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n 1 1 11 THE STEWARD'S SON $ CHAPI'ER XII. "You are hurt!" Only three words, but surely never were three simple words more elo- quent. Norah stopped as she spoke, and looked at Cyril, and there was con- sternation and tender reproach in her beautiful eyes, as well as in her .Toico. The glance and the words made his blood run riot in his veins, and hi.s lace was no longer pale. "It is nothing," he said, trying to speak carelessly, and smiling, "Ilul it is something," she per- sisted, her brow wrinkled with anx- iety and remorse. She had thought of the horses, the coachman, the footman, oven a little of herself, and had bestowed no thought upon him who had come to the aid of all of thom. "It is something! You winced whfii Iâ€" I touched you," and she â- toix! still a.s if she declined to go on until she was satis(ie<l. "Well." he said, hesitatingly. "I think I must have .strained my arm, or ricked it or .something of the kind; but it isn't of the least conso qucnco, I assure you, Lady Norah." "You strained your arm?" she snid utterly refusing to accept his tone of I levity and indifference. "When? When' you wore trying to drag the carriage out of the way?" "I dare say." "No! I remember, you scarcely trio<l; it must have been before thot? Why"â€" the blood rose to her fiuo, then left it pale and remorsiful, and Bill! cuiie t loser to him â€" "was ;t. vnu who stoppiti the horses?" She k-t her eyes run over him. "You are all dusty and your coat is torn? Oh, how blind, how blind 1 have been! You did stop the horses, did you not and you are badly hurt?" and in lier Borrow ami anxiety her hands went together almost piteously. Cyril gave up trying to smile the nueslion away. • "Well," he adniitliKl, almost as if It were something to be ashanuHl of. "I was lucky enough to get hold of them, and it was clumsy of mo. but the.v got me down, and I suppose I Just twisted my arm." Nurah shuddered. She had a keen inrnginution, and she saw it all; the tcrriOod, plunging horse strtiggUiig in his grasp, and evejituully forcing him ti) thy ground and drugging Idui under their hoofs. She saw it a great deal worse than it really had been, and a faint moan broke from her now pale lips. "Oh, what shall I do?" she said, almost inaudlbly. "I assure you that it is nothing." "Ah, I cannot trust you! You have niailo light of it, and I cannot be- lieve that you are not hurt. Is there anything, an.vthing I can do?" 'â- Nothing, nothing, I.ady Norah," ho nuiimged to liilerpo.se. "And I was so selCish 1 thought of nothing but myself and the â€" the others," she sai<l, penitently. "I might have known that you would have fried to sto|> them! Oh, 1 wish â€" 1 wi.sh I had not lei you i-ome with me! Will you go home now?" '"rhat 1 certainly will not," re- sponded Cyril, with a sndle. "If you knew how gladâ€" how proud I am to be with you " lie stoppe<l. coiisriouR of the Intensity in his Voiie, and that lis Intensity had liroughl the color to her face and caused her to lower her eyes. "1 mean that I could not think of letting yini go alone." "An<l yet It Is such a little way," she renuinst rated. "Ves, a Very liltln way." "Could .\o<i not bathe It? Is it broken!" she asko*!. "No, no," ho saiil, with his short laugh. "That I am cirtnin it is not, and there Is no water here." "If you will come," she said, "lot us get to the Court as <iuickly as poN.silile," and she si^t otT. "â- rbere Is iii> need for hurry on my account," he said, iileadlngly; "and «lo tuk(! inv arm again." "No," she said, lirmly. "It is you who Hho\ild lake mine. I ought to help, who need help more than I do. Hhall 1, can I, help .vou?" "I could walk twenty miles. My arm Is a little^ sIlIT, that is all." "Let us hurry. You do not know what you have done to 11â€" or will not tell me," she nildeil, with a le- proacb llu\t was Ineffably sweet nnd serious. "And yet .you would not let n>c rest until you hud found out that I was not hurt;" "The cases ore altogether cllfTeront, ho said. "It you had been hurl " lie stopped. "Iton't let US think of nnyttiiiig so horrible." "What would It have mattered? 