“That’s just it--in a minute. And I must go before he comes back, and I have no money.” “You can always pay the _cocher_ at the house.” “Not now--not to-night.” She was far past a regard for the ordinary reticences of every-day life, but the humiliation of her admission was in her face. “My husband--he’s there, with only one old servant. He thinks I’m in the country with my mother. So I was till this afternoon. If I come home unexpectedly with no money to pay the _cocher_, he will be surprised. He will be angry. He will want to know all about it--I can’t explain it or tell more lies. I was mad when I said I’d go. I didn’t realize--Oh, good heavens!” with a sudden burst of agonized incoherence, “here he is! He’s coming and that will be the end of me.” Celia turned. Against the bright background of the depot entrance she saw the Frenchman’s thick-set figure coming rapidly down the steps. He had got rid of the valises, and was almost running. “Quick,” she said, and turning to the waiting carriage wrenched open the door. “Get in,” she commanded. The terrified creature did so. She was ready to be dominated by any imperious will. Celia stretched her arm through the window, and into the little gloved hand pressed the two-franc piece, then cried: “You can tell the _cocher_ the address when you get started. Don’t stop him till you get some way off. Go,” she cried to the man, “down by the Rue Auber--don’t waste a minute. Fly!” The _cocher_ flicked his horse with the whip, and it started. At the window a pale face appeared, and Celia heard the cry: “But your name, your address? I must send the money back.” “Never mind that,” cried Celia, “it isn’t mine. It’s conscience money.” The fiacre rolled down the street, and, plunging into the mêlée of vehicles, wound its way through the press to the Rue Auber. A man standing on the sidewalk drew the stares of the passers-by as he gazed blankly this way and that. A woman quietly picked her way across the _carrefour_, toward the station where one takes the Vaugirard omnibus. THE JACK-POT By Charles Dwight Willard There were five of us in the party--six, counting Long Tom, the guide. After two days’ hard climbing, which the _burros_ endured with exemplary fortitude, we arrived at the little valley high up in the mountains, through which threaded the trout-stream. “Jest you all go over into the cabin there and make yourself comf’ble, while I ’tend to gettin’ this stuff unpacked,” said Long Tom; “there ain’t no one there. My pardner, he’s down below.” “The cabin appears to be two cabins,” said the colonel, as we approached it. “That is for economy in ridge-poles,” said the doctor; “sleeping apartments on one side and kitchen on the other. In the space between, you keep your fishing-tackle and worms.” We entered the right-hand section of the twin cabin, which proved to be the kitchen side. There was not much furniture--a table of hewn logs, a chair of bent saplings, and a rough bench.