By A Leap

A sniall, old-fashioned cottage where a woman sits working in the porch. A tiny cottage, in a garden stocked only with fruit and vegetables, save ïo)c the hardy creepers clinging to the Jjorch. But then their blossornö gleam as white and pure a ttny rare exotic3, and the dark Jeaves move sof üy in the fairy light, as the breezo nestles there, after ita flight aoross the heath froni that far line of brillianey which, though but a ribbon's width, is the broad sea flashing in the aun. A slight, palé womtm, wearing a widow's cap upon Smooth brown hair, but with sueh a look of love and longing on her face that she too has a beauty which it ie good to look upttm Smnll and isolated as the cottage may be, it is a home oí Ioyb and peace, and plain and quiet as the countrywonian lookB, she has a wealth of warm affection in her heart. As she sits there alone, Mary Sullivan is dreaming the old dreams which have cheered her ten years ot widöwhööd - bright but never impossiblë dreams of the future of her only son- and she is glancing backwaïd, too, over her own life, wondering a little, just a little, if many women of her age have seen no more of the world than she, who has not spent one night of all lier life - nor ever wished to do so-beyontí this villagiï where her husband has been j schoolmaster. Is it to be always so ? A steadfast light comes into her eyes, and I her quiet lips break into a smile, made beautiful by proud and loving trust- "That shall be left to Davy," she says, uttering softly the one name whích ñow meaus all the world to her. " His choice will be my choice." From the porch were Mary sits she j can catch a glimpse, through the trees, of the road along which the stage-coach daily passes. This spot she is watching eagerly, and when the four horses come within sight at last, she drops her knitting and rises. Neryously drawing her hand across her utrained, glad eyes, she turns and enters the cottage, as if she dare not wait those few minutes which will bring the coach into sight again close to the garden gate. Tea is iaid for two in the pleasant little kitchen, and the table - though it bears upon its snowy cloth no luxuries beyond home-made oakes and fresh-laid 3ggs - has quite a festive look. The mother stands and gazes round her with a smile. Is there nothing more she can bring for Davy ? Her hands are clasped together, and her breath is quickening, for she knows that any moment now her boy may rush in, past that line of sunshine at the open door. But she does not know how intently she is listening for his footsteps upon the gravel, nor how her face brightens when he comes in at last. "Mother!" "Oh, Davy, Davy !" The greeting bursts from the hearts of both, in that first moment ; then the boy's lips are clinging to his mother's, and her arms hold him in that entire love which a widowed mother so oftea lavishes upon an only son. The rneal, which she has prepared with loving hands, is over ; and the mother and her boy sit together in their favorite corner of the porch, while the sun sets far away across the sea. "Fourwhole weeks of idleness, and of home and you, mother," David says. " It seems too good to be true." "But you like school, Davy?" Mrs. Sullivan asks wistfully. " You are happy there?" "Happy? oh, yes; and getting on capitally. Of course I try to do that, mother, as grandf ather urged it so when he condescended to put me in this school. Perhaps he wül help me a little even when the five years are over. I will soon rise, if he gives me a start, after this promised school term." " And if he does not, this education is a great help, Davy. You will be 17 when you leave the college, and clever, andable to do anything." " Anything - everything, mother," asserts the boy, softly drawing her arm about his neck. " I shall be a man, and you shall never want anything again. You shall have a large house and garden, and I shall come home to you every ovening from my office - whcre I shali earn the money, you know. It must be near London, because men don't get except in London, I expect. Should you like it, mother ?" " You have made up your mind to be rich, Davy?" "Only," the boy answers, his eyes upon his mother's face, " only just rich enough tó make you comfortable and happy, mother ; that you may never have to work - as you work now, or deny yourself - as you deny yoursolf now. You have so little, mother, to make your life easy and bright." " Little !" she cries through her happy tears. "Little! when I have you, Davy?" "We both have all we need, dear mother," the boy says, laying his curly head upon her shoulder. ' ' I would not chango