estion which
follows:

"But a few minutes ago our friend, Mr. Rose, favoured us with an
entertaining but fragmentary sketch of the romance in the life of
the former possessor of this habitation. The few facts that we have
learned seem to me to open up a fascinating field for conjecture, for
the study of human hearts, for the exercise of the imagination--in
short, for story-telling. Let us make use of the opportunity. Let each
one of us relate his own version of the story of Redruth, the hermit,
and his lady-love, beginning where Mr. Rose's narrative ends--at
the parting of the lovers at the gate. This much should be assumed
and conceded--that the young lady was not necessarily to blame for
Redruth's becoming a crazed and world-hating hermit. When we have
done, Miss Garland shall render the JUDGEMENT OF WOMAN. As the Spirit
of her Sex she shall decide which version of the story best and most
truly depicts human and love interest, and most faithfully estimates
the character and acts of Redruth's betrothed according to the
feminine view. The apple shall be bestowed upon him who is awarded the
decision. If you are all agreed, we shall be pleased to hear the first
story from Mr. Dinwiddie."

The last sentence captured the windmill man. He was not one to linger
in the dumps.

"That's a first-rate scheme, Judge," he said, heartily. "Be a regular
short-story vaudeville, won't it? I used to be correspondent for a
paper in Springfield, and when there wasn't any news I faked it. Guess
I can do my turn all right."

"I think the idea is charming," said the lady passenger, brightly. "It
will be almost like a game."

Judge Menefee stepped forward and placed the apple in her hand
impressively.

"In olden days," he said, profoundly, "Paris awarded the golden apple
to the most beautiful."

"I was at the Exposition," remarked the windmill man, now cheerful
again, "but I never heard of it. And I was on the Midway, too, all the
time I wasn't at the machinery exhibit."

"But now," continued the Judge, "the fruit shall translate to us
the mystery and wisdom of the feminine heart. Take the apple, Miss
Garland. Hear our modest tales of romance, and then award the prize
as you may deem it just."

The lady passenger smiled sweetly. The apple lay in her lap beneath
her robes and wraps. She reclined against her protecting bulwark,
brightly and cosily at ease. But for the voices and the wind one might
have listened hopefully to hear he