He performed his old tactics, darted above the butterfly, some two yards higher in the air, gauged instinctively a plummet line from the point of his own beak to Golden Wings and then drops with folded wings like a ball of lead. I forgot to say that I was out that morning with the twelve-gauge, smokeless shells and one and a half ounces of No. 7 chilled, thinking I might see a certain thieving crow that I had a grudge against. Thoughts are lightning--words thunder, and when I caught the first glimpse of the red-headed marauder of the air all this went through my mind: “Nature is nature--tooth and claw. And yet there is a God who says even when a butterfly shall fall. He makes our lives and marks out our destiny. Sometimes amid injustice He calls Himself Retribution, and then He has been known to raise up a man and a gun, invent smokeless powder and deadly chilled shot, give accuracy of aim and, most wonderful of all, the voice of a purpose to say that harm shall not happen even to a butterfly.” There was no smoke from the report and so I distinctly saw Golden Wings drop joyfully among the green leaves. But a red-headed marauder lies in the field where he fell. And if some one who knows, will tell me why I happened to be there, why I carried my gun that morning, why I fired, I will tell him who God is. HIS CHANCE. The summer day was nearly gone, and only a few clouds caught the gleam of sunset in the west. A woman of thirty, with a sweet, sincere face, came out of a cottage and walked to the little farm gate that opened on the main road winding across the Iowa prairie. The cottage sat in a small grove of trees, and farther off were neat outhouses, a stable and dairy. Flowers bloomed in a little bed near the front gate, and several hives of bees sat under cherry trees in the front yard. Everything around the neat cottage, from the well-kept vines which climbed over the porch to the orchard and fields of corn, clearly showed that Thrift and Industry were the handmaidens that lived there. The woman was not pretty, neither was she handsome, but her face was of unusual intelligence and strength. Her hands showed work, and a few gray hairs shone over her temple. At the little gate she stood while the shadows grew darker around her. There were chirpings of summer insects, and presently down the walk stalked a huge St. Bernard, looking like a great bear in the twilight. He seemed to think the woman had been out alone long enough, and his very way of walking showed that he knew he was her protector. He stalked up and thrust his big cold nose into her hand as it hung listlessly by her side. She started, but closed it over his mouth with a caress, saying: “Rex, you are silly about me.” A buggy came out of the gloaming down the road, and stopped at her gate. The woman turned pale in the twilight, as she recognized the middle-aged man who came toward her, holding out his hand: “Jennie--I--well--it’s me!”