"Yas," rejoined old Blue, "we ken say it fur argyment's sake, an' it won't skeer you, but ef it was sho' 'nuff, it would." "Wall, then, say it's sho' 'nuff." "We ken say it, but that won't skeer you, fur you know it ain't true." "But I know it is true." "What, you know that you are goin' ter die ter-day?" "Yes, sir." "How do you know it?" "By this fack," Hendricks replied. He drew a revolver, placed it against his head, and fired. He fell from the chair, dead. The men looked in horror upon the scene. A breeze through the open doorway stirred Hendricks' hair into beautiful curls. WEARING OUT THE CARPET. Among the guests at a small summer hotel were a little boy and his mother. The boy's fullness of life and richness of prankish resource kept the timid, shrinking mother in a constant state of alarm; and the servants, noticing that she was afraid that her son might give offense, took pains to increase her anxiety by telling the child, in those soft but forced tones of kindness which burn worse than harshness, not to make so much noise and not to scatter bread crumbs on the steps. The proprietor's wife, an old woman whom everyone said was motherly, unconsciously took a cue from the servants, and, forgetting that her own sons and daughters were once noisy children, began to oppress the boy. "Sh-sh--don't make a fuss," she said, meeting him in the hall. "Little boys must be seen and not heard. Go and put that ball away. You might break something. Never mind that cat. Get out of my way. I wonder what your mother can be thinking about." "Tommie," his mother called from a neighboring room. "Maam." "Come here." "I ain't doin' nothin'." "Oh, let him alone, I pray you," said the proprietor's wife, inclining her head and smiling at the mother, who had appeared in the doorway. "I was simply afraid that he might break something with his ball, but do let him enjoy himself, I beseech you. Children will be children, you know." "I do hope he won't cause you any trouble," the mother replied. "I do the very best I can with him, but--I--I--come here, son." She reached out, took the boy by the hand, and drew him into the room. "What makes you cry, mamma?" "Because you are so bad, darling," she replied, taking him into her arms. "I didn't know I was bad." "But you are. You seem to make everybody miserable." "What's miserable?" "Unhappy." "What's unhappy?" "Go, sit down over there." He climbed up on a trunk, twisted himself around, tore his clothes, got down, killed a fly on the window pane, picked up a feather which he found in a corner, threw it up and blew his breath upon it, turned over a work-basket, climbed upon the bed where his mother had lain down, put his hands on her face, gazed with mischievous tenderness into her eyes, and said: "I love you." She clasped him to her bosom. "You'll be a good boy, won't you?" "Yessum, an' when that nigger makes a face at me, I won't say anything." "Well, you must not."