ked very white as he came to the place where the
boy waited. Dave leaned against Rix, and groaned.

"What's the matter?" asked Sid in alarm.

"It's my arm," said Dave, growing whiter. "There was a fight--in that
place--somehow. They knocked against me. I fell. One man fell on top
of me and my arm was sort of doubled up under me. It hurts--awful. I
don't know whether it's sprained--or broken--or--"

They had to stay in town a week before they could go back to the ranch.
When they went back Dave had his arm in a sling.

"It's a good thing the twenty-three tons of hay are in," said Sid.
"You couldn't do much with that arm."

Dave did not say anything.

Next Sunday night Sid sat in the door of the shanty on the ranch. He
was singing to himself a little. "Safely through another week," he
hummed. His mother always sang that Sundays at home. Sid was a bit
homesick Sundays in the hills.

Dave came and sat down by Sid, and looked out at the sunset and the dry
river away down in the valley. Rix came trotting up near the shanty.

"He's a smart colt--ain't he?" said Sid. "He hasn't been bothered with
fox-tail since that day you'n and I took that piece out of his eye.
He's kept his eyes away from the stuff, whether he's meant to or not.
Do you suppose he has as much sense as that?"

"Critters ain't the only things that walk into trouble with their eyes
open," said Dave. "I ain't goin' to let Rix be smarter than I be. I'm
goin' to keep out of trouble, too, Sid. I ain't goin' to drink no
more, ever."

"Not round-up times?" asked Sid.

"Not round-up times, nor other times, if God will help me," said Dave,
soberly.

"He will," said Sid. "Oh, I'm so glad!"

THE MAN WHO LOST HIS MEMORY.

It was on a morning of May, 1613, that a lady, still young, might be
seen, followed by her two children, going toward the cemetery of a
village near Haerlem. The pale cheeks of this lady, her eyes red with
weeping, her very melancholy face, bespoke one of those deep sorrows over
which Time might fling its flowers, but it would be all in vain. Her
children, the elder of whom was barely four years old, accompanied her,
with the carelessness natural to their age. Indeed, they were astonished
to see their noble mansion still in mourning, and their mother and
themselves in mourning also, though a melancholy voice had said to them
one day, when they were shown a bier covered with funereal pall,
"Children, you have no