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ham _â€"4..â€"â€" r "it!!! Hits eusin. It Ins getting late. Outside the of- fice the noisy street had grown silent and instead of the rush of ’bus and Waggon there was now only the shuf- fling sound of footsteps on the pave- ment and laughter in the clear, cold air. It filtered in, through the closed iOOII‘ of the dren ry office to the man crunched over his desk. He started up a! last, shivering. As he rose he looked round. It was a large roomâ€"a lawyer’s office. The carpet was thick underfoot, and a warm rug was stretched in front of the fire. A heavy bookshelf and a safe occupied one tide of the room, and in every direction were chairs and tables strewn with papers, and, in a corner, Andrew Fytton's own desk. He turned and slowly drew down, the long American top. It shut out the hideous papers from rhis sight, but not from this memory. Only forty-two and his life was ruined and hopeless, and dishonour stared him in the face 1 There are some men who become criminals through weakness, and An- drew Fytton was one. All who knew him know him as a kindâ€"herartedâ€"al- most foolishly kindâ€"heartedâ€"man. He was [generous to a degree, lenient to a fault. His friends honoured him, his family worshipped him. Yet now he was on the verge of bankruptcyâ€"- and worse! It had begun, as those things of- ten begin, in a small way. A client. had failed. Andrew Fytton, with his usual kindâ€"heartedness, did not put in his claim, and waited for the man to pay. It was a big sumâ€"something like £000â€"but he could afford to lose it just then, and probably would not have felt the loss of it, if he had hard- ened his heart and kept the rest of his money in his own pocket. But he did not. An old friend came to borrow £1,000, in order to take a theatre and produce a play. Andrew Fytton could ill-afford. to loud it, but he did so, and three months after- wards found that every penny of it had been hopelessly lost. His friend disappeared, and 'he tried to pull round, but he never did. For acouâ€" ple of years he struggled, then came a chance, he thought, to make it back, and not having enough of his own, he appropriated a client’s money. After that the road downhill was easy. He took another client‘s to re- place the first, and another to make good that, and so on and on down the ugly road that is so hard to climb. He reached the bottom at last. The time came when he could go no farther, and then brought face to face with the consequences, of his sin, he had done the only thing left to him to do. It required some cour- age, but he did it bravely. He wrote to his clients a confession of what he had done, giving them a statement of his affairs, and agreeing to hand over to them everything that could realize money. Toâ€"day those letters had reached their destination, and toâ€"mor- raw he would have to face the men he had ruined! Toâ€"morrow there would he no respite for him. To-night was his last night of freedom. [Even amid this overwhelming con- viction he could still think charitany of the one who had been indirectly responsible for his ruin. After all, John Gillan had not: intended to rob him of his £1,000. He had believed in his play, and evidently he had felt the loss keenly, for Andrew Fytton had neither seen nor heard of him since. Poor old Gillan! He thad been his best friend once. and walked slowly through to the outâ€" or office. It was getting dusk. 2A clock struck eight as be shut the door, and he started nervously. [His Wife would be anxious and the children would be gone to bed! The chil- dren l The, thought of them made him stand, staring wildly at the lighted street and the moving figures under the lamps. His children! He had not only ruined his own life, but theirs too ! He reached home at last, and stared dazedly, as be pushed open the gate, at the well-kept garden, and the white steps. rHis wife met him at the door, and looked up anxiously into this face. " Why, dear, 'how late you are," she stopped at the sight of his haggard eyes and put 'her hand suddenly on his shoulder. “Andrew, Andrew ; what is it i” she cried. quickly. He turned away a little, and his usual weakness prevented him telling her now. "Nothingâ€"nothing, dear," he said. " I've been working late, and I'm tired -â€"that's all, wife. I suppose the chil~ dren are in bed ’i'" He sank into a chair. He was tired. He was Bo worn out that she put his soup and chicken in front of him in vain. He gulped down some brandy and then asked to see the children. There was nothing unusual in thisâ€" .hc always went to look at the two curly heads upon the pillows when they were in bed: but the strange- ness of his face frightened his wife tonight. She followed ’him up and Btood at the door while he went in. She saw him bend: first over the girl, then over the boy; she saw his face as he turned. andlbhe went in quickly towards, him. He turned out the gas‘ ” Andrew, darling, tell me what isi the matter I” _ ‘Hc bent and kissed her in Silence. " Not now, not now," he said hoarseâ€" I ly. "I want to go outâ€"to walk. “'hen I Come backâ€"yes, I‘ll tell you when I come back." The cold air on his