"Not to me, sah, no sah; but dat's all right-I'll des give you de little state-room an' you all can go to yo' res' widout 'sturbin' anybody. I reckon you all doesn't care p'tic'larly to see de Gen'ral to-night, does you?"

"Certainly not," replied Burwell, and they followed the man through the car to a diminutive compartment opening out of the large central space used for a dining- and sitting-room, where he left them and went back to his watch at the forward end of the car.

The morning sun was shining in at the window, and the Argyle was lurching heavily over the uneven track of the extension, when Burwell opened the state-room door and told Minnie how to reach the dressing-room. He caught a glimpse of three ladies reclining in easy-chairs in the central apartment, and held his breath when he saw his wife cannon helplessly against one of them in her efforts to reach the opposite aisle. The lady was portly and severelooking, and Burwell saw her frown as she put up her eye-glasses and stared after the retreating figure of the of fender.

"That's a cheerful beginning," he muttered, making his way back to the smoking compartment. The small room was already occupied by a stout elderly gentleman in slippers, trousers, and undershirt, who was sluicing his face in the single basin and growling out moist imprecations at the roughness of the track.

Burwell stepped back into a corner and awaited his turn. The gentleman appeared to be in no hurry, and while Burwell glanced at him furtively, a violent lunge sent the bather against the side of the car; he straightened up with the water dripping from his bushy eyebrows and fierce-looking mustache, and glared at Burwell with one eye while he felt mechanically for the towels in the rack. The chief clerk saw that it was the President, but he was wholly unprepared for the wrathful question that was hurled at him.

"Who the devil are you?"

For a brief moment Burwell actually forgot his own name, then he stammered, "I-I'm Burwell, of Mr. Elbert's office."

"Oh, you are "-with fine irony"and what are you doing here?" Burwell's helpless

consternation

made him take things very literally, and he said: "I'm waiting to get a chance to wash my face."

The President seemed about to have a fit of apoplexy; when he got his breath he shouted: "I want to know what you're doing in this car; who told you to bring your infernal impudence here?"

The question settled it, and Burwell saw the grim cruelty of the joke; nevertheless, he attempted to explain. "I got a telegram from your private secretary last night, saying that you desired my wife and me to continue our wedding journey as your guests;

"Your wife!" roared the irate of ficial, sawing his neck with the towel as if he meant to strangle himself; "how many of you are there?-why didn't you bring your mother-in-law and your sisters and a few more of your female relatives, while you were about it? And what's this gammon about a telegram? I didn't send any telegram, and I haven't any secretary. I don't believe a word of it!"

Burwell had long since learned the lesson of respectful deference to unreasonable superiors, but he had never been quite so severely tested. "I'm sorry you don't believe me," he said, quietly. "I'll show you the telegram when you are good enough to allow me to wash my face and hands."

Mr. Mayhugh flung down the towel and left the compartment without speaking again, and Burwell made his toilet with the methodical carefulness of a man about to be hanged. When he went back to the sitting-room the scene was anything but reassuring. The severe-looking lady in the stiff black silk was looking steadfastly out of the window; the President was sitting in an easy-chair in the farther corner, surrounded by three young women who seemed to be expostulating with him; and the poor young bride of a day was cowering in the smallest possible corner of the most uncomfortable seat in the compartment. Her eyes were suspiciously bright when

"Oh, Charlie, dear, what have we done?" she murmured.

66

Committed murder in the first degree, I should think," he said, desperately. "What did you do with that telegram last night?'

"The telegram ?-I didn't have it; oh, Charlie, don't say you have lost it!"

"I'm afraid I have," he said, remorsefully, going through his pockets for the twentieth time. "I showed it to the operator at Ute Springs last night, and I haven't seen it since.”

"Oh, oh," she said, wringing her hands pathetically, "isn't this perfectly dreadful! I'd faint if it would do any good!"

"Don't do that, whatever you do; the thing's got to be faced out some way or other, and I'm going to begin it right now."

دو

"I'll help you," she "I'll help you," she

He rose and went toward the group in the corner, but before he had taken two steps she was at his side with her arm linked in his. whispered. The three young women saw the movement and met them half-way; one of them, whom Burwell recognized as Bessie Mayhugh, slipped her arm about Minnie's waist. "We know all about it," she said, "and you're to have nothing whatever to do with it; you are our guest," and the trio surrounded the young wife and hurried her out of the compartment. Burwell gave a sigh of relief, and registered a mental vow of fealty to all Boston womankind for the sake of the kindly diversion; then he turned to Mr. Mayhugh and tried to assume a dignified attitude which was promptly made ridiculous and impossible by the plunging of the

car.

Sit down," said the President, abruptly, indicating a chair in front of him. "Now, what was it about that telegram?"

