“And that will give us a chance to decorate them with a few flowers and ribbons," said Jimmy. We appointed Jimmy a committee of one to manage the old shoes. In the afternoon we four, who were to be ushers, went to see Jack-in-the-Box. "Jack," said Ned, "if we 're going to ush for you, you'll have to instruct us a little. None of us understand the science very well, and we 're afraid to try learning it from books."

Jack laughed heartily. "The science of ushing, as you call it," said he, "is a very simple matter." Then he got a sheet of paper and a pencil, drew roughly a ground plan of the church, showed us our places at the heads of the aisles, and instructed us fully about our simple duties.

Thursday was a beautiful, dreamy October day, and as we had settled all the weighty questions of etiquette, we put on the white gloves with a feeling of the most dignified importance. The people began coming early. The boys, who were among the earliest, came in a compact crowd, and we gave them first-rate seats in the broad aisle, above the ribbon. Before ten o'clock every seat was filled.

Everybody in town seemed to be present. There were matrons with a blush of the spring-time returned to their faces. There were little misses in short dresses, who had never looked on such a spectacle before. There were young ladies, evidently in the midst of their first campaign, just a little excited over one of those events toward which

"What clubs?" said Jack.

"The little clubs with ribbons wound around them, to hit the boys with when they don't keep still."

Jack laughed more heartily than before.

"I guess we wont hit the boys," said he. "They need n't keep any stiller than they want to, at my wedding." And then he explained.

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"A marshal," said he, "is a sort of commander, and the little club, as you call it, is the symbol of his authority. But an usher stands in the relation of servant to those whom he shows to their places.”

"I must tell Charlie Garrison about that," said Ned; "it was he who started the story about the little clubs. Charlie's an awful good boy, but he generally gets things wrong. I'm afraid he 's too ready to believe everything anybody tells him."

In trying to describe Charlie, Ned had so exactly described himself that we all broke into a smile.

As we were walking away, Holman suggested that perhaps while we were about it we ought to have got instructions as to the reception, also; for there was to be a brief one at the house immediately after the ceremony in church.

"Oh, I know all about that," said Fay. "You go up to the couple, and shake hands, and if you're a girl you kiss the bride-(what did you say? You wish you were ?)—and wish them many happy returns of the day; then you say what kind of weather you think we 've had lately, and the bridegroom says what kind he thinks; then you give a real good smile and a bow, and go into another room and eat some cake and ice-cream; and then you go home. That's a reception."

Two days before the wedding, Jack resigned his place in the employ of the railroad, and took all his things away from the Box. Patsy Rafferty's father succeeded him as signal-man.

directed. There were fathers of families, with business-furrowed brows, brushing the cobwebs from dim recollections, and marking the discovery of each with the disappearance of a wrinkle. There were bachelors who, if not like the irreverent hearers of Goldsmith's preacher, were at least likely to go away with deep remorse or desperate resolve. There were some who would soon themselves be central figures in similar spectacles. There were those, perhaps, whose visions of such a triumph were destined to be finally as futile as they were now vivid.

Frequent ripples of good-natured impatience ran across the sea of heads, and we who felt that we had the affair in charge began to be a little anxious, till the organ struck up a compromise between a stirring waltz and a soothing melody, which speeded the unoccupied moments on their journey.

The usual number of false alarms caused the usual turning of heads and eyes. But at last the bridal party really came. The bride's eyes were on the ground, and she heard nothing but the rustle of her own train, and saw nothing, I trust, but the visions that are dear to every human heart.

The organ checked its melodious enthusiasm as the party reached the chancel. Then the wellknown half-audible words were uttered, with a glimmer of a ring sliding upon a dainty finger. The benediction was said, a flourish of the organ sounded the retreat, and the party ran the gauntlet of the broad aisle again, while the audience, as was the fashion of that day, immediately rose to its feet and closed and crushed in behind them, like an avalanche going through a tunnel.

