hesitation. "What is it, Charley?"

"Ah, do you know, Mrs. Claverly, I think that General Lee is here." His
voice was husky with excitement.

"General Lee! Where?" But without waiting for a reply, she stepped
quickly to the door of the old-fashioned parlor, and exclaimed in soft,
suppressed tones to a group of women sitting there:

"They think that General Lee is here!"

"What makes them think so?" asked a thin, gray-haired woman, as she
hastily arose.

"Why," replied the young man, his tones now quite positive, "his saddle
with 'R. E. L.' on it is out there by the gate."

"There he comes now," said one of the group, eagerly; "at least, I
suppose that it is he."

"Let me see," said Mrs. Claverly, going rapidly to the window. "I saw
him once at the Greenbrier White, and I am sure that I would know him.
Yes, it is he!" she exclaimed, as she looked at the man coming slowly
across the lawn, talking earnestly to the barefoot boy at his side. His
thoughts were so completely occupied by what he was saying that not
until he was quite near the inn did he see the group on the porch, and
his face flushed slightly as he realized that they were there to greet
him. Lifting his hat, he ascended the steps with bared head. Mrs.
Claverly walked quickly forward, and extended her slim white hand.

"General Lee, I believe."

"Yes, madam," he replied gravely, as he bowed low over her hand.

At the sound of Lee's name Jimmy's eyes grew round, and filled with
astonishment. For one brief moment he stood gazing up at the stately old
soldier, whom every one was greeting, then he backed slowly away until
he reached the door. There he stood another moment, seeing nothing but
his hero.

Suddenly he turned and darted down the long hall, up the stairway, and
into his mother's room.

"Mother!" he exclaimed in breathless wonderment, "mother! General Lee is
downstairs, and he is just splendid, and--er--mother, he's just exactly
like anybody else!"[1]

[Footnote 1: This story is based upon the personal experience of one who
related it to the author.]

JERICHO BOB

BY ANNA EICHBERG KING

Jericho Bob, when he was four years old, hoped that one day he might be
allowed to eat just as much turkey as he possibly could. He was eight
now, but that hope had not been realized.

[Illustration]

Mrs. Jericho Bob, his mother, kept hens for a living, and she expected
that they would lay enough eggs in the course of time to help her son