orphan asylum if he'd lived now."

"I am not at all sure that you are not right about that," said her father; "but whether you are or not, the fact remains that Sir Ector took Arthur in, and without knowing whence he came or who or what he was, was as good to him as he was to Kaye, his own little boy; and when Arthur learned that Ector was not his father, it pained him deeply, and he heartily wished he had never seen the sword in the stone which had made known the secret of his high position to the world."

SIR ECTOR TOOK ARTHUR TO THE ARCHBISHOP AND TOLD HIM ALL.

"Then Sir Ector asked Arthur to be his gracious lord when he had become King, and to make Kaye the steward of all his lands. This Arthur promised, for, as he said to Sir Ector, he owed more to him and his wife than he did to all others in the world. The promise made, Sir Ector took Arthur to the Archbishop, and told him all that had occurred, and the Archbishop was as much surprised as Arthur had been, and being a wise man, he foresaw that all others would be surprised as well, and some of them unpleasantly so, so he advised that the matter be kept secret for a little while, when he would summon the Knights for another trial, at which Arthur could do publicly what he had already done unobserved.

"On Twelfth Day the plan was carried out. The Knights again rode to the church-yard and tugged at the sword, but no more successfully than before. Then Arthur came forth to try, and they all laughed at him. Some of them sneeringly asked why a mere boy should be brought forward to try to do what they, the most gallant and the strongest Knights, had been unable to do, but they soon stopped smiling and sneering and began to frown. Arthur, as he had previously done, walked easily up to the stone, and grasping the sword by the hilt, pulled it out with as little effort as if it were a weed in a garden."

"That ain't always easy," said Mollie, who had tried weeding in her own little garden patch.

"No," said her father; "not always, but sometimes they come up with scarcely an effort, and that is the way the sword came out of the stone as soon as Arthur grasped the hilt."

Jack chuckled. "You can bet on a boy to beat a man in a game o' stunts every time," he said, proudly.

"Well, you can in many cases," said his father, with a smile, "but the Knights did not like it any the better for that. They were not used to playing games of stunts with boys, and in this particular instance the prize was so great a one that their anger ran very high, and they asked some very embarrassing questions.

"'Who is this boy?' asked some, and nobody was prepared to answer the question. All Sir Ector knew was that he had brought him up from a baby, and that he had been a very good boy, but this was not enough for the Knights. With the crown at stake, they wanted to be certain that his parents were people of high birth. They didn't want the son of a stable-man to rule over them and to sit on the throne, and they grew so bitter about it that to save trouble the Archbishop ordered another trial to be held at Candlemas."

"I don't think that was fair," said Mollie. "He'd won, and they'd ought to have given him the prize."

"True," said her father. "He certainly had won it, but the Archbishop felt that having won it once, he would do it again, and it was better to wait."

"He was all right," said Jack. "I think it wasn't quite fair as Mollie says, but it was good business."

"Yes," said the Story-teller; "for, as you will soon see, Arthur didn't lose anything by it except time."

[to be continued.]

NUMBER 100.

FRANK HOWELL'S OWN ACCOUNT OF HIS ADVENTURE IN A PRIVATE CAR.

BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.

It was in a handsome private car without any name that I made the acquaintance of Frank Howell. He was already in the car when I boarded the train; and as the owner of the car, who was also the owner of the railroad we were riding over, was busy at the moment dictating letters to his private secretary in the little office at one end, Frank and I were left alone together in the principal room, and we soon became acquainted. I was surprised to see him there, for although I had made frequent journeys in the car, I had never seen any boy in it before; but he seemed very much at home and quite contented. He was a handsome boy—or, rather, I should say he is a handsome boy, for this was only a few weeks ago—with dark bright eyes and wavy brown hair, and a pleasant manner that would make almost any one take an interest in him at once.

We soon fell into a little conversation, and I learned that he was a Chicago boy, fourteen years old, and that he was spending the winter with his father and mother in the Seminole Hotel, in Winter Park, Florida. This accounted for his presence in that neighborhood, for we were then riding through one of the central counties of Florida; but it did not account for his presence in the private car, and when I dropped a hint in that direction, he told me that he had known the owner of the car for only about a week. When we had reached this stage of our acquaintance, Mr. H. B. Plant, the owner both of the car and the railroad, came out of his office and spoke to us. After shaking hands with me he introduced Frank Howell.

"He doesn't look like a dangerous boy, does he?" Mr. Plant said, smilingly. "But he had hardly got down into this country before he ran away with my car, so I thought I had better take him along with me to Jacksonville, for fear he might run away with the whole railroad."

"Indeed I think it was the car that ran away with me, Mr. Plant," Frank broke in. "Anyhow, I brought it back again."

"He is the first person I have ever known," Mr. Plant went on, "to travel about the country in a private car, without a cent of money to buy anything to eat with. You must tell that story, Frank, while I finish my letters; and try to tell it as well as you told it to me the other day."

"How far did you go with the car, Frank?" I asked, when we were left alone together again.

"About twenty-five hundred miles," he answered.

"What!"

"Twenty-five hundred miles, they say it was. I'll tell you about it," he replied.

I saw there was a story coming, and that Frank was able to tell it well in his own words; so I made no further interruptions.

"You know, after you've seen the lakes at Winter Park," he began, "and the pine woods and the caged alligator, and a few hundred orange groves, there isn't very much more for the people to see, so they go down to the station about six o'clock every evening to see the last mail come in. That brings through cars from the North—one sleeper from New York and one from Chicago, that meet in Jacksonville. I got into the habit of going to the station every evening too, and, of course, I soon got to know all the sleepers by name. There were the Olivia, and the Tagus, and the Marion, and perhaps a dozen in all, but only two in any one train.

"Well, one evening I was in the crowd looking at the passengers get off, when I happened to see that there were three big cars in the train, instead of two. The biggest of all, and the finest of all, was the last car in the train, and I was sure I had never seen it before, so I pushed down the platform to see its name. Queerly enough, it didn't have any name at all: it just had the figures '100' painted in gilt letters on its side. I looked in the windows, and saw that it was a great deal handsomer than any of the sleepers. There were only two or three gentlemen in the car, and they were sitting in big, comfortable arm-chairs in a