With that, the Colonel stooped down, and placed his hand over the heart. Dead, indeed! The bullet, whether by accident or not, had sped straight to the heart. There was no other wound. And now, as one of the party brought a brand from the nearest fire and held it close down for a torch, they could see upon the dead man's face a look they had never noticed before: with death, there had come a new life to the expression, as it were—or, rather, the old life of boyhood, so long obscured by vicious indulgence, had come back in all its purity, and driven off the later and debased traits of a fallen manhood. Gone, forever, the mean, cringing look: he lay gazing up at the sky, with a soft curl clustering around each temple. "Just as poor Ruth might have liked to see him as she remembers him now, I suppose," murmured Redfern, as he stooped over and dwelt upon the features. "You go on to the city tomorrow, Judge Markham ? Wait until noon, and I will go with you, on my way home. There is nothing to keep me here now. Even if there were, the thought comes over me that I should not like to stay, digging around so heartless-like, with Ruth's brother lying close at hand un der the turf. And the funeral, Judge--you will help me with that? For you see this is my affair, Colonel. No others should come in, only as I ask them to. He must be buried by me, carefully and kindly, forgetting his-his errors. We will put him under yonder pine, where the shade will be over him, and where there is no gold, so that he will never be disturbed. Will some one lend me a knife ?" The Colonel proffered his, drawing it, long and gleaming, from its sheath and Mark, again stooping over, gently cut off one of the soft, fair curls, and wrapping it carefully up, put it away. more. "I will give her that, Judge. I need not tell her how he died; but I can say that I found and recognized him ; and that he is dead. Perhaps she will not ask to hear any If she does, it will do no harm if I make up some little story, to soften things. But it will be best that she should know, even now, for certain, that he is really dead --and I know that she will be pleased to have the lock of hair. And as for myself, Judge, I know that I shall never cease to thank God that I kept my own integrity and manhood to the end!" [THE END.] Leonard Kip. WHEN I SHALL SLEEP. Life's hours that speed so fast, Will bring the time when I shall sleep at last; When mortuary psalms Have dropped to silence, and the folded palms Lie on the pulseless breast, In the mute eloquence of boundless rest. But Nature speaks to me With such a pathos, grace, and majesty, I love to think a sense Of all its grandeur, bloom, and opulence, And marvels manifold, May pierce to me beneath the daisied mold. The silvery drip of dews; the warbled speech On shimmering wings climbing the dewy dark, Ere young Aurora fills With lucent gold the chalice of the hills. The songs of dållying brooks Pearling their ways through ferns and mossy nooks, Chorused with anthems of the voiceful sea. I think I could but know When in their sumptuousness the violets blow; With odors rich as thought, and pure as prayer; And, clothed in vernal sheen, The dusky pines are tipped with daintier green;- Are tesselate with hues of Paradise; While, rich as with the glow. Of fallen rainbows, bloom the vales below. And while through mutable years, From nebulous dust sweep on the new-born spheres, Earth's glamour and its gold In panoramic loveliness unrolled, Shall curtain, tranced and deep, The strange, sweet rest that is not death, nor sleep. E. A. S. Page. A ROCKY MOUNTAIN RAMBLE. When it became known to their friends that Piscator and the Artist had planned to go camping, every one of the dear five hundred promptly arose with remarks. Some there were to strongly disapprove and dissuade; a larger number who would hint an amiable willingness to go with them: while all overwhelmed them with advice. They listened only to him who said; Go to the paradise of Colorado-Estes Park." And one golden summer morning saw the pair noisily jolting toward their goal, mounted on the high seat of a great "prairie schooner," reluctantly towed along, as it were, by a pair of lank and low-spirited old horses. "I'm so thankful that we're married, dear !" irrelevantly exclaimed the Artist. "Well, since you remind me of it, so am I." "I mean, particularly, because I can put high seat until they had passed by. The my feet up." She complacently surveyed the stout little boots audaciously tilting against the dashboard. "And I mean more especially because I can light my old pipe." He drew the precious bit of brierwood and a handful of loose tobacco from his pocket. Then he looked at the Artist in the absurd straw hat that, tied under her chin gipsy-wise, protruded in front and rear like awnings over a shop window; with her short gray gown, and those free and easy boots perched where surely no lady's foot had ever been before; and the Artist gazed upon Piscator, in his disreputable old clothes and cowboy hat; and each laughed at the other till tears