"Five--five--five!--third and last call! SOLD! and to you, Mr. Dalny! Gentlemen, you seem to have been asleep. One of the most distinguished painters of our time is the possessor of this picture, which only shows that it takes an artist to pick out a good thing!" She was waiting for him in her room, her own door ajar this time. He had promised to come back, and she was then to go to the hospital and tell the good news to her brother. With his heart aglow with the pleasure in store for her, he bounded up the stairs, both hands held out, his face beaming: "Wonderful success! Bought by a distinguished connoisseur who won't let the auctioneer give his name." "Oh, I am so happy!" she answered. "That is really better than the money; and for how much, dear Mr. Dalny?" "Five hundred dollars!" The faded sister's face fell. "I thought it would bring a great deal more, but then Adolphe will be content. It was the lowest sum he mentioned when he decided to sell it. Will you go with me to tell him? Please do." In the office of the hospital Dalny stopped to talk to the doctor, the sister going on up to the ward where "Old Sunshine" lay. "Is he better?" asked Dalny. "He is a friend of mine." The doctor tapped his forehead significantly with his forefinger. "Brain trouble?" asked Dalny in a subdued tone. "Yes." "Will he get well?" The doctor shook his head discouragingly. "How long will he last?" "Perhaps a week--perhaps not twenty-four hours." The faded sister now entered. Her face was still smiling--no one had yet told her about her brother. "Oh, he is so happy, Mr. Dalny." "And you told him?" "Yes! Yes!" "And what did he say?" "He put his arms around me and kissed me, and then he whispered, 'Oh! Louise, Louise! the connoisseur knew!'" A POT OF JAM After a fit of choking that could be heard all over the train the left lung of the locomotive gave out. I had heard her coughing up the long grade and had begun to wonder whether she would pull through, when she gave a wheeze and then a jerk, and out went her cylinder head. Boston was four hours away and time of value to me. So it was to all the other passengers, judging from the variety and pungency of their remarks--all except one, an old lady who had boarded the train at a station near the foot of the long grade and who occupied a seat immediately in front of mine. Such a dear old lady! plump and restful, a gray worsted shawl about her shoulders and a reticule on her arm. An old lady with a round rosy face framed in a hood-of-a-bonnet edged with ruffles, the strings tied under her chin, her two soft, human, kindly eyes peering at you over her gold-rimmed spectacles resting on the end of her nose. The sort of an old lady that you would like to have had for a mother provided you never had one of your own that you could remember--so comforting would have been her touch. As the delay continued, the passengers made remarks. Some I cannot remember; others I cannot print.