spend the remainder of his time in Groveland as the guest of Mr.
William Watkins, the proprietor of the popular livery establishment on
Main Street. Mr. Brown will remain in the city several days, and a
reception will be tendered him at Mr. Watkins's on Wednesday evening."

"That ends it," sighed Mr. Clayton. "The dove of peace will never again
rest on my roof-tree."

But why dwell longer on the sufferings of Mr. Clayton, or attempt to
describe the feelings or chronicle the remarks of his wife and daughter
when they learned the facts in the case?

As to Representative Brown, he was made welcome in the hospitable home
of Mr. William Watkins. There was a large and brilliant assemblage at
the party on Wednesday evening, at which were displayed the costumes
prepared for the Clayton reception. Mr. Brown took a fancy to Miss Lura
Watkins, to whom, before the week was over, he became engaged to be
married. Meantime poor Alice, the innocent victim of circumstances and
principles, lay sick abed with a supposititious case of malignant
diphtheria, and a real case of acute disappointment and chagrin.

"Oh, Jack!" exclaimed Alice, a few weeks later, on the way home from
evening church in company with the young man, "what a dreadful thing it
all was! And to think of that hateful Lura Watkins marrying the
Congressman!"

The street was shaded by trees at the point where they were passing, and
there was no one in sight. Jack put his arm around her waist, and,
leaning over, kissed her.

"Never mind, dear," he said soothingly, "you still have your 'last
chance' left, and I 'll prove myself a better man than the Congressman."

* * * * *

Occasionally, at social meetings, when the vexed question of the future
of the colored race comes up, as it often does, for discussion, Mr.
Clayton may still be heard to remark sententiously:----

"What the white people of the United States need most, in dealing with
this problem, is a higher conception of the brotherhood of man. For of
one blood God made all the nations of the earth."

Cicely's Dream

I

The old woman stood at the back door of the cabin, shading her eyes with
her hand, and looking across the vegetable garden that ran up to the
very door. Beyond the garden she saw, bathed in the sunlight, a field of
corn, just in the ear, stretching for half a mile, its yellow,
pollen-laden tassels overtopping the dark green mass of broad glistening