frequent success. The poor mother, with all her childish faults, was gone now-the great-hearted brother had gone long before-and Aunt Madge and Daisy, after all the storms and breaks of earlier life, had settled at last into the rest and enjoyment of the prettiest, cosiest-busiest and most leisurely and altogether most delightful little home in the whole of New York: a place of old-maidish order and system, neat and bright and peaceful, where few clouds ever came to ruffle the pleasure of the quickly-passing days. And into this peaceful retreat came this little, unasked, wilful, and troublesome visitor, who managed to constantly unsettle the equilibrium of order, time, and temper -a child who had evidently always had his own way, and driven roughshod over the feelings and conveniences of all around him; who belonged apparently to nobody-certainly not to me; who might be taken away at any moment by his rightful owners; and whom, if no such good chance befell, I had not the remotest intention of adopting! Was it worth while to subjugate this little victim of circumstances? Would not the easier, and on the whole the better, way, be to rub on as smoothly as might be for a day or two longer?

Yes, but the "day or two" was becoming an indefinite time. It was "assuming a chronic form," as the doctors say. Ten days had elapsed, and Julian grew daily more outrageous. Really unhappy at times, no doubt; despising Daisy's society, restless under the new constraint of authority, however lightly and mildly used; and hungering, poor child, we may be sure, for the mother's love I could not give him, although I felt all the pity and tenderness he would let me. But by nature I am afraid I am a little like Miss Murdstone-"generally speaking, I don't like boys!" It was provoking to see Daisy's toys broken and trampled under foot; to hear her wild scream of terror, and, leaving book or work, or whatever pleasant occupation I might have just settled myself to, go flying to her res

cue, only to find her pretty floating hair being used as reins, while the unwilling pony was beaten, kicked, and jerked into obedience to her small driver, who enjoyed his part of the play wonderfully; to find the beautiful Christmas doll-idol of one little heart

deprived of nose and wig; to find the cat tied up in a bag, and hanging in the linen-closet, after a whole day of mysterious and mournful disappearance; to find the box of cookies floating about in vinegar; and on various occasions to discover, by the foulest smell, that Master Julian was fond of experimenting with the gas. Once I sent him to eat in the nursery; twice I rebuked his daintiness at the table, by denying him dessert; once even I put him in the closet, when he deliberately put into the fire a European letter which had just arrived, and been laid upon the table until I should return from my walk (and to this day I have never found out what was in that letter). But on the fifteenth day matters culminated. I am not a Job in petticoats; and if I were, I should consider it my religious duty to do what I did!

A cage of canaries, father, mother, and children, stood upon a little table in my sunny window. Daisy and I had made the nest, had watched the little gray eggs, as day by day they appeared; had fed and petted the patient mother in her weeks of sitting, and had finally helped her to rear the three little fledglings, now so far advanced in birdhood as to be soft, downy balls, with quick eyes and fluttering wings, and wellfeathered necks in place of the long skinny cord supporting a filmy bullet, which had at first shocked our expectant eyes. Now they were our glory and pride, the great interest of the day, the first thought of the morning. But one sad day, forever to be marked by Daisy's tears and my stern wrath, Master Julian, walking up and down, and seeking what he might devour, took it into his talented young head to see how little birds would like the cold bath, which he himself greeted every morning with

such a storm of indignation. I feel like drawing a veil over the details: the overflowing bath-tub, the poor little soaked and murdered bodies, Daisy's screams of horror and misery, the servants' wrath and astonishment; and in the midst, in the mongrel costume in which we were obliged to clothe this little baggageless baggage, stood Julian, with a fiendish smile on his babyface, fully recognizing and enjoying the fact that this was his crowning triumph of wickedness.

