Harper's Round Table, November 5, 1895 - Various

It was the first day of June. The air was balmy with sweet odors, the sky was clear and blue, and everything that could sing or make a noise was endeavoring to rejoice. And this was his Britannic Majesty's colony of New Jersey in the year of grace 1772.

Out of a little valley that separated two lines of thickly wooded hills, whose sides still gleamed with the fast departing blossoms, ran a leaping brook. It swirled about the smooth brown stones at the head of a waterfall, and rushed down into the deep clear pools at the bottom. Then it did the same thing over and over again, until it slid into the meadow and beneath a great rough bridge, where it spread out into a goodly sized pond, on whose farther shore rose the timbers of a well-built dam. A water-gate and a sluiceway were at one end, and above the trees, a short distance off to the left, across the meadow, in which some sheep were feeding, rose a big stone chimney. Out of this chimney the smoke was pouring and drifting slowly upwards in the still, sunny air.

Now and then a grinding, rumbling noise echoed through the hills to the southward, which, sad to relate, unlike those to the north, were swept almost bare of trees, and were dotted with the huts of charcoal-burners. But the underbrush was doing its best to cover these bare spots with young green leaves, and the charcoal ovens were still and cold.

Up the brook, just at the verge of the meadow, was the last one of the deep clear pools, and mingling with the waterfall was the sound of children's voices. They seemed to be talking all at once, for they could be heard plainly from the old gray bridge. The bank of the last pool shelved gently on one side, and on the other ran down into a little cliff, at the bottom of which the brook scarcely moved, so deep was the water above the pebbly bottom.

Half-way up the shelving right-hand bank sat a little girl of eleven. She was making long garlands of oak leaves, pinning them carefully together with the stems. Her dress was white and trimmed with tattered lace. She looked as though she had run away from some birthday party, for no mother (or aunt, for that matter) would allow any little girl to go out into the woods in such thin slippers. One of her stockings had fallen down, and was tucked in the ribbons that crossed her ankles, and held the small slippers from coming off entirely. She had no hat on her curly head, and her bare arms were sunburned and brown.

Seated at her feet was a boy of thirteen years or there-abouts. He was hugging his knees and digging his heels at the same time into the soft earth. He also looked as if he had escaped from a party, like the little girl, for his short breeches were of sky-blue silk, with great knee-buckles, and his hair was done up like a little wig and tied with a big black ribbon. There was a rip in the sleeve of his blue velvet coat, and the lace about his neck had become twisted and was hanging over one shoulder.

"I wonder what Uncle Daniel will look like? I trust he will bring us something fine from England," said the boy. "I'd like to go back there with him, if he'd take us all."

"Yes, if he'd take us all, and we might get in to the army—eh?" came a voice from the top of the steep bank opposite.

It was quite startling, the reply was exactly like an echo; but that was not the strangest part. Flat on the ground lay another boy of thirteen. If the first had been copied by a maker of wax-works, line for line and color for color, the two could not have been more alike. In fact, the only difference was that the second had on pink silk breeches, which were very much muddied at the knees. He held in his extended hand a roughly trimmed fishing-pole.

"I feel another nibble," said the boy who had last spoken, leaning further over the water.

"Yes, there, there!" exclaimed the other on the lower bank. "Now we've got him!"

There was a swish, and a trout came plashing and twisting into the sunlight. He had not been very firmly hooked, however, for, after a short flight through the air, he tumbled almost into the lap of the little girl.

She gave a laugh, and, dropping her garland, managed to secure the gasping little fish, together with a handful of grass and leaves.

"Do put him back, William," she said, leaning forward. "He's much too small. I pray you put him back."

The boy took the trout, and, crawling to the water's edge, set him free, and laughed as he darted off and hid, wriggling himself under a sunken log.

At this minute the bushes were parted just behind where the two had been seated, and a strange figure came into sight.

It was an old colored man. He had on a three-cornered hat, much too large for his woolly head, and under his arm he carried a bundle of freshly cut switches. He wore also an old flowered waistcoat that reached almost to his knees, and hung loosely about his thin figure. The waistcoat was still quite gaudy, and showed patches here and there of worn gold lace.

"Mars Willem, I's jes done de bes' I could," said the old darky, with a bow.

The boy looked over the bundle of rods and picked out two of them.

"Cato," he said in an authoritative manner that showed no ill-humor, "you are a lazy rascal, sir; go back and get me one just as long as this and just as thin as this one, and straight, too, mark ye."

The old man bowed again, turned around to hide a grin, and went back into the deep shadows of the trees. When he had gone a little way he stopped.

"Said dat jes like his father, Mars David, would hev spoke. 'Cato, you're a lazy rascal, sir.'" Here the old darky laughed. "I jes wondered if he'd take one of dem crooked ones; I jes did so. Dem boys is Frothin'hams plum fro'—hyar me talkin'."

He drew out of his pocket a huge clasp-knife, and, looking carefully to right and left, went deeper into the wood.

But before going on further with the story, or taking up the immediate history of the twin Frothinghams, it is best, perhaps, to go back and tell a little about their family connections, and explain also something about Stanham Mills, where our story opens on this bright June day.

During the reign of George II. some members of the London Company and a certain wealthy Lord Stanham had purchased a large tract of land in New Jersey, just south of the New York boundary-line. It was supposed that a fortune lay hidden there in the unworked iron-mines.

Looking about for an agent or some persons to represent their interests, and to take charge of the property, the company's choice had fallen upon two members of an influential family in England that had colonial connections—David and Nathaniel Frothingham.

There were three Frothingham brothers in the firm of that name, a firm that had long been interested in many financial ventures in the Colonies, and the two younger partners had had some experience in mining and the handling of large bodies of men.

Upon receiving their appointment to the position of Company managers, Nathaniel and David had left for America, leaving Daniel, the eldest, to look after their family interests at the counting-house in London.

This was some fourteen or fifteen years before our story opened.

Both of the younger brothers were married, and brought their wives with them to share their fortunes in the far-off country. Immediately upon their arrival they had opened the large Manor-house, that had been erected for them in a manner regardless of expense upon the Stanham property, even before a shaft had been sunk in the surrounding hills.

Unfortunately the two ladies of the Manor did not agree at all, and David and his wife lived in one wing and Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel in the other.

When the twins came upon the scene, which happened not long after the arrival in America, there had been great rejoicing; and Mrs. Nathaniel Frothingham's heart had softened somewhat toward her husband's brother's wife. She had no children of her own; and she unbent a little from the position of proud superiority she had assumed, for the aristocratic Clarissa was the grand-niece of an English earl, and had held her heart high accordingly. Mrs. David, the young mother, was but the daughter of a Liverpool merchant. The Frothinghams spent the money that came to them from England with a lavish but an honest hand. However, up to the time this story begins there had been no large returns to encourage future expenditures.

Bounding Stanham Mills to the east and south lay another estate, owned by four or five wealthy dwellers in the Colonies; it was known as the Hewes property. Here also had been opened mines, and a foundry even larger than the Frothingham's was in process of completion.

