t a
soul facing the questions which harass philosophers. As she realized her
condition of mind she apprehended something of the thinking of the woman
on the bed. Matilda had gone beyond or far back of the wife and mother.

The hours wore on; the dying woman stirred uneasily now and then,
whispering a word or phrase which related to her girlhood--never to her
later life. Once she said:

"Mother, hold me. I'm so tired."

Martha took the thin form in her arms, and, laying her head close beside
the sunken cheek, sang, in half breath, a lullaby till the sufferer grew
quiet again.

The eastern moon passed over the house, leaving the room dark, and
still the patient watcher sat beside the bed, listening to the slow
breathing of the dying one. The cool air grew almost chill; the east
began to lighten, and with the coming light the tide of life sank in the
dying body. The head, hitherto restlessly turning, ceased to move. The
eyes grew quiet and began to soften like a sleeper's.

"How are you now, dear?" asked the watcher several times, bending over
the bed, and bathing back the straying hair.

"I'm tired--tired, mother--turn me," she murmured drowsily, with heavy
lids drooping.

Martha adjusted the pillows again, and turned the face to the wall. The
poor, tortured, restless brain slowly stopped its grinding whirl, and
the thin limbs, heavy with years of hopeless toil, straightened out in
an endless sleep.

Matilda Fletcher had found rest.

UPON IMPULSE

The seminary buildings stood not far from the low, lodgelike railway
station, and a path led through a gap in the fence across the meadow.
People were soberly converging toward its central building, as if
proceeding to church.

Among the people who alighted from the two o'clock train were Professor
Blakesly and his wife and a tall, dark man whom they called Ware.

Mrs. Blakesly was plump and pretty, plainly the mother of two or three
children and the sovereign of a modest suburban cottage. Blakesly was as
evidently a teacher; even the casual glances of the other visitors might
discover the character of these people.

Ware was not so easy to be read. His face was lean and brown, and his
squarely clipped mustache gave him a stern look. His body was well
rounded with muscle, and he walked alertly; his manner was direct and
vigorous, manifestly of the open air.

As they entered the meadow he paused and said with humorous
irresolution, "I don't know what I