The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in token of the vow.

At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow managed to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused himself to the Innocent, by saying that he had "often been a week without sleep." "Doing what?" asked Tom. "Poker!" replied Oakhurst, sententiously; "when a man gets a streak of luck,-nigger-luck, -he don't get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck," continued the gambler, reflectively, "is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for certain is that it's bound to change. And it's finding out when it's going to change that makes you. We've had a streak of bad luck since we left Poker Flat,-you come along, and slap you get into it, too. If you can hold your cards right along, you're all right. For," added the gambler, with cheerful irrelevance,

"I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord, And I'm bound to die in His army."

The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly de

creasing store of provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut, -a hopeless, uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores to which the castaways still clung. Through the marvellously clear air the smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it, and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness, hurled in that direction a final malediction. It was her last vituperative attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with a certain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately informed the Duchess. "Just you go out there and cuss, and see." She then set herself to the task of amusing "the child," as she and the Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney was no chicken, but it was a soothing and original theory of the pair thus to account for the fact that she didn't swear and wasn't improper.

When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and longdrawn gasps by the flickering camp-fire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by Piney,story-telling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions caring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would have failed, too, but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope's ingenious translation of the Iliad. He now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of that poem-having thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words-in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of that night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the cañon seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet satisfaction.

Most especially was he interested in the fate of "Ash-heels," as the Innocent persisted in denominating the "swift-footed Achilles."

So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed over the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and again from leaden skies the snow-flakes were sifted over the land. Day by day closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that towered twenty feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult to replenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now half hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained. The lovers turned from the dreary prospect and looked into each other's eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game before him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton-once the strongest of the party-seemed to sicken and fade. At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to her side. "I'm going," she said, in a voice of querulous weakness, "but don't say anything about it. Don't waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my head and open it." Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained Mother Shipton's rations for the last week, untouched. "Give 'em to the child," she said, pointing to the sleeping Piney. "You've starved yourself," said the gambler. "That's what they call it," said the woman, querulously, as she lay down again, and, turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away.

The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer was forgotten. When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of snow-shoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle. "There's one chance in a hundred to save her yet," he said, pointing to Piney; "but it's there," he added, pointing towards Poker Flat. "If you can reach there in

two days she's safe." "And you?" asked Tom Simson. "I'll stay here," was the curt reply.

The lovers parted with a long embrace. "You are not going, too?" said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany him. "As far as the cañon," he replied. He turned suddenly, and kissed the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame, and her trembling lips rigid with amazement.

Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that some one had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer. The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney.

The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other's faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke; but Piney, accepting the position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the Duchess's waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That night the storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the protecting pines, invaded the very hut.

Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, which gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess crept closer to Piney, and broke the silence of many hours: "Piney, can you pray?" "No, dear," said Piney, simply. The Duchess, without knowing exactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney's shoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and purer pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they fell asleep.

The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine boughs, flew like white-winged birds, and settled about them as they slept. The moon through the rifted clouds looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain, all trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle mercifully flung from above.

round table covered with a cloth that had been used three days, opposite her husband, who, as he removed the lid of the soup-tureen, exclaimed with an enchanted air: "Ah! a good old stew! I know of nothing better than that!" she dreamed of dainty dinners, of gleaming silverware, of tapestries peopling the walls with antique personages and strange birds in the midst of an enchanted forest; she dreamed of exquisite dishes served on splendid plate, of gallantries whispered and listened to with a sphinxlike smile, while you are eating the pink flesh of a trout or the wing of a chicken.

She looked at him with an irritated eye, and demanded impatiently:

"What do you expect me to put on my back to go there?"

He had not thought of that.

"Why," he faltered, "the dress you wear to the theatre. It looks very nice to me"

He paused, stupefied, beside himself, to see that his wife was weeping. Two' great tears were rolling slowly down from the corners of her eyes to the corners of her mouth.

"What's the matter? what's the matter?" he stammered.

But by a violent effort she had con

felt that she was made for those things. She would so have liked to be attractive, to be fascinating, to be envied and sought after.

She had a wealthy friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, whom she would not go to see, she suffered so on returning home. And she wept whole days with disappointment, regret, distress, and despair.

One evening her husband came home with the air of a conqueror, holding a big envelope in his hand.

