"It might be something which all Samavia is waiting to know-at least all the Secret Party," Marco thought. "The Secret Party is Samavia," - he started at the sound of footsteps. "Some one is coming!" he said. "It is a man."

It was a man who was walking up the road on the same side of the pavement as his own. Marco began to walk toward him quietly but rather rapidly. He thought it might be best to appear as if he were some boy sent on a midnight errand

in the carriage with His Majesty. He was not more than thirty years old. He began swinging his cane and whistling a music-hall song softly as Marco passed him without changing his pace.

It was after the policeman had walked round his beat and disappeared for the third time, that Marco heard footsteps echoing at some distance down a cross street. After listening to make sure that they were approaching instead of receding in another direction, he placed himself at a point

-perhaps to call a doctor. Then, if it was a stranger he passed, no suspicion would be aroused. Was this man as tall as the one who had driven with the king? Yes, he was about the same height, but he was too far away to be recognizable otherwise. He drew nearer, and. Marco noticed that he also seemed slightly to hasten his footsteps. Marco went on. A little nearer, and he would be able to make sure. Yes, now he was near enough. Yes, this man was the same height and not unlike in figure, but he was much younger. He was not the one who had been

where he could watch the length of the thoroughfare. Yes, some one was coming. It was a man's figure again. He was able to place himself rather in the shadow so that the person approaching would not see that he was being watched. The solitary walker reached a recognizable distance in about two minutes' time. He was dressed in an ordinary shop-made suit of clothes which was rather shabby and quite unnoticeable in its appearance. His common hat was worn so that it rather shaded his face But even before he had crossed to Marco's side of the road, the boy had clearly recognized him. It was the man who had driven with the King!

Chance was with Marco. The man crossed at exactly the place which made it easy for the boy to step lightly from behind him, walk a few paces by his side, and then pass directly before him across the pavement, glancing quietly up into his face as he said in a low voice but distinctly, the words "The Lamp is lighted," and without pausing a second walk on his way down the road. He did not slacken his pace or look back until he was some distance away. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the figure had crossed the street and was inside the railings. It was all right. His father would not be disappointed. The great man had come.

He walked for about ten minutes, and then went home and to bed. But he was obliged to tell himself to go to sleep several times before his eyes closed for the rest of the night.

IN your histories and books of medieval romance, you have undoubtedly read about pages-lithe, slim lads who sat at the foot of the throne and at a sign, or a "What ho!" ran swiftly hither and thither for their majesties, upon pressing errands of state. These pages wore long hose and slashed doublets; lace flounces fell about their wrists; their slippers were decorated with buckles of finely wrought gold, and their caps with graceful, drooping feathers.

One of your very best friends, the dictionary, says that a page is “(a) A boy attendant upon a person of rank or distinction; (b) A boy who attends upon the members of a legislative body; as, a Senate page."

And these very page-boys of the United States Senate perform just about the same duties as did the silken-clad ones in the centuries past. Instead of sitting at the foot of a throne, the Senate pages are placed on the steps surrounding the dais which holds the chair occupied by the Vice-President of the United States, whose chief duty it is to preside over the sessions of the upper branch of our legislature.

There are sixteen pages, and eight are seated on each side of the Vice-President's desk. Instead of the gaudy, glowing costumes of the early pages, our boys wear knickerbocker suits of blue or black wool, white shirts and collars, and neckties of any desired color. The suits must be thoroughly brushed and pressed, linen immaculate, shoes the blackest of the black, and stockings guiltless of a single darn.

Each morning at nine, the pages report to the chief of the pages, Mr. Edwin Halsey, and woe to the boy whose attire and general appearance are not up to the mark! Woe to the page whose teeth and finger-nails do not show signs of proper and exquisite care, whose tie is not adjusted precisely as it should be! Mr. Halsey keeps a careful record, on which the marks for conduct, efficiency, appearance, and intelligence displayed by each page are duly entered.

After passing the scrutiny of the chief of the pages the real work of the day begins, and until five o'clock the lads find scant time for rest or amusement. Each boy has the desks of six senators to look after, and on these desks must be placed every morning the file of the current Congressional Record, together with the bills, resolutions, and documents of the previous day. All told, ninety-six desks are in the senate-cham

ber, and each day of the session ninety-six inkwells must be cleaned and freshly filled. Each desk has a sand bottle, but as most of the senators prefer blotting-paper to the old-fashioned way of tossing sand upon newly written sheets, the pages have little work with the sand bottles.

Two antiquated snuff-boxes, which did strenuous duty long years ago, still occupy a place of honor in the Senate, and though seldom used nowadays, must be kept filled with snuff by the pages. Sometimes, when a new member is sworn in, he will be solemnly invited by a brother inember to try a pinch of snuff; but there is really little call for it, although it is still religiously purchased by the United States Government for the use of the senators.

On every desk must go newly sharpened, finely pointed lead-pencils, also penholders containing new pens. As many of the senators are decidedly particular about large, small, sharp, or stub penpoints, the page must be extremely careful to supply the desired kind.

The Vice-President's gavel is carefully, formally put away each night, and as carefully and formally restored by a page each morning to its place in front of the presiding officer. It would be a decided breach of page-etiquette-involving a considerable fine for the negligent page--should the Vice-President attempt to call the Senate to order and find no gavel with which to do so.

When the desks have been fully arranged and the hour of twelve arrives, the pages file in and take their allotted places on the steps of the rostrum. Down goes the gavel; the Honorable Senate is in session; the chaplain offers prayer, and the real work of the day begins in earnest. From now until adjournment the pages are actually "on the jump." A senator desires a copy of a record of three days, or perhaps thirty years, ago. He claps his hands smartly, and the page nearest to him speeds down the aisle and takes the order. Sometimes it is plainly written out; more often it is hurriedly mumbled. And right here is where the page must exert his intelligence, and with sense and logic swiftly do the required errand. Naturally, the boys must know every member of not only the Senate, but of the House as well, and they must be absolutely familiar with every hole and corner of the Capitol, the House and Senate office-buildings, and the Library of Congress. Legislators and employees

at the Capitol may get confused and turned around in the intricate mazes of the building, but the page-boys, never!

When the Senate adjourns, there are many

duties yet to be performed by the boys, and it will be seen that they earn every penny of the seventy-five dollars a month paid them by their good Uncle Sam. The hours, of course, are long, and