BY FRANK H. SWEET. HE GREAT week was over, and of the three or four hundred girls had filled the college-buildings and ous with their bright, earnest lives, more than a dozen remained; and of this dozen had their trunks ed for speedy departure. at among the two or three who had who did not even know whether she d pack, or where she could go if she was Mary Cathcart, the poet of the ating class. is morning she was standing near ntrance of the lecture-hall, wonderwhat she would do. For ten days had been looking hopefully for a , but none had come. None was to come now. e had not fitted herself for anything al; and she rather looked forward ning back after the summer holidays xe a post-graduate course, when, if uld seem best, she would study for f the half-dozen callings which many schoolmates were already entering But it all depended on the letter, he letter had not come. "That is nice. By to-morrow the dear old buildings will be empty and ready to enter upon their long summer sleep. How strange to think of our girls becoming so scattered! Where do you go?" "To Longley." The answer was unpremeditated; but oddly enough, with it vanished the listlessness and discontent and doubt from the girl's face. As the French teacher turned away, she skipped rather than walked across the campus, ran up the steps and into the building which had been her home for four long years, and on up the stairs to her own prettily furnished room. To Longley? Of course. It was from there that she had been expecting the letter. Two hours later her trunk was packed and at the station, and she had purchased a ticket. She had money enough left to pay her expenses for a month. Beyond that she did not know. As the train whirled away from the station she caught a fleeting glimpse of the college-buildings on the slope, and her face grew tender. They had been the only home she had known since leaving that other one in the Far West, where for years she had been nurse and her mother invalid. Then the trees shut the buildings from view, and her thoughts went forward to Longley. Whom would she find there? Would she even find anybody? A letter which had come to he teacher reached the foot of the her after her mother's death, more than he smiled and nodded. irl but little older than herself came y from the building, folding some which she had apparently just It was the French teacher, and is now going straight to the station, e the next train for home. Mary at her a little enviously. She had She had er trunk taken away a half hour four years before, bidding her to enter t gone yet, Miss Cathcart?" she upon a course at college, and stating that ; I am looking around." understand. It is a It is a lovely place. cted to find it hard to leave; but he past week everything seems so and dreary that I am glad to get When do you go?" cond before, Mary had not even t of packing her trunk. Now she ed promptly: "On the afternoon 53 money would be sent to her from time to time, as before, was all she had to go by. The letter had been posimarked "Longley." Before that, money had been sent to her mother from banks in New York, Boston and other cities, but never from the same city twice. And during her college course it had been the and dressed well, and had money to spend. Then, as the end of the course approached, she had confidently looked forward to another letter. But none had come. The one postmarked Longley was her only clue; and even that might have been mailed by someone passing through the place. Her mother thought the money might have come from a wealthy uncle who had some disagreement with the family, and who took this way of saving his pride. He was eccentric and fond of traveling about from place to place. But there was also a family tradition of a great aunt somewhere, who had property, and who never communicated with any of her relatives. The train rushed on, and the half-dozen schoolmates who were in it dropped away one by one. At length Longley was called, and Mary rose with suddenly beating heart and hurried out to the little platform of a small country station. But as she looked around, her heart sank. There was a long, unpainted building with many small windows, which she afterwards learned was a cotton-factory. She could hear the harsh "clack, clack, clack-i-clack," of the looms from where she stood. Around the mill were Around the mill were several dozen small houses, all alike, and all without shade-trees or yards. She looked around eagerly for a mansion with piazzas and lawn, but there was none; only the unpainted factory tenements, with two or three buildings in the midst of them which might be stores or offices. Just from the campus and spacious college buildings, it seemed unutterably dreary and lonesome, and Mary turned longingly toward the train which was disappearing in the distance. Of course it was a mistake, coming here. The station-master was dragging her trunk back from the edge of the platform where it had been dropped. She went to him. "There are no Cathcarts here, of course ?" she said, more as an assertion than a question. "No, guess not; never heerd of any. Be you lookin' up some?" "Yes, I thought I might find a relative here. When is the next train ?” "Not till to-morrer." She drew a long breath. "Fact'ry boardin'-house; but I guess it's pretty full. It only has rooms for seven or eight. That's it down yonder," pointing with his finger; "the house with a blind swingin' on one hinge. Be you lookin' for a job? The bookkeeper's been fired, an' they ain't found another yet; though I don't know as they'd take on a woman. Then I hear they 're needin' two or three more weavers. That's all the jobs I know of, unless it 's old Tom Farrar's. He's been man-o'all-work 'round the mill ever since nobody knows when; but has been sick now for a month or so an' sort o' wanderin' in his mind. Gettin' old, ye see, an' been workin' pretty hard. But of course you don't want that job. Well, good luck to ye, whatever ye do. But oh, say!" as she started down the platform. “I 'most forgot. I heerd this