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and his color against the brown leaves was so invisible, that he was close upon the bullock before he was perceived.

Then instantly the bullock charged. The tiger eluded him, and in a moment more had his paws on the bullock's neck ready to drag him down. Then, like a flash, he caught sight of the rope by which the bullock was tied, and turned and sprang into the forest, all so quickly that the man in the tree had no opportunity to fire.

THE OLD-ROSE BLOUSE

Mrs. Chesley herself opened the door.

"I saw you coming," she explained. “Come up to my room-quick!"

With light footsteps, Mrs. Nelson followed. She admired Mrs. Chesley's beauty and social charm, and was grateful for her kindness to herself, a shy little bride in a strange town.

"Oh!" Mrs. Nelson exclaimed, rapturously. "It's that imported blouse from Suratt's, isn't it? It's perfectly lovely!"

"I simply had to have it-I couldn't go out another afternoon in my old one. And, my dear, there is one in old rose that you must have. It would exactly suit you!" "But," Mrs. Nelson faltered, "I-I couldn't! Jack is just starting in, you know, and-"

Mrs. Chesley interrupted her with an amused laugh. "I know all about that. Of course you wouldn't ask Jack. He'd say, 'Why, what's the matter with that blue gown you got only a month or two ago?' Men never understand, and you can't make them; but, my dear, there are other ways.

"Do you suppose I asked Charley for the money for this? Not much! I got Mr. Hoover to lend me the money, and he just adds it to the month's grocery bill. Mr. Hoover gets his money right back, I get my blouse, and everybody's happy-all through a little diplomacy. You needn't look shocked. child; everybody does it."

"I-oh, I couldn't!" Mrs. Nelson repeated.

Mrs. Chesley, whose good nature was one of her charms, laughed again. "All right," she said, "but just go and look at that old rose. I'll rest my case on that. I'm sure you'll say it's a bargain you have no right to miss."

Mrs. Nelson had no intention of looking at the old rose, vet somehow she found herself before Suratt's window. There was no doubt about it-the blouse was lovely. Slowly, with flushing cheeks, she turned toward her butcher's.

When she entered, the butcher was busy, and with heavily beating heart, she stood and waited. Suddenly she turned and almost ran out of the shop.

Jack came home early that night, and something in his voice, as he called her, made her hurry down-stairs.

"What is it?" she cried.

"Just a hard day, litle girl-a little harder than usual. You wouldn't understand. But it was a stiff fight to keep my hands clean. I was almost gone once, but I couldn't stand it not to be able to look you square in the face. It was your battle, Jess, though you never knew it."

Mrs. Nelson caught her breath. Suppose there had been an old-rose blouse up-stairs?

LESSON L

The hush of tenderness, or reverence, is less breathy than stealthiness, and has a liquid quality of tone, rather plaintive and sweet, but not sentimental or mushy.

Brutus just before the battle says to the sleeping boy:

If I do live, I will be good to thee.

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone lived together nearly sixty years. They were very affectionate, and their unconcealed devotion to each other was delightful.

In her old age, Mrs. Gladstone had a little miniature of herself painted which pleased Mr. Gladstone tremendously, it was such a pleasant, charming little portrait. One day one of the nephews was looking at it in Mrs. Gladstone's absence, and said to Mr. Gladstone with rather a rude chuckle, "Good, very good; but don't you think it rather flatters the old lady?"

Mr. Gladstone laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and said:

"My, boy, it is the truth beautifully told!"

