another day, and yet another; then returned to his tribe covered with mortification, chagrin, and anger,- and the peaceful relations of the tribes were disturbed. Weeks wore into months, and months into years, but Seattle waited in vain for his favorite daughter.

Death visited his household and robbed him of his two remaining daughters, and he grew silent and sad, but bent all his energies to the keeping of his tribes together, and improving their condition. He was beloved and revered by his people, and by no one more so than by Martin, who rose in power and conceit with each succeeding year.

"Angeline, by all that's holy. Come, come, what's the matter? Get in here." And half by force, half by cunning persuasion, Henri, the fur-trader, a man Angeline had good reason to fear, had her in the canoe, and was speeding out over the smooth water.

For fifteen long years the scenes of Angeline's childhood and girlhood knew nothing of her. Vague rumor had it that she had gone with a white man, a fur trader, and that she lived with him in the far North, but no authenticated reports were obtainable.

It was even so. To the far North, at one of the trading stations, Henri had taken his unwilling companion. Remonstrances, pleadings, threats, were alike unavailing. Angeline was forced to stay with him. One or two ineffectual attempts at flight proved to her her powerlessness, and finally she became as Henri expressed it, "a very good squaw." He was coarse, brutal, and cunning by nature, but treated Angeline with rather more consideration than usually fell to the lot of the squaw of the white man. In the course of time

several children were born to her, but with the exception of Therese, the eldest daughter, they died in early infancy.

Therese was like her father in looks and disposition, and the two were very fond of each other. Something very like content seemed to possess Angeline during these days. She was dutiful and industrious. Henri was kind, provided well, and never over-burdened her with work; and Therese, though wayward, was affectionate. In due time Therese went with the other half-breed children to the school at the settlement, and her progress there was a source of gratification and wonder to her mother, who regarded with awe the books and wonderful marks and figures the child delighted in.

So time wore on. If Angeline's thoughts ever reverted to the past, she never spoke them. Her duties occupied her time and attention, yet often during the long winter evenings when Henri was away, and Therese wrapped in slumber, she would sit for hours gazing stolidly into the open fire. What were her thoughts, her feelings? Something of injustice she felt,— something of a lack. The long, cold winters chilled her. She longed for the balmy atmosphere, the sunny land of her childhood. She longed for her people. The people of the North were so sharp, so quarrelsome, so cruel, always full of care for the morrow. "So different, so different," she would mutter to herself, then relapse into stolid silence.

Time brings many changes, and one night when she had been keeping her vigils rather later than usual, waiting for Henri, there came a sound of many feet at her cabin door,-- then a call.

"Angeline, O Angeline!" She hastened out, half expecting that her lord and master had been helped home after indulging too freely in drink, as was not infrequent. Several men were carrying a rude litter, and on it, covered with a blanket, lay the dead form of Henri.

"Ugh!" Angeline shivered, but made no moan, betrayed no further emotion, asked no question.

"Dalton stabbed him," she heard one of the men remark. Such occurrences were common at the settlement.

Thus ended an epoch in Angeline's life. She lived in the cabin till spring, - but no longer the stolid, indifferent squaw. She was alert, interested in the affairs of the hunters and trappers, and kept a lynx eye on Therese, who was fast approaching her fifteenth birthday. In the spring a party was formed to go down to the Sound country for purpos es of traffic with the Indians, and to look up the resources of that section, as it was coming into prominence. This was what Angeline had waited for. She determined to accompany the men, and see once more the home of her childhood.

Arrangements were easily made for providing the necessaries of the journey for herself and Therese, and early one May day the party set out. It was a long and perilous journey, but Angeline proved herself an nvaluable aid. Her knowledge of woodcraft, her willingness to help, her good nature and buoyant spirits, made her a favorite, and she commanded the respect and liking of her companions.

After a two months' journey they came to Puget Sound. Angeline was in a transport of joy at seeing the familiar waters again. Therese viewed her mother with amazement. What a change had taken place. She herself sincerely mourned the loss of her father. He had been kind to her and shown her much affection, and she could not comprehend the very evident relief that his death caused her mother.

It was a calm, moonlit night again, when Angeline, followed by Therese, walked into her father's wigwam unannounced. She had resumed the garb of the tribe, though Therese wore the dress of the settlement. Seattle sat in

his wigwam alone. He looked up to greet his visitors, and arose hurriedly.

