done. Molly thought Miss Sandon looked at her queerly, but perhaps it was only her own evil conscience. She hung the thing up, and retired to the garden with the "Prisoner of Zenda" and a plate of fudge. But somehow the book was not so wildly fascinating as it had been before-she could not help wondering if Princess Flavia ever wanted to let down her dresses, and if she had green eyes as well as red hair. A sprawling, winged, leggy creature trailed across the fudge and spoiled it for her, and the sun persisted in shining straight into her eyes, wriggle as she might to avoid it. It was hot outside, and her poor little conscience was like a burning fiery furnace inside. What was there wrong? but was it right? And it all ended in "Oh dear!" and a desire to tell her mother. That would never do, however.

Presently she wandered back to the house. Her mother told her cheerfully, as if nothing was the matter, that there was to be company at tea, and Molly might put on her new dress. Molly tried to sidle out-the old dress was good enough-she didn't want to spoil the new one-and so forth and so on, but her mother wanted her to wear it, and prove it, like David and Saul's armor, so wear it she must. She hurried into it with none of the joy that usually accompanied a new dress for her, until she caught sight of herself in the long glass. Her heart leaped, and she fell dead in love with herself. For her skirt was quite long, and it hung-divinely! And the dress was very pretty. Then the awful thought that her mother must see it quenched her ardor.

"Molly, come in and let me see how your new dress looks."

"Yes, mother," in a subdued tone-and in walked a very flushed, almost tearful young person, who held herself very straight and would not look her mother in the eye. But her mother appeared to be pleased rather than otherwise with the new dress.

"The skirt is long enough for you, I hope," with a smile. Molly trembled. "I thought Miss Sandon struck the length very well. Perhaps this fall you can have it a little longer. But I'm very well pleased with my little girl now." She gave the flushed face a loving kiss, which was received almost with a burst of tears, but in silence.

"Mothers that don't notice things are convenient, sometimes,' thought Molly, but her conscience was more uncomfortable than ever.

The " company" proved to be some old friends of her father and mother. Molly forgot her woes for a little, and sat curled up in her cushioned corner of the library, while the grown-up people talked of old times. She heard one of the gentlemen say to her mother, "Your daughter is growing to look just as you did when I first met you. And you were something of a beauty, I assure you."

Molly pondered. That of course did not mean that she was good-looking. No, it meant her dress was grown-up. Her heart swelled with joy, but her conscience pricked and burned. How wicked she was to feel pleased at these things. It was a sin which she must choke-must root up-must drown. Her metaphors were mixed, but were effective nevertheless on her conscience. The conscience urged her "Tell your mother. She isn't an ogre." The pride pulled back. "Oh no! She'll never know, and she might make it short again if she did know."

Conscience and pride fought valiantly all the evening. When Molly got into bed, they were still at it. When her mother came in to tuck her up and fix the window for the night, they had not settled it. But when her mother bent down to kiss her, conscience struck one mighty blow, and Molly seized her mother around the neck, saying-"I-let it down two inchesand oh dear! I'm-I'm not a bit sorry, except that-that-I didn't tell you!"

And her mother sat down on the side of the bed, and held Molly's hands, saying softly, but with a little laugh in her voice, "Next time you'd better ask me, dear. But don't tell your grandmother-I let down my skirt three inches once!"

FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS.

DAWN

Over the crests of the sleeping hills there stole a glancing light,
Playing hide-and-seek among the shadows of the waning light,
Growing ever bolder, till in broadening shafts the sunlight lay;
All the earth was touched with gold, awoke again, and lo! the day!

AT EVEN

Whene'er the sunset skies are piled with clouds

Of threatening aspect, dark and grim, and sear,
Yet glorified by one long shaft of light,

Bright gleaming through the cloudland gray and drear,
"Tis then I think of you; for in my heart

Your love is as that light which marks day's end,
Radiant, tender, strong,-illuming all,—

A love none know save you and me, oh friend.

EDITH TURNER NEWCOMB.

