Today's Stichomancy for George W. Bush

uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter's portrait.

"Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette, and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to d'Arthez' chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora the tops of the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us."

And off he went without taking leave, having had enough of looking at Virginie.

"Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle.

"A great artist," answered Grassou.

There was silence for a moment.

"Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my

lie quiet and continue the heart-breaking business of our journey: sure, I think these were questions to have puzzled the brains of Aristotle himself. Ballantrae turned to me with a face all wrinkled up and his teeth showing in his mouth, like what I have read of people starving; he said no word, but his whole appearance was a kind of dreadful question.

"They may be of the English side," I whispered; "and think! the best we could then hope, is to begin this over again."

"I know - I know," he said. "Yet it must come to a plunge at last." And he suddenly plucked out his coin, shook it in his closed hands, looked at it, and then lay down with his face in the

years old. There were two doors or openings, one in front and the other at the back. Duane imagined it had been built by a fugitive--one who meant to keep an eye both ways and not to be surprised. Duane felt weak and had no desire to move. Where was he, anyway? A strange, intangible sense of time, distance, of something far behind weighed upon him. Sight of the two packs Euchre had made brought his thought to Jennie. What had become of her? There was evidence of her work in a smoldering fire and a little blackened coffee-pot. Probably she was outside looking after the horses or getting water. He thought he heard a step and listened, but he felt tired, and presently his eyes closed

The Lone Star Ranger

beneath. It was hard to realize that even twenty years ago you could see a man hanged with great pomp. Later on I found reason to change my opinion. The tales gave me a headache and set me thinking. How in the world was it possible to take in even one thousandth of this huge, roaring, many-sided continent? In the tobacco-scented silence of the sumptuous library lay Professor Bryce's book on the American Republic.

"It is an omen," said I. "He has done all things in all seriousness, and he may be purchased for half a guinea. Those who desire information of the most undoubted, must refer to his pages. For me is the daily round of vagabondage, the recording of