CHAPTER XV.

The drive to Blue Hill had been delightful and the view from the top exceptionally fine, it being one of those clear, still days when distant objects are brought near. It seemed almost possible to lay one's finger upon the spires of Boston and the glistening dome of the State-house miles away.

Bronson had exerted himself to the utmost. He wished to stand well with all men, and particularly with the Franklin family. From a worldly point of view it would have a most excellent effect for him to be seen driving with pretty Edith Franklin, of Oakleigh. He was glad whenever they passed a handsome turnout from Milton, and he was obliged to take off his hat to its occupants. He felt that he had really gone up in the world during the last year or two. It was a lucky thing for him, he thought, that he had fallen in with Tom Morgan at St. Asaph's. By the time he left college, which he was entering this year, he would have made quite a number of desirable acquaintances.

His talk was clever, but every now and then he said something that made Edith wince. He spoke of Neal, and was sorry he had gone to the bad altogether. Had he really disappeared?

Edith hesitated; she had not the ready wit with which Cynthia would have parried the question.

"We think he is in Philadelphia," she said, finally.

Bronson laughed.

"Hardly," he said; "I saw him in Boston a day or two ago. He looked rather seedy, I thought, and I felt sorry for him, but I didn't stop and speak. Thought it wouldn't do, don't you know; and I'm glad I didn't, as you feel this way."

"I hardly know what you mean," said Edith, somewhat distantly; "we are sorry Neal went away, that is all."

Though she thought he must have taken the money, Edith felt obliged to defend Neal for the sake of the family honor. She had suffered extremely from the talk that there had been in Brenton: she did so dislike to be talked about, and this affair had given rise to much gossip.

"You are very good to say that," said Bronson. "How generous you are not to acknowledge that Gordon stole the money to pay me."

"Stole!" repeated Edith, shuddering.

"I beg pardon, I shouldn't have stated it so broadly; but I'm so mixed up in it, don't you know. It was really my fault, you see, that he felt obliged to--er--to take it. But, of course, I'd no idea it would lead to any such thing as this. I fancied Gordon could get hold of as much money as he wanted by perfectly fair means. Will you believe me, Miss Edith, when I tell you how awfully sorry I am that I should have indirectly caused you any annoyance?"

He looked very handsome, and Edith could not see the expression of triumph in his steely eyes. It was nice of him, perhaps, to say this, even though there was something "out" in his way of doing it.

What was it about Bronson that always affected her thus, even though she liked him, and was flattered by his attentions? She said to herself that it was merely the effect of Cynthia's outspoken dislike. Unreasonable though it was, it influenced her.

But now it came over Edith with overwhelming force that she had done very wrong to come with Tony Bronson this afternoon. She was disobeying her step-mother, besides acting most deceitfully. Yes; she had deliberately deceived Mrs. Franklin when she wrote the note the day before; for had she not had it in her mind then to allow herself to be over-persuaded in regard to the drive? These thoughts made Edith very silent.

And then they had driven through Brenton. Unfortunately an electric car reached the corner just as they did. The gay little mare from the livery-stable, which had been rather resentful of control all the afternoon, bolted and ran. A heavy ice-cart barred the way. There was a crash, and Bronson and Edith were both thrown out.

It was all over in a moment; but Edith had time to realize what was about to happen, and again there flashed through her mind the conviction of how wrongly she had behaved. What would mamma say?

It was significant that she thought of Mrs. Franklin then for the first time as "mamma."

Bronson escaped with a few bruises, but Edith was very much hurt--just how much the doctor could not tell. She was unconscious for several hours.

Cynthia never forgot that night; her father away; her mother, with tense, strained face, watching by the bedside; and, above all, the awful stillness in Edith's room while they waited for her to open her eyes. Perhaps she would never open them. What then? Beyond that Cynthia's imagination refused to go.

She was sorry that she had been so cross with Edith about Bronson. Suppose she never were able to speak to her sister again! Her last words would have been angry ones. She would not remember that Edith had done wrong to go; all that was forgotten in the vivid terror of the present moment.

The tall clock in the hall struck twelve. It was midnight again, just as it had been on New Year's Eve when she and Neal stood by the window and looked out on the snow. The clock had struck and Neal had not promised.