Burwell gave the facts in the case as clearly and tersely as possible.

"Where is the message?"

"I don't know; I showed it to the operator at Ute Springs last night, and asked him if you had left any word for

train pulled out and I had to run to catch it; I suppose I must have lost the telegram then, for I haven't been able to find it since."

The President frowned and looked at his watch as the porter came in to lay the cloth for breakfast. "Tell the cook we don't want to wait all day for something to eat," he said, irritably — and then to Burwell-"You say the message was sent by my secretary; what was the name?

“R. Penfield or Penfold, I couldn't make out which."

66

That ought to have shown you that it was a hoax; my secretary's name is Harrington, and he went home sick two days ago.'

"It would have done so, doubtless, had I known either of the facts you mention."

Mr. Mayhugh stared gloomily out of the window for a few minutes and then asked: "Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm afraid we're entirely at your mercy, Mr. Mayhugh. As you are aware, there are no trains running on the extension, but it is your privilege to put us off at the first station, if you please. I presume we can make our way back to civilization in time."

The President smiled grimly. "That would be a romantic ending to your wedding journey, wouldn't it? Who the devil hates you badly enough to play such a trick on you?

Burwell thought of Roy at once, but he was much too generous to implicate the operator. "I can't say," he replied, "but my own stupidity is mainly answerable; I ought to have known better than to pay any attention to such a message."

While he was speaking breakfast was announced, and the three girls came in with Minnie. Miss Mayhugh looked inquiringly at her father and Burwell.

"I hope you gentlemen have arranged your differences so that we may eat in peace," she said, pleasantly. "FatherAuntie, this is Mrs. Charles Burwell; Mrs. Burwell, my father, and my aunt, Mrs. Prendergast."

Minnie rose bravely to the emergency and presented her husband, first to Miss

Mayhugh and to the two Misses Brandon, and then, with some embarrassment, to the stately lady in the black silk, and they all sat down to breakfast. After the meal, which, despite the hospitable efforts of Miss Mayhugh and her two young guests, was not too cheerful, the President shoved one of the easy chairs into a corner and lighted a dubious-looking cigar, throwing it away with an execration after two or three whiffs. Burwell noticed the incident and extended a handful of his own cigars. The President examined them with the air of a connoisseur and lighted one.

"What business have you got with such good cigars as these?" he asked.

Burwell smiled. "The box was one of my wedding gifts; do you like them?"

"Very fair cigar. Now, if it wasn't for that cursed correspondence, I could be comfortable."

Burwell saw the handle of another opportunity passing him and he grasped at it without hesitation.

"Have you some letters to write?" he asked.

"Yes, a hundred or two."

"I don't wish to be officious, but I am a stenographer, and if I can be of any service to you

"The devil you are! Why didn't you say so at first? Come along into the state-room."

A few minutes later Mr. Mayhugh was seated at his desk with a huge accumulation of letters before him, and Burwell's pencil was flying rapidly over the blank pages of his predecessor's note-book. When he had taken two or three of the replies at top speed, the gratified President handed him one of his own cigars. "Better light up," he said. "You beat Harrington two to one; can you run a typewriter?"

"I can.

After that the work went on steadily, and Burwell fancied he could see the index of Mr. Mayhugh's mental barometer travel slowly around from "Stormy" to "Set Fair" as the pile of letters diminished. In addition to being a rapid and accurate amanuensis, the chief clerk had all the details of the railway company's business at his fingers' ends, and

VOL. XVI-81

the President was quick to discover and to utilize this opportune fund of information.

When the last letter was written it was nearly noon, and the Argyle was approaching the end of the uncompleted extension. Dropping the letter into the mail-box, Burwell excused himself and took his wife to the rear platform to show her the view of the distant Uintah Mountains. The scene was grand and awe-inspiring, but Minnie deliberately turned her back on it to say, feverishly: "Tell me all about it, quick, Charlie! What did he say to you?—what have you been doing all morning?-how in the world did you ever explain things?"

Burwell smiled at her eagerness. "It's all right now, I guess; he wanted a shorthand man and we've been writing letters all the forenoon. How have you been getting along?"

"Oh, I've just been having a splendid time! The girls have fairly tried themselves to make me feel at home, and Kate Brandon wants us to visit them in Boston when we go East. Even Mrs. Prendergast thawed out after a while, and she laughed till she cried when I told her how we'd been victimized."

A shrill whistle from the engine announced their arrival at the engineer's camp, and a bearded colossus in rough tweeds and slouch hat, and answering to the name of Kirkpatrick, climbed to the rear platform and asked for Mr. Mayhugh. Burwell had speech with the new-comer while showing him to the private state-room; and a little later, when the two men came back to the sitting-room, the chief clerk spoke to the President while the engineer was spreading his maps upon the large table.

