rical
cry, and dropped her face in her hands. Joe was instantly beside her.

"It's nothing, Joe, nothing. Don't read it, please; please, don't. It's
so funny! it's so very queer!"

But Joe had, after a slight, half-playful struggle, taken the letter
from the girl. Then he read aloud the words written by his father thirty
years ago.

"I thank you, dear friend, for all you say about my wife and boy. I
thank you for reminding me of our boyish compact. He will be ready
to fulfil it, I know, if he loves those his father loves, even if you
should marry years later. I am glad for your sake, for both our sakes,
that it is a boy. Heaven send you a good wife, dear Adams, and a
daughter, to make my son equally happy."

Joe Silsbie looked down, took the half-laughing, half-tearful face in
his hands, kissed her forehead, and, with tears in his grave eyes, said,
"Amen!"

*****

I am inclined to think that this sentiment was echoed heartily by Mrs.
Rightbody's former acquaintances, when, a year later, Miss Alice was
united to a professional gentleman of honor and renown, yet who was
known to be the son of a convicted horse-thief. A few remembered the
previous Californian story, and found corroboration therefor; but a
majority believed it a just reward to Miss Alice for her conduct to Mr.
Marvin, and, as Miss Alice cheerfully accepted it in that light, I do
not see why I may not end my story with happiness to all concerned.

A LEGEND OF SAMMTSTADT.

It was the sacred hour of noon at Sammtstadt. Everybody was at dinner;
and the serious Kellner of "Der Wildemann" glanced in mild reproach at
Mr. James Clinch, who, disregarding that fact and the invitatory
table d'hote, stepped into the street. For Mr. Clinch had eaten a
late breakfast at Gladbach, was dyspeptic and American, and, moveover,
preoccupied with business. He was consequently indignant, on entering
the garden-like court and cloister-like counting-house of "Von Becheret,
Sons, Uncles, and Cousins," to find the comptoir deserted even by the
porter, and was furious at the maidservant, who offered the sacred
shibboleth "Mittagsessen" as a reasonable explanation of the solitude.
"A country," said Mr. Clinch to himself, "that stops business at mid-day
to go to dinner, and employs women-servants to talk to business-men, is
played out."

He stepped from the silent building into the equally silent Kronprinzen
Strasse. Not a soul to be seen anywhere. Rows on rows of two-