lowed. For Mr. Caruthers raised his face without a trace of feeling in it. When he spoke, it was in a tone of quiet politeness.

"Mr. Van Bibber, you are a very brave young man. You have dared to say to me what those who are my best friends—what even my own family would not care to say. They are afraid it might hurt me, I suppose. They have some absurd regard for my feelings; they hesitate to touch upon a subject which in no way concerns them, and which they know must be very painful to me. But you come here, unasked and uninvited, to let me know what you think of my conduct; to let me understand that it does not agree with your own ideas of what I ought to do, and to tell me how I, who am old enough to be your father, should behave. You have rushed in where angels fear to tread. I suppose I ought to thank you for it; but I have always said that it is not the wicked people who are to be feared in this world, or who do the most harm. It is the well-meaning fool who makes all the trouble. think, if you will allow me to say so, that you have demonstrated my theory pretty thoroughly, and have done about as much needless harm for one evening as you can possibly wish. And so, if you will excuse me, I will ask to say good-night, and will request of you that you grow older and wiser and much more considerate before you come to see me again."

I

I

"It is very easy to call a man a fool, but it is much harder to be called a fool, and not to throw the other man out of the window. But that, you see, would not do any good, and I have something to say to you first. am quite well aware that I did an unconventional thing in coming here-a bold thing or a foolish thing, as you choose but the situation is pretty bad, and I did as I would have wished to be done by if I had had a child going to the devil and did n't know it. I should have been glad to learn of it even from a stranger. However, there are other kindly disposed people in the world besides fathers. There is an aunt perhaps, or an uncle or two; and sometimes, even to-day, there is the chance Samaritan -Good-night."

"Wait just one minute, please, Mr. Van Bibber. Before you go, I want to say-I want you to understand my position.

"No, it is not all right. Since you have done me the honor to make my affairs your business, I would prefer that you should understand them fully. I do not care to have you discuss my conduct at clubs and afternoon teas with young women until you—”

"Oh, I would n't say that if I were you.'

"I beg your pardon. That was a mistake. I was wrong. I beg your pardon. But you have tried me very sorely. You have intruded upon a private trouble that you ought to know must be very painful to me. But I believe you meant well. I know you to be a gentleman, and I am willing to think you acted on impulse, and that you will see to-morrow what a mistake you have made. It is not a thing I talk about; I do not speak of it to my friends, and they are far too considerate to speak of it to me. But you have put me on the defensive; you have made me out more or less of a brute, and I do n't intend to be so far misunderstood. There are two sides to every story, and there is something to be said about this, even for me. When I married, I did so against the wishes of my people and the advice of all my friends. You know. all about that. God help us! who does n't? It was very rich, rare reading for you, and for every one else who saw the daily papers, and we gave them all they wanted of it. I took her out of that life and married her because I believed she was as good a woman as any of those who had never had to work for their living, and I was bound that my friends and your friends should recognize her and respect her as my wife had a right to be respected; and I took her abroad that I might give all you sensitive, fine people a chance to get used to the idea of being polite to a woman who had once been a burlesque actress. It began over there in Paris. She had every chance when she married me that a woman ever had-all that a man's whole thought and love and money could bring to her. And you know what she did. And after the divorce-and she was free to go where she pleased, and to live as she pleased, and with whom she pleased,-I swore to my God that I would never see her nor her child again. I loved the mother, and she deceived me and disgraced me and broke my heart, and I only wish she had killed me. I to love and worship and care for this child, and have

Was

her grow up with all her mother's vanity and animal nature, and have her turn on me some day and show me that what is bred in the bone must tell, and that I was a fool again—a pitiful fond fool? I could not trust her; I can never trust any woman or child again, and least of all that woman's child. She is as dead to me as though she were buried with her mother, and it is nothing to me what she is or what her life is. I know in time what it will be. She has begun earlier than I had supposed, that is all; but she is nothing to me. Oh, I care too much. I cannot let her mean anything to me; when I do care, it means so much more to me than to other men. They may pretend to laugh and to forget and to outgrow it, but it is not so with me. It means too much. Why, man, I loved that child's mother to the day of her death. I loved that woman then, and, God help me! I love that woman still."

He covered his face with his hands, and sat leaning forward and breathing heavily as he rocked himself to and fro. Van Bibber still stood looking gravely out at the lights that picketed the black surface of the city. He was, to all appearances, as unmoved by the outburst of feeling into which the older man had been surprised, as though it had been something in a play. There was an unbroken silence for a moment, and then it was Van Bibber who was the first to speak.

"I came here as you say, on impulse; but I am glad I came, for I have your decisive answer now about the child. I have been thinking, since you have been speaking, and before, when I saw her dancing in front of the footlights, when I did not know who she was, that I could give up a horse or two, if necessary, and support this child instead. Children are worth more than horses. As you say, it 's a good deal of an experiment, but I think I'll run the risk."

He walked quickly to the door and disappeared in the hall, and then came back, kicking the door open as he returned, and holding the child in his arms.

"This is she; this is your child. She will need to be fed a bit; they did not treat her very well, I fancy. She is thin and peaked and tired looking." He drew up the loose sleeve of her jacket, and showed the bare forearm to the light. "It is very thin, and under her eyes you can

see how deep the lines are. This red spot on her cheek is where the chorus girls kissed her, but they will never kiss her again. She is going to grow up a sweet, fine, beautiful woman-are you not? She does not look like her mother; she has her father's auburn hair and straight nose and finer-cut lips and chin. She looks very much like her father. It seems a pity-she will grow up without knowing him, or who he is—or was, if he should die. She will never speak with him, or see him, or take his hand. She may pass him some day on the street and she will not know him, and he will not know her "

The child in his arms stirred, shivered slightly, and awoke. The two men watched her breathlessly, with silent intentness. She raised her head and stared around the unfamiliar room doubtfully, then turned to where her father stood, looking at him a moment, and passed him by; and then looking up into Van Bibber's face, recognized him, and gave a gentle, sleepy smile, and with a sigh of content and confidence, drew her arm up closer around his neck, and let her head fall back upon his breast.

The father sprang to his feet with a quick, jealous gasp of pain. "Give her to me! She is mine; give her

to me!"

Van Bibber closed the door gently behind him, and went jumping down the winding stairs of the Berkeley, three steps at a time.

And an hour later, when the English servant came to his master's door, he found him still awake and sitting in the dark by the open window, holding something in his arms and looking out over the sleeping city. "James, you can make up a place for me here on the lounge. Miss Caruthers, my daughter, will sleep in my room tonight."

Richard Harding Davis.

AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER.

The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with the Daily Thunderstorm, and added:

"Hoping it's no harm, I 've come to interview you." 'Come to what?'

66

"Interview you."

"Ah! I see.

Yes-yes. Um! Yes-yes.”

I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said:

"How do you spell it?'
"Spell what?"
"Interview."

"O my goodness! what do you want to spell it for?" "I do n't want to spell it; I want to see what it means.'' "Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you

what it means, if you-if you--"

"O, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too.'

"I n, in, te r, ter, inter———”

"Then you spell it with an I ? ”

"Why, certainly!"

"O, that is what took me so long."

"Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?"

"Well, I-I-hardly know. I had the Unabridged, and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition."

"Why, my friend, they would n't have a picture of it in even the latest e- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world, but you do not look as—as— intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm-I mean no harm at all."

"O, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes-yes; they always speak of it with rapture."