Edward listened to these remarks in dull despair.  It was true that he might receive news from Ellen at Sedalia, but Sedalia would not be reached before the small hours of the following morning, when his journey would be practically ended.  Nor was there any nearer town, large enough to support a night telegraph-office, where he could expect a message to be received in season to reach him.  He thanked the operator for his suggestions, and returned sorrowfully to the train, to pass a night of suffering, from which his short snatches of sleep gave him little relief.  Poor fellow!  His sadness and remorse were cruelly enhanced by the suspense he was called upon to endure.  He vowed many times to himself that, if Ellen were spared until his return, no pressure of the world should ever separate him from her again.  When the sun began to make known its coming in the east, he breathed a prayer of thanks that his agony of waiting was almost over.

Toward the middle of the forenoon the train rolled into the Union Depot at St. Louis.  Edward stood upon the platform of the foremost car.  Long before it came to a stop, he leaped from the steps and ran along toward the hackmen’s stand.  A babel of voices greeted him.  Quickly selecting a man whose face was familiar, he pressed a douceur into his hand, and, in a voice that broke in spite of his efforts to control it, asked to be driven home immediately and as fast as possible.  The hackman looked upon Edward’s haggard face with silent sympathy, divining, perhaps, something of the truth, and hastily led the way to his vehicle.

The train was hardly at a stand-still when the carriage rattled away from the station.  The driver plied his whip freely, and soon left the business section of the city behind.  As they sped along Washington Avenue, Edward endeavored to prepare himself for the worst, but he was incapable of calmness and reflection:  his whole being rebelled against the supposition that he might be too late.

There was a carriage, which he recognized as Dr. Kreiss’s, drawn up before his house.  Fairly unmanned by emotion, he sprang up the steps, threw open the door, and met the doctor face to face.

The physician maintained a professional composure.

“Good-morning, Mr. Lindsay,” he said.  “I regret to say that you have not arrived quite soon enough.”

“Great God, doctor!  Is it possible?” faltered Edward, whilst the tears sprang to his eyes.

The doctor looked at him curiously.

“Go up-stairs and see your wife and baby,” he said, with considerate brevity.  He added to himself, as Edward vanished up the stairway, “A case of special providence that it’s a boy.”

NATHAN CLIFFORD BROWN.

* * * * *

JOSEPH J. MICKLEY.

Not many years ago there were several substantial old houses standing on the north side of Market Street, east of Tenth, in the city of Philadelphia.  These structures, which then wore an air of respectable old age, have been in recent years either totally destroyed or so extensively altered that the serene atmosphere of antiquated gentility no longer lingers about their busy exteriors.