Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

CORPORAL FRED.

A Story of the Riots.

BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.

CHAPTER I.

It was a warm June evening, and the family was taking the air on the back porch—father and mother, two stalwart young men, the elder sons, two slender girls, and a romping boy of nine—the little Benjamin of the tribe. It was a placid homelike group; father deep in the daily paper and his easy-chair, mother absorbed in chat with the girls even while keeping watchful eye on "the baby," the family's pet, pride, and torment by turns, and the two elder sons sitting on the edge of the porch, talking in low tone of an event that had called for no little discussion all over the neighborhood—the strike of the switchmen in the great freight yards only a block away. Five railway companies rolled their trains in and out of the thronging, far-spreading metropolis to the eastward—the great city whose hum and murmur were borne to them on the soft breeze sweeping inland from the cool blue bosom of the lake. For two miles along a number of parallel tracks were idly resting now by hundreds the grimy freight cars of a dozen lines, while the gleaming steel rails on the "through" tracks, kept cleared from end to end, were as silent, as deserted, as the long tangents over the boundless prairies miles to west and south, for, except on the mail trains, over the whole system since the stroke of five that afternoon not a wheel was turning. Never before in all their seven years of residence in this homelike little frame cottage had the Wallace household known such utter silence at "the yards." They missed the rush and roar of the great express engines, the clatter of the puffing little "switchers," the rumble and jar of the heavy freight trains, the dancing will-o'-the-wisp signals of the trainmen's lights, the clang of bell, and hiss of steam. There was something unnatural in the stillness, something almost oppressive, and mother and the girls, glad ordinarily to have both Jim and Fred at home, seemed weighted with a sense of something strained and troublous in the situation. Jim had been a railway man for several years, rising by industry, intelligence, and steadiness, to his present grade as a freight conductor. Fred, the younger, held a clerkship in the great "plant" of the Amity Wagon-works. He had received a good High-School education, while Jim's wages, added to his father's, had supported the family and built the little suburban home. The elder brother's hands were browned by long contact with grimy brake and blistering, sun-baked car roofs. The younger's were white and slender—hands that knew no labor other than the pen. Both boys were athletic and powerful; Jim, through long years in the open air and active, energetic life, Fred, through systematic training in the gymnasium and the camp and armory of the National Guard, for Fred had been three years a soldier in a "crack" city regiment, and the corporal's chevrons on his uniform were his greatest pride. Even in boy days he had begun his training in the cadet corps of the public school, where military drill, especially the "setting-up" system of the regular army, had been wisely added to the daily course of instruction; and while Jim's burly form was a trifle bowed and heavy, Fred's slender frame was erect, sinewy, and, in every motion, quick and elastic. "Jim could hug the breath out of you, Fred, like a thundering big bear if he once got his arms around you, and Fred could dance all around and hammer you into pulp, Jim, while you were trying to grip him," was the way the father expressed it, and old Wallace knew young men in general and his own boys in particular as well as might be expected of the clear-eyed, shrewd-headed veteran that he was. He himself had served the Great Western railway faithfully from the days when it was only the struggling Lake Shore, and now as a first-class mechanic in the repair shops he was a foreman whom officials and operators alike respected. He had lived a sober, honest, industrious life, had reared his family on the principle of mind your own business and pay as you go, and was looking forward to retiring within a year or two, and giving his aching old bones the rest they deserved, and enjoying the fruits of his life of toil, when the long-predicted irruption began with the strike ordered by the Switchmen's Union.

With anxious face Mr. Wallace was reading the newspaper accounts of the stormy meetings held the previous night and well along into the dawning day. Some of the men involved were his life-long friends, others of them he had known many years. Their names were not among those of the speakers whose fiery oratory had finally prevailed. They were of the silent, almost passive element, which, largely in the majority at first, found itself little by little swinging over under the lash of the more aggressive, and at last giving reluctant "aye" or sitting in moody silence rather than face the furious denunciation of the agitators that followed sharp on every "no." At two o'clock in the morning the members of the union, three-fourths of whom were originally bitterly opposed to the project, had passed a resolution that unless certain men discharged by the management of one of the five roads using the yards were reinstated by twelve o'clock that day they would quit work to a man, and tie up the business of that and all the others. At nine in the morning the committee had waited on the division superintendent with their ultimatum. The superintendent replied that the three men discharged were freight handlers who had refused to touch the contents of certain cars of the Air Line because of some unsettled disagreement between the officials of that line and their employees. "We know nothing of that matter," said the superintendent. "It is none of our business. We employed these men to handle any and all freight run into these yards, and we have no use for men who refuse to do so. They not only flatly refused to handle that Air Line stuff, but said they'd see to it that no one else did. That ended the matter so far as we're concerned. Now you come and demand that men be restored to work who not only will not work themselves, but will not let others work. You and I have grown up together, some of you, at least, in the employment of this road. You, Morton, and you, Toohey, were switchmen here under me when I was yard-master six years ago. You know and I know that what you ask is utterly absurd. No road can do business on any such principles as that. Even if these discharged men did not richly deserve their discharge, what affair is it of yours? You are switchmen. You've never had a grievance that I know of. You never would have come to me with such a demand in this world but that you had been bamboozled or bulldozed into it by fellows who have no earthly connection with you, and whose only business in life is to go round stirring up trouble among honest men, living on their contributions, and taking precious good care to keep out of the way when the clash comes. No, lads. I've been your friend, and you know it. Between you and injustice of any kind I'm as ready to stand to-day as ever before, but I'd be no friend of yours. I'd deserve your contempt as well as that of our employers and the whole people, if I allowed my freight handlers to dictate to me whose freight they should handle. Those men courted discharge and they got it. Out they went and out they stay if I have to handle every pound of freight myself."

There was dead silence a moment in the office. The committeemen stood uneasily before their old friend and chief; three of them looked as though they wished they hadn't come and wanted to quit, two were more determined. It was one of these who spoke.

"Then, Mr. Williams, you refuse to listen to our appeal for justice!"

Mr. Williams whirled around in his chair, sharply confronting the speaker; his clear blue eyes seemed to look him through and through, a flush almost of anger swept over his face a moment, and he waited before he spoke. He had picked up a ruler, and was lightly tapping the edge of the desk as he tilted back in his chair.

"Your name is Stoltz, I believe. I refuse nothing of the kind, and you know it. I have listened with more patience than it deserved. None of these, the old hands, would have hinted at such a thing, and if they and their fellows will take the advice of a man they've known ten years to your ten months they'll not again be led by a word-juggler. Now if there's any other matter any of the rest of you wish to bring up," and here the Superintendent looked frankly around upon the anxious, almost crest-fallen faces of the other men, "I'll listen to you gladly, but you, Stoltz, have been far too short a time an employé of the road to presume to speak for those who have served it almost as long as I have."

