CHAPTER XVI.

But Neal would not "give in." Cynthia's renewed entreaties were of no more avail than they had been before.

"I will not come," he repeated again and again, and at last Cynthia gave up asking.

He got out of the canoe just below the Oakleigh landing, and where he was hidden from the house.

"I hope you won't be ill, Cynthia," he said. "I am sorry I made you come out such a day; it will be my fault if you take cold. One more bad thing I have done. My life isn't a bit of good, anyhow; I've a good mind to go and drown myself-- I'm half drowned now."

He laughed somewhat bitterly, as he looked down at his drenched clothes.

"Cynthia, I'm a brute. Hurry in and change your things. I'm off to Pelham; I'll take a train there for Boston. I'll let you know where I go; and I say, Cynth, won't you write to a fellow now and then? I don't deserve it, I know, but I'd like to hear from you, and I'll want to know how Edith gets along."

"Yes, if you will let me know your address. Good-by, Neal," she said, sadly.

"Good-by."

He stood and watched her. She rounded the curve where the boat-house was, and waved her hand as she disappeared. She was only a few yards away, and yet he could no longer see her. He could easily imagine how it would all be.

A man would come down from the barn and help her with the canoe. She would go up the hill and follow the path to the side door behind the conservatory. There would be exclamations of dismay when she came in, all dripping wet. Hester and the servants would hurry to help her, and she would be thoroughly dried and warmed; his sister would see to that--his sister, who thought him no better than a common thief!

And then Cynthia would tell how she had met him, and that he would not come home. How astonished Hester would be to hear that he was so near! He turned abruptly when he thought of this, and sprang up the bank to the road that lay between Brenton and Pelham. He crossed the bridge, and with one more look at the dark river, struck out at a good pace for Pelham, the nearest railway station.

He glanced back once at the chimneys and white walls of Oakleigh when he reached the spot from which they could be seen for the last time on the Pelham road. Then, bidding good-by to his past life, he hastened on.

The road that runs from Brenton to Pelham is very straight after one has passed Oakleigh. There are but few houses--nothing but meadows, trees, and bushes on either side. Neal, tramping over the broad expanse of gray mud, had nothing to distract his mind from the thoughts that filled it. At first they were very desperate ones.

"Cynthia had no right to come and rant the way she did. The idea of calling me a coward, and telling me I was like a boy in a dime novel because I ran away! It was the only thing to do. They had no business to suspect me. They-- Confound it! I won't put up with such treatment. I'll stick to my resolution and drop the whole concern. What a long, straight road this is, and how I hate the rain!"

At last he reached the end of it and entered the little town of Pelham, uninteresting at the best of times, and doubly so on such a day as this. The inhabitants were all within doors; not even a dog was stirring.

"Every one is dry and comfortable but me," thought Neal, miserably, as he went into the station.

Fortunately, the next train for Boston was soon due, and it did not take long for him to reach the friend's house in one of the suburbs at which he had left his possessions.

A merry party was staying there for the Easter holidays, and Neal was the subject of much speculation and concern when he appeared, weary and wet, in their midst. Every one supposed that he had gone to Brenton to visit his sister, and they wondered why he had come back on such a stormy day.

Though the story of Neal was well known in Brenton, oddly enough it had not yet reached his friends in Boston, and he did not enlighten them. He went to his room and staid there for several hours. With dry clothes he came into a better frame of mind.

Poor little Cynthia! How good she was to come to meet him such a day, when she must have wanted to stay with Edith. And how badly she felt about him; much more so than he deserved. He was not worth it. How she had fired up when she told him that he was a coward! He must prove to her that he was not. He would never give in and go back there, never! But there were other ways of proving it; he could go to work and show her that he was made of good stuff after all. He should not have frightened Cynthia by saying that he would "go to the bad." But, then, he had been abominably treated. He could not go to college now, for he would never accept it from Hessie, who had been willing to believe he took the money. He lashed himself into a fury again as he thought of it. He was utterly unreasonable, but of course he was quite unconscious of being so.

Finally the better thoughts came uppermost again, and he decided what to do. He would go to Philadelphia and ask his guardian to put him in the way of getting some work. He would tell him the whole story. Fortunately, he did not remember that Cynthia had said her father went to Philadelphia; if he had he would not have gone, thinking that his guardian would have been prejudiced against him by his brother-in-law.

