fell almost to a whisper.

"The Great Director does not permit the audience behind the footlights, unless he calls them," answered Biggs whimsically, the ghost of a smile lighting up his troubled features.

"Another thing, Biggs, do you believe those stories about Jonah, and Lazarus, and the fellow they let down through a hole in the roof to be healed?"

"I do, sir," with conviction.

"Do you understand how it was done?" testily.

"Of course not, sir, being only a human."

"Then tell me, Hiram, when you cannot see through it, how can you swallow all this theology?"

"My faith, sir," answered Biggs, simply, raising his eyes with reverence.

At this, a quizzical smile came over the sick man's face.

"In looking up, Hiram, don't forget, since it is twelve-thirty, that we have swung around four hundred and eighty miles from the spot you originally designated as the location of the Pearly Gates."

"Oh, sir, I beg of you," remonstrated the servant, "I cannot bear to have you jest on such a—why, master!" he broke off with a little cry, rushing to his bedside.

The quizzical smile on the banker's face had suddenly faded, and his head had fallen feebly back upon the pillow.

"Oh, why did he waste his strength so?" cried Biggs, piteously, as with trembling hands and tear-blurred eyes he searched the little table for the smelling-salts.

After a few breaths, the patient sighed and opened his eyes wearily.

"My medicine, Hiram, and then I must rest."

At midnight, Biggs, dozing in a big chair by the fire, was aroused by a voice from the sick bed.

"Hiram."

"Yes, sir," scurrying to turn on a subdued light.

"Where is heaven now?"

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