"Yes, and what have they got for it? Do they sit in a swell office, ride in parlor cars, drive fast horses, sport handsome clothes—" began Stoltz, sneeringly.

"That's enough, Stoltz. They know that with a railway as with an army the men can't all be generals and colonels. Say to your friends, boys," he continued, in kindly tone, "that when they want anything of the road hereafter they'll be far more apt to get it by coming themselves than by sending Stoltz. That's all, then."

"No, it isn't all!" declaimed Stoltz, angrily. "You haven't heard our side. If those three men ain't back in their places at twelve o'clock, we of the Switchmen's Union go out to a man," and the spokesman paused to let this announcement have its due effect. It had.

"So far as one of the Union is concerned he goes out here and now, and that one," said Mr. Williams, "is yourself. The others will, I hope, think twice before they act."

"You mean I'm discharged?"

"On the spot," said Mr. Williams, "and there is the door."

For hours that hot June day had the story of that interview sped from tongue to tongue. The managers of the Switchmen's Union had been shrewd and wise in naming as members of their committee three of the oldest, stanchest, and most faithful hands in the employ of the company. They were sure of a hearing. Then to do the aggressive, this comparatively new man, Stoltz, was named, together with a kindred spirit of less ability, and these two men were the backbone, so said the managers, of the first attack. Stoltz was a German-American of good education, though deeply imbued with socialistic theories, and a seductive, plausible speaker on the theme of the wrongs of the laboring man. It was he who, under the guidance of shrewd agitators and "walking delegates," had been most active and denunciatory at the switchmen's meetings. Honest laboring men are slow of speech, as a rule, and fluency often impresses them where logic would have no effect. The committee came away, two of them exultant and eager for the fray. They had been disdainfully treated, said they, sneered at, reviled, and one of them summarily "fired" as the result of this visit to the magnate. The others were gloomily silent. It was too late to recede. The javelin was already thrown. At the stroke of five every man on duty quietly quit his post. Many left the yard. Others, eager to see what the officials might do, remained. Stopped at the outskirts of the city, no trains came in. Only the evening mail crept out, its own crew manning the successive switches.

It was now 8.45, and barely dark. The western sky was still faintly illumined. Old Wallace could no longer read, and bent down to take a hand in the talk between his boys. Silence still reigned in the deserted yards. Men hovered in muttering groups, and watched the few officials who flitted about with lanterns in their hands. A rumor was going around that the management had determined to send out all the night passenger trains as usual, and the first of these should be along by ten o'clock. As Mr. Wallace bent over Jim's broad shoulder his wife and daughters ceased their low chatter. Evidently something was on the old man's mind.

"There's no danger of its spreading to your people, is there, Jim? Would you go out if they did?"

"Father," said the young man, slowly, "you know the ties by which we are bound. Suppose now that Fred's regiment were ordered out, would you ask him would he go?"

Old Wallace looked graver still. "I consider that a very different proposition," said he. "I was hoping—" he faltered, when a young fellow in soiled blue flannel garb slipped quietly in through the rear gate, and coming up to the freight conductor, said the two words,

"Wanted, Jim."

Jim's bronzed cheek turned a shade lighter.

"What hour?"

"At once."

And before the others could ask explanation of this scene a bicycle came flashing up to the same gate, and the tall rider dismounted and strode quickly toward the party. Young Fred's eyes glistened at sight of him.

"Orders, Sergeant?" he eagerly inquired.

"Yes. Notify your squad to make arrangements with their employers, and be ready to report at the armory at a moment's notice."

The two brothers stood facing each other a little later, then silently clasped hands. One at the beck of a secret protective organization, the other at the call of duty to State and nation, parted at their father's gate to go their separate ways.

[to be continued.]

A BOY'S AQUARIUM.

Boys who live in the city do not, perhaps, get quite the freedom of action and fun generally that a country boy can, but they do manage to have a pretty good time, even if they have to work a little harder for it. It is hard to keep pets in the city. Dogs need a lot of exercising, birds are apt to be a nuisance to the neighbors, if not to the boy's family, and yet pets are a necessity to every well-brought-up boy's happiness.

An aquarium is always dear to every boy's heart. And aquariums are not impossible in a city house. Fortunately they can be just as well taken care of in the city as in the country. A medium-sized aquarium which will hold quite a lot of stuff can be bought for $1.50 or $1.75. This must be filled with gravel or sand to the depth of four inches. In the sand must be, securely fastened, some water-grasses, which are for sale at any of the stores where fish are to be bought. The boys who succeed best with their aquariums are those who study the matter pretty thoroughly before they begin, and read up the scientific books of natural history. The simpler works of this sort contain any amount of practical information which any boy can apply to his own use.

A porous stone seems to be necessary in the middle of the aquarium. As for the placing of the water plants, they must be left to the boy's own taste and judgment. Indeed, the arrangement of the whole aquarium must be left to the boy who owns it. In this place I must stop and say that it is foolish for any boy to consult many of his playmates as to how the thing should be arranged, for when he has asked and received much advice, he will find that most of it is directly opposed to what he already knew, and besides is so varied as to be nearly useless. A glass tube for removing the manure from the sand must be kept beside the aquarium, if the scavengers, such as pollywogs and snails, fail to do their duty in cleaning up.

An extremely pretty aquarium has lately been fitted up by a boy about eleven years old. It is not a very large one, and stands on a small table near the window of his room—too near, it may be said, for the sun these summer days having unusual power has caused the untimely death of two many-tailed Japanese gold-fish and four extremely graceful little silver-fish. With the exception of this mortality, the death rate has been quite low. The original occupants of the aquarium before these recent deaths consisted of two pair of Japanese gold-fish, two pair of silver-fish, two pollywogs—one small one, who worked busily all day trying to do his share of the work in keeping the place clean, and one big fat pollywog, who sadly neglected his duty and spent his time trying to turn into a frog as quickly as he possibly could. Six snails, who were put in the aquarium to keep the glass clean, worked hard and satisfactorily in accomplishing their mission (in the beginning one snail was at first relegated to this work, but the task was beyond his power, and, after making a superhuman effort to go the whole round, he yielded up his life).

The water in the aquarium is changed twice a month, and when that is done the fish are lifted out very tenderly and carefully with a little scoop net, and put in a basin near by overnight, until every impurity of the sand shall have settled and the water is absolutely transparent. This performance is always one of deep anxiety, and requires unremitting attention to be sure that everything is replaced exactly as it was before, so that the fishes will know their home when they get back to it. There was a lizard put in this aquarium, to begin with, but he proved of a very quarrelsome disposition, and tried to bite the tails of the fish, so that he had to be removed to a basin, where he lives a life of solitude. The pleasure given by this little aquarium has far exceeded the outlay of money, and many a useful lesson in neatness and care has been learned in looking out for the needs of the fish.

Anne Helme.

