“Yes,” said the little womon, anxiously regarding the strange demeanor of her companion.  “They say, though, that the law can do nothing with him, and that this fact only intensifies the agony of the broken-hearted parents—­for it seems they have, till now, regarded him both as a gentleman and family friend in whom”—­

“I really am ill,” moaned John, waveringly rising to his feet; “but I beg you not to be alarmed.  Tell your little boy to come to my room, where I will retire at once, if you’ll excuse me, and send for my physician.  It is simply a nervous attack.  I am often troubled so; and only perfect quiet and seclusion restores me.  You have done me a great honor, Mrs.”—­("Mrs.—­Miller,” sighed the sympathetic little woman)—­“Mrs. Miller,—­and I thank you more than I have words to express.”  He bowed limply, turned through a side door opening on a stair, and tottered to his room.

During the three weeks’ illness through which he passed, John had every attention—­much more, indeed, than he had consciousness to appreciate.  For the most part his mind wandered, and he talked of curious things, and laughed hysterically, and serenaded mermaids that dwelt in grassy seas of dew, and were bald-headed like himself.  He played upon a fourteen-jointed flute of solid gold, with diamond holes, and keys carved out of thawless ice.  His old father came at first to take him home; but he could not be moved, the doctor said.

Two weeks of John’s illness had worn away, when a very serious looking young man, in a traveling duster, and a high hat, came up the stairs to see him.  A handsome young lady was clinging to his arm.  It was Bert and Josie.  She had guessed the very date of their forgiveness.  John wakened even clearer in mind than usual that afternoon.  He recognized his old chum at a glance, and Josie—­now Bert’s wife.  Yes, he comprehended that.  He was holding a hand of each when another figure entered.  His thin, white fingers loosened their clasp, and he held a hand toward the new comer.  “Here,” he said, “is my best friend in the world—­Bert, you and Josie will love her, I know; for this is Mrs.—­Mrs.”—­“Mrs. Miller,” said the radiant little woman.—­“Yes,—­Mrs. Miller,” said John, very proudly.

RHYMES OF RAINY DAYS

THE TREE-TOAD.

  “’Scurious-like,” said the tree-toad,
    “I’ve twittered far rain all day;
      And I got up soon,
      And I hollered till noon—­
    But the sun, hit blazed away,
      Till I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,
      Weary at heart, and sick at soul!

“Dozed away far an hour,
  And I tackled the thing agin;
    And I sung, and sung,
    Till I knowed my lung
  Was jest about give in;
    And then, thinks I, ef hit don’t rain now. 
    There’re nothin’ in singin’, anyhow!