The wile oí a western (Jongressman, more curious than polite, was one day silting by Mr. Stephens' bedsidc whcn lie was so very ill in tho winter of 1877, and he spokc (juite freely to lier of Iris mother and liis early life. "Wliy did you Bever marry?" she asked. "That's my secret," he replied, evasively. "But we would all like to knowit," was her response. "Well," said the old skeleton, grimly and rcluetantly, "1 never saw but one woman I wnnted to marry, but she did not want to marry me. That's a good reason, isn't it?" "I hope she lived to regret lier mistake," remarked the kind heart "Y-e-s," responded Mr. Stephens. iowly, "I think shodid, and so did I."