A Gir of | the People - ic By Mrs. €. 1. Wiltamses pe of "The Bera Bice © Portune's Sport," " Mies Nobody," " Mary of the Dark Heum," ota 2 « « "what is it? mare 7 ms hurt you?" he @aked, quickly. B. is time he had 'both lente: and, seeing at no oo I could hardly believe in ual existence of the strange ching z wnich I had caught sight of for an In my a Katonah nt I had sat up, and continued to stare at him, my t. apar "Mrs. Jennett, make haste with the @a\ volatile!" he exc:aimed. that she will faint cgain." But I gently pushed the sal volatile a@way when it was obediently presented And I looked straight up into pail man's anxious iace. "Tell me who 7 7 He laughed. "I ought to have told you that before," be replied. "But, you see, I had so little chance. My mame is John Bourke." "Yes, miss," provdly broke !n Mrs. Jennett. "And he's the John Bourke. Oh, you may scowl and shake your head, Mr. Bourke--but only fancy her 'mot knowing." I knew no more now than I had known before, since the name of John Bourke suggésted nothing. Ail my thoughts were concentrated, however, not on what I heard, but what I had geen. He guésved this, and his eyes questioned mine in a puzzled way. "Why did you cry out and suddenly ask for my name?" he emanded. "Don't tell me if you would rather not," he hastily added. "Sut----" "Y would rather tc"!"" I spoke on the impulse of curiosity. keen as the stb ofaknife. "I crjed -ut because--I saw something strange on your arm. A wanst-anaped scar." CHAPTER XIII. John Bourke and a Lady. John -Bourke's face changed under my eyes. A slow fiu-h rose to his fore- head, and he slight 'y compressed his Mps with an expres*'»n which was like the involuntary wire of a stormy, yet sensitive nature beneath an unexpected Ww. "Do you think that so strange?" he gaid. "I have got used to it. I have had it for a long time. But at present there's something much more import- ant to think about than the scar on my arm; which is, for Mrs. Jennett to get you into dry clothes. It is late, and you are very, very tived. I shall leave you for to-night, and to-morrow morn- ing, perhaps, you wil let me call and gee how you are.' I felt abashed, as If I had been guilty ef an unwarrantab!c impertinence. He had spoken courteou*ly and kindly, but tt was plain that the subject of the heart-shaped scar was forbidden. I was more curious tan ever: It even seemed to me that Fiad ri eurflosity, If hé knew all. But I in- etantly determined that I would not @gain ask questions. "Good-bye; and you have done,' 1 ; At the door he tr . one thing before I xo. cits Rie for all a" rote milse The not leave this house until you have seen me again." "I do promise that," I responded, af- ter an instant's hesitation. "And I trust you--entirely." was gone. Mrs. Jennett ministered to all my physical comforts, I was given a @all- clous hot bath, that drew the aching out of niy tired body; I was put Into a lavender-scented, old-fashioned night- gown of coarse nen, and at last 1 was tucked up in bed. "Could you eat anything before you go to slecp, my dear?" enquired the iittle woman. "A wing of cold chicken, now, and a glass of wine?" The suggestion was irresistible. I tried to say: 'Yes, if you please," with- out a tell-tale, greedy eagerness. But I had had nothing to eat all day save the one thick elice of stale bread on _-- I had gloomily made my break- me you will "abe bustled promptly away, and I was left alone to think, my thoughts the first thing I saw in the new world should be--the heart-shaped scar. Though I had been permitted to hek at it but for a second's time, I could see. it still as if printed in colors in the air." size it was = ey smaller than the mark I had h good cause to remem- ber on Lady ¢ Soni arm, or that other mere coincidence), Mrs. Jennett came kk. chick- the port, my brain grew sleep. I noth- aaa Until I ewes in the morn- "I'm afraid. Then he' op her, or even the desire co asx in and sometimes I think I must have been slightly de- a for I heard myseif saying words my mind hed no oontrol, end. I saw Mrs. Jennett's face as through a mist, regarding me oddly. But at last the buraing heat in my that, rtf I Weed. I r might be in a wrapper and He on the deck-chair in Mr. Bourke's study. "Mr. Bourke's study!" I ech '"Why--does he live in this house?" "Oh, deary me, didn't yon know?" exclaimed the little woman. 