"No! no! do not trifle with me! do not make a jest of my love! My love! Oh, Madge, do not tempt me to -"

A checking sob interrupted him.

Madge's low, soft voice stole to his heart.

"Do you love me, George?"

"Love you, Madge! I have loved you since first I can remember."

She crept closer to him, till her bright head was pillowed on his chest. Was it still a girlish jest, a girlish freak?

As if in contradiction, she nestled closer to him, while he, daring his fate, poured out the full flood of his love in strong, eager words, and the merry heart was bound to his, the tiny form was clasped close in his arms.

[From "Bran and Sawdust, a Tale of Today," published in the Yale Record. N. B. The conclusion of this highly romantic tale, especially contributed to the columns of the Record by S. C., Jr., of the New York Ledger, can be found in succeeding numbers of the Record. For sale at all news stands.]