Floating on the cool night breezes,
Lord, we send our hymns of praise,
Thanks for loving care through winter,
And for joyous summer days.

M. E. SMEE.

TRIX AND GERTIE.
(Continued.)

FOR an hour or two the two girls are content to wander in and out among the trees; then follows lunch from Mrs. Braithwaite's capacious basket; then a long, dreamy afternoon under a brown beach, all among the pale wind flowers. Towards sunset they take to the boat again, and paddle round to St. John's Bay. Trix casts the anchor into a deep, dark pool under the shade of an ivy-covered cliff; then, settling themselves among the scarlet cushions in the bottom of the boat, the girls watch the gorgeous sunset, the purple mist creeping down Skiddaw, the burnished sheet of living water, and the glowing crimson and amber in the north-western sky. Trix takes off her hat and leans back in the boat, looking with wistful eyes across the lake to Home Island, and the group of mighty yew-trees that still keep watch over the spot where the gallant Earls of Derwentwater held their court of loyal hearts and true.

"Did she really climb up there, Gertie ?" says she, after a long silence.

"Did who climb up where?" laughs back Gertie. It is something so comical to see Trix in a sentimental mood.

"Did Lady Derwentwater really climb up that dreadful cliff, with all her plate and jewels, when the king's soldiers came after her husband?" And Trix pointed to the formidable precipice known as the Lady's Rake.

"Tradition says she did, but it looks impossible. Trix, do put your hat on; there are some gentlemen fishing just off that point round there. I see their heads."

"Never mind my hat, or the gentlemen either; I am not going to let them disturb my peace of mind." And Trix gives her little gray hat a defiant toss to one side, smooths her bonnie brown hair, and, in beautiful defiance of all propriety, begins to sing:

"Should he upbraid, I'll own that he prevail,
And sing as sweetly as the nightingale;
Say that he frown, I'll own his looks I view
As morning roses tipped with dew.'

In utter mischievousness Trix sings her song to the last note,

giving all the variations and twists and turns of the lovely music with infinite spirit; then she turns to Gertie: "My child, don't look so scandalized; they cannot hear.”

But in this surmise Trix is quite mistaken; for in the still evening air every sound is audible. Her voice sounds clear and soft as a bell, and the two gentlemen-not by any means insensible to either the lovely voice or the lovely old song-listen intently till the last "wrinkled care beguile" has died away.

"What a magnificent voice!" says one, as he artfully throws his line into a quiet pool where a tiny splash every now and then indicates trout. "I wonder who they are?"

Strangers," answers the other, taking a leisurely survey of Trix and Gertie over the top of the rocky point which separates them; "very pretty girls, too. I'm sure I've seen them before, especially the fair one. Where is the skiff, Arthur?"

66

Drawn up on the bank under that rowan-tree. Where are you going to, Fred ?"

"To get a nearer view of—Ah! what was that?”

A sudden scream, sharp with fright, a loud splash, and frantic cries of "Help-help!" ring over the lake in the terrified tones of awful peril. In a moment the young fellow throws off his coat, and, with a hasty call to his brother to bring the skiff as quickly as possible, plunges into the water, swimming rapidly round the point.

In a

It is Trix who has come to grief-and in this way. Her song finished, she is seized with a sudden desire for strawberries. In reaching toward the basket, she gives the little boat a lurch to one side, and the gray hat, already tossed close to the edge, falls over into the lake and floats lightly away. Springing up and seizing the boat-hook, Trix reaches forward with it. moment she catches the hat; but the light boat sways over with her weight, and Trix, already off her balance, falls into the water, and sinks with a wild cry into the deep, dark pool. In a minute she reappears a few feet from the boat. Gertie seizes an oar, and pushes it toward her. It falls short, and with a despairing cry, Trix sinks again.

"Oh, help, help!" screams Gertie. "Oh, what shall I do? Will no one come?" And the frightened, agonized girl is just going to throw herself into the water, with some wild impulse of saving her cousin or dying with her, when a loud, authoritative Stop-don't be so foolish! I will save her!" startles her from her insane purpose.

A few moments of horrible suspense ensue, and then Trix is lifted into the boat, heavy, white, insensible.

"Is she dead?" asks Gertie, fearfully.

"No, she is only unconscious," says the gentleman, who is supporting himself with one hand on the side of the boat; then,

raising his voice, he calls: "Arthur, Arthur, be quick! Are you never coming?

