and lonely way she had gone up there, no one would care. Her brother would say, "Poor Dora!" and think how he could best invest the money she would leave, and his wife and daughters would be glad. And they were the nearest to her now. Then her thoughts again wandered back to the lover of her youth. Where was Charles Hungerford? Was he still true to her? If anywhere on the wide earth, was he then thinking of her and longing for her presence, even as she thought of him that evening, and longed for him? And why should he so persistently dwell in her mind that evening? Could it be possible that out from the distant past he was coming to her again, -that he was near her?

Miss Dora leaned over the balcony, and looked down into the tree-embowered town, and into the deserted streets. There was no moon, and the twilight was growing dusk; but the sky was crowded with stars, and by their uncertain light Miss Dora perceived a dark-robed figure gliding up the avenue that led to the church. She looked again, and saw nothing. Perhaps her imagination deceived her, and she had seen only swaying branches. Her gaze grew intense, and her heart beat fast.

There was the figure again! She could follow it with her eyes, now in the open, and now in the shadow. It drew near the church, and flitted out of sight under the balcony. Miss Dora raised her head, and turning toward the open door of the tower, listened breathlessly. She looked only into blackness, for little clouds were hovering about the sky, and even out on the balcony objects were indistinct. There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. Though not a courageous woman, she felt no fear. Though not a superstitious woman, there was but one thought in her heart,-Charles Hungerford. The footsteps came up the stairs, through the tower room and paused inside the doorway. Miss Dora waited. The new-comer waited.

Then Miss Dora leaned forward, and whispered into the darkness, "Charles!"

The figure advanced; came out on the baleony. It was a woman dressed in a long, straight, dark gray mantle, and a broad

hat that shaded her face. So much Miss Dora took in with one swift glance; then the false hope with which she had propped up her spirits fell from her, and left her desolate; so desolate that she lost her selfcontrol, and, sinking on the floor, she lowered her head on her hands and burst into a passion of grief.

Per

The stranger stood over her for a few minutes irresolute. Then she said in a low, clear voice: "I am sorry for your disappointment, but Charles' may yet come. haps he is out for a drive, and has been detained longer than he expected, or he is sailing and contrary winds have kept him from you."

Miss Dora made no reply. The stranger walked forward to the railing and stood there for some time, while Miss Dora continued sobbing; but at last she said: "My dear young lady, you must not give way to such grief. It is late, and you should return to your friends."

"I am not a young lady!" broke forth Miss Dora. "I am old, ugly and despised! If my Charles were in one of those sail-boats coming to the shore, do you think I would give way thus? If he were in the uttermost limit of Africa and was still my Charles I could not grieve. I have no Charles. He went away years ago, and will never come back. I have so thought of him to-night, and so longed to see him, that when I saw you down among the trees and heard your footsteps on the stairs, I thought that at last God was going to be kind to me. It was only a foolish fancy of a forlorn woman!

And again she bowed her head and cried, but less fiercely than before. The stranger took her by the hand and said quietly but authoritatively, "Get up!" And Miss Dora arose and stood beside her.

"Look!" said the stranger, pointing toward the sea. "The shadows of the clouds lie on the waters in long, dark lines, and here and there a star glimmers, on a wave. That snow-white line is the coming of the billows that rock the boats far beyond. There are but a few boats now, for the others have, one by one, dropped into the quiet cove where it is safe to land. These ride up and down with the swelling tide, while

the pleasure-seekers that have left them are making their way over the beach into the town. Here below us you see the steep roof and yellow walls of the minister's house. The wife has been walking among her flower-beds until their colors faded from her sight; and now she sits by the window from which streams that red gleam of light, and inhales the fragrance of her tuberoses, and waits for the return of the minister, who is with the fisherman's wife, lying sick in the little whitewashed house that stands treeless and flowerless on the bare sands near The Cove.'"

Miss Dora's sobs were hushed, and she was listening quietly. She wondered at this rambling way of talking, but the burst of confidence she had given her companion had somewhat relieved the tension of her mind. "Over there," continued the stranger, "stands the light-house. The keeper lighted the lamps two hours ago, and now he sits comfortably in his cottage, smokes his pipe, chats with his wife and plays with his little ones, while the great lantern burns steadily overhead. By and by he will go up to his lonely night watch. The red shaft of light from the minister's window will brighten the narrow path he must tread from the gate to the house door. The great beacon on the light-house column will send its broad rays far out over the wild sea, where the ships are coming up from the verge of the ocean. And the soul of the fisherman's wife will pass beyond all human thought. The faint strains of music we catch now and then come from the hotel, where the feet of the dancers are treading merry measures. And fitfully the wind brings to our ears the sounds of the noisy quarrels of the poor children down at The Cove.' 'Old, ugly and despised!' How old are you?”