While we were in the church, Jimmy the Rhymer, with Lukey Finnerty to help him, had brought the old shoes in an immense basket, and arranged them on the platform at the back of the bridegroom's carriage. The cluster of seven boots which Patsy had used for a drag to control Phaeton's car, was laid down as a foundation. On this were piled all

sorts of old shoes, gaiters, and slippers, bountifully contributed by the boys, and at the top of the pyramid a horseshoe contributed by Jimmy himself. Sticking out of each shoe was a small bouquet, and the whole was bound together and fastened to the platform with narrow white ribbons, tied here and there into a bow.

My young lady readers will want to know what the bride wore. As nearly as I can recollect—and I have refreshed my memory by a glance at the best fashion-magazines—it was a wine-colored serge Sicilienne, looped up with pipings of gros-grain galloon, cut en train across the sleeve-section; the over-skirt of Pompadour passementerie, shirred on

on the trunk-board, the carriage presented an original and picturesque appearance as it rolled away. The boys went to the reception as they had gone everywhere else, in a solid crowd. When we presented ourselves, Ned made us all laugh by literally following his brother's humorous instructions. The caterer thought he had provided bountifully for the occasion; but when the boys left the refreshmentroom, he stood aghast. The premium boy in this part of the performance was Monkey Roe.

As Ned and I walked silently toward home, he suddenly spoke: "It's all right! Miss Glidden was too awful old for Fay and Jimmy and Holman. She's nineteen, if she 's a day."

with striped gore of garnet silk, the corners caught down to form shells for the heading, and finished off in knife plaitings of brocaded facing that she had in the house. Coiffure, a Maintenon remnant of pelerine blue, laced throughout, and crossing at the belt. The corsage was a pea-green fichu of any material in vogue, overshot with delicate twilled moss-heading cut bias, hanging gracefully in fan outline at the back, trimmed with itself and fitted in the usual manner with darts; Bertha panier of suit goods, and Watteau bracelets to match.

With this costume inside, and our contribution

"No doubt of it," said I. "But how came you to know about Fay and Jimmy and Holman?" I thought Ned had not discovered what I had. Without a word, he placed his forefinger in the corner of his eye, then pulled the lobe of his ear, and then, spreading the fingers of both hands, brought them carefully together, finger-end upon finger-end, in the form of a cage. By which he meant to say that he could see, and hear, and put this and that together.

"Ah, well!" said I, "let us not talk about it. We may be nineteen ourselves some day."

How strange it all seemed to little Winifred! One year ago, or, as she reckoned it, one snowtime and one flower-time ago, she was living in Boston, and now she was in the wilds of Colorado. It was a great change-this going from comfort and luxury to a place where comfort was hard to find, and luxury not to be thought of; where they had a log-hut instead of a house, and a pig in place of a poodle. But, on the whole, she enjoyed it. Her father was better, and that was what they came for. The doctor had said Colorado air would cure him. And though Mother often looked tired and troubled, she certainly never used to break forth into happy bits of song when Father was ill in bed, as she did now that he was able to help cut down trees in the forest. Besides, who ever saw such beautiful blue flowers and such flaming red blossoms in Boston? And what was the frog-pond compared with these streams that now, in the springtime, came rushing through the woods-silently sometimes, and sometimes so noisily that, if it were not for their sparkle when they passed the open,

sunny places, and the laughing way they had of running into every chink along the banks, one would think they were angry? Yes, on the whole, Winifred liked Colorado; and so did her little brother Nat; though, if you had told him Boston was just around the corner, he would have started to run there without waiting to put on his cap.

Such a little mite of a fellow Nat was, and so full of sunshine! Only one thing could trouble him-and that was to be away from Mother even for half an hour. There was something in Mother's way of singing, Mother's way of kissing hurt little heads and fingers, Mother's way of putting sugar on bread, and Mother's way of rocking tired little boys, that Nat approved of most heartily. He loved his father, too, and thought him the most powerful wood-cutter that ever swung an ax, though really the poor man had to stop and rest at nearly every stroke.

See these two children now trudging to the little stream near by, quite resolved upon having a fine rocking in Father's canoe! This queer boat, made

of bark, and sharp at both ends, was tied to a stake. Now that the stream was swollen and flowing so fast, it was fine fun to sit, one in each end, and get "bounced about," as Winnie said. "You get in first, because you 're the littlest," said Winnie, holding her dress tightly away from the plashing water with one hand, and pulling the boat close to the shore with the other.

