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discomforts and trials of his lot, and for whom he was building up a name and a position. Often, when he was quite sure they were alone together, he had talked half shyly of his own parliamentary prospects and of the possibility of the boy following him in years to come. And it had come to this, that the boy was drunken, degraded, deceitful; the whole town knowing it probably and laughing at him. It was only the other day that he had reproved an elderly man for drinking, and he had done it in rather a lordly patronizing manner. And then there darted into his mind the re- membrance that the boy inherited his mother's weak will and love of pleasure, and suddenly he knew he hated her, loathed her; had hated her from the first few years of their married life, and he cursed her. Everything came back to him with vivid clearness-how she had thwarted his social ambition, sneering at his liking for refine- ment, and how it had been impossible to keep the few friends he had made, for her vulgarity grated on him so much more when anyone else was present; and he had preferred to stand aloof altogether in all things social. Then she had become friendly with the Mayor of the town, a retired tradesman, a widower, and had started a harmless but silly flirtation with him, more with the idea of piquing her husband than anything else. It had been a short-lived episode, put an end to by herself, but it had got bruited about, and the husband knew it, and hated her for her silliness and her love of scenes. She had nagged the girl, of whom she was always a little afraid, for she had the same nature as her father, and the boy she had spoilt, HILLS. The hills stand bold before me, Hills that are strong with silence, Hills that are dim with mystery, They tower high to awe me. Old and rugged and lonely I see them very near me, But I am filled with longing For others yet more lovely,- The warm Welsh hills to cheer me. The world has many mountains, And every hill-top calls me; To cold hills, bare and mournful, To all hills would I journey For every hill enthralls me. And when I'm old and weary, And there's an end to roving, Then I shall turn for solace, Then I shall turn for comfort To Welsh hills, worth the loving. Barbara E. Thompson. giving him extra money and encouraging him in all his little weaknesses. If he had married a woman with his own ideals, was the thought that surged continually through his brain, his children would not have failed him so utterly now. And then something snapped in his brain, and he went suddenly quite mad. He crept out of the room, unlocking the door quietly, and went into the dining-room; he was only there a minute or two, and then he walked up the staircase into their bedroom. The room was in darkness; he groped and found a match and lighted a candle. His wife stirred, and asked him sleepily to come to bed quickly and put out the light. I will put out the light, and you can sleep as long as you like when I have finished what I want to do," he said, and he came up to the bed and bent over her. The glint of a carving knife caught the light, and she jumped up in alarm, but his left arm held her down as with the right he cut her throat, deliberately and without hurry, from ear to ear. He then drew the knife across his own throat, and in a few minutes the stress and strain of this mortal life were over. The next morning the postman brought two letters addressed to him. One was from the member of Parliament for the constituency, telling him privately that he intended handing in his resignation within the next few weeks; the other from the general secretary of the denomina- tion asking if his name might stand for nomina- tion as Chairman for the ensuing year. TO JASPER TUDOR. (Guardian Uncle to Henry VII.) War's roses change with wind and moon and tide. Red rose? White rose? 0 Warwick? Herbert, say? Thy rose, 0 Jasper? Constant as the fray, Unwaveringly devoted-Margaret's pride? For power thou strivest? For dominion wide? Each rose in turn? False Herbert? War- wick? Grey? One rose, dear Jasper! Durst thou straightly play An ever-losing game, reward denied? A lost game, Jasper, Edward Prince is slain. Protect thy brother's babe--on budding spray The Tudor rose to be-him serve as King. Once more forget thyself; keep without stain. And civil peace, ennobling Britain's sway, Dear selfless one, this full-blown rose shall bring. G. M. TUCKETT.