This abrupt question startled Miss Dora, who was attempting to follow her companion's wanderings over sea and shore, but she replied at once, "I am thirty-eight.”

"And at thirty-eight you have exhausted life. Nobody is old until life is emptied of all it contained."

"Mine is entirely empty."

"It is a question whether there is any ugliness in nature. There is the beauty of

form, of color, of expression, of character, of intellect, of spirituality, each lovely after its kind."

A moment's pause, and then Miss Dora spoke. "I have no beauty of any sort. Even in my youth I was not pretty, but I was not an ugly girl. Some of my companions, not as good-looking as myself, are now living in happy homes of their own, while I-"

Here she stopped abruptly.

"And you said despised?" questioned the stranger.

"Yes!" emphasized Miss Dora; “I said despised!”

“I am

"I cannot quite understand," said the stranger thoughtfully. "Poverty often receives unmerited contempt, but you did not say 'poor.' I have never known any one despised merely for being old and ugly." "I am not poor," said Miss Dora. not very rich, but I have more than enough for my needs. My money is all that gains me what I have. It gives me a hold on society, but even there I am of no importance. For my individual self my acquaintances care nothing. And yet I call them friends! For they are all I have. I am invited everywhere, but I am of no consequence. I live in my brother's family, and I call it home. I have a best room and pay a high board. My brother looks upon me as a woman who has missed her chances in life, and is of no further account. My sister-in-law endures me politely. My nieces regard me as a ridiculous old maid, still desperately clinging to some of the pleasures and hopes of youth. They covertly laugh at me with their young companions. Did I not say rightly that I am despised?"

"And what of Charles?"

"Charles! Oh, yes, I mentioned him to you. He was the lover of my youth. I stood on the pier and saw him sail away to England. We were to be married on his return. He went into Germany, and from that time I have had no tidings from him. I was twenty-two years old when I bade him farewell-sixteen long years ago."

"That is a real sorrow," said the stranger in a more sympathetic tone. "If you could know that he had died and always been

faithful to you, it would not be so hard to bear. And, in all these years you have not been able to root this old love out of your heart?"

Miss Dora hesitated. Then she said quietly: "I have not loved him all these years. I think I forgot him for a time. I have had but one offer of marriage since, and that I could not possibly accept. But I have known two men, either one of whom I would have preferred to Charles, had they loved me. It is only within the last few years that I have grown to feel what Charles and I were to each other, and what a treasure I lost in him."

In truth then," said the stranger, resuming her tone and manner of gentle authority, "Charles is not Charles. He represents to you all that you crave of love and home, and being made of importance. Charles is a sentiment."

Miss Dora made no reply, but she was not offended.

"The wind is rising," resumed the stranger. "The white heads are showing themselves on the tossing waves, and the surf strikes noisily on the sands. But louder sound the angry voices of the boys; a troop of them must be on their way into the town, when mischief will surely follow; for the good old minister complains that he has little influence at The Cove,' where there are only houses, not homes. Some women have homes given to them, others make homes for themselves; and to others the whole world is home. Those trees far over there, thrusting their sharp tops above all the others, are Lombardy poplars. At their feet stands a house in which a woman is striving to be happy, and is grieving herself to death. She does not know it is because she is in the wrong place. And the whole world is before her where to choose; no tie binds her there. Look! the sea is growing black, and the foam looks ashy when it crests the breakers."

sea.

Miss Dora looked out on the turbulent Her pulses were beating quicker; her heart throbbed; but there was nothing she could say.

After a pause the stranger again spoke. "I am older than you, but I cannot feel

the pressure of age; I have no settled home, but it is not my nature to crave home life; I seek influence in other channels. I see certain truths so clearly that I feel impelled to proclaim them to others. Thoughout this wide country I preach these truths in my own way. Only this day I came to Drooge, and to-morrow at this hour I shall be far away. I came up here to be alone for a short space, and I found you. Hark! The surf is breaking on the beach with a noise like thunder; the clouds are driving wildly across the sky; the wind whistles shrilly through the open windows of the tower; and the owls are fluttering to their perches behind us. Let us go."