Reminded of Neal, she put her hand in her pocket and drew out the crumpled note. It had quite escaped her mind that she was to meet him to-morrow. To-morrow? It was to-day! She was to see Neal to-day, and bring him back to her mother. Poor mamma! And Cynthia looked lovingly at the silent watcher by the bed.

Edith did not die. The doctor, who spent the night at Oakleigh, spoke more hopefully in the morning. She was very seriously hurt, but he thought that in time she would recover. She was conscious when he left.

The morning dawned fair, but by nine o'clock the sun was obscured. It was one of those warm spring days when the clouds hang low and showers are imminent. Mrs. Franklin was surprised when Cynthia told her that she was going on the river.

"To-day, Cynthia? It looks like rain, and you must be tired, for you had little sleep last night. Besides, your father may arrive at any moment if he got my telegram promptly, and then, dear Edith!"

"I know, mamma," faltered Cynthia. It was hard to explain away her apparent thoughtlessness. "But I sha'n't be gone long. It always does me good to paddle, and Jack will be at home and the nurse has come. Do you really need me, mamma?"

"Oh no, not if you want to go so much. I thought perhaps Edith would like to have you near. But I must go back to her now. Don't stay away too long, Cynthia. I like to have you within call."

Cynthia would have preferred to stay close by Edith's side, but there was no help for it: she must go to Neal. Afterwards, when she came back and brought Neal with her, her mother would understand.

She was soon in the canoe, paddling rapidly down-stream. A year had not made great alteration in Cynthia's appearance. As she was fifteen years old now her gowns were a few inches longer, and her hair was braided and looped up at the neck, instead of hanging in curly disorder as it once did; and this was done only out of regard for Edith. Cynthia herself cared no more about the way she looked than she ever did. She did not want to grow up, she said. She preferred to remain a little girl, and have a good time just as long as she possibly could.

It was quite a warm morning for the time of year, and the low-hanging clouds made exercise irksome, but Cynthia did not heed the weather. Her one idea was to reach Neal as quickly as possible and bring him home. How happy her mother would be! She wondered why he had not returned to the house at once, instead of sending for her in this mysterious fashion; it would have been so much nicer. However, she was glad he had come, even this way. It was far better than not coming at all.

Her destination lay several miles from Oakleigh; but the current and what breeze there was were both in Cynthia's favor, and it was not long before she had passed under the stone bridge which stood about half-way between. She met no one; the river was little frequented at this hour of the morning so far from the town, for the numerous curves in the Charles made it a much longer trip by water than by road from Oakleigh to Brenton. A farmer's boy or two watched her pass, and criticised loudly, though amiably, the long free sweep of her paddle.

Cynthia did not notice them. Her mind was fully occupied, and her eyes were fixed upon the distance. As each bend in the river was rounded she hoped that she might see Neal's familiar figure waiting for her.

And at last she did see him. He was sitting on the bank, leaning against the trunk of a tree, and when she came in sight he ran down to the little beach that made a good landing-place just at this point.

"Cynthia, you're a brick!" he exclaimed. "I was afraid you were not coming."

"Oh, Neal, I'm _so_ glad to see you! Get in quickly, and we'll go back as fast as we can. Of course I came, but we mustn't lose a minute on account of Edith. Hurry!"

"What do you mean? I'm not going back with you."

"Not going back? Why, Neal, of course you are."

"Not by a long shot. Did you think I would ever go back there?"

"Neal!"

Cynthia's voice trembled. The color rose in her face and her eyes filled with tears.

"Neal, you can't really mean it?"

"Of course I do."

"Then why did you send for me?"

"Because I wanted to see you. There, don't look as if you were going to cry, Cynthia. I hate girls that cry, and you never were that sort. I'll be sorry I sent for you if you do."

Cynthia struggled to regain her composure. This was a bitter disappointment, but she must make every effort to prevail upon Neal to yield.

"I'm not crying," she said, blinking her eyes very hard. "Tell me what you mean."

"I don't mean anything in particular, except that I wanted to see you again, perhaps for the last time." This with a rather tragic air.

"The last time?"

"Yes. I've made up my mind to cut loose from everybody, and just look out for myself after this. If my only sister suspects me of stealing, I don't care to have anything more to do with her. I can easily get along until I'm twenty-five. I'll just knock round and take things easy, and if I go to the bad no one will care particularly."