Mother. "Jack, why is it you have so many holes in your pockets?"

Jack. "I guess it's my money which burns through."

PERILS OF THE NEWFOUNDLAND BANKS.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

It was blowing half a gale from the southward and eastward, and the Captain said it would be worse before it was better. The Mohawk was plunging head first over the ragged seas, with a great roaring of thunderous foam under her hawseholes as she fell into the wide hollows, and a sickening upward swirl of her lean stem as she rose again to meet the reeling cliffs of water that swept down upon her out of the windward gloom. The streamer of brown smoke that rushed from her tall black funnel went wreathing and shuddering away to leeward, where it seemed to add a blacker tinge to the gray wall of the hard clouds. The sea was not yet torn to spoon-drift by the wind; but there was a huge under-running sweep of swell that made one think that bad weather lay behind the windward horizon.

Ever and anon the propeller would leap out of the water, and as it revolved in the air, set the ship full of rumbling quivers. Most of the passengers—and they were not many, for it was not one of the big "liners"—lay below decks in the unspeakable agony of early seasickness, for the ship was not long out, and had just reached the edge of the Newfoundland banks. A few of the ocean travellers, however, mostly men who had seen salt spray before, sat huddled in their rugs under the lee of the deck-house, conversing upon such cheering topics as collisions, and icebergs, and leaks. One who had not crossed the sea before, but who was free from sickness, said,

"I am told that we are now on the banks of Newfoundland, where foolish men go in small sailing-vessels to fish."

"Foolish you may well call them," said an old voyager, "for they lie there in thick weather and thin without making a sign of their presence. I remember once, steaming slowly through a dense fog on a great Cunarder, we heard the fog-horn of a single sailing craft, and presently that ceased. A minute later the fog lifted, and there were thirty sail of them within the circumference of a mile. I tell you, those fellows are—"

"Sail ho!" cried the lookout forward, and several passengers sprang to their feet. They knew that it was out of the common order of things on a merchant steamer to make a noise about a passing sail, such fussiness being left to men-of-war that have nothing more to do. They crowded to the rail of the ship, and far ahead they saw what seemed to be a small sloop staggering over the big seas under very scant canvas. The lookout and the officer on the bridge exchanged some words, from which the passengers learned that the sailor made the vessel out to be in distress.

"Call away the whale-boat!" cried the officer, and in a moment the boatswain's pipe was screeching, and three or four seamen trotted aft in their oilskins.

"A rescue!" exclaimed the new voyager. "I had no hope that I should ever be so fortunate as to see such a thing."

"I'm not so certain that you'll regard it as good fortune," said an old voyager. "Sometimes these things are tragic, especially in a rising gale, when your own boat's crew may be lost in the attempt."

"Do you think it may come to that?"

"Ay, man, it may in such a sea; but let us hope for the best. See, we are coming abreast of the cripple. But we must cross to the other side; our ship will go to windward of her." And marvelling at the old voyager's sea lore, the new one went with the others to the weather-rail, where the force of the gale came upon them and beat their breath back into their nostrils.

"Heaven's mercy!" exclaimed the new voyager, "but it is a sad sight."

She was a little schooner of some fifty tons. Her foremast had been carried away about ten feet above the deck, and had taken with it her jib-boom and her maintopmast. The forecastle deck was a litter of broken timbers and tangled cordage that washed pitiably from side to side as the waters rolled over the splintered rail, or sobbed through its gaping seams. The mainboom was lashed amidships, and a jib-headed storm trysail was sheeted aft. A spare jib had been set from the mainmast head to the stump of the foremast, and under these two cloths the poor maimed craft was desperately striving to keep her shattered head to the threatening seas. High up in the main rigging flew the United States flag, union down, poor Jack's red, white, and blue cry for help. There was an ominous heaviness about the fall of her bows into the restless hollows that told the Captain of the Mohawk that she had not long to live.

"We'll send a boat for you," he roared down the wind, as his steamer slipped slowly ahead.

The hapless wretches on the schooner waved their hands and uttered a faint cheer. The whale-boat was lowered away when the Mohawk was half a mile to windward of the wreck. The buoyant little craft leaped over the waves, disappearing between them, and then tossing high in air on their foamy crests.

"It's all a wonder to me that she doesn't capsize," said the new voyager.

"A good whale-boat will outlive a poor ship," said the veteran.

THE PASSENGERS SAW THE WHALE-BOAT SWEEP DOWN UNDER THE STERN OF THE SCHOONER.

And now watching with their glasses the passengers saw the whale-boat sweep down under the stern of the schooner, and round up under her lee, while the bowman stood up and hurled a line to one of the schooner's people. By the aid of this the whale-boat was dropped under the lee quarter of the cripple, and at each upward swing of the smaller craft one of the shipwrecked marines contrived to tumble into her. Six men and a boy of some fifteen years they were. Meanwhile the steamer was dropped slowly down until she was within a fair pull of the schooner. The whale-boat came leaping and dancing over the seas, the men laying down their broad backs to the oars, and the white smoke of the spray flying on either bow. It was no small task to get the men out of the boat without crushing her like paper against the iron side of the steamer as it swung downward, yet by patience and seamen's skill it was accomplished. The whale-boat was hoisted to her davits, and the Mohawk resumed her voyage, while the shipwrecked men were taken below to be given warm drinks, food, and dry clothing.

"Will not their schooner drift about in the path of passing ships?" asked the new voyager.

"No, I fancy not," said the veteran; "she will—look!" At that instant the little schooner's stem rose high into the air, where it hung poised for a moment. Then she was swiftly absorbed by the pitiless sea, and her fluttering ensign made a bright spot above a patch of angry green for a moment and was gone.

"I never saw a sadder sight," said the new voyager, gazing with humid eyes upon the blank sea.

"There is none sadder," replied the veteran passenger.

They all returned to their snug seats under the lee of the deck-house, and for a long time were lost in meditation. Then the new voyager looked up and said, "I should like to hear their story."

"That is possible," answered the veteran; "come."

The Captain of the Mohawk was found and the request made. He sent for the skipper of the lost schooner, and said: "Do you feel able now to tell me your story? If so, these gentlemen also would like to hear it."

"Well, Captain," began the wrecked skipper, "it's a common enough story, that's a fact, sir, and I reckon it hasn't anything in it that you never heard before, though perhaps some of your passengers here never got nearer to it than a newspaper at a breakfast table. That was the schooner Mary Anthony, from Gloucester, and I'm her master—that is, I was—Joshua Clark by name, and the boy's my son on his first v'yage. That schooner was about all I had in the world, gentlemen, for I owned her myself, and when she went down a little while ago the hard work of seventeen years went down with her. But I s'pose I mustn't complain, because we take our lives and fortunes in our hands whenever we come out to the Banks to fish, and that's a fact. We got under way from Gloucester on as sweet a morning as ever you saw, gentlemen, with a whole-sail breeze from the southwest. The Mary Anthony was a smart sailer, though I do say it, and she wasn't long in getting the land below the horizon, and that's a fact. When we reached the Banks we found a fairly large fleet on the ground, and we were soon at work among the best of them. It isn't worth while trying to describe the mere matter of fishing to you, gentlemen, because, of course, that isn't what you want to hear about. It's enough for me to say that we'd been on the Banks three days and had very good luck before the accident befell us. I s'pose, Captain, you didn't see anything of a fog last night, did you?"

