son, to the crowding guests around him.

"Char-les—

come here! I command you-I-I-I-beg you tell

me who is this man?"

Only two persons heard the answer that came faintly from the lips of Charles Thompson:

"Your son."

When the day broke over the bleak sand-hills, the guests had departed from Mr. Thompson's banquet-halls. The light still burned dimly and coldly in the deserted rooms-deserted by all but three figures, that huddled together in the chill drawing-room as if for warmth. One lay in drunken slumber on a couch; at his feet sat he who had been known as Charles Thompson; and beside them, haggard and shrunken to half his size, bowed the figure of Mr. Thompson, his grey eye fixed, his elbows upon his knees, and his hands clasped over his ears as if to shut out the sad, entreating voice that seemed to fill the room.

"God knows I did not set about to wilfully deceive. The name I gave that night was the first that came into my thought-the name of one whom I thought dead— the dissolute companion of my shame. And when you questioned further, I used the knowledge that I gained from him to touch your heart to set me free-only, I swear, for that! But when you told me who you were, and I first saw the opening of another life before methen-then, oh, sir, if I was hungry, homeless, and reckless when I would have robbed you of your gold, I was heartsick, helpless, and desperate when I would have robbed you of your love."

The old man stirred not. From his luxurious couch the newly found prodigal snored peacefully.

"I had no father i could claim. I never knew a home but this. I was tempted. I have been happy-very happy."

He rose and stood before the old man.

"Do not fear that I shall come between your son and his inheritance. To-day I leave this place, never to return. The world is large, sir, and, thanks to your kindness, I now see the way by which an honest livelihood is

gained. Good-bye. You will not take my hand? Well, well. Good-bye."

He turned to go. But when he had reached the door he suddenly came back, and raising with both hands the grizzled head, he kissed it once, and twice.

"Char-les."

There was no reply.

"Char-les !"

The old man rose with a frightened air, and tottered feebly to the door. It was open. There came to him the awakened tumult of a great city, in which the prodigal's footsteps were lost for ever.

Abridged and Printed by permission of Messrs. Chatto & Windus.

BETSY AND I.

BY WILL CARLETON.

PART I.

DRAW up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout;

For things at home are crossways, and Betsy and I are

out,

We, who have worked together so long as man and wife, Must pull in single harness for the rest of our natʼral life.

"What is the matter?" say you. I swan it's hard to tell!
Most of the years behind us we've pass'd by very well!
I have no other woman, she has no other man—
Only we've lived together as long as we ever can.

So I have talk'd with Betsy, and Betsy has talk'd with me, And so we've agreed together that we can never agree; Not that we've catch'd each other in any terrible crime; We've been a-gathering this for years, a little at a time.

There was a stock of temper we both had for a start,
Although we never suspected 'twould take us two apart;
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone,
And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.

The first thing, I remember, wherein we disagreed, Was something concerning heaven-a difference in our creed;

We argued the thing at breakfast, we argued the thing at tea,

And the more we argued the question, the more we didn't agree.

And the next that I remember, was when we lost a cow; She had kick'd the bucket for certain, the question was only-How?

I held my own opinion, and Betsy another had;

And when we were done a-talking, we both of us was mad.

And the next that I remember, it started in a joke;
And full for a week it lasted, and neither of us spoke;
And the next was when I scolded, because she broke a
bowl;

And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul.

And so that bowl kept pouring dissensions in our cup; And so that blamed cow-creature was always a-comin'

up;

And so that heaven we argued no nearer to us got, But it gave us a taste of something a thousand times as hot.

And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way; Always something to argue, and something sharp to say; And down on us come the neighbours, a couple dozen strong,

Aud lent their kindest service for to help the thing along.

And there has been days together-and many a weary week

We was both of us cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak;

And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the winter and fall,

If I can't live kind with a woman, why then, I. won't at all.

And so I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked

with me,

And we have agreed together that we can never agree; And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be

mine,

And I'll put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign.

Write on the paper, lawyer-the very first paragraph,
Of all the farm and live stock that she shall have her half;
For she has help'd to earn it through many a weary day,
And it's nothing more than justice that Betsy has her pay.

Give her the house and homestead-a man can thrive and roam;

But women are skeery critters unless they have a home; And I have always determined, and never failed to say, That Betsy should never want a home if I was taken away.

There's a little hard money that's drawin' tol'rable pay-
A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day-
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;
Put in another clause there, and give her half of that.

Yes, I see you smile, sir, at my givin' her so much—
Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such!
True and fair I married her when she was blythe and
young,

And Betsy was always good to me, exceptin' with her tongue.

Once, when I was young as you, and not so smart, per

haps, For me she mittened a lawyer and several other chaps, And all of them was flustered, and fairly taken down, And I for a time was counted the luckiest man in town.

Once, when I had a fever-I wont forget it soon-
I was hot as a basted turkey, and crazy as a loon,
Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight-
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and
night.

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen;
And I don't complain of Betsy, or any of her acts,
Excepting when we've quarrelled, and told each other
facts.

So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home to-night, And read the agreement to her, and see if it's all right; And then, in the mornin', I'll sell to a trading man I know, And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I'll go.

And one thing put in the paper that first to me didn't

occur,

That when I am dead at last she'll bring me back to her,
And lay me under the maples I planted years ago,
When she and I were happy, before we quarrelled so.

And when she dies I wish that she would be laid by me,
And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we will agree;
And, if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it

queer

If we loved each other the better, because we quarrelled here.