homes with the richest boy in all our college (though hi would laugh at tho notion) ; but still, I mean to give you more. I ano raaking tho most of my time. : " What do the mastera say of you, Oavy?" " Tbíit T nrn the best arithrnetician in the school," the boy says, laughing ; "and beat (for my age) in ono or two other things. But, mother, I beat every feüow -- older or younger - hollow at gymnastics." ' "What are they?" asksMary, wondering. But though David explmns at length, her idea of the science is only a little leas vague when he finishes than it had heen when he began. "We have a splendid gymnasium at schoo], and you should see me. There's not a f ello w who eau come anywhere near me. And I have a prize to show you, mother - not for that," he adds, with a laugh at her surprise, "but for accounts. I won it to please grandfather, because, af ter all, he was very good to put me to school, though he wiïl not personally notice either of us. It is almost like giving me a fortune, isn't it ? and therefore better than ü he asked me to his house, although that would show he had forgivea niy father for - settling here. " "Almost a fortune- yes," she answers, gravely stroking his browu curls. " But try to think less of being rich than of being good aad tme-hetirted, ihvown child." "Ido, mother," he says earnestly, j " only I talk more of the one. And when I think things over mother, I feel sure that a man's occupation iieed make no difference. My father had nothing harder to battle with than the ignorance of a lot of boys who, af ter all, loved him, and tried to please him ; but I may be just as good a man battling with the world - which seems so far from us, and so unreal to us yet - fts he. was in this dettr little üüièt nOok-, fion't you feel thië, mother?" ïest she ïeels it; Small as her knowledge is, siie knows pi Öhe who walkeá ilnspottad thrbügh the world ; and poor I as sho may be, she is rich in her great trust in Him. The sunset light ís dying now, and the mother and son sit watching it, in a silence whioh is sweet with lope and sympathy - and when those, fair, pink clouds fade and vanish from above the [ sea, they rise and go into the cottage together. CHAPTEE II. "FOB HER DBAR SAKE;" The first vacatiön oí David's has passed like fi ctream to his mother, and now that the last day has arrived, she feels as if only a week had sped, though she had so regretfully and hungrily counted (each moming and each night) both the days that have been spent and spent and those that ate to come. Another long absence follows; another bright home-coming (in the frosty Ghristmas darkness now); another absence; and so on, and on, and on, until David comes home from school for the last time of all. He meets his mother just within the porch, where the flowers bloom that summér as they have bloomed through every summer of his ïife, and he has no cloud upon his face. But, later on, his mother's anxious question is answered a litüe sadly. "Yes, mother; Í heard from the lawyer yesterday. Grandfather's wiil does not meütion either.of us. He has given me all the help he meant to give. Well, he has been very good, and now I am ready to make my own start in the world. But I must go at once. One delicious day with you here, then fcr London ! Don 't look so sad, my mother; this shall not be a long separation; not even so long as the old school terms, for I will soon come back to fetch you." So af ter this one day he goes, laughing over his scanty purse, because his hands are strong, he says, and his fortune, hope and courage. But when he looks back, it is only through a mist of tears that he can see the little cottage where he leaves ñis mother in her lonelines. Af ter David's departure the days pass for Mrs. Sullivan just as the old schooldays have done, except that now she has a daily excitement in his letters. Never can she settle to anything until the postman has come up the garden path, and given into her trembling hand the letter David never fails to send; the letter (f uil of love and bravey aad hope) which does his mother's heart such good. At last one letter comes in which he tells her hs has f ound emp'loyment in an accountant's office; employment which is very easy to him, and which he likes, though the salary he is to receive is smaller than lie had anticipated when he so hopefully began his search. " But I will work so well," he writes, " that the firm will raisemy salaiy soon, and theh I will come for you. Ah ! mother, I can indeed work hard and long and steadily for that good end." So, in the cottage, Mary works hard too, confident in the reaüzation of his