pretty well equipped, and not entirely unworthy to take my place in the line of Catholic journals. I did not want to push any of these from the place that they had gained for themselves. Indeed, I had no such unfriendly intentions, and young, simple and timid as I was, it would have been folly for me to try such a thing. All that I aspired to was to fill a place in Catholic literature that so far had been left vacant, and never could have been filled by a high priced and high toned journal. In spite of my timidity and modest attire, I was hopeful to gain my end to the satisfaction of all who would give me an opportunity.

To entertain the reader, I shall attempt to relate how I succeeded and give a description of how I was received at different places on my first journey.

The life of a pastor in a large city is a very strenuous one. Day and night he is at beck and call of his parishioners. Aside from his duties before the altar, in the pulpit and the confessional, there are sick-calls to make, collections to be taken up, and, if there happens to be in progress the building of a church, school or any other large structure for the use of the congregation, the responsibility rests on his shoulders, and he has to make both ends meet. He has to be priest and businessman at the same time.

No wonder therefore when he sometimes feels worried and overworked, and out of humor to give attention to a stranger like myself who came to see him uninvited.

Very unluckily, it happened to be a Saturday morning when I arrived, and I noticed. when the letter carrier passed me in by the door, that I had not come at the right time for a friendly reception. I felt extremely backward when the pastor took me in his hand, and I saw his clouded face and wrinkled brow, but I tried to look as pleasant and attractive as possible in my nice, new dress. This evidently made no impression however.

"Another new magazine," he said gruffly. "Just as if I hadn't more than enough of them lying around with no time to read."

He threw me on a table amidst a number of other magazines and papers. I felt abashed and disheartened that it lasted a long time before I regained enough courage to look around and to notice that I was lying between two large, fine magazines.

States, the other from the far West; still they seemed to know each other, and to be on good terms. When I looked at them, they gazed at me also, and one of them said: "Who is that?"

"I don't know," said the other. "It is nobody I am acquainted with."

I resented the tone in which these remarks were made; it roused, my indignation so that I overcame my bashfulness and said:

"Well, if you don't know me, I can tell you where I come from, and I need not feel ashamed of it."

"And where do you come from, pray?" said the first one haughtily.

"I come from St. Joseph's Technical School, in Techny, a place where poor boys are educated and trained, many of whom have nobody to provide for them, and every penny that I earn is used for a charitable cause, the maintenance of these boys. That's more than you can say of yourselves."

I

That seemed to affect them more than had expected.

They kept still for a little while, then one said:

"Yon don't look as though you were very important.'

"Well," said I, "I am still young and expect to grow. This is my first trip you must understand."

I felt a little afraid that I had been rather pert, but they obviously had not taken my words wrong for they were now very friendly and said:

"We wish you the best of success, little

one."

I thought that was nice of them.

I don't know how many days I lay on the pastor's table. Now and then he took one of my contemporaries to read them. Me he never touched until one day a poor woman came to see him. She seemed very sad and her tears were flowing fast. From what she said I learned that her husband had died, and that she had four small children to take care of. The priest consoled her as best he could. When she spoke of her inability to support her children he looked at me and said:

"May be I can help you to get admission for Willie in Techny. That would take at least one off your hands. He would be well taken care of there, and not only receive a good education but also a technical training. The boys at that institution. have an opportunity to learn a good trade

so that afterward they have no trouble to make their way."

The poor woman felt greatly consoled at the prospect. After she was gone the pastor looked at me more kindly than before. He took me and began to read, and in the evening he carried me along to a hall where a society meeting was held. There he spoke of the necessity of good reading, and of the duty of every Christian to practice charity and aid their neighbors who are in need. At that occasion I won many friends,

So the pastor was good to me after all, and I need hardly say that I was, and still am, very thankful.

Priests in small country towns are greatly dependent on their books for company, and many an hour would be dreary and lonesome if it was not for those true and good friends.

Perhaps it was for this reason that I received a rather pleasant greeting when the village pastor, to whose writing desk I had found my way, saw me on his return from a visit he had paid to a neighboring priest His pleasant, "Well, what is this, a new magazine?" instantly made me feel at home.

In the evening when his study lamp was lit, ne sat in the rocking chair and began to read me. I felt very much flattered by the attention which he gave to my pages. The arrival of a visitor interrupted him. It was the village doctor who had come for a chat. As conversation was drawing on, he saw me and questioned:

"Something new to read?"

