him. He saw a pale, besmeared little countenance; he heard behind him
the agonizing screams of the mother, who had realized her baby's
peril; in his ears rang the shrill warning of the engineer as the
engine rounded the curve. Would he be in time?

As he reached the edge of the tracks, thought of Emily and a terrible
consciousness of the sorrow she would feel if anything were to happen
to him compressed his heart. But he did not falter. He was aware of
the jangle of a fiercely rung bell, the hiss of steam, and a blinding
glare; he could feel on his cheek the breath of the iron monster. With
set teeth he threw himself forward, stooped, and reached out over the
rail: in another instant he had tossed the child from the pathway of
danger, and he himself had been mangled to death by the powerful
engine.




ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON


Paul Harrington, the reporter, shifted his eagle glance from one
feature to another of the obsequies with the comprehensive yet swift
perception of an artist. An experience of three years on the staff had
made him an expert on ceremonies, and, captious as he could be when
the occasion merited his scorn, his predilection was for praise, as he
was an optimist by instinct. This time he could praise unreservedly,
and he was impatient to transfer to the pages of his note-book his
seething impressions of the solemn beauty and simplicity of the last
rites in the painful tragedy. In the rustic church into which he had