When silence fell the young man again mounted the steps but he would not proceed. "Not to-day, my dear sir, not to-day; to-morrow maybe I can summon up courage to attempt to imitate you. I thank you for your kindness. The effect upon me was electric. I can carry it all in my heart, and when it is fixed there I'll try to send it forth again."

"Just as you choose," her father answered, “just as you like."

Ruby always looked at other people in contrast with her father, never in comparison. This young man was a trifle taller than he, and so slightly built as to appear taller than he really was. There was nothing weak or effeminate about him, and still there was a distinction that marked him from other men by a certain delicacy of feeling apparent in his voice and manner. His hair was dark and slightly curled, his complexion a rich olive. He wore no beard, and his clearly cut lips, which were clean shaven, defined a mouth of rare power and beauty. teeth were small, even, thick and ivory white. He was so entirely different from any of the rest of her father's pupils that Ruby could not resist asking about him when she joined him again in the study.

His

"He is, as you know, unknown to me, only recommended as a graduate of Cambridge. Whether he will choose the church or the law I do not think he has decided. His moods are so variable, his nature so sensitive, that he must look well to it, for he stands an equal chance of failure or success. He needs some powerful incentive like falling in love or having his ambition aroused by an opponent. I think it would do him good to meet the handsome Saul who comes to-morrow, and perhaps he will." "Saul, father?"

"I call him so. A powerful young giant, a Greek, who combines the energy of manhood with the engaging unconsciousness of a child. A perfection of the senses, a fine physical organization, a spiritual nature infolded in strict unity with the body, a form which might supply the sculp tor with his models of Jove, and the most wonderful voice I have ever heard; a rare, extravagant spirit, such as appears in the world at intervals and discloses to us new truths in nature; a man of God walking the earth among men, who will make his commission felt in the heart and soul of the lowliest hearer, for he speaks with his heart."

Such praise from her father's lips exalted this unknown Greek in Ruby's mind, and she resolved to see him, to hear

him, for thus far she had not done so, and the young Frenchman had impressed her as her father's most promising pupil.

"Did I mention to you," her father continued, "that I have a female pupil in whom I am much interested?" "When does she come?"

"The day after to-morrow. She has a peculiarly sweet speaking voice but I doubt its strength; however, I will She wishes to be an actress."

see.

(To be continued.)

THE VALLEY PATH.

A NOVEL OF TENNESSEE LIFE.

BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE.

CHAPTER III.

During the next week the physician from the city heard more than once how "Joe Bowen got ahead o' the mad doctor." He had been questioned about it when he went over to the little country town of Moffit, and had even told the joke of his own accord, laughing at it as heartily as the rest. It proved an introduction for him at all events, and went to verify the old saying that "a bad reputation is better than none." The people round about heard of him as a physician, and one afternoon, about ten days after Joe made his call, the doctor had a second.

A man from up the valley in passing left word of "a fambly o' children down with scyarlet fever in a house on the Pelham road." He "reckined they'd take it mighty kin' if the mad doctor 'd step over an' see what he could do for 'em."

Being a three-mile "step" he ordered his horse, and as a family had been attacked with the disease he carried his medicine case along.

It was his first ride down the Pelham road, and notwithstanding there were suffering children at the end of his journey he rode slowly. The young spring was abroad; the woods were a mass of quivering new greens; the trees, alive with birds; where he crossed Pelham creek the water rose with a sibillant gurgle to the bay mare's belly. The birds made merry over their nests in the heart of the laurel brake; in the tops of the red-oak trees a little mountain oriole was calling, calling, in his half-merry, half-melancholy song, the first note of which is a whistle, the second an inquiry, the third a regret, and the fourth an unmistakable sigh-a trill of music and a wail of melancholy. The good green grass crowded the roadside; the wild honeysuckle nodded to him from the deeper hollows of the wood; the very winds that fanned his cheek were gentle, kind, sympathetic. He scarcely saw, he only felt the glad new restfulness of living.

"It was a wise move," he murmured, "a very wise move. I am glad I came to the wilderness." He rode on for a moment in silence, the mare's feet scarcely audible in the light green sward of the almost untravelled valley road. Suddenly he lifted his head and looked about him, snuffing the keen, spring-scented air.