Then, at last, I arose to the full majesty of wrath; and I led him off for instant execution. Not many words did I speak; "deeds not words "seemed the motto for the hour. I will humbly assert that few children ever deserved or received a more sound, hearty, and thorough polishing off! The effect was, at first, to make him mad with passion, then sullen with resentment, then frightened then piteous. When we had reached this point, I began to talk to him; and through the abasement of his entire subjugation, I hoped at last that he began to feel ashamed and grieved. He finally begged my forgiveness, and himself proposed to remain in solitary confinement in the West room, as far from the bird-cage as possible, making me promise to keep Daisy away from him, and to bring him his supper myself, and put him to-bed. It was a great point to have roused any contrition or remorse in his obdurate little heart; and I went down-stairs more nearly loving the child than I had ever felt it in my power to do before.

When I went up with the supper, I found him tearful and subdued, really sorry-really conquered. He said he was afraid he had always been naughty, and perhaps if he could learn to be good, God would give him back his own mamma again,-"though I love you, aunty, and I know it served me right!"

I heard his little prayer, broken by sobs. I put him to-bed with a true kiss of forgiveness and peace, and sat and sang him to sleep with a hymn, to the loss of poor Daisy, who was spending

her treasured "hour" very lonely and mournful before the parlor-fire.

Later in the evening came a hurried note from Mrs. Schermerhorn.

"Dear Margaret," she wrote, "I hope you've not sent away that poor child, or at least know where to find him. I knew I could not be deceived in so marvellous a resemblance. I felt, as I told you, quite sure that he would prove to be one of the family." I could not help smiling at the rose-colored memory of the old lady, and searched in vain through my own for this entire assurance. "Now I do not doubt that nature and instinct directed me aright, and explain why I felt drawn to the child the moment I set my eyes upon him." ("Was it the moment when you thought he was going to scratch your eyes out?" I muttered to myself, with sardonic amusement.) "A letter from Pauline has just arrived; she says, 'You ask about my cousin Henry. He came back last spring, to attend to some business; and his wife, in spite of her state of health, insisted upon accompanying him, because her only brother, Captain Bloomfield, had been wounded in the Battle of Gettysburg, and was dangerously ill. When I last heard of them, Ellen and her boy were staying at her brother's country-place or farm, somewhere up in Connecticut -and Harry had gone to Chicago to attend to his business affairs.' This is all that would interest you, dear Maggie; but it needs no comment. I will be with you to-morrow morning early, and will cheerfully relieve you of the pleasant charge of my little kinsman; and meanwhile have despatched a letter to Captain Bloomfield, under cover to Pauline, who will know his address, I suppose. Let me thank you, dear child, in the name of his parents and all other members of his family for your truly Christian kindness to our interesting little wayfarer."

Much amused and interested by this sudden turn of affairs, I awaited the result. In my dreams I saw Julian in a hand-to-hand conflict with poor old Mrs. Schermerhorn, now attacking her

cap, now her eyes-and again dousing her in a bath-tub! And in my waking intervals I resolved, that come what might to my house and furniture, to my niece, or birds, or cat, I would at all risks persuade the poor helpless old lady from assuming this onerous "interesting charge." And then I would close my eyes again and dream of “Uncle Fred," a tremendous Bluebeard of a man, storming about the room, and saying "bad words," with an open letter in his hand.

But this letter was not destined to have any effect upon the puzzling game which we were blindly playing. At noon the next day I sat alone in the parlor, watching the sheets of rain, which must of course imprison Mrs. Schermerhorn, whose heart was some twenty years younger than her bodyand who, with all her propensity to "go off at half-cock," would find her fit of enthusiasm greatly quenched by a prospective fit of rheumatism. At noon, I say, I was looking out of the window, with the vague Micawber-like feeling that something would certainly "turn up," when I saw a passing umbrella come to a full halt before me, and a tall, soldierly-looking man in a military coat and capes, look at the number-then at the upper windows-then at me; and finally walk up the steps, when a vigorous ring at the bell proved that he had settled his own mind as much as he had fluttered mine.

A small voice within me announced "Uncle Fred," at least a minute and a half before Betty, in her whitest apron and most finished manner, curtseyed the parlor-door open, and announced "Captain Bloomfield."