were in their eyes. Overhead glowed the beautiful Colorado sky, blue as a sapphire at the zenith, merging softly into the tender tint of the turquoise that blurred the outlines of the snowy range against the western horizon. Nearer loomed the foothills, vast billows of purple, and brown, and green, and all the rest as far as the eye could see, seemed clothed in cloth of gold. The bare fields were tawny with sun-dried grass, and acre upon acre of ripening grain undulated in shimmering waves of green and gold. Tall sunflowers flaunted over their heads as they passed; wild marigold, Mexican poppies, coreopsis, cone flowers, and asters tangled themselves in riotous profusion by the wayside; and where nothing else could grow and blossom was that beauty born of ugliness, the cactus. It was as if all the gold in Colorado's veins had poured itself forth in flowers. Here and there they passed a ranch house, and sometimes a field where, with much noisy bustle, the mowing machine was laying low the wheat; or, perhaps, they met a farmer's wagon; and then the Artist would demurely tuck her feet out of sight and sustain herself with unsteady dignity on the farmer's wife was generally with him in the wagon, and she always stared with grim astonishment at the young woman in the eccentric headgear, while friendly greeting was exchanged between the men in the pleasant Western fashion. With a delightful sense of vagrancy, they journeyed along regardless of time. There was no hurry. And when they had come into the wild and beautiful St. Vrain Cañon, where every turn in the road reveals a scene to make an artist's fingers tingle, or a pool to stir an angler's soul, they might dawdle along as the spirit moved them. The creek was swollen from recent rains, but two speckled prizes well worth the cooking Piscator had to add to their al fresco supper, over which they lingered like children enjoying their first picnic. They were prepared to pitch their tent. wherever night might find them; but after the long day of knocking about, it was pleasant to find a mountain ranch house willing to take them in. "We don't have many ladies stop here, dubiously remarked the hostess, introducing the Artist to her room. A hot little ovenlike apartment, containing a bed assertive of feathers, a stand, and a lamp attracting a whirring swarm of moths and mosquitoes through the small open window. No other furniture whatever. No water-no towels-no toilet conveniences of any sort. "Ah, very comfortable indeed," with amiable hypocrisy exclaimed the weary and dust-grimed guest, while her heart sank. "If you will kindly give us water, and towels, and a wash-bowl." But the lady of the ranch was not to be caught rashly committing herself to anything. "We don't have many ladies come along," she repeated reflectively. And after a considerable pause, she added, as making a general remark apropos of nothing in particular. "Most folks that come along jest come down to the back stoop to wash up." "But we prefer to 'wash up' in our room," suavely retorted this unusual visitor. And it was evidently borne upon the hostess' mind that ladies, when they did come along, were perhaps entitled to especial consideration, for presently, as the travelers were desultorily chatting on the front doorsteps, she came to them. "Be you used to sleepin' between sheets?" she asked, with all the repose of manner attributed to the caste of Vere de Vere. "We generally do," returned Piscator gently. "Some folks does; but most folks that come along would jest rather lay between the blankets when the nights is chilly; so, thinks I, I'll ask," and with grave composure, she retired. But after all she did her best, and they found no fault with their quarters that night, albeit some of the toilet appointments left a smile on their lips as they fell asleep, and stirred them to fresh laughter with waking. And what a breakfast awaited them! There were fresh mountain raspberries, with cream so thick that it lay on the rosy mound like frosting on a cake. There were trout just browned to a turn, ham, flanked with the gold and white disks of eggs, and baked potatoes, for which there was more of the thick cream. Preserves there were of two kinds; biscuits, cookies, and old-fashioned twisted doughnuts; to say nothing of the custard and lemon pies; while, as it should be, the coffee was the crown of the feast. With what must that table groan on Thanksgiving day! the visitors pondered, as they proceeded on their way. A misty gray sky promised rain; but the Artist wilfully refused to retreat under cover to a seat on the load in the body of the wagon, even when the storm fell upon them with a fury that mocked at the flimsy protection of ulsters and gossamers. And thus the long hours dragged wearily by, though the travelers bravely joked and laughed with chattering teeth, struggling hard to practise the Mark Tapley philosophy, while icy drops were trickling down each red nose, and dripping from their eyelashes like tears. It was well on toward noon when they came upon the brow of the hill