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for him. But how does she feel about it?" "Of course she feels terribly, but she can't feel that she is to blame. She thought that in corresponding with him she was giving him pleasure, and she never dreamed of anything else."
"I should think she would feel terribly. How would you feel to have the consciousness that you had caused a man's death?" The girl was very still now, her nervousness seemed all gone. The man went on. "Of course she never became engaged to the other man. If she had any womanly qualities at all I don't see how she could marry any man with such a load on her conscience. I may be harsh in my judgment, but a human life is, to me, a thing of inestimable value, and that a young girl should sacrifice a man's life to her vanity, is a thing that, if I were her fiance, I should find it very hard to forget."
"But Fred you don't look at it like I do at all. It was only natural that she should correspond with him when she left the west, and you know how such things drift on. She didn't know she was encouraging him, for she didn't know there was anything to encourage."
"Yes, but it was her duty to realize where she was drifting, and her neglect of that duty cost a man's life. As I said, I may be severe, but I can't see it in any other way. But let's not talk about it any more tonight. Its late, and you are tired, I know. Why, you are dreadfully pale. What's the matter?"
"Only tired. It has been a hard day, and I am so foolish, if I am tired or anything I show it in my face the first thing."
Ten minutes later he was gone, and she was left alone. She sat there before the fire till it slowly died away. Then she arose, wearily pushed her hair back from her white, drawn face, and crossed the room to an open desk.
It was an ideal Christmas morning, clear and bright, but with enough frost in the air to remind people that a fireside at home was the pleasantest place to be.
Happiness and good cheer seemed to be in the air and were reflected in the faces of the people on the streets. Surely no one could be other than happy, such a bright beautiful morning.
But, in a cheerful room down town, sat a man with an open letter in his hand, and on his face an expression of deep sorrow.
"I am so sorry, Fred," the letter ran, "I wish I could say something to make it easier for you, but I cannot. I know it will be hard for you to realize now, but I am sure that in time you will come to agree with me that a marriage between you and me is impossible. As friends we have been successful and always will be, I hope, but any other relation would only result in unhappiness for us both. I wish it might be otherwise, but, hard as it may be for us, I am convinced that I am right, and I know you too well to think that you would attempt to move me from a decision that is final. HELEN."
His question of the night before had been answered. He knew now that it was to be the saddest day of his life.
GERTRUDE WINSLOW HILL.
Book Review.
The Real Issue, by William Allen White; Chicago, Way & Williams.
The many who have learned to look with interest for anything from W. A. White have been puzzled all the fall by the announcement of this volume. Not that Mr. White is timid about tackling campaign problems, but they wondered why he let October slip by without getting the book on the market. They know now. The Real Issue is a book of sketches, and the reason, or one of the reasons, why the title did not add the familiar phrase—"and Other Stories"—is that they aren't exactly stories. Sketches, or studies, I should call them. Most of them are familiar to the readers of Kansas newspapers. "Colonel Hucks" is already one of our people. "The King of Boyville" is an idyl equal to the best in Tom Sawyer. With much that is pleasant and true