face steadied him a little at first. He walked aiong the broad gravel road into the open country with sudden confidence. There must be some way out, he told himself. It could not be true that the sins of the father were visited on t'hcchildrenâ€"it could not be true that his children would have to suffer for him l He walked on quickly. As far as he could see there was no way out of this difficulties. For an hour or more .he walked and rack- ed his brain, but just as it bad fail- ed before it failed now. If he could have borrowed £8,000 or so he might. have struggled round in a year or two, for his practice was good; but who would lend him) £8,000? The one or two rich friends he had he had tried, but not one of them would lend him so much. And was it likely, when it might be years before he could give it back? His heart failed him. as he thought. |Thc hopeless horror of his life and the years before him rushed back up- on him. Prison, dishonour, shame. humiliation, degradation! His wife lwould be an outcastâ€"pennilessl His ‘children would bear the burden of their father’s guilt! They ‘would be known as the offspring of acriminal â€"branded and handicapped at the very outset of their [young lives! His Jim! His little May! He lifted his haggard face to the sky. It was ,cold and still with frost, and one or two stars gleame-d out from the dark blue. They seemed pitiless. There was no help for him anywhere, and he deserved none. There is awcak~ ness \i’hich is criminal, and his had been that weakness. He ought to have remembered that ‘he could not suf- , fer alone. ! Ah, if he only could! If only he could save his children from the shame and horror. He lifted his, head and looked round. He was in open coun- try. The road ran high to that point and stretching before him Iwcre long fields and meadows, with the thick white frost upon them, and beyond, the bright lights of the railway. He started as he looked. They shone iclear through the frosty. nightâ€"clean er and kindlier than the stars, he thought. They were nearer. The stars were far away, and Heavenâ€"a hoarse cry broke from him as he bared his 'hot headâ€"Heaven was very far‘ away from him just then! He listened. In the night nothing seemâ€" ed to move. He was alone with him- ,self and with his own maddened thoughts. He took out his watch and peered at its white face in the dark- ness. It was nearly ten o'clock. In a few minutes the London express would go thundering along the rail and across the viaduct. It was nearâ€" ly dine, and if he ranâ€"â€" He drew himself up abruptly. \Vhat was he thinkng \Vhat was he, doâ€" ing? He was mad. He must go back â€"go back to his wife. Once more there rushed to him the thought of what the morrow would bring for the chil~ dren. He would be arrested, sent to prison, and all their lives through they would suffer. But, supposing, instead. he was found face downward on the railway line yonder, would it not save them? The truth would leak out, of course. People would know why he had done it, but they would forget, and after all the great world outside would not know. His children would be saved the disgrace of prison. He plunged forward. His brain was on fire. His head whirled and his un~ steady feet clipped nnder him as he plunged down the dark lane leading to the viaduct. At the bottom of the hill the lane branched off, and to reach the railway he would have to cross a meadow. He mounted the stile quickly and jumped over. As he did soâ€"as his feet touched the grassâ€" he started and lifted his head to listen. His face grew gray. His breath seemâ€" ed to stop. for through the frosty night air there came, clear and dis- tinct, the Quick rumble of the comâ€" iing train. Before he could cross the Imeadow it would be on the bridge! ‘ His hand clutching the stile behind him trembled. He leant back. The train came, on with a rush over the line of rail, across the .viaduct, and i into the darkness again. It went past him with a flash, and as it vanished ‘he tore off his but. If he had been fa minute earlierâ€" " Thank Heaven! (I‘hank Heaven !“ he cried. “I was too late l" He stood for a moment. The sound of the train die-d slowlyâ€"more slowâ€" ly than usual, he thoughtâ€"even as it died it seemed to grow louder again. It arrested his thoughts. it startled himâ€"that second sound. It seemed to stop the. beat of his heart», and trcm« bling in every limb he lcant heavily against the stile. W as be mad? “'as he dreaming? ’What was the. meaning of another train at that hour of the night? He stood, and through the darkness he saw the same train pass againâ€"- over the viaduct and into the dark- nessâ€"just as it had done half a min- ute ago! He stood bewildered. Could there be two trainsâ€"two expresses rushing up from London within thir- ty seconds of each other ‘? Or would there be another, and another, and another, visible only to himself? His brain was giving wayâ€"he must be going madâ€"and yet there was the shriek of the whistle, and then quickâ€" ly and surely the rumble ceased. He looked round like a man in adream. He was saved-saved from his own folly. This first train had prevent- ed him from crossing the