impression whatever, just what he thought of him.

But this is the sort of person upon whom argument is utterly wasted, one with standards, principles, viewpoints so different from ours that our reasoning is as meaningless to them as if we spoke in a foreign language.

This conversation took place one day when the brothers happened to meet at the terminus opposite to the town where they lived. Fred stood first out, so he slept until such time as the caller should rouse him. Will was second out, but he found that he could do very well with less sleep than other men required, so he spent the time in recreation instead of rest.

That night there were two sections of No. 52, running only ten minutes apart. Between Merriam and Holston there is a good piece of road, almost level, but curving considerably. It is here that passenger men always make up their lost minutes, and freight men do not look for trouble.

Will, on the second section, was right on time when he reached Merriam, but he was in a reckless mood that night. He increased his speed from time to time. The fireman remonstrated.

"Look here!" Will answered, "are you running this engine, or am I?"

"But we're running ahead of time!" "That's all right; I guess I know what I'm about."

The fireman resumed his shovel, muttering something decidedly uncomplimentery about "these young fellers, that don't know how to run an engine." It was taking him all his time to get up enough steam, at the rate it was being used. But he soon stopped long enough to look out and see if the track was clear. Two red lights, like a pair of ferocious eyes, flashed before him; they were the tail-lights of Fred's caboose. His first impulse was to jump, but it was too hazardous, so great was their speed. Instead, he crossed to the engineer's side, and yelled;

"Good God! man, shut her off! Don't you see you're going to run into first 52?"

Will, his head sunk on his breast,

stirred drowsily, and then relapsed into the slumber from which his fireman's voice had temporarily aroused him. There are times when nature, long denied, will be denied no longer. This time had come for Will. Sleep had, for the time, gained a complete mastery over him.

He had never looked more handsome

than now. His brown hair lay in damp ringlets on a forehead white, almost too white, for a man; his mouth had fallen into the little, meaningless smile that it was wont to wear. The whole expression was one of gentle boyishness, for his late manner of living had not yet set its stamp upon his face. And it was thus that he went to his God.

The morning papers contained an account of the tail-end collision. The headlines read:

"The dead are:

William Bates, engineer.
Brakeman Thomas.
Tramp, unknown.
Injured:

Fred Bates, conductor, whose caboose was struck; foot crushed.

James Little, fireman; leg broken, scalded and bruised."

The paper acknowledged its indebtedness to Conductor Fred Bates, brother of the dead engineer, for all information. The cause of the accident could not be ascertained.

It was this that met the eyes of Mrs. Bates and Fay, even before they brought the brothers home.

It was this that, after time had somewhat softened the shock and lessened the bitterness of their grief, comforted their hearts. Will had died as a hero, he had won applause for his braveryin the newspapers. And what made it better in their eyes, each knew secretly that it was not exactly what they would have expected of Will. In the end he had done bravely and well; they were right to have loved him, after all.

In other circles it was different. People heard the fireman's story. Railroad men read the headlines in the newspapers, and smiled silently. Fred knew the circumstances, by intuition at first, and afterwards by reason and by report, but he was careful not to let Fay or his mother know or guess the true state of affairs. It was for their sakes that he had made Will out a hero, and for their sakes he must keep up the delusion.

It was long weeks before Fred recovered. Changes took place in the Bates household. Mrs. Bates and Fay grieved for Will almost incessantly, until a great restlessness took possession of Fay, and she went to work in a store up town. Work proved the cure she needed. She was never gay and girlish like her old self, but calm and efficient, sweet and womanly always.

And the seasons slipped away until three years had passed.

One evening Mrs. Bates and Fay were eating supper together. Each seemed occupied with her own thoughts, until Fay spoke.

"How quiet Fred is!" she remarked. "Yes, but he was not always. He used to be full of life. But boys change so much, you never know what kind of men they'll be.'

"Why doesn't Fred marry, I wonder? He is nearly thirty, isn't he?"

