The next day he left his house early, to walk over the hills to the home of a distant poor parishioner; coming home late in the afternoon he came upon her, seated on the ledge of rock upon the hillcrest. She walked calmly to meet him, and standing bravely before him she asked him the question. It was then that the rector discovered that the Angel with which he had been struggling was not, as he had believed, the Angel of Temptation, but, indeed, the Angel of Life. As they walked down later, in the red glow, hand in hand, he asked: “Do you remember, Ladybird, the cards on the silver butter-dish?” She laughed and said: “And those first ginger cookies?” “Do you remember the day you were up in the apple tree, Ladybird, and hit me with an apple?” “And that was before I learned to ‘throw straight,’ too!” “You were very repentant, so we went fishing the next day. You leaned over the brook to see yourself, and your hair fell into the water.” “It wasn’t very long,” she laughed. “How long is it now, Ladybird?” he asked. She pursed up her lips. “Oh, longer,” she said. At the edge of the woods they stood for a last look at the churchyard below. “Can you give up the other life, Ladybird?” he asked seriously. “There is no other,” she replied softly. “Oh, Ladybird, Ladybird, when will you come home?” he cried. She shook her head at him, laughing. “Oh, parson, old parson, you couldn’t ask one great, important question, but you’re a genius at asking silly ones!” THE DRASNOE PIPE-LINE By Arthur Stanwood Pier On a windy and sullen morning in May, 1864, a caravan of fifty wagons, each piled high with barrels, crawled down the muddy road from the Drasnoe oil-field. Beside the leading team of the procession walked a one-armed man and a fifteen-year-old boy. The faces of the two were not cheerful. That of the man was sad; the boy’s was anxious. Behind trooped the other teamsters, shouting, cracking their long blacksnake whips, swearing at the horses, the mud, the threatening sky. They were always boisterous and blasphemous during the long daily haul. The one-armed man and the boy walked together silently by preference. “Do you suppose General Grant is done fighting by this time?” the boy asked, at last. His companion smiled sadly. “I guess he won’t be done fighting for a good many months yet. But I shouldn’t wonder if he was out of the Wilderness by now.” “It must be a big battle,” said the boy. “Most as big as Gettysburg, don’t you think, John?” “Pretty nigh.” “How long do you suppose before we hear about father—whether he’s all right?” “Depends on how long the battle lasts. I guess in a week.” “That’s an awful time to wait. Your folks didn’t hear about you till ten days after it happened, did they?” He glanced at the empty sleeve. “I believe not. But there was a good deal to ’tend to after Gettysburg. Maybe there won’t be so much in this battle.” “I wish I was down there instead of hauling oil every day,” said the boy.