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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

"Has he a taste for fiction?" I asked, with a depreciative smirk.

He smiled. "No, but I can put some there if you want it."

when, just as our last note died among the trees one of us cried, "Listen!" and through the stillness there came from far away on our right the last three measures of a bugle sounding The March.

"My dear Smith," said Miss Rothvelt, "keep your trust. But if I part here with these two kind gentlemen--"

Yet great is precept. Precept is a well. Up from its far depths by slow, humble, constant process you may draw, in a slender silver thread, and store for sudden use, the pure waters of character.

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