"Neal, I had no idea you were such a coward!" exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly.

"Coward! You had better look out, Cynthia. I won't stand much of that sort of thing."

"You've got to stand it. I call you a coward. You ran away like a boy in a dime novel, just because you couldn't stand having anything go wrong. You were afraid to brave it out. _Afraid!_"

There was no suspicion of tears now in Cynthia's voice. She knelt in the canoe very erect and very angry. Her cheeks were crimson, and her blue eyes had grown very dark.

"I tell you again to take care," said Neal, restraining his anger with difficulty. "I did not send for you to come down here and rave this way."

"And I never would have come if I'd thought you were going to behave this way. I'm dreadfully, _dreadfully_ disappointed in you, Neal. I always thought you were a very nice boy, and I was awfully fond of you--almost as fond of you as I am of Jack, and now--"

She broke off abruptly and looked away across the river.

If Neal was touched by this speech he did not show it at the moment. He stood with his hands in his pockets, kicking the toe of his boot against a rock.

"Of course I couldn't stay there," he said, presently. "Your father as good as called me a thief."

"He didn't at all. He didn't really believe you had taken the money until you ran away. Then, of course, every one thought it strange that you went, and I don't wonder. And I couldn't tell how it really was, because I had promised you; but I'm not going to keep the promise any longer, Neal. I am going to tell."

"No, you can't. You've promised, and I won't release you. I am not going to demean myself by explaining; they ought to have believed in me. But I wish you would stop scolding, Cynthia, and come up here on the bank. I can't talk while you are swinging round there with the current."

After a moment's hesitation Cynthia complied with his request. It occurred to her that perhaps she could accomplish more by persuasion than by wrath. Neal drew up the boat and they sat down under the tree.

"Where have you been all this time?" asked Cynthia.

"In Boston, first. I've been staying with several fellows. I gave out that I was going to Philadelphia, for I thought you would be looking for me, and it is true, for I am going, some time soon. Then I went to Roxbury, and yesterday I walked out from there and found that little shaver to take the note to you."

"Have you told your friends that you ran away?"

"No. Why should I? Fortunately I took enough clothes, though these are beginning to look a little shabby. I spent last night in a shed. I've only got a little money left, but it will answer until I get something to do."

"Neal, do you know you are just breaking mamma's heart?"

Neal said nothing.

"She has looked so awfully ever since you left, and she wrote to you in Philadelphia, and papa went on, but we had to send for him to come back on account of Edith."

"What about Edith?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? Edith had a fearful accident yesterday. She was driving with--she went to drive, and was thrown out and was terribly hurt."

"I'm awfully sorry," said Neal, with real concern in his voice. "How did it happen? Was it one of your horses?"

"No," said Cynthia, hurrying over that part of it, for she did not want Neal to know that Edith had been with Bronson; "but she was very much hurt, Neal. She was unconscious nearly all night, and the doctor thought perhaps she--she would die. Oh, Neal, won't you come back? Won't you please come back?"

Neal rose abruptly, and began to walk up and down the little clearing.

"I wish you wouldn't, Cynthia," he remonstrated; "I've told you I couldn't, and you ought not to ask me. I'm awfully sorry about Edith, and I'm sorry Hessie feels so badly about me. I'll give in about one thing. You can tell her you have seen me and that I am well. You needn't say I'm going to the bad, but very likely I shall. You mustn't say a word about having lent me the money, I will not have that explained. There, it has begun to rain."

A few big drops came pattering down, falling with loud splashes into the river.

"Oh, I must hurry back!" exclaimed Cynthia, hastily drying her eyes.

"It's only going to be a shower. Come up here where the trees are thicker, and wait till it is over. See, it's all bright over there."

Cynthia looked in the direction indicated, and seeing a streak of cloud that was somewhat lighter than the rest, concluded to wait. Perhaps she could yet prevail upon Neal to come.

They went into the woods a short distance, and though there were not many leaves upon the trees as yet, they were more protected than in the open. It was raining hard now.

"Neal," said Cynthia, in her gentlest tones, "when you have thought it over a little more I'm sure you will agree with me. Indeed, you ought to come."