'Then I ie - Sgge I've put my foot into it again." "He said he would take me to his felatives, when I told him that I had no ond to go to," I explained, wonder- ing how much of my story--as John Bourke knew it--Mrs. Jennett had heard. "Are you a relative of his?" "N--ot exactly," she faltered. "I think he's nearly as Ladly off for people of his own as you seem to be. But I'm just as fond, and p*cud of him, too, as if I were his mother. And she'd be a lucky woman if she was alive to-dayl" "So he brought me to his housel" I reflected, aloud. "Oh, now, don't yeu be thinking, my child, that he's done anything impru- dent from your wey of looking at it, or anything you mig'it ever have to re- ine He's too wise for that, and too The house is ny house, and he's ay lodger, you might say, if that does- n't sound a tg or impertinent, after all he's done tor me." ae he in his aay? I asked, rather 8 "That he isn't. He's not been Inside the house, except tv call and ask after you (whitch he's done twice every day) since the evening, }eu came. He went that night to an hotel, and there. he is at this moment." "I've driven him out of his home, then!" I cried "He wouldn't Mke to 'hear you say that. And it isn't the way he feeis about it, ee hl Why, if you'll ex- cuse the expression. since you've been getting better, he's "3 happy as a child with a new toy. Rt there! I'm just hindering your Yvu'd be beéter off fownstairs. It will amuse you, look- ing at some of h': books. Besides, there's something 'aiting for you In the study that you's sure to Ike." My curiosity thue atimulated, I has- tened the process of bathing and dress- ing, Mrs. Jennett acting as maid, brushing and braie'ng my hair in a great wavy plait d-wn my back. As she flatteringly exclaimed over its length and thickr--3, I watched her moving hand thui «fielded the brush. It was a very prétt; brush, with a sil- ver back, and tl:ere was a comb to match, which surprised me a little, for all Mrs. Jennett's o*her belongings, so far as I had seen, were as plain as they were neat. < "Now, don't thin' me an extrava- gant old body!" she ejaculated, seeing the direction of my eyes. "These things aren't mine. Mr. Beurke bought them the morning after you came, and told me I was to use 'em for you. The big rut-glass scent-bottie on the table there, too, with the eau de Cologne I put on your forehe >d when you were so bad; that was his thought. And gee here. Your own underthings are ready for you again, but, man as he fs, he said to me: 'She has nothing loose and comfortable to wear when she's getting better. I'll send something in.' I could have offere1 you a wrapper, but it would hardl: have been fit fot & beautiful young thing like you. Which was what he had in his mind, I expect, though he wouldn't risk hurting my feelings by saying so. Now, what do you think of this?" : rs. Jennett opened ai drawer, Whisked something out, threw off a toose layer of tissue-paper, and with pathetic delight heli up a garment of white, soft satin and lace. "Bought at Liberty's," she exclaimed, almost in awe. "The name was on the box. What do you think of it?" "That--that Mr. Buurke ought not to have done this," I stammered, on the verge of tears. Mrs. Jennett's quaint, rosy face straightened in: "Oh dear!" she ejoutated. "Perhaps { oughtn't to have t-'d you. He didn't say not, that I can remember, but I d@aresay he took it * - granted I'd have apple lines of distress. -tengze enough to ke~-» it to myself." She, too, was alinost cryimg. My frat impulse had been to refuse to wear the elaborate tea-gown which I owed to a stranger's charity, but her grief @isarmed me. I knew that any slight put upon her idol (it was easy to see that John Bourke was that) would hurt her far more than the cruellest insult to herself. So, much against my will, I let her help me into the garment, re- minding myself that at worst it was only orrowed, and determining to = out ey grievance with the man for m on ny pelnest Serer aaah area » dig books i wenid itke to have ¢rom shelves, There certainly seemed a magnificent collection. to choose