was educated at Lehigh and Johns Hopkins Universities. He has been connected with a number of the Philadelphia and New York papers, among them the New York Evening Sun, in which have been published many of his short stories. He became managing editor of Harper's Weekly in 1890. Among his works are: Gallagher and Other Stories (1891); Stories for Boys (1891); Von Bibber and Others (1892); The West from a Car Window (1892); The Rulers of the Mediterranean (1893); The Exiles and Other Stories (1894); The Princess Aline (1895); About Paris (1895). Upon the appearance of Mr. Davis in New York in the capacity of an editor of Harper's Weekly, he was greeted by the Review of Reviews in these appreciative words: "Of our younger American journalists and magazine writers, none has won public favor more rapidly or more completely than Mr. Richard Harding Davis. As a writer of short stories and of descriptive sketches, he is always exceedingly felicitous. He adds a truly literary touch to a marked journalistic instinct, and his place is already secure among the acceptable writers of the day." And speaking of his articles in Scribner on the Great Streets of the World, the same journal prettily acknowledges that a New Yorker would find no difficulty in recognizing in the author's opening sketch the personality of the business men of lower Broadway. ON THE OCEAN. The sea grew calmer the third day out, and the sun came forth and showed the decks as clean as bread-boards. Miss Morris and Carlton seated themselves on the huge iron riding-bits in the bow, and with their elbows on the rail looked down at the whirling blue water, and rejoiced silently in the steady rush of the great vessel, and in the uncertain warmth of the March sun. Carlton was sitting to leeward of Miss Morris, with a pipe between his teeth. He was warm, and at peace with the world. He had found his new acquaintance more than entertaining. She was even friendly, and treated him as though he were much her junior, as is the habit of young women lately married. Carlton did not resent it; on the contrary, it made him more at his ease with her. As she herself chose to treat him as a youth, he permitted himself to be as foolish as he pleased. "I don't know why it is," he complained, peering over the rail, "but whenever I look over the side to watch the waves a man in a greasy cap always sticks his head out of a hole below me and scatters a barrelful of ashes or potato peelings all over the ocean. It spoils the effect for me. Next time he does it I am going to knock out the ashes of my pipe on the back of his neck." Miss Morris did not consider this worthy of comment, and there was a long pause. "You haven't told us where you go after London," she said; and then, without waiting for him to reply, she asked, "Is it your professional or your social side that you are treating to a trip this time?" "Who told you that?" asked Carlton, smiling. “Oh, I don't know. Some man. He said you were |