The eastern boundary-line, as first surveyed by the King's surveyors, ran close to the entrance of the shaft on Tumble Ridge, the big hill to the north; so close indeed in some places that the sound of the picks of the Hewes men could be often heard at work, for the entrance to the rival shaft was just out of sight across the hill crest, and the underground works were nearing every day.

It was claimed by the Hewes people that the Frothinghams had already crossed the boundary-line. Disputes had arisen time and again, and a feeling of intense dislike had grown up between the neighbors.

One eventful morning, when the twins were but two years old and their sister Grace a baby, their father had gone down with some workmen in the rough bucket to the bottom of the largest mine, when a mass of heavy stone near the top became detached and fell, carrying death and sorrow into the family at the big white house. Mrs. David had not long survived her husband, and so the twins and their little sister were suddenly left orphans.

The children were too young to remember much of their father or their mother, and under the care of their Aunt Clarissa and Uncle Nathan they had been allowed to grow up like young wild flowers—much as they pleased.

There were no children near them with whom they were allowed to associate, for the coldness that had existed between the Hewes family and the Frothinghams had, on the latter's part, grown to the verge of hatred, and the two mansions were seven miles apart.

Insensibly the boys had imbibed some of the mannerisms of their stern, hot-tempered uncle, and had been influenced by the airs and affectations of the proud and haughty Mrs. Frothingham. But their devotion and love for one another it was almost pathetic to have seen.

If William, who was the elder, thought anything, George seemed to appreciate it without an expression from his brother, and both fairly worshipped their little sister Grace. She accompanied them in all but their longer rambles, and was their comrade in many of their adventures and misfortunes.

Since they were babies they had been placed more or less under the care and tutelage of the old colored man, Cato Sloper, and his wife, Polly Ann. The children loved their aunt and uncle in a certain indefinite way, but their real affections went out toward their foster-mother and their faithful black adherent.

With this short excursion into the history of the Frothinghams, we come back again to the banks of the clear deep pool.

After Cato, the old colored man, had departed, the boy in the blue breeches called across to the other, who had baited his hook afresh: "George," he said, "we ought not to have taken Gracie with us this morning. Aunt Clarissa will be angrier than an old wet hen."

"Won't she? Just fancy!" said the young lady in white, quite demurely. Then she laughed, quite in tune with the waterfall.

"I dare say Uncle Nathan will give one of us a good licking," said the boy on the high bank. "And it's my turn, too," he added, dolefully.

"No, 'tisn't," replied the other. "You took mine last time."

"Truly, you're right," returned the boy in pink. "What was it for? I have forgotten."

"He found we had some of the blasting powder," said William. "We'll need some more soon, I'm thinking," he added.

What further developments might have occurred just then it is hard to say, for the young lady in the white dress suddenly suggested a new train of thought, and the twins took it up at once.

"I'm hungry," she said, "and I don't think Mr. Wyeth and Uncle Daniel will come along at all. Let's go back to the house. Perhaps Aunt Clarissa hasn't found out we are gone away yet."

"Not found out!" exclaimed William, in derision. "Bless my stars, and we in our best clothes!"

"Mr. Wyeth will be along soon, I'll warrant," said his double, from the bank, "and we will all go up to the house as if nothing were the matter. Uncle Nathan won't do anything at all until Mr. Wyeth goes, which may not be for two or three days. Harkee! with Uncle Daniel here, he may forget. Haven't you noticed how forgetful he has been lately?"

"He never forgets," replied William, thoughtfully; "at least he never does if Aunt Clarissa is about."

From where the children were they could see the road, and follow it after it crossed the bridge and commenced to climb the hill. Here and there it showed very plainly through the trees, and even if a horseman should escape their observation, the sound of hoofs on the bridge they could not have missed hearing.

Twice a year Mr. Josiah Wyeth, a New York merchant, rode out on horseback from Elizabethport to visit Mr. Nathaniel Frothingham.

There was no regular stage line to Stanham Mills, and most of the purchasing for the estate was done at the town of Paterson, a half-day's journey. But, rain or shine, the 1st of June found Mr. Josiah Wyeth a guest at Stanham Manor, and the first of that month and the 1st of September found the young Frothinghams, all in their best attire, ready to meet him. Now that the uncle from London, whom they had never seen, had arrived in New York and was going to accompany Mr. Wyeth, the excitement was more than doubled.

During the merchant's stay the children were supposed to be on their best behavior, which really meant that they were allowed to do as they pleased, provided they kept out of sight and hearing. These visits, therefore, were quite looked-for events, and, besides, Mr. Wyeth brought out little trinkets, fish-hooks, sugar-balls, lollipops, and various attractive sweets in his capacious saddle-bags. He was quite as punctual as if he only lived next door.

The little girl had resumed her garland-making once more. William had spread himself out upon the bank, and was watching a busy aimless ant dodging about the roots of the ferns, and George, with the patience of the born sportsman, was supporting one hand with the other, and leaning out again over the water.

For some time no one had spoken. Suddenly there was a deep, rumbling report.

"Hillo!" said William, starting up. "They're blasting in the shaft on Tumble Ridge."

"That's so," said George. "I heard Uncle Nathan say that they were getting pretty close to the Hewes boundary-line."

"There'll be a fine row there some day," said William.

"My! but doesn't Uncle Nathan hate that Mr. Hewes? He says if he was in England they could hang him for treason, because he talks against the King."

George laughed. "I'd like to see 'em fight," he answered.

"So should I," said William; "and you and I together could lick Carter Hewes, if he is bigger than either of us. I suppose he's a rebel too."

Just here there came an interruption, for the waterfall had drawn the hook under a big flat stone, and there it caught.

"Crickey!" said the boy in the pink breeches. "I'm fast on the bottom." He stretched out with both hands, and gave a sharp pull on the line.

It all came so suddenly that not one of the three could have foretold what was going to happen. But the bank gave way, and Master Frothingham went down head over heels into the deep hole.

Now, strange as it may seem, owing to Aunt Clarissa's fostering care, neither one of the twins had learned to swim.

The water was very deep, and the fall was eight feet, if an inch, but, nevertheless, in a moment George's frightened face appeared. He tried to grasp the bank, but so steep was it his fingers slipped off the smooth rock, and he sank again, gasping and trying to shriek aloud.

The little girl jumped to her feet, and ran in among the trees, crying for help with all her little voice. William did not pause for half a breath. He leaped out from the bank and dashed through the shallow water towards where one of his brother's arms was waving upon the surface.

Suddenly he went over his own depth, and the tails of his blue velvet coat were all that could be seen. But he managed to struggle on, fighting to keep afloat, with all his might, until he caught the arm at last. George's head once more showed clearly above the water, and then both boys sank.

Gracie's cries by this time had startled all the echoes up the hill-sides.

"Cato! oh, Cato!" she shrieked. "They're drowning! they're drowning! Help! help! Oh, help!"

Once more the two heads came up to the air, and one small hand, extended in a wild grasp toward the bank, caught an overhanging bough and clung there desperately.

[to be continued.]

[BICYCLING FOR GIRLS.]

