as not found. The dog bounded
away again, this time in the direction of some holes that had been
worn in the face of the rocks by the tides. The water was fast coming
up to them, and they would be entirely filled before the tide turned.
The despairing mother was about returning with her children when the
father caught a distant sound, a joyful barking that Flora always made
when she had been successful in a hunt. He bounded over the rocks that
were bathed in the red light of the setting sun. He found Flora
barking and wagging her tail, at the mouth of the first little cavern;
he stooped and looked in, and there on the white sand lay the baby,
asleep. Its little cap was gone, and it dress torn and soiled with
seaweed.

The father reached for his little treasure, and hugged him to his
heart. The baby laughed, and made most frantic efforts to talk, and
immediately twisted both hands tight in his father's hair. This was
the baby's way, you know, when he wanted to be carried. You would have
cried for joy, to have seen the baby's mother when she snatched him
from his father and covered him with kisses, and the little girls
clinging to their mother, trying to get a look at him.

They went home very happy, to find Tony with his basket full of crabs,
and when he heard the story, he said,--"Flora shall have a new brass
collar, if I have to earn it for her." There was one little girl that
learned a serious lesson. Hetty says,--"I never will neglect my duty
again."

A BED-TIME STORY.

Mamma dear, tell us a pretty story; tell us of what you and papa saw
when you were traveling; and my sturdy Harold, and his wee baby
sister, tired with their play, sank at my feet at the close of the
long summer day. Kissing the hot up-turned faces, and lifting the
little one to my lap, I began an oft repeated simple tale of how papa
and I, while in Switzerland, drove, one evening, from the village
where we were stopping, way out in the country, over green wooden
bridges and sparkling streams, past dazzling white villas, through
shady lanes bordered by high, thorny hedges; where it was so lifeless
and still, the sound of our shaggy pony's hoofs could hardly be heard.

[Illustration: {A LITTLE GIRL SITTING ON THE DOORSTEP.}]

Coming to a low, brown, thatched cottage, the door stood open, and we
drove slowly; inside could be seen the table, spread with its frugal
repast of oaten cakes and milk; a high, old-fashioned dresser, with
its cur