1 am only a useless girl, while you .Will you be able to paint?" "As wellâ€" or as badlyâ€" as over. It's the left arm." "Cpon my word, you mako mo feel mean," he "said, with a laugh. I don't believe thorn ia anything tho mailer with me." "I ilo not bellevo a word you say." "Well, then, <lon't let ua say nny- Ihlng more about It," ho remnrkocl. "What a lovely night! T think the mouii shines more brightly nt Sant- leigh than at any other place I have evei- seen her," "1 wish we were home," said Norah disregarding his rhapsody. "And oven then there will be no doctor!" "That's something to be thankful for," ho retorted, determined to dis- pel her anxiety if he could. She was walking a few paces in front of him, and stopped suddenly before a small gate with a little cry of dismay. "'I'he gate's locked!" she said. "Tho keeper must have locked it," ho said. "Oh, what shall we do?" she e.t- claimed under her breath. "Don't bo alarmed," he said, with a smile; '^from trespass to burglary is a very easy step. The other day I was on forbidden ground, now I am about to make forcible entry." He dislodged a big stone from tho hedged bank and smashed the pad- lock. "Uather a rough kind of 'Open Sesame!" ho saiil. Norah looked at him. It seemed to her that he was prepared for any kind of emergency, and, little thing though it was. it brought a subtle kind of admiration into her eyes. "You think of everything. 1 should have walked round." "Well," ho responded, "ladies arc not sup|)osed to break ojien pad- locks; it*s a imm's privile!;e. I won- der whether tho gamekeeper will shoot me. or only insist ui>on my getting six months?" He held the gate open us lie spoke for her to pa.ss through, and in do- ing so, his hand chanced to touch hers. Her pity and tenderness had given him courage, ami he look ad- vantage, man like; his hand closeed on hers, and he drew it within his arm. "You see, my right arm is all right," ho .sai<l, pleadingly. Norah 's lashes hid her eyes, but «ho allowed her hand to rest where ho hud placed it. "What will you do when you reach home? Will yo\i send for a doctor?" "No. Do you really wish to know. Lady Norah?" She did not answer, and he went lui after a pause: "1 shall light a pipe and throw myself into my armrhair. and think over nil tho incidents o( this event- ful night." "Sadly eventful," she said. "SatU>? Not to me. If I had my way, it tho gods had ofrere<l me my choice of a night, I should havo cho.sen " Ho stopped in lime, ro- mendiering that she was under his protection, and an accident had com- pelled her to bo his companion at this unusual hour, and alone, and ho could not take advantage of it to lay buro his heart. Hut the tempta- tion â€" ah, tho temptation was terri- ble! "You would havo chosen to break your arm?" said Norah, scarcely knowing what she said, but trying to speak banteringly and nutke light of his words. "No, I should have chosen to bo of some slight service to .vou." ho an- swered, in a low voice. "Do you know what it is thai makes mo so happy?" "No. Are you so happy?" "Very, completely happ.v," he an- swered. "It is Just the reaction. When I saw you lying there so still, 1 thought â€" never mind what I Ihought; and now I havo you walk- ing by my side (|uite mihurt I feel like â€" like a man who has eacapeil the loss of a fortune, or come out well from an awkward scrape." "Then it is all on my account." she said, "and thero ia no thought of yourself." "It Is nil on your account," ho as- sented. "Don't spoil my pleasure b.v speaking of m.vself. Ah, there is tho house!" He broke off with somi>thing like a sigh as the groat place, shining in the moonlight, loomed before Ihi-iu. ".