a
misguided Whirlpool cat, whose only conception of a bird is a dusty
street sparrow, when he meets face to face the delicious and whetting
elusiveness of a banty chick or a young robin.

Poor Sylvia is nervously tired out, and the month's rest will be a real
boon. Her plans are quite settled, and there is nothing for her to do but
rest until the time comes to carry them out. She and Horace are to be
married the last week in August, so that they will have time for a
Canadian trip before College begins and they return to settle down in a
scrap of a house in Northbridge.

August seems to be considered an unusual month for a wedding; but it
suits the circumstances, and as Sylvia has decided to be married quite
privately here at Oaklands, for her own sake, as well as for Mrs.
Bradford's convenience, she wisely wishes to have it over before the
possible return of the Whirlpoolers.

Horace had hoped that his mother would join them in Northbridge, but
she said "No," very firmly, adding, with a quaint, twinkling smile,
"Horace, nobody ever loved each other closer than your father and I,
but there were times in the beginning when ever so well meaning a third
finger in our pie would have spoiled the baking. Best leave old mother
on the farm until by and by, when she can't tell a fresh egg from a
bad one any longer."

So Horace comes down twice a week to visit Sylvia, and Miss Lavinia often
drives to Pine Ridge with her and leaves her for a day, so that Mrs.
Bradford may share the pleasant woman's talk of linen for table and bed,
and other details of a bridal outfit.

We all missed Miss Lavinia when she left, that is, all but the boys, and
they hailed the change with joy, as giving them another house to roam in
and out of. How much of the joy of childhood that we so envy comes from
their freedom from prejudice, the ability they have for adapting
themselves.

Martin was so distrait for a time that father absolutely ventured to
tease him a little, whereupon he turned stoutly about and declared: "I
have never denied the inspiration and value of congenial female society,
and the mere fact that circumstances have shut me from it so much of late
years makes me all the more appreciative of present privileges. Oh, Dick,
old friend, isn't it some credit to a man who has lived backward almost
from his birth, if, after he's sixty, he realizes it and tries to catch
up with the present? It seems to me as if the best things had always
b