CHAPTER XIV.

It was true, then. Neal had gone.

Cynthia went to her mother's room and told her what Janet had said.

"It is what I feared," cried Mrs. Franklin: "he has left me forever! My dear and only brother! And where is he? Cynthia, Cynthia, why did he go? It almost makes me think he may have taken the money."

"Mamma, how can you!" exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly. "Neal never took it. I--I--oh, I _know_ he didn't take it! Can't you believe me, mamma?" She was crying.

"Dear child," said Mrs. Franklin, looking at her affectionately, "you have more faith in him than I have. But this running away is so much against him, Cynthia. If he had been innocent, would he not have braved it out?"

"No; he is so proud, mamma. That is the reason he went, I am sure. He thought papa suspected him. Oh, why did papa ever think it? Why did he say anything to Edith for Janet to hear?"

"Hush, dear. Your father spoke thoughtlessly, but it was natural; of course it was natural. But Neal should not have gone. It is a false kind of pride. If he is innocent he should have the pride of innocence and stay here."

It was what they all said. Cynthia went from one to the other, trying to convince them and to imbue them with her own belief in Neal, but she could not. Even Jack, her beloved twin-brother, was on the other side.

"Of course I want to believe in Neal, Cynth," he said. "I like him, and I never supposed before he'd do a low-down thing like this. In fact, I can't really believe it now. But why on earth did the fellow run away? If he came by the money all fair and square, why under the sun didn't he say so, instead of shutting himself up like an oyster, and never letting on where he got it?"

"He had his reasons," persisted Cynthia. "Oh, Jack, can't you believe me? You always used to believe me."

"Well, you used to tell a fellow more than you do now. You get mighty shut up yourself now and then. You won't tell me what you're going to do with Aunt Betsey's money, or why you didn't buy a watch, or anything. I'm sure I don't want you to if you don't want to, but there's no reason why I should always think as you do."

If they had not been sitting side by side Jack could not have failed to notice the peculiar expression that came into Cynthia's face when he mentioned Aunt Betsey's present. They were on the stone wall which crossed the river path. Bob was with them, darting hither and thither, perhaps in the vain hope of finding his master.

"I don't need a watch, I've told you over and over again," said Cynthia. "But oh, Jack, I wish you would agree with me! Indeed, Neal is honest."

"I believe he is myself, on the whole," said Jack at last; "but it's a mighty queer thing he doesn't own up and tell where he got that money, and he's a great ass not to. You see, the postmaster thinks that perhaps the package did come from Aunt Betsey, and Neal paid gold just a few days later. Of course it looks queer."

It was the same way with Edith. She would not be convinced, and after a vain argument with her Cynthia retired to the only place where she was sure of being undisturbed, and cried until her eyes smarted and her head ached. It was to the garret that she went when she wished to be alone, and, amid the piles of empty paper boxes and bars of soap and all the varied possessions that were stored there, she sat and thought over the matter.

"Ought I to tell?" she said again and again, speaking in a hoarse whisper. "Oh, why did I ever promise?"

For Cynthia had at last prevailed upon Neal to borrow her money to pay Bronson with, and had promised that she would not tell, and Cynthia had a very strict sense of honor.

"Ought I to tell?" she repeated. "No; a promise is a promise, and I have no right to break it. I was silly, I was idiotic ever to promise such a thing, but how did I know it was coming out this way? Perhaps he will come back soon; then I can make him tell."

But Neal did not come back. Instead of that, the next morning Mrs. Franklin received a letter from him. He repeated the same words. He could not stay where he was insulted. If they could not believe him he would go. He had a perfect right to use the money which he had paid for the money-order, and he would never condescend to explain where he got it. He was visiting a friend at present, but he was going at once in search of some work. He intended to support himself henceforth.

It was a very absurd letter, and it made Mr. Franklin more angry than ever and his wife more distressed.

"It is perfect nonsense," said he. "The boy is not of age and he can be stopped. I will write at once to his guardians. In the mean time we will look him up in Boston; from the postmark I suppose he is there."