"No; we must have been well outside of it."

"Two steamers passed us before the fog set in, and of course they had no trouble keeping clear of the fleet. Yesterday afternoon I slipped away to the southward of the rest of them, some half a dozen miles, following a school of fish, and all of a sudden I saw the fog coming up. I made up my mind that there wasn't any use of going back, and so I lay to right where I was. The fog came down thicker than cheese, and not long afterward the heavy swell set in from the southward and eastward, and I knew there was weather brewing. So I had all the dories got aboard and stowed amidships. The swell kept on increasing, and the fog was so thick you couldn't see the length of the schooner. It was just after three bells in the midwatch when I heard a yell from my lookout. Before I could tumble out of my bunk there was a tremendous thump that threw me half-way across my cabin. I jumped on deck just in time to see the huge black hull of a steamer towering above us. She slipped away into the fog, and was gone. There were a few shouts from her deck, but we neither saw nor heard any more of her.

"I sprang forward to see what damage had been done. I found my little schooner had been mortally hurt, gentlemen, and that's a fact. The foremast, as you must have noticed, had been snapped off about ten feet above the deck, and had carried a lot of our rig with it. But that was not all. The wreckage from aloft had fallen so that something—the foretopmast, I suppose—had smashed our dories into kindling wood. I sent my mate below, and he came back with the report that we were taking in water through half a dozen seams forward. I set two hands at work to try to stop the leaks, while the rest of us cleared away some of the wreckage. Meanwhile the swell had increased so that we were rolling dreadfully, and there was great danger that some one would be hurt by the loose timbers. I'm thankful, however, that we escaped that misfortune. Toward daylight the wind rose and blew the fog off. I saw that we were in for a blow, and I decided to run toward the land as long as I dared. I set the canvas that you saw, and started her off ahead of the gale. All hands were sent to the pumps, but in spite of our hardest work the water gained on us. The gale increased and the sea rose, and then I found that the schooner was so heavy with the water in her that she was in great danger of being pooped—that is, gentlemen, having a sea break over her stern and sweep her decks. That would have been the end of us, and not a soul would have known what had become of us, for, you see, we had no boats to take to, they being smashed. So there was nothing to do but to heave her to and wait, hoping that some ship might come along and take us off. Gentlemen, it's cruel hard to work at the pumps till your arms are numb and your back feels as if it were being cut with a saw, and still to know that your vessel is settling under you, and that in a short time she must go down. I tell you we cast mighty anxious looks around the horizon every time we rose on a sea; and we felt like cheering when we saw the smoke from your funnel down in the west. Then came another time of anxiety before we were sure you were coming our way, and even after that we weren't positive that you would take us off."

"What!" exclaimed the new voyager; "is it possible that there are men so inhuman as to leave fellow-creatures on a sinking vessel?"

"There are a few such fellows on the sea," said the Captain of the schooner; "but I don't think any of them sail under the flag that your Captain ran up to his peak when he saw our signal of distress."

THE SWEETMEAT AGE.

Long ago when the moon was one big pie
For all little boys to eat,
Then some of the stars were sugar-plums,
And some of them raisins sweet;
Then the glorious sun was a custard pudding
Served up in a vast blue dish;
And the whole of the sea was soda-water
Half filled with ice-cream fish;
The great round earth was a luscious peach,
The grass was the puckery fuzz—
If it doesn't seem true to all and each,
Let him believe it who does—
Then the mountain-peaks were chocolate drops,
And the icebergs Roman punch;
And the dark storm-clouds rained lemonade—
People dug up the mud for lunch.
When it hailed, the hailstones were fine popcorn,
And pulverized sugar it snowed;
And the brooks as they ran by the candy-trees
With lovely root-beer o'erflowed.
Ah! that was the time, in the long ago,
When children worked hard, tooth and tongue;
But most of them suffered from overfed stomachs,
And, somehow, they all died young.
R. H.

WINNING A WATERMELON.

Scratchbones is certainly not a very elegant name, and yet the animal to whom it belonged, a very ragged-looking mule, was proudly claimed by its owner, Goliath Washington Jackson, an equally ragged-looking Southern darky, to be the philosopher of the mule tribe. Why he claimed this has never been definitely settled, and whenever any question was put to Goliath regarding the excellence of Scratchbones's intelligence, the reply would be something like this:

"Yes, sah! How I know dat mule am intelligent? He! he! he! but dat's funny. You 'member de ole school-massa? Well, sah, he owned dat mule once, an' neber feeded 'im up to de handle. One day Scratch was hungrier dan usual, an' he chewed de ole man's books. He neber forgot dat eddication." And here Goliath would chuckle to himself.

Our town recently received an innovation in the shape of a splendidly asphalted street, and one very hot day, shortly after its completion, Goliath drove up to the door of the hardware store with Scratchbones. Coming in, he began boasting, as usual, of his wonderful mule, and how well he stood the hot weather. None of us young fellows cared to question the heat, and as for the mule, we thought it was either stand it or lie down. He evidently preferred to stand, for there he stood in the blazing sun staring blankly down the street.

Goliath had dropped in to make some purchases, which, of course, necessitated a great deal of talk and time. In the mean while Scratchbones was patiently waiting in the hot sun outside, scarcely budging, unless it was an occasional switch of his tail. A thunder-storm had been brewing, and when Goliath finally started for the door down came the rain, sending up steam from the hot street. Nothing suited him better than to have an excuse to further regale us with a list of his mule's remarkable talents. Among the many, he spoke of his ability to drive Scratchbones, and how well he obeyed him. Now, while this talk had been going on, I had occasionally glanced at Scratchbones, and he seemed uneasy, especially since the rain had started, and was nervously switching his tail back and forth. I thought it was on account of the storm, but casually glancing at him, I noted something that made me smile, and, slipping off my seat, I quietly told the other boys.

"Goliath," I said, "I'll wager a large, juicy watermelon that your mule won't obey you if I tell him not to."

"Ha! ha! ha! He! he! youse is foolin' dis yere ole man, Massa Harry."

"No, no, I mean it. All I'll do is to say something to myself, and your mule won't budge when you say 'gee,' but simply wag his tail."

"It's done, Massa Harry. I'se'll take dat wager, but de melon has to be de largest you can git."