plan, and living with him, through her long day-dreams, in a London which exists in her imagination only - a wide, calm city where all the young men have David's face and David's nature, and guide skillfully the machinery of the world. But the time goes on, and David only earns -what he has earned at first. " And so," he writes, a little sadly now, " the home with you is still out of my reach, for poverty here, mother, would be to you a hundred times worse than poverty at home." When he has been absent for a year he comes home to spend his birtliday with his mother: a summer day which they have spent together for all the eighteen years of David's life. Then he goes back to his work, still hopeful of the rise which his earnest and untiring servitude is to win. Six months pass, and then, one Sunday night, David walks unexpectedly into Üie cottage kitchen, where his mother sits beside the fire, softly singing to herself a hymn which she has heard in church that day. When she starts up - her face, in that moment of surprise, white as death - David sees how little able she is to bear any shock where he is concerned. But her delight, one minute afterward, makes up for all, and thatSmiday night is one which both will love to romember. " Can you not stay ono day?" tho mother pleads. " Must you really go back to-morrow, Davy 1" " Today you mean, mother. Look, we have chatted till after midnight, already. Never mind, we have four whole hours more, thanks to the ncw railway. Don't go to bed, mother ; I cannot spare you for that time." She has never thought of leavinghim ; so beside the cheerf ui fire thcy sit and talk ; tirst of tho lives which they have separátely led, and then of that life which they are presently to lead together - tfor David has come home on purpose to bring joyful tidings. The long-talked of home will be ready soon, for he is earmng a high salary now, and all tho old bright plans aro to bo carrietl out. "But, Davy," Mrs, Sullivan says, I ... when sho rises to at last to prepare tiio early breakfast, " bow veri hard you nrast bo working only to bo spared for ene day, after a whoio twelve months of service !" "I could have had one holiday between," lie answers, " but I would not take it. It was wiser not, mother, as this is an expennivc jonrney, oven now that we have the raüway." "And you have been sending me your money, David." "But I am earning so niuch now," the young man says, with a bright excitement in his eyes, " And are you happy, David ?" "Very happy, mother - thinking how soon everythmg will be as I planned it long ago." - ■"--■ "But for yourself alone, aro you happy, dear ?" she asks wistfully. " I !" Oh yes, mother, quite happy." Auother good-by - "But the last," David says, as again and again he kisses his mother's shaking lips. CHAPTEB III. "AH, POOK HtlMANITYl" David had said that he would spend his birthday at home - that June day which has always been the one holiday of tb e year to the widowed mother - but on the morning before arrivés a letter which tells her that he is obliged to delay his coming. London is very fuil, he says, and he is very busy ; so he canuot get that day's holiday. In every line of this letter the mother can read his disappointment, as well as the sorrow it gives him to disappoint her ; and tears come and blot out the loving wbrds. as well as the proud descriptions of the home whicli is all ready for her now, out in one of the pleasant northern suburbs. They blot out even that simple request at the end - ' ' Think of me more than ever to-morrow, mother, and pray for me just at nightfall ; at that very hour when we have been used to sit togetherin theporch on other happy birthday nights." There is the present of money whioh most letters bring her now, and it is while she holds this money in her hand that slie fermfl a aüdden resolution, whioh comes to her at tíiát momeilt as so natural a one that she wönders where it has been hidden before. She is on her , way from the viliagë postoffice when the plan suggests itself, and when she reaches home (her steps quicken in the new exeitement) she sits down in her old seat on the porch and makos it all clear to herself. David is working very hard, and is to be lonely on his birthday. How can she botter use his gift to her than by giving him a pleasure he cannot oxpect, and so prevent his being sOlitary on that day which they have never yet spent apart ? As he cannot come to her, she will go to him,. Ah ! how his face will brighten when he sees his mother come n ! How he will start up with outstretched arms to clasp her ! That moment will repay her for any trouble