Some weeks ago we published an article on bicycle-riding, and at that time promised to say something regarding bicycling for girls, which is so different a question from bicycling for boys that it requires a separate article.

There has been a discussion going on for some time as to whether it was a healthy exercise for girls and young women to take up, and many doctors have given it as their opinion that it was not, on the whole, advisable. But the practice has become general now, and it is likely that many more girls will ride this fall and next year than ever before. Consequently it is useless to advise people not to ride. If any girl finds that riding is making her feel enervated and tired all the time, or if in any other way she notices any kind of unpleasant results from her riding, common-sense and her doctor will tell her to stop; but there is no reason why a healthy girl, if she begins gradually, should not learn to ride, and ride well, to the great benefit of her health and happiness.

It is only required that she shall observe two or three simple rules—rules which every athlete who trains theoretically obeys. For instance, she should remember that, as is the case with most girls in cities, and often in the country as well, she has not been accustomed to severe physical exercise, that she would not start out at once to run five miles without stopping, and in like manner she should not ride ten miles on a wheel neither the first time nor the thirtieth time. This seems very simple to read in type, but the fact is that most girls want to ride fifteen miles as soon as they can get along on a road by themselves.

The difficult thing is to stop just before you begin to feel the slightest sensation of weariness. In these fall days any one can ride along through the country, and while moving feel invigorated by the force of the breeze which the movement of the wheel creates. But when she does stop, the girl suddenly feels "worn out," perhaps a little dizzy, or at least tired, and rather inclined to get into a car and ride home, while some one else pushes her wheel along for her. Any girl of spirit in such a situation immediately makes up her mind that she will not give in to this feeling of weariness, and that she will ride home whether she feels tired or not. The result is a bad headache, a doctor, and perhaps an injunction from her parents not to ride a bicycle again.

POSITION JUST BEFORE STARTING TO MOUNT.

There are girls who can ride twenty, forty, or sixty miles in a day, but this is because they have begun gradually, and increased their distances by degrees as their bodies got into what is called "good condition." Let us set down a rule, then, on this subject, and say that the average girl of fifteen ought not to ride more than five miles, by cyclometer, in any one day, until she has taken thirty rides within two months—that is to say, until she has ridden at least once in every two days. Then she should not exceed ten miles in a day, or at one time, until she has ridden a bicycle half a year. After this she can estimate about what she can do without tiring herself, and she can gradually work up to twenty miles at a time without ever having that fagged feeling which is a sure sign that the thing has been overdone. So much for the distance.

Now a word as to costume. We are just in the midst of a change in ideas as to girls' bicycle costumes. No one who has ridden ten times fails to complain of skirts, be they never so well made. They catch in the rear wheel. They make a sail to catch all the wind when the wind is blowing against you, and only a bicyclist knows what a head wind really means. And finally they are continually in the way.

On the other hand, trousers do not seem just the thing for girls to wear. Some time we may all come to the regulation knickerbockers for a bicycle costume, but just at present a girl who wears them appears to be immodest. As a matter of fact, however, modesty and ladylike behavior do not depend on the costume, but on the bearing and character of the young lady herself, and it is only necessary for us to become accustomed to seeing ladies wearing any kind of a bicycle costume to think it the proper thing, and probably some kind of bloomers or divided skirt is more unnoticeable and modest than a skirt which flies about as you ride along the road. The best thing for a girl then is a divided skirt which is close fitting, which cannot catch in either wheel or in the gearing of the bicycle, or the ordinary gymnasium bloomers. Either of these, especially the latter, is much better from a health point of view, since a great deal of the strain of forcing the machine ahead is saved by them. But in time we shall probably have a regular woman's bicycle costume, which will be a combination of knickerbockers and bloomers, and then when people once become accustomed to it, they will wonder how under the sun women ever rode with long skirts.

POSITION JUST AFTER STARTING TO MOUNT.

With the question of the distance you shall ride in a day and the question of costume settled, it then becomes necessary to discuss the details of riding. A great many girls and women learn to ride in-doors in some hall, and the usual method employed is to place a belt with a handle at each side around the girl's waist. A man walks on either side of her, and steadies her by grasping either handle on the belt, and she then struggles on, until, after a number of lessons, she can ride alone. In the city this may be a good plan, but it is inevitably the result that after a girl has learned to ride in-doors it becomes practically necessary for her to learn over again when she first tries the road. The best method, therefore, if the surroundings admit of it, is to get some strong person to grasp the rear part of the saddle, and to then steady you as you move along a smooth road. If this is done half an hour a day three times on alternate days, any average girl should be able to ride alone for a short distance.

She will do well not to try to learn to mount until she has become somewhat proficient in riding, so that she can ride four or five miles at a time over an average country road. Mounting will then come easy, whereas at the beginning it is extremely difficult. When sitting on a bicycle a girl should be in an upright position, practically as when walking. The saddle should be broad and flat, and, while most of the weight of her body rests upon the saddle, it is nevertheless true that she should put as much of her weight upon the pedals as possible: it not only makes riding and balancing easier, but it distributes her weight over the machine, both to her own comfort and to the safety of the wheel. Sitting perfectly upright, she should be able to place the instep or hollow of her foot between the heel and ball squarely on the pedal when it is at its lowest point in the arc, and in that position her knee should be practically unbent, although, as a matter of fact, it is better if the knee is what might be called "sprung" a little. At all events, the body should not sag from one side to the other as the pedals turn, and when the rider is forcing the wheel ahead with the ball of the foot on the pedal, the knee would never be straightened actually if this rule was followed.

CORRECT POSITION FOR WOMAN BICYCLIST.

There is no advantage whatsoever in trying to secure a long reach; it does not help you in any way, and it makes it more difficult to send the machine ahead either faster or slower. This is particularly noticeable in going up a hill. Women, as a rule, do not have the fault which many men have of leaning forward far over the handle. They are more apt to sit upright than most men; but they have one fault which should be corrected, and that is the position which the handles occupy in relation to their bodies. A girl should sit upright, as has been said, and in that position, when she places her hands on the cork handles, her arms should be slightly bent at the elbow. It is very common, however, to see the arms so much bent that the forearm forms almost a right angle to the upper arm. This is not only uncomfortable, but it deprives her of the purchase which she needs when forcing the machine ahead or going up a hill. In other words, it is much more difficult to "pull" on the handles when the arms are bent to a right angle than when they are practically straight. On the other hand, the fault of leaning the weight of the body on the handle-bars should be avoided with the utmost care, as that forces the shoulders back and the chin forward on the chest, and in time distorts the whole symmetry of the upper part of a person's body.

PROPER ARRANGEMENT OF THE DRESS.

Mounting and dismounting, especially the former, as has been said, should not be tried until the bicyclist has learned to keep her balance easily while riding. Then mounting will come more or less naturally, since the difficulty in this operation is not so much to get on the machine, as to start the wheel soon enough after gaining the seat to avoid falling off. To begin with, the girl should grasp both handle-bars firmly, facing forward, of course. By means of the hands the bicycle should be held absolutely perpendicular, neither leaning towards her person nor away from it. Then standing on the left of the machine, she should step over the gearing with her right foot and place it on the right pedal, which is moved just forward of its highest point in the arc; in other words, so that the first pressure which comes on that right pedal will force the machine ahead as fast as possible.