Angeline came forward and handed him a pipe, a peace-offering,-then caught his hand and kissed it. Some tender feeling must have stirred in the old chief, for his voice was kind as he bade her welcome.

"Father, I am alone but for her — she is my child. You are lonely and need me. I will stay with you and keep your wigwam. I will be your daughter again, only let us come to you. Let us both come."

The old Chief turned from her, and Angeline waited long and anxiously for the words she hoped to hear. They came at last. Quietly and tersely he promised her protection. It cost him an effort, but Angeline knew that come what would her position as her father's daughter was assured.

She turned to leave the wigwam, but was intercepted by some one entering. She stepped back, but the new comer had recognized her. It was Martin. "You, Angeline!"

Some long suppressed emotion leaped within her. She came forward, all the fervor of her nature shining in her eyes. It was to come to her at last,- that subtle something that had been wanting during the long years. She knew now what it had been that had given her courage to court danger and repulse, that had impelled her to return. It was the vivifying hope of love.

The moment was a short one, but in it Angeline lived years. Years of hope, comfort, and joy.

"Martin, have a care!"

The words of the Chief were too late. Already a stinging blow had left its mark on Angeline's cheek,-another, and another. Therese terrified, drew her mother back.

"So you have come back after all these years to mock mé,- bringing your white-faced child to shame you." His voice was hoarse, his eyes lurid with

passion, and the muscles of his face worked convulsively. "You promised me, yet you ran off in the night with a pale-face. I might have been chief with your father, Squanim would never have taken you had he known. But you were false to me, you left your father lonely,― you despised your people."

The old Chief laid a forcible hand upon the infuriated man and motioned Angeline to go.

She went out into the night, followed by Therese. The moon in all its soft radiance looked pityingly down. The smooth waters of the Sound reflected many a shadow. Angeline looked out upon it all. Something seemed to have died within her. No emotion stirred at the familiar sight, yet the calmness and the still, penetrating beauty had their quieting influence upon her. She bowed her head, and Therese heard her mutter, "It is night. It always comes in the night."

Angeline's return after so long an absence created a profound sensation among her people, but she was indifferent alike to their curiosity or their sympathy, their notice or their aversion. She found many changes, but reconciled herself to them all. Her father's household affairs received her former faithful attention, and Therese, already a tall and handsome maiden, became the source of much gratification to her. Even the old Chief found her useful, as in the frequent dealings with the whites her knowledge of their language, and her ability to read and write, made her a valuable interpreter and mediator. Perhaps this was Angeline's greatest solace, as it certainly was a marked distinction. The young men of the tribe paid Therese much attention, and sought her favor, but she treated them pretty much alike. She favored this one, then that one, and laughed good-naturedly at them all. The elders looked on in amusement and wonder. Her good nature kept her in touch with them all, her keenness

and wit enlivened them, while her accomplishments and attainments established her superiority. Could she have been satisfied with what her mother's people had to offer her, her fate might have been a comparatively safe and happy one; but the alien blood told in her.

With a mother's insight Angeline perceived this, and trembled for the girl when the white men from the settlements favored Therese with their familiar notice. Untutored savage that she was, she felt that trouble only would come of it, and she earnestly besought the girl to avoid temptation; but Therese was willful. She hated monotony. She disliked the stupidity and stolidity of her companions. She craved excitement; and, after all, the restless disquietude that possessed her might have been the unconscious reaching out for clearer perception,- a movement of the dim soul within her for larger intelligence, a fuller scope. However it was, Angeline's fears were realized.

One of the white men from Seattle persuaded Therese to accompany him, and keep his home, and she went,confident, hopeful, and happy. To her mother's entreaty to stay, her prophecies that she would rue the day she left her people, she turned a deaf ear; but her parting kiss was full of affection, and her words to the chief were those of respect and love.

A greater trial was in store for Angeline than mere separation would have caused. The fact that in the ensuing time she never heard directly from her daughter troubled her, and she grew more taciturn and reserved, now that the connecting link with outside interests was gone.

