Em stood perfectly still. "I'll bet she was surprised, Em," he went on wistfully; "do you think she'll come over and say anything about it?" "She'd better," said Em, setting her teeth in her bright under lip. The invalid gave a little, choking cough, and looked out across the valley. A red spot was moving through the stubble toward the house. He put up his hot hand and laid it on Em's cold fingers. "Mother tried to fool me about the money," he said feebly, "but I think I know where she got it. I don't mean to forget it either, Em. I'll pay it back just as soon as I get up." "Yes, Ben." The girl dropped her cheek on his head with a little wailing sob. "Yes, Ben, I ain't a bit afraid about my pay." Then she slipped her hand from under his and went into the house. The red spot was drawing nearer. Mrs. Wickersham glanced through the open window at her son. "Benny's looking brighter than I've seen him in a long time," she thought. "I guess his ride yesterday done him good." And in her little room Em sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall through blinding tears. "I wish I had it all to do over again," she said. "I'd do it all--even if I knew--for Ben!" COLONEL BOB JARVIS. I. We were sojourning between Anaheim and the sea. There was a sunshiny dullness about the place, like the smiles of a vapid woman. The bit of vineyard surrounding our whitewashed cabin was an emerald set in the dull, golden-brown plain. Before the door an artesian well glittered in the sun like an inverted crystal bowl. Esculapius called the spot Fezzan, and gradually I came to think the well a fountain, and the sunburnt waste about us a stretch of yellow sand. When I had walked to the field of whispering corn behind the house, and through the straggling vines to the edge of the vineyard in front, I came back to where my invalid sat beneath the feathery acacias, dreaming in happy lonesomeness. "Did you ever see such placid, bright, ethereal stillness?" I asked. Esculapius took his cigar from his lips and looked at me pensively. "It may be my misfortune, I hope it is not my fault, but I do not remember to have seen stillness of any sort." Esculapius has but one shortcoming--he is not a poet. I never wound him by appearing to notice this defect, so I sat down on the dry burr-clover and made no reply. "You think it is still," he went on in a mannish, instructive way, "but in fact there are a thousand sounds. At night, when it is really quiet, you will hear the roar of the ocean ten miles away. Hark!" Our host was singing far down in the corn. He was a minister, a deep-toned Methodist, brimming over with vocal piety. "Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the jasper sea,"-- came to us in slow, rich cadences.