mornin' that the woman who's been nussin' Tom is goin' off to-day. Mebbe ye could get her job. The pay won't be much, but Tom's home is a good place to live in as homes in fact'ry tenements go.' Mary nodded her thanks, a sudden resolution flashing into her eyes. She was a girl who made up her mind quickly, often on impulse, as now. She had not thought of obtaining a situation, but why not? If she returned to the college-town she would scarcely have money enough to pay her expenses through the vacation, even with the strictest economy. By the time school commenced she would of course have another check from the unknown relative, and be able to keep on with her studies; but she did not like the idea of getting entirely out of funds. If she could do something to even pay her expenses, she would be able to save the little she had for any emergency that might occur. So when the boarding-house keeper grimly informed her that there was not a room, not even a lounge, vacant she did not look dismayed as she might other wise have done, but smilingly inquired her way to the home of Mr. Farrar. There she found a middle-aged woman who greeted her anxiously. But on learning Mary's errand the woman's face cleared. "That's what I call a special Providence!" she exclaimed, heartily. "You see, I've got to go, for my sister's sick; but I have been hatin' to leave old Mr. Farrar. The very best I could think of was gettin' a neighbor's little girl, only fourteen, to come in; but she'd be a pretty poor excuse. Have you done any nussin'?" "I took care of my mother quite a good many years before she died.” "Then it's all right, an' I'm glad. You won't have a bit of trouble lookin' arter things here. Mr. Farrar's one of the best housekeepers I know, if he has kept bachelor's hall. There's everything one wants to do with, an' it's all spick an' span. An' Mr. Farrar himself won't give a mite of trouble. Even when he's wanderin', which has been most of the time, so fur-he 's gentle an' soft-spoken. One can't help lovin' the old man. But come in! come in!" stepping back from the doorway to allow Mary to enter; "you might as well begin right off, an' I'll be packin' my trunk." "Is he very ill?" Mary asked, as she went inside. "Well, no; not so very, now. He's gettin' better slowly. The doctor says he'll begin to sense things in another week, an' arter that he 'll pick up fast. But you're likely to be needed for a month or more. An', oh he told me yes; when I fust come that he could only pay three dollars a week, for he had other expenses to meet outside. I s'pose you 'll get the same. But it's a nice place to stay, an' I think you 'll like it." She was right; Mary did like it. As the woman had said, there seemed to be everything to do with, and it was all in its place and "spick an' span." She remembered many of the tempting dishes which she had prepared for her mother, and she made them now, singing little She had snatches of song as she did so. not known what she was fitted for. Now she knew that she could be a good nurse. Perhaps she could also be good at other things; but she had not found that out yet. What surprised her most were the books in every room, some of which even she looked at with awe. And they all showed marks of much use, as well as loving care. The old man's hands were rough and calloused, as befitted a man-of-all-work around the mill; but for all that, he was evidently a scholar, and Mary felt that she could read proof of it in the strong brow and dreamy eyes. As the days went by these eyes began to follow her as she moved softly about the room, contentedly and lovingly at first, then with a questioning wistfulness, as though the clouded mind were striving to grasp something it could not quite reach. Then one day there were several minutes when the eyes grew clear and intelligent, during which they gazed at her with almost startled wonder. The next day the lucid interval was longer, and several times repeated. But he did not speak, only gazed at her and passed his hand across his brow from time to time, as though to clear his brain. Once he turned his face to the wall, and when she went to him a little later she found of tears upon his cheeks. Then came a morning when he was strong enough to sit up in bed; but still the wistfulness and wonder remained in his eyes, and mingled with them now was a certain resignation. Presently he motioned Mary to his side. "You are a new nurse?" he said. "I knew it, of course, but I haven't said anything. I-I have been trying to get my mind clear. I thought as I got stronger my mind would get better, but it do' n't. I-I'm afraid it is getting worse. I suppose I'm growing old and it's to be expected, but I've been planning for a good deal of reading and study yet, and have n't realized how the years slip by." Mary stroked his hand softly. "You cannot get well all at once, Mr. Farrar," she chided. "You have been very sick, you know. But you are growing stronger gradually, and your brain is becoming clearer. I can see it." "You do n't understand," he answered, gently. "My body's stronger, but my mind don't seem to gain. It made you out to be somebody else from the first, and has persisted in the hallucination ever since. I've looked in other directions, and changed my thoughts to other things; but it's no use. You've taken care of me, so my mind says you are somebody I used to know a long time ago, who's now dead. I suppose it's what people call second childhood." Then, changing the subject abruptly: "How long have I been sick?" "I do not know. I have only been here two weeks. It is now the fifteenth of July." He looked startled. "That late!" he gasped. "Why, II've got a little girl off to school who ought to have been written to long ago. Will you bring me my pen and paper from the desk ?" She complied, but his hand trembled so that he could not hold the pen. "Let me do it for you," she said, taking the pen from his shaking fingers and moving a small table close to his bedside. "Now how shall I begin?" But he remained silent, looking at her