"I have done nothing else but think it over, and I tell you I am not coming, Cynthia. I wish you wouldn't say any more. I sent for you because I wanted to see you once more, and now you're spoiling it all. I don't believe you care a bit about me."

"Oh, Neal, how can you say so? You know I do care, very much. I'm awfully disappointed in you, that's all. I always thought you were brave and good, and would do things you ought to do, even when you didn't want to. It does seem selfish to stay away and make mamma feel so badly, when it would only be necessary to come home and say you had borrowed the money of me, to make everything all right. It seems very selfish indeed, but perhaps I am mistaken. I dare say I'm very selfish myself, and have no right to preach to you, but if you could see mamma I'm sure you would feel as I do."

Neal remained silent.

"But I still have faith in you," continued Cynthia. "I think some day you will see it as I do. I am sure you will. Oh, dear, how wet it is getting."

The rain was coming down in torrents. The ground was wet and soggy, and their feet sank in the drenched leaves. The canoe, drawn up on the bank, was full of water.

"I ought to have gone home. It is going to rain all day, and mamma will be so worried."

The clouds had settled down heavily, and there was no prospect whatever of the rain stopping.

"I must go right away; I am wet through now. Oh, Neal, if you would only go with me! Won't you go, Neal?"

But Neal shook his head.

"Very well; then it is good-by. But remember what I said, Neal. It's your own fault that the family think you took it. And if mamma or any one ever asks me any questions about what I am going to do with Aunt Betsey's present, I'm not going to pretend anything. If they choose to find out I lent it to you, they can. You won't say I can tell them; so, of course, I can't do it, as I promised, but I sha'n't prevent them finding it out. Oh, Neal, do, _do_ come!"

"I'm a brute, Cynth, I know, but I can't give in. You don't know how hard it is for me ever to give in. I'll remember what you said. Please shake hands for good-by to me, if you don't think I'm too mean and selfish and heartless and a coward, and everything else you've said."

"Oh, Neal!" cried Cynthia, as she grasped his hand with both of hers, "some day I'm sure you will come. Good-by, Neal."

They turned over the canoe, which was full of rain-water, and then Cynthia embarked. Suddenly an idea occurred to her--she would make one more effort.

"Neal, you will have to go part way with me. I'm really afraid to go alone. It is raining so hard the boat will fill up, and it will take me so long to go alone."

Neal could not resist this very feminine appeal. He hesitated, and then got in and took the extra paddle.

"I'll go part way. Cynthia, but I won't go home. Of course I can't let you go off alone if you're afraid. I never knew you to be so before."

With long, vigorous strokes they were soon pulling up-stream. Occasionally one of them would stop and bail with the big sponge kept in the boat for emergencies.

The rain splashed into the river, and the dull gray stream seemed to run more swiftly than usual. It looked very different from its wont. Cynthia and Neal, many times as they had been together on the Charles, had never before been there in a storm.

"Everything is changed," thought Cynthia: "even my own river is different. Will things ever be the same again? Oh, if Neal will only give in when we get near home!"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A WAR FLEET IN TRAINING.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

The fleet cruiser _Minneapolis_ lies straining at her arched cable off Tompkinsville, Staten Island. The last of the flood tide is singing around the outward curve of her powerful ram, and a gentle southerly breeze is floating to leeward from her massive yellow smoke-stacks, two columns of oily-brown smoke, for the signal "spread fires" flew from the flag-ship hours ago, and the fleet is in readiness to get under way. Down in the fire-room the coal-passers feed the giant furnaces that roar for more. Water-tenders and machinists glide hither and thither watching the boilers and the machinery. On the platforms beside the twin engines stand engineer officers waiting for the signal to start the propellers. Brass-work and steel-work glitter with the splendor of a new polish, and under all rumbles the dull monotone of the dynamo.

On the bridge stand the Captain, the Executive Officer, the navigator, the officer of the watch, the cadet whose duty it is to watch for signals, and a signal boy. A seaman stands by the wheel, and a quartermaster stands beside him. On the after-bridge stand the junior-officer of the watch, a quartermaster, and two signal boys. About the decks are hundreds of seamen ready to jump to their allotted stations. All are silent, eager, alert.

"Signal, sir," says the cadet, referring to his fleet signal-book; "137--get under way."