He packed his valise and started that night, though his friends urged him to stay longer. He felt a feverish impatience to be off and have things settled. With it was a feeling of excitement; he was going to seek his fortune. Thrown upon a cold world by the unkind and unjust suspicions of his nearest relatives, he would rise above adverse circumstances and "ennoble fate by nobly bearing it!"

It was a very heroic martyr that bought a ticket for Philadelphia that night.

He did not engage a berth in the sleeping-car; he was a poor man now and must begin to economize. Besides, upon counting his money he found that he had but just enough with which to reach his destination.

He was very tired with the adventures of the last two days, and the night before, spent in a shed, had not been comfortable, so he slept well, notwithstanding the fact that he was not in a Pullman sleeper. He did not wake until it was broad daylight, and the train was speeding along through New Jersey. The storm was over, the sun was shining down upon a bright and rain-washed world, and Neal Gordon was entering upon a new life.

"So this is the 'Quaker City,'" he thought, as the train glided over the bridges and into the huge station. "I wonder if every one is in a broad-brimmed hat! And now to find cousin William Carpenter. He's a Quaker of the Quakers, I suppose; I can never get into the habit of saying 'thee' and 'thou.'"

He did not see much of the Quaker element in the busy station, nor when he went down stairs and out on to Broad Street. He was on the point of jumping into a hansom to be driven to his cousin's house, when he remembered that he had not a cent in his pocket with which to pay for it. It was a novel experience for Neal.

He inquired the way to Arch Street, and found that it was not very far from where he was, and he soon reached the designated number.

"Not a broad-brimmer have I seen yet," he said to himself, as he pulled the bell-handle. He looked up and down the street while he waited. It was wider than some that he had passed through, and rather quiet except for the jingling horse-cars. It was very straight, and lined with red brick houses with white marble steps and heavy wooden shutters.

He looked down, as he stood on the dazzling steps, at his boots splashed with Boston mud, and he shuddered at the effect they might have on his cousins. He should have had them cleaned at the station; but then he did not have five cents to spend.

The door was opened, and he walked into the parlor and sent up his card. It was a large room with very little furniture in it, and the few chairs and sofas that there were stood stiffly apart. Not an ornament was to be seen but a large clock that ticked slowly and sedately on the marble mantel-piece. There were no curtains, but "Venetian blinds," formed of green slats, hung at the windows. It all looked very neat and very bare, and extremely stiff.

It was not long before Neal heard a step in the hall, and an elderly man entered the room. He was very tall, and wore a long, quaint-looking coat that flapped as he walked. His face was smooth, and of a calm, benign expression that Neal afterwards found was never known to vary. He came in with outstretched hand.

"Thee is Neal Gordon. I am pleased to meet thee again, cousin. Come up stairs to breakfast; Rachel will be glad to see thee."

Who Rachel was Neal could not imagine, as he followed his host up a short flight of stairs to the breakfast-room. He supposed she must be a young daughter of the house, for although William Carpenter was both his kinsman and his guardian, the relationship had until now been merely nominal, and Neal knew very little about him or his family.

Sitting at the table, behind the tall silver urn and the cups and saucers, was an old lady in a close white cap and spectacles. A snowy kerchief of some fine white material was folded about her shoulders over a gray dress. Her face, also, was calm and sweet, and wore the same expression as did her husband's.

"Rachel," said he, "this is our cousin, Neal Gordon. Neal, this is my wife, Rachel."

"I am glad to see thee, Neal," she said, extending her hand without rising; "sit down. Thee'll be glad to have a cup of coffee, doubtless, if thee's just arrived from the train, as thee has the look of doing." This with a glance at his travel-stained clothes.

Neal, very conscious of his muddy boots, thanked her, and sat down at the table, where a neat-looking servant had made ready a place for him. It seemed funny that they took his arrival as a matter of course, but he supposed that was the Quaker way. At any rate, they were very kind, and it was the best breakfast he ever ate. Even if he had not been so hungry, the coffee would have been delicious, and all the rest of it, too.

His cousins asked him no questions, but after breakfast he was shown to a room and told to make himself comfortable.

"But I would like to speak to you, sir," he said to his host--"that is, if you don't mind. I came on to Philadelphia on business." This with a rather grand air.

