giving honorary member Pop Miller a full account of their recent expedition. The little old gentleman listened with absorbed attention, and when the tale was concluded he exclaimed:

"Marmaids, mutiny, shipwreck, cast away on a desolate island, hungry, thirsty, kidnapped, pirates, lost at sea, captured by a man-o'-war, and safe back home, all inside of one week, is a record what I don't believe can be beat by any other lot of Sea Rangers in the hull world"—which conclusion is fully shared by every member of the Ready Rangers of Berks.

THE END.

OAKLEIGH.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER XIX.

It was four years later, and it was again the day before Christmas.

Cynthia sat in her own room by the bed, which was covered with presents in various stages of completion; some tied up and marked, ready to be sent, others only half finished, and one or two but just begun. Bob, as usual, lay at her feet.

"There!" cried she, as with a loud snap her needle broke for the third time; "there it goes again. I believe I'll give up this wretched frame and all the other things that are not finished, and go to Boston this morning. I'll just buy everything I see, regardless of price."

"You would never get near the counters, the shops are so packed," observed Edith, who was hovering over a table full of lovely articles on the other side of the large room. "Just send what you have, Cynthia, and let the rest go. You can't possibly finish them in time. You give so many Christmas presents."

"Oh, it's all very well for you, with all those wedding-presents and the Christmas things you'll have besides, to think other people won't want them! You don't take half as much interest in Christmas as usual this year, Edith, just because you are going to be married so soon. Now I should never change about Christmas if I were to be married forty times—which I hope I sha'n't be. In fact, I've about made up my mind never to marry at all."

"Nonsense! I think I used to say that myself when I was as young as you are."

"And you're just two years older, so according to that you were saying so this time two years ago, which was not by any means the case, for you were already engaged to Dennis then! In fact, I don't believe you ever said it. Oh, another needle! I'm too excited to work, anyhow. What with weddings and Christmas and the boys coming home, I am utterly incapable of further exertion."

She tossed the unfinished photograph-frame across the bed and leaned back in her chair. Then she began to gather up her work materials. Finally she moved restlessly to the window.

"It is beginning to snow. I hope the boys won't be blocked up on the way. Wouldn't it be dreadful?"

"I suppose you mean Neal. Of course Jack can get out from Cambridge. Ah, here comes Dennis!" and Edith hastily left the room.

"Dennis, Dennis—always Dennis!" said Cynthia to herself. "I wonder if I could ever become so silly? Certainly I never could about Dennis Morgan, though he is a dear old fellow, and I'm very glad I'm going to have him for a brother-in-law."

Cynthia stood for some time at the window, looking out at the swiftly falling flakes which were already whitening the ground. Bob stood beside her, his fore-paws resting on the window-sill. He belonged to Cynthia now; but she patted his head and whispered in his ear that his master was coming, which made the black tail wag joyfully.

Four years had, of course, made considerable change in Cynthia; and yet her face did not look very much older. Her fearless blue eyes were just as merry or as thoughtful by turns as they had always been—at this moment very thoughtful; and the pretty head, with the hair gathered in a soft knot at the back, drooped somewhat as she looked out on the fast-gathering snow.

She was wondering how Neal would be this time. During his last visit he had seemed different. She wished that people would not change. Why was one obliged to grow up? If they could only remain boys and girls forever, what a lovely place the world would be! She had hated to have Edith become engaged, and now in two days she was going to be married and leave the old home forever. To be sure, she was to live in Brenton, in a dear little house of her own, but it would not be the same thing at all.

Of one thing Cynthia was sure. She would never marry and go away from Oakleigh; she would stay with her father and mother forever. The next wedding in the family would be either Jack's or Janet's. Jack had overcome his shyness and become quite a "lady's man," and as for Janet—but just then the young woman in question came into the room.

She was eleven years old now, tall for her age, and with her hair in a "pig-tail," but the roguish look in her eyes showed that, like the Janet of former times, she was ever ready for mischief.

She carried a pile of boxes in her arms, and was followed by Willy, who staggered under a similar load, and by Mrs. Franklin, also with her arms full.

"More wedding-presents," Janet announced. "Edith and Dennis have been looking at them, and they sent them up for you to see and fix."

As she uttered the last words one of the boxes slipped, and away went a quantity of articles over the floor—spoons, forks, gravy-ladles, and salt-cellars—in wild confusion, cards scattered, and no means of telling who sent what, nor in which box anything belonged.

"Janet," groaned Cynthia, "if that isn't just like you! You ought to be called 'The Great American Dropper,' for everything goes from you."

"Never mind," returned Janet, cheerfully. "Willy, you pick them up while I see who's coming. I hear wheels. It's a station carriage."

"Is it?" cried Cynthia. "Can it be already?"

"It's Aunt Betsey," was Janet's next piece of information.

"Oh!" came from Cynthia, in disappointed tones.

"Why, who did you think it was?" asked her young sister, turning and surveying her calmly and critically. "Aren't you glad to see Aunt Betsey? And why is your face so very red? Are you expecting any one else?"

"No, only the boys," said Cynthia, busying herself with the scattered silverware.

"The boys! I don't see why your face should look so queer for them."

Mrs. Franklin glanced at Cynthia quickly.

"Come," said she, much to her daughter's relief, "we must go and welcome Aunt Betsey."

The little old lady was as agile as ever. She had come for Christmas and for the wedding, which was to take place on the twenty-sixth.

"I am glad you didn't put it off," she said to Edith when she had kissed her and kissed Dennis, and patted them both on the shoulder. "Never put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day, as I learned to my cost late in life—though not so very late, either. And now I want to see the wedding-presents."

And she trotted upstairs in front of them just as nimbly as she did years ago, when she went up to show her nieces her new false front.

Jack arrived in the afternoon. He was a Sophomore at Harvard now—very elegant in appearance, very superior as to knowledge of the world, but underneath the same old Jack, good-natured, plodding, persevering. He still ran the poultry farm, though he paid a man to look after it while he was away.

The day wore on, night came down upon them, and still Neal did not appear. He was to have left Philadelphia that morning, where he had been living during the past four years. He had grown more accustomed to the confinement of business, he had made a number of friends outside of the Quaker element, and he expected Philadelphia to be his permanent home.

His cousin was apparently satisfied with his success, for Neal had risen steadily since the beginning, and would one day be a partner. He had come home to Oakleigh every summer for two weeks'