ine of
splendid books, and addressed Mr. Cranmer.

"I entirely agree with your position, sir," he said, earnestly. "And I
do not see how it is possible for any strictly temperance man to feel
otherwise."

"Good for you, young man," responded Mr. Cranmer, warmly. "I like
especially to see a _young_ man sound and square on this subject."

"Well, now, I call that straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel,"
remarked a gentleman who had heretofore taken no part in the
conversation. "I'm a temperance man myself, always have been, but I
consider that carrying the thing to a ridiculous extreme."

At this point Theodore, much to his regret, heard the train whistle, and
was obliged to leave the question unsettled; but the first remark he
made to Mr. Stephens on his return, after business was disposed of,
was:

"Well, sir, I found my inspiration."

"Ah, ha!" said Mr. Stephens. "Glad of that. What is your text?"

"The amazing consistency of the so-called temperance world," answered
Theodore, dryly.

It was this combination of circumstances that led him to take his seat
one wintry morning in a Buffalo train, himself ticketed through to
Albany. There was still five minutes before the train would start; and
while he chatted with Jim who had come to see him off, the opening door
revealed the portly form of Mr. Hastings, muffled to the throat in furs,
and with the identical "Wolfie" thrown over his arm--newly lined indeed
in brilliant red, but recognized in an instant by its soft peculiar fur,
and familiar to Theodore as the face of an old friend. Instantly his
memory traveled back to the scenes connected with that long-ago and
well-remembered journey when "Wolfie" proved such a faithful friend to
him. His face flushed at the thought of it, and yet the corners of his
mouth quivered with laughter. He flushed at the memory of the wretched
little vagrant that he was at that time, and he laughed at the
recollection of "Wolfie's" protecting folds and the new and delicious
sense of warmth that they imparted to him. What a curious world it was.
There sat Mr. Hastings in front of him now, as he had sat then, a
trifle older, more portly, but in all essential respects the same
haughty, handsome gentleman. But what mortal could recognize in himself
the little wretched vagabond known familiarly as "Tode Mall!" He tried
to travel backward and imagine himself that young scamp who stole his
passage from Albany to Buffalo, at which thought t