er you. You are struck by the bullet,
but bear up until, with Bill's help, you have brought Mignon out of
danger. Then you faint away."

"Not till then?" said Percy.

"No, not till then. The last scene of all will be your wedding at the
church. Mignon, of course, is the bride, and Bill is your best man.
You see, he retrieved his character by the aid given at the factory
fire, and you have forgiven him the murder of his uncle. Oh, and, by
the way, you wouldn't have to be _really_ shot at the rehearsals, you
know."

"That's fine!" said Percy. "When would you like me to start?"

"A week from now."

"Good. That will give me a nice opportunity to get fit, and to have
one last good time in case any unforeseen mishap should occur in the
course of rehearsal. Of course I see no reason whatever to anticipate
any accident, but they have been known to happen under circumstances
even more commonplace, if that were possible."

* * * * *

THE EVICTION OF AN ENEMY IN OUR MIDST.

[Illustration: BRITISH MATRON, IN A SPASM OF PATRIOTISM, DECIDES
TO GET RID OF HER GERMAN PIANO. MESSRS. DUGOUT AND CO. UNDERTAKE TO
REMOVE IT.]

[Illustration: "NOW, THEN, WHEN I SES, 'TO ME!'"]

[Illustration: "TO ME!"]

THE EVICTION OF AN ENEMY IN OUR MIDST.

[Illustration: "TO _YOU_! _FROM_ ME!"]

[Illustration: THE SPIRIT OF FRIGHTFULNESS ACTIVE TO THE VERY END.]

[Illustration: PEACE--AT A PRICE.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: MESOPOTAMIA.

_Tommy_ (_to Padre, who has been telling him about the Scriptural
associations connected with the country_). "SUPPOSED TO BE THE GARDEN
OF EDEN, IS IT, SIR? WELL, IT WOULDN'T TAKE NO FLAMIN' SWORD TO KEEP
_ME_ OUT OF IT."]

* * * * *

THE TRUCE--AND AFTER.

[Lines alleged to have been recently found on the back of
a miniature target (of which only the bull's-eye was
perforated), and believed to be the work of a private in the
County of London Volunteer Regiment.]

[Illustration]

This year at ease on Ben Macquhair
Couches a certain stag;
Fearless he sniffs his native air
Because he knows I can't be there
To scare him off his crag.

This year his instinct (true, though dumb)
Tells him by subtle signs
No bullet loosed by me shall come
Shattering earth below his tum
Or whistling through his tines.

Yet little knows he why the hill
Misses my wonte