An Angel in Disguise. The long train rattled frantically past the last group of outlying frame build ings, surged hetween two lines of empty freight ears, and then, with an agreeable decrease of clamour, settled down for the unbroken spin from Long Island City to Jamaica. The train boy, having com pleted throe pilgrimages, confided his newspapers, candy, and magazines to their resting place forward in the smoker. Only an occasional snatch of conversation among the passengers varied the roar of the flying wheels—a roar sufficiently insistent, however, to distract the steadiest of nerves. John Weatherley put his paper aside with a sigh of resignation, realising that a survey of the monotonous panorama which was sweeping past the ear win dow would be an open door to thoughts ho had vowed to forget. He fought feebly for a time against the temptation to re call the past, but it would not be re pulsed, and ho soon abandoned the struggle and gave free rein to fancy. It was ah so familiar, that stretch of bleak meadow, with its jungles of rank grass, broken here and there by dark and stagnant waterways. He seemed to know every inch of it, and found that he was instinctively looking ahead for clearly remembered landmarks. Yet it was five years since he had seen them, and each of those five had been full of life and colour and novel experience. John Weatherley of to-day, the young mining engineer whose judgment was the pole star of a great syndicate, and whose weekly income touched four figures, was a different man from the student at the School of Mines, who half a decade before had taken his heart out into Long Island and there lost it among the Lynbrook pines, A different man certainly, and a more con spicuous—but a happier ? That was the question which asked itself, and to which, perforce, he had to .answer no. Months of exposure to Montana suns and snows had aged him, and respon sibility was pencilling his forehead ; but, deep down under the cold, confident manner which the syndicate’s president had once called “ a hallmark of capa city,” lay memory, like a stream that yearns for June under its shroud of De cember ice. 