doubtfully. "I-I-you see, I do n't write to her direct," he said at length, hesitatingly. "There's an old friend in New York who acts for me." He was silent for some minutes longer, then went on, desperately: "The letter must be written, and I suppose it'll be best to explain things a little. You see, when I was a boy I had a strong notion for college, but there were reasons why I had to work hard year after year. When at last I was so fixed that I could go, I felt that I was too old. Besides, I was sort of settled with the books I liked to read, and had lost ambition to go out into the world. But I did n't give up the idea altogether; I would send somebody in my place. So I looked around. I had no relative save a little girl I played with when a boy. She had married and gone West. I traced her up, and found that her husband was dead and she an invalid without means. That was something nearer than college; so I sent her what money I had to spare from time to time. When she died, I had her girl go to college." He paused with his gaze upon the coverlet, his eyes unobservant, dreamy, reminiscent. Mary had risen, her eyes shining. 'Why did n't you write to her direct ?” she breathed. "Well, she was a college-girl, you see, with college-girls' notions. I liked to think of her as my girl, and to plan things for her. If I'd written to her direct itit might have been different. You see, I'm just a man-of-all-work in a factory.' He held up his hands, white and transparent from his illness, but still knotty and hard from a lifetime of toil. “I do n't know much about girls," he went on, "but I want to think of this one as mine, and I can't bear the thought of her ever "Mr. Farrar, do you think any girl could be ashamed of you?" The quick, passionate cry brought his gaze suddenly from the coverlet. What he read in her voice, in her eyes, brought a look of rapt understanding to his face. "Then it is n't my mind wandering!" he exclaimed, tremulously. "It's her, really and truly her! Mary, bring me that tin box in my desk." She brought it, and he ran his fingers through the contents eagerly, soon finding a tintype which he opened and held up for her inspection. It might have been her own picture, so exact was the likeness. She recognized it with a low cry. "It's your mother, Mary," he said, softly, “taken just before she went West.” FRANK H. SWEET. Waynesboro, Va. SIGNIFICANT EVENTS IN THE POLITICAL, SOCIAL AND The New Political Revolution Inaugu- ΤΗ the government of many cities and states had practically passed into the hands of notorious bands of criminals whose leaders were in the United States Senate or were occupying other powerful positions in government, while their lieutenants were acquiring millions of dollars through the sale of the people's public franchises to the multi-millionaire representatives of public-service corporations and monopolies operated for the despoiling of the people and the enriching of the few. From year to year republican government became more and more a farce. From year to year the tyranny and oppression of corporation magnates and high financiers became more unbearable, yet their power seemed to be constantly augmented in the nation, the state and the city. The November election was the first registered protest on a large scale of the American people against the domination of privileged interests through corrupt bosses and controlled machines. HE NOVEMBER elections have an historic significance. They represent the opening battle in a new moral revolution -a revolution incomparably greater and more significant in its influence upon the fundamental principles of democratic government than any popular uprising since the antislavery agitation which preceded the Civil war. For almost fifty years there has steadily arisen in the American nation a distinctly unAmerican and reactionary movement which favored class-government and was inherently inimical to free institutions. For many years the sinister influence of the political machine dominated by corrupt bosses failed to properly impress the electorate with its menace to free government. Indeed, it is doubtful whether the machine would ever have become a powerful engine for the corruption of municipal, state and national government, for the virtual overthrow of democratic institutions, The City Elections.-The Emancipation of for the enthronement in positions of power of the tools of special privileged interests and great corporate wealth, and finally for the virtual domination of government by publicservice companies and powerful trusts and monopolies, had it not been for the union of privileged interests with unscrupulous partisans, the former furnishing vast campaign contributions and the latter building up corrupt organizations dominated by men innocent of all moral principles and ready to resort to all forms of dishonesty and corruption to gain victory for their bosses and masters, reckless in their violation of law because they knew that behind them stood the wealth of the pillars of society who were the direct beneficiaries of the triumph of the political machines. But for the last quarter of a century the ominous and sinister onward march of the controlled machine has been so rapid that Philadelphia. In Philadelphia the aroused electorate won a sweeping victory over the most corrupt, powerful and arrogant machine in any municipality of the United States, with the possible exception of the Tammany organization in New York, and in spite of the desperate efforts of the corrupt boss, United States Senator Penrose, and the discredited Governor Pennypacker, both of whom fought with the fury of despair to further the interests of the thieves who had robbed the city of untold millions of dollars and had been responsible for the death of more than twelve hundred citizens through typhoid fever. The Durham ring was probably the bestorganized band of political desperadoes in the United States. Its infamous character was admirably described by Mr. Blankenburg in his great series of ARENA papers which did |