by the time the builders got around to the Lexington and Amherst line, they designated these cars, in a creditable burst of originality, by a sash of black-and-red squares, like the Rob Roy plaid. Immediately arose some genius with an equally fertile invention and baptised them "the checker-board cars," a title which they wore to the end. There was one very steep hill at the foot whereof it was the custom to hitch on an extra team of mules; I know of no more gallant spectacle than that furnished by a quadriga of mules nobly breasting Wade Street hill, with a checker-board car plunging in the rear. When it got off the track, as not infrequently happened, all the male passengers got out and helped push it back. We were firmly persuaded that this was rapid transit! Yet spare your merriment, youth of to-day; impartial Fate is waiting for your admired institutions, too, your Twentieth Century Flyers, your automobiles, your seven-league-boots. In twenty-five years, how will your sons and daughters deride you; with what longing, with what amused tenderness, will you not look back to these kind, simple days! Doctor Vardaman, then, with Destiny stalking viewless at his side, swung off the checker-board car, and began the homeward walk. Some way ahead of him he saw a figure diminished by distance, plodding through his yard toward the kitchen door; and as he drew nearer, two more figures emerged from his front porch. The doctor recognised Bob Carson, and in the over-tall, lankily-graceful young woman, Mazie Pallinder, in an extremely modish tan-coloured cloth coat with dark brown plush collar and pocket flaps. Mazie's sleeves were about as tight as Bob's trousers--that is to say, they were as tight as human skill could make them, or human arms and legs endure. Thus were we clad in the eighties. "Oh, hello, Doctor," said Bob, dropping Mazie's hand--I suppose he had been fastening her glove--and addressing the old gentleman with unusual vivacity and a notable increase of colour. "Ah--we--we've just been getting Huddesley to hear us our parts--in 'Mrs. Tankerville,' you know." "I hope you have mastered yours," said Doctor Vardaman, without a smile. Bob's part, as he and everyone else knew, might have been omitted altogether without materially damaging the performance; he was a footman in "Mrs. Tankerville," and his lines were hardly more than "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," stated at the proper intervals. He got redder than ever under the doctor's grave survey, and affected to be busy knocking invisible mud from his boot heel with his cane as they stood by the gate. Mazie did not blush--for the best of reasons. Her face was too carefully arranged to permit of it. And, besides, what was there to blush about? Bob changed colour almost whenever she looked at him; but then Bob was a quiet and rather shy youth.