Once when Abraham Lincoln was visiting an army hospital, he came to the bedside of a Vermont boy of about sixteen years of age, who was mortally wounded. Taking the dying boy's thin, white hand in his own, the President said, in a tender tone, "Well, my poor boy, what can I do for you?" The young fellow looked up into the President's kindly face, and asked, "Won't you write to my mother for me." "That I will,” answered Mr. Lincoln; and calling for a pen, ink, and paper, he seated himself by the side of the bed, and wrote from the boy's dictation. It was a long letter, but the President betrayed no sign of weariness. When it was finished, he rose, saying: "I will post this as soon as I get back to my office. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?" The boy looked up appealingly

to the President. "Won't you stay with me?" he asked. "I do want to hold on to your hand." Mr. Lincoln at once perceived the lad's meaning. The appeal was too strong for him to resist, so he sat down and took the boy's hand. For two hours the President sat there patiently as though he had been the boy's father. When the end came, he bent over and folded the thin hands upon his breast. As he did so, he burst into tears, and left the hospital.

Another feeling that shows itself by breathiness of voice is very different from the others. Fierceness, or any intensity of feeling, shows the speaker's lack of self control in hurried words and uncontrolled breath. His intensity pushes and sweeps the words out.

And darest thou, then,

To beard the lion in his den-
The Douglas in his hall?

If I can catch him once upon the hip,

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe
If I forgive him.

Mark the kinds of emotion in these passages.

As the royal hunting party rode gaily across the drawbridge from the castle a woman flung herself before the King, clinging to his stirrup. She was old, evidently a peasant, for her garments were in rags.

"Justice, Sire, Justice!" she cried with passionate iteration.

"It shall be yours. Who has wronged you?" asked the King.

"Baron Magnus. He has ruined my daughter and slain my son.'

Magnus rode forward with a muttered oath, at the same time freeing his foot from a stirrup that he might use the iron as a weapon. As the Baron raised to strike, the King brought the loaded end of his heavy riding whip down on the bare wrist of Magnus.

"A lesson, my Lord, which you have long needed. The King allows no interference between himself and his subjects," cried the young man.

The Baron fell back purple with rage, his hand groping for the sword his fingers were too numb to draw.

"This to me! Were you thrice a king I should have blood for it."

"He threatens treason," cried the King sharply, “Disarm · him! Bind him!"

"There does not live the man that dares touch me," cried Magnus, his heavy teeth set, the veins in his temples and forehead swelling like muscles.

"Disarm him!" cried the King again.

But no man moved, for it was well known that Magnus had a long memory to treasure an affront, and that in the end he would pay the debt with heavy interest. The King leaped from his horse and stepped toward the raging Baron. A dozen knights, shamed to action by the unwonted resolution of their King, flung themselves on Baron Magnus and disarmed him, in spite of his fierce struggles.

"We will back to the castle and hear the woman's case now," said the King quietly.

"Indeed, Sire, these futile fits and moods are not conducive to the strengthening of your power," said Carrisdale in a low voice to the King. "You see it ends in talk."

"It has not ended yet," said the King, correcting him silkily.

Carrisdale started and looked at him sharply.

"Meanwhile there are other charges waiting for a hearing gainst you, Baron Magnus-charges of sacrilege, pillage and murder," continued the King.

"Let them wait. I have no mind to answer them now," answered the sulky Baron roughly, gazing defiantly at his feudal lord.

The King eyed him lazily from head to foot, and as he looked there came over the assembly a feeling of tense expectation, a subtle sense of great events impending.

"Baron Magnus, you are a bold villain. You have broken all laws of God and man. In all your life I know of no good deed you have done. But the end has come. It is our will that you be taken into the courtyard and there, at the expiration of one hour granted for the benefit of your guilty soul, be duly executed for the expiation of your many and heinous crimes."

The silence was painful as the King finished. Magnus went white, then red. He broke into a roar of anger -cursing, threatening, raging. When coherency of speech came to him he screamed:

"You think to play your tricks and frighten me, you baby king. Name of the devil, I will pull your kingdom about your ears. I can raise ten thousand men in three hours."

"It will be two hours too late to avail you," said the King calmly.

The Earl of Carrisdale could scarce believe his ears and eyes.

"What means your Majesty? Art mad? He has had no trial, and he is a noble of the realm. We will not allow it. He has done no more than others-no more than I myself," he cried sternly.

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