rs over the immaculate marble of Mr. McCaleb's front
door-step.

A knock at the door brought her to her senses. She put a withered little
old hand, very like a sparrow's claw, upon the window-sash to shut it
hastily, and then, too proud to deceive, turned boldly to meet her fate.

Mrs. Pearson, on the lookout at her half-open door saw the
official-looking document handed to her.

"It's her notice to leave," she said in an awed whisper to herself.

In the face of so great a calamity she felt, not triumph, but a shocked
sense of loss, of self-reproach. Five minutes after she was in her
enemy's room.

"You mustn't--you mustn't cry, dear Mrs. Walker," she sobbed, putting
her arms about the slender old shoulders.

"Am I crying?" the little old lady answered. "I can't help it--I'm so
happy!"

"Happy!" Mrs. Pearson's dazed old eyes turned bewildered from the
envelope with the home's letterhead on it to the bird-like creature in
her arms. "And you've got your notice to leave?"

"Did you think it was that? So did I for a minute, an' it 'most killed
me. But I opened it, an' found a note from the president--that dear,
dear president! She wants to know if I'll take care of her summer
cottage till the spring comes. An', Marthy Pearson, they's chickens up
there--fancy breeds--a whole yard of 'em--an' I'm to have the feedin' of
'em. Ain't it enough to make a body cry for joy? Say, Marthy, would
you--would you mind feedin' the sparrers?--only on the very stormiest
days--McCaleb would never suspect you, an' spring's near!"

BREAKING THROUGH

BY

W. C. MORROW

Reprinted from _Success Magazine_ of September, 1906 by permission

"RAY," SAID his mother, whom he shyly and secretly worshipped, without
her ever suspecting the least of it beneath his cautious reserve and
occasional outbursts of temper, "my son, I hope you will remember,
tonight. You are nearly a man."

She was a wise woman, and said it kindly and meant it well; but his face
flamed, his eyes hardened, and he sullenly walked away. Mrs. Gilbert
sighed, and went about the preparations for the young people's party
which her daughters, aged sixteen and eighteen, were to give that
evening. She could not foresee what her son would do. Would her gentle
warning, filled with the tender pride of a mother's love for her one
man-child, drive him with his dog to the woods, whither many a time
before this day a word less pointed had sent him, there to live for a
week