Having placed her right foot on this pedal, without bearing any weight on it, she then steps into the position over the gearing which will bring her weight as nearly as possible immediately over the centre of gravity of the machine. Having arranged her skirt so that it will be symmetrical when she mounts, she merely rises by stepping up on the right-hand pedal, and sits into the saddle by a slow, easy movement. Her weight on the right-hand pedal starts the machine forward, pulls the saddle in under her, and gives the velocity to the bicycle which she needs in order to keep her balance.

CORRECT METHOD OF DISMOUNTING.

One of the most important things about women's bicycle-riding is the ability to dismount not only gracefully, but at once in case of necessity. In this, as in mounting, there is no jump anywhere. The rider simply catches the left pedal as it begins to rise from the lowest point in the arc, and, bearing her weight on that pedal, allows herself to be forced upward out of the saddle. This not only brings her into a position to step out of the machine, but also brings the machine to a standstill, or practically so, unless she is going at a high rate of speed. When the pedal has nearly reached the top, and the machine is as near a standstill as possible, she steps, still bearing her weight on this left-hand pedal, out on the left side of the machine, putting her right foot over the left foot, and letting the right foot strike the ground first. Both mounting and dismounting are slow, even movements; there is no quick jump about them, and the motions are all gradual. As soon as you attempt to leap into the saddle, or leap out of it, you are almost certain to disturb the equilibrium of the bicycle itself, and then catastrophe is the result.

It only remains to say a word about riding with men and boys. Boys, as a usual thing, are in better physical condition for such exercise as bicycle-riding than girls. They can consequently ride farther and faster than girls; and as any girl of spirit will try to keep up with whomever she is riding, she is likely to strain herself. It is wise, therefore, for the girl to always insist on leading, or, as it is called, on "setting the pace," and it is also wise for her to make up her mind just where she is going to ride before she stops. The distance is then settled before the journey begins, and there is no question of riding farther than she thought she would at the start. If a girl sets out for a bicycle ride without any definite point in view, she is likely to ride away from home until she becomes tired, and then there is the whole distance of the return to be covered in a more or less wearied condition; and it is this kind of bicycle-riding which does the injury to women and girls.

[WHAT MARJORIE COULD DO.]

BY H. G. PAINE.

I.

"Fire! Fire!"

Marjorie Mason woke up with a start.

"Clang! clang!" went the fire-engine from around the corner.

"Whoa!" shouted the driver.

"Dear me!" thought Marjorie; "it must be very near here," and she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The engine was already connected with the hydrant across the street, and the firemen were attaching the hose and bringing it—what? yes; right up the front steps of the Masons' house! One fireman was ringing violently at the front-door bell; and Marjorie wondered why her father did not go down to open the door. Perhaps the house next door was on fire, and they wanted to take the hose up on the roof. Still the bell rang, and now Marjorie could hear the firemen from the hook-and-ladder truck that had just come up breaking in the parlor windows with their axes.

"Why doesn't somebody go to the door?" she said to herself. "It will never do to have that dirty hose dragged through the parlor and over the new carpet!" and she jumped to the door of her room to run down and let the firemen in; but, as she opened it, a rush of hot air and stifling smoke blew into her face, choking and gagging her, and filling her eyes with tears. Then she realized for the first time that the fire was in her own house. She shut the door with a bang, and ran to the window, opened it, and looked out. As she did so a tongue of flame shot up in front of her from the window of the library, just underneath her own room. Her father's and mother's room was in the back part of the house on the same floor as the library. "Was it on fire, too?" Marjorie shuddered as she thought of it.

"And Jack!" Her brother Jack slept in the back room on the same floor as Marjorie, but the rooms did not connect. "Perhaps the fire is only in the front part of the house," she thought, "and the others don't know anything about it." She determined to arouse them.

Marjorie opened the door again. The smoke and heat were stifling, but there was no flame that she could see. Then she shut her eyes, closed the door behind her, and rushed down the hall to Jack's room. She had been to it so often that she could not miss the door-knob, even in her excitement. Fortunately the door was unlocked. She opened it quickly, and shut it behind her, gasping for breath. Oblivious alike of the danger and the noise Jack was still fast asleep, but she soon woke him up, and together they rushed to the back window. Looking down they saw their father helping their mother out upon the sloping roof of the back piazza.

At the sight of her poor mother, who was very ill, in so perilous a plight, Marjorie forgot all about her own danger, and shouting, "Hold on tight—I'll tell the firemen!" before her brother could stop her she had run back fearlessly to her own room despite the fact that the stairway was now all in a blaze. As she opened her eyes she saw the glazed helmet of a fireman at the window.

"GO BACK AND LOOK AFTER FATHER AND MOTHER!"

"Go back!" she cried; "go back quick and look after father and mother; they are on the roof of the back piazza!"

Then a strange feeling of dizziness came over her. She felt a strong arm around her waist. She dimly saw a kind face near to hers, and was conscious of being carried down, down, down, so far, so far, and of hearing people cheering a great way off.

II.

It was a very different house, the one that Marjorie went to live in after the fire, not nearly so nice as the dear old home where she and Jack had been born. In the first place, it was in a distant and different part of the city. The rooms were all differently arranged, and the furniture and everything in them were different. It seemed to Marjorie as if nothing had been saved from the old house. Even the clothes they all wore were different—very different, indeed; for they were black.

That was a sign of the greatest and saddest difference. Though the firemen had quickly gone through the basement and rescued Marjorie's father and mother and Jack and the servants, the dear mother had not long survived the shock and the exposure: and Hetty, the waitress, who now attended to the housekeeping and looked after Marjorie, did things very differently from her.

All these circumstances combined to make great changes in Marjorie's life. She went to another school now, near by; but she did not make friends easily with the pupils there, and so she spent most of her afternoons at home with Hetty instead of associating with girls of her own age. And very lonely she was much of the time.

Hetty was a good waitress, who had been with the family for several years, and she knew just what Mr. Mason liked, and how he liked to have things done about the house; but she was an ignorant silly girl, and not at all a good companion for Marjorie.

Jack was two years older than his sister. He was sixteen, and preparing for college, and his father thought best that he should not change schools. So he had to make an early start every day, and very rarely came back until dinner-time, and then had to study hard all the evening.

Now and then, when he did come home early on a rainy day, Marjorie and he would have great fun, like the old times; so at last she came to wish for bad weather with as much eagerness as she had used to look for sunshine.

Since her mother's death her father had seemed very much preoccupied and indifferent to what she and Jack did. And, as time went on, he was more and more away from home. He changed the dinner hour from six until seven, and was often late at that. Then right afterward he would generally go out, and not come back until after Jack and Marjorie were in bed.

Marjorie especially missed her father's presence and companionship; and one "dull, sunshiny afternoon," as Marjorie called it, in default of any other sympathizer, she confided her grief to Hetty, who seemed in a pleasanter mood than usual.

"I wonder what it is that takes so much of father's time?" she said.