she may have in reaehing him. When once the resoJiiüou is formed it holds her tenaeiously, and she begins her preparattions at once, glad and oxcited aa a child. She packs her basket, putting in a chieken and butter and eggs and cream, because David has said that he never enjoys these things in London as ho does at home; and she smiles as she ties a dainty white cloth over them all; for she is picturing her boy's delight when he shall unpack these luxuries which she has brought him from his own village. All that night she lies awake, yet rises brisk and active, almost wondering if she can be the Mary Sullivan who has never entered a railway carriage in her life - the, a traveler, starting alone to a f off city of whioh which sho knows nothing. Taking her basket on her arm, she walks to the Rectory to leave the key of iier cottage with her clergyman, and to obtain from him instructions for her journeyl He gives them ciearly and eircumstantially; and, walking with her to the station, sees her off, with the precious basket in her care and that lok of steadfast happiness in her eyes. It is a long journey, but the anticipation of David's deïigbt at seeing her shortens and beautifles the way, so that she starts with surprise when a fellowpassenger teils her she is at Paddingfcon. Timidly she stands back from the crowd, holding her basket tight upon lier arm, and watching the passers-by with wistful, patiënt eyes, Wliat a great place this station js ! and evory one so busy and engrossed ! " If you please, I want to reach Farringdon street. Would you kindly teil me what to do ?" - she has at last accosted a porter, as he passes with a liamper on his shoulder. " Cross to Metropolitan." Cross to Metropolitan ! The words are foreign words to her. What can they mean ? Is there a river then between her and David ? Another porter, coming slowly up as the crowd disperses, sees the puzzled look upon the woman's face, and how she shrinks apart in her neat country dress, and holds her basket with such care and pridê. "Where do you want to go ?" he enquires kindly. "To Farringdon street. I am to cross something, but I could not understand. I'm sorry to be so troublesome." "You'd far better have a cab," the man says, in a tone of involuntary kindliness. " Do you mind the expense?" " I have six shillings in change," she answers, looking gratefully into his face. "Willtbatdo?" "Half of it." He takes her to one of the waiting cabs and makes a bargain with the man in her presence; then he closes the door upon her and smiles as she drives away. And this is London - this line of steeets, and crowd of people, and deafening sound of wheels ! Poor Davy ! How he must long for the quiet, shady lanes and the fresh breeze coming inland from the sea ! The cab stops, and Mary Sullivan stands with bcating heart at the door of a tall, narrow houso in Farringdon strecit and rings tho bell faintly. She waits what sho thinks a long, long time before a young womau appears in answer to her modest summons. " Will you teil me, if you picase, in which room I shall lind niy sou ?" " What's your sou 's name?" the girl asks, with a long stare. "David Sullivan." " Oh, Mr. Sullivan," fihc says, a little more pleasantly. " He's out. Would you liko to step into the passage and rest!" . "Thankyou," David's mother says, gcntly, as she moets this unlooked-for blow, "I would niuch rather go to him," " I don't know where ho is, though. He's ncarly always out. He's at an office all day. Then he'u forover going out into the country soniewhere noith "where he's got a house he's been fur nishing. I don't know where elso he goes, but he's always away at night." " He will be at - that house vou speak of, I suppose ?" questions Mary, her voice trembling in in its eagemess as her thoughts dweil on this home which David has been preparing f or her. "". wish you could teil me where it is." "But I don't know," the girl answers, more shortly, "and I should think you'c better stayhere till he comes back." " I would rather go to him. Do you think any one in the house could kindly teil me where he is?" A young foreigner is coming down the stairs as Mary speaks, and she looks shyly and wistfully at him. So the girl asks the question: Does he happen to know whero Mr. Snllivan ís ? "Monsieur Sulli - Sullivan?" the young man questions, laughing a little as he glances into the face of the country - brod, y et delicate-looking woman who stands holding her basket so closely to her side. " Yes, I know; .why?" "I ara his mother," Mary says, her voice bright with pride. "Had you better not wait here until he comes ?" " I would f ar