that his strokes and kicks to keep his head up over the choppy surface of the lake were leaving him weaker and weaker.

As Joe turned his head a moment towards shore he saw Ned pulling towards him with all his strength; a moment later a wave struck him full in the face and caught him with his mouth open; he gulped and choked, and again started thrashing and struggling to gain his breath, but all he could do was to give a feeble cry of "help," then he sank out of sight, holding fast to the line.

Ned heard the faint cry, and turned as he rowed against the storm, which was now luckily falling as quickly as it had come up. The only thing he saw was the small piece of board tip up on its side and disappear. "Thank goodness he had hold of that line!" murmured Ned. "Now brace yourself," he added, aloud, "and keep cool, keep cool, keep cool."

It seemed to Ned that he said those words a thousand times; he was right on the spot, and was standing and waiting. The strain was something awful. He knew a good deal about swimming and about its dangers, and knew that a person had to come up twice, and that the third time down was down for good. He thought that Joe had not called before, yet he could not tell; but there was only one thing to do—wait, and, as he had said, "keep cool."

Ages and ages seemed to pass as Ned, shivering and pale, strained his eyes to see the block of wood appear again. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of the bit of wood slowly rising close by the side of the boat, and below it, as it came up zigzagging to the surface, he saw the white body following. It was a lucky thing that a stout trolling-line had been used in the scheme, for Ned reached far over the gunwale and firmly seized the line, then gently and steadily pulled the heavy weight to the surface. There were no signs of life in Joe's limp body; his cramped hand held the line twisted about his fingers, his eyes were closed, and his mouth half open.

Ned grasped the wrist which appeared first, and drew Joe along towards the bow of the boat, so that there would be no chance of capsizing. He lay out flat over the bow and held Joe under the arms, keeping his head well out of water, and waited. There was nothing to be done now but wait; no one was in sight, and shouting would have done no good, so he held on in his cramped position and watched the boat get a little headway in drifting towards shore, driven by the light wind. The sun had come out again, and blue patches of sky were appearing through the fast-flying clouds.

As the boat reached the shallow water, Ned leaped out up to his waist, still clinging to Joe's wrist; a moment more and he had him safe on shore, and, strange to say, there, too, was the cause of the trouble, the huge bass, still fast to the hook, which was far out of sight down his throat. The fight had been too much for him, and as Ned half carried Joe up the beach to a mossy bank, he also hauled the monster bass, that showed not a quiver of the gills or a movement of fin or tail. Ned placed Joe softly down, with his feet up on the bank and his head, face downward, over a soft rotten log, and then began the work which meant life or death. He had kept cool up to this time in a wonderful way, but now he began to get excited. He rolled Joe over and over, and kneaded him with his hands. Occasionally he stopped to listen to Joe's heart and feel for the chance of a single breath. It was a strange sight but a most impressive one—a young boy working for the life of his friend with all the fervor and love that a close friendship could call forth. Finally Ned's efforts began to have effect; there was a slight movement, a slow turning of the limp body, and Ned felt that Joe was safe, and he uttered a sigh that meant everything.

Gradually Joe's eyes opened, and finally, after more rubbing, he slowly sat up, and for the first time let go the line which he had held stronger than a vise up to this time.

"Ned," he said, feebly, "where am I? Where have I been? I can't remember anything. I am awful cold," he continued, and a shiver ran over him. "I must have swallowed half the lake. But I'll be all right in a moment. There! now I'm more comfortable," he added, as Ned propped him up against an old stump. "Is that the fish? Oh! Now I remember it all. He is a whale; I told you so; and I got him too!"

The excitement of seeing the fish changed his thoughts from himself, and the blood began to flow through his veins. The wind had died out, and the sun was warm and cheering. The spirits of the boys rose, and they began to forget a little of their narrow escape.

"Joe," said Ned, "is my hair gray? It ought to be; you scared me half to death."

"I'm sorry, Ned," replied Joe, "but I didn't do it on purpose; but I'm feeling rather queer. Let's get home."

They put on their clothes, wet as they were, and Joe staggered to the boat and fell into the stern seat and lifted the bass into his lap, where he could look at him and feel him.

As Ned, tired out and pale, took the oars and rowed slowly over the now glassy water towards the bay, Joe listlessly took a small pair of scales from his pocket and weighed the fish, and when he found that he weighed over six pounds, just a little, he gave a long sigh.

"That's the biggest bass on record for this lake, don't you think so?"

Ned did not reply; he was too tired to even speak.

The other floats had been washed ashore or had disappeared somewhere; the boys did not look for them, or even think of them.

Tot seemed to know that he was pulling two very tired boys, and went along gently, and turned in of his own accord at the gate of the Thompsons' place.

Joe tottered as he got out of the buckboard, and held the bass up by the gills, to the astonishment of his father and mother, who were at the door to meet them. They had seen the storm come up, and had anxiously awaited the boys' return. As he stepped forward, the set line and block fell on the steps.

The long story was being told in a slow and labored way by Joe after Ned had gone, when it was interrupted by Mr. Thompson, who saw that his son was growing pale and faint.

"That'll do for the present," he said. "Now come with me, old man," and putting his arm around Joe's waist, he gently helped him into the house and up to his own room, where he was undressed and carefully tucked into bed.

"So you caught him on a set line, did you?" said Mr. Thompson, as he sat by the bed-side, holding Joe's hand. "Now listen to a word of advice. Don't ever use set lines again. Fish with your rod and reel if you want to be called a true sportsman."

BOYS AND GIRLS AS RULERS OF MEN.

ALFONSO XIII., KING OF SPAIN.

BY MRS. SERRANO.

There have been a great many Kings, since Kings first began to rule; but perhaps the little boy who to-day wears the Spanish crown is the only one among them all who was born a King; his father, Alfonso XII., having died more than five months before his birth, the throne remaining vacant during that time.

For the young people of America Alfonso XIII. possesses an interest apart from and superior to that which attaches to his exalted position as the ruler of a great nation, in being a descendant of the noble-minded and great-hearted Queen, the illustrious Isabella, who, by her encouragement and assistance, enabled Columbus to undertake the voyage across unknown seas which resulted in the discovery of a new world.

He is descended also from Henry of Navarre—the famous Henry of Navarre whose white plume so often led his soldiers on to victory—through Philip, Duke of Anjou, Henry's great-grandson, who succeeded to the Spanish crown, under the title of Philip V., on the death of his uncle Charles II. of Spain. Philip was the first of the Bourbon family who reigned in Spain, as Henry of Navarre was the first of that family who reigned in France.