"One of his guardians is abroad, and the other is that Quaker cousin of my mother's," sighed Mrs. Franklin.

"Give me his address, and don't worry, Hester. The affair will come around all right, I have no doubt. He is a headstrong boy and he needs a leash."

They could not find him in Boston. On going to the houses of his various friends there they learned that he had spent the night with one of them, but had left to go to his guardian in Philadelphia, they said.

"I am inclined to let it stand as it is," said Mr. Franklin, when he returned; "if he has gone to Philadelphia let him stay there. His old guardian will probably keep him in better order than we can; perhaps it will be better not to interfere. I don't want to prejudice him against the boy, and yet how can I explain why he left here? He can tell his own story."

His wife, however, wrote a letter to her brother, and addressed it to the care of her cousin, William Carpenter, of Philadelphia. She hoped for an answer, but none came, and in a few days Mr. Franklin wrote to Mr. Carpenter, asking if his brother-in-law had arrived, and then, without waiting for a reply, he concluded to go himself to Philadelphia.

The following Sunday was Easter day--it came late this year. Cynthia, sitting in the Franklin pew, saw to her dismay Tony Bronson on the other side of the church. He was with the Morgans.

"Dear me," thought Cynthia, "there will be more trouble now that he has come, for he will tell hateful things about Neal, I'm sure. I do hope Edith won't see him."

Her thoughts wandered during the service. When it was over, and the congregation streamed out of church into the mild spring air, the Morgans invited Edith to come home with them to dinner. This she agreed to do, much to her sister's disgust; but Cynthia was still further incensed when Edith came back that afternoon and announced, in a would-be careless manner, that she had promised to drive with Tony Bronson the next day.

"Why, Edith!" said Cynthia, indignantly; "I shouldn't think you would have anything to do with that Bronson. He has been hateful to Neal."

"I don't know why you should say that," returned Edith; "any one would say that he had been exceedingly nice to Neal. He lent him all that money, I'm sure. And, besides, what difference does it make? Neal has behaved badly and run away. There is no reason why we should give up people that Neal doesn't happen to like. Papa said the other day that Tony Bronson was a very good sort of fellow, because he wasn't in that last scrape of Neal's."

"Papa doesn't know a thing about him, and, at any rate, papa wouldn't let you go to drive if he were at home. You know he wouldn't."

Mrs. Franklin came into the room just at this moment.

"Would not let Edith go to drive, Cynthia?" she said. "What do you mean, dear?"

"Go to drive with strange men like that Bronson."

"What nonsense!" said Edith, crossly; "of course I can go. Papa never in his life forbade my going to drive with any of the boys. How silly you are, Cynthia!"

"Were you going to drive with Tony Bronson, Edith?" asked her stepmother.

"Yes, I _am_ going, to-morrow."

"I think I agree with Cynthia, then. I hardly think your father would wish you to go."

"Why, how perfectly absurd!" exclaimed Edith, growing very angry. "There has never been any question of my going to drive with any one who asked me. Do you suppose I am going to give it up now?"

"I suppose you are, Edith," said Mrs. Franklin, quietly, but with decision. "In your father's absence you are in my charge, and I do not consider it desirable for you to drive with Mr. Bronson, nor with any other young man whom you know so slightly. It is not in good taste, to say the least. Please oblige me by giving it up this time. If I am mistaken in your father's views on the subject you can go after he gets home."

"I won't give it up!" exclaimed Edith, hotly. "Tony Bronson will be gone when papa gets home, and, besides, what can I tell him? I've said I would go."

"It is always possible to break an engagement of that kind," said her mother; "you can tell him that you find I have made other plans for you."

"I sha'n't tell him any such thing, Mrs. Franklin. I think it is too bad. You have no right to order me."

"No right, Edith? I have at least a right to be spoken to with respect, and you will oblige me by doing so. Please send a note to Mr. Bronson by the man to-night."

She left the room, and Cynthia, who had restrained herself with great difficulty, now gave vent to her feelings.