The skiff shoots out from the point of land and flies toward them. Gertie, chafing the cold hands, and pushing the wet masses of hair from the still face, looks despairingly about and sobs: "What shall I do-oh, what shall I do ?"

Wrap those shawls round her-here, I will help you." And, climbing into the boat, the young fellow unfastens the bundle of pretty crimson shawls, and swathes them round and round poor Trix, who soon uncloses her eyes, looks about her in a bewildered sort of way, and, with a trembling shudder, murmurs something about her hat and being very cold.

"Throw the rug in, Arthur," says Fred, collecting as he speaks a pile of cushions on which to raise the poor, little, white face, with the heavy, wet, nut-brown hair hanging forlornly round it, and little rings, dark and shining, clinging to the smooth forehead. Wrapping the rug about her, he turns to Gertie and asks briefly: "Are you staying at Keswick ?"

"Yes," says Gertie despairingly, wondering how they are to get back again.

"Then it is too far to take your sister; you must come home with us," is the decisive answer.

No-oh, no! It is too much trouble," says Gertie, timidly. "I would not take you against your will, but it is a case of necessity," explains he kindly. "It would take too long to row to Keswick; our house is close at hand, and my mother will be glad to help you. Arthur, tie our skiff to the boat, and help me to row."

Without another word, the oars are taken, and the two boats shoot across the bay to a small jetty which runs out from a thick grove of trees. Poor Trix, under her pile of shawls struggles back into consciousness, but so slowly that the horrible sensation of rushing water, of utter darkness and helplessness, has not gone when the boat grates against the pebbly bottom, and she suddenly wakes up to find herself the subject of a grave discussion as to how she is to be conveyed farther, for it is clearly impossible she can walk.

"Let me carry her, Fred," says Arthur, as the two young men spring ashore; "you have done enough for one day.'

"No, no; I am the stronger. You run on and tell the mother to have a fire lighted and hot blankets got ready; she will be alarmed if we appear as we are."

Trix makes an impotent effort to throw off the rug, and gasps out feebly: "No, no! Gertie, don't let him!"

Gertie hesitates, looks intensely dismayed, glances at Trix, hesitates again, till her indecision is put to flight by the young fellow himself, who takes the law into his own hands, without

even a suspicion of Trix's scruples and Gertie's dismay. With great care, poor, shivering, miserable Trix is lifted up. Her heavy, saturated dress helps to make her no slight weight, and the thick wraps round her constitute her a sufficiently awkward bundle; but she might weigh but a feather and a half from the ease and strength with which she is carried. If she could only speak, her remonstrances would be both loud and deep; but she is as helpless and feeble as a half-drowned kitten. Asking Gertie to follow, her cavalier steps out vigorously. The way is a narrow, steep wood-path. Half-way up, they stop a moment to restonly a moment; for, before Trix can utter the feeble remonstrance on her lips or stir a finger, she is lifted again and borne on more swiftly than before. The wood-path opens at last upon a wide carriage-sweep bordered by a belt of laurels. A few steps more, and the trio come in sight of a long, low, old-fashioned house, standing amid some ancient, grotesque yew-trees. But that Gertie's eyes are quite incapable of seeing anything but Trix, she would have recognized the house and the yews as old friends. A lady is standing in the porch, looking anxiously toward them as they come up the drive. Gertie, keeping shyly in the background, never sees her.

"Here we are, mother; is everything ready?" says Trix's stalwart cavalier.

"Yes, yes! Poor thing! Is she alone? Bring her up here,' requests the lady, leading the way through a spacious hall and up a wide, shallow staircase; then, throwing open a door on the left she stands aside to let them pass into the room. "Put her down on the couch before the fire, and then go and- Why-why, Gertie!"

Poor sobbing little Gertie lifts her eyes to the speaker.

"Auntie Auntie Janet!" she cries, and in a moment is halflaughing, half-crying out all her troubles in her aunt's arms. (To be continued.)

WINDOW-GARDENS FOR THE PEOPLE.
(Continued.)

SOME people think that plants ought to be watered in the morning, others again say that they ought to be done in the evening; while others say that both morning and evening are not too frequent; but in answer to all these I would say, Watch them carefully, and water them whenever they seem to want it. In watering, be careful to pour the water gently over the whole surface of the soil, so that it may sink down to the roots, and by them be sucked into the plant. Pour gently, and be