"Oh, it's coortin' he is, av coorse, ye may belave," replied Hetty.

"Oh no, you don't mean—that, do you?" exclaimed Marjorie.

"Sure 'n' why not?" said Hetty, with a smirk. "Widowers generally does. But I can tell you that I for wan will not shtay wan minute, no, nor wan sicond, av he brings a new mistress into this house!"

III.

Marjorie was very much worried at what Hetty had said. It hardly seemed possible to her that the girl could be right, and that her father could be contemplating such a step as she suggested. Yet there was no doubt that he seemed very much changed since his wife's death, and Marjorie sought in vain for any satisfactory explanation of his frequent absences from home.

She lay awake a long time that night—thinking. And the less able she was to find a reason that would account for the difference in her father's manner and habits, the more readily she brought herself to believe that Hetty was right in her supposition.

"It's my fault, it's my fault," she sobbed to herself, as she buried her head in the pillow. "I haven't tried to take dear mother's place, and to look after the house, and to do the things she used to do for father's comfort. I've just acted like a silly, helpless little girl, and shirked my responsibilities, and left everything to Hetty, and I think she's—she's just hateful."

Then, when Marjorie realized how short a time had passed since the fire, and the funeral, and the moving, it seemed to her that perhaps it was not too late now for her to begin to take the place in the household that she had mapped out for herself. This thought gave her new comfort, and with an earnest prayer that she might be given strength to carry out her plans she fell asleep.

Next morning, when Hetty brought in the breakfast, she found that Marjorie had changed her seat at the table to the place opposite her father, that had been vacant ever since they moved into the new house, and was pouring out the coffee for him and Jack, as her mother used to do.

Marjorie watched her father closely to see if he noticed the change. At first he appeared oblivious to any difference in the usual arrangement, and, turning to Hetty, after tasting his coffee, he said,

"Hetty, haven't you forgotten the sugar?"

Marjorie's face grew crimson with mortification, and, as she caught Jack's wink, and marked the appreciating smack of his lips, she realized that in her excitement she had put her father's sugar in Jack's cup.

"Sure 'n' Miss Marjorie's pouring the coffee this morning; I dunno," replied Hetty.

Mr. Mason looked up, with a smile, and said, "Well, take this cup to her, and see if she isn't putting sugar in, too."

Hetty did his bidding with a self-satisfied air, and Marjorie meekly dropped in the missing lumps.

"Very nice indeed," was Mr. Mason's comment, as he tasted his coffee again, "even if it was prepared on the instalment plan."

And Marjorie felt that her first effort had not been altogether a failure after all.

That evening when he came home and went to his room he found his frock-coat neatly brushed and laid on the bed. In an absent-minded manner he hung it up in the closet, and went down to dinner in his business suit. Marjorie sat opposite him and served the soup. Presently Mr. Mason took an evening paper out of his pocket and began reading.

Marjorie addressed one or two questions to her father; but though he looked up brightly for a moment and answered her, he soon turned again to his paper, and appeared to be absorbed in its contents.

"What are you reading about, father?" she finally ventured to ask.

But his reply was not conducive to further conversation, "Silver."

"Silence is golden," said Jack to his sister, in an undertone.

Next evening when Mr. Mason came home Marjorie asked him if he would let her see the evening paper. Her father seemed a little surprised, and handed it to her. Then he went up stairs before dinner and saw his coat laid out again, and smiled, and put it on. They had scarcely sat down when Jack produced a newspaper and began to read it.

"Jack," said Marjorie, "don't read the paper at the table; it isn't polite."

Jack put the paper away, and Marjorie began to ask her father questions about what sort of a day he had had downtown, and told him how Jack had been selected to play on the school football team, and asked him to explain some points in her history lesson that were not quite clear in her mind. Marjorie was pleased to see that her father took a great deal more interest in what she and Jack were doing, and after that the dinner hour was the brightest and happiest in the day for Marjorie.

But Mr. Mason, though he recognized Marjorie's efforts to make this hour what it had been in the old house, and had begun to take a renewed interest in what interested Jack and Marjorie, still spent the most of his evenings away from home, and seemed often so preoccupied that with difficulty he aroused himself in response to Marjorie's efforts at polite conversation.

Those were anxious and sad days for Marjorie—Hetty's silly, thoughtless words had made a deep impression on her mind, and she knew that if they were true it must be because he missed the presence and companionship of her dear mother, and the home atmosphere with which she had surrounded their lives.

It seemed to her that the task she had undertaken would not have been so hopeless amid the familiar surroundings of their old home. But in this strange and unaccustomed place it seemed as though her efforts must be in vain. She studied to see if by some rearrangement of the furniture she could not give a more attractive and homelike air to the stiff and formal drawing-room.

Hetty laughed at her suggestions, and would not help her. So she set to work to do it herself. At first she resolved to banish a hideous vase on the top of a tall cabinet, but when, standing on the top of the little step-ladder, she tried to move it, it proved heavier than she supposed and slipped from her grasp. In her attempt to save it she lost her balance and fell with it to the floor, striking her head on a corner of the cabinet.

The next thing that Marjorie knew she was lying in bed, feeling very weak and queer. She opened her eyes, and then shut them again suddenly very tight, and lay still for a long while, trying to remember what had happened; because she thought she had seen in that brief glance that she was back in her old room at home, and the impression was so pleasant and restful, and made her feel so happy, that she did not want to open her eyes and dispel the illusion. Then she thought she heard a clock strike—one, two three, four—her clock! she would have known that sound anywhere. She could not resist the temptation to look, and slowly unclosed one eye.

Yes, that was her very own clock that Jack had given her on the mantel-piece, there could be no mistake about that, nor about the mantel-piece either, for that matter, nor about the pictures over it, nor about the paper on the wall—both eyes were wide open now—nor about the rugs on the floor, nor the sofa, nor the chairs, nor the pretty, white bedstead. It was all a beautiful mystery, and she did not try to solve it. She simply gave a happy little sigh and fell into a deep and quiet sleep.

When she awoke again she felt better and stronger, and lay for several minutes feasting her eyes upon the familiar features of her old room at home.

Then the door opened quietly, and a sweet-faced woman in a wash-dress and white cap and apron entered.

"Oh, tell me," asked Marjorie, eagerly, "am I dreaming, or have I been dreaming? Is this really my room, and if it is, wasn't there any fire, and if there was, how—"

"There, there, my dear," answered a soft pleasant voice, "you are very wide-awake again, I am glad to see, and this is your own home, and there was a fire; and if you will lie very quiet, and not ask any more questions, you can see your brother Jack in a little while, and a little later your father, when he comes home."

"And—and are you—are you—" faltered Marjorie.

"Oh, I am Miss Farley, the hospital nurse. Now lie still, dear, and don't bother your head about anything."

"I won't," responded Marjorie, with a contented smile. "I thought maybe you were a step-mother."

In the afternoon Marjorie was so much better that Miss Farley let Jack spend quite a while by her bedside, while he told everything that had happened.

