flowing spirits! But she had been shy and distant, and he had gone off to the Pacific Coast with his boyish love unconfessed. It seemed to the friends of John Watson that he had gone to the ends of the world, so long and difficult was the journey to the Washington Territory of those days.

"This is no place for a woman," he wrote to his mother in one of his letters. "This wild frontier life is for men who want to rough it."

One day John returned to the old home, a new John, bearded and sober. An accident in a logging-camp had compelled him to take a vacation for a while. Martha was dumb when she saw him; but the years had given him clearer vision and he cursed himself for his former blindness.

The last night of his visit home he called on Martha. "I love you," he said, with the frankness that characterized him, "but I cannot ask you to marry me. I have been such a blamed fool.

"I do not know how it came about,no one knows, I suppose, but it was all like a new world, out there, with no one to care what you did or how you lived. By and by I didn't care, either. You will never wish to see me again when I tell you. The men nearly all had Indian wives. I took one, Martha." He covered his face with his hands, that he might not see the look on her face.

"Have I thrown away all my chances for happiness because of that miserable piece of folly? Still, you do not knowhow could you? It was so wild, so lonely out there. Jennie tried to do the best for me she could. She was neat and tidy about the house, but I was never satisfied with my life. There were two children, a boy and a girl. The boy is four now, and very dark; the little girl, who was light, died, and we buried her in the orchard.

"After the baby died, Jennie became restless, and went off in her canoe for days at a time. Whenever I was away in camp, she had the house full of Indians. I would n't stand that; so we separated, and she went back to the reservation. That's all, Martha; but it has changed my whole life." He paced restlessly up and down the little sitting-room, the veins standing out on his forehead.

Martha sat with clasped hands, and her eyes wide with a nameless dread. "John,"

she whispered, and it seemed as though all the blood in her body had sought her face, "wasn't there a marriage ceremony?"

He could not meet the questioning look in her eyes. "Not what you would call a marriage ceremony," he faltered. “The Indians have very primitive ideas of marriage." And then he broke out in sudden pain and anger, "You never will forgive me, you never can, and the sooner I leave the better!"

He had almost reached the door, when she sprang in front of him, her slight form trembling. "Don't ask me to forgive you, John Watson,-ask the Lord, and if you are truly sorry, He will forgive. Who am I that I should set myself above the Lord? And, John, I love you, and it seems to me I always have." It was the cry of a life

time.

John did not return alone to Puget Sound. There were busy days for the young couple, but both delighted in work. John set fire to the old log cabin and built a large new house for his bride; he would have nothing to remind her of his past life. Then, when everything was completed and they had moved into their new home, Martha said to John one evening as they walked on the river-bank: There is one thing more I want done before my happiness is quite complete. I wish you would bring Henry home,- he is your son, and I am afraid his mother neglects him since she has married again."

John caught her up in his strong arms. "You are not only a good woman, Martha, but you are a saint," he said huskily. Mrs. Watson, kneeling beside her husband's grave twenty years later, holding in her hand the crumpled letter from her lawyers, remembered perfectly the close pressure of John Watson's arms about her and the touch of his face against hers.

Oh, it's you, Mr. Peterson," she said briskly. "I am sorry I kept you waiting; but I had clean forgotten that you were coming for the cherries."

"I think you must have had some good news." And Mr. Peterson looked closely at the eager face of his old neighbor. "Anyhow, you are feeling better."

"I have had good news," said Mrs. Watson with solemn gladness. "I don't mind telling you, since you have always been interested in John's affairs. The Supreme Court has reversed the decision of the lower court. They hold that the marriages according to Indian customs are not binding for the State of Washington. That makes our marriage legal, without any doubt. You don't know what that means to a woman, Mr. Peterson."

Mr. Peterson, who had been the lifelong friend of John Watson, looked up with frank admiration from the cherry-pail he was filling. "You have stood this trouble well, Mrs. Watson, without ever a complaint. I can't see what kind of a heart Henry Watson has to leave you, who have done everything for him, and take up the part of that Indian woman. Where'd he be to-day if you had n't brought him up?" "Henry was always a good son to me until he got into that wild set. I couldn't have asked for a better son than he was while he staid at home. Perhaps we judge him too hard; it may be that he feels a sense of duty to his real mother, although she is an Indian."

"Sense of duty!" said Mr. Peterson, scornfully. "He was after the money there was in it. Every half-breed in the Every half-breed in the State felt he had a personal interest in making you lose your fine farm. I tell you what, there will be some wry faces when they hear the decision."

"You haven't seen Henry, have you, of late?" asked Mrs. Watson, awkwardly. In spite of everything, her heart longed for the boy.

"No; he went up the river to cruise some timber-claims. But he is expected back any day now."