from. Everything wo reading which I had ever heard of, and many, many learned-sounding books which I never had heard of, lined the w: I had no wish to read. I was reck- less, though not as unhappy as I ought to have been after breaking my past so ruthlessly at Waterloo Bridge; mgest desire was for Mrs. Jennett's companionship. I wanted her to talk to me; and deep down under the surface of my thoughts I' knew exactly on what subject I de- sired her to talk, though by no means which she cheerfully consented to do, oes: after giving a few instructions to her meid-of-all-werk, whom I had not yet seem, At first I vaguely tntended to anglc for information, without letting her understand what I was about; but it occurred to me that this would be a dishonorable mode of procedure, and I blushed at myself for having enter- tained it. Because, no matter what mistakes Mr. John Bourke had madé In his tactics, he had behaved gener- ously and--I believed--meant chival- rously by me. "Do you think Mr. Bourke would mind my asking ycu a few questions about him?" I hesitatingly began "You know, perhaps, how it was that-- he brought me to you?" "T only know that he saw a lady al- most fainting, and that she was too i! to tell him anything much about her- self, so he thought she would be bette: off with me than at a hospital," said the little old woman, clicking he: needles over a pair of long worsted stockings, which she was busily knit- ting--for him, perhaps: "I'm sure he wouldn't mind your asking questtons, and I should be only too pleased to an- swer 'em, r there's nothing in his whole life that I'm uot proud to talk about." So then I did ask questions, timid; at first, eagerly as I went on. And she answered with evident delight. Why, Mr. Bourke was the great Mr Bourke. How extreurdinary that those words should bring no Nght of com- prehenston to my eyes! Where had 1 lived that I hadn't heard of him? Didn't I read the papers? Oh, I hadn't been allowed to read them! That wars quite a different thing. Some people were so particular with young girls; and quite right, too, no doubt. But as for Mr. Bourke--well, to dDegin at the beginning, it was: just like a story- book. He'a been a poor boy, without friends or money. He'd se'l newspapers and run errands in shops. Every penny he could save he sper' in buying books He had taught himelf to read, and he had gone to a night-achool. There he attracted the notice of the teachers, one of whom got him apprenticed to a firm of engineers. He was eighteen by that time, and he began to send articles to a London paper, which were pub- lished, and brought the author great praise. The editor round out who he was, and, taking = ;reat fancy to the wonderful boy, sen: him to Oxford, as a non-collegiate. That was a hard !!fe, so Mrs. Jennett had heard--to be: ong a lot of more fortunate young m :, who had pienty of money and fun, but to remaiy an outsider. However, Mr. Bourke won many honors, and he wrote several books on Soclaiism «hich made a great deal of talk among people who cared about such things. When he was c-'y twenty-two, he was editing an i:-rortant Socjfalistic paper; and now, 1t':ough he was but six-and-twenty, h* was a member of Parliament--a "stor member," Mrs. Jennett thought wes the right name for it. And he mde such brilliant speeches that 01] Erland talked about them. And dukes and duchesses and earls and countesses invited him to thelr houses, but he would never go when he could help it. en he was at home she had or- ders invariably to provide enough food at every meal for several unexpected guests, and it was seldom that they failed to appear. Such guests! In rags, generally. Ari sometimes very distinguished men, friends of P Bourke's, had sat Gown at the same table with them. He never apologized. There was a story about him, which Mr. Bourke did not know that she had heard, but the lady concerned in it had told it herself to Mrs. Jennett one day when she had called at the house and waited a long time, hoping in vain that Mr. Bourke would come in, A beauti- ful young lady she was, too, and very rich. Who knew but, after all, he would marry her one day? If he did, with her money an4 position to help him on, why, he mig*t rise to