Of the many boys with whom Frank was associated not one suspected that the attractive lad, who was a favorite with all, was a son of the noted desperado whose deeds had been commemorated in dime novels and were a matter of common knowledge in the West. Ernest had cautioned the boy to say as little as possible of his past history. Years have gone by, and what Bolton predicted has come to pass. Ernest is a young man, a college graduate, and he will soon be married to a young lady of high position in the city of New York. He will go abroad for a year, and on his return will take up his home on his ancestral estate. Last week he received a letter from a patient in a New York City hospital. It was signed John Franklin, a name with which he was not familiar. In some wonder he answered the call, and was led to a bed on which lay a gaunt, spectral man, evidently in the last stage of existence. "Is this John Franklin?" asked Ernest, doubtfully. "That is the name I go by now," answered the dying man. "Do I know you? Have I ever met you?" "Yes." "I don't remember you." "If I tell you my real name, will you keep it secret?" "Yes." "Then I am John Fox." "What! the noted outlaw?" "I am all that is left of him. You will not betray me?" "No; certainly not. Can I do anything for you?" "Yes; you were left the guardian of my brother's child?" "Yes." "Is he alive? Is he well?" "Yes." "Will you bring him here? Will you let me see him before I die?" "I will. I cannot refuse the request of a dying man." So Ernest brought Frank to the bedside of his dying uncle. It was a sad interview. Frank was moved, but John Fox, seeing him strong, handsome, robust, felt comforted. "He at least has profited by the fate that overtook his father and myself. I shall die content, for I leave him in good hands. Don't let him think too hardly of us!" "I will not. And so far as I can compass it, his future life shall be happy." The dying outlaw reached out his hand and pressed Ernest's gratefully. A day later, and he was dead. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES. L. T. TROWBRIDGE. Neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances. He stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of march of the great body of humanity.