"I don't see how you can be so horrid to mamma, Edith. What are you thinking of? And when she is so worried about Neal, too."

"Neal! Why should we suffer for Neal? She has no right to order me; I won't be treated that way. The idea of it not being in good taste to drive with Tony Bronson!"

"Don't be so absurd, Edith. Why, even I know papa wouldn't want you to. It's very different from going with the Brenton boys that we have known all our lives. You think I'm such an infant, but I know that much, and any other time you would yourself. It is just because it is that hateful Bronson. I can't understand what you and Gertrude see in him. You are both so silly about him."

"I am not silly. I think he is very nice, that's all. I wish you wouldn't interfere, Cynthia. You are silly to have such a prejudice against him. I suppose I shall have to write that note, and I do hate to give in to Mrs. Franklin. Oh, why, why, _why_ did papa marry again?"

She raised her voice irritably as she said this, and added: "All this fuss about Neal and everything! We never should have had it if the Gordons hadn't come into the family. Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't see you." For standing in the doorway was her stepmother.

"I am sorry that the coming of the Gordons has caused you so much trouble, Edith. We--we are unfortunate."

She turned away and went up stairs.

"Edith, I don't see how you can," exclaimed Cynthia. "Mamma had so much trouble when she was a young girl, and she was so alone until she came here, and now all this about Neal. Really, I don't see how you can."

And she ran after her mother.

Edith, left alone, was a prey to conflicting emotions. She knew she had done wrong--very wrong. She was really sorry for the grief that Mrs. Franklin was suffering on Neal's account, and she had not wanted to hurt her.

"Of course, I did not intend her to hear me. How did I know she was there? It makes me so angry to think that I can't do what I want."

That was the gist of the whole matter. Edith wanted her own way, and she was determined to have it. She sat for a long time, thinking it all over. She did not make any great effort to quench her resentment, and so, of course, it became more intense. After a while she went to the desk.

"I simply can't write him that I won't go," she said to herself. "How they would all laugh if I said Mrs. Franklin 'had made other plans for me,' as if I were Janet's age! No, I'll write Gertrude that I'll come down and spend the day with her, and perhaps when I get there I can induce Tony to play tennis, or something, instead of going to drive. I'll try and get out of it, as long as I must, but I'm going to have a good time of some sort."

She wrote the note, and it was sent to the Morgans' that night. Mrs. Franklin supposed, of course, that it was merely to give up the drive; so she was surprised when Edith announced that she was going to spend the next day with Gertrude. However, she raised no objections, nor indeed did she have any. Her mind was too full of Neal to think of much else. Even the altercation with Edith failed to make any lasting impression. Hester longed for her husband to return and tell her what he had learned.

Cynthia did not take it so quietly.

"I think you are a goose, Edith," she said, the next morning. "Every one will think you are running after Tony Bronson. You were there to dinner yesterday, and now you are going again to-day."

Edith was greatly incensed.

"I am _not_ running after him. How can you say such things? I often go there two days in succession."

And she went off holding her head very high, being driven to the village by Jack. Arrived at the Morgans', she was warmly greeted by all.

"So good of you to come," murmured Bronson; "now we can start from here on our drive, and go over to Blue Hill."

"I think I can't go to drive to-day. I--I thought perhaps we could play tennis instead."

"Oh, Miss Edith! After your promise? I am not going to let you off so easily. No, indeed; we are going to drive. It is a fine day, and I've engaged a gay little mare at the livery-stable."

Edith remonstrated feebly, but Bronson would not listen.

When she and Gertrude were alone she said:

"Why don't you go too? We might all go to Blue Hill."

"No indeed!" laughed Gertrude. "I am not going a step. I haven't been asked, and I wouldn't intrude."

"But it would be such fun," persisted Edith; "you know we used to go in a crowd, and walk up the hill."

"Times have changed," returned her friend, pointedly. "This time you are asked to go alone. If it were any one but you, Edith, I should be wildly jealous."

