a boy who had
stumbled in some very foul and deep water. Little Edith Brill pluckily
ran down the deep steps of the dock and went up to her neck in the
water, and held the child up until John Hill helped her out. The boy
Whorley who had fallen in was drowned."

(_To be continued._)

_A Strange Reunion._

BY T. G. ATKINSON.

In a poor little house in a wretched little town on a miserable day in
November, two men sat by a small wood fire, warming their hands at the
tiny blaze and silently watching the flicker of the flames. They were
both young men; the elder was not more than twenty-six or seven and the
younger was perhaps a year behind.

[Illustration: "TWO MEN SAT BY A SMALL WOOD FIRE."]

One of them was plain Charlie Osborne; the other rejoiced in the more
aristocratic sobriquet of Eustace Margraf. But it mattered little by
what different names they were called, since Fortune had forgotten to
call on both alike. In short, they were "broke"--almost "stony broke."
There had been a lock-out at the works at which they were both employed,
and although they had neither of them joined the combination, they were
none the less out of a job, and the fact of their former employment at
the works that had locked them out told heavily against their chance of
procuring other work in the town.

Neither was there much likelihood of their going back to the works, for
the owners were rich men who could afford a long struggle, and the men
were obstinate; and even if the strikers ever got back, Osborne and
Margraf were in the awkward positions of being blacklegs. Thus it was
that Fortune had forgotten these two young men who sat by their little
fire, doggedly silent, too low-hearted even to curse Fortune.

"I shall go to London, Charlie," said the elder, suddenly, without
looking up.

"What shall we do there?" growled the other. Osborne and Margraf had
been more inseparable than brothers since the death of each of their
parents ten years ago. Therefore it was that, when the latter announced
his intention of going to London, the former instantly assumed his own
share in the venture, and asked:--

"What shall _we_ do in London?"

"Don't know till I get there," answered Margraf, who, be it observed,
did not encourage the first person plural. First person singular was a
good deal more in his line. Yet he loved his chum, too, in his own way;
but it was not the best way.

"What's the use of going, then?"

"What's the