The stage driver was a rough looking giant, his big paws hidden away in fox-skin gloves and his body well covered with a buffalo-skin overcoat. He flung the mail bag into the sleigh, untied the ponies, and his shout of "All aboard!" brought out a solitary traveler for the cold ride of eighteen miles over the snow-covered hills of Wisconsin.

       "Weather is breakin' a little just now, but it has been awful on this route," remarked the driver, as the ponies got away. "I kin git along fus' rate with five or six degrees below, but when it comes to ten in the valley, there's a good fifteen on the hills, an' the wind e'enamost cuts the ponies in two."

       Wisonsin winter weather makes a fauilure, and when a snow storm begins, there is no let up until the heavens have sent their last flakes. The snow was two feet deep either side of the single track in the center of the highway, and where the wind had a good sweep, there were dirfts covering the fences, with several feet to spare.

       No other teams came after - none were encountered. The fierce cold wind was too much for farmers and ordinary travelers. The United States mail had the track to itself. Wrapped in furs, blankets, and robes, and with hot bricks steaming away on the straw, stage driver and traveler rode in silence for miles. By and by, as the ponies slackened their pace a little to climg a long hill, the driver pointed to the right and asked:

       "D'ye see that log house up thar? Bar it in mind an' I'll tell ye a story."

       It was a gloomy pile of logs, curtains down over the windows and snow drifted clear to the sills, and most of the land around it was sterile hill or tangled thicket. Over the hill and half a mile beyond, and the driver pointed again and said:

       "An' now take a peep at that place, an I'll begin the story."

       It was a small frame house this time, partly surrouneded by a wind-break of poplar trees. The house was old and weather-beaten. The windows were covered with frost, the path to the gate was hidden by drifts, and the only living thing to be seen was a poor old horse standing on the lee-side of a hedge. His ribs could be traced clear from the road, and he greeted the ponies with a neigh, telling of hunger and lonesomeness.

       "Three weeks ago," began the driver, as he cleared his trhoat, "both o' them places were full of cheer. the one back there held an old man, his wife an' handsome daughter, an' this one was occupied by a bachelor named Luke Warner. I don't know how he came to live here alone; but took good care o' things, but he had a bite to eat for al lbeggars an' a good word for travelers. Them folks back in the loghouse were kinder new to this section. I've hearn tell that he was a broken-down merchant, who had to give up everything, an' leave New York. I asw him dozens o' times, an' he was high-headed, even if he was poor. He walked along like a lord, an' he wouldn't notice such as me."

       The driver pulled the robes away from his mouth a little more, and went on:

       "Cracky to grashus, but didn't they have a handsome gal! She was as trim as an angel, handsome as a June day, and it was nateral that Luke should fall in love with her. he was at least thirty-five, an' neither good-lookin' nor edecated; but you can't tell when a gal is goin't to love or hate. I spect it riled the old folks to think she'd take up with a farmer, an' I spose they forbid him comin' there, leastwise that was the talk along the road last fall. Luke pegged away the same as ever, an' the gal didn' tlook any the less handsome as I saw her at the gate. As winter set in, I didn't see much of any of them, and by and by the gossip began to die out."

       "How old was the girl?" asked the traveler.

       "'Bout eighteen or nineteen, an' she had hair like gold. It just makes my heart ache to remember her. Well, it seemed that her an' Luke were bound to marry. The old folks wouldn't give in, and Luke fixed it to be married down here a bit at the big red farm hosue. The preacher was to be there, a crowd was comin' to dance, and the gal was to slip away from home an' come down with Luke, kinder hand in hand, as the newspapers say. The gal got away in the evenin', walked over to Luke's an' he had his horse an' sleigh ready. It was the first snow, but not very good running. they got stated all right, happy as two doves, but they had only turned out o' the yard when it began to snow. I was out in it too, an' great snakes, how the snow did come down. It just dropped down in chunks an' patches, an' in half an hour the road was out o' sight under six inches of snow, an' the wind was flingin' it ten feet high wherever it could strike."

       The driver looked back over the lonely road, drew a long breath, and went on:

       "The Lord only knows how it came about, but Luke's horse fell into the ditch and broke its legs, an' then the lovers sot out on foot. They went right agin the drefful storm, determined to reach the red fram house. Right ahead here, just half way between the houses, is where we found 'em. The storm raged for three days, an' in some places the drifts were ten feet high. When it cleared away, the gal was missed, Luke was missed, an' a gang of us sot out to search the road. We found the horse dead an' stiff, and then we knew it was all up with the children. We had an awful time diggin' through these drifts an' tracking the pair, an' just under this hill here is whar we dug 'em out. How d'ye suppose we found 'em?"

       He waited half a minute for the answer that didn't come, and then said:

       "May the Lord bless Luke Warner! When the snow got deep he had taken that gal on his back. When he found she was freezin' to death, he had taken off his coats an' put them around her, an' his vest was buttoned around her head, to take the place of her lost hat. he stripped right ot his shirt sleeves, sir, to save that gal; an' no man could have don emore. When the snow got too deep, he stopped, an' crouchin' agin the fence, with the poor gal's face close to his, an' their hands clasped, death came down through this lonesome valley an' took 'em. It was an awful sight, sir, an' the gal's father took on so that men had to hold him. The neighbors had to lay out the corpses an' bury 'em, an' it was right to put 'em both in one grave. The mother went dead ove rit before the grave was covered, an' they father is gone no one knows whar. It's awful to think of, sir, an' when I get to rememberin' all about it, such a lump comes up into my throat that I can't talk."

       The traveler looked into the rough giant's face, and two tears, frozen to ice by the bitter wind, rested on his cheeks.

       "An' I just believe," whispered the man, after a long pause, and pointing heavenward with his whip, "that Bessie an' Luke are the brightest angels of the hull crowd yonder." - New York Sun.