A word from the Executive Officer, and the steam-winch rolls in the cable. A touch upon an electric button, a rattle of jangling bells below, and the mighty engines turn slowly over, taking the strain off the cable, and sending the ship up to her anchor. Another string of flags runs to the signal-yard of the flag-ship.

"Form column of vessels," reads the cadet from the signal-book, "natural order." A minute later the North Atlantic Squadron, Admiral Bunce commanding, is steaming in single file out toward the Narrows, the flag-ship _New York_ leading, followed by the _Minneapolis_, _Columbia_, _Raleigh_, _Montgomery_, _Cushing_, _Ericsson_, and _Stiletto_. A triangular shape swings point up half-way between the Deck and the signal-yard of the _New York_. It means half-cruising speed--five knots an hour--and the other ships repeat the signal. Silently, majestically, keeping their distances like soldiers on parade, the powerful steel cruisers and the agile torpedo-boats move down the Conover Channel, around the Southwest Spit, past the Hook bell-buoy, out the Gedney Channel, and past the old red light-ship to the open sea. Another string of signals rises on the flag-ship, and the answering pennants flutter on the other ships while the signal-book says,

"Form double column."

Every ship knows her place, and in a few minutes the right wing is made of the _Minneapolis_, _Montgomery_, _Cushing_, and _Stiletto_, and the left of the others, the flag-ship at the head and in the centre. The speed is now up to the full cruising limit--ten knots an hour--and as the ships go rolling and bowing over the Atlantic swells, their keen prows send up fountains of silvery foam that spread away on either bow in streamers of snow on the living blue. The flag-ship signals the course, and again the others answer with the pennant of perpendicular red and white stripes. The quiet of an orderly sea-march settles down over the fleet, yet never for one instant, night or day, does vigilance relax, for at any moment signals may break out on the flag-ship, though they be nothing more than some vessel's number to warn her that she is out of position.

But other signals do appear, for this is no holiday cruise, but one of practice and ceaseless drill. Fleet tactics are executed almost without rest. "Form line of battle, wings right and left front into line;" "By vessels from the right front into echelon," "Front into line," "Squadrons right turn," "Form line, left wing left oblique," "Form column, vessels right turn," and dozens of other orders are given by the flag-ship, and executed with precision and accuracy which would amaze a landsman, but which probably fall far short of the high ideal in the Admiral's mind. Empty, paradelike manoeuvres these would seem to the ignorant, but it was the skill of his captains in the execution of such movements, combined with their knowledge of his plans, that enabled Nelson to hurl his fleet upon that of Villeneuve at Trafalgar with such fatal accuracy after hoisting only three signals to the yard-arm of the _Victory_.

In the darkness of a cloudy night one of the ships is detached with secret orders. She is to indicate an enemy's force, and to fall upon the fleet at some unexpected hour the next day. From the moment of her departure the lookouts on the remaining ships doubly strain their eyes, and not a spar rises above the horizon that is not studied with all a seaman's skill. In the first dog-watch of the next afternoon, when the sailors forward are amusing themselves with pipe and song, the lookout in the foretop cries,

"Steamer ho!"

In answer to the questions of the officer of the watch, he says the smoke looks like that of a cruiser. The _New York_ has seen her too, and the next minute signals fly at her yard-arm. The Captain nods, and the hollows of the ship are filled with the sharp beating of a drum, the shrill screeching of boatswains' pipes, and the sound of heavy voices bawling, "All hands clear ship for action!" That is a thrilling cry, even in time of peace, and half-slumbering sailors spring to their feet with staring eyes and panting breath. Marines rush to the arm-racks to get their rifles, belts, and bayonets. Officers buckle on swords and revolvers, and spring to their stations.

And now begins a brief period of bustling activity, which to a landsman would seem like confusion itself confounded. Boats are lashed around with canvas to keep splinters from flying, extra slings are rigged on yards and gaffs to keep them from falling to the deck if struck by shot, breastworks of hammocks are made on bridges, forecastle, and poops, stanchions and rails are sent below, and everything that can be removed is taken from the deck so that the guns may have a clear sweep. The magazines and fixed ammunition-rooms are thrown open, and the men of the powder division take the stations allotted to them for keeping up a continuous supply of ammunition to the whole battery. Hatch-covers are lifted, shell-whips are rigged for hoisting away the heavy charges for the big guns, and chutes are placed for sending empty cartridge-cases below. The men belonging to the lighting-tops go aloft and hoist ammunition for their guns. The crews of the main battery open the breeches of their great weapons, sponge out the chambers, insert the big steel shells and powder cartridges, and stand waiting for orders.