"Verily," said William Carpenter; "but I have no time now. I go to my office every day at this hour. Thee can come with me if thee wishes, and we will converse there."

Neal agreed, and hastily brushing his clothes and giving a dab to his boots he set out, much amused at the new company in which he found himself. Mr. Carpenter wore a tall beaver hat, of wide brim and ancient shape, which he never removed from his head, even though he met one or two ladies who bowed to him.

"They don't all seem to be Quakers, though," thought Neal, as, leaving Arch Street, they took their way across the city, and met and passed many people of as worldly an aspect as any to be seen in Boston--in fact, his companion's broad-brimmed hat seemed sadly out of place.

The houses too were different in this locality. Easter flowers bloomed in the windows between handsome curtains, and there were not so many white shutters and marble steps--in fact, with a street band playing on the corner and the merry peal of chimes that rang from a neighboring steeple it seemed quite a gay little town, thought Neal, with condescension.

His cousin pointed out the sights as they walked.

"There are the public buildings," he said, "and beyond is the great store of John Wanamaker. This is Chestnut Street, and yonder is the Mint. Thee will go there and to Independence Hall while thee is here, and to Girard College, that is, if thee has a proper amount of public spirit, as I hope to be the case."

Neal humbly acquiesced, and then remarked upon the distance of his cousin's place of business from his house.

"Do you always walk?" he asked.

"Always. I have found that exercise is good, and the car fare worth saving. 'A penny saved is a penny gained,' I have made my motto through life, and for that reason I have never known want. I hope thee is neither extravagant nor lazy?"

This with a keen, shrewd, not unkindly glance from beneath the level gray eyebrows.

Neal colored and hoped he was not, knowing all the time that these were two serious faults of his.

They had passed through the fashionable part of the city, and were walking down a narrow, low-built street. In the distance was a huge space filled with great piles of boards that came far up above the high fence which surrounded the whole square.

"This is my office," said Mr. Carpenter, as he opened the door of a small low building in the corner of the great yard. "I am in the lumber business."

It was some time before he could say any more to his cousin. There were letters to be opened, his head clerk to be interviewed, men to be directed.

Neal sat at a window that looked out on the yard, and watched some men that were loading a huge dray. There were boards, boards, boards everywhere. How tired he should get of lumber if he had to stay here! He hoped that his business, whatever it might prove to be, would be more exciting and more in the heart of things than this remote lumber-yard. He thought from what he had heard that he would like to be a stock-broker, as long as he was barred out of the professions by not going through college.

He was just imagining himself on 'Change, in the midst of an eager crowd of other successful brokers, a panic imminent, and he alone cool and self-possessed, when his cousin's voice rudely interrupted his reverie. It sounded calmer than ever in contrast to Neal's day-dream.

"Cousin, if thee will come into my private office I will listen to thee for fifteen or twenty minutes."

Neal obeyed, but found it difficult to begin his story. It is a very hard thing to tell a man that you are suspected of being a thief.

"I don't know whether you know," he began, rather haltingly, "that I--that--in fact, I've left Hester for good and all. You are my guardian, so you must know all about that conf--that abom--that--er-- well, that will of my grandmother's. Hester didn't give me a large enough allowance--at least, I didn't think it was enough--and I got into debt at school. It was not very much of a debt for a fellow with such a rich sister."

He paused, rather taken aback by the quick glance that was shot at him from the mild blue eyes of his Quaker cousin.

"What does thee call 'not much'?"

"A hundred dollars. I knew they would think it a lot, so I only told Hessie and John fifty, and she gave it to me. Afterwards the fellow I owed it to came down on me for the rest, and wrote to John, Hessie's husband. In the mean time I had got hold of some money in a _perfectly fair, honorable_ way, and sent it to the fellow, and he wrote again to John Franklin and said I had paid up. Then, just because a present one of the Franklin children expected at that time didn't come, they accused me of taking it. They had no earthly reason for supposing it except that I paid fifty dollars in gold for the money-order I sent, and the child's present was fifty dollars in gold."

"And where did thee get the money?"

The question came so quietly and naturally that Neal was taken unawares, and answered before he thought.

"Cynthia Franklin lent it to me. I hated to borrow of a girl, and I made her promise not to tell; afterwards I was glad I had. If they choose to suspect me, I'm not going to lower myself by explaining. And I will ask you, as a particular favor, Cousin William, not to tell any one. I didn't mean to mention it."

