MATA THE MAGICIAN.

BY ISABELLA INGALESE.

CHAPTER X.

MY MOTHER.

When we returned to the study, after breakfast, Mata declared she must start that day for school; that Guru had said last night when he was here that there should be no further delay.

"But are you able?" I asked, in surprise.

"I feel as strong and well as ever, and Guru would not have bade me go if it were not best," she said.

I asked Kate to remain at my office during my absence, and to tell all callers that I would be at home on the following Sunday, but on no account to mention Mata nor my errand. The girl promised faithfulness to all my directions, and added: "Divil a bit o' satisfaction'll ony wan get from me regardin' the whereabouts of ye, docther."

At the convent school I made arrangements for a fiveyears course in such studies as were needed to fit Mata for the social life she would lead, and returned well satisfied that she would be nicely cared for in her new home.

I found Kate had cleaned and regulated my bachelor quarters to a point of neatness far beyond my anticipations. Everything was in perfect order and the old study had once more resumed the look of comfort it had worn when Ted was housekeeper. She also had a warm dinner ready, and while I was enjoying it she undertook to tell me the news. Among other things that she regarded as important was the announcement of her own approaching nuptials. She and Pat were going to be married the very next day.

"Why, Kate!" I exclaimed, with my mouth full of hot mince pie; "how's that?"

"Ye see, sur," she replied, "Pat says as how 'tis foolish t' be waitin' ony longer, as he's a stiddy job an' has saved a thrifle o' two hundther' or so o' his wages, an' I have as much; we can go housekapin' on a small bit, av we both agrees to it, an' 'twould make a home fer both av us."

"A very good idea, and I shall give you a wedding present," I said.

Kate put away the dishes, swept the kitchen, and then came in with her hat and shawl ready to leave.

"I'm goin', sur," she said. "Good-by."

"Here is something to help you start your new life with," I said, as I held out a check for one hundred dollars.

"May the saints love an' purtect ye from all harrum so long as ye live, sur; but I'm afraid ye can't afford it," she said. "Yes, I can; and with it I offer you my best wishes for the future. May you be happy and prosperous."

The girl wiped a tear from the end of her nose, where it had trickled down from her overflowing eyes, and, as she hid the precious paper away in her bosom, murmured: "Sure, ye air a thrue gintlemon, so ye air; an' I niver ixpictid so foine a prisint at all, at all. But if ye're iver in throuble an nade a frind, Kate Maloney's the wan t' sind fer, an' I'll sarve ye wid me heart's blood, so I will.”

I thanked her and promised to let her know if at some future time she could be of assistance, and bade her goodnight.

At last I was alone, and had time to think. Seating myself in an easy-chair before the fire, and leaning my head back upon its comfortable cushions, I let my mind wander backward in a mental review of the many events that had occurred during the last few years of my life. It was just seven days ago, to the hour, that Mata had called for me to visit her grandfather, and, as the panorama of events passed slowly before my mental vision, I could scarcely realize that it was I who had sat in that place, listening then as now to the winter wind as it

whirled round the corners of the building, shaking the window sashes and swinging the signs. It seemed that an age had passed since then, and that years instead of days had been registered on the calendar of time. Then my thoughts went back to the time when, a boy of fourteen years, I was left with my mother-one of the dearest and best of parents-to travel through life without the help and encouragement of a father: he to whom a boy is expected to look as a model for his own unformed character. Not having his advice and counsel, my mother assumed the double relationship-that of companion and friend as well as parent.

With true earnestness and sympathy she entered into the plans for future greatness that the coming years of manhood were expected to bring to me. It was her sweet face that always came between me and the temptation to do wrong; and, after I left her to undertake my course at college, her letters, like white doves of purity, came to me every week filled with loving encouragement. They served as talismans, bringing me good luck in my examinations and helping to quicken my intuition.

My mother was always true, and taught me that deception, whether acted or spoken, was a lie; and that the harm resulting from one was as great as that resulting from the other. She believed that truthfulness, charity, benevolence, brotherly love, and unselfishness were the soul's jewels, which should be treasured in all hearts and, by constant use, be kept shining so brightly as to illuminate one's whole life. Gold, she said, was a necessity only on the material plane, as a medium of trade; at best it was perishable and transitory wealth, and should never be compared in value with virtue.

The last conversation with my sainted mother I had always remembered. It occurred just before going back to college for my final term. That day stands forth more prominently than any other of my boyhood days. She looked so frail and fair as, robed in a pure white gown and with a fleecy shawl

wrapped round her slender form, she half reclined upon a couch and talked to me about my future.

"My boy," she said, "I have a presentiment that this is the last day we shall be together in this world. I am not strong and seem to tire with the least exertion. Before leaving you, I hoped to see you established in your profession and doing well; but I fear my hopes will not be realized, and there are some matters that must not be neglected or postponed. You know our means are not abundant. There will be, however, quite enough to take you through college and start you in a humble office in some small city where you must work your way to whatever height you may attain. I do not deplore the fact that you have not wealth, for many times it leads astray those who, had they been obliged to work for a living, might have kept in the path of virtue. It is no disgrace to toil; it is the law of Nature. The birds, the bees, and even God himself must work. Then why should man, the masterpiece of all creation, think labor beneath his lofty greatness? The idea that work is degrading is a great mistake; and one truth you must bear in mind is, that all men are dependent on their fellows for the necessities, comforts, and luxuries of life. The man who counts his gold by the bagful is dependent upon the man poorer than himself for his supply of food and fuel. He cannot eat, drink, nor wear his gold, and if there were no one in the world ready to exchange with him he would have to suffer want, although still in possession of his gold. Many attach great value to those glittering gems called diamonds; but they are only the artificial representation of the real jewels, virtue and honor. If you cannot afford but one kind, keep the everlasting ones-and these the poorest man in all the world may possess."

At that moment our interview was interrupted by callers, and we had no further conversation that day. At a later hour in the afternoon I took my leave and never saw her again alive.

The long up-hill journey from the day I took the last look at my mother's dead face as she lay in the casket had been filled with poverty and struggle. There was no disgrace attached to our name, nor had I ever done a thing I would blush to have her know. Sometimes the goal seemed not worth the effort made to attain it; then came the temptation to cease striving and drift with the tide. Now, however, my shadows had turned to sunshine and my poverty to plenty, and I was happy. But the shadows in the room gave warning that the fire was nearly burned out, and I decided to retire, hoping in dreamland to meet my Mata, look again into her glorious eyes, and listen to her sweet voice.

CHAPTER XI.

THE HON. JOHN BRUNT, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

At an early hour on the following morning I was waited upon by the Hon. John Brunt, attorney-at-law. This gentleman informed me that he represented Miss Arabella Smythe and her mother, and had called to see me for the purpose of trying to bring about some kind of an amicable understanding between myself and the ladies mentioned.

"What do you mean, sir?" I asked, in astonishment.

The legal gentleman was a very pompous man and seemed to realize that upon him rested a great and important duty. Drawing his portly figure to its greatest height, and setting his hat well back upon his head and a little to one side, he hooked both thumbs into the armholes of his vest, set his left foot forward, scowled, squinted his eyes, and looked down upon me for a full minute before answering my question. Then, with great superiority of tone, he replied:

"Young man, you know that these ladies proposed a mar