At last all is ready, and the division officers report to the Executive Officer, who in turn reports to the Captain.

The flag-ship signals the order for the formation for attack, and then at full speed the vessels dash forward. Signals follow signals, and the ships go through swift and graceful evolutions, until the Admiral's programme has been fully carried out. Then the vessel that was detached to represent the enemy lowers over her side a pyramidal target of white canvas with a black spot painted in the centre. She steams back to her position in line. Now the vessels in turn glide slowly along at a distance of 1600 or 1800 yards from the target, and the thunder of great guns fairly shakes the heavens, while the massive steel projectiles strike the water around the target, and thrash it into glaring geysers of milk-white foam. It would be a sad time for any hostile ship if she lay where that target is.

At last the target practice is over, while a great cloud of gray smoke drifting slowly off to leeward, and the signal "Secure" at the flag-ship's yard-arm, are all that remain of the recent scene of action. Once again signals direct the formation of the fleet in double column, and like some giant duck leading a flock of monster ducklings across the sea the _New York_ swims away, followed by her steel companions. This time the fleet steers for a harbor. Again the red and blue flags blossom at the _New York_'s yard-arm like the magic flowers in the last scene of a fairy play.

"Two thirty-seven," reads the cadet from the signal-book; "anchor in column."

With the precision of carriages driven to a church door at a wedding the big ships and the little torpedo-boats stop at their proper stations, and the hoarse rumble of cables through hawse-holes tell that the anchors have gone down. All but three--for see, there go the three torpedo-boats, spinning around on their heels, and gliding out of the harbor as silently and as swiftly as mice. There is to be a torpedo-boat attack. This will be made under cover of the darkness, and the anchored ships will strive, by means of their search-lights, to detect the assailants. If the torpedo-boat succeeds in approaching a certain ship within a given distance without being seen, she is credited with having sunk or disabled that ship, for that is what she would do in time of war.

The night is intensely dark, and the blinding search-lights pierce the blackness in every direction with their shafts of dazzling white. Under the shallow of the land, with every light extinguished, the torpedo-boats, painted a color which blends with that of the sea, steal noiselessly toward the fleet. Suddenly they separate, and with lightning speed dash forward. See! a brilliant light falls on one. She is caught, and the firing of rifles and Gatling-guns from the tops shows that she is hotly received. The other two escape detection, and make their presence known inside the circle. Red and while lights flash signals along the main rigging of the _New York_. The day's work is over, and erelong tired blue-jackets hear the bugles blow the welcome notes of the tattoo.

The next morning the flag-ship hoists the signal for a landing-party. Boats are lowered away, and Jack Tar prepares to go ashore as a seaman-infantryman. With his brown canvas leggings, his brown belt and knapsack, his formidable rifle and bayonet, the sailor makes a serviceable coast soldier. At a signal from the flag-ship the boats are hauled to the companion-ladders, and the men pour into them. Rifles are laid down, and oars are taken up, for Jacky rows himself ashore. Another signal, and the boats, shooting out from the sides of the ships, fall into their allotted places. Again a signal, and they start for the shore, the oars in the rowlocks beating time to a sort of sea-march. As the boats strike the beach the bugle sounds the "assembly," and in a few minutes the battalion of marines and seamen-infantry is formed. The band from the flag-ship strikes up "Nancy Lee," and with that invigorating swing that belongs to Jack Tar alone the battalion marches inland, where it goes through all the evolutions of the street riot and battle drills, and finishes with a dress parade to the delight of all the boys in that part of the land.

And thus from day to day the work of the squadron runs on, the Admiral constantly propounding new topics for its study; for no one knows better than a naval officer the necessity of being ready for active service at a moment's notice. That readiness can be attained only by obeying the good old maxim: "In time of peace prepare for war."

BUTTERFLY BOWS.