"All right," I said. And as it had stopped raining, Goliath proceeded to his wagon, and, climbing up on the seat, picked up the ropes he called reins and shouted, "Gee up dere, Scratch." But, as I predicted, Scratch never moved a leg, but only switched his tail.

"Gee up dere; what's de mattah wif youse?" But not a move did that mule make. We stood in the doorway laughing so heartily that Goliath grew suspicious, and climbing down, walked slowly around the mule and wagon, doubtless to discover if we had played him a trick.

Everything appeared all right, and getting on the wagon, he tried it again. "Get along dere, Scratch, you long-eared bone-yard. Gee up!"

It was useless; Scratch wouldn't move, and Goliath, with a woe-begone, puzzled expression on his face, clambered down and surveyed old Scratchbones. His eyes wandered along every stitch of the harness, and finally down to Scratch's feet. A very curious look covered his face, and stooping, he discovered the reason why Scratch wouldn't gee.

Scratchbones and the wagon had stood so long on that new asphalt, and unfortunately in a place made softer than the rest by the sun, that he actually had sunk into it, and the tarry stuff had gathered around his hoofs. The rainfall cooled it off, hardening it, and consequently both mule and wagon were locked to the street.

Goliath was mad, and claimed we had put up the joke on him. However, he lost the melon, and as it took an hour or so to dig Scratch out, we made him get it, and finally got him into good humor, but told him never to boast of his wonderful mule.

"I's done boastin' of dat mule. Neber no more, massas, dat mule done need no one to boast of 'im. He done show how proud he am when he can't stan' in de street widout gettin' stuck on 'imself."

Hubert Earl.

A MEAN MAN.

A French paper tells of a man who ought to be set down as the meanest man of his time. His name is Rapineau, and he is the happy father of three children. His chief claim to meanness lies in the fact that he has lately discovered a plan to reduce his weekly expenditure. Every morning, when sitting down at table, he makes the following proposal: "Those who will go without breakfast shall have twopence." "Me—me!" exclaim the youngsters in chorus. Rapineau gives them the money and suppresses the breakfast. In the afternoon, when the children were anxiously expecting their first meal, Rapineau calls out, "Those who want their dinner must give twopence;" and they all pay back what they received in the morning for going without their breakfast, and in that way Rapineau saves a meal a day.

JOHN KILBURNE'S FORT.

BY JAMES OTIS.

Seven miles from that settlement in the province of New Hampshire which is now known as Keene, John Kilburne built, in the year 1754, a log house of such strength and so well adapted for defence that his neighbors spoke of it as a "garrison," and more than one ridiculed the idea of erecting a fort when only a dwelling-house was required.

It troubled stout-hearted John Kilburne not one whit that his acquaintances found subject for mirth in the precautions he took against a savage foe. "In case the Indians do make an attack upon me and mine, I shall be in better condition to receive them in a building of this kind than in one erected flimsily, and if they do not, my wife and two boys will sleep all the more soundly for knowing I have protected them from possible intruders." This the owner of the "garrison" repeated again and again, until finding he would make no other reply to their bantering, his friends ceased to speak derisively of the structure.

In one year from the time the fortlike house had been built John Kilburne had good cause for satisfaction with himself. England was again at war with the French regarding her possessions in the New World, and the Indians were making indiscriminate attacks upon the settlers in the easternmost provinces.

Benjamin and Arthur Kilburne, sons of John and Martha his wife, although but fourteen and twelve years of age respectively, were well versed in the use of fire-arms, for in those days the assistance of even the children of a household might become necessary. Rumors of Indian depredations were rife, yet they felt little fear of an attack. Within the walls of the "garrison" their father and themselves would be able to hold in check a large body of savages, and be exposed to but little danger.

The crops had been harvested; the cattle were inside the stockade, where was ample food for them in case of a siege, and where they would serve as food if the larder of the house needed replenishing.

Early on the morning of the 9th of October John Pike, his wife, and two sisters arrived at the "garrison" with a pitiful tale. The Indians had killed Daniel Twitchel and Jacob Flynt the night previous, and the visitors had but just escaped from their home before it was set on fire by the cruel enemy.

"I doubt not they will make an attack here before another day, friend Kilburne, yet I beg shelter of you, and my rifle may not come amiss."

"You would be welcome to stay, even though unarmed," was the hearty reply. "The garrison is large enough for all, and I would that Daniel Twitchel had spent more time strengthening his own dwelling against an attack instead of trying to find flaws in the way I chose to provide for my family. Ben, you and your brother had better mould bullets. It will serve to keep you in-doors, and no one can say how much ammunition may be needed."

As the boys set about the task, Mr. Kilburne listened again to the sad news brought by his neighbor. There was nothing to be done in the way of making ready for defence, because that had been attended to when no danger threatened.

John Pike had not finished giving his story in detail, when Mrs. Kilburne, who had stepped out of the house to get water from the pump, which stood close at hand, sprang back suddenly, her face so pale that there was no necessity of asking the cause of her alarm.

The two men were at the loop-holes in an instant, and that which he saw caused Mr. Kilburne to say sharply:

"Ben, I leave the north side of the house to you and your brother. Our lives may depend upon your vigilance, and there is to be no waste of ammunition; every bullet must strike its target. Mary," he added, to his wife, "you and your friends will keep the spare guns loaded, and finish what the boys have left undone at the fire. I do not—"

"It is a regular army that has come upon us," Mr. Pike interrupted. "I have counted not less than forty savages in the edge of the thicket, and there must be as many more on either side of the house!"

It was learned later that the enemy numbered a hundred and seventy, all well armed.

Ben and Arthur were peering eagerly out through loop-holes cut on each side of the shuttered window, and the former was the first to discharge his weapon.

"I saw a head over the top of the stockade," he said, in reply to his father's question.

"Their number is so large that they will likely put on a bolder front than usual," Mr. Kilburne muttered to himself, and despite the strength of the "garrison," he felt decidedly anxious regarding the result of the attack.

During an hour the men and boys remained on watch, while the women attended to their portion of the work, and hardly a sound was heard, save when the brothers whispered together. After the first shot had been fired the enemy remained completely hidden in the thicket which surrounded the house.

Then, and almost at the same instant, each of the watchers discharged his weapon. On either side of the stockade plumed heads had suddenly come into view, and a hundred bullets struck the building.

There was a low moan from that portion of the room where Mr. Kilburne was stationed; but owing to the reports of the fire-arms, it was not heard by the inmates.

The first intimation the defenders had that one of their number had fallen under the heavy fire was when Ben turned to take up the spare gun his mother had placed by his side, and saw his father lying on the floor with a thin stream of blood issuing from his lips.

"Oh, father!" he cried, as he ran toward the wounded man; but when he would have raised the dear head he was motioned away:

"Remember your mother, my boy! You can do me no good, and now there is additional reason why you should not neglect your duty."