overlooking Estes Park, one of the finest scenes Colorado has to offer the lover of nature. "Fair as a garden of the Lord," the valley lies before the traveler, as he comes over the hill on a bright summer day-all below glowing in rich golden green, through which the little river tortuously twists its way like an embroidery of silver thread, while "The mountains that enfold In their wide sweep the colored landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold, That guard enchanted ground." Now, though the rain had ceased for the time, the snowy range was shrouded in dense, gray clouds, and a veil of mist floated over the emerald lowland: but nothing could rob fair Estes Park of all her summer beauty, and the spirits of the travelers somewhat revived. "We might go over to the hotel for dinner," suggested Piscator wistfully: but they would do nothing of the kind, decided the Artist, full of vanity as well as vexation of spirit because of her disheveled appearance. "Be sure and go to Devil's Gulch if you want to see trout," had advised the mentor who had sent them to the Park. So straight for Devil's Gulch they went, humpety bump, across the stubble of a new mown hay field; for they had asked directions of a man opportunely met, and found they could cut off several miles of the way by going across lots, fording the creek, and striking the trail on the other side. went off the steep bank, the foaming current almost to the wagon bottom as it swayed along over the hidden rocks. "We might stop a minute and throw a fly now, if you like," with benevolent air suggested he whose hopes were fixed on trout, halting in mid-stream. "What!-here?" shrieked his wife, wildly clutching the seat as the wagon tilted side"I should simply die!" The whip was used and the lady was saved: but Piscator looked disappointed. ways. And then began a rough scramble to find the trail. The grassy slope that from a distance had seemed as softly rounded as the surface of an inverted saucer, now began to develop surprises in the shape of gullies and ravines, all seeming to cross at right angles their supposed bee line toward the trail. "I believe the fate of the Wandering Jew has fallen upon us!" whimpered the Artist, after half an hour of evidently profitless wandering. The rain had begun again, in a chill, penetrating drizzle; and upon the wanderers, cold, wet, and hungry, gloom had fallen. the time the rain was falling more gently, until of a sudden a great flood of misty sunshine came pouring down upon them; and looking around they saw grand old Long's Peak throwing off his clothing of clouds. "And now we are going to find the trail," prophesied the lady; and they did. They discovered further that they could scarcely have thrown a stone in that direction within the last half hour without making that trail one stone the rougher, for they had been going almost beside it. A couple of hours later they were plunging down one of the roughest, steepest, and seemingly most interminable of hillsides that it had ever been the misfortune of either to encounter. Every foot of the way seemed to involve a fall of no less than ten inches, and with the stout brake applied until the back wheels dragged motionless, the horses were straining every nerve to hold back the heavy wagon. With their every nerve tingling with excitement and suspense, the moments seemed hours before they emerged upon comparatively level ground, and caught sight of a little brook twisting along among "Well, brace up, little woman. Olim overhanging alders and aspens. meminisse juvabit." "I don't believe it!" with icy contempt at the idea. "And-oh!-I wish we had never come!" and the worn-out woman turned her back upon her dismayed lord, and -burst into tears. Piscator said nothing; but when they had bounced down to the bottom of the next gully, he looked sharply all aroundthere was not a soul within miles, as he knew, but habit is strong-and then he took his wife in his arms and kissed her. It was a cold douche in her face from his wet beard, but the result was as he expected. She smiled again. "It must be Devil's Gulch !" they cried. Soon appeared the cabin that had figured in their directions as the abode of a cowboy who lived there alone. They saw no sign of life about the place, however, as they passed, and it seemed quite likely that the unfortunate lad had hanged himself in despair, from the awful loneliness of the place. Rough was the road, and the artist preferred to get out and walk. So they slowly proceeded, until the way seemed likely to "run into a squirrel track, and so on up a tree." Clearly the wagon could not go much farther, and Piscator had joined his wife to search out a sufficient space of level “And now,” said he, "we must have ground to pitch a tent, when they stumbled some luncheon." So the horses were taken out and made glad with oats; while the housewife brought out sandwiches, cakes, and fruit. And all upon a deserted cabin, almost hidden away among the trees. Needless to say, they jumped that ranch. at once. In a trice Piscator had made a |