Mr. Peterson had started off with his cherries, when a sudden thought made him turn. "Those Indians and half-breeds have done so much talking and have so much feeling about this case, that I'd be a little careful how I staid alone nights, just

ac first. You can't trust them. The old woman will be glad to have you come over and stop with us for a while.

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Peterson; but I would rather stay here. The Indians have never troubled me yet, even when they've been drinking, and I guess they won't now."

It was late when Mrs. Watson finished her evening's work, and sat down beside her shaded lamp. Charlie Peterson, her neighbor's eldest boy, came over night and morning to milk the cows; but Mrs. Watson's active hands found plenty to do besides.

"I will write him a letter," she thought, "and tell him that half the farm is his. He is the only child, and half Indian or not, it belongs to him."

She sat writing her letter until far into the night. When she had finished, she leaned back in her chair with a sigh of satisfaction, and when morning broke she was still sitting there with a faint smile on her lips and the letter still held tightly clasped in her hand.

It was long after the light in Martha Watson's sitting-room had gone out, that a canoe brushed its long nose in the sand of the river-bank just in front of the house. A tall figure leaped ashore and made fast the canoe. Even in the moonlight one could see that he was very dark.

He made his way quietly to the kitchen door; it was unlocked, and he entered. For a few seconds he seemed undecided as to whether or not he ought to make his presence known. Then he took off his shoes and moved softly up the back-stairs. A little later the sound of a key turning in a lock broke the stillness, and then all was quiet again.

Charlie Peterson set the milk-pails down on the kitchen floor the next morning with a low whistle of surprise. "It's the first time Mrs. Watson ever overslept," he said aloud to the forlorn-looking cat in the doorway!

He stepped into the sitting-room beyond, and his eyes fell on the quiet figure in the arm-chair. When he saw the pool of blood on the floor at her side, he broke out into a cry of terror and ran from the room.

The sun was shining brightly into the window of his small bedroom, when Henry

Watson awoke from his deep sleep. It was a moment before he could tell where he was, and he sprang to his feet and began dressing hurriedly. "Wonder if mother knows I am here,' was his first thought.

Then the fear of meeting her who had been more than a mother to his neglected boyish self grew upon him and he dressed more slowly.

"Mother," he said falteringly, as he opened the kitchen door, but there was no answer. 'Mother," he called again in a louder voice, hurrying on to the sitting

room.

There she sat in her arm-chair, the familiar form he knew so well in its neat gingham house-dress; but there was a dignity about the quiet figure that he had never seen before. He could not see clearly for the blur of tears in his eyes. "Mother," he faltered, and remorse filled his soul for the months of their estrangement. "I have come back for your forgiveness." But the quiet figure never turned, and the poor pinched cheeks were cold to his lips.

་་ "O God! it is too late!" And he knelt on the floor at her side, trying vainly to warm her chilled hands with his.

The letter she had written dropped to the floor; mechanically he stooped to pick

it up. When he saw that it was addressed to himself, and read what she had written of tenderness and of solicitude for his welfare, the horror of his own ingratitude overcame him. For months he had been urging on the claims of his Indian mother against her, his real mother, and in the moment of her triumph her first act had been to frame this tender, imploring letter, asking for his speedy return.

The

But who had done this terrible deed? Why had he not thought of this before? Who had stolen upon a poor defenseless woman in the dark? He began searching in a sort of frenzy for some clew. The death-wound had been given by some kind of a sharp instrument from the rear. room was in order-nothing had been disturbed. Well, he would sound the alarm and let the neighbors know what a dastardly thing had been done. Hatless and dazed, Henry Watson rushed off to notify the people of the neighborhood; but at the door he was frozen with a new terror.

The yard was filling with a crowd of

excited men and boys, and the flowers which Martha Watson's busy hands had tended were being trampled under ruthless feet.

"They've murdered her," he said in a helpless way, feeling that something ought to be said.

There was an ominous silence, and then it was Mr. Peterson who spoke: "Yes, you're about right; they've murdered her."

Instantly the crowd broke into an angry hum of voices. Mr. Peterson stepped to Henry Watson's side on the small porch. Let us hear what he has to say for himself, men," he shouted, and the fierce voices sank to whispers.

"Henry Watson, tell us what you know of the murder that's been done—the murder of your stepmother, Mrs. Watson."

"Before God, I don't know anything about it. I have just found her dead."

"Let him account for his sudden presence here, when he hasn't been near the house before for months," called out a voice from the crowd.

All listened intently for the halting

answer.

་་

'Mother sent for me to come. Bob Jones brought word when I was up the river. river. He said she was making herself sick because I did n't come home, and that the lawsuit need n't make any difference. I got here about two this morning, and then I went up to my room without knocking, so as not to disturb her. She never has locked up this part of the house."

The men laughed jeeringly. "Let him account for what he said in Bill James's saloon-that if the courts gave the farm to Mrs. Watson, the Indians would see that justice was done, even if it took a bullet or two.'