Edith blushed and looked conscious, and afterwards when Bronson renewed his pleading she consented to go with him. Unless they chanced to meet some of the family, why need she tell that she had been to drive at all?

Thus she deceived herself into thinking that she was doing no wrong, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment.

That afternoon Mrs. Parker, Miss Betsey Trinkett's old friend, called at Oakleigh.

"So glad to find you at home, Mrs. Franklin," she said. "I met Edith a while ago, and she did look so sweet and pretty, driving with that nice young man that stays at the Morgans'. What's his name?"

"You cannot mean Mr. Bronson?"

"Bronson, yes; that's it--Bronson. Yes, they were driving away over towards Milton. And now do tell me about your brother. They say all kinds of things in Brenton, but you can't believe half of them. I dare say you know just where he is, after all."

"My brother went to Philadelphia, Mrs. Parker," said her hostess, controlling herself with difficulty. The shock of hearing that Edith had directly disobeyed her was almost too much for her.

"To Philadelphia! Have you friends there?"

"Yes, I have a cousin."

"Well, now, I'm glad to hear that! I'll just tell people and stop their tongues; they do say so much they don't mean. Why, only this afternoon somebody said they'd been told that Neal Gordon had been seen walking over the Boston road. That's the very reason I came up here, to see if it was true, and here he is away off in Philadelphia!"

"The Boston road?"

"Yes, and to think of his being in Philadelphia all the time! Well, I must be going, Mrs. Franklin. Edith did look sweet. You dress her so prettily. I always did think those girls needed a mother. Here's Cynthia."

Walking up across the green from the river came Cynthia, with a paper in her hand which she was reading. At sight of Mrs. Parker and her mother standing at the carriage door, she hastily thrust the paper into her pocket.

Cynthia had been after wild-flowers to plant in the bed she had for them. She was in the woods not far from home when a small and ragged boy approached her.

"Be you Cynthy?" he asked.

She looked up from her digging, startled.

"Yes," she said.

"Then here's for yer, and yer not to tell nobody."

So saying, the messenger disappeared as rapidly and mysteriously as he had come.

Cynthia opened the crushed and dirty paper, and to her astonishment found Neal's handwriting within.

"Meet me on Brenton Island near the bridge, Tuesday, as early as you can. And don't tell I am here. Remember, _don't tell_."

The last words were heavily underlined.

Cynthia's heart stood still from excitement. Neal so near, and his sister not to know it! But she would prevail upon him to come home. He could not refuse her after all they had been through on his account.

Full of hope, she gathered up her trowel and her basket of plants and ran towards the house. Fortunately that tiresome Mrs. Parker was there, and so her mother would not notice her excitement. For once Cynthia was glad to see the lady. Since her escapade of the year before she had always been somewhat ashamed of meeting her.

An hour or two later a closed carriage came slowly up the avenue. Dennis Morgan was on the box with the coachman. Inside were Gertrude, Dr. Farley, and Edith, and Edith was unconscious.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

BY WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON.

Of all the insects which occasionally claim our attention in our country rambles, there is probably no example more entitled to our distinguished consideration than the plebeian, commonly despised, but admittedly amusing beetle known the country over as the funny "tumble-bug." As we see him now, so he has always been the same in appearance, the same in habits, yet how has he fallen from grace! how humbled in the eyes of man from that original high estate when, in ancient Egypt, he enjoyed the prestige above all insects, where, as the sacred "scarabaeus," he was dignified as the emblem of immortality, and worshipped as a god! The archaeological history of Egypt is rich in reminders of his former eminence. Not only do we see his familiar shape (as shown in our initial design) everywhere among those ancient hieroglyphs engraved in the rock or pictured on the crumbling papyrus; but it is especially in association with death and the tomb that his important significance is emphasized. The dark mortuary passages and chambers hewn in solid rock often hundreds of feet below the surface, where still sleep the mummied remains of an entire ancient people, and which honeycomb the earth beneath the feet of the traveller in certain parts of Egypt, are still eloquent in tribute to the sacred scarab. The lantern of the antiquarian explorer in those dark dungeons of death discloses the suggestive figure of this beetle everywhere engraved in high relief upon the walls, perhaps enlivened with brilliant color still as fresh as when painted three thousand years ago, emblazoned in gold and gorgeous hues upon the sarcophagus and the mummy-case within, and again upon the outer covers of the winding-sheet, finally, in the form of small ornaments the size of nature, beautifully carved on precious stones enclosed within the wrappings of the mummy itself.