be Prime Minister of England. But the story--oh, yes, Mrs. Jennett would tell it! Mr. Bourke had once been persuaded to dirapat the house of this young lady of whom she hag just spoken. Nobody else had been asked, and after dinner, the lady had begged Mr. Bourke to tell her how she might begin to work as a Socialist--because she believed in the ductrines he taught. "You can by e flour from the hair of gg heree brothers in your hall," he had said, : TIt-was a beautiful face, and I knew it well. Now, my heart gave'a quick uge. She was of the "ultra smart" set, which for a Httle while had petted and welcomed me as a promising debu- tante. She had been '"'nice'" tome; but one day, with cteristic laugh: "I always make a point of being charming to Lge one never knows whom they ma -Looking at her caoureantelt present-., ment," taken (in a ball dress with be- coming background of ermine) by the most popular woman-photographer of the moment, I seemed to hear her sweet, though slightly metallic voice saying the words again. She would, according to her maxim, no longer care to charm me, since it was now certain that if I ever married at all, it would not be @ man of im- portance, So Lady Feo Ringwood was a disciple of John Bourke, the "man of the peo- ple!" I could imagine nothing more incongruous than that she should ad- vertise herself as a "'Soctalist." She was a young widow, the daugh- ter of an impecunious earl. The mid- dle-aged city knight whom she had married when she was eighteen had considerately dled three years later, leaving his fortune all to her. She was now five-and-twenty, with a beautiful house in Park lane, and more money than ehe could well know what to do with. I had met her so often during my butterfly days that it seem strange I had never met the man she apparently delighted to honor. But, then, those butterfly days had been so few; and Mra. Jennett declared that her hero went as seldom as possible Into society. Somehow, I did not Hke to think of Lady Feo Ringwood as a friend of John Bourke's; and the sight of her portrait in his study brought me so nearly into touch with old times that I felt vaguely disturbed. I had disap- peared from Lady Feo's set for ever; and I did not relish the thought of being discovered, the miserable secret of my Easel street connections rooted up, perhaps, and discussed as a spicy vit of scandal in drawing-rooms. While I lay with the photograph in my hand, there was a ring at the door- bell and a light: tapping of the knocker. "That's Mr. Bourke, I'm sure, come to enquire how you are!" exclaimed Mrs. Jennett, fump!ng up from her chair, "He won't use his key and walk in, because he says the house is yours and mine, not his at all for the present. I'll just run and let :im in myself." Two minutes later and she was back again, peeping thro. ch a crack of the door. "It was Mr. Bourke," she an- nounced. "He's delighted to hear that you're downstairs, feeling better; and he'd be glad ta see you for a few mo- ments if you are quite up to it. ut you are not to say 'Yes' otherwise; for he will come back to-morrow." "Please tell him I shall be pleased to see him,' I replied, with an attempt at indifference of tone; but in reality I was curiously excited. Mrs. Jennett disappeared; and when Mr. Bourke came she was not with him. The blood rushed rp to my face as 1 saw his eyes fall upon the tea-gowr and brighten into a smile of pleasure. I fad almost forgot'en it for the mo- ment, but his look b. ought back all my resentmen "T had to wear it," I cried out, like a onfld, Hen ae Wes. sennett would have been h m vexed and grieved. You nad: 5: right to buy this gown for me.' He blushed boyishly, the suddem col- or and look of embrrrassment making his grave face appeor very young. "Oh, please don't say trit!" he exclaimed, coming ee eloser to the deck- chair which checking cramer as-uptly. have done anything than vex you. didn't want you:to know. I thought Mrs. Jennett wor'd have managed without telling you." "TJ must forgive yu, since I am sure you meant to be so kind," I said more gently "At least, i will, if you'll tell me one thing." 