meadow. A hand from. Heaven had stretched out to help himâ€"that was it. God had vouchsafed a signâ€"had sent him a vision. He had interfered and he was meant to live! ‘a new and honourable life. He clasped his trembling hands to- gether and raised his cycs. ’l'hcn sud- denly blindness seemed to rush upon him. Something gave way with a snap in his brain and he fell forward in the darkness. [As he fell a figure ran towards him and mounted the stile. A minute later he thought .h\‘ was dreaming when his wife pillowâ€" cd his head on her lap. C I t O C . Tt was a long time before she was able to move him. She had to fetch :1 policeman and a stretcher from the town. and lube hesitated to leave him at first. .But no one was about in the fields at that hour of the night, and there was nothing else to be done. She got him home at. last, and a con- ple of policemen carried him in and put him on the coucl: in 1119. drawing- room. She sent them for u doctor,and then she suddenly became aware. that. a figure had risen from a corner and was watching her with curious inâ€" terest. She looked up. At first she thought she was dreaming. ’llhpn sudâ€" denly the figure held out its hand. and she ran forward. “ 0h, Johnâ€"John Gillan," she cried. “ You 2" " I," he paid slo’wly. "I've come back at lastâ€"at last. After all these years I thought I should never get licrc. It’s hard work to be successful, but I’ve managed it now. But tell me, Nell, it isn’t true? Itâ€"itâ€"he’s illâ€" wanderingâ€"imagining things. He didâ€" n’t mean the letters he wrote." No!â€" lie looked up a little vwildl'y. “\Vliat true? \Vhat do you mean? \tht not true ?" Gillan looked at her gravely. If she did not know he could not tell her. He looked at the unconscious man on the couch. "\Vliy, he’s been writing lettersâ€" mad letters," he said. " By a curious chance I saw one of them this morn- ing. I only reached London yester- day. [I’ve come straight from New York, and to-day I went to see a banker I know. It seems the oddest thing that I should have gone just then. W'hile I was there he received a. curious letter from Andrew. He knew that he was a friend of mine years ago, and he handed it to me. He could not understand it. I couldâ€" n’t either. I can only tell you that it was mad. He was evidently ill when he! wrote it. Yes. poor old chap! He must have been illâ€"deluded. Look at him now. But don‘t worry about him, Nell. I came on as soon as I could to see what was up. I caught the London express and have been wait- ing here for [you ever since. And if that doctor doesn’t come in a minute, I’ll go and hurry him up. I’ve got on: thing to tell you, Nellâ€"I’ve made my fortune at last. I've got aplay in Ambrica that is a huge success, and I‘ve come back to pay Andrew the £1,000 I owe him. So that if there is anything upâ€"" Nell started forward. “ Oh, there isâ€"th=cre is something,“ she cried. "I don’t understand him. Something is the matter. He has been worried to death, but whyâ€"oh, I don‘t know why. He wouldn‘t tell me. Toâ€"pi-ght he came in lookingâ€" awful. He went up and kissed the children and then went :out. He fright- ened me, and I followed him. I was afraidâ€"” She broke off with a sudden sob. grillan put his hand on her shoulâ€" er. " \Vell never mind,” *he said. "Nev- er mind! It will be all right now, and I’ll attend toihis business to-mor- row." And he did. He went to the office with all the dignity of an old band at the profession, although he had never looked inside a law-book in his life. And the ntartled creditors who came up expecting to find a frauduâ€" lent bankrupt found instead a big, squareâ€"shouldered man with a grey beard who met them with one reply to their Questionsâ€"Mr. h‘ytton was Seriously ill and quite unable to at- tend to his business. As for his inâ€" solvency, it' was a mistake, and if anyâ€" one doubted it, ‘he, John Gillan, was prepared to give them his own per- sonal security for anything from £10 to £10,000. The result was that Andrew Fyt- ton’s letters of the day before were ‘attributed to his illness. Brain fever was. responsible for many delusions, and poor old Fytton must have been deluded when he wrote, they thought. And as far as they ever knew it was the brain fever. John Gillan saved his friend. “'hile Andrew Fytton was raving of his bankruptcy and dishon- our John Gillan had calmly paid £10,- 000 to his credit at the bank, and when Andrew came back to life it was to find, not the police awaiting him, but And he made it honourable too. When he rose from his sick bed there came to him a new strengthâ€"a new belief in the power of right. He took the money Gillan offered him, but he insisted on paying it back, {pound by pound, and never rested until he had done so. To-d'ly if he has any weakness at all it is a certain foolishness with regard to the [London express. He insists upâ€" on it that he saw a vision that nightâ€" that God meant it for a Sign to him. Perhaps it wasâ€"who knows! For the first train he saw was unreal, and the second was bringing to him his best friendâ€"London Tit-Bits. â€"â€"_.