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As the train passed through the familiar college-town, Kathleen Munroe leaned forward in her seat, catching her breath sharply to keep back the tears. She watched the library flash by, with the old town clock capping its stone tower; the station, its platform piled high with trunks, because spring vacation began to-morrow; and at last the tall, stately buildings of the college itself, standing serenely beautiful amid their setting of green woodland and greener lawns.

They were past now, and Kathleen sank back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She would never see them again, she thought drearily. She had left a day before the other girls, because she could n't bear the thought of their gay farewells, with promises of speedy meetings. Besides, she wanted these hours on the train free from companionship. She wanted to get her bearings; to be able to greet her family with a smile. They must n't know, most of all her father must never guess, how hard it was for her to give up college.

She drew her mother's letter from her pocket and read the words again, although she knew them almost by heart. It was the old story of her lovable, kind-hearted father signing a note. This was the third time in Kathleen's memory that he had come to grief by such an action, only this time the result was more serious. It meant leaving the home which had been laboriously paid for, and seeking smaller quarters. It meant also the loss of certain advantages for the small brother and sister, and no college for Kathleen. Ted, her older brother, would manage somehow. A boy could work his way through college more easily

than a girl, and besides, Kathleen would be needed at home. Her mother was far from strong, and a maid would be out of the question until her father gained another start.

Kathleen's heart contracted at the thought. Another start would not be easy for a man past fifty. Her mother wrote that he had promised solemnly never to sign another note. Well, thought the girl, grimly, it would be easy for a man who had lost almost everything, to keep that promise! A man with a family had no right to do such things!

For a moment a little flare of anger possessed her, which melted suddenly as her father's face rose before her. She remembered those kindly, trusting eyes, which saw only the best in every one, and knew instantly that she would n't have her father different, though, as Ted once remarked: "Dad was too dead easy." His office was a museum of articles purchased from wily peddlers. The family were always using poor grades of shoe-blacking or matches, because some hard-luck story had pierced his heart. No tramp left the door unfed if Dad happened to be at home. He had been known to give his good overcoat to a poor wretch he found shivering on a corner selling shoestrings. He had bought the shoe-strings, too, thought the girl, with a choking laugh of reminiscence. They were impossible shoe-strings. Ted had donated them to a rummage sale!

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her a luncheon. She had put it up herself in the Agora kitchen. Sally was the only girl who knew that Kathleen would not return after vacation, and had assured her jestingly that she had salted the sandwiches with her tears.

It was a generous lunch, dainty and attractive, enough for two meals at least, which was thoughtful of Sally, thought Kathleen, gratefully. She looked about and saw that the sleeper was almost empty. Every one had flown to the diner at first call for supper, save a little old lady directly across the way. As

"SHE WATCHED THE LIBRARY FLASH BY"

Kathleen lifted one of Sally's delicious sandwiches from the box, she glanced across the aisle to find the old lady regarding her in real distress, and, laying her lunch-box down, she crossed the aisle.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked courteously.

"I don't know what to do," answered the old lady, nervously. "I'm not used to traveling alone. My son Tom expected to come as far as Buffalo, but at the last minute things came up to change his plans. He went to New York yesterday. Then Phoebe-she 's Tom's wifeexpected to see me aboard the train, but she was taken with an awful headache, and the 'girls were both off for over Sunday, so she sent for a taxi and arranged with the driver to

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Her voice trembled, and Kathleen said quickly: "Don't worry. The first thing is to have supper. Luckily I 've enough for two. I will bring it over here, and we 'll have a cosy time together. Then I'll take a look for your purse.. Mother says I 'm splendid about finding things.".

The old lady brightened visibly, and Kathleen saw with pleasure that she thoroughly enjoyed the sandwiches, though she protested at first about accepting them. Meanwhile, the girl was making calculations. She had only enough money to see her through; but of course she must look out for the old lady, who was, Kathleen noticed, dressed very simply. The loss of her money might mean much to her. The taxi driver may have stolen it, or she might have dropped it in the cab. It was plain to see that she was easily upset. Now if the purse remained lost

Well, it did. Their supper over, Kathleen moved the old lady across the aisle and made a thorough search, in which the porter helped, but all in vain, and the old lady's distress grew more apparent. It was then that Kathleen remembered her "lucky-piece." It was a tendollar gold-piece her father had given her on her eighteenth birthday, which she had never spent. She had kept it in her purse, carefully wrapped in tissue-paper, much against the advice of her small and cautious brother David, who declared she would lose it before she had a chance to spend it. Kathleen had replied that she was keeping it for luck, and, as the months passed, she went without many things rather than use it. It must be confessed that she felt a twinge of regret at the thought of parting with it, but there was no other way. She produced the gold-piece, which her old friend thankfully accepted along with Kathleen's card.

"I'll, mail a check as soon as I reach home, my dear," she promised gratefully. "You 're sure you can spare it?"

"Quite sure. I was n't counting on it at all," answered Kathleen, honestly. "Do you want to rest now, or shall we talk a while?"

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The old lady smiled brightly. "I'd love to talk; but you must n't feel obliged to bother with an old woman, though goodness knows what I'd have done without you! I told Tom that the next time he wanted to see his mother he 'd have to come to her. I 'm too old to travel, I guess I've proved it, and once I get home I 'm going to stay there. After all, there is no place like home."

Her words brought a warm thrill to Kathleen's heart. "I 'm going home, too," she said gently. "I can hardly wait to see them all, and

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business would have to go unless a miracle occurred to clear the skies. Kathleen did n't realize that she was making light of her own part of the trouble, but, as she finished speaking, the old lady said gently:

"So you 're not going back to college?"

