acerbity.

"The ones the saddlemaker showed him in the Peruvian temple," said the
other, somewhat obscurely. "When he reached home, Alice's mother led
him, weeping, to a green mound under a willow tree. 'Her heart was
broken when you left,' said her mother. 'And what of my rival--of
Chester McIntosh?' asked Mr. Redruth, as he knelt sadly by Alice's
grave. 'When he found out,' she answered, 'that her heart was yours,
he pined away day by day until, at length, he started a furniture
store in Grand Rapids. We heard lately that he was bitten to death by
an infuriated moose near South Bend, Ind., where he had gone to try to
forget scenes of civilisation.' With which, Mr. Redruth forsook the
face of mankind and became a hermit, as we have seen.

"My story," concluded the young man with an Agency, "may lack the
literary quality; but what I wanted it to show is that the young lady
remained true. She cared nothing for wealth in comparison with true
affection. I admire and believe in the fair sex too much to think
otherwise."

The narrator ceased, with a sidelong glance at the corner where
reclined the lady passenger.

Bildad Rose was next invited by Judge Menefee to contribute his story
in the contest for the apple of judgment. The stage-driver's essay was
brief.

"I'm not one of them lobo wolves," he said, "who are always blaming on
women the calamities of life. My testimony in regards to the fiction
story you ask for, Judge, will be about as follows: What ailed Redruth