is treasure, to wait in happy patience. He would not
sleep, and so lose something of his conscious peace, something of
thinking about what was going to happen at the end. No, he _must_ not
sleep.

The frantically joyous barking of a dog standing over him--not at all
like the deep baying of Frazier's bloodhound,--woke the boy, and he
tried to raise his head, but it fell back like lead. He laughed drowsily
in quiet happiness, as he feebly patted the devoted head.

"Dear old Cap," he said. "You came, didn't you?"

Messengers from Elderby's and Carmichael's had brought strange news to
the boy's parents. In alarm they had started out in the surrey, taking
Cap, in the sure faith that he would find their son. They had seen that
Andy was recovering,--he had been much more frightened than hurt. It was
they whose crashing through the bushes the boy heard after Cap had
announced his find. They halted and paled when they saw the torn,
bruised, helpless figure smiling at them from the ground, and so full
of loving gladness merely to see them that there was no room for
surprise at their being there. The mother was quicker than the father;
she ran forward and fell on her knees beside her son.

"My boy!" she cried in a choke.

He took her hand and smiled into her face. In all her life she had never
seen a smile so sweet, so happy. With his free hand he lifted his
treasure.

"Mother," radiantly, "here it is!"

"What, my poor dear?"

"Don't you remember? I told you two years ago that I'd found it, and you
said you'd be very glad if I'd bring it to you when I came this way
again."

She opened the parcel, wrapped with so fond care in leaves and damp
moss.

"Why, it's the rare and beautiful fern, and you were taking it to me!
Bless your dear heart!" and, much to his surprise, she began to cry.

A LOST STORY

BY

FRANK NORRIS

Reprinted from _The Century Magazine_ of July, 1903 by permission

AT NINE o'clock that morning Rosella arrived in her little office on the
third floor of the great publishing house of Conant & Company, and
putting up her veil without removing her hat, addressed herself to her
day's work.

She went through her meager and unimportant mail, wrote a few replies,
and then turned to the pile of volunteer manuscripts which it was her
duty to read and report upon.

For Rosella was Conant's "reader," and so well was she acquainted with
the needs of the house, so thorough was she in her work, and