â€" END UG H FOR H [31. Lady, said the beggar, won‘t yer gimme a nickel to git some coffee? The lady did so, and he started in- to the neighbouring saloon. Here l she cried, you don't get cof- fee in there. Lady. he replied, dat's where yer 'way off. Dey keeps it! on dc bar wid de cloves an' orange peel. M\___ In British publi~ libraries there are 37 books for C'lf‘i! 10) people; in France, 129; in Saxony, 417. canoes SMALL FARMING. The profits of a farm are neverâ€"we think this word ncvcr is fully justi- fiedâ€"in proportion to its size. Small farms are proverbially productive, and profitable, while the cxpi-nscs of it big farm quite often outrun the income. “A little farm well tilled" has been thought by many of the most thoughtâ€" ful writers of poetry and prose, the most essential condition for happiness and comfort in every way. In fact the concentration of labor for the purpose of economy of production is now made the fundamental principle of every one of the world's industries â€"4‘.x02pt agriculture. But it is rup- irdly coming to be proved an economi- cal principle, that small farming, or, as it is termed, intensive culture of the land, which is the direct opposite of extensive culture, is always econ- omical and most productiVe, as com- pared with the working of large farms that is, of farms over fifty acres. It may appear very plainly to be so if we look at it in this way. A farmer has a hundred acres of land, on which he spends so much labor and uses so much need and fertilizers. IIc‘conâ€" fines his work to fifty acres, and uses as much fertilizer or manure on this land. and his products are fully equal to those he formerly got from twice as much land; at the same time his expenses arising out of the use of twice as much land are halved in sev- eral respects; as interest of capital, repairs of fences, cost of harvesting, seed, and culture, and other expen- ditures incident to the larger farm; while by better work the products may be easily fully equal to those of the doubled space. Thus the income may be the, name as before, while the cost of making it will be nearly halv- ed. Labor is by no means a measure of profit. lit is the way in which it ,‘is expended that makes the profit of it. One may work hard in digging holes and filling them up again, all to no purpose; but when a man digs to the Same extent in making drains on his land the work has paidâ€"to the recent knowledge of the writerâ€" twentyâ€"five. dollars a day for every day spent in doing the work. And in this remarkable instance the value of good work on the farm, this income will ensure to the man every year by the continued greater productive- ness of the land. In fact the man who did this work remarked that the total previous value of the land drain- ed would be paid to him every year in the greater productivcness of it. So that its actual value is now equivaâ€" lent to the capital sum which would be represented by the legal interest on it, which is now making every year over and above what it produced; be- fore the work was done. Another example may ‘be given in regard to the method of culture. A farmerâ€"whose name is well known all over this continent as a writer and public speaker at farmers' meet- ingsâ€"a few years ago doubled thei productive ability of his farm, by adopting what is known as the soil- inzg method of keeping cows. He is a noted dairyman and. now is keep- ing 18!) cows on 150 acres of land, by means of this method of growing and feeding crops, whereas before by pasâ€" turing and feeding hay and grain he formerly fed only 80 cows. His profits are now fully double the former sum, not counting savings every year rcp- rcsented by the increase of capital, in the form of new and enlarged build- ings paid for out of the income. It is this method of practical economy exercised in [so many ways, and the saving expense in comparison with the increased work done, that is re- volutionizing all kinds of industry,and which is so greatly increasing the wealth of the world. It is a rule drawn from observation of thinking, studious people, that the industry of agriculture is the last to fall into line in the march of im- provement. Very conSpicuously it has not been advanced as rapidly as oth- er industries, although it is moving ahead. But some of the results gain- ed in this improved condition are due mostly to the cheapness of products resulting from the improvements in other lines of production by which farm expenses are lessened. \Ve know however, that the tendency of the condition of agriculture is towards imâ€" provement in its own work, especiul~ ly in regard to the dairy; but it grows slowly and not in equal ratio with other industries, and this very evidently is due to the slowness with which farmers adopt improved methods of culture of their land; sticking to the old ways instead of boldly striking out in new ones. This is most prominently shown for one iusmnce in the absence of drained fields which every spring are overâ€" flowed or waterâ€"soaked, when llr~ plow should beat work; for another, in the generally poor condition of pastures; and in another in the failure to grow crops for feeding in the summer by which one acre might feed a cow, or seven sheep or as rainy growing pigs, “'c might mention a few others. as the absence of silos on dairy farms, or on other farms which by the use of them might add adozen or ascore of cows to the present stock, thus putting 8:200 or $300 more money to the credit of the year’s work at the least, and twice as much at the most. Or a hundred sheep might br- f»-:[ on the increased crops grown by culture .. . 