the usual sneer was gone from his mouth, and his closed eyes gave him an expression of peace. Jane dropped the coat as if dazed and turned helplessly to the men. They, equally helpless, nudged Farmer Reynolds forward to act as spokesman. His big, kindly face was abashed and solemn, his fingers nervously twirled his rough cap. "It was a stroke, mum," he managed to jerk out at last, "some kind of a fit, Doc says. It carried him right, off, too, quicker'n a wink, an' not a mite o' pain. There he was a-sittin' an' scrappin' like a good feller one minute--an' then his face kind o' went pale, an' over he keeled. First we knew it was him on the floor, clean knocked out." Reynolds was becoming garrulous in his efforts to relieve the embarrassment of the situation, but Jane had already forgotten him. They had laid Jim on the floor and Jane sat down beside him, carefully adjusting his tumbled coat and smoothing the rough hair off his low forehead. She did it all in a calm and matter-of-fact way. The men looked helplessly at one another, while Jane, utterly unconscious of them, continued her ministrations to the dead. Was it a few hours ago or was it many years ago that she had vowed never to call him husband again? She had forgotten--after all, it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered now. Suddenly there came a tapping down the steps. The stair door was pushed open, and a towsled, barefooted, night-gowned little figure appeared on the threshold. "Mother," Meg quivered, "where are you?" When she saw her mother, she made straight for her, almost tumbling over the crutch in her haste. She threw her arms, lovingly around her mother's neck. Jane started--the queer, dazed look left her eyes, though her cheeks were still pale, save for one long red mark. With a little sob she turned, crushed the child to her, and began to cry. "Oh, but we did love him, Meg, didn't we?" she sobbed. "And he was good to us, just as good as he knew how to be. Oh, Meg, Meg, if I had only been a better wife to him!" --Katherine Kurz. =When Terry "Quit"= "Gad! and to think, Jim, that I ever lived on Front street!" The frock-coated, silk-hatted stage manager removed the big black cigar from his mouth, and with a pudgy little finger, on which sparkled a blue diamond of unusual size, he flicked away the ashes. "Though it really was a rather decent sort of a place then, you know." He addressed his companion, a press-agent, first, however, carefully readjusting the cigar so that it should be at such an angle to his lips as to suggest sportiness.