"My eye!" said he, "you must have given your head a terrible crack when you fell from the steps. I can tell you father and I and Hetty were scared. That was three weeks ago. Just think of that. You've had brain-fever, and all sorts of things. But Dr. Scott and Miss Farley pulled you through in great shape. The best thing was that father could have you put right into an ambulance and brought here. Say, what do you suppose he has been up to all these months? Why, he's been having this dear old house rebuilt just exactly as it was before the fire; and there was a lot more furniture and things saved than you and I thought, and he has had it all put back in the old places, and he has bought everything he could get exactly like what was burned, and what he couldn't buy he has had made so that you'd think it was the same identical thing. He used to come here afternoons and boss the workmen about, and in the evening he'd come here alone and arrange things in the old places. Say, isn't it just fine! and he never said a word about it, so that he could have it for a surprise for you on your birthday. It was all ready the day you got hurt, so he had you brought right here, and yesterday was your birthday, so that it came out just as he had hoped, after all."

"Where's Hetty?" asked Marjorie, after a short pause.

"Hetty? Oh, she married the milkman, and left without warning the day we moved in here," said Jack.

"Papa," said Marjorie, as she lay holding his hand as he sat beside her that afternoon, after she had thanked him for his beautiful birthday present, "papa, you're not going to bring anybody here to take mamma's place, are you?"

"No, my pet," replied Mr. Mason, as he bent and kissed her cheek. "Nobody in the world can ever do that; but nobody in the world can come so near it as her dear little daughter."

[LAURIE VANE, BRAKEMAN.]

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

Mudhole Junction was a desolate place enough, especially on winter nights, when the wind roared through the mountain gorges, and an occasional fierce, despairing shriek from a passing locomotive waked the wild echoes among the granite peaks. But Blundon, the station-master, and Laurie Vane, the bright-eyed young fellow from the East, who lived in the little shanty a quarter of a mile off had a soft spot in their hearts for Mudhole Junction, and with reason. Both of them had found health and strength in the high, pure altitude, and each had also found a friend in the other. Blundon often wondered why a young fellow of nineteen should be living up there, apparently as much cut off from the human species, other than the Mudhole Junctionites, as though he belonged to another planet. But seeing the boy was perfectly correct in every way, and Blundon himself having the soul of a gentleman, and above asking questions, Laurie Vane was not bothered to give explanations.

One autumn night, about a year after Laurie's advent, he and the station-master were spending quite a hilarious evening together in the little station-house. A fire roared on the hearth, and some malodorous cheese, a plate of crackers, and a pitcher of eider were on the table. On one side of the fire sat Blundon, grizzled and round-shouldered, but with a world of good sense in his well-marked face; on the other side sat Laurie, a red fez set sideways on his curly head, and his guitar across his knees.

"Talk about your spectacular shows," said Laurie, softly thrumming "In Old Madrid," on the guitar, "I don't know anything quite up to that ten-o'clock express on a wild night like this. When she rushes out of the black mouth of the tunnel for that straight stretch of three miles down here, and flies past, hissing and screaming, with one great glaring eye blazing in the darkness, she looks more like one of the dragons of hell than anything I can imagine. It's worth more than many a show I've paid two dollars and a half to see."

Blundon smiled at this as he answered:

"And I can see it every night in the year for nothing. People call it lonesome up here, but I guess mighty few folks know how much company an old railroad man like me can get out of passing ingines and slow freights, and even out of the rails and ties. Anybody would think I was a paid section-boss the way I watch the road-bed about here."

"How long were you a railroad man?" asked Laurie, stopping in his thrumming.

"About twenty years," said Blundon. "But it was in the East, where railroading ain't the same as it is out here. I was in the caboose of a train that made two hundred and twenty miles, year in and year out, in four hours and forty minutes, including three stops. It was a solid train of Pullmans, and the road-bed was as smooth as a ballroom floor. I had an eighteen-thousand-dollar ingine—the Lively Sally—and when I pulled the throttle out she was just like a race-horse when he hears the starter shout 'Go!' I don't believe I ever could have quit the railroad business if the Lively Sally hadn't come to grief. But it wasn't when I was a-drivin' her. I was laid off sick, and they gave her to another man—a good enough fellow, but you can't learn the ways of an ingine in a day nor a week, any more than you can learn the ways of a woman in a day or a week. Sally used to get balky, once a year reg'lar. For about a week she'd have the jim-jams—seemed like she got tired of working, and wanted a spell of rest in the round-house. Well, the new man didn't know this, and instead of letting her have her own way, he tried to drive her, and Sally just blew her cylinder-head out for spite. And when she was helpless on the siding a long freight came along, and the switchman lost his wits, and set the switch wrong, and that eighteen-thousand-dollar beauty was crippled so she never was worth much afterward. And about that time my lungs gave out, and I had to come up here. I never cared much about an ingine after Sally. I dare say I might get a place again to run a passenger train, but I think about poor Sally, and I don't feel like going back on the old girl; so here I am, side-tracked for life at Mudhole Junction."

"It was all on account of a patent air-brake that I'm here," remarked Laurie.

"It's coming," thought Blundon.

"I am an only child," said Laurie, after a little pause, "and I had the best daddy in the world, except that he was so obstinate."

"You weren't obstinate, young feller," Blundon gravely interjected. "You were just firm. It's the other feller that's pig-headed always. Go on."

Laurie glanced up quickly, and grinned at Blundon for a moment.

"Well, perhaps I was a little obstinate too—a chip of the old block. As long as my mother lived, God bless her!"—here Laurie raised his cap reverently—"she could always make peace between us. But when she went to heaven there was nobody to do this. The first serious falling out we had was when I went to college. I took the scientific course, and apparently I didn't do much at it. But I was working like a beaver at an air-brake, and when I wasn't in the class-rooms I was down at the railroad shops studying brakes. I found out a lot about them, and I also found out that my wonderful invention wasn't any invention at all. It had been tried and discarded. My father, though, thought I was idling, and wrote me a riproaring letter. One word brought on another, until at last I walked myself out of the house after our last interview, and told my father I would never take another cent from him as long as I lived. I had a little money that my mother left me. My father said I'd come back as soon as I'd run through with what I had, and that made me mad. I knew my lungs weren't in good shape, and the doctors told me to come up here and try living in a shanty for a year. I've done it, and I'm cured, and my feelings have softened toward my father—he was a kind old dad when he had his own way—but I can't—I can't make the first advance to him."

Blundon's usual address to Laurie was, "Young feller," but on serious occasions he called him "Mr. Vane, sir."

"Mr. Vane, sir," he said, "do you know the meaning of the word courage?"

"Yes," answered Laurie, promptly.

"And sense—good, hard, barnyard sense, Mr. Vane, sir?"

"Yes," again replied Laurie.

"And, Mr. Vane, sir, do you think you're treatin' your father right?"

"N-n-no," said Laurie, not at all promptly.

"Well, Mr. Vane, sir," continued Blundon, rising, and getting his lantern, "I don't think you can lay any extravagant claims to either sense or courage as long as you don't know how to make the first advance toward your own father, when you know you ain't treatin' him right. There's the express going in the tunnel."