By this time Mrs. Kilburne was at her husband's side, and Ben took his station at the loop-hole once more; but the tears blinded him, until it became necessary to brush them away before he could see the feather-bedecked bodies which were here and there upon the stockade ready to leap into the enclosure.

During the next half-hour neither of the boys had an opportunity to so much as glance toward their father. Should the enemy succeed in getting into the enclosure, the result might, and probably would, be fatal to the defenders of the house.

John Pike made valiant battle, nor were the boys lacking in skill and courage. More than one of the foe had met death before he could leap down from the top of the stockade, and four who did succeed were met by bullets while creeping up close to the building, where the timbers would shelter them from the deadly aim of those within.

After this desperate struggle there was a lull in the storm of battle, and Arthur said, in a low tone, as he stood with his eye to the loop-hole,

"Is father badly wounded?"

"I fear so. The blood was gushing from his mouth when I saw him, and he—"

"I will take your place, my son, while you bid your father good-by for evermore in this world," Mrs. Kilburne said, in a voice half stifled with emotion, as she pushed Ben gently aside.

His father was dying, and he could stop only for an instant to receive a last pressure of the enfeebled hands!

When Ben returned he was heroically drying his eyes, that he might resume his duty as sentinel, and Mrs. Kilburne motioned Arthur to follow his brother's example.

"It is hard father should be the one sacrificed," Ben said, huskily, to his mother, not able to glance toward her. "But one bullet has found its way into the building, so Master Pike says, and that entered his body, instead of mine."

"It is not for us to repine, my son. Remember that He doeth all things well. I now look to you and Arthur for protection, and you can best show your grief by doing as your father would have you do this day."

"I wish those painted fiends would show themselves again; there is some little satisfaction in shooting them down."

"Vengeance should not be in your mind at this moment. It is necessary to fight that our lives may be saved, but only for such purpose. Revenge will not lessen the blow or soothe your father's pain."

Then the wife was by her husband's side, and Arthur at his station as watcher.

During the next ten minutes the sound of hatchets against the logs of the stockade could be heard, and then three of the heavy timbers fell inward.

"Now stand steady!" Pike shouted. "They will make a rush, expecting to overpower us by press of numbers, and we must be prepared."

The two boys ran to that side of the house which was most sorely threatened, and had hardly gained new positions when the assault was made.

It was now a question of loading and discharging their muskets as rapidly as possible, only delaying sufficiently long to take careful aim, and when half an hour had passed Ben heard, as if in a dream, Mrs. Pike say to her husband, as she handed him a gun,

"John Kilburne is at rest!"

The boy bravely forced himself to forget, for the time being, the sorrow which had come upon him; and when the conflict was hottest, a shrill cry of pain burst from John Pike's lips as he swayed to and fro an instant, and then fell backward to the floor dead.

"You and I must do the work of four now!" Arthur cried, as if thinking his brother needed encouragement. "Take care of that fellow near your corner; once he is on the other side of the house we shall be smoked out."

A musket-shot was the answer, and as the stifling cloud in the dwelling was increased yet more, the danger pointed out by Arthur had been dispelled.

Now Mrs. Kilburne was at one of the loop-holes, using her husband's weapon with wonderful skill, and when the enemy beat a hasty retreat, unable to face longer the deadly hail poured upon them, she said to her brave sons:

"It may be possible we have driven them back."

"Not yet," Ben replied, gravely. "There are so many that they will not abandon the attack now, but be the more eager for our blood. How is the powder holding out?"

"Mrs. Pike was bringing another keg from the cellar when her husband was killed. I have heard your father say he had enough in the house to withstand a siege of a week."

"Two of the oxen are dead," Arthur cried, as he looked hastily through one of the apertures at the rear of the house. "How did they get out of the barn? I am certain all the cattle were fastened in the stalls when neighbor Pike came."

Ben rushed to his brother's side.

"Some of the Indians have gained shelter there!" he cried, nervously. "Go back to mother, and I will watch here."

He had hardly spoken when three savages were seen coming cautiously out of the building, and again the discharge of the muskets in the room prevented the besieged from hearing any movement or words from each other.

It was an hour past noon when the defenders of the "garrison" had another opportunity for rest, and then, while the women watched, Ben and Arthur cooled the heated barrels of the muskets by pouring water through them.

RUNNING OUT QUICKLY HE FILLED ONE BUCKET.

Before the work had been completed the supply of the precious liquid was exhausted, and without an intimation to his mother or brother of what he was about to do, Ben unbarred the door. Running out quickly, he filled one bucket, and was in the act of stepping upon the threshold, when the single report of a gun was heard, and he staggered forward, his face growing pale beneath the grime of powder.

Arthur had fastened the door again before he paid any attention to his brother, and then with heavy heart he stepped to the side of his mother, who was cutting off the sleeve of the coat, which was red with blood.

"It is only a flesh-wound; bind it up quickly, and I will get to work again," Ben said, with an effort to speak cheerily. "Thinking they have killed another of us, the savages will make one more attempt to carry the house by storm."

It was as he had feared; before the wound was properly bandaged Arthur and Mrs. Pike were firing with the utmost rapidity, and Ben joined them while the blood was yet running in a tiny stream down his side.

This time the enemy displayed more courage, and were less eager to shelter themselves against the shower of bullets. They ran directly up to the walls of the house, having made their way through the break in the stockade, and not until nearly sunset did the two boys and their mother have an opportunity to cease from the struggle.

During this time Mrs. Pike and her sisters did their full share of the work by cooling the spare guns, reloading the weapons as rapidly as they were discharged, or darting from one unprotected loop-hole to another to make certain the savages were not adopting new tactics, and in a corner of the room lay the lifeless bodies of the two victims.

The desperation with which the defenders of the house had fought was shown by the bodies of the enemy strewn between the stockade and the building.

Of the hundred and seventy which made the attack, thirty-one had paid forfeit with their lives, or been so grievously wounded as to be unable to regain shelter, and that there were many more, beyond view of the defenders, who were wounded seemed probable.

The boys fully expected the most desperate hour would come after the earth was wrapped in darkness, but in this they were mistaken.

Vigilant watch was kept by all in the dwelling, but only now and again could an Indian be seen, and then as he was dragging away the bodies of his fellows.

When the sun rose next morning no sign of the enemy could be seen. The dead had been removed, and the song of birds in the thicket told that no intruder was concealed by the foliage.

The savages believed the "garrison" had more defenders than they at first supposed, and had beat a retreat when only two boys and four women were opposed against them.

OAKLEIGH.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER V.

"Do you think they will really like me?" asked Mrs. Franklin for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time her husband answered, smiling, "I think they really will."

They were just arriving at Brenton. Many inquiring eyes had been turned towards them in the train, for every one knew John Franklin, and every one surmised at once that this was the much-discussed second wife.