His cousin merely bowed, and asked him to continue.

"Well, there's not much more, except that I was suspended from school before that for a scrape I wasn't in, and it put everybody against me, and now I want to get something to do. I am going to support myself, and I thought I'd come to you, as you're my guardian and a cousin, and perhaps you would help me."

"Did thee know that thy brother-in-law, John Franklin, was here within a few days?"

Neal sprang to his feet.

"He was! Then he told you all this. I might have known it!"

"Thee may as well remain calm, Neal. Thee will gain nothing in this world by giving vent to undue excitement. John Franklin told me nothing, except that thee had left his home, and he had supposed thee was with me. He did not tell me of the gold, but he did say he feared thee was extravagant, in which I agreed with him. Thee has nothing to find fault with in what he said."

Neal felt rather ashamed of himself. After all, it had been generous in his brother-in-law not to prejudice his guardian against him.

"And now what does thee wish to do?" asked the old man, as he looked at his large gold-faced watch.

"I want to get some work," replied Neal.

"Is thee willing to take anything thee can get?"

"Yes, almost anything," with a hasty glance at the piles of lumber without.

"Does thee know that times are hard, and it is almost impossible for even young men of experience to get a situation, while thee is but a boy?"

"Ye-es. I suppose so."

"Thee need not expect much salary."

"No, only enough to live on. I'm going to be very economical."

William Carpenter smiled, and looked at the boy kindly. He was silent for a few minutes, and then he said:

"Neal, as thee is my ward and also my cousin, I am willing to make a place for thee here. We can give thee but a small stipend, but it is better than nothing for one who is anxious for work, as thee says thee is. Thee will not have board and lodging to pay for, however, as thee can make thy home with Rachel and myself. Our boy, had he lived, would have been about thy age."

This was said calmly, with no suspicion of emotion. It was simply the statement of a fact.

"Oh, thank you, cousin William, you are very kind! But--do you think I could ever learn the lumber business? It--it seems so--well, I don't exactly see what there is to do."

"Thee is too hasty, by far. Thee could not be expected to know the business before thee has set foot in the yard. But thee must learn first that it is well to make the most of every opportunity that comes to hand. Will thee, or will thee not, come into my home and my employ? It is the best I can do for thee."

And after a moment's hesitation, and one wild regret for the lost pleasures of the Stock Exchange, Neal agreed to do it.

It was thus he began his business life.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

* * * * *

It is enjoyable to read a good story of the biter being bitten, and the following one may not be amiss:

A class of students, holding a grudge against one of the professors, tied a live goose to his chair. Upon entering the room the professor saw the goose, and calmly walking up to the desk, addressed the class as follows:

"Gentlemen, as you have succeeded in getting an instructor so much better qualified to direct the bent of your ideas, I beg you will pardon me for resigning the chair."

BY ROWAN STEVENS.

_This is the tale that was told to me _By a man with a tarry queue, _Who sat with a spy-glass in his hand, And gazed on the waters blue; His hair was white, but his eye was bright, And straight was his ancient form, And his brown old face bore many a trace Of the battle and the storm._

I.

Ay, she was a ship! She showed her heels To the swiftest of them all; She weathered many a raging gale And many a roaring squall. And he--our Captain--of all the men That ever sailed the sea, There was never a one like Isaac Hull To handle a ship, said we. It was in one pleasant summer-time That the _Constitution_ lay A cable's length from an English ship In the bight of Lisbon Bay. Between that British crew and us The looks were grim and glum, For we thought of the war a few years back, And hoped for a war to come. The officers, though, were friendly still; They'd meet some day in war, And they knew they'd show their mettle then As they'd shown it well before. Yes, even the Captains, they were chums-- Our own old Do-and-Dare And Dacres of that royal ship, The saucy _Guerriere_. And many and many a time I've seen The two walk down the quay With their yard-arms locked and their chapeaus cocked, To gaze on the ships at sea. But Dacres turned to Hull one day And said: "They'd make a rare And even stand-up single fight, Those two ships lying there. Now what say you--if the war does come, As I think right well it may. And the _Constitution_ and _Guerriere_ Should meet in single fray, I'll bet you a hundred pounds or so-- A thousand, if you like-- The _Constitution_ that blessed day Will run or sink or strike." But Hull said: "I am too poor a man To bet a sum like that. Yet just for the sake of the stand you take I'll wager, say, a hat." The Captains laughed as the bet was made, And the ships soon sailed away From their peaceful, pleasant anchorage In the bight of Lisbon Bay.