"No," answered the girl, gravely. "I'll be needed at home. Mother can't manage everything alone, and perhaps I'll find time for some outside work. I want to earn something, so the younger ones won't have to go without things. I have n't had time for any plans, but I'm sure there's a way, if only I can find it; and I would n't for worlds have Father know how much I really care about college. I'm hoping that somehow he 'll save the business. It does seem as if a man as good and honest as Father ought not to fail just because he did a kindness to someone. Well, you must get to bed and so must I. I-I hope I have n't bored you. Somehow, it 's made me happier to talk."

"Indeed you have n't bored me!" responded the old lady, quickly. "You 've made me feel like a real grandma. Tom's girls were all so busy they did n't have much time for me. Not that I blame them, child! It 's natural for young folks to flock together. Good night, my dear. Sweet dreams!"

She looked up so wistfully that the girl stopped impulsively for a good-night kiss.

Kathleen was right. Her talk had eased her heart and she slept well. The train was leaving Buffalo as she awoke. Her first thought was of her old friend, and that she must be ready to escort her to the dining-car for breakfast. When she was dressed, however, she was surprised to find the section opposite ready for the day and vacant.

"Is my old lady in the dining-car?" she asked the porter.

"You mean that old lady what lost the pocketbook?" queried the darkey. "She done leave the train at Buffalo, Miss."

"What!" gasped Kathleen. "She was on her way to Evanston!"

"No, ma'am. She done get off at Buffalo. She give me half a dollar when she left, so she must ha' found her pocketbook all right. I '11 fix your section, Miss, while you's in the diner."

"I-I guess I won't go into the diner," said Kathleen weakly. "I have some sandwiches, and

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She did n't finish the sentence. She sat down on the seat she had occupied the night before with the old lady and stared at the landscape with unseeing eyes. Could it be possible that her sweet old lady was an impostor? Yet

she had said distinctly that she was going to Evanston, and she would n't have needed ten dollars had Buffalo been her destination. Suddenly Kathleen smiled. If she had been taken in, she was only following in her father's footsteps. How quickly Dad would have come to the rescue of the old dear! Then at thought of

"HER FATHER WAS WORKING EARLY AND LATE"

the old lady's face, her own brightened. Of course she was all right! It was all very strange, but somehow Kathleen believed in her. It was fortunate that it was her own lucky-piece she had parted with. She need n't tell the family a word about it.

But Kathleen was counting without the fam

ily. She received a joyous welcome, all the more joyous because of the dark days that had preceded it. She wondered, as she looked round on the adoring faces lifted to her that night at supper, how she could have thought anything a hardship when she belonged to such a family. She was questioned about every minute of her

trip, and before she knew it she had told all about the old lady and the lucky-piece. "Perhaps I was foolish," she explained hurriedly, "but she was all alone. It would have been dreadful not to help her."

"I said you 'd lose that goldpiece," proclaimed small David.

"She has n't lost it, sonny," said her father, quietly; "she 's passed it on. I'm glad you did, Kathleen. I 'd have been ashamed of you if you had n't. The prospects don't look very bright, but if you never hear from that old lady, I 'll see that you have another lucky-piece, though you may have to wait some time for it. You would n't have been our daughter if you had n't helped the poor old soul, would she, Mother?"

"Not your daughter, surely," said Mother, smiling.

Yet as the days passed and no word came from the old lady, Kathleen began to blame herself for her sudden generosity. Her father was subtly aged by this last blow. He was working early and late in an attempt to save his business, and when the girl saw how many things her mother had gone without, she realized that even her ten dollars would have helped.

She had been at home two weeks when her father burst in upon them as they sat down to supper. They all realized at once that something unusual had occurred, because, though he was evidently trying to be calm, Dad was the sort who could n't possibly keep any good news to himself. It took great self-control for him to hand Kathleen a letter and ask her to read it to the family. She took it wonderingly, but when she saw the cramped writing she exclaimed: "Is it from my old lady? I knew I 'd hear from her! It 's ad

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"EVEN THE CHILDREN LEANED FORWARD ON THEIR ELBOWS IN EXPECTATION"

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"My dear little friend:

"I wonder what you 're thinking of me for taking French leave of you! You may be calling me all sorts of disgraceful names, but I'm hoping that, although appearances are certainly against me, you've kept just a grain of faith in the old woman you befriended so generously.

"I saw you unwrap that gold-piece from its tissue-paper, child, and I knew it was something precious-a lucky-piece, most likely; and after you left me for the night I got to wondering if I could n't make it a real lucky-piece- one you 'd never forget.

"For you see, your story sounded very natural. There was a time when I went through just such ups and downs, because my husband, like your

father, would always believe the best of folks, even when there was n't much 'best' to believe. So I saw it all very clearly. I knew just what you were going through, you and your mother, and your father, too. I don't know but what his part was the hardest.

"First, I thought that, if I could afford it, I'd send you back to college; and then I knew that would n't do, because you said they needed you at home. Then I thought of a lot of other things which did n't suit me; and then, just as I was getting disgusted with myself as a fairy godmother,. I had a wonderful idea. You see, my son Tom is in the same line of business as your father. He's been branching out lately, and, only a few days before, I had heard him say he wished he knew of the right man for his western office, one he could trust absolutely. Well, I knew from what you'd said that your father was one to be trusted; and I knew also that Tom would be in Buffalo that night. Do you see now what I was up to?

"Of course, my dear, a letter to Tom would n't have done at all. I had to see him, and explain how you'd helped me and what I'd gleaned from you about your father. I wanted to remind him of how his own father was always doing just such

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