"Yes, but-"

Just then the subject of their conversation walked in, with the slight limp that had never left him. Fay grew hot and red as to her face. It was very embarrassing, to say the least, to be caught talking about a man's personal affairs, even if he was one's second cousin. But the feeling she experienced when he entered caused her to cast dark suspicions upon herself. Was it possible that she was taking more than a cousinly interest in this cold and distant man?

Fred put down his grip and took his seat opposite to Fay. There was a smile in his eyes as he looked at her.

"I couldn't help help hearing," he said. "Shall I tell you why?"

The color surged up into her cheeks again.

"Yes-no. Oh, no! It is your own affair; I had no right to ask."

"But I will-some day," he said, and by the way he said it Fay knew that he would, while the mother, with a little, quiet smile, knew, too.

After this Fay told herself she was very miserable. It is always difficult to part with the pretty fallacy that we can only love once; and Fay was losing it fast.

One evening she was coming home from her work. The car was crowded. A man sat next to her and carried on a conversation with another man on the seat behind.

Fay did not listen until she heard the name of her dead sweetheart mentioned; then she paid close and eager attention to every word.

"I never did hear the straight of that, Jim," said one. "Tell me about it."

"Well, it was his fault entirely. I never saw a man handle an engine like he did."

"But the papers put him down as a hero-'brave engineer that died at his post,' and all that."

"Yes, it was his brother, Fred, that had that done to make his mother feel better about it. But everyone else knows how it was; he'd been drinking some, and hadn't had any sleep all day. He was running ahead of time, and the conductor was swinging him down for all he was worth, but he didn't look back. I went and told him, but he never paid any attention. When I saw the tail lights of the first section I ran over to his side and told him to shut off, and he was asleep. I hollered and shook him, and he kind of roused up, and then dropped back to sleep again, and about that time we hit."

Fay sat like one paralyzed. Then she turned impulsively toward the man who had been speaking.

"Tell me, is this true?" she said.

The man raised his hat. "Yes, ma'm, I was firing for him at the time, and I know."

"Thanks," she said.

Fay was a prey to mixed feelings. One was a great sadness because of Will, the other, a joyous exultation over the

thing that Fred had done. She believed now that it was Fred that she had loved always, in the disguise of Will. She had been so sadly mistaken in Will; all the qualities she had admired in him were really not his, but Fred's. And it was not so much Will who had deceived her, she had deceived herself-had imagined all sorts of great things about him, of which he was quite innocent; it was all her fault. And her mistake had led her into caring for another who made no pretence even of

caring for her. Fay seemed very ridiculous in her own eyes.

Fred was not at home that evening, but the next morning Fay rose early, and, as she was tending her flowers near the gate, he came in.

He greeted her and would have gone in, but she called his name timidly. He stopped. Fay made a sweet picture standing there in her pretty white sunbonnet, with flowers in her hand, and the young sunlight pouring its wealth about her. Perhaps Fred thought so, at any rate he would not look at her a

us the truth about Will."

"That was nothing; we were brothers and then I wanted-I thought it would make it harder for you and mother to know."

"It was great and good of you; it was like things you read of."

"You praise me too much. I don't want to be praised. I would give the world full of your admiration for one grain of-love."

"From me?" asked Fay, surprised. "Yes."

and opinion; hence simple static life and despotic institutions. Therefore, when we realize that the bread winners for over a thousand millions, or 72 per cent., of the human race still receive less than fifteen cents a day, it is not surprising that only eight-tenths of one per cent. of mankind have democratic institutions. Through the ages progress has persistently followed the lead of diversified industry. Manufacture, trade and commerce created towns and cities with their complex relations and diversified experience. Wherever this

progress diversified industry brings diversified interests, and the human race always acts on the line of its interests. Variation of interests creates variation of ideas and opinions, which, sooner or later, demand new policies.

Now, it is through this general trend of diversifying forces that religious institutions, ethical standards of life, and forms of government have been changed, remodelled and even revolutionized. In no instance, however, have these changes in society and civilization become permanent except when they