\nd now will you go?" she said. "Woidd you rather that 1 did not go wilh you to the house?" he asked, "No." she rejilled. In a low voice. "I was thinking of yourself. I want- ed you to get hom?. I woulil like you to come, thai m.v fallier may know all jou have done, and thank you as you deserve." "Then I will come," he said, "llut you have thanked me more than enough, I.ady Norah!" "1 have not thankoti you nt all. What could C say?" "Do you really wish to thank mo?" he asked. They hud reached the steps, and ho stood with one foiil on the Imttom one, looking at her wilh a light In his eyes which she seemed to feel tin- der her lowered lids. "if you do, dim't say one word, but Just give mo the rose you wear." His heart smote him the moment he had made the reipiost, and ho was prepared to see her draw herself up and reprove him with a look of maiden dignity. Milt she stood nnd looked down nt the (lower which l.ady Kerndale had plckoil for her and placed In her gir- dle, and ho saw the color come and go in her lovely face. "It is a poor guerdon," she said, with a flickering smile that seemed to make her face more serious. "It is all dusty and faded." "I would rather have it than the freshest and finest!" .Slowly she took the flowerâ€" it was dusty and fadedâ€" from her belt and held it out to him, standing with downcast face. Ho took the rose and pressed it to his lips; then, carried away by the thought that she had worn it, feeling that it was, so to speak part and parcel of herself that she gave him, he took her hand, and bending over it, kissed it passionately. Norah went white to the lips. It was her hand only he had kissed, but it was tho first kiss of love, and it stirred her maiden heart to its depths. With a long breath she thrilled throughout her whole being, and stood looking at him, hall fearfully, wholly entranced. He looked up at her, his face al- most as white as hers. "Ah, forgive mc! Forgive me! I â€" I did not think! I â€" ah, jou would not bo angry, you would forgive mo it you understood, if you knew how I love you!" She shrank back slightly, and drawing her hand away, pressed it unconsciously against her heart. "Ah, I've said it!" ho murmured. for a carriage, but thero were difB- cultiea in the way. I sent one man with the horses, and the other was left with the carriage. I wish you good-night, my lord. Good-night, Lady Norah," and he raised his hat. Norah stood, her face white and red by turns; her father's coldness and hauteur filled her with shame; she was tingling from head to foot. "Papa, papa!" she murmured, al- most piteously. "Will you not step in Mr. Burno!" said the earl. "No, thank you, my lord." "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she said, slowly, her largo eyes full of emotion, as if she meant to make up for her father's short- comings. Cyril took her hand and pressed it, and with a bow that included the earl and Guildford Berton, turned and went down the steps. Tho great door closed behind him. He walked down the drive nearly to the lodge, then stopped suddenly and sat down. Ho had ignored and made light of his hurts while Norah had been with him, now the pain iu his arm was so acute that he felt giddy and sick from it. He leaned against the smooth-shav- en bank of turf, and tried to feel the injured limb, but he could scarcely bear the touch of his own fingers. Was ho going to be idiot enough to faint, ho thought? Angry at tho idea, he struggled to his feet, think- despcralely, as if he saw that he had i ing he would reach tho lodge and ask lost her forever, but that it was use- loss to try and recall his words. "I love you,*I,ftdy Norah! I love you! Don't speak to me yet! Y'ou are angry, ofAendcd! I have behaved bad- ly! I ought not to have said it ! But " A sound broke the silence of night. It was the opening of great door. He stopped, and Norah with a start, looked toward the house. Two figures stood plainly re- vealed against tho light in the hall. Cyril aiscd his head and passed his hand over his forehead. "Lady Norah, don't cast me ott un- til you have seen me, hoard me " He could say no more. They had gone up tho stops, nnd for a glass of water; but the lodge and the trees and the sky executed a peculiar kind of dance before his eye. and ho fell back on the bank. * Ho had lain there in delicious un- consciousness for a couple of min- utes, when llecca Louth came through the the gate. She was walking with a the . light, careful step, "ns if she wished to avoid attracting the r.ttention of the people at the lodge, ond her pink di-css flitted like an overgrown moth against the dark trees. She saw