d came
into his face; his twitching, sinister vein was still. Surrender
choked him, but he managed to get it out:

"I know I acted like a fool. But I can't let you do this. I'll--I'll
try to----"

The words died on his lips and he leaped forward in time to catch her
as she swayed and fell, fainting.

An hour later Annie lay on the lounge in the sitting room, still
aching with terrible weariness, but divinely content. Far away she
could hear the steady susurrus of the reaper, driven against the
golden wheat, and the sound was a promise and a song to her ears. She
looked up now and then at the pictured face of Wes's father, frowning
and passionate, and the faint smile of a conqueror curved her tired
mouth. For she had found and proved the strongest thing in the world,
and she would never again know fear.

THE TRIBUTE

By HARRY ANABLE KNIFFIN

From _Brief Stories_

The Little Chap reached up a chubby hand to the doorknob. A few
persistent tugs and twists and it turned in his grasp. Slowly pushing
the door open, he stood hesitating on the threshold of the studio.

The Big Chap looked up from his easel by the window. His gray eyes
kindled into a kindly smile, its welcoming effect offset by an
admonitory headshake. "Not now, Son," he said. "I'm busy."

"Can't I stay a little while, Daddy?" The sturdy little legs carried
their owner across the floor as he spoke. "I'll be quiet, like--like I
was asleep."

The Big Chap hesitated, looking first at his canvas and then at the
small replica of himself standing before him.

"I got on my new pants," the youngster was saying, conversationally
easing the embarrassment of a possible capitulation. "Mummy says I
ought to be proud of them, and because I'm five years old."

The artist looked gravely down at him. "Proud, Son?" he asked, in the
peculiar way he had of reasoning with the Little Chap. "Have you
reached the age of five because of anything you have done? Or did you
acquire the trousers with money you earned?"

The Little Chap looked up at him questioningly. He had inherited his
father's wide gray eyes, and at present their expression was troubled.
Then, evidently seeking a more easily comprehended topic, his eyes
left his father's and sought the canvas on which was depicted a court
scene of mediaeval times. "Who is that, Daddy?" His small index finger
pointed to the most prominent figure in the painting.

His father continued to regard him thoughtfully. "On