That evening when Bobby walked into the dining room he looked eagerly around for Mr. Jack. There he was, just the same as ever, sitting at the same table with Miss Margaret and her mother and seeming as happy as if no terrible calamity were hanging over his head. How strange it was that Miss Margaret could laugh and talk so gayly when she was going away, and poor Mr. Jack could not possibly know about it! He would tell him as soon as he could.

After dinner when he stepped out on the piazza he found Mr. Jack just starting out for his customary evening stroll. Usually Bobby was left at home, for there was another companion for Mr. Jack. This evening the other companion was getting ready for the play. They walked side by side without saying anything for some time, Bobby's energy, which was usually spent in conversation, being given entirely to the labor of keeping step.

Finally he said, “Mr. Jack, did you know Miss Margret is going away?"

"Why, no, Bobby, going away to-morrow, is she?”

"No, I mean to stay a long, long time, perhaps forever."

"Nonsense, Bob, what are you talking about?"

"It's true as anything. She's going away with a man some day, she said so herself. He asked her if she loved him enough to go with him and she said yes, she did, and they 're going soon-I heard them, Mr. Jack. I heard them through the window, but they don't know it and-I guess I guess-" poor Bobby's emotions got the better of him, and between his sorrow at losing Miss Margaret and his excitement at telling Mr. Jack he forgot that eight-year-old boys never cry, and two big tears splashed down on his clean white sailor suit.

Mr. Jack was quiet for such a long time that Bobby wondered if he were not going to sympathize after all. He looked up questioningly but received not the slightest attention.

"Mr. Jack, aren't you sorry she's going?" he demanded in a voice which required an immediate answer.

"It's tough, I tell you, Bobby; you must have misunderstood, but it must have been-Great Scot! Bob, I never thought she really loved

him. I had a few fool notions in my head, that's all. Yes, I'm a bigger fool than I thought I was. Why did n't I speak to her-be a man, Bob, be a man!"

Bobby looked at Mr. Jack in blank dismay. This disjointed speech conveyed little meaning to him. He wondered who "Great Scot" was. He had heard him spoken of before but he had never thought he was a real man. However, he knew that his announcement had caused as much grief as even his mournful spirit could desire. He felt a strong bond of sympathy between them. He wished that he could give Mr. Jack a comforting pat on the shoulder, but that was impossible, he could not reach; moreover, Mr. Jack was striding along at such a pace that Bobby had had to give up keeping step and to run along in quite a little boy fashion in order to keep near him.

“Mr. Jack," he panted, as he tried to get his breath, “Mr. Jack, never mind-we 've got each other left anyway and-and-we 're going to the play you know-and-it'll be fine."

"The play? Oh yes, the play. I had forgotten it. I'm afraid I can't go to-night, Bob."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Jack, you must go. We'll go together and we'll see her in the play. She'd be sorry not to see us there, and I promised to go up and see her afterwards; won't you please come? It's almost time to go now if we want to sit up near the stage," and he was so urgent in his appeals and pulled so effectually that Mr. Jack followed almost in spite of himself, and in a few minutes they had passed the camp and were back at Roaring Brook Inn, where they were soon seated in the big hall which had been converted into a temporary theater. Bobby's spirits rose with the curtain. He gazed in undisguised admiration and love at his beautiful Miss Margaret.

"That's her!" he cried in an audible whisper, when she first appeared on the scene, and he did not in the least understand the warning punch given him by Mr. Jack or the smiles of the people sitting near them.

He found

He thought Mr. Jack was not so entertaining as usual. it necessary to inform him, quite as a matter of interest of course, that

they were selling candy in the back of the room and that it was his favorite kind. Needless to say that bit of information was all that was necessary to bring Mr. Jack to a sense of his responsibilities. However, during the last act something happened which brought him to his senses and kept him there.

The curtain was nearly ready to fall; the heroes and heroines had all been disposed of in the most delightful and proper fashion, and Miss Margaret was now the center of interest. Her voice filled the room clearly and distinctly:

"You cannot be happier than I, but you are going away soon, you have promised, and I-I shall be alone."

Bobby sat up very straight.

His cheeks were red as roses and his

eyes opened wide with excitement as he heard the answer, "No, not You will not let me go alone. Tell me, is

alone, you will go with me.

it not true?"

"Yes, dear, it is true."

"Oh!" exclaimed Bobby.

"Oh, Mr. Jack! it's all make-believe! She is n't going away at all. It's all in the play. I knew she would n't go and leave us, did n't you?" and then the curtain went down and everybody clapped, and Bobby and Mr. Jack the loudest of all. Miss Margaret came out and bowed and carried a big bunch of pink roses that some one had sent her, and Mr. Jack looked very happy.

Then after the last applause was over they went up and talked to her, and Bobby felt very important as he stood beside her.

"And you aren't going away, ever, are you, Miss Margret?" he asked after the last congratulations had been received and his mother had called to him to come with her, "you are n't going away, ever, are you? Mr. Jack and I thought you were because I heard you say so. I told Mr. Jack and he was awful sorry, Miss Margret, and he said he was a fool and lots more things. But now we know it was all makebelieve and we're glad and-" but this brilliant flow of speech was stopped at last to Mr. Jack's infinite relief by Bobby's being led away by his mother, who decided that it was time for Bobby to go to bed.

The next morning Bob received a box of candy from Mr. Jack, who

said as he gave it to him, "Well, Bobby, old man, anybody can get a fellow into a beastly mix-up, but I tell you what, it takes a genius to get the follow out of it the way you did."

-MARY NORTON BROWN, 1904.

THE OLD CHEST.

Taken from a descriptive theme by MISS BECKER.

SWEET the old-time attic breathes
With lavender, thyme and rose;
While an odor faint of cherry-blooms,
On the June breeze comes and goes.
There is dust on the long brown rafters,
And the quaint-carved chest by the wall,
And yet as in days of years gone by,
A witchery hangs o'er all.

Raindrops tinkle and patter

On the roof their melodies low;
Shadows lurk in dim corners,

Wraiths of the long ago.

And the oaken chest by the stairway
Still guards, with watchful care,
The old, old secrets that folded lie,
With the gowns and the laces rare.

The rusty padlock yields again

To the key unused so long,

And with reverent hand I bring them forth,
While the rain hums its soft low song.

Lavender-scented gowns of black,
Folded for years away,

And underneath a gown of white
That graced a wedding day.

Out from the silken creases,

The crumbling rose leaves fall;
Folds once dainty and fresh and white,
Now yellowed and time-worn all.
Still to the filmy veil there clings
A faded orange bloom,

And a sudden perfume seems to steal
Through the little attic room.

A touch-it crumbles, falls and is gone,
Quick as dew by sunbeams kissed,
And with it attic and chest and all,

Melt away in a fragrant mist.

-E. B. WATSON, 1905.

A Winter
Nightfall.

IN SHORT.

IN the foreground of a winter sunset scene stood a little, old, weather-beaten house with low roof and small, shutterless windows. All around it was the pure white snow, unbroken save for a narrow footpath that led to the back of the house. Behind the house rose the forest, pines mingled with birches. Beyond the woods the sun had just gone down leaving the western sky a brilliant, glowing red; the rosy splendor brought out in clear, cold distinctness the delicate tracery of the bare tree branches and penetrated even into the somber masses of the evergreens. Above the highest pine sparkled the evening star.