I think how astonished he told me ho was 
when he looked all over the boat and oouldn’t 
And me, arid then came back and 1 had disap¬ 
peared from this side too. It cost me several 
plates of oysters and classes of ale to get straight 
with him again. Hut I forgot all about him for 
the time being. 
I did not syant to attract her attention by get¬ 
ting Into the shitio stage, so I Juinpod Into a car¬ 
riage and told the driver to follow that stage, 
and he did so well that when It stopped at the 
corner of Thlrty-flfth street, wo were only a few 
steps behind. I let her get out and go down the 
street before I got out; then I paid the driver, 
and watched her till she went up the stops of a 
nice-looking house. Then I began to wonder 
what I should do next. 
I found « bakery over on Sixth Avenue, pur¬ 
chased some crackers and cheese uud put them 
In my pocket, then f bought a newspaper and a 
book and prepared to keep watch of that house 
till night, for all l know. I stayed mostly on 
the avenue, near the corner, leaning up against 
the lamp-post and rending. The police looked 
at me a little, hut as I didn't trouble anybody, 
nobodv troubled me. 1 was Just finishing iny 
lunch, a little while after 12, when to my great 
joy I looked down the street and perceived that 
part of my watch was over, for the little gray 
figure was coming quickly to the corner. I 
looked up the avenue and saw a stage more 
than a block away. Bhe had not noticed me, 
an I was on the opposite cornor, and as quick 
ns I could, without attracting her attention, T 
crowed the street and began as noarly a run for 
the stage as I dared. 
I caught it just as It reached Thirty-sixth 
street, and Jumped In, got a soat at the further 
end and pulled up the collar of my overcoat, 
pulled my hat brim down and took out my 
hook. Fortunatoly before wc reached her cor¬ 
ner a party of live got In, so that when wc slop¬ 
ped for her she had to take a seat by the door 
on my able, and could not see me, even had sho 
tried. Bo down wo went to the ferry. YY’e cross¬ 
ed the ferry and walked up Fulton Avenue for 
a short distance, until she wont Into a small, 
neat-looking fancyatoro, and did notcorne out. 
Then I put on my thinking-cap again. I first 
looked at the name on tho store. It was Smith 
-Mrs. id. El. Smith. 
I suddenly remembered that my mother, or 
somebody else, wanted some ribbons, and after 
1 had looked to he sure she was not there, 1 
went In. 
I bought tho ribbon from a nice, jolly-look¬ 
ing little woman, and then 1 got desperate and 
made up my mind that I would find out the 
girl's nurne at any rate. 
“I beg your pardon,” I said, U but may I 
trouble you to give a note to the young lady 
who just came in here ?” 
hard with him when It does come, and I 
was about ready to confess that I was In lovo, 
that is, to myself. But what could I do about 
it? I began to get restless and think of leaving 
the line, when one dark, rainy evening In Feb¬ 
ruary, my heart gave a great Jump as I looked 
out at. Sixteenth street. I always looked out 
when we passed there. She was coming, sure 
enough, but with a heavy veil dose over her 
face. As she stepped on tho platform or the 
car she slipped, and if 1 had not caught her she 
would have had a hard fall: as it was shestrain- 
ed her foot enough to make her cry out a little, 
but I heard her. As she couldn't stop down 
firm, 1 helped her to a soat. Fortunately there 
was only one passenger, an old woman with a 
basket huddled up In one end of tho car, and 1 
made her partly lie down on the seat. As she 
raised her ve'l to And the change, and to thank 
me, I found that she had been crying- 1 didn't 
dare to speak to her, Tor I can tell you she 
wasn’t any of your hold girls ; she was a lady, 
if she wasn’t dressed to kill. When we stopped 
I was desperate, and though It was against the 
rule, got off the car and helped her to tho side¬ 
walk, and the smile she gavo mo when she 
thanked me was all I had to live on fora long 
time; Tor I lost her again, and this time 1 al¬ 
most gavo her up. 
Uy May I was so miserable that my mother 
said I must have a holiday. 1 wont to tho super¬ 
intendent and told him that 1 wasn't well, and 
I wanted to get off for a month, fie was very 
kind, said that I looked pale, and I could go 
and he would save me a place when I got hack. 
Of course you can guesB one thing I mount to 
do, If It could be done. Perhaps If I bad seen 
the girl a* often as I wanted to I might have 
stopped caring anything about her, hut I am 
one of those men that don’t like to have to give 
u p anyth i n g. For a week I w ent every morn i n g 
to tho starring place of the cars and every night 
to the corner or Sixteenth street. Then I was 
sure there was no ubo in looking for her there. 
She was off that beat at any rate, so I began to 
despair. 
I was getting tired of roaming around, look¬ 
ing into stages and curs, when ono day, after 
two weeks of my vacation were gone, an old 
friend asked mo to go with him to Brooklyn. 