"Yes, this is a magazine just started, the first number of it."

"Another new magazine, is it? The flow of literature nowadays is really appalling. Everyday you see new publications spring into life. It seems incredible that all that printed material sells well enough to make it worth while for the publishers."

"That is true, still I do not think that there is any too much good literature on the market. If the people would only buy and read what would really benefit them, I don't think the stock on hand would be sufficient to fill the demand.

Just think how much thrash is consumed every day by the reading public. It is a pity that they spent their time and money on it, especially when you consider what

in most of it. But this magazine I shall recommend to my people. It is published for a charitable purpose. That is a recommendation in itself. Aside of that, as far as I can tell from this first number it is a very clever journal which contains a great variety of topics, wholesome, instructive and entertaining. It is well written and yet not beyond the limit of the average reader. Just the kind of magazine that is needed for the people. If it keeps his promises, I think it will have a good future.

The dear, good pastor! How happy I felt to hear him say that!

The doctor marked with a pencil in his notebook the address printed on my first page. I don't know whether he really intended to subscribe for me, or if he only did it to please the pastor.

The next day when one of his parishioners happened to call on the pastor, the later remarked:

"I just happen to think of it, Mr. B. here is a magazine which you can take home. May be the young folks will like to read it. There is something interesting in it for every one of you. I think that you ought to subscribe for it."

Mr. B. was a farmer, and as it appeared to me, did not feel interested in reading, for when he arrived at home, he threw re on the table as though he did not care for me at all. When his wife cleaned up the room, she put me on a shelf together with some prayer books. There I lay for a couple of days until one morning a pretty, young lady, the farmer's daughter, found

me.

"Oh, what is this, Pa?" she cried.

"It's a magazine Father X. gave me," he said, "it is good reading, I haven't had time to look at it yet."

"That's fine. I must read it." I believe that the young lady did not feel disappointed with me. She told her father and mother a number of things she had read which interested them, and she also called her brother's attention to the special article for young men that she had noticed on my pages. Now the whole family reads me. I visit them regularly and am welcome to everybody in the home.

I never was treated in a more brusque

CHAPTER I A Deathbed Scene

Nangry autumn wind swept across the heather and Nature trembled before this mighty herald of winter. Stout trees swayed to and fro, humbly bending their leafless heads as in unwilling homage, while men and beasts sought with eagerness the shelter of house and stall.

Under such conditions our story opens in a small mountain village barely noticeable on the territorial map. It is ten in the evening: the streets are deserted, for the villagers have retired even earlier than usual in order to dream away if possible the tumult of the wind driven rain. One small light however, burns steadily in a single story cottage which, at the lower end of the village, stands back from the main street. It is shadowed by twin elms whose denuded branches tremble and moan as if lamenting the misfortunes of the gentle cottage folk who had of old so often sought their cooling shadows.

The church clock struck and its familiar sounds echoed through a little room feebly illuminated by that shaded lamp. A poorly furnished room it was and yet owning a certain degree of comfort indicative of refinement and somehow reminiscent of competence. One perceived that this was not the abode of the ordinary poor. Its most striking furnishing was the portrait of a man, young, elegantly attired, wearing a decoration on his breast and the painting was evidently the work of a master. Mental and physical strength were the attributes indicated by the lithe figure, the broad full brow and frank blue eyes whose kindly glance tempered the general expression that were other wise severe. Glancing around the apartment one was struck by the wonderful resemblance to the portrait

which characterized the features of a tall youth who bending now above a curtained bed that stood in deepest shadow, scrutinized with evident concern the countenance of its slumbering occupant. There were the same earnest eyes, the same pale forehead and darkly waving hair; even reproduced were the lines of thought and care which slightly marred the handsome face that looked from the glowing canvas.

The young man continued to bend by the slumberer: she, awaking with the last chime of the great clock, wearily unclosed her heavy eyes.

"How are you mother dear?-you are better!-the sleep has refreshed you!"

Alas! it was not relief that looked from these patient eyes to which fever lent an unnatural luster. It was the hand of approaching death that overspread the thin face with a momentary glow fading into startling pallor. And though no one had taught the youth the significance of these symptoms, he understood them, all unwillingly.

In answer to his inquiry the invalid smiled. "Sleep has refreshed me Max," she said slowly, "I believe now I shall live until he comes-my brother and your uncle!"