His father was Professor of Philosophy at the university; his mother had taken several courses in child-study and kindergarten methods, while I was at When Frederic Wouldn't that time enthusiastically pursuing advanced work in psychology. You can see then how difficult it must have been for all of us. It is humiliating to find yourself worsted by a baby not quite two years old. That's just what Frederic did-he worsted us. I really think, though, that the blame ought to rest in the first place on the architect who designed the house. It stands to reason that if one flight of stairs is to be steeptoo steep and dangerous for a baby to crawl up, it should be the back stairs, not the front. Now, in this house it's just the other way; the front stairs are narrow, steep and dangerous, while the back stairs are broad and safe. Consequently as Frederic early showed a passionate love for clambering upstairs and rebelled vigorously if we attempted to carry him, it became the regular custom to take him around through the back entry, set him down at the foot of the stairs and allow him to make his way to the head. This, I say, had been the regular custom up to that day-that dreadful day, long remembered by Frederic's suffering family.

His nurse started upstairs with him after his dinner. As she was passing through the back hall she saw a basket of clean clothes ready to be carried up for sorting and mending. Setting Frederic down at the foot of the stairs, she picked up the basket and started on. At the top she turned and looked back. There sat the child on the bottom step, apparently absorbed in a careful study of the construction of his new shoes.

"Come Frederic," called his nurse, "I want to put a clean frock on you before you go out."

No response. It happened that I passed along just then. "Yes, hurry up, Fred," I urged, "So's to be ready to go out with mother."

The child looked up at me with the sweetest smile imaginable, cooed contentedly-and resumed the scrutiny of his shoes. His mother appeared at the head of the stairs.

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“Come, Frederic," she commanded, "you must come up right away. Creep up to mother. See, she's waiting for you. Frederic shook his head; he didn't want to creep upstairs. I suggested that he might be tired, but was told that he had slept two hours before dinner. Katy, the nurse, came down and would have picked him up, but Dorothea interfered-Dorothea was always such a decided little body.

"No Katy, I have told him he must creep up, and he must." I agreed with Dorothea heartily-what a wise little mother she made! My decision wavered, though, for an instant when, after much persuasion on Katy's part, gentle but firm commands from his mother and patient reasoning from me, the mite stretched up his arms to me and said, "Cally me, peese."

That staggered me. That Frederic should ever want to be carried, when I remembered all too plainly the kicks, blows, and other manifestations of baby wrath I had undergone before we had learned the wisdom of allowing a child so far as possible to carry out its own instincts. As I said, I wavered, and was about to yield, but I drew myself up with a jerk. What was I about to do? I would menace my nephew's whole future welfare by this foolish weakness. Had I forgotten the psychical importance attached to impressions received by a child of this age? If, in future he should evince contempt for law and authority, could I feel myself free from blame? I turned away sorrowfully.

"No, Frederic, mother has told you that you must creep upstairs. Do so now, like a good boy."

But Frederic had decided otherwise and his determination was unalterable. He wasn't naughty,-oh no, he didn't fret, or scream, or cry,-he merely sat there. For two weary hours we alternately coaxed, commanded, or let him alone while we held consultations overhead. At last, at my suggestion, we decided that what force could not accomplish might be effected by

guile. We would divert his attention. Accordingly a clean frock was taken downstairs, he was dressed in it and taken out with his mother. Words fail to describe the angelic sweetness. of that infant. He was adorable. He played, he gurgled, he babbled sweet baby wisdom, he was all sunshine and good temper. When he was brought in, he was set down at the foot of the stairs and blithely enjoined, "Come on, Frederic, see if you can catch mother going upstairs."

Did the stratagem succeed? Not a bit. He saw through it instantly and scorned so much as to notice it, but took up his old position resolutely, contentedly. There his father found him an hour later, and there left him after a futile attempt at reasonable demonstration to his young son of the error of his ways.

Then was called the First General Convention for Discipline and Correction, and a lengthy and highly unsatisfactory discussion ensued. It was finally decided to adjourn for supper, at which repast the young man under discussion was allowed to be present. That was the mistake. That baby, that resolute, indomitable baby, suddenly turned diplomat and completely outwitted us. I don't know how it was; I cannot explain it. It surely cannot be that Dorothea was weak enough to let her resolution falter when Frederic reached across the table and lovingly patted her cheek. Nor could Frederic Senior, grave professor, have been diverted from his stern purpose by the clinging arms of his little son who was clambering over his back to demand a lump of sugar. I hope his parents did not yield to any such patent cajolements; yet I must confess that even I melted when the baby head drooped low and a drowsy voice murmured, "I'se so seepy-pu' me to bed."

His father, with one last spasmodic burst of resolution, started with him for the back hall, but Dorothea stopped him.

"Here, Katy," she called, "take Frederic and carry him up to bed-but, Katy, carry him up the front stairs."

ALICE EDITH EGBERT.