It was hardly seven when we reached Fulton 
Ferry. A boat had just come In, and crowds 
of men and women were corning through the 
gates. Joe had got separated from me and was 
a little ahead, and as I was pushing to catoli 
him I ran against something. 1 turned in a 
hurry to apologize, and there was the very girl 
1 had been looking for so long. As she looked 
up I imagined that she kuew iny face, but she 
gave no sign, and hurried ou to a Fifth Avenue 
stage. Of course Joe made his trip across the 
ferry alone, and T always have to laugh when 
“To Ml-p Holland?" said she, with a leok o 
surprise. I could have kissed her for falling 
Into the trap so nicely. 
“ y 69," said I, “ 1 am a friend of hers ’’-and 
so I was, bless her-" hut I have been out of 
town and could not And her direction. I could 
not speak to her just uow, she was so far ahead 
of me, but If you will take a note to her, 1 shall 
feel much obliged.” 
Tire pretty little woman hesitated a minute. 
I knew the story was clumsy, hut It was the 
best I could think or and trembled In my shoes 
before she spoke again. 
“ Miss Nora hasn’t been here but a little 
while,” she said after a minute; “i don't know 
mueh about her friends. Her mother is in so 
much trouble that she doesn’t get a chance to 
go out much after she comes from her teach¬ 
ing.” 
"Isn't her mother any better ?” 1 said as in¬ 
nocently as I could. 
“No, 1 don't think she Is; sho can’t walk 
any.” 
"I am very sorry’,” 1 said. “I know It may 
look a little strange, but if you will lot me write 
a word to Miss Holland, I assure you that it will 
be all right.” 
” Very well,” she said, after giving me a hard 
look once more ; “ you can come to the desk." 
Ho r wrote, and this Is what 1 said as well as 1 
SONNET 
BY D. W, C. PACKARD 
Unto what guest, O Soul, unto what guest— 
With earnest fathoming and anxious thought? 
What to thy ear have winds and waters brought— 
Ocean and Tempest In their great unrest ? 
Hast climbed the mountain to the eagle's nest, 
Or mused by wood where the pale violet lies? 
Hath Midnight spoken with her quenchless eyes— 
Hy dying fingers have thine own been pressed ? 
Nought hast thou learned! what boots It that we 
strive, 
With endless gropings Into mystery: 
A little child that fool* itself alive, 
And laughs and crows upon its mother’s knee. 
Hath more of wisdom than thou canst derive 
Kr. m Scale and Flask and dry Philosophy. 
Brockton, Mass., 1S75, 
USE GENTLE WORDS, 
Use gentle words, for who can tell 
The blessings they impart ? 
How oft they fall (as manna foil) 
Upon some fainting heart I 
In lonely wilds, by light-winged birds, 
Rare reeds have oft been sown ; 
And hope has sprung from gentlo words 
Where only grief had grown. 
A CONDUCTOR’S STORY 
I suppose that there are not many folks that 
would expect to hear of anything romantic 
about the life of us street car conductors, and 
there tsn’t much. We get used to our business 
very soon, and don’t often pay any attention to 
our passengers; hardly look at them when they 
„et on or off. Hut one® in a while It Is different, 
and I expect that l could tell you a story that 
would sound about as well as tho stories you 
see In the papers. And 1 know it s true, too, 
because it happened to me. 
I was about twoniy-threo years old when f 
went to New York to get a place on tho street 
cars. I suppose some folks thought that It was 
sort of a come-down for me to do it, for my 
father was a well-to-do doctor In a country vil¬ 
lage. 1 always like I to be out of doors and see 
people, and 1 think that any honest huslness Is 
respectable enough, If you make It so by being 
respectable yourself. I got a place right away 
ou one of tbu Second Aveuuo para, and stayed 
her believe It. I never troubled her with 
any more notes. If I had any to write I 
either brought them myself or sent them 
by my dear mother, who went over there 
very soon, for my sake. I used the rest 
of my vacation to make all sorts of little 
trips around the city and Brooklyn, and if 
1 met Miss Holland by chance in the stage, 
at the corner of Tbirty-firth street, I didn't 
think ft worth while to hide in a corner or 
pull down my hat. 
" And what came of it all?” 
“ YVell, If you go homo with me to-night 
r II show you tho coziest little home within 
twenty miles, and {Nora will give you a 
dinner as good as you can got anywhere. 
Hhe baa three little pupils of her own, 
now, and tho two grandmas sew over the 
fire arid talk about their young days and 
pat their children, and it is astonishing 
how many mutual,"acquaintances they 
have hunted up.” 
' The title of “ Reverend," which is just 
now the cause of quite a breeze In the 
ecclesiastical" atmosphere of England, 
4 seems after all not to belong exclusively 
• to the clergy. Masters in Chancery were 
once styled " Reverend.” 