What other insect has been thus glorified and immortalized? For the sake of its proud lineage, if nothing else, is not our poor tumble-bug deserving of our more than passing attention? An insect which has thus been distinguished by an entire great people of antiquity has some claims on our respect and consideration.

But aside from his historical fame, he will well repay our careful study, and serve to while away a pleasant hour in the observance of his queer habits. He is now no longer the awe-inspiring sacred scarab, but Mr. Tumble-bug, or rather "Mr. and Mrs. Tumble-bug," for a tumble-bug always pictured in the ancient hieroglyph is rarely to be seen in its natural haunts. Mr. and Mrs. Tumble-bug are devoted and inseparable, and as a rule vie with each other in the solicitude for that precious rolling ball with which the insects are always associated. From June to autumn we may find our tumble-bugs. There are a number of species included in the group of Scarabaeus to which they belong. Two species are particularly familiar, one of a lustrous bronzy hue, with a very rounded track, usually found at work on the country highway in the track of the horse, and the other, the true typical tumble-bug, a flat-backed, jet-black lustrous species which we naturally associate with the barn-yard and cow-pasture. The latter may be taken as an illustrative example of his class, and his ways are identical with that of his ancient sacred congener and present inhabitant of Egypt.

When we first see them they are generally manipulating the ball--a small mass of manure in which an egg has been laid, and which by rolling in the dust has now become round and firmly incrusted and smooth. Let us follow the couple in their apparently aimless though no less expeditious and vehement labors. They have now brought their globular charge through the grassy stubble, and have reached a clear spot of earth with scattered weeds. Of course we all know from the books that their intention is to find a suitable spot in which to bury this ball, and such being the case, with what astonishing stupidity do they urge on that labor! Here certainly is just the right spot for you, Mrs. Tumble-bug! Stop rolling and dig! But no, she will not listen to reason. She mounts the top of the ball, and, creeping far out upon it, pulls it over forward with her back feet, while Mr. Tumble-bug helps her in a most singular fashion. Does he stand up on his hind legs on the opposite side, and push with his powerful front feet? Oh no; he stands on his head, and pushes with his hind legs. As he pushes, and as the ball rolls merrily on, Mrs. Tumble-bug is continually rolled around with it, and must needs climb backwards at a lively rate to keep her place. A foot or two is thus travelled without special incident, when a slight trouble occurs. The ball has struck an obstacle which neither Mrs. Tumble-bug's pull nor Mr. Tumble-bug's push can overcome. Then follow an apparent council and interchange of Tumble-bug talk, until at length both put their shovel-shaped heads together beneath the sphere, and over it goes among the weeds. It is soon out again upon the open. Now, Mrs. Tumble-bug, everything is plain-sailing for you; here is a long down grade over the smooth clean dirt! Why, the ball would roll down itself if you would only let it; but, no, she will _not_ let it. She pauses, and the ball rests, and both beetles now creep about, shovelling up the dirt here and there with their very queer little flat heads. Ah, perhaps they are going to start that _hole_ which all the books tell us about. But no; the place is evidently not quite satisfactory, both of them seem so to conclude, like two souls with but a single thought. Mrs. T. is up on the bridge in a jiffy, and Mr. T. takes his place at the helm; and now what an easy time they will have of it down this little slope; but, no, again; tumble-bugs don't seem to care for an easy time. A hundred times on their travels will they pass the very best possible spot for that burrow, a hundred times will they persist in guiding that little world of theirs over an obstruction, when a clear path lies an inch to the right or left of them. And here, when their labors might be so easily lightened by a downward grade, what do they do? they deliberately turn the ball about and hustle it along _up hill_, and that too over dirt that is not half as promising. Up they go! Mrs. T. now seems to have the best of it, and I sometimes have my suspicions whether she is not playing a prank on that unsuspecting spouse working so hard at her back, for he now has not only the ball, but Mrs. T. as well, to shove along, for the most that she can do is to throw the weight of her body forward, which in a steep up grade amounts to nothing as a help.

