“The simple fault that it is the program of a fool,” replied the baron, calmly. “In following it you have gained the resentment of your nobles and have not even received the thanks of those pitiable hounds, the ploughmen of the valley, or the shepherds on the hills. You have impoverished us so that the clowns may have a few more coins with which to muddle in drink their already stupid brains. You are hated in cot and castle alike. You would not stand in your place for a moment, were not an army behind you. Being a fool, you think of the common people alone, whereas they only curse that they have not a share in the thieving.”

The king, whose gaze had been fixed upon the floor before him, drew a deep sigh, and when he looked up at them, his eyes were veiled with moisture.

“I thought,” he said, “ until to-night, that I had possessed some qualities, at least, of a ruler of men. I came here alone among you, and although there are brave men in this company, yet I had the ordering of events as I chose to order them, notwithstanding that odds stood a score to one against me. I still venture to think that whatever failures attended my eight years' rule in Alluria arose from faults of my own, and not through imperfections in the plan or want of appreciation in the people. If it is disastrous for a king to act without the co-operation of his

nobles, it is equally disastrous for them to plot against their leader. I beg to acquaint you with the fact that the insurrection so carefully prepared has broken prematurely out. My capital is in possession of the factions, who are industriously cutting each other's throats to settle which one of two smooth-tongued rascals shall be their president. While you were dicing to settle the fate of an already deposed king, and I was sentencing you to a mythical death, we were all alike being involved in common ruin. I have seen to-night more property in flames than all my saving during the last eight years would pay for. I have no horsemen at my back, and have stumbled here blindly, a inuch bedraggled fugitive, having lost my way in every sense of the phrase. And so I beg of the hospitality of Count Staumn another flagon of wine, and either a place of shelter for my patient horse, who has been left too long in the storm without, or else direction toward the frontier, whereupon my horse and I will set out to find it.”

“Not towards the frontier!” cried Baron Brunfels, grasping his sword and holding it aloft, “but towards the capital ! We will surround you, and hew for you a way back through that fickle mob, back to the throne of your ancestors." A ringing cheer echoed to the timbered ceiling.

“The king! The king!” they cried. Rudolph smiled and shook his head.

“Not so," he said. “I leave a thankless throne with a joy I find it impossible to express. As I sat on horseback, half way up the hills above the burning city, and heard the clash of arms, I was filled with amazement to think that men would actually fight for the position of ruler of the people. Whether the insurrection has brought freedom or not, the future alone will tell; but it has, at least, brought freedom to me. No man can question either my motives or my acts. Gentlemen, drink with me to the new president of Alluria, whoever he may be.".

But the king drank alone, none other raising flagon to lip.

Then Baron Brunfels cried aloud: “Gentlemen, the king!”

And never in the history of Alluria was a toast so heartily honored.

Engineer Connor's Son.

WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE. Adapted by permission of The S. S. McClure Company.

WHEN Jack Connor was promoted to the posi. tion of engineer on the Nashville and Chattanooga road, which cuts the State of Tennessee, he moved his family into the pretty little cottage standing side by side with crippled Jerry Crane's, on the hill just above the railroad track, in the little village of Antioch.

The trainmen were pretty well acquainted with the Antioch people in general, but there was not one among them, from conductor down, who did not know Jack Connor's son.

“Little Jack,” they called him ; and the train never whistled for Antioch but they would look out for the little fellow hoisted on the wood-pile to see his father's engine go by.

Sometimes his mother would take him down to speak to his father, and the little fellow would almost go wild over the big engine and the glowing furnace, the great bell clanging a hasty good-by, and the shrill whistle, which more than once he had been permitted to “pull.”

He had his father's head, the trainmen said, but the neighbors declared he had his mother's sunny, hopeful, helpful nature.

But one day trouble came to her door. Engineer Connor was brought home in a caboose, both legs mashed and an arm gone, while his engine lay in a ruined heap under a broken bridge just beyond the Tennessee River.

Every man had jumped but him-fireman, brakeman, all but Jack.

" Jump, Connor, for your life!” the fireman had called to him when the timbers began to crack; and the man had laid his hand upon the throttle and said:

“You forget I’m engineer.” He was not quite dead when the boys found him, and all the time they were working with him he was praying. Just for life to get home. “ Just long enough to get home and die with my wife and boy.”

His prayer was granted; he reached home and the two he loved best on earth.

"Jack,” he said, “ I leave your mother to you. Take care of her, my man.

“The company will do something for you by and by, Jack,” he said. “Stick to the engine and stand by your mother, Jack,” he whispered. The hand on the boy's head grew cold, and when they lifted it and laid it back upon the dead man's breast Jack turned to his mother.

“Here I am, mother," he said, and she under. stood.

It was then Jack's life began in earnest. The pet name of “Baby Jack” no longer trembled upon his mother's lips. She called him instead “My son,” “My boy,” or “Mother's man." Every morning when the whistle sounded, the cottage door would open, the gate click, and a pair of bright stockings flash for a moment in the sunlight as a pair of nimble legs went hurrying down to the platform.

“Pies! pies ! fresh pies and cakes!” He had turned peddler. A tiny, industrious little peddler he was too; and with so many rough-bearded, warm-hearted friends among the trainmen, Jack's business was bound to flourish.