The wretched man groaned aloud. “A fellow ain't accountable for what he says when he's drunk," he said hoarsely.

A burly Swede now stepped forward. "No use to talk any more. He killed Mrs. Watson, and we will kill him."

A dozen horny hands reached forward to drag Watson from the porch. He offered no resistance to their brute strength, but moved on passively with the crowd to a thicket of crab-apple-trees behind the house. The trees had been his father's pride.

The stubborn endurance of his class came to his assistance, and by no word or look after the first shock was over did he betray any interest in the proceedings. A short rope was thrown over a limb, and the end of the rope placed about Henry Watson's neck.

"Now, if you have any getting ready to do, get ready," said Mr. Peterson, solemnly.

Henry remembered a lynching in which his father had been a ringleader, where the condemned man had had no time even for a whispered prayer, and he felt that he ought to be grateful.

"I'm ready when you are," he said shortly; "but some time you'll find out that I am innocent."

Just then a wild figure broke through the grove of apple-trees and fought its way to Henry's side. The streaming hair and tattered gown betrayed the owner's sex, but in the hoarse voice there was no resemblance to anything womanly. The silence of death came over the crowd, for the woman was Jennie, Henry's Indian mother.

"What for do you hang my boy?"

she demanded fiercely. "I killed that woman in there," pointing scornfully toward the house. "Here is the knife." And she drew from the folds of her dress a blood stained knife. With incredible swiftness, she drew the rope over Henry's head and placed it around her own. "Now!"

For a moment no one spoke; then a faint-hearted rancher on the outskirts of the crowd coughed uneasily and said something about going home, but no one moved.

"What made you kill Mrs. Watson?" asked the stern voice of Mr. Peterson.

"I have let her go too long. She got my husband, and then my boy, and now the courts give her everything! Kiss me, Henry, just once. You've kissed her lots.'

Henry bent and kissed the face of the Indian woman. A deep joy of motherlove transformed the wild eyes into something beautiful to look upon. She motioned the men to do their work quickly, and Henry was pushed to one side, his presence no longer necessary.

NRn

TO ONE denies the importance of having trained teachers for our schools. The only question is how best to obtain them. Californians have been generous and enthusiastic in support of the public schools. Teachers are paid good wages, schools are maintained for a comparatively long term each school year, liberal provisions are made for teachers' institutes and libraries, and normal schools are provided for the free and efficient instruction of would-be teachers. The result is that our teachers are among the finest in the Republic, and our schools take rank with the best.

The teachers' institute has been an important factor in bringing our schools and teachers to their high standing. Teachers have gathered new inspiration year by year and have gone back to their work refreshed, determined to labor more earnestly and to study their work more faithfully. It is perhaps due to aspirations awakened at these institutes that teachers are asking for better opportunities for selfimprovement. There is a general desire among the teachers of the State to know more about their work and the subjects which they must teach. Some enter our normals; some the universities; some make long journeys at considerable expense to attend vacation schools; while others, unable to spend the time or the money, endeavor to study at home. It is with the hope of meeting this want that I suggest the substitution of the summer normal for the county institute.

There are over seventy-four hundred teachers now employed in this State, of whom less than thirty per cent have had professional training. It is necessary, therefore, to provide for training teachers after they engage in teaching.

I believe that the following statements will be readily admitted:

First. Every teacher ought to be professionally equipped for her work. Certain foundation principles underlie the education of the child. These have been wrought out and carefully stated by able and faith

ful men and women after long study. For a teacher to be ignorant and remain ignorant of these principles is an injustice to the child which she attempts to teach. Certain methods have proved very helpful in education. The bad effects of mistakes on the child mind are too serious for the teacher to undertake to experiment and discover methods wholly for herself. New methods are being continually introduced, some good, some bad. For the teacher to be ignorant of the one or deceived by the other is a great wrong to the child.

Second. Teachers who have had professional training need to have their stock of knowledge renewed from time to time. Methods studied theoretically need to be tested by experience. A review of these methods after actual schoolroom tests will give to them a broader and deeper meaning. A month spent in school as a student will enable the teacher to realize that she has a mind yet susceptible of development, that the educational world is still wrestling with educational problems, and that if she would keep abreast of the times she must be an investigator and a thinker.

Third.

Many persons enter upon professions as a means of self-support, and without considering their fitness or liking for the work. They remain in the calling because it is easier to remain than to change. Such persons frequently obtain certificates and teach when they cannot get other lucrative employment, and return to teaching when other employment fails. They are always careful to keep their certificates renewed. While it is not desirable that teachers be required to pass frequent examinations, I submit that it would be wise policy to make the continuance or renewal of a teacher's certificate contingent upon successful continuous professional work. The teacher who is not willing and determined to keep abreast of the profession ought to be dropped.

Fourth. Since the State assumes a stewardship over the education of the child, it is its imperative duty to provide for the proper training of those to whom she in