Two years went by,-years of watching and yearning, before any summons came;- then one calm, beautiful night Martin's son, a promising young brave, who had been one of Therese's ardent admirers, came to Angeline's wigwam

"It is night again. It is just such another night," she muttered to herself, as she strained her gaze over the still, reflecting waters, and her thoughts reverted to the past. There was an ominous dread at her heart. Her past life stood out in bold relief,— the one bright spot in it had been Therese, and now Therese was sick and unhappy, Therese with her bright, gay manner, her quick perceptions, and withal her glowing health. The two years must have been full of suffering indeed to have brought her so low. Angeline caught her breath and shivered as a chill breeze struck her, but kept on with a steady stroke.

In two hours she reached Seattle, then carefully following the directions given her by Martin's son, she made her way to a miserable hovel under the brow of the cliff that then skirted the waterfront. The dread that possessed her deepened as she stepped to the partly closed door. The moon was darkened as she looked in, and the deep shadows revealed nothing.

There was no answer. She flung wide open the door,- the wailing cry of an infant greeted her. In the indistinct light she discerned an object swaying to and fro, suspended by a rope from a beam above. The moon emerging from the cloud flooded the room with a sickly light. Angeline gave a loud cry as she recognized the swaying object. It was still warm, but life was extinct.

Thus ended another epoch in Angeline's life.

The succeeding years witnessed many changes. The death of her father a few years later severed the only bond that held her close to human sympathy. The tribes, scattered and dismembered even before her father's death, had nothing in common with her. She left them, and came to Seattle to live. She took care of the child left by Therese, a puny, miserable boy, for whom, however, she never evinced any tenderness or emotion. He is still living,- a miserable specimen of a degenerate half-breed.

Angeline herself is a stoic. The days come and go. They have nothing to bring her, nothing to take away. Life is a monotonous existence, in which is neither hope nor fear, pleasure nor sorrow. In her rude cabin overlooking the sea Angeline, the Princess of Seattle, looks out in wonder and contempt at the turmoil and strife of the new civilization. Child of a past age, she has outlived it, but who can judge her, who understand?

Rose Simmons.

I.

growing worse. Owing to his constant lapses managing editors and publishers

She said it half aloud, with tears in her eyes and a short sob, that, however helpless or hopeless it might sound to outsiders, was a sob that meant business.

Things had not been going well with the Boscobel Binnywigs of late. They were an affectionate family, but Mr. Binnywig, while an excellent husband in some respects, was very much wanting in others. He was in fact altogether too much addicted to spiritualism; the kind that has more power to "raise spirits" and depress them again than any dozen other mediums extant.

And Mrs. Binnywig was determined that she would not stand it. She had declared the same many times before, both to herself and to Boscobel, and when Mrs. Binnywig said a thing, she almost always meant it. She had married her husband years before, for love, not money; what little property they had ever possessed belonged to her. She came from the South, where her family had connections in St. Louis, Tennessee, and California, and she possessed in large degree the warm, loving, vivacious temperament so common among women in those sunny lands.

Mr. Binnywig, on the contrary, had spent most of his life in Chicago, and had done it badly. He was an "all round newspaper man" of considerable repute, who could easily command a position on any of the great Chicago dailies when he chose to work; and might easily have acquired a competence for his family, had the light of his genius only been as steady as it was brilliant. As things were, he had failed to make even a living, of late, and matters were

VOL. XX-45.

him; and it was becoming evident that he would soon have to fall out of the ranks altogether in favor of duller but more conscientious men.

Mrs. Binnywig thought of her five children,― the youngest a short, goldenhaired boy still in petticoats, domestically known as "the Pawn"; while the eldest was fast developing into an intellectual girl, whose sole ambition was to complete her education by graduating at Harvard. It was to herself, reflected Mrs. Binnywig, that they must all look. for sustenance and culture; and with her somewhat tremulous resolution strengthened into earnest resolve, she went upstairs to attire herself for a promised attendance at the police court.

Mr. Binnywig was booked for trial on the charge of having wilfully disturbed that mysterious element known in police circles as "the peace." He looked to his wife to save him from punishment by paying a light fine, as she had often done before. But on this occasion he had reckoned without his hostess, who for some time past had been maturing quite a different plan in her active and well-organized brain.

She was a tiny little woman, and did not look in the least strong-minded, as she stood before the mirror in grave contemplation of a new poem in millinery, which she was wearing for the first time that day. Yet in spite of her fondness for pretty clothing, and the five children she had borne her husband, she was by no means one of those soulless, prolific women who bear tamely any indignities their male halves may see fit to inflict upon them. She possessed bright talents, not unknown in the lit