The grand commencement day arrived, and the American students, fifteen in number, arranged for a banquet to be given in honor of one who should excel the rest in scholarship and attainments. Here the Jew and the Gentile, the rich and the poor, were alike striving for an education and none was more brilliant or gave greater promise for the future than Earnest Stocklaid. On this day the crown was to be laid upon the heads of those who labored and achieved success. None seemed to reach the high eminence at greater pace than Earnest Stocklaid. He was to deliver the closing oration and had selected for his subject, "America's Freedom." He came before his class tall and manly in bearing, with a clear musical voice, and delivered a most masterful address, which captivated all hearts. Even the Germans cried: "Gut, Gut, Vivat Hoch fur Amerika!” while the Americans waved their handkerchiefs and repeated, "Long live America!"

Marie's cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled with delight, for she experienced all the joy she could have known had it been she herself that was being honored. Mr. Stocklaid was scarcely seated, and the deafening applause had not yet died away, when a beautiful cluster of flowers was placed in his hands with Marie's card attached. They were bleeding hearts set in maiden-hair ferns and tied with a rose-colored ribbon. Casting a look of reverence upon the emblem, his eyes sought Marie's and he tenderly pressed the bouquet to his lips, thus expressing in his admiring glance the gratitude of his heart for the beautiful thought thus shown him through the presentation of the token. Directly, however, a shadow flitted over his countenance. He was thinking of the language of the flower and wondered if it had been selected with any thought as to its meaning, or was it done simply with an eye to the beautiful? He stilled the throbbing of his

heart by persuading himself the latter, and at the close of the exercises came down to Marie's side and begged to attend her to the banquet.

Ruth had been entreated by her teacher to sing on this occasion, but had excused herself by saying she much preferred to let her voice be heard first in her own native land. But she had consented to attend the exercises with him and afterward the banquet, as he was to be the guest of the Americans. The rich repast was served in regular American style, and Miss Earnestine presided over the tea, while wine flowed freely at her request. Ruth's glass, however, was turned upside down, and out of respect to his pupil, Professor Von Chuberg did not taste the beverage that night.

They dined long and were merry. Speech after speech was made in the German and American tongues and Earnest Stocklaid had toasted his comrades in six different languages. But by and by, to the chagrin and mortification of his fellows-for "at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder"—the young man's head grew dizzy and carried him over upon the floor. The party broke up, and the one upon whom the highest honors had been conferred was carried to his room in a disgraceful state of intoxication.

Later, when Ruth assisted Marie to disrobe, there was a sad look in the young woman's face and an occasional sigh. The tears would well up in her eyes, and one could see that remorse was doing its work in her heart. It was greatly to her own wonderment, for once in her life, Ruth failed to deliver her temperance lecture, as Marie had termed it, for she felt that silence was the best medicine for this sin-sick heart and a stronger accuser than she herself could be. Thus ended her three years' course at Frankfort-on-the-Main.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE LONDON WORKING PEOPLE IN LINE

On the morrow Judge Earnestine was expected; he was coming to take them for a season to France and England, and from thence back to their own dear native land. Therefore all needed preparations were being made for the journey and Aunt Langsford, generally so staid and dignified, was flying around with her false front hair turned to one side, and her apron strings tied in front. Ruth laughed and was gay, but Marie seemed to be under a heavy cloud, and try as they would they could not engage her in conversation nor bring her to take any interest in the journey before them.

Her maiden aunt really looked troubled and ventured to hint that she was grieving over leaving Mr. Stocklaid behind, which her niece most vehemently denied, saying she should be glad to put the ocean between them.

Aunt Langsford smiled and concluded her words were only a phrase of maidenly modesty. But Ruth thought "Words are cheap when a heart is full of grief." She could understand the mood more clearly than the aunt, who as yet did not know the real cause of Marie's silence. As soon as the two were alone Ruth, with her warm, affectionate nature, gently put her arms around Marie and kissed her, whispering as she did so, "Never mind, dearie, all youthful clouds, I have been told, have silver linings, and perhaps yours may be lined with gold. Just wait until Judge Earnestine comes and see how quickly he will chase away the blues."

Marie wondered in her heart if Ruth mistrusted why

she was downcast. But shame kept her from confiding the truth, and hence both maid and mistress avoided touching upon the unpleasantness of the previous evening, or mentioning the name of Earnest Stocklaid.

With Ruth's keen perception, however, she did not need to be told the cause of the young lady's mood, for the very nature of her social existence for the past three years could but reveal her attachment to the young man, and guilty or not of his downfall, she must certainly feel a sense of humiliation for his weakness. At last the day came to a close and the family retired, but Marie tossed upon her bed and sleep could not be coaxed to enfold her 'neath its wings of forgetfulness. Whatever of remorse or of self-accusation she felt, it was between herself and God, whom she did not know nor care to serve.

At last the morning broke and daylight came creeping in. Marie arose and seated herself at her desk to write. Ruth was conscious of her doings, but chose rather to be ignorant for conscience's sake and let her work out her own destiny as the All Wise intends we shall.

Once, twice she dipped her pen, putting her thoughts upon the paper, and then not satisfied with the result she wrote again. At last she had fashioned something to suit her, and, closing the envelope, she addressed it to Earnest Stocklaid.

Answering the early postman's ring, she put the letter, with a piece of money, into his hand and bade him deliver the message at once. "Take care," she said, "it must be delivered within the hour or it will be of no avail."

Ruth longed to know the contents of that note, but could not yet for many months. If she could have seen the poor bowed head and touched with sympathy the aching heart of Earnest Stocklaid when he read that morning: "We shall go to-morrow, but do not try to see me or to