II.

The trouble came, as we knew it would, And a joyous crew were we When we said good-by to the old home port And weighed for a cruise at sea, For the Press Gang and the Search Eight We had vowed to bear no more, And we bade farewell to parley, And welcome we bade to war.

Along the grim New England coast For many a mile we sailed, And ever a sharp lookout we kept, But never a ship we hailed, Till five days out, in the first dog-watch, We sighted a fleet of four Big fighting ships that made quick sail, And down upon us bore. From their lofty yards and bending masts The bellying canvas blew, And at the mizzen-peak of each The English ensign flew. "We can't fight too many odds," said Hull, "But ere the day be done We'll show how a well-manned Yankee ship Can lift up her heels and run." Then we called all hands and we made all sail, And slowly drew away From the English vessels that followed us So sure of an easy prey. But the winds were light and variable, Calm fell and all moved slow, The crowded boats of the English fleet Took the leading ship in tow. I stood by the wheel with a glass and saw That ship come creeping on, And my heart was in my throat awhile, For I thought that we were gone. And the leading ship full well I knew, The saucy _Guerriere_, And Dacres stood in her port fore chains With a confident, eager air. And I felt despair for our gallant crew, And woe for our gallant bark, When a long cry came from the leadsman's lip-- "Thirty fathom, by the mark!" Then a smile there came to the Captain's face, And a light to the Captain's eye, And he sent his kedges out ahead, And we made the capstan fly; We wet the sails down, fore and aft, We jumped at the bo's'n's call, We pumped out water for lightness' sake. And stood by davit and fall; As every little catspaw came We worked for the weather-gage,

And we kept those fellows alee, astern, And in an awful rage. For three long days and three long nights They held us well, and then A squall came up in a thunder-cloud, And we fooled those Englishmen. For they, as its ominous frown they saw, Stripped down to the bare, bare mast. While we held on with our topsails full To the teeth of the rising blast; And, as it struck us, we shortened sail At the Captain's quick command. But as soon as the full of its weight we felt We gave her all she'd stand; And merrily, merrily off we ran. And ere the day was done We had left them all clean out of sight In the wake of the setting sun. And Hull looked 'round the quarter-deck, And forward he looked, and aft, And he looked astern at the blank blue sea, And he looked at the sky--and laughed.

III.

And on through, the summer seas we bore, Until off stern Cape Clear Our ship fell in with a sloop-o'-war, A Yankee privateer. We hailed for news, and the sloop hove to, And off her skipper came And boarded us in a leaky yawl, With his wrathful cheek aflame; For "Down to the south'ard he'd been chased By a powerful English ship That was just too slow for his flying heels, And just too big to whip." We sent him back with a cheerful heart, And down to the south we swept. And a sharp lookout o'er the vacant sea Alow and aloft we kept.

One August evening we bowled along In a fresh nor'wester breeze, The rigging sung as along we swung, And rough were the tumbling seas. And I was sitting with pipe in hand Enjoying my watch below, When the masthead lookout hailed the deck With a loud and long, "Sail, ho!" "Now, where away?" the Captain cried, And into the shrouds sprang we To gaze at a speck in the distance dim, Clear white on the blue, blue sea. She stood along under easy sail, She made us out and tacked, She waited there with her headsails full, And her big maintopsail backed.

We picked her up hand over hand, We made her colors out-- That proud St. George's Cross we knew, And we longed for the coming hour. And Hull sang out, "To quarters, men, For the foe we seek is there, By the look of her lines and the cut of her jib I know the _Guerriere_!" We shortened sail and for action cleared, The flags to the breeze we threw, And at each masthead and the mizzen-peak The Yankee colors flew. Up in the tops the topmen lay With musket and grenade, But down in the gloamy holds below The battle-lanterns played. Stripped to the waist each sailor stood, His cutlass in his hand, His long dirk loosened in its sheath, His feet in the scattered sand; The gunnels stood beside the guns, Their matches all aglow, With their ears bent back to the quarter-deck, And their eyes upon the foe.

