When Sir Wilfrid Didn’t Blush. At another press gathering, when I was called upon to speak, I began by timidly asking if there were any reporters present, and loud and continued shouts of “No-o-o” convinced me that there were none. A second question: “Are there any ladies present?” received an equally demonstrative negative. To a third one: “Will Sir Wilfrid blush?” there was no mistake. He wouldn’t. So then I told a story, and I could see, by a side glance of the eye, that Sir Wilfrid felt not a little concerned. But “_Honi soit qui mal y pense_” is my motto as well as that of the British Empire, and so I told a story of the Cobalt days—it’s an old one now—when on a stormy night a benighted stranger on the Gowganda trail sought shelter in a road-house only to find it was crowded plumb full. The landlord informed him that there was no place for him there and that he would have to seek for quarters elsewhere. “But,” pleaded the weary wayfarer, “there is no place to go—no house within half-a-dozen miles, and the storm is growing worse and worse.” The landlord was inexorable, but just then his handsome young daughter joined the two and having over-heard the conversation, said: “But, father, you can’t turn the poor man away on such a night as this. We can find room for him, if he’ll sleep in the hired man’s bed. He’s gone away, you know.” The landlord was willing, and the stranger gladly accepted the offer. Shortly afterwards he was ensconced in the hired man’s bed. Just before blowing out the candle, he heard a gentle tap on the door, and crying out: “Come in,” beheld as the door partly opened a vision of loveliness—the landlord’s daughter. “Would you like a nice bed-fellow to-night!” she innocently asked. (Here Sir Wilfrid looked sharply at me, evidently in great concern.) “You bet,” was the reply. (Sir Wilfrid’s look was agonizing—but just for the moment.) “Well,” said the maiden, “just roll over then; the hired man’s come back.” Loud laughter and a sigh of relief which ended in a chuckle from Sir Wilfrid concluded that particular part of my contribution to that evening’s gaiety of the gallery.