Cyril, and slopped with a littlo cry of alarm, then cautiously and fearfully approachi-d him. "Why, it's the painter gentleman!" she exclaimed, wilh a surprise which intensillod as sh* saw how motion- 0000000000000000000004 YOUNQ FOLKS oooooooooooooooooooooo JUST A BOY'S DOO. No, siree, that dog won't bite; Not a bit o' danger! What's his breed! Shure I don't know; Jest a 'boy's djg,' stranger. No St. Bernardâ€" yet last >ear,. Time the snow was deepest. Dragged a little shaver home Where the hill was steepest. Aint't a bulldog, all the same, 'Twouldn't do to scoll him. Fastened on a tramp one tim^â€" Couldn't pry him ofl him. Not a pointed â€" jest the same. When it all is oveir. Ain't a better critter round Startin' up the plover. « Sell him? Say, thero ain't his price. Not in all the nation!. Jest a 'boy's dog'; that's hia breed â€" Finest in creation. stood before the carl and Guildford j loss Cyril lay. At first she thought Berton. â€" well, Hecca thought that ho was Guildford Herton dartetl a dark intoxicated, and grew alarmed when. Berton dartetl a dark look from under his brows at each of them in turn, then dropped his eyes and slood with tightly-drawn lips in sinister silence. Tho earl regarded them with haughty surprise on his cold face, and in a tone of ice, di.s- regarding his daughter's presence, .said: "Mr. Burne! To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" "I'apa!" she said, hurrieilly, "there has been an accident! Lady Fern- dale's horses ran awa.v, and tho car- riago was ui)set, and Mr. Hurni' " she slopped a moment for breath. bending o^<.'r him, she saw that ho had fainted. Her lirst idea was to run to the lodge and call the keeper, Jobson, to her aid; but she did not do so. ICve, the mother of us all, was not more curious than her daughter I Hecca. and Becca's little mind was all agog to di.scover the reoson why ' the strange gentleman should have fallen down in a fainting lit in tho Court avenue. So she knelt down beside tho still form, and with hands that trembled a little, unfustenetl his collar, and held her hand, cold and wet wilh his ".Mr. Burno stopped tho horses at great peril." | dew from the long grass, upon Tho earl calmly took her hand and ! forhead. removed it from his arm. j He looked very handsome, Oecca "Kxcu.so me," he said, coldly. "Do | thought, as ho In.v there and her I understand that Mr. Burno has rpnde4"e<l you a service?" \'oH, yes," she said, "Mr. Burne stopped the horsesâ€" the two great black, glittering eyes scanned his face and clothes minutely. "Has ho been fighting?" she asked herself, a.s she noticed the dust and horse.sâ€" think, papa! â€" nnd." her voice tho rent in his coat. grew lower, and was meant for ear alone, "and he is hurl!" his But thero wore no marks on the clean-cut, sunburned (ace. and, still "That Mr. Burne is hurt I very : puzzled, IVn-ra Ihought that perhaps much rogrol," ho said, stiffly, "and I i he had boon knocked down and rob- trust that tho injury is not a scr- â-  bed. ious one. Where did you â€" or- leave | Hurglars ond footpads were not of tho carriage; 1 do not see it?" I common occurrence in Santlelgh, but "Tho carriage is a wreck, papa. >>e occasionally tramps passed through, left it In the lane. | and potty larcenies followed in their trail. Ilul if he had been knocked down and left for dead, his n.s.sailants had leTl him his watch, tor the chain was gliltering in tho moonlight. (To be Contlnueil.) "And you have taxed Mr. Burno's kindness to tho extent of accompany- ing you home!" said tho earl, in a tone of rebuke, intended as much for Cyril as for her.self. "Why did you not send one of the servants here tor a carriage?" "I did not thinkâ€" there was no time! Oh, papa, are you not going to thank him for all ho has done?" "I trust Mr. Burne will do mo the Justice lo acknowlo<lge that I have attempted to thank him in my poor way." "No thanks are neodinl. my lord," said Cyril, quiolly. "1 am afraid Lady Norah puts far too high a value on the poor service I was for- tunate to render her. I was lucky enough to bo passing at tho moment of the accident, that is all. I trust tirely. I,a<lv