rather go to him, if you would help me." "You are quite sure?" he asksagain, with the laughing glance. " Quite sure, sir." " Then I will direct you, for I am going that way myself. You had better, at any rate, leave your basket here." So she gives it to the young woman, with a shy request that it may be taken care of, then follows her guide out into the street. It seems to Mary that they have walked for miles down noisy and bewildering streets, when they turn and enter a wide and open doorway. With a sign to his compatiion to follow, the stranger walks on along a carpeted passage, only pausing a moment to speak to a man who is standing there, just as if he might be waiting for them. Mary followed her guide on and on, wondering how this lighted way could lead to any home which David liad chosen for her. Yet all the while her heart is fluttering joyfully, becauae the meeting must be now so near. Once more the stranger stops to speak to some one who stands at an inner door, then he leads her through it, on ami a crowd of seated figures. "If you sit here," he says, with a 3mile, pointing down to a vacant seat which thoyhave reached, "you will soon 3ee your son. Watch the wide entrance apposito you there, and you will sce him in a few minutes." Mary thanks him with a simple earn2stnes9, and takes the seat and waits; lier eyes fixed, with a smile of expectation in them, upon the opening opposite. What a gay, grand place this Ís, with lights like suns and stars upon the ceiling, so far up, so very, very far up ! Why, the church at hom;: is not nearly 30 high as this room. But why is it lighted yet? The Jitno suntihine is lying brightly now upon the sea at home, and it must be light as day in the cottage rooms. What thousands of faces are afathered here - all looking one way, too, ïll looking at that door which she has been bidden to watch. Are they waitEor David, top. Suddenly a band begins to play; and - puzzled more and more - Mary turns aas eyes" from the spot she is watching so intently. David has never told her ibout this music, and these lighta, and his great lof ty room, and the watching 3rowd. What does it mean ? And why 8 Davy coming here ? A prompt, tumultuous sound of clapping in the crowd ; and Mary turns her puzzled eyes back again to the doorway ïhe had been bidden to watch. No one :s there, gave the few idle figures which lave stood there all the time. But iow, in the cleared spae.e in the center 3Í the building, a man (who must have passed through while she was gazing at ;he band, and whose face is turned from ler) is climbing a single rope suspended 'rom the roof. Wonderingly, Mary watches the light md active figure - tightly ciad in white ind crimson - springing upward with he speed and the agility oï a squirrel. Why should he do this daring, f oolish thiug? Is a man's life so valueless that iie should risk it thus to provoke a moment's passing wonder? Is death so trivial a thing that he should brave it recklessly thus, to win a moment 's appluuse ? Ah ! to think of this man's life ind then of Davy's ! Another minute, and the man she. svatches springs to a doublé rope which hangs from the lofty ceiling, and, sitting there at ease, looks down upon the erowd. Then Mary's eyes look full into lus face. It is a special performance at the circus on this June night, being the farewell of the famous gymnast Monsieur Sulli, who, after his brief and brüliant career, is retiring from the profession in which. he shines without a rival, intending to settle down - so it is rumored, ironically and discontentedly - to office work with an accountant, and to live in a small house oiit in a north suburb, with an old mother from the country. So ridiculous, in the very zenith of his fame. On this fareweil night he is to perform (for the last time) his greatest feat - a feat which no one but himself has ever attempted. From the flying trapeze where he now stands, swinging himself carelessly to and fro, he will spring to a stationary one forty feet distant ; and, passing through this, will catch it by one foot only, and hang suspended so, one hundred feet above the arena. A dangerous exploit, of course ; but performed with wondrous nerve and skill. Surely it will be a pity if, having made his reputation, Monsieur Sulli shall still persist in his determination to retire from the ring. A grand success? The shout of applause, which shakes the great building from floor to ceiling, testifies to this beyond a question. Decidodly a grand success ! Though in one seat among the crowd a solitary woman, who is a stranger there, sits, white, and still, and dead. - Bclgravia.