As he thus spoke there came a watery feeling into his eyes, and a yearning to take the girl to his heart and brave all the world for her sake. He hated the long fellow as he had never done before, and cursed him in his heart while he praised him with his lips. But he kept his thoughts upon a picture of a gray old farm-house by the water-side, and a bent old man and woman therein, and went on playing his game, and won it. Her face paled, and she clasped her hands. "Where is he?" she asked eagerly. "He's lying to-night in Aleck Jarley's cabin, back of the haystack." She was turning away, but he stopped her. "Wait a minute," he said. "Here is some money belonging to Trapp: you can give it to him." The money was in her hand before he had finished speaking. She folded her shawl across her breast and turned away in the direction he had indicated. The next morning Field started for home. He had just one dollar in his pocket and two hundred miles of ground to get over. He walked, caught a ride now and then, got a lift on a canal-boat two or three times, ate bread and drank water and slept in barns or under grain-stacks. He came walking into Colman's office one morning looking cheerful but somewhat disreputable. Colman did not know him at first. When they had shaken hands. Colman looked in his friend's shaggy face and asked, "Is it all square, Dan?" "All square, Phil," answered Field, looking the other as straight in the eyes; "Well, I'm glad you pulled through, Dan," said Colman; "but you'd better have come home with me." "Well, I don't know, Phil," Field answered musingly: "I'm not sure whether I'm sorry or glad." J.T. McKAY. THE PROBLEM. Two parted long, and yearning long to meet, Within an hour the life of months repeat; Then come to silence, as if each had poured Into the other's keeping all his hoard. And when the life seems drained of all its store, Each inly wonders why he says no more. Why, since they've met, does mutual need seem small, And what avails the presence, after all? Though silent thought with those we love is sweet, The heart finds every meeting incomplete; And with the dearest there must sometimes be The wide and lonely silence of the sea. CHARLOTTE F. BATES. MONACO.