BY MILDRED HOWELLS.

Once a little girl existed Who was fond of pomps and shows, And upon her braids insisted Tying two great scarlet bows.

Though her father couldn't bear them, And her gentle mother said That she wished her child should wear them Tied with modest bows instead.

But their wishes she made light of, And her gaudy ribbons grew Bigger every day, in spite of All her friends could say or do.

Till this child, all counsel spurning, Found with horror and surprise That her bows were slowly turning Into monstrous butterflies.

First they gently swayed and fluttered, Then with spreading wings they flew, Ere one sad farewell was uttered, Straight into the welkin blue.

So she vanished; still her mother Hopes those wandering bows will bring Back her daughter, when the other Butterflies return with Spring.

This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.

It isn't a very hard task to set the table, is it, girls? Yet I find that it takes skill, taste, and pains to do this simple thing so very nicely that the family coming to the table three times a day will have the feeling that they have been expected, and their comfort and pleasure planned for.

One important thing to be considered when setting the table is the table-cloth. This should be of fair white linen, if possible, with a pretty pattern of ferns or blocks or clover leaves, but even if it be coarse, and not beautiful in design, it must always be spotlessly clean. Do not let the laundress starch your table-cloth. No starch is needed. It must, however, be ironed with exquisite nicety, folded evenly down the middle, and the crease made by folding shown plainly by the pressure of the flat-iron. A table-cloth must not be laid upon the bare table. Next to the table you must have a heavy undercloth of felt or Canton flannel. This serves several purposes. It removes the danger of injury to the table itself from hot dishes, which sometimes leave a disfiguring white rim or scarred edge upon it polished surface, it deadens sounds, and it brings out well the pretty figures on the cloth. If used with care, an undercloth of this kind will last a long time, and I have found Canton flannel much more satisfactory than felt.

When you begin to set your table for breakfast or dinner, decide on the places for the different members of the family, and then do not change these except when you have guests. Mamma will have before her the tray with the cups and saucers, the tea things, and the coffee urn. I hope you make tea and coffee on the table; it is a graceful occupation for the house-mother, and insures your always having clear coffee, and hot, delicious tea, and is, besides, very little trouble once the habit has been established. A simple French coffee-pot with an alcohol lamp, a small tea-kettle also with a lamp, a tea-caddy, and a rule always adhered to, will make these processes simple. Cups and saucers and the cream-jug, sugar-bowl, and spoon-holder should be beside the mother's place.

Oatmeal and other cereals, if served on the table at breakfast, should stand by the sister or brother who dispenses them. It is best to begin with a fruit course, and, therefore, finger-bowls, fruit doilies, and plates, with the knives, forks, and spoons needed for this, should be on the table when the family seat themselves. If you wish to save trouble, and have the meal pass on in an orderly manner, you may place by each plate all the knives, forks, and teaspoons which will be required during a meal. These will be used one by one, always beginning with that on the outside, farthest from the plate, and as the maid changes the plates for each course she will remove the knives and forks which belong to that.

Flowers should form a point of beauty for the eye, and decorate every home table. You do not need many; a single rose or cluster of lilies, three or four pinks with a few sprays of mignonette, a few stalks of salvia, a half-dozen asters, with geranium leaves or lemon verbena, or sweet-peas in the season, nasturtiums, golden and glowing as flame, are very ornamental. A cut glass bowl, or a clear bowl of pressed glass, if bright and free from lint, a china vase, or any pretty bouquet-holder will answer for the purpose of holding the flowers, which must be removed and replaced by others the moment they become withered and faded; never keep dying or dead flowers in any living-room, and, above all, never let them remain an hour on your table. Wild flowers are the loveliest things for ornamenting the table, and you may have as many of them as you can mass effectively.

It is optional--that is, you may do as you like about the placing of food on the table. But I think the prettier way, when it can be done, is to set the roast on the table for the father to carve, and serve the vegetables from a side table. Salad, with thin wafer crackers and cream cheese, is a course by itself. Dessert follows this; coffee comes last at dinner, and you may ask people if you choose to step from the table to the library, or the porch, if it be in the summer-time, and sip their after-dinner coffee there.

Pretty bread-and-butter plates, with knives of their own, are a great convenience, and if you are saving up your money as a family to give mother a particularly acceptable Christmas gift, why not buy her a set of these?