"You shall live mother dear! You must live much longer- O, ever so much longer! And uncle may come at any moment now, You will recover completely and we shall all be happy yet."

"That you may be happy my dear son, is my only prayer," whispered the sick woman. "Every gift demands a sacrifice; would that I who am weary of life could secure your happiness by any suffering of mine."

"As if I could be happy without you, mother!" The boy's grief manfully restrained thus far, broke forth irresistibly. He threw himself beside the bed and burning tears bathed the transparent hand of the mother. "Rise my darling! I pray of you!" She, spoke with an effort, endeavoring to caress the bowed head of her stricken son. "Your

uncle must not find you thus. He has a kind heart without doubt" she added apologetically "but his exterior and his actions are cold. You must meet him first as the great merchant of Hamburg who has earned high place in his own world. Perhaps too, the years have softened his rough ways."

The roll of an approaching carriage interrupted the conversation: both listened, and while Max grew pale with suspense his mother folded her hands in an attitude of prayer. Both felt that this arrival, of which the carriage wheels gave notice, was indeed momentous; it meant the expectation of mortal separation; for the weary one rest and release from suffering; for the youth bitter bereavement and first acquaintance with the responsibilities of life. The carriage stopped some distance from the cottage and all grew quiet as before; only the sleety rain beat harder against the window.

"Perhaps he is not coming" the sick woman sighed. "He may let his sister die without help without consolation. O, Father in Heaven! what is to become of my boy when I am gone, if my brother does not aid him!"

For the first time her son spoke firmly, as determined at any cost to his own feelings, that her anxiety should be relieved. "Do not all the people whom we know the teacher and the pastor praise my drawings mother? Was I not well paid when I painted the wealthy burgher and his wife? Why mother, some day I shall be an artist even like those we read of in the book that the reverend father gave me at Christmas-an artist like Raphael or Correggio.

"An artist" sighed the sufferer. "My son, I would you felt otherwise and yet were I to remain with you I would not oppose the call of genius. Only I know, above the highest pinnacle of art lurks too often darkest mental gloom. Your father's experience too. O Max, I could die easier did I know you safely installed in the mercantile office of your uncle."

Approaching footsteps were now audible. The house door opened and the listeners heard the voice of the kindly country woman who had rented part of her house to the strangers. A man's brief answer they also heard and soon his heavy steps nearing their apartments.

The door of the sick room unclosed; mother and son involuntarily clasped hands as if in protest against impending separation. "Martha"-the voice which uttered the name was harsh and unmelodious and yet

there was a ring in it that bespoke sincerity. The sick woman's eyes showed brighter: again the flush rose to her wan features and she made an attempt to extend her hand to the new-comer.

It is you, Thomas! Thanks to God! I hoped you would not let me die without seeing you."

A look of sympathy softened the stern countenance of the visitor but disappeared almost as rapidly as it showed. Slowly Thomas Hart approached the bedside of Frau von Elliott his sister and the mother of the listening boy. What a contrast between these two, once so closely united! The dying widow who had seen forty years of a chequered existence, appeared almost girlish; the rich merchant scarcely ten years her senior, looked like a man who had passed the Scriptural limit of three score years and ten. Closely cut gray hair covered his head sparingly; the shrunken face was of a yellowish hue; the tall form was habitually bent, though at times he would stand erect and moveless as a statue. Then the glance of the cold eyes seemed to penetrate the mental thoughts of his fellowmen and from the command of the stern mouth there was no appeal. Now he lightly touched his sister's proffered hand.

"Do not excite yourself Martha!" he said laying her hand down softly enough. and throwing cursory glances of inspection round the room and its furniture. His eyes grew dark as he noted the painting in the niche-darker yet when they rested on the youth who was its living counterpart.

"This is your son, Martha? What is your name?" he asked turning abruptly to the boy.

"I am Max von Elliott" his nephew replied modestly. plied modestly. "Max von Elliott!" the merchant repeated, laying a certain sarcastic emphasis on the word von. Why use von in such surroundings Martha? had you not done better to drop the title when your husband died? I have a workman who calls himself von Hold'. Silly titles! but of course they are often useful as the bait of Satan."

The sick woman raised herself a little; "Thomas" she said, her voice sounding strangely impressive, "the name is mine and my boy's. I have never repented that early step and my heart is joyful now at thought of being soon reunited with him, who beside my son, was the pride of my life. One thing only makes death appear hard. I wish reconciliation with you and would like to know my boy happily placed: