Still in a daze Virginia picked up a pistol from the floor, turned the cylinder to see that it was unloaded, and dropped it into the pocket of Parke’s light overcoat. At the action, Fair showed his first consciousness of her presence “You’ll get yourself shot one—these days, Virginia,” he muttered, half irritably, half penitently. “—’dvise you—let such things ’lone.” And one could not have said whether he meant, by this, her present handling of the firearm itself, her former reckless demand that he open the door, or her presence on such a scene. Uncle Vete assured Virginia that he would look after Parke for the night, and would see that he reached home in the morning. She gently declined the old man’s offer to return to town with her, and promised to send Beelzebub out by Sam, Cindy’s eldest, who was acting as house-boy at the Sevier home. The drive in the night air, and Virginia’s presence somewhat sobered her brother. “Does dad know?” he asked, as they neared home. “I didn’t wake him,” responded Virginia. Fair turned, as he lay with his head against her shoulder. He was beginning to be deathly sick—the end of all Fair’s essays at drinking. “You’re a good girl, Virginia. Mighty good girl. I reckon you’ll get your reward in heaven.” But, driving home under the stars, freed from a self-imposed bond, warned that she might in future protect this well-beloved sinner whose head lay on her breast, ready now to accept the love of the man she loved, with no shadow on her conscience—Virginia felt that she had her reward here, now and in this world. THE SPINNER. BY ELOISE PICKETT. Wearied to death of my thoughts! Is there none, in this epoch of wondrous wares, Will sell me a fair, sweet dream? I summoned my spirit, this morn, to be chid For her endless weaving of gloom; But she lifted me retrospective eyes, Burning and dry (for the tears, dammed back, Have found them a pool in my heart); Her face was wan, and her mouth was set In the hard, thin line of resolve. And I left unsaid my stern rebuke, But her answer cried loud in her mien: “_I_ weave; but the warp and the woof are thine; Thou madest them yesterday.” And so I watch, with sickening hope, As her busy fingers ply ’Mongst threads from the throbbing Other Days, And wisps from the ominous Days to Come, And skeins from the stagnant Now. Wearied to death of my thoughts! Is there none, in this epoch of cunning skill, Can weave me thought-fabrics fair? [Illustration] [Illustration] MEN OF AFFAIRS Joseph W. Bailey.