A MODERN HERO. 13

the conductors on the line between the two cities
which was his semi-daily beat.

“T take a world o’ comfort in them, this freezin’
weather. Fact is, Mother, this world’s been pretty
full o’ comfort, all the way through, for us — a nice
easy grade —ef yer father ain’t a Hero, Junior!
Six-twenty! I mus’ be off! I like to be there in
time to see thet Stokes is on han’ an’ all right. Ef

you don’t min’, Mother, we’ll hev him to dinner nex’
I want to do somethin’ t’wards savin’

Sunday.
Stokes. ‘Specially ez he’s on my line!”

At six-fifty, Top, Junior, from his post at the
calla-window, saw the long line of cars, spaced by
dots of murkey red, the luminous plume of smoke
trailing, comet-wise, above them, slowly pass over
the bridge. It was a cloudy evening and the
marsh-mists swallowed up the blinking windows as
soon as the train gained the other shore. Junior
loved his mother, but his father seemed to take
most of the life and cheer out of the room when he
went. Existence stagnated for the boy who had
no mates of his own age.

“T wish he didn’t hev to run in bad weather and
nights!” he said, fretfully.

“Tt’s his business, child, an’ your father ain’t
one to dodge his duty.”

“T hate the word!” retorted the petted cripple.

“When I’m a man I’ll be my own master, and
switch Duty off the track.”

The obnoxious word came up cain in the course
of the evening. In reading aloud to his teacher
they happened upon this definition of “a hero,”
given by one of the characters in the story under
his eyes: “ One who, in a noble work or enterprise,
does more than his duty.”

Junior looked up disappointed. “Is ¢#at the

meaning of hero?” he said, intensely chagrined.
' “That is one way of stating it. I doubt, myself,
if we can do more than our duty. What do you
think, Mrs. Briggs?” asked the young woman.
She esteemed the honest couple for their sterling
worth and sense, and liked to draw them out.

“A person ken ondertake more, I ’spose. Ef
‘hey don’t carry it through, it’s a sign ’twas meant
‘ur them to go jest that fur, an’ no further. "Twon’t
Jo fur us to be skeery ’bout layin’ holt of the
iandle the good Lord puts nighest to us, fur fear
t’s too big a thing fur us to manage. That’s what
ny husband says. An’ if ever a man lived up to
t, he does.”

Top, Junior, looked sober and mortified. The
heroism of common life does not commend itself
to the youthful imagination. When his lesson was
finished it was time for him to go tobed. “Wake
me when father comes in!” was the formula with-
out which he never closed his eyes.

His mother never failed to do it, but he wanted
to make sure of it. She put on a lump of coal,
just enough to keep the fire “in,” and sat down to
the weekly mending. At eleven-forty, she would
open the draughts and cook the sausages ready-
laid in the pan on the table. Top, Senior, liked
“ something hot and hearty,” after his midnight
run, and this dispatched, smoked the nightcap pipe
of peace, Junior, rolled in a shawl, on his knee.
The wife’s face and heart were calm with thankful
content as the hours moved on. She was rosy and
plump, with pleasant blue eyes and brown hair, a
wholesome presence at the hearthstone, in her
gown of clean chocolate calico with her linen collar
and scarlet cravat. Top, Senior, had noticed and
praised the new red ribbon. He comprehended
that it was put on to please him and Junior, both
of whom liked to see “ Mother fixed up.” In this
life, they were her all, and she accounted that life
full and rich.

As she sewed, she heard the slow patter of Feb-
ruary rain on the shelf outside of the window, where
her flowers stood in summer. The great city was
sinking into such half-sleep as it took between
midnight and dawn; the shriek and rush of incom-
ing and -outgoing trains grew less frequent. She
did not fret over the disagreeable weather. Top,
Senior, had often said that such made home and
fire and supper more welcome.

At Junior's bed-time, he was eighty miles away,
walking up and down the muddy platform of the
principal station of Agapolis, stamping his feet at
each turn in his promenade to restore the circula-
tion. His was a fast Express train, and he stood
during most of the run, on the alert to guard against
accident. There was no more careful engineer on
the road. Fireman and brakeman were off for
supper in or near the station. He slouched as he
walked, his hands thrust deep into his pockets ; his
overcoat was heavy and too loose even for his bulky
figure. He had “taken it off the hands” of an
engineer’s widow whose husband was dragged from
under a wrecked train one night last summer,
“Mother” used to look grave when Top, Senior,