But if she is imposing on Mr. T. in thus guiding the ball up hill, she soon gets the Roland for her Oliver. Mr. T. is put to great extra labor by this whimsical decision of hers, and woe to Mrs. T. when that little chance valley or inequality of surface is reached. Even though she can see it coming and holds the wheel, she rarely seems to take advantage of it to save herself or her ship, while Mr. T., going backward in the rear, of course cannot be expected to know what is coming, nor be blamed for the consequences. With kick after kick from his powerful hind feet, united with the push of his mighty pair in front, the ball speeds up the slope. Now for some reason he gives a backward shove of more than usual force when it was least necessary. The ball had chanced upon the crest of a slope, when, kick! over it goes with a pitch and a bound, and Mrs. T. with it, though this time not on top. Happy is she if the ball simply rolls upon her and pins her down. Such, indeed, is a frequent episode in her experience of keeping the ball arolling, but occasionally the tumble-ball thus started, and out of the control of her spouse at the rear, may roll over and over for a long-distance, but never alone. No amount of demoralization of this sort ever surprises her into losing her grip on her precious globular bundle. When at last it fetches up against a stone or stick, and she assures herself that she and her charge are safe and sound, no doubt she immediately mounts to its crest to signal the lone Mr. T. afar off, who is quickly back of her again, and both are promptly off on a fresh journey. And so they keep it up, apparently for sport, perhaps for an hour.

At length when they have played long enough--for there is no other reason apparent to _homo sapiens_--they decide to plant their big dirty pellet. The place which they have chosen is not half as promising as many they have passed, but that doesn't seem to matter. Mrs. T. has said, "It shall go here," and that ends it.

Then follows the most singular exhibition of excavation and burial. The ball is now resting quietly on the dirt, and the two beetles are apparently rummaging around beneath it, trying the ground with the sharp edge of their shovel-shaped faces. And now, to avoid confusion, we will dismiss Mr. T., and confine our observation strictly to the female, who usually (in my experience) conducts the rest of the work alone.

She has evidently found a spot that suits her, and we expect her to fulfil the directions of the books and entomological authorities. She must "dig a deep hole first, and then roll the ball into it, and fill it up again." But we will look in vain for such obedience. Instead of this she persists in ploughing around beneath the ball, which seems at times almost balanced on her back, until all the earth at this point is soft and friable, and she is out of sight under it. Presently she appears again at the surface, and as quickly disappears again, this time going in upside down beneath the ball, which she pulls downward with her pair of middle feet, while at the same time with hind legs and powerful digging front legs she pushes outward and upward the loose earth which she has accumulated. Visibly the ball sinks into the cavity moment by moment as the earth is lowered for a space of half an inch in the surrounding soil, and continually forced upward outside of its circumference. In a few moments the pellet has sunk level with the ground, and in a few moments more the loose earth pushed upward has overtopped it and it is out of sight. Still, for hours this busy excavator continues to dig her hole and pull the ball in after her with shovel head and molelike digging feet, scooping out a circular well much larger than the diameter of the ball, which slowly sinks by its own weight, aided by her occasional downward pull as this same loosened earth is pushed upward above it. The burrow is thus sunk several inches, when the beetle ploughs her way to the surface and is ready for another similar experience.

The remaining history of the ball and its change is soon told. The egg within it soon hatches, the larva finding just a sufficiency of food to carry it to its full growth, when it transforms to a chrysalis, and at length to the tumble-bug like its parent. The formerly loose earth above him is now firmly packed, but he seems to know by instinct why those powerful front feet were given to him, and he is quickly working his way to the surface, and in a day or so is seen in the barn-yard rolling his ball as skilfully as his mother had done before him.