"No, you get in first, 'cause you 'm a girl," said Nat. "I don't want no helpin'. I'm going to take off my toos and 'tockies first, 'cause Mammy said I might."

Nat could say shoes and stockings quite plainly when he chose, but everybody said "toos and 'tockies" to him; so he looked upon these words, and many other crooked ones, as a sort of language of Nat, which all the world would speak if they only knew how.

In at last-both of them-and a fine rocking they had. The bushes and trees threw cool shadows over the canoe, and the birds sang, and the blue sky peeped down at them through little openings overhead, and, altogether, with the plashing water and the birds and pleasant murmur of insects, it was almost like Mother's rocking and singing.

At first they talked and laughed softly. Then they listened. Then they talked a very little. Then listened again, lying on the rushes in the bottom of the canoe. Then they ceased talking, and watched the branches waving overhead; and, at last, they both fell sound asleep.

This was early in the morning. Mother was very busy in the cabin, clearing away the breakfast-dishes, sweeping the room, making the beds, mixing bread, heating the oven, and doing a dozen other things. At last she took a plate of crumbs and scraps, and went out to feed the chickens.

"Winnie! Nat!" she called, as she stepped out upon the rough door-stone. Come, feed the chickens!" Then she added, in a surprised way, to herself: "Why, where in the world can those children be? They must have stopped at the new clearing to see their father."

At dinner-time she blew the big tin horn that hung by the door, and soon her husband came home alone, hungry and tired.

"Oh, you little witches!" laughed the mother, without looking up from her task of bread-cutting. "How could you stay away so long from Mamma? Tired, Frank?"

But what do you mean? Where

"Yes, very. are the youngsters?"

She looked up now, and instantly exclaimed, in a frightened voice, as she ran out past her husband: "Oh, Frank! I've not seen them for two or three hours! I thought, to be sure, they were

He followed her, and they both ran to the stream. In an instant, the mother, hastening on ahead through the bushes, screamed back: “Oh, Frank! Frank! The canoe is gone!"

All that long, terrible day, and the next, they searched. They followed the stream, and at last found the canoe-but it was empty! In vain the father and mother and their only neighbor wandered through the forest in every direction, calling: "Winnie! Winnie! Nat! Nat!" In vain the neighbor took his boat and explored the stream for miles and miles-no trace could be found of the poor little creatures, who, full of life and joy, had so lately jumped into Father's canoe to "have a rock."

Where were they? Alas! they did not themselves know. They only knew that they had been wakened suddenly by a great thump, and that when they jumped out of the canoe and started to go home, everything was different. There was no footpath, no clearing where trees had been cut down, no sound of Father's ax near by, nor of Mother's song-and the stream was rushing on very angrily over its rocky bed. The canoe, which had broken loose and, borne on by the current, had floated away with them miles and miles from the stake, was wedged between two great stones when they jumped out of it; but now it was gone-the waters had taken it away. After a while, in their distracted wanderings, they could not even find the stream, though it seemed to be roaring in every direction around them.

Now they were in the depths of the forest, wandering about, tired, hungry, and frightened. For two nights they had cried themselves to sleep in each other's arms under the black trees; and as the wind moaned through the branches, Winnie had prayed God to save them from the wolves, and little Nat had screamed, "Papa! Mamma!" sobbing as if his heart would break. All they had found to eat was a few sweet red berries that grew close to the ground. Every hour the poor children grew fainter and fainter, and, at last, Nat could n't walk at all.

"I'm too tired and sick," he said, "and my feets all tut. My toos and 'tockies is in the boat. O Winnie! Winnie!" he would cry, with a great sob, "why don't Mamma 'n' Papa come? Oh, if Mamma 'd only come and bring me some bread !”

"Don't cry, dear-don't cry," Winnie would say over and over again. "I'll find some more red berries soon; and God will show us the way home. I know He will. Only don't cry, Nat, because it takes away all my courage."

"All your what?" asked Nat, looking wildly at