"What a place to die in!" he exclaimed, "to grow old and die in. Up sir! we are loitering in this Sleepy Hollow."

He touched the animal with the bridle rein lightly, and ere long the restful woods with their seduction of sound and color lay behind him.

It was noon when he reached the house, one of the ordi nary two-room log cabins of the neighborhood, having a shed in the rear and an open passage between the two living

rooms.

An old woman, tall and gaunt and cadaverous-looking, occupied the little home-made bench that adorned the passage; before her stood a large jar, a crock, surmounted with a wooden top: the crock was doing duty as a churn; the woman was industriously plying the dasher. She rose when the doctor rode up, and called to him to "turn his nag in the yard, else it would be worrit toe death by a loose mule o' Joe Bowenses that was rampantin' the country."

He obeyed instructions, and a moment more stood in the passage, inquiring after the sick.

"They're right in thar," said the woman, "if you're the doctor man."

"Are they yours?"

"Naw, sir, they ain't mine, an' I'm glad of it, bein' as they're all three 'bout ter die. One of 'em's in an' about dead I reckin. I ain't got but one, an' he's a man growed. Though I ain't tellin' of you, doctor, that I never had no more. I've done my part I reckin; I've got 'leven dead ones. I failed ter raise em; the measles an' the whoopin' cough an' the fever set in an' they all went-all but Jim. Jim he tuk the jandice oncet, but he got over it. I'm mighty glad ter meet you, Doctor Borin'."

"Thank you, madam," replied the physician, with such honest simplicity and hearty sincerity that the woman's sallow face beamed the pleasure the words gave her. It was only a simple greeting from a gentle heart; but because of it the mad doctor had one friend more upon the list of those who loved him.

"Do you live here?" he asked.

"Naw sir; I live in the first house on the road ter S'wany, back o' yo' place. My name's Tucker; Mis' Tucker. Yon

can go in now an' see the child'en, Doctor Borin', if you please ter; I come over ter try an' help a bit, an' I'll jist churn this milk an' give Lissy a swaller o' fresh buttermilk. Pears like she can't be persuaded ter take time ter eat nothin'."

He glanced carelessly at the low-ceiled room, the two beds occupying two corners, the small trundle bed drawn into the centre of the room, and the little square window which did duty in the way of light and ventilation, the batten shutter thrown wide open. A boy of about ten years lay tossing upon the trundle bed, flushed and fretting with fever. Upon another bed, listless, and pale as marble, a young girl was lying. Hers was a complicated case, and might prove a hopeless one. The great, hollow eyes were turned to the door, watching the doctor; a low panting moan issued continually from the thin bloodless lips.

He took it all in at a glance; the poverty, the crowded close air, the ignorance of disease, and the suffering occasioned thereby. But that which appealed to him above all things was the figure of a young girl seated beside an empty cradle with a little baby upon her knees, her hand lying lightly upon its breast. At first he had seen in the uncertain light only a coil of bright hair, of that peculiar shade that is neither golden nor auburn; it was more like a dab of warm sunshine in the gloom of the place. As his eye became accustomed to the gloom, the outline of the face grew broader and he saw where womanly tenderness and girlish sweetness blended into a Madonna-like perfection of beauty. She wore a dress of some dark stuff open at the throat and with the sleeves pushed back in clumsy little rolls above the dimpled elbows, plump and shapely. Her face was bent over the child upon her lap, and her slender strong fingers were feeling under the bosom of the little white gown for the baby's heart.

She lifted her head when the physician bent over her to look into the small smiling face against her knee. Even then he noticed that the large gray eyes lifted to his were tearless, the slender fingers were firm and without a tremor: if she felt an emotion she held it magnificently in control.

"Go to the others," she said in a quietly impressive tone. "Go to the others; it ain't no use to waste time here. I felt its heart stop beatin' when I heard your step in the passage. I ain't been able to find it any more."

Not even when she began to smoothe the lids down over the staring baby eyes, did the slender fingers falter.

"It's ma is down in the orchard with its pa," she con