ing two prizes--the Duke and Sir Thurio.

"Forbear!" cried Valentine, sternly. "The Duke is sacred."

Sir Thurio exclaimed, "There's Silvia; she's mine!"

"Touch her, and you die!" said Valentine.

"I should be a fool to risk anything for her," said Sir Thurio.

"Then you are base," said the Duke. "Valentine, you are a brave man.
Your banishment is over. I recall you. You may marry Silvia. You deserve
her."

"I thank your Grace," said Valentine, deeply moved, "and yet must ask
you one more boon."

"I grant it," said the Duke.

"Pardon these men, your Grace, and give them employment. They are better
than their calling."

"I pardon them and you," said the Duke. "Their work henceforth shall be
for wages."

"What think you of this page, your Grace?" asked Valentine, indicating
Julia.

The Duke glanced at her, and said, "I think the boy has grace in him."

"More grace than boy, say I," laughed Valentine, and the only punishment
which Proteus had to bear for his treacheries against love and
friendship was the recital in his presence of the adventures of
Julia-Sebastian of Verona.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

In the year thirteen hundred and something, the Countess of Rousillon
was unhappy in her palace near the Pyrenees. She had lost her husband,
and the King of France had summoned her son Bertram to Paris, hundreds
of miles away.

Bertram was a pretty youth with curling hair, finely arched eyebrows,
and eyes as keen as a hawk's. He was as proud as ignorance could make
him, and would lie with a face like truth itself to gain a selfish end.
But a pretty youth is a pretty youth, and Helena was in love with him.

Helena was the daughter of a great doctor who had died in the service
of the Count of Rousillon. Her sole fortune consisted in a few of her
father's prescriptions.

When Bertram had gone, Helena's forlorn look was noticed by the
Countess, who told her that she was exactly the same to her as her
own child. Tears then gathered in Helena's eyes, for she felt that the
Countess made Bertram seem like a brother whom she could never marry.
The Countess guessed her secret forthwith, and Helena confessed that
Bertram was to her as the sun is to the day.

She hoped, however, to win this sun by earning the gratitude of the King
of France, who suffered from a lingering illness, which made him lame.
The great doctors attached to the Court despaired of curing him, but
Helena had confidence in a prescr