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he once more pressed forward, but he noticed the flowers that grew so thickly about them before were beginning to appear less and less often, until they finally came to the last field she had spoken of, and where only the wMte blossoms of Peace and Content waved in the restful breeze.

He felt weary, and with a last look on the now withered bouquet of Ambition, Work, and Success, with its clinging companions of Care, Sorrow, and Regret, he flung it from him and sank down to rest in the shade and quietness of Old Age.

The Goddess, never aging, looked pityingly at the bent form and bowed head, thinking with what reluctance he had come to this field, and cast off those flowers when he first entered it twenty years ago.

She stooped over him. "Once more we have gone over the Past," she whispered .■softly. "Now tell me what you would have liked best, to bring from there with you to the land of Old Age?"

He smiled feebly, as he tenderly caressed the rose, still fresh and glowing in 'his hand. "Nothing more than I still have; 'tis something that never grows old," and a tiny breeze caused the rose to tremble joyously.

Father Time then touched the Goddess of Dreams on the shoulder. "Come, you have been with him long enough, depart." And with a last caress that brought a smile to the sleeper's face, she turned away.

Looking at the resting figure again, Father Time beckoned to the Angel of Death. "He looks tired," said he; "take him home," and lightly the spirit of the aged one was borne Heavenward, while Father Time passed on.

Slowly the sun had disappeared behind the hills; the birds had long since sought their nests, and even the flowers had closed their delicate petals, while the quietness of evening rested upon Mother Earth, and silently wrapped her in its folds. The old man still sat in his chair, his chin resting on his bosom, and above the leaves now sighed mournfully. It was growing damp, and his daughter miss- ing him, came out to bring him in.

Something in the pathetic droop of his whole flgure sent a throb of pity through her, and stooping quickly over him she pressed her lips upon his brow, only to find it cold in death, while a smile of Heaven still rested upon his face.

THE ROMANCE OF A LITTLE

OLD MAID

By Eva B. Pillsbury

THE chilly November wind was not too kind to the Little Old Maid as she tripped across Morrison street. She was on her way to the big depart- ment store where she earned her twenty-five dollars a month; but she curled down into the upturned collar of her blue kersey jacket, braced her umbrella against the wind, and fluttered along like a half-dried autumn leaf driven before the breeze.

But she found it warm in the big store, and the cheerful red soon left the Little Old Maid's nose, and found its rightful place in her still unwithered cheeks, though her bright brown hair, impolitely handled by the wind, stood out in fluffy disorder not unbecoming to the prim little face.

As she passed through the men's furnishing department on her way to her own counter, she noticed that a new lay figure had been added to the group of irre- proachable masculine dolls, whose mission in life is to present to the eyes of the Portland man all that is newest and most elegant in male attire.

In passing the figure, a sense of familiarity quickened her languid interest, and she glanced again at the face under the gray felt hat. It was as though a door