It was decided by those who saw her that she was a very attractive-looking woman. She was rather slight and of medium height, and she was quietly dressed in black, for she was in mourning. Though not actually pretty, she had a charming and very expressive face, and she was very young-looking. Somebody who sat in front of her said that her voice was low and very musical.

Brenton decided at the first glance that Mr. John Franklin had done very well for himself.

"There is the carriage," said he, as they crossed the station platform.

"And this is Jack, I am sure," said his wife, holding out her hand with a smile which won her step-son on the spot. He was too shy, however, to do more than grasp it warmly as he stood beside her with uncovered head.

"He is a dear," she said to herself, "and just like John. If only the others are as cordial. Somehow I dread Edith."

She was quite as excited as were her step-daughters when she drove up the avenue, and her eyes fell for the first time upon the group on the piazza.

Cynthia walked down the path to meet her, holding Janet and Willy by either hand. Edith remained standing on the step.

"How do you do?" said Cynthia, with a cordial smile.

Mrs. Franklin looked at her. Then she put her arms around her and kissed her.

"This is Cynthia, I am sure," she whispered, tremulously, "and these are 'the children.'"

She kissed them and passed on to her husband's eldest daughter, while they greeted their father.

Edith was very tall, and her position on the step gave her the advantage of several inches in addition. She fairly towered above the new-comer.

"How do you do, Mrs. Franklin?" she said, holding out a very stiff hand and arm. She had made up her mind that she for one would not be kissed.

"And are you Edith?"

"Yes, Mrs. Franklin. I am Edith. I hope your journey has not tired you?"

"Not at all. I am not easily tired."

Edith kissed her father, then turned again to the stranger.

"Let me show you the way upstairs."

And thus Mrs. Franklin entered her new home.

"I am afraid it is going to be war with Edith at first, but I won't be disheartened," she thought. "I'll make her like me. It is natural for her to feel so, I suppose. Ah me, I am in a difficult position."

Edith and Cynthia shared the same room. It was a large one with a bay-window, which commanded a fine view of the winding river and the meadows beyond.

One could tell at a glance upon entering the room which part of it Edith occupied, and which Cynthia. Cynthia's dressing-table, with its ungainly pin-cushion, its tangle of ribbons and neckties tossed down anywhere that they might happen to fall, its medley of horseshoes, tennis balls, and other treasures, was a constant source of trial to Edith, whose possessions were always kept in perfect neatness. She scolded and lectured her sister in vain; Cynthia was incorrigible.

"It's too much bother to keep things in order," she would say. "After you have been around with your duster and your fixings-up I never can find a thing, Edith."

The night of Mrs. Franklin's arrival they talked over the new state of family affairs.

"I think she is nice," said Cynthia, with decision. "I like her, and so does Jack."

She was perched on the side of the bed, leaning against the tall post, her favorite position when she had anything of especial interest to discuss.

"I DON'T LIKE HER, AND I WON'T!"

"I don't," said Edith, who was brushing out her long hair with great vigor. "I don't like her, and I won't."

"That is just it, Edith. You have made up your mind you won't like her just because you didn't want her to come. Now she is here, why don't you make the best of it? What do you dislike about her?"

"Her coming here. She had no right to."

"Edith, how silly you are! She wouldn't have come if papa had not asked her, and she wouldn't have if she had not loved papa. I should think you would like her for that if nothing else. I do. And she is pretty and sweet and dear, and I am going to help her all I can. I think I shall even call her 'mamma.'"

"Cynthia, I shall never do that. Never, to my dying day!"

"Well, I shall; that is, if she doesn't mind."

"She will. It will make her seem too old."

"I don't believe she would mind that, and any one can see she isn't a bit old. I think we are very fortunate, as long as papa was going to marry again, to have him find such a nice, lovely woman."

Edith did not reply. She finished her braid and tied it up. Then she said:

"Of course, it is a great deal harder for me than for the rest of you. I thought I was always going to help father, and now I can't."

"Of course it's hard, Edith, but—but don't you think you could still help him if—if you were nice to his wife?"

"I don't want to help him that way," said Edith, honestly, as she blew out the light.

The next day when Cynthia asked somewhat timidly if she might call her step-mother "mamma," she was surprised and touched by the expression that came into Mrs. Franklin's face.

"Oh, thank you, Cynthia!" she said. "I thought I would not ask you, I would just leave it to you, but I should like it so much."

And so they all called her by her new title except Edith.

Preparations for the tennis tournament were in full swing, and Cynthia and Jack, who were to play together in mixed doubles, were practising hard.

The court at Oakleigh was not a good one, so they were in the habit of going to the tennis club at the village when they could get there in the afternoon. It was not always easy, for they were short of horses, and it was too far to walk both ways.

"Why do we not have some more horses?" said Mrs. Franklin one morning when the question was being discussed.

"Why, we can't afford to," replied Cynthia, in some surprise. "Besides the farm horses we only have two, you know, and they get all used up going to and from the village so much."

Mrs. Franklin glanced at her husband. Then she said, "It seems as if we ought to have more. You know, John, there is all that money of mine. Why not buy a horse and trap for the children to use?"

"My dear Hester, I can never consent. You know I wish you to keep all your money for your own exclusive use. You may have all the horses you want for yourself, but—

"John, don't be absurd. What can I do with all that money, and no one but Neal to provide for? Your children are mine now, and I wish them to have a horse of their own."

The thing of all others for which Edith had been longing for years. But she determined that she would never use her step-mother's gift.

"Is Neal your brother?" asked Cynthia.

"Yes. Haven't I told you about him? He is my dear and only brother. He is off on a yacht now, but he is coming here soon. He is older than you and Jack, just about Edith's age."

Jack looked up with interest.

"I'm glad there's another fellow coming," he said. "There are almost too many girls around here."

"Jack, how hateful of you, when you always have said I was as good as another fellow!" exclaimed Cynthia.

"Well, so you are, almost; but I'm glad he's coming, anyway."

The new horse was bought, and a pretty and comfortable cart for them to use, a "surrey" that would hold two or four, as occasion required. At first Edith would not use it. She jogged about with the old horse and buggy when she went to the village, thereby exciting much comment among her friends. Every one suspected that Edith could not reconcile herself to the coming of her step-mother.

The day of the tournament arrived. Before Mr. Franklin went to Boston that morning he called Edith into the library and closed the door.

"I have something to say to you, Edith. I have been perfectly observant of your conduct since I came home, though I have not spoken of it before. I preferred to wait, to give you a chance to think better of it. Your treatment of my wife is not only rude, it is unkind, as rudeness always is."

"Father, I haven't been rude. Why do you speak to me so? It is all her fault. She has made you do it."

"Hester has not mentioned the subject to me, Edith. You are most unjust. You are making yourself very conspicuous, and are placing me in a very false light by your behavior. Are you going to the tennis tournament to-day?"

"Yes, papa."