He came quickly towards me, half eager, half embarrassed, as he began,

child has friends, after all." And as the thought of the poor, deserted, troublesome baby, restored to home and love and longing arms, came across me, I felt my eyes fill with tears; and Captain Bloomfield turned away his head for a moment, and cleared his throat, and then said,

"Poor little fellow! I little thought when I was so glad to get rid of him that this would be the upshot! No words can express our gratitude to you, Miss Gaylord; but I am shocked to think how long your trouble has lasted, and how strange it all must have seemed. Let me, for the honor of the family, try to explain how such a state of affairs could have come to pass.

"My sister, Mrs. Schermerhorn, has been spending the summer with me, in the kind occupation of nursing me, after a wound and the consequent fever." Here he glanced at his arm, which was still in a sling. "She is a very delicate woman, has lived for years in the Isle of Wight, on account of her health, and has also been very much afflicted in the loss of four children. This little boy, the only one left, is her idol-and I suppose it is not wonderful that he is such a spoiled little brat, as you no doubt have found him. My brother-in-law was obliged to be absent most of the time; the nurse who had always taken care of Julian grew discontented on my lonely farm, and left, and my poor sister, between me and the boy and her own health, had a bad time of it, when suddenly news came that her husband was ill in Chicago. The keeper of the hotel where he was staying sent word to that effect, and as I live a little off the direct route of railroads and telegraphs, there was some delay about the message. Ellen was wild with anxiety, and nothing would content her but joining him as quickly as possible. You will wonder that I let her go, Miss Gaylord; but she would not hear a word to the contrary. I was in a high fever at the time, and powerless to move; and the only thing I could do was to send an orderly-I mean a servant (I do get the two lives mixed up so)—to take care of

her. She at first refused even this, but finally consented to his going as far as New York, and putting her on the train for Chicago, which, you know, goes right through without any change. This was the best I could do, for in my retired home there are no neighbors to aid, no friendly travellers to lend a hand to helpless women and children; and she actually started, poor child, with the boy, whom she would not leave, in time to catch the early morning train. No sooner had she got to the end of the stage-journey, than she suddenly took it into her head that John, my man, was the only person capable of nursing me when she was gone, and she actually sent him back (stupid fellow, to listen to her!), and went on alone. She had promised to telegraph to me at the end of her journey, and also to Henry, on the way down to New York, to tell him she was fairly started. So, at Bridgeport she got out to carry out this intention. I suppose it was just while she was looking for the office, that the poor thing, perfectly exhausted between anxiety and weakness and fasting-for I found she had not touched any breakfast-suddenly fainted away, and the train went on without her."

“I see, poor thing! how terribly unfortunate!"

"You may well say so. But, Miss Gaylord, here is the queerest part of the affair-it sounds like something in a story-book. It seems there is an old woman named Blunt in Bridgeport, a well-to-do widow, living quite alone, who was just then expecting a niece from the South. This particular refugee has had all her fathers and brothers and cousins knocked off in the war, and was all alone in her part of the world. So her old aunt, in spite of loyal prejudices, sent to her to come up and be taken care of, and was looking for her at any time. In fact, as far as I can see, she had been quite infesting the railroad station, making daily inquiries as to whether her niece had arrived."

"Just as I have been doing at 27thstreet!"

itself! But it so happened that no sooner was Ellen carried in her swoon into the ladies' room, than somebody went right off to fetch Mrs. Blunt, and see if she could prove property. My sister is a woman of thirty and more, but she looks not over twenty, frail little thing that she is; and the kind old woman, who had not seen her niece for twelve years, made no doubt that it was all right. The correlative circumstances of her looking half starved, and having no baggage, seemed further proof. So she brought my poor sister to her home, and nursed her there with devoted kindness ever since, ignorant, if you will believe me, until two days ago, that she had taken in a stranger instead of her own flesh and blood; for during all this time Ellen was entirely delirious.