Norah is not hurt. It was I Old Hunk.sâ€" Shucks! who should hgvo thought of sending the use of arguing! MUSHY. Pearl â€" "I hear that Jeanelto nnd Horry were about the softest couple I thai were ever married in this town." liub.v â€" "I should say so. Why, they wero so soft that their friends boiUni the rico before they threw it at them." SPOILKD IT ALL. .Siuoothloighâ€" I agree wilh you en- 'I'hen what's CHOOSF A LIFE VOCAnoN. There comes a time when every growing boy must face the question: What shall I do for a. life work? It is an important question, one that is as important to the parents as to the child. It is one that must be faced squarely and answered wise- iy- And yet there are many who shirk and turn away, trying to avoid a direct answer, leaving the solution to what they hope will be a happy ! chance. Then there are sons who leave the solution entirely to their parents; and there are parents who leave it all to tho sons. £ach should consider the matter with diligence and frankness and come to a determination agreeable to both. In considering tho problem it will be well to remember several things. In t>ho tirst place all real success must bo founded in the economic principal of becoming a producing member of tho great industrial scheme. There is no room in the world for a drone. Everybody must produce something The man who produces what is most needed and most wonted receives the largest rewards. .\s a general rule it is wise to try to produce something of which the supply is scant. In any case, it is prudent to avoid those occupations in which there is already a surplus of tho product. For instance, tho world is not crying for lawyers, doc- j tors, preachers, or accountants. The so-called professions are overcrowd- ed. Thero is a large surplus stock of legal advice on tho market: also medical advico and of bookkeeping. j Con.se<iuently the rewards are dimin- ishing. The kind of man that is n\ost plen- tiful in the market is the one who knows no business in particular and wants something in which he can wear good clothes while At work. The man most in demand and least plentiful is the oite who has had ac- tual experience with somo occupation which soils the hands and the clothes and who, at the same time, has the capacity for planning and directing. .\ railway manager who has tramp- eel the ties and built a trestle, a book publisher who has set type; a lumber dealer who has jti «ed as a lumber jack: a contractor who has "measuix>vi in" and "chocked out" â€" in a word, the man most in demand and hardest to find is the one who has learne<l somo line of busincs.>i from the basement to the "front ot- lice." The men who want to learn a business from the lop down aro plentiful This Is a great industrial era. Thero aro opportunitit>s for all. Kvery ten or twenty years the great indus- trial army must bo recruitwl anew. Tho time has pa-sscd when it was not "respt>ctable" to be anything but a "professional man." Scienco and learning have become the handmaid- ens of the industrial arts. Ti>-day anything ia honorable that is tlono well. Pro<luc© son\ething â€" give something to the world, and the woiUl will pour its blessing into your lap •rilK •ii:mpti{i:.s.s. A CAUTIOUS tMUTlC. "I>on't you think that Miss Spriggs plays tho piano beautifully?" "Well," answered the musician who is both conscientious and polite, "let us rather say that Miss Sprigga i« beautiful when she plays the piano." HING IT IN. "He made (juito a littlo speech when ho proposed last night," con- lldiMl Helen, blushingly. ".Sort of a ringing sptvch, I pre- sumo?" Iaughe<l Katherine, noticing the glitter on her chum's hand. 4 ("oniuii.>i.seui-â€" -I tell you what it is. M'Unub, tho.se o.itriches are simply superb. You shouldn't v>aint any- thing but binls." Artist tdi.sgusl- ed)â€" "'lliD-se are not ostriches; they tti"e camels." Klderly Tj»dyâ€" •This toilw soap I have bought here hns staini'd luy face i all over, nnd your master told mo it would not harm the most beautiful coiiiplexii'u in tho world." Youthful Shopboy â€" "Yes'm; but .vouiu ain't the most be.-vutifu" routplex'.ou in the world, is it'm?" K