'Tt can almost Promise, for such a bribe, that/I "Why ate you su'denly so different from what you wer a few nights ago, when yeu came to me at the bridge? You are more like wrat I remember of you the first time." "Thank you for remembering at all. But that is another thing I must ask you to forgive me fcr; the way I be- haved to you at Wsterloo Bridge. It was the only thing to do, you know-- rm and sters. But it was not what was in my he'rt. I wonder if I dare tell you what was really there?" ¥ looked up at him half-startied. But from that mad plunce, and sa' you. I could not believe my eyes for « moment." ; "Nor I mine," I said, softly. _*¢ very strange that you sheuld come to my rescue for the second e."" DE ee uaa redeeming miserable failures. Yet--I suppose because I'm young and the love of life is instinctive, now that-- that there's sunshine, and I'm not faint with hunger and dropping with - " he ejaculated in an odd voice. "How terrible--how unbelievable!" I-coulé not help laughing, though a really did not feel lixe laughing at all. "Not so very terrible to be hungry," [ returned. "But now, looking back upon that night, the blackest I ever, knew, I think, perhaps, if I hadn't been physically so weak I might have been morally stronger. Of course, it was cowardly to do what I meant to do, though I'd just persuaded myself that it wasn't--when you came. I hope that I shall never be so wicked again. And I shall not even think of #t, if only I can get work. I did try so hard before, Dut I had no luck. Maybe you will give mea atte good advice how to me earnestly in the face. % dream it was that kind of ether he sald. And I thought that, see. some reason, his eyes expressed re- He "I suppose not," "f rejoined, with a smile that was not very gay. "When you saw me first I didn't appear ex- actly a candidate for the workhouse, but I was, even then, though I didn't know It myself. And the other night--well, that frock and hat were made before I realized that I was a beggar." . _ (To be Continued.) x MEART'S SU 5 SUNSHINE, -* Oh, ff only those who love us y Would but tell us while we live, | ae not wait until life's journey + Ended is, before they give The smile we hungered after, Tender words we longed to hear, : Which we- listened for, but vainly, For many a weary year. There is much of pain and sorrow must bear, and bear alone, Yet how helpful is the sunshine Of a cheery look and tone! How it brightens up life's pathway, | j And dispels the shadows grim, d restores our shattered idols, sh _ Which we built in days now es Then bestow your sunshine freely? . Let it shine from out your eyes, Let it breathe in heartfelt pressurem, Let it breathe in heartfelt sighs, , Let ft cheer the fainting spirit a} Of some brother in distress : Let it thrill our jarring voices With a note of tenderness. For in Loge fellow mortals pee @ best serve the Father, too, «| And "in itehtewins their burdens Ours grow light-etid fade from view. And a sympathetic nature That vibrates to others' needs Is a bit of God's own sunshine Quickening to noble deeds. --Anne B. Wheeler, in Boston Tran- script ----_----X--X--" SMakespeare vs, Bacon. After a long sojourn in the cheerless and desolate caves of oblivion, the Shakespeare-Bacon controversy is once more in the center of the stage, with the Hmelight shining upon it and a nuge chorus of argumentative cranks in a double row behind it. Some of the latest theories. promulgated are, ac- cording to the Baltimore "News," aa | Collows: (a) That Bacon and Shakespeare were one and the same man. (>) That Bacon wrote the Shake- spearlan plays while fn prison, serving a sentence of Pq year for profanely cursing and sw-cing on the public highway. (c) That the name Bacon was merely Shakespeare's nom de plume, assumed because the bard was a ham actor. (d) That Shakespesre, being ashamed of his plays, blamed Bacon, (e) That Shakespeare invented the Baconian theory in order to mislead his creditors. (f) That the real author of the plays was Bacon's fstner-in-law, a saloon- keeper, named George W. Perguiset. (g) That Shakespeare sold out his playwriting business i Bacon -- writing half of the play. th) That Shakespeare and Bacon: were partners. } (i) That they were not. (j) That maybe they were. (k) That nobody knows whether they were or not. @) That nobody cares. *