"How do you intend to get there?"

"Drive myself in the buggy, of course."

"There is no 'of course' about it," said her father, growing more and more angry. "If you go, you will go as the others do, in the surrey. I will not have them go down with an empty seat, while you rattle in to the grounds in the old buggy in the eyes of all Brenton."

"Then I won't go at all. The buggy was good enough before; why isn't it now?"

"Not another word! I am ashamed of you, Edith, and disappointed. I have no time for more, but remember what I have said. You go in the surrey to the tournament, or you stay at home."

He left her and hurried off to the train. Edith went to her own room and shut herself in. For more than an hour a bitter fight raged within her. Her pride was up in arms.

If she gave up and drove to the club in the surrey, every one would know that she was countenancing her step-mother, as she expressed it, and she had told Gertrude Morgan that she would never do it. If she staid at home, she would excite more comment still, for it was generally known that she was to act as one of the hostesses, and she had no reasonable excuse to offer for staying away.

Altogether Edith thought herself a much-abused person, and she cried until her eyes were swollen, her cheeks pale, and her nose red.

Cynthia burst in upon her.

"What is the matter, Edith? You look like a perfect fright! Are you ill?"

"Ill! No, of course not. I wish you would leave me in peace, Cynthia. What do you want?"

"To come into my own room, of course. But what is the matter, Edith? Was papa scolding you?"

Edith, longing for sympathy, poured out the story, but she did not receive much from that practical young person.

"I wouldn't cry my eyes out about that. Of course you will have to do as papa says, or he won't like it at all. And it is a thousand times nicer to drive in the surrey than that old rattle-trap of a buggy. The surrey runs so smoothly, and Bess goes like a breeze. You had better give in gracefully, Edith. But see this lovely silver buckle and belt mamma has just given me to wear this afternoon. Isn't it perfect? She says she has more than she can wear. It was one of her own. I think she's a dear. But there is Jack calling me to practise."

And happy-hearted Cynthia was off again like a flash.

Edith bathed her face and began to think better of the subject. After all, she would go. It was a lovely day, every one would be there, and it was not worth while to make people talk. Above all, she would be sorry to miss the affair to which she had been looking forward for weeks.

She dressed herself that afternoon in a simple gingham that had seen the wash-tub many times, and took her place on the back seat of the surrey, with Mrs. Franklin, Jack and Cynthia sitting in front. Mrs. Franklin was in the daintiest of summer frocks, and Edith glanced at her somewhat enviously.

"I wish we were the ones that had the money," she thought, "and that she were poor. I believe then I should not mind having her so much."

Mrs. Franklin had a gay and cheery disposition, and she tried to pay no attention to Edith's coldness.

"I wish I were going to play myself," she said.

"Why, do you play?" asked Cynthia, in surprise.

"To be sure I do. I used to play a great deal at one time. I mean to ask your father to have the tennis-court at Oakleigh made over, and then we can have some games there."

"How jolly!" exclaimed Jack and Cynthia together.

"We cannot afford to," put in Edith, coldly.

Mrs. Franklin paid no attention to this. "It will be nice when Neal comes," she added.

"Neal, always Neal," thought Edith. "Pleasant for us to have a strange boy here all the time. Oh, dear, how hateful I am! I don't feel nice towards anybody. If only papa had never seen or heard of the Gordons, how much happier we should all have been."

But she was the only one of the household that thought so. The younger children had been completely won over, and it was a constant source of surprise and chagrin to Edith to see how easily their step-mother managed the hitherto refractory pair.

Before long the party reached the grounds. The Brenton Tennis Club was a very attractive place. The smooth and well-kept courts stretched away to the river, which wound and curved towards the old town, for the club was on the outskirts of the village. The river was wider here than it was farther up at Oakleigh, and picturesque stone bridges crossed it at intervals.

Benches had been placed all about the grounds, from which the spectators could watch the game, and under a marquee was a dainty table, with huge bowls of lemonade and plates of cake. Edith presided at the tea-kettle, looking very pretty, notwithstanding her old gown and the stormy morning she had passed.

Mrs. Franklin, upon whom most of the Brenton people had already called, sat on one of the benches with some friends, and was soon absorbed in the game.

Cynthia played well. She flew about the court, here, there, everywhere at once, never interfering with her partner's game, but, always ready with her own play. She and Jack, though younger than the other players, held their ground well.

It was only a small tournament, and "mixed doubles" were finished up in one afternoon, Jack and Cynthia carrying off second prizes with great glee.

"Just what I wanted, mamma," said Cynthia, as she displayed a fine racket of the latest style and shape; "I hope they will have another tournament before the summer is over, so that I'll have a chance to win first prize with this new racket."

They were driving home in the dusk, for the game had lasted late, when they overtook and passed a boy who was walking on the road to Oakleigh, with a bag slung over his shoulder on a stick, while a black spaniel trotted along at his heels. Mrs. Franklin did not see him.

"I say there, Hessie! Can't you give a fellow a lift?" he shouted.

"Why, Neal!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin; "where did you come from? Jack, stop, please. It is Neal! You dear boy, I am so glad to see you! This is my brother, children; and, Neal, here are Edith, Cynthia, and Jack Franklin."

"Whew, what a lot! I say, Hessie, what were you thinking of when you married such a family as that? But I fancy you haven't got room for me in there. I can walk it easily enough. Don't mind a bit."

"Nonsense! we can squeeze up," said his sister, which they did forthwith, and Neal Gordon climbed into the cart.

"No room for you, Bob," he remarked to the spaniel, who danced about the road in a vain endeavor to follow his master; "you can go ahead on your own legs."

He was a tall, well-developed fellow, with a hearty, cheery voice, and a frank, sometimes embarrassing, way of saying the first thing that came into his head.

"What a crowd!" he continued. "Any more at home?"

"Yes, two," said his sister, gayly—"Janet, and Willy. I am so glad you have come, Neal. But why didn't you let us know?"

"Couldn't. The Dolphin put in at Marblehead, and I had gotten rather tired of it aboard, so I thought I'd cut loose and drop down on you awhile. Got out of cash too."

"Oh, Neal!"

"Now you needn't say anything. You didn't give me half enough this time. Too much absorbed getting married, I suppose. I say," he added, turning to Jack, "what kind of a step-ma does Hessie make?"

"Bully," replied Jack, laconically.

"I thought she would, but, she's on her best behavior now. She'll order you all round soon, the way she does me."

"They don't deserve it as you do, you silly boy," said his sister.

They were a merry party that night at supper. It seemed as if Neal would be a great addition to the family, and even Edith thawed somewhat. This pleased Mr. Franklin, who had been thoroughly annoyed by her behavior, and who had been really afraid that she would stay at home from the tournament rather than use his wife's gift.

"Everything will run smoothly now," he said to himself, and, manlike, he soon forgot all about the trouble.