1mm ' .W' of some neglected field now left to weeds or sprouts. There is leisure for thinking of these things just now. Some firmer-s do :1 good deal of this however. in the winters ‘xud unforâ€" tunately stop there. The goodtl‘iinkâ€" or is the man who lays up his thoughts in his hoirt, as seed for fruit, when the working days come. “'e should all be [good thinkers at this time, when thoughts sown will bring action by and by. EX PORT BACON TRADE. Just now a condition exists in our expert bacon trade that should be well considered by farmers who supr ply the live stock to our markets. Prices have. ruled higher during the winter months, and live hogs have been marketed as quickly as they were in condition. During the past few weeks, however, the tendency of the market. has been downward, and in many cases those who have had stock to Llisposc of have used every possible means to fatten and market before the threatened drop in prices. occurred. This may [give the farmer a momentary advantage, but it will not pay him in the long run. For what will be the result ‘? Fat hogs can be made only into fat and soft baâ€" con, and the export demand calls, and calls imperatively, for bacon that is lean and firm. The farmer is the guardian of his own interests in a matter of this kind. The English Consumer is exacting in his demands for an article that sat- isfies his taste, and it is manifestly, in his interests to supply him with what he wants. Fat or soft bacon is always in bad request, and we can send it forward with only one: result, viz., great injury to our bacon trade. The favor .with which Canadian bacon has been received in England is suf- ficient to encourage our farmers to raise stock that will meet the require- ments of the market, even though those requirements appear to be ex4 acting at first. \Ve cannot afford to lose, by lack of judgment and forel Sight, the advantage that we have gained in the last few years. Any slight benefit that might come to us through forcing stock for market, be- fore a decline in prices would not in any measure compensate for the re- tribution that would follow were our bacon to meet with disfavom at the hands of English customers. ‘ __¢_ ]-t I\ G- DISTANCE SXVIMMING O FISHES. For long-distance swimming the shark maybe mid to hold the record, as he can outstrip the swiftest ships apparently without effort, swimâ€" ming and playing around them, and ever on the look-out for prey. Any human being falling overboard in sharkâ€"frequented waters has very lit- tle chance of escape, so rapid is the action of the shark, the monster of the deep. The dolphin, another fast- swimming fishâ€"a near relative of the whaleâ€"is credited with a speed of con- siderably over twenty miles an 'hour, For short distances the salmon can outstrip every other fish, accomplish- ling its twenty-five miles an hour with ease. The Spanish mackerel is one of the fastest of food fishes, and cuts the water like a yacht. Predatory fish are generally the fastest swimmers. .__.°...__ A FAMOUS IVILNE MANAGER. Australia has lost one of its best- known mining experts by the death of Mr. John “'esley Hall. He and his tyvo"$broth;1‘s were members of the original syndicate which purchased the famous Mount Morgan Mine in Queensland, from its discoverer, Mr. Morgan. Mr. Hall was appointed the first manager, and from having con- !trol of a battery of five head of istampcrs he developed it until, on his retirement, over 2,000 men were em- ployed. He was manager of the minein the historic, 'year when £1- 100,000 was paid in dividends, and dur- ing the past few years, when about £350,000 was annually divided, he and lhi-s family held nearly half the shares among them. __9_ SOLIET’HING, IN A NAME. They were engaged to be married, and called each other by their first names, Tom and Fanny, and he was telling her how he had always lik- ed the name of Fanny, and how it sounded like music in his ear. I like the name so well, he added, as a sort of clincher to the â€"argu- ment, that when sister Clara asked me to name per pet terrier [at once called it, lFanny, after you, dearest. I don’t think that was very nice, saidd the fair girl, edging away from him; how would you like to have a dog named after you? Why, that‘s nothing, said Tom. air- ily; half the cats in the country are named after me. They don't speak now. + DROLLERIES. As the bride and groom” are taking the train they are fired upon and killed. For the moment the world is much shorked. But presently it is discovered that the guns with which the killing was done [were loided with rice. A practical joke! exclaims the world, hereupon, Ha. ha! Ha, ha, be!" It is not always easy to discern the thin line which delimits genuincv’ hu- mor from hydrocephalous idiocy inite more transcendental reaches.