he came to the
most wonderful land that was ever dreamt of. Its houses were built of
gold, and its streets were paved with silver. Its palaces were so
beautiful that no language could describe them, but to merely look at
them satisfied all yearnings. And all the men who dwelt in this city
were great and good; and the women fairer than the women of a boy's
dream. And the name of the city was "The city of things men meant to
do."

[Illustration: THE END]

THE STORY OF AN HOUR.

BY HILDA NEWMAN.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY V. W. NEWMAN.

-----

And this is the end of it all!

The sharp queries and sullen answers, the sobs, tears, and bickerings are
over, and in their stead reigns the cold silence of resolution.

How did it all begin? Neither could tell. Yet the torture of an unworthy
suspicion, and a pride that scorns to answer the doubts of an exacting
love, have apparently sufficed to obliterate the memory of the happiness
of three unclouded years of kindness and love.

[Illustration: "IDLY LOOKING OUT OF THE WINDOW."]

They are going to separate. There is nothing else to do, She says, and
He tacitly agrees, for he knows it is impossible to go on living in this
atmosphere of discontent. And they calmly arrange their affairs, as
though it were merely a question of a few weeks' absence, instead of the
breaking up of their home. He will travel, and She will stay on at their
house a little longer, till her mother goes abroad, when she will join
her, dismissing all the servants, excepting the old nurse who looks
after their child. Ah! it is the thought of their child that makes the
separation so hard, and He feels that the last link between them is
broken, when he yields that little life into the hands of the wife who
does not trust him, thinking bitterly in his heart that he may be taught
to hate him.

She sits in the drawing-room, idly looking out of the window, surprised
at the dead calm that seems to have come over the house. An organ is
playing in the street, and the notes jar on her strained nerves till she
could scream; but she sits still with her hands in her lap, trying to
believe that she is utterly indifferent to present, past, or future, yet
unconsciously listening to the hurried, heavy footsteps overhead, where
her husband is packing his portmanteau. She is quite anxious for a
moment as she remembers she has put away his fur-lined coat that might
be useful if he goes travelling in chilly r