As onward to the _Guerriere_ The _Constitution_ swept, Between the lines of brawny tars Our first Lieutenant stepped: "To save you all from the press, my lads, For that we make the war, And each must fight for the flag to-day As he never fought before." Then up spoke one of the gunner's mates, A grim old man was he, Who'd met the French and the Algerines In many a fight at sea, Whose cheek was rough with a hundred storms, And brown with a hundred suns: "If the quarter-deck will mind the flag, Why, we will mind the guns."

Oh, sweet to see was the English ship, As up in the wind she came, With her rigging silhouetted out Against the skies aflame. Sudden she yawed, and from her bows A puff of smoke there blew, And, hurrying over their lofty arch, The plunging missiles flew, And each of us gripped his cutlass tight, And each his muscles set, And each looked hard at the long bow-guns, But the Captain said, "Not yet."

Closer and closer drew the foe, Her shot flew thick and fast, And, singing around our heads, a storm Of musket-bullets passed. We drew well up on her weather-beam, And the roar of her guns rose higher, And we saw her gunner's matches gleam, And the Captain shouted, "Fire!" With flash on flash, with a thunder crash, Rang out our red broadside, And the splinters broke from her sides of oak, And scattered far and wide. The smoke rose up to the high dim trucks, As the battle fury spread, But the men stood true, and the flags still flew, In the mist at each masthead. Deadly and fierce was the fire we poured Upon our sturdy foe, And a cheer we roared as by the board We saw her mizzen go. Then around in the dying breeze she swung, And her bowsprit loomed o'erhead, And fouled in our mizzen shrouds she hung. And the battle lightning spread; We heard the splinters fly below, Where her 32-pounders played, And the cabin was filled with smoke and flame From her furious cannonade. Then, long dirk ready and cutlass keen, Up, up to her side we start, But a breeze blows over the darkening sea And swings the ships apart; But readily 'round in the wind we go, And steadily on we fall. With grape and shrapnel and solid shot, And pattering musket-ball. And over her bows in the dusk we draw, While our terrible broadsides peal, And her lingering rolls the gaping holes In her shattered hull reveal. Her sides we rend, our shot we send Through shroud and spar and stay. Till her main and fore with a crashing roar Plunge down to the spouting spray.

The fight is done and the day is won, For a burning wreck is she,

But her decks are red with her gallant dead, And never a cheer cheer we. And over our side comes Dacres then, Our brave but conquered foe; He passes on by the silent men, And his head is hanging low. He gains the deck, and he holds to Hull The hilt of his gallant brand, But the Captain waves the sword aside And takes him by the hand: "The true, true sword of a true, true man Shall stay his own for ay, But a hat I'll take when the land we make, For the bet at Lisbon Bay."

And up in the quiet sky the stars Came twinkling one by one, And over the quiet sea the moon In silver sweetness shone. Our sails were white in the peaceful light As westward did we bear, And a fiery shine on the dim sea-line Was the last of the _Guerriere_. And here's to the skipper!--of all the men That ever sailed the sea There was never a one like Isaac Hull To handle a ship, said we.

_And that is the tale that was told to me By the man with the tarry queue, Who sat with a spy-glass in his hand, And gazed on the waters blue; His hair was white, but his eye was bright, And straight was his ancient form, And his brown old face bore many a trace Of the battle and the storm._

TODDLETUMS HAS A DREAM.

"Oh, papa, I had a bully dream last night. Want to hear about it?"

"Why, yes, Toddletums. Let's hear what it was."

"Dreamt I was dead, and playing baseball among the stars."

"Well, Toddletums, I am sorry to hear you speak of that as a 'bully dream.'"

"But it was, papa. I was no more than dead when I got among a lot of spirits, big fellows all dressed in white, and they knowed right away 'bout my being the best catcher on the Rangtown nine, so the first thing they said was, 'Hurray! here's our great catcher at last,' and before I knew it I was catching back of one of those big white fellows, and, what do you think, he was using the tail of a comet for a bat. 'Way off in the distance (say, they have awful big diamonds up there) was another fellow pitching, and all he did was to pluck one of the stars out of the Milky Way and throw it at me for a baseball. Say, papa, you've seen those falling stars? Well, they say they're meteors. Now that's nonsense, 'cause they're the balls the catchers up there misses.

