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hand. said that Silas Grantley was
proud, and If ever proud man was hui
initiated that man was himself. No 9TH
er proof than her own voice could have
made him think that this woman could
have believed for q moment such base
falsehood against his manhood. The feel
ing of deep injury and indignation was
rnpern1ost In his mind. Without word
he rose and turned to go. At the door he
paused an instant to look at her, but only
for an instant There was quick, firm
BGep on the gravel walk the gaUe smut
noisily, and he was gone. From that night
Miss Nan never saw Silas Grantley again.
Never saw him again? Never saw him
REainS How many times she saw him In
that doorway, when the feline family were
purring contentedly and the little earthen-
ware teapot was singing cheerfully on the
hearth, only Miss Nan knew. How many
times that last reproachful glance looked
in upon her on the lonely nights Of the
long years that followed, when the whole
bitter truth was before her, only Miss Nan
knew. How utterly dreary the tidy little
parlor was at times during tho long, long
hours, when the thought of that last
night came back to her, how often the
soft gray eyes wept bitterly when she
thought Of the wrong that she had done
him, and that she never could undo now,
Miss Nan, and only Miss Nan, knew.
And that was the story of her romance.
A late train west bound carried Silas
Grantley away that night-carried him
away so completely that Tiflin neither saw
nor heard of him again and soon forgot
him. She lived her life as best she could,
and before her little world the thorns in
her path were trodden unfiinchingly.
Wherever woman's hand was needed,
there was Miss Nan; wherever charitable
duties were the hardest, in the hardest
winters, among the hardest class Of peo-
pie, there was Miss Nan, and though her
purse was not large one 1t was open
constantly. 1 think it was this constant
doing of good, this constant healing Of
minds and hearts and bodies, that kept
the hard lines off her face even when the
early gray strands glistened in her brown
hair. If there was one weakness for which
she had no compassion, it was the weak
ness of drunkenness. If there were any
mendicants who left her door empty hand
ed, they were those who went there with
the fumes of alcohol on their breath. Tru-
ly. the drunkard in her eyes was detestable.
And so the summers passed and the
winters passed until the time when my
story opens, and Miss Nan had become an
old maid beyond question or dispute.
New lives came into the little town, and
old lives went out. Girls in pinafores and
small boys in short trousers grew to be
men and women, married and set up for
themselves and had children of their own,
but to Miss Nan one year was but "a repe-
tition of another, and it sometimes SEEM
ed to her that she was continually going
around in a circle that had long since be-
come monotonous. If Miss Nan ever
thought that she might have made her
life happier, she guarded the thought well,
and if the smiling matrons ever occasion
ed the slightest envy in her breast they
could as easily have learned It from the
exterior of the neat cottage as from its
prim mistress.
One wintry March morning she started
out with a basket on her arm TO visit a
sick family, when she noticed n small
crowd of men and boys short distance
from her gate. The gibes that reached her
ears and the incoherent profanity that fol-
lowed them told her that drunken man
was the center of the group. She knew
she would be obliged to pass them but
with the determination not to be deferred
from her purpose by such an unworthy
cause she held her head trifle higher,
involuntarily drew her skirts closer about
her and walked on. AS she neared the
group she saw that the man was reeling.
He was n wretChed looking creature, with
long tangled hair, a dirty beard, a batter
ed remnant of hat and ragged clothes
that hung loosely on the thin shivering
figure. She took one glance at him, and
the basket dropped from her arm. She
walked straight up to him, laid her hand
on his frayed sleeve and led him to her own
gate and up the gravel walk and into the
neat little cottage and into the tidiest par
lor in all Tiffin. How she took on over
him, and cried over him, and bathed his
face with cold cologne water, and had old
Mrs. Young, her ancient maid Of all work,
cook him the daintiest breakfast imagi-
nable! Who would have thought it of Miss
Nan? And what would Tiflin say? Little
cared Miss Nan what Tiffin would say
For all her tears, there was not lighter
heart in the world that day than Miss
Mans. If there had been one bright spot
in her lonely life, it had been the hope Of
his return, and as the empty years came
and went she had sometimes felt that she
was hoping against hope. And ROW he
had come back. What did it matter how
he had Gomez He had come and that was
enough for Miss Nan.
At first Silas was dazed and insensible
to his surroundings, but when the break
fast was brought in to him he ate like q
famished dog Mrs. Young, wise woman
that she was, had brewed some black cOf-
fee, so strong that its very aroma might
have had SOLDERING influence, and when
Silas had drank two big cups of it, steam
ing hot, he began to look around him.
The little parlor had not changed SO very
much in all those years, and remembering
first how he had tramped into Tiffin the
night before 1t began to dawn on him
where he really was. Then his eyes rested
on Miss Nan, and he knew it all He bur
led his face in his hands and sobbed. Then
a woman's arms were about the ragged
coat, and the tired head was on her breast,
and the tangled hair was anointed with
her tears.
Did they marry? What question: OF
course they did. Silas Grantley reformed,
and with reformation came health and
success. There never was a better hus-
band, and the happiest wife in Tiflin is
| Miss Nan.-Lewis Vital Bogy in Once a
| Week.
Rossini.
Rossini was intolerably jealous Of all