Laurie rose too with a grave face. Blundon's words were few, but Laurie had learned to know the man, and to respect him deeply; and Laurie knew that Blundon's words were a strong condemnation.

The two went out upon the little platform to see the express pass. The night was very dark, without moon or stars. In a minute or two the train, a blaze of light from end to end, dashed out of the tunnel, and with one wild scream took the three-mile straight stretch down-grade like a streak of lightning. Not half the distance had been covered, when Blundon, almost dropping the lantern in his surprise, shouted, "She's slowing up to stop!"

Almost by the time the words were out of his mouth the locomotive was within fifty yards of them, and with a clang, a bang, and a snort it came to a full stop. The conductor had jumped off while the train was still moving, and he ran up to Blundon and Laurie.

"What's the matter?" asked Blundon, holding up the lantern in the conductor's face.

"Matter enough," answered the conductor. "The engineer slipped on the floor of the cab, about ten miles back, and wrenched his arm, so he is perfectly helpless, and almost wild with pain; the negro fireman brought us the last ten miles, but he couldn't take us over the mountain."

"I reckon I can," said Blundon, coolly. "You know my record."

"Yes; and that's why I stopped," answered the conductor. "But look here."

He handed out a piece of paper, on which was written clearly:

"Pay no attention to a red light on the trestle. It means a hold up at the end of the trestle. The men know what is in the express car, and they have dynamite.

"A Friend."

"Maybe it's a hoax," said Blundon.

"And maybe it ain't a hoax," said the conductor.

Blundon, the conductor, and Laurie had been standing close together during this short and half-whispered colloquy, but the negro fireman had slipped up behind them, and had seen the note by the lantern's glimmer.

"Good Lawd A'mighty!" he yelled. "De train robbers is arter dis heah train! Well, dey ain' gwi git no chance fur to blow dis nigger up wid dynamite." And without another word he took to his heels, and immediately was lost in the darkness.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish!" exclaimed the conductor.

"Never you mind," said Blundon, with a grim smile; "this young feller will be my fireman, and I'll agree to take the train across the mountain, hold up or no hold up. I'm off duty now until six o'clock to-morrow morning, and I can get back by that time."

"All right," answered the conductor, going toward the cab, where they found the engineer groaning with pain.

"Just groan through the telephone, old man," said Blundon, as they helped him out, "and you'll get a doctor from the house over yonder, and he'll set your arm in a jiffy."

"Wouldn't it be a good idea," said Laurie, diffidently, "if the engineer telephoned to Stoneville that if the train is delayed to send a posse to the Stoneville end of the trestle! This is the night the Stoneville Light Infantry meet to drill, and they'd be handy in case of a hold up."

The conductor hesitated a moment, then went over to the express car, and came back.

"The express messenger says to telephone to the soldier boys, and if it is a hoax, he can stand the racket, and if it ain't—well, he has got near ninety thousand dollars in the safe, and he ain't a-going to give it away."

In another moment the injured engineer was ringing the telephone bell. Two or three passengers then appeared on the platform of the smoker.

"Hello!" cried one of them, in a voice singularly like Laurie's. "What's up?"

"Stopping for a new fireman, sir," answered the conductor, airily. "All aboard!"

As Laurie took his seat, in the cab beside Blundon, he said, with a pale face, "That was my father who spoke."

"Glad of it," bawled Blundon, over the roar of the train. "I hope he's got a gun."

Laurie had often heard that one never could judge of a man until he had been seen engaged in his own especial vocation, and he found it true as regarded Blundon. The old engineer was usually round-shouldered, and had a leisurely, not to say lazy, way of moving about. But the instant his hand touched the throttle of the engine he became alert and keen-eyed, his figure straightened, and the power he possessed intrinsically became visible.

The train sped on for an hour before entering a deep cut, at the end of which they would have to cross a great ravine over a long trestle. A mile or two beyond the trestle was the little manufacturing town of Stoneville. As they entered the cut darkness became blackness, and the train began to slow up a little before going on the trestle.

Laurie shouted in Blundon's ear, "This is a mighty good place for a train robbery!"

Blundon nodded, and Laurie, turning to the window, strained his eyes toward the ravine that showed like a huge black shadow before them. And in the middle of the trestle a red danger signal burned steadily.

"It's there," cried Laurie to Blundon.

By the time the words were out of his mouth a fusillade of shots rattled against the side of the cab.

"Lie down! lie down!" cried Blundon, throwing himself flat on the floor, and Laurie promptly followed suit. Then three ghostly figures leaped on the train, and two of them catching Blundon and Laurie, held them fast, while the third brought the train to a stop.

"Get up," said the first robber to Blundon, who scrambled to a sitting posture with a pistol at his ear. The second robber had likewise established close connections between Laurie's ear and another pistol, but allowed him also to sit up on the floor. The third robber jumped off, and presently the crash of dynamite showed that the express car was broken into. Then there was a wait of ten minutes, while the robbers, of whom there were several, rifled the safe.

During this time Blundon showed such perfect coolness that it calmed Laurie's natural excitement, and won the admiration of the highwaymen.

"Euchred, Mr. Vane, sir!" was Blundon's only exclamation, as he sat cross-legged, looking at Laurie.

To this Laurie replied, "I told you it was a good place for a train robbery."

"Young man," remarked the gentleman who covered Laurie with his pistol, "I am afraid you haven't had the advantages of good society, like me and my pal there. You hadn't oughter call names, especially on a social occasion like this."

"Perhaps I oughtn't," meekly answered Laurie.

"We are gentlemen, we are," continued this facetious bandit. "We don't go in for robbin' ladies of their handbags—we don't want your little silver watch, sonny. We are opposed to the bloated corporations that rule this country, and we are doing our best to maintain the rights of individuals against them by cleaning out their safes."

Laurie, without arguing this important question, remarked, "If you have so much regard for the rights of individuals, I wish you'd let me scratch my eye."

"I will do it for you with pleasure," amiably remarked the bandit, and with the cold muzzle of the loaded pistol he gently scratched Laurie's eye, to that young gentleman's intense discomfort.

In a few minutes more several of the gang who had gone through with the safe came to the cab.

"Bring one of those gents out here," said the man who seemed to be the leader. "We have got the express car and the engine disconnected from the rest of the train, but we don't exactly understand the brakes, and we want them set."

A gleam of intelligence passed between Blundon and Laurie which served the purpose of words.

"That young feller," said Blundon, indicating Laurie, "is a famous brakeman. He invented an air-brake once, only it wouldn't work."

BEFORE A WORD WAS SPOKEN, MR. VANE RECOGNIZED LAURIE.

Laurie, still covered by the pistol in the hands of his friends, got out of the cab, and soon the sound of hammering and knocking reverberated, showing he was working with the brakes. In a little while he was brought back, and Blundon and himself were then marched to the passenger car, hustled in, and the door locked on them. The first person Laurie's eyes rested on was his father. The excited passengers gathered around the two, but before a word was spoken Mr. Vane recognized Laurie. In another minute the two were in each other's arms. Laurie's first words were: "Daddy, I was wrong. I beg you will forgive me—"

But his father could only say, brokenly, "My boy—my boy!"

