The stranger tried to answer, but the effort tired him, and with a beckoning nod to the young nurse, the woodlander led the way back to the table and their own delayed supper. Both needed it and both ate it rather hastily, much to the disgust of Angelique, who felt that her skill was wasted; but one was anxious to be off out-of-doors to learn the damage left by the storm, and the other to be back on her stool beside the lounge. When Mr. Dutton rose, the housekeeper left her own seat. “I’ll fetch the lantern, master. But that’s the last of Snowfoot’s good milk you’ll ever drink,” she sighed, touching the pitcher, sadly. “What! is anything wrong with her?” “The cow-house is in ruins; so are the poultry coops. What with falling ill yourself just at the worst time and fetchin’ home other sick folks, we might all go to wrack and nobody the better.” The familiar grumbling provoked only a smile from the master, who would readily have staked his life on the woman’s devotion to “her people,” and knew that the apparent crossness was not that in reality. “Fie, good Angelique! You are never so happy as when you’re miserable. Come on; nothing must suffer if we can prevent. Take care of our guest Margot; but give him his nourishment slowly at intervals. I’ll get some tools, and join you at the shed, Angelique.” He went out and the housekeeper followed with the lantern, not needed in the moonlight, but possibly of use at the fallen cow-house. They were long gone. The stranger dozed, waked, ate, and dozed again. Margot, accustomed to early hours, also slept soundly, till a fearful shriek roused her. Her patient was wildly kicking and striking at some hideous monster which had settled on his chest and would not be displaced. “He’s killing me! Help--help! Oh--a--ah!” [TO BE CONTINUED] MARCH With rushing winds and gloomy skies The dark and stubborn Winter dies; Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, Bidding her earliest child arise: March! By streams still held in icy snare, On southern hillsides, melting bare, O’er fields that motley colors wear, That summons fills the changeful air: March! What though conflicting seasons make Thy days their field, they woo or shake The sleeping lids of Life awake, And hope is stronger for thy sake, March! _Bayard Taylor_ WOOD-FOLK TALK By J. ALLISON ATWOOD THE CROW What does the crow say? The syllable “caw” repeated several times? I thought you would say that. A tradition is hard to break; but just listen for yourself sometime, and you will be convinced that the crow has been sadly misunderstood. It is “Hawk, Hawk, Hawk,” just as plainly as one could wish. Of course, you wonder why one bird should spend all his time calling out the name of another. Well, that’s just what I want to tell you about.