“Nothing but a shot could wake me like that,” he said to himself, and hastily pulling on his clothes and taking his revolver in his hand he went through the house. The fire had been built and breakfast, already cooked, was waiting for him. “I guess Sis didn’t sleep much either,” he thought. He knocked at her door but received no answer. “Milking the cow, I guess,” he thought, but there was beginning to be a horrible dread in his heart. He ran hastily out of the house, and there—there under his own window lay Sis, again a green and red heap, but there was red on the dress now that was not ribbon. She had shot herself in the breast. He ran to her and picked her up. He carried her into the house and swore at himself for never having had the energy to study a little surgery in all the long years of his army idleness. Presently she revived a little and he heard her murmur faintly: “Tell dad good by—tell him I can’t help him any longer.” “Oh, Sis!” he pleaded, “why did you do this?” “Because you laughed at me,” she answered. “But I did not mean it. You are beautiful, Sis, indeed you are very beautiful.” “Oh no, I’m not,” she said. “I know what beauty is now.” He could say nothing for a time. He hardly knew why he said what he did when he spoke. “Sis,” he asked her gently, “tell me, why did you want to be beautiful?” “Because—because I loved you,” she answered slowly and with a sob. And when her father got home that afternoon and walked gayly into the little adobe house, he found them still together, one dead—one weeping. A BRIEF BURLESQUE. _As Performed Upon the Modern Stage._ _She_—You love me? _He_— Aye, I do indeed, How can I prove it? _She_— Is there need? _He_—Nay, not for some, but you are cold— Ah, would our life were that of old That I might prove by feat of arms My wish to shield you from all harms— As knight of thine I could not fail! _She_—There’s safety in a coat of mail. _He_—True, so there is; but take the case Of Orpheus—give to me his place. For Orpheus left this world above, At Pluto’s throne he showed his love— _She_—But that’s mythology, you know— _He_—To Pluto I would go to show— _She_—Ah, thanks; but is it just to trace Comparisons between his Grace Of the Inferno and _mon père_? You’d hardly find the latter there, But in that room with door ajar You’ll see him deep in his cigar; Which after dinner smoke, I find, Brings him a happy frame of mind. Go to him, therefore, and confess— Then I am yours if he says _yes_. (_She watches him as he hurries away_) Poor boy, without a single cent Upon an empty errand bent! THE MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY. _By Warren Taylor._