Such is the method always employed by the tumble-bug as I have seen him. And yet I have read in many natural histories and have heard careful observers claim that the hole is dug first and the ball rolled in. Perhaps they vary their plan, but I doubt it. Here is a matter for some of our boys and girls to look into.

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.

OUR PRIZE OFFER.

The members of the Camera Club will notice that our competition this year is confined to three subjects or classes--Marines, Landscapes, and Figure Studies. All the prizes are in money, and there are ten prizes. The members are not restricted as to the number of prints they may send in, nor are they barred from any class. A member may compete in each of the five classes, and has ten chances of winning a prize.

We want every Knight and Lady of our Camera Club to compete for these prizes. We also want you to tell your friends about them, and get them to join the Camera Club. A circular which tells all about the Club has just been issued by Harper & Brothers. It tells what the Club is for, gives prospectus for the coming year, gives the formula for plain paper, which so many of you have been writing about, and also gives the prize offers, rules, etc., of the competition. Copies of the circular will be sent to any member who applies for them, and we would like each member to help in distributing them.

Last year but few Ladies of the ROUND TABLE sent in pictures for the prize competition. This year we want all the Ladies who belong to the Camera Club to send in pictures. One of the Sir Knights who took a prize last year was so encouraged by his success that he has been working steadily all the year, and has made quite a good deal of money. A letter received from him a few weeks ago states that he should never have thought of making money with his camera if he had not won a prize, but the ten-dollar check which he received for his picture suggested to him that if he could take a picture good enough to win a prize he could take good enough pictures to sell. He has made pictures of boats, of children, of pets, of buildings in process of erection--in fact, of anything which came in his way which he could get pay for, and the result is that he has a snug sum in the bank, and looks on his camera as a financial friend.

Working for a prize stimulates one to do his best, and even though one should not be fortunate enough to win a prize the effort to excel will not be lost. It will be a help in more ways than one. This year we hope that at least half of the prizes will be carried off by our Ladies. A camera is specially adapted to be a girl's companion and source of pleasure. Cameras are now made so very light and compact that they are no burden to carry, and if one uses films they are still lighter. Girls as a rule are more careful workers than boys, and should therefore make the best amateur photographers, for it takes care as well as skill to produce a good picture.

Look over your pictures that you have made this summer, select those which you think are the best, finish them up in a neat and tasteful manner, and send them in before the competition closes. If you have none which you think worthy of a prize, set about making some without delay. If you do not win a prize you will have the benefit of careful criticism, and will stand a better chance of winning another time.

Any questions in regard to the prizes, or about making pictures for the competition, will be answered promptly.

SIR KNIGHT ALFRED C. BAKER encloses two very pretty waterscapes, and asks the cause of the black marks near the edge of one of the pictures, and also asks to have the pictures criticised, both from a technical and artistic point. The black spots, as far as can be judged from the finished print, seems to be caused by scratches on the film. If so, the print can be trimmed just enough to cut them off from the picture. The print which is numbered 141 is the better picture. It has more contrast of light and shade, the perspective is better. The old log in the foreground and the stretch of shore give the effect of distances which the other picture lacks. Another thing which makes this picture more attractive than the other is the slight ripple on the water. It has the same effect as do clouds in the sky. If Sir Alfred will study the two prints he will readily see what is meant. No. 140 would be improved if about half an inch of the foreground were trimmed away. No. 141 would make a very nice platinum print or plain-paper print.

THE BELLS OF NINE O'CLOCK.

Sleigh-bells in winter, ship's bells at sea, Church bells on Sunday--oh! many bells there be-- But the cheery bells of nine o'clock Are the merriest bells for me.

School bells at nine o'clock, and straightway the street Breaks into music with the rush of little feet. Clatter, patter, swift they go, wide stands the door, School bells are ringing now, holidays are o'er.