"I can get your messages off through Mr. Kirkpatrick's office," he said; "have you any others to send?" "Not now."

Burwell hesitated a moment and then looked up frankly. "Mr. Mayhugh, you know how sorry I am that this thing happened, and I believe you understand that we didn't mean to be intruders. The material-train goes down to Mountain Junction this afternoon, and we can go back on that. I hope you will

The President interrupted him with a genial laugh. "No, you don't, my boy," he said; "I know a good thing when I see it. Get your note-book and take another telegram."

When Burwell was ready Mr. Mayhugh dictated:

"To Superintendent Elbert: "I have your chief clerk with me in car Argyle and intend to keep him through the entire inspection. Make your arrangements accordingly."

"Just sign my name to that and send it with the others."

When Burwell handed the bunch of telegrams to Mr. Kirkpatrick's operator he had added still another to which he had signed his own name. It read:

"To Fred Roy:- Superintendent's office.

"Much obliged for your thoughtfulness. We are having a royal time. Until further notice, you can reach me care car Argyle."

I

N one of his engaging essays Mr. John Burroughs tells of meeting an English lady in Holyoke, Mass., who complained to him that there were no foot-paths for her to walk on, whereupon the poet - naturalist was moved to an eloquent expression of his grief over America's inferiority in the foot-path line to the "mellow England" which in one brief month had won him for her own. Now I know very little of Holyoke, Mass., of my own knowledge. As a lecture-town I can say of it that its people are polite, but extremely undemonstrative, and that the lecturer is expected to furnish the refreshments. It is quite likely that the English lady was right, and that there are no footpaths there.

I wish to say, however, that I know the English lady. I know her-many, many of her and I have met her a-many times. I know the enchanted fairyland in which her wistful memory loves to linger. Often and often have I watched her father's wardian-case grow into "papa's hot-houses;" the plain brick house that he leases, out Notting Hill way, swell into "our family mansion," and the cottage that her family once occupied at Stoke Wigglesworth change itself into "the country place that papa had to give up because it took so much of his time

to see that it was properly kept up.' And long experience in this direction. enables me to take that little remark

about the foot-paths, and to derive from it a large amount of knowledge about Holyoke and its surroundings that I should not have had of my own getting, for I have never seen Holyoke except by night, nor am I like to see it again.

From that brief remark I know these things about Holyoke: It is surrounded by a beautiful country, with rolling hills and a generally diversified landscape. There are beautiful green fields, I am sure. There is a fine river somewhere about, and I think there must be waterfalls and a pretty little creek. The timber must be very fine, and probably there are some superb New England elms. The roads must be good, uncommonly good; and there must be unusual facilities for getting around and picnicking and finding charming views and all that sort of thing.

Nor does it require much art to learn all this from that pathetic plaint about the foot-paths. For the game of the Briton in a foreign land is ever the same. It changes not from generation unto generation. Bid him to the feast and set before him all your wealth of cellar and garner. Spread before him the meat, heap up for him the fruits of the season. Weigh down the board with every vegetable that the gardener's art can bring to perfection in or out of its time-white-potatoes, sweet-potatoes, lima - beans, string - beans, fresh peas, sweet-corn, lettuce, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, tomatoes, musk-melons and water- melons-all you will-no word will you hear from him till he has looked over the whole assortment and discovered that you have not the vegetable marrow, and that you do not raise it. Then will he break forth and cry out for his vegetable marrow. All these things are as naught to him if he cannot have his vegetable marrow, and he will tell you about the exceeding goodness and rarity of the vegetable marrow, until you will figure it in your mind like unto the famous mangosteen fruit of the Malay Peninsula, he who once eats whereof tastes never again any other fruit of the earth, finding them all as dust and ashes by the side of the mangosteen.

That is to say, this will happen unless you have eaten of the vegetable marrow, and have the presence of mind to recall

to the Briton's memory the fact that it is nothing but a second choice summer squash; after which the meal will proceed in silence. Just so might Mr. Burroughs have brought about a sudden change in the topic of conversation by telling the English lady that where the American treads out a path he builds a road by the side of it.

To tell the truth, I think that the English foot-path is something pathetic beyond description. The better it is, the older, the better worn, the more it speaks with a sad significance of the long established inequalities of old-world society. It means too often the one poor, pitiful right of a poor man, the man who must walk all his life, to go hither and thither through the rich man's country. The lady may walk it for pleasure if she likes, but the man who walks it because he must, turns up a little by-path leading from it to a cottage that no industry or thrift will make his own; and for him to aspire to a roadway to his frontdoor would be a gross piece of impertinence in a man of his station. It is the remembrance of just such right-of-way foot-paths as the English lady's sad heart yearned after that reconciles me to a