"By-and-by our side (that's the Comets, you know) got in, and the score stood 16 to 0 in favor of the Milky Ways. By-and-by it was my turn at the bat, and I felt kind of afraid, 'cause the comet's tail looked awful bright, but I seized it and swung it round two or three times, and it didn't burn a bit. 'One ball!' cried the umpire as the pitcher sent a star singing past me (and it wasn't fair, either,'cause they pitched it when I was trying the bat). I braced myself for the next one, and then that pitcher thought he'd fool me. Making out to snatch a ball from the Milky Way, he turned around, and, reaching 'way out, what do you think he did? Why, he grabbed our world, that we're living on, and threw it at me with all his might. Well, they couldn't knock out the Rangtown catcher that way, for I just swung the bat around, and hit the old world an awful crack. I bursted that comet bat all to pieces and hit a foul. I looked up, and there was the world a-comin' right down into my hands. It was a fine chance, and I couldn't let it pass, and I just caught it.

"All those fellows began yelling 'foul!' and then I woke up. And, papa, what do you think? I had fallen out of bed, but I had a bully time, though."

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.

"Do write a Pudding Stick about table manners." Why, of course, dear Molly, I will, if you wish it, especially as you say you speak for the girls of your Round Table Chapter. I wish you would imitate Molly, and often suggest the topics you like best--you young people of the Round Table Order.

There is nothing very puzzling about the etiquette of the table. One who knows how to behave elsewhere knows how to behave at the table. The chief thing to be remembered is that good manners everywhere rest on a strong foundation of common-sense and kind feeling, and that nobody is clumsy or awkward who is free from self-consciousness. If one is thinking of herself and of the sort of impression she is making, she will be likely to blunder. You must dismiss yourself from your mind.

"But what bothers me," says Ruth, "is the fact that there is no fixed rule about what to do, and what not to do. Which is right, to take my soup-plate from the waitress, or to let her take my empty plate and set the filled plate in its place herself? And in some houses you are helped to salad, and in others you have to help yourself when it is handed to you. Is it rude to ask for a second helping of something you like? or, when you decline a thing, is it proper to explain that you like it, but it does not agree with you?"

As to the last of these little worries, my dear child, never do that. Never tell your hostess or your friends that lobster gives you cramps, and stuffed olives produce heart-burn, and pastry causes dyspepsia. It is in the worst taste imaginable to speak of these effects, and wholly needless. You may always pass over or decline a dish of which you are not desirous of partaking. It is usually right to ask for a second helping of some viand which pleases you, and your hostess will consider herself complimented by your doing this; but the exception is, when the meal is a formal one of numerous courses, and when you are doing so would retard the orderly progress of the meal. In doubt about any little detail, look to your hostess and follow her example. The waitress is trained to certain ways, and she will do as she is accustomed to; you have therefore no responsibility.

In talking at the table, if the company is large, you will usually converse more with your neighbor than with the circle as a whole. But at home and in the family, or at the house of an intimate friend, you must do your share of the entertainment. Save up the bright little story and the witty speech, the funny sayings of a child, the scrap of news in your Aunt Mary's last letter, and when a good opportunity offers, add your mite to the general fund of amusement.

There are dear old gentlemen--and old ladies too--who have favorite stories which they are rather fond of telling. People in their own families, or among their very intimate acquaintances, hear these stories more than once--indeed, they sometimes hear them till they become very familiar. Good manners forbid any showing of this, any look of impatience or appearance of boredom on the part of the listener. The really well-bred woman or girl listens to the thrice-told tale, the well-worn anecdote, says a pleasant word, smiles, forgets that she has heard it before, and does not allow the dear _raconteur_ to fancy that the story is being brought out too often. Good manners at the table are inflexible on this point. You must appear pleased. You must give pleasure to others. You must make up your mind to receive gratification by imparting it.

Once in a while an accident happens at a meal. A cup is overturned; some unhappy person swallows "the wrong way"; somebody makes a mistake. Look at your plate at such a moment, and nowhere else, unless you can sufficiently control your face and appear entirely unconscious that anything has occurred out of the usual routine. Take no notice, and go on with the conversation, and in a second the incident will have been forgotten by every one.

ON BOARD THE ARK.

BY ALBERT LEE.