Blundon, after a few moments, raised his hand for silence, and then, in a low voice, but perfectly distinct to the earnest listeners, he said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, them train-robbers have bitten off more than they can chew. We had warning of this at Mudhole Junction, and the reg'lar engineer—I'm only a substitute—telephoned an hour ago to the Stoneville Light Infantry to be here if the train wasn't on time, and no doubt the soldiers ain't half a mile away. I've got a young amatoor fireman here—Mr. Laurie Vane—who invented an air-brake—"

"That wouldn't work," added Laurie, sotto voce.

"—And the robbers took him to set the brakes so they could run away with the ingine and express car. But this smart young gentleman disconnected the coil of the brakes, and everything about this train is just the same as if it was nailed to the tracks. The ingine can spit sparks, but she can't turn a wheel, and I'm thinkin' they'll be monkeyin' with her until the Stoneville Light Infantry comes along and bags 'em every one!"

A silent hand-clapping greeted this; then all the passengers, keeping perfectly still, waited for their rescuers to arrive. Meanwhile a great noise and whacking went on outside, as the robbers vainly struggled to make the engine move. Laurie sat, his arm about his father's neck, and although he said but little, every glance was an appeal for forgiveness. Blundon had made him out something of a hero in resource, and his father's proud recognition of it was plain to all. After fifteen minutes' waiting, under high tension, Blundon, peering closely into the surrounding darkness, uttered a suppressed chuckle.

"They're comin'," he said. "The robbers don't see 'em; they are too busy with the ingine."

A pause followed, unbroken by a word; then a yell, as the robbers realized they were surrounded. The passengers locked up in the drawing-room car could see little of the scuffle, but they heard it, and in a few minutes the door was wrenched open, and an officer in uniform announced that the robbers were captured, and called for the engineer to come and take charge of the engine.

Laurie and Blundon both wear watches with inscriptions on them—gifts from the railway company. Laurie is living in his father's house, and has altogether given up his dream of inventing a new brake, and is reading law very hard, much to his father's delight; and people say, "Did you ever see a father and son so fond of one another as Mr. Vane and that boy of his?"

And Laurie has several times asked his father, dryly, if he was really sorry that his only son had studied up the subject of air-brakes when he ought to have been in the class-room. Laurie has promised Blundon that once in two years at least he will go to Mudhole Junction. They have had but one meeting as yet, since Laurie left, when Blundon sagely remarked:

"Mr. Vane, sir, I think you did a sight better in holding that train down to the track with them ordinary brakes than you ever will with any of your own. But the best thing you did, after all, was to ask your father's pardon, and you ought to have done it a year before, Mr. Vane, sir."

[A NEW USE FOR APES.]

Here's a great note about two very interesting things—golf and monkeys. According to an English paper, lately received, while pets are mostly kept for the purpose of merely being petted, now and then they are taught to make themselves useful. The latest instance of the useful pet, the journal states, is in the case of certain apes which have been trained to act as caddies in the now fashionable game of golf. The caddie is indispensable to a golf player, and a Miss Dent, whose brother, Lieutenant Dent, of the United States Navy, has recently returned to America from the China station, has two Formosa apes which he brought here, and which they have trained to the business of caddies. They wear liveries of white duck, and each has a Turkish fez.

[THE BOY SOLDIER IN CAMP.]

BY RICHARD BARRY.

In every boy's heart—I am sure in every American boy's heart—there lies a love for martial things. The sound of a fife and drum, the sight of a soldier's uniform, stir him and set his blood a-tingling. Does there exist anywhere a boy or a man who has not "played soldier" at some time in his life? No; I judge not in this country.

Everyone who witnessed the Columbian parades in New York remembers the march of the city school-boys. With shoulders and heads erect they kept their well-formed lines; their young officers knew what they were about, and gave their orders sharp and clear.

These boys had been drilled every week on the playground, the street, or in one of the regimental armories, and they had caught the spirit of the thing.

Some people have been foolish enough to decry military training in our public schools. Have they ever thought that these boys will soon be large enough to carry real muskets if it should be necessary? The big majority of our soldiers in the last great war were under the age of twenty-four. But there are other things to be considered.

The writer has for some years past been interested in one of the largest boys' clubs in the city of New York. It has grown from a rather unruly mob of youngsters, gathered from the streets and tenements of the great East Side, to an orderly, well-governed body of over three hundred boys, who can be trusted to preserve their own decorum in the club-rooms, and who do not need a policeman to make them toe the proper mark. A military formation has accomplished this. A large drum-and-fife corps keeps up the interest, and the officers and most of the governors of the club are chosen from among the boys themselves. A military training promotes a respect for proper authority, which is the foundation of all thoroughly good citizenship.

But as this is not a lecture on the advantages of the system, we must come to the point—the boy soldier in camp. No doubt the most pleasant as well as the most useful part of the drill life of our militia regiments is the week's encampment at Peekskill. The men come back brown and healthy, and with the satisfaction of having learned something. An encampment of boys can accomplish the same results.

At Orrs Mills, Cornwall-on-Hudson, an experiment has been tried with great success during the past summer. A camp of instruction and recreation was established, and the results should encourage other attempts in the same direction.

The life of the soldier boys was a combination of duty, which might be called pleasant work, and play. The routine of a regular encampment was followed, and as one regiment or brigade left, another took its place, the same as at Peekskill.

These boys belonged to a Baptist military organization; they were all in charge of an instructor who ranked as Colonel, but the Majors, Adjutants, Captains, Lieutenants, and non-commissioned officers were boys of from twelve to fourteen.

GUARD MOUNT.

In the early morning the boy bugler turned the camp out at reveille, and the sergeants called the first roll; then the companies marched to breakfast in the mess-tent, where plain wholesome food was provided in plenty. After the meal came guard-mount, a ceremony requiring considerable knowledge, and one of the most importance. The old guard was relieved and dismissed, and the new one took its place; sentries were posted, and the day of the soldier began. Drills and squad details followed. Excursions into the neighboring hills, plunges into the swimming-pool, and target practice kept the time from dragging, and at dress parade in the evening buttons and arms were brightened, the regiment took its position on the meadow near the camp, and the companies were accounted for. Then the Adjutant read the orders for the following day, and the Colonel took command; the drums rolled, the fifes shrilled, and as the last note sounded, the cannon roared out sunset, and down came the flag. The soldier's day was over. "Taps" set the echoes going at nine o'clock, and tired and happy, the boys fell asleep in their cots and blankets.

There is no use saying that this does not pay. It is the thing the boys like. Tell a boy that a thing is "good for him," and he generally dislikes it, but in this case the boys do not have to be told. They take to it naturally.

A word as to the starting of a boys' military company might come in well here, and might be of interest. It is an easy thing to start one, the trouble being to hold it together; and this all depends upon the way one goes about it.

All that is necessary at first is to get the boys and find a person who is capable and willing to assist them in learning the manual of arms and the school of the soldier. Almost any State regiment or separate company will supply a man who will take interest enough to attend all drills, and give up a fair amount of time for sheer love of soldiering.