Without a word the two women left the balcony, descended the stairs, and coming out into the avenue, passed under the trees. For a moment they regarded each other. This last glimpse revealed to the one only the rigid outlines of a long straight mantle, and a broad hat; and to the other only the wavy lines of curls, ruffles, and floating laces. Then the stranger said in a low soft tone, "Good night." And Miss Dora in a low soft tone replied, "Good night."

Over and over again in her own room Miss Dora heard the words of the stranger, and her own replies. She felt neither shame nor regret that she had spoken thus frankly. Something had stirred in her heart, and impelled her to respond to the stranger's will, and to look into her own heart as into a glass; for she was not accustomed to selfanalysis, but rather to dressing her thoughts and feelings in flimsy sentiment. The stranger's talk did not now seem rambling and inconsequent to Miss Dora. Lifted above the earth on that lonely watch tower she had been lifted out of her cramped orbit into the everlasting mystery of the starry worlds, the mighty sweep of the tempestuous winds, the awful sound of the rolling billows, and the gathering darkness that shut all into the fearful night. And through all shone the humanly-lighted beacon on the light-house top, and the clear stream of lamp-light from the minister's window. In her unlighted room Miss Dora could see the bare white-washed cottage; the house under the Lombardy poplars; the

cheerful family at the foot of the lighthouse; the yellow house with the steep roof and the scent of the tuberoses stealing into the open windows. And, suddenly, she heard the sound of the minister's voice below her own window. He was expostulating with the rough boys, whose din had run through all Miss Dora's reflections mingled with the strains of ball-room music, and the dash of the surf on the beach.

Direct from Drooge Miss Dora went to a dull inland town where there lived an old school friend, alone and poor. This lady had passed her life in sick-rooms. Now those she had nursed were all buried; the consumptive sister, the paralytic mother and brother. Miss Dora found her as bright and cheery as if life had been a long holiday; and, with no mention of the church tower, she said to this friend, "Let us make ourselves a place in the world!"

In one of the prettiest residences in Drooge, about midway between the church and the light-house, has Miss Dora been living with her friend for some six years. The two are usually spoken of in town as "the ladies," and everybody knows them from the "most influential man" down to the smallest boy at "The Cove." Nothing of any importance is done in the town without consulting them. The over-worked minister is glad that they have taken some of his labor out of his hands. The rough boys at "The Cove" are no longer the terror of the town. But it is in the houses at "The Cove" that Miss Dora has her pleasantest times. She has always felt that she had the ability to create a home. And now besides her own, she has created many homes; for, whether it is due to her pretty, airy way, or because she dresses so handsomely to visit them (for she is Miss Dora still), for some reason the women do not resent her efforts for giving them a better culture.

Miss Dora is very busy, and very happy. And having made herself an important personage at Drooge, she finds with surprise

that her old friends treat her with distinction. She no longer has to hang on the outskirts of society, and wait for notice. Her brother made a trip to Drooge to consult her about the marriage of his youngest daughter. The nieces are proud of Miss Dora's affection. Elsie did not become Mrs. Morley, and she is a frequent guest at her aunt's, and regards her with a sort of envy. For Miss Dora has grown plump and rosy; the crow's feet have filled out somewhat; the dull eyes have brightened; the mouth is no longer drawn down at the corners, and the hair is still pretty, for the fading gold of the curls is brightened with threads of silver.

Charles Hungerford never came back to Miss Dora, nor is it likely now that he ever will. It is no matter. She has forgotten him.

But she has not forgotten the woman she so strangely met in the church tower. Then Miss Dora was glad that they were unknown to each other. Now it is the dearest wish of her heart to meet this woman once more face to face. When she is in the city she haunts the lecture-rooms. And yet the stranger did not say she ever appeared on the platform. Her words were: "I preach these truths over this wide country in my own way." She has not since been to Drooge, and no one there can recall any person who answers to Miss Dora's description. And although Miss Dora saw little else of the woman on that night but a long mantle and a broad hat, she feels sure that she would at once recognize her by voice and manner. But either she is mistaken, or her companion of that night has not again come in her way.

Every Sunday Miss Dora sits in her pew at church and listens attentively to the prosy sermons of the good old minister, whom she holds in the highest respect. But she knows that the message from heaven came to her on that starlight night up in the church tower. Marian Stockton.