Silver bells and golden bells, and bells with iron throats, Cowslip bells and lily bells, and bells with tripping notes, Oh! many bells and merry bells, and liquid bells there be, But the sturdy bells of nine o'clock are the dearest bells for me.

M. E. S.

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.

What must I wear? is a question quite often on girlish lips, and a girl's satisfaction with herself depends a good deal on the answer to it. Nobody enjoys being badly or strikingly dressed, and in this matter I am much of the opinion of Mrs. John Hancock, the great lady whose husband's signature stands out so splendidly on our Declaration of Independence. Mrs. Hancock said in substance that she could not approve of a girl who was indifferent to her dress, nor of one who showed that she was thinking about it, and that she was pleased with the effect she made. A girl must not strut about like a vain peacock; she must wear her clothes as the plant wears its flowers--unconsciously.

If you are sensible and clear-headed girls you will not wish to have many frocks at once. A strong serviceable serge for every-day wear, a pretty cashmere or silk for best, a simple white frock for evening, two or three separate waists, and an extra skirt to relieve the serge, are sufficient for the winter wardrobe of a well-dressed young girl. In summer one requires more changes, but print and muslin and gingham frocks are cheap, and, if neatly made, are always appropriate. Of under-clothing have as simple a supply as you can take care of. The dainty girl likes to be clothed in fresh and clean garments next the skin, and where her clothing is not seen. These garments may be of fine and nice material, but the school-girl and the young woman should avoid elaborate frills and puffs and tucks, embroideries and laces, for these are easily torn, and are hard upon the laundress. Of stockings a half-dozen pairs are necessary, of handkerchiefs two or three dozen, and of linen for the neck and wrists enough to insure one's personal perfect neatness on every occasion. Gloves and shoes are important parts of a young lady's outfit. Of the former two pairs, one for best and one for common wear, will probably be enough to have at once, and of the latter, if you can afford it, have three or four pairs, for out-door and in-door uses. A young woman whose gloves and boots are good of their kind, and in nice order, will always appear well dressed. A water-proof cloak, a thick warm jacket, and two hats, one a toque, trim and dainty, the other a wider and more picturesque affair, with a brim, and feathers, ribbons, or flowers for trimming, will meet all exigencies. Don't wear birds or wings on your hats. No ROUND TABLE Lady must countenance the cruel killing of little birds that her hat may be adorned in a barbaric fashion. The prejudice humane people feel against the wearing of slain birds does not extend to ostrich feathers.

SOME CURIOUS FACTS CONCERNING HEARING.

An inquiry was recently made in London as to the greatest distance at which a man's voice could be heard, leaving, of course, the telephone out of consideration. The reply was most interesting, and was as follows: Eighteen miles is the longest distance on record at which a man's voice has been heard. This occurred in the Grand Canon of the Colorado, where one man shouting the name "Bob" at one end his voice was plainly heard at the other end, which is eighteen miles away. Lieutenant Foster, on Parry's third arctic expedition, found that he could converse with a man across the harbor of Port Bowen, a distance of 6696 feet, or about one mile and a quarter: and Sir John Franklin said that he conversed with ease at a distance of more than a mile. Dr. Young records that at Gibraltar the human voice has been heard at a distance of ten miles.

Sound has remarkable force in water. Colladon, by experiments made in the Lake of Geneva, estimated that a bell submerged in the sea might be heard a distance of more than sixty miles. Franklin says that he heard the striking together of two stones in the water half a mile away. Over water or a surface of ice sound is propagated with great clearness and strength. Dr. Hutton relates that on a quiet part of the Thames near Chelsea he could hear a person read distinctly at the distance of 140 feet, while on the land the same could only be heard at 76 feet. Professor Tyndall, when on Mont Blanc, found the report of a pistol-shot no louder than the pop of a champagne bottle. Persons in a balloon can hear voices from the earth a long time after they themselves are inaudible to people below.

ON BOARD THE ARK.

BY ALBERT LEE.