"Did you ever know, in all your life, such a complication, Miss Gaylord? Ellen at one end of the country and Schermerhorn at the other, both sick among strangers—a dilemma, indeed!” "A three-horned one," I suggested.

"Exactly; with the small boy between, and I meanwhile quite ignorant of it all, getting well fast at home, the moment Julian left the house, and lazily wondering why Ellen did not telegraph, though I never doubted some message had been sent which never reached me. At last I wrote, as well as I could with my left hand, to ask after her safety; and received, as soon as possible, a telegram from Harry, saying,

66

Oh, no, thank you. I got along very nicely; but we were a ludicrously lame set, I must own. However, as soon as I got on the cars, I found out the conductor, and he told me all about your great goodness and kindness, my dear Miss Gaylord. It is beyond words; and no thanks will be eloquent until you see his mother's face. You may be sure it was balm to her poor heart to see me, and hear what I had to tell. She is still at her aunt's,' where I left her, to come on, as soon as possible, and relieve you of your poor little charge. By the way, where is the boy?"

"I will send for him," I replied, moving towards the bell; but the ready Captain sprang forward, and had laid his hand upon it, when I exclaimed, in a sudden horror,

"One moment, please, Captain Bloomfield. I ought to explain. You will think me a terrible ogress, I am afraid; but I must tell you that Julian, although a fine child, has been a good deal spoiled; in fact—”

"In fact, a perfect little nuisance," said the affectionate uncle. "You need not tell me that, Miss Gaylord, after the cheerful summer I passed in his society!"

"Well, then, perhaps I need not explain the hows and whys," I continued, smiling in spite of my unpleasant recollection of the reign of terror upon which yesterday's sun looked down. "But I must confess, before you see the child, that after a good deal of naughtiness and mischief, which I tried not to notice much, yesterday he did something really wicked-a very bad thing, indeed; I don't suppose you care for the details of his misconduct, but my patience gave way at last, and—”

"And you punished him, I hope," cried the Captain, making a stride towards me, with a new ardor on his face.

I bowed my head. "My dear Miss Gaylord, you give me new life. This is delightful! I am almost afraid to ask for more-to venture to hopebut-perhaps you spanked him?"

"I did," I solemnly answered. The Captain seized my hand, and shook it warmly.

"Permit me, my dear madam, to thank you, in the name of every sensible relative he has in the world, for your judicious kindness. Nothing could have done him so much good. If you could dream of the trouble I have had in keeping my hands off him during the whole summer! Indeed, your great goodness in taking him into your home quite pales by the side of this astonishing proof of your good sense and Christian kindness. Let me thank you again, a thousand times; and now, if you permit, I will ring the bell, for I feel, for the first time in my life, that it will be a real pleasure to see the boy."

And little Julian, running in, subdued, gentle, and bright, seemed to find it a real pleasure to see Uncle Fred, cross old Uncle Fred, whose dispraise he had chanted so loudly. And climbing on his knee, he heard all about the dear mamma whom he had long lost; and I felt, as I went for his hat and coat, and for Daisy to say good-bye, that the ties of blood were stronger, after all, than either heart would have guessed: for I was sure I saw upon Julian's curly head, as it lay upon his uncle's breast, a drop which could not have fallen from the boy's own brimming eyes. When I came back, after a few minutes, I found Julian, tearful and repentant, had been making a clean breast of it, and narrating all the sad history of yesterday's appalling misdemeanors; and his uncle was trying to persuade him to solemnly thank me for the wholesome discipline we both remembered so vividly. But Julian, though modified, was but human still, and declined, saying,

"I couldn't quite do that, Uncle Fred; but I know it served me right."

And so they went away, and my little stray boy passed out of my life. Entirely? No, not quite. Letters and visits, apologies, thanks, congratulations were freely exchanged among us. The sick recovered, the absent returned, the dear ones found each other again—* *

*

"And all went merry as a marriage-bell !"