"Here is something for you," he said. She hastily tore the envelope, and took out a printed card on which were these words:

"The Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges Ramponneau invite M. and Mme. Loisel to pass the evening at the Ministerial palace on Monday, January 18th."

Instead of being overjoyed, as her husband hoped, she tossed the invitation angrily on the table, murmuring:

"What do you expect me to do with that?"

"Why, my dear, I thought that you would be pleased. You never go out, and here is an opportunity-a fine one! I had the greatest difficulty in obtaining it. Everybody tries to get them; they are very much sought after, and not many are given to clerks. You see the whole official world there."

calmly, wiping her wet cheeks:

"Nothing, only I have no dress and so I can't go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I."

He was in despair.

"Let us see, Mathilde," he replied. "How much will it cost, a suitable dress that you can wear again on other occasions; something very simple?"

She reflected a few seconds, making her calculations, and also thinking how large a sum she could ask for without bringing forth an instant refusal and a horrified exclamation from the economical clerk. At last she replied, hesitatingly:

"I don't know exactly, but it seems to me that I could make out with four hundred francs."

He turned a little pale, for he had set aside just that sum to purchase a rifle and indulge in an occasional hunting-excursion, during the summer, on the plain. of Nanterre, with some friends who went there on Sundays to shoot larks.

But he said:

"Very good. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a pretty dress."

The day of the ball drew near, and Madame Loisel seemed sad, disturbed, anxious. Her dress was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening:

"What's the matter? Tell me; you have been very queer for three days."

And she replied:

"It annoys me to have not a jewel, not a single stone, nothing to put on. I shall look as poverty-stricken as can be. I should almost prefer not to go to the ball."

"You might wear natural flowers," he rejoined. "They are very stylish at this season. You can get two or three magnificent roses for ten francs."

She was not convinced.

"No, there is nothing more humiliating than to look poor among a lot of rich women."

"How stupid you are!" cried her husband. "Go to your friend Madame Forestier and ask her to lend you some jewels. You are intimate enough with her to do that."

She uttered a cry of joy.

"That's so. I had never thought of that."

The next day she went to her friend's house, and told her of her trouble.

Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a glass door, took out a large jewelbox, brought it to Madame Loisel, opened it, and said to her:

"Take your choice, my dear."

She saw first of all bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross in gold and precious stones, a beautiful piece of work. She tried them on before a mirror, hesitated, could not decide to part with them, to replace them. She kept asking:

"You have nothing else?"

"Why, yes. Look. I don't know what may take your fancy."

Suddenly she discovered in a black satin case a superb diamond necklace, and her heart began to beat with an immoderate longing. Her hands trembled as she took it up. She fastened it about her throat, over her high dress, and stood in ecstasy before her own image.

Then she asked, hesitatingly, in an agony of suspense:

"Can you lend me this, just this and nothing else?"

"Why, yes, to be sure."

She sprang upon the neck of her friend,

kissed her passionately, then fled with her

treasure.

The day of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel had a triumph. She was prettier than any of the others, stylish, gracious, smiling, and mad with joy. All the men stared at her, asked her name, requested to be presented. All the clerks in the Department wanted to waltz with her. The minister noticed her.

She danced madly, in a frenzy, intoxicated by pleasure, regardless of everything in the triumph of her beauty, in the pride of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness composed of all that homage, of all that admiration, of all those newly kindled desires, of that complete victory which is so sweet to a woman's heart.

She went away about four in the morning. Her husband had been asleep since midnight in a little, deserted anteroom, with three other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying themselves hugely.

He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought for her to wear homemodern garments of every-day life, whose shabbiness contrasted with the elegance of the ball-dress. She felt this and insisted on hastening away to avoid being noticed by the other women who were wrapping themselves in rich furs.

Loisel detained her.

"Wait a moment; you'il take cold outside.

I will go and call a cab."

She would not listen to him, however, but hurried down the stairs. When they were in the street, they could not find a cab; and they set out to look for one, shouting after the driver whom they saw passing in the distance.

They walked towards the Seine, in dire discomfort, shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay one of those ancient nocturnal coupés which are seen in Paris only after nightfall, as if they were ashamed to show their shabbiness during the day.

It took them to their door on Rue des Martyrs, and they went sadly up to their apartment. It was all over, for her. And he was thinking that he must be at the office at ten o'clock.