This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Camera Club Department.

MARINES.

Last year many of the pictures sent in labelled "Marines" were really landscapes showing, perhaps, a tiny bit of water. A marine, strictly speaking, means a sea picture, but when prizes are offered for marines, views on lakes and rivers are always admitted, so that one need not necessarily send in a picture taken at the sea-shore.

Among the most attractive of marine views are those showing a view of rugged cliffs with the surf beating against them, where wave after wave "breaks on the rocks, which, stern and gray, shoulders the broken tide away." To obtain the most successful picture of such a scene one should use a tripod, and get as clear a focus as possible. Get the plate ready, set the shutter, and then wait till a big wave comes rolling in, and, breaking against the rocks, sends the spray high in air. At the very instant that it strikes the rock snap the shutter, and if the exposure has been all right, the picture will be everything to be desired of the breaking waves. Use a small diaphragm (6/32 being a good size), and make a quick exposure. If the day is rather dull use a size larger diaphragm and a trifle slower exposure.

A stretch of sandy beach with the tide coming in makes a good marine, especially if there are plenty of clouds in the sky. Such a picture must have some object in the foreground in order to secure the effect of distance and perspective. A piece of drift-wood, an old wreck, or any object of suitable size that one finds along the shore, will do to break the level of the sand.

Marine views also include pictures of water-craft. Yachts are the most graceful of water-craft, but the old dory is not to be despised. One of the marines which took a prize last year was entitled, "Stranded." It was the picture of a once handsome yacht, which had been driven ashore by a storm, and was lying partly on its side on the beach. The cloud effects in this picture were very good, and added much to the beauty of the picture. The picture was well taken, and the subject a rather uncommon one for a photograph.

Another marine sent in last year was a picture of a lighthouse, built on jagged-looking rocks, taken when the tide was just coming in. Still another, which was not strictly a marine, was a view of a long line of vessels drawn up at the dock. The picture had the effect of a street of ships instead of houses.

The prizes offered for marine and landscape views are less than those offered for figure studies, as marines or landscapes are usually much easier pictures to make than figures.

The entry for "Marines" closes on October 15th, for after that date there is usually little opportunity for making successful water pictures. Be sure and get your pictures in at least a week before this date. Take special pains with the finishing and mounting, as technical excellence is one of the points for which the pictures are to be marked.

SIR KNIGHT JOHN H. CHAMBERS says that his last batch of negatives were so black that he could get no prints, and asks if there is any way to remedy them. The plates were developed too long and are too dense. This can be reduced by the following process: Cyanide of potassium, 1/2 oz.; water, 10 oz. Dissolve and add 2 drachms of bromine water. Soak the plate in clear water for a few minutes till the film is softened, and then immerse in this solution for a few seconds. Take out and wash, and if the negative is still too dense immerse it again. Repeat the process till the film is reduced sufficiently. Label the bottle "Poison," and keep it carefully locked up when not in use. One should have a plate lifter, or use rubber finger-tips when handling the plates with this solution. Sir John also says that the gelatine gets black first on the side next to the plate when developing. If the tray is kept gently rocking during development the development should be from the top downward. When the image is seen from the back of the plate it is supposed that development has proceeded as far as it will, and the plate is left in the developer simply to acquire the proper density. This can be judged by looking through the plate toward the light, holding it rather near the light. Sir John says he would like to start a Camera Club or Chapter, and wants members of the club to write and send suggestions and also to join the Chapter. We have several successful Chapters already, and would like to have more among our members.

SIR KNIGHT OCTAVE DE MAURIAC, P. O. Box 596, Middletown, Connecticut, would like correspondence from Sir Knights or chapters interested in photography. Will answer all letters, and would also like to exchange photographic prints.

SIR KNIGHT HARRY H. LUTHER, of Nantucket, Massachusetts, says he would like to become a member of the Camera Club. We are very glad to add the name of Sir Harry to our club list. As he writes from Nantucket, Massachusetts, we shall expect some fine marine pictures from him for the coming contest. Sir Harry asks for papers on retouching, special toning, formulas, etc. These papers are ready for publication and will soon appear.

ON BOARD THE ARK.

BY ALBERT LEE.