all but Orson. At last his lonely mother bullied his father into
recalling him from the Western wilds.

He called on Amelie to bid a heartbreaking good-by. He was disconsolate.
He asked her to write to him. She promised she would. He was excited to
the point of proposing. She declined him plaintively. She could never
leave the old folks. "My place is here," she said.

He left her and walked down the street like a moving elegy.

He suffered agonies of regret till he met a girl on the East-bound
train. She was exceedingly pretty and he made a thrilling adventure of
scraping acquaintance with her mother first, and thus with her. They
were returning to Boston, too. They were his home folks.

When at last the train hurtled him back into Massachusetts he had almost
forgotten that he had ever been in Carthage. He had a sharp awakening.

When he flung his arms about his mother and told her how glad he was to
see her, her second exclamation was: "But how on uth did you acquiah
that ghahstly Weste'n accent?"

* * * * *

One evening in the far-off Middle West the lonely Amelie was sitting in
her creaking hammock, wondering how she could endure her loneliness,
plotting how she could regain her old lover. She was desperately
considering a call upon his sister. She would implore forgiveness for
her sin of vanity and beg Tudie's intercession with Arthur. She had
nearly steeled herself to this glorious contrition when she heard a
warning squeal from the front gate, a slow step on the front walk, and
hesitant feet on the porch steps.

And there he stood, a shadow against the shadow. In a sorrowful voice he
mumbled, "Is anybody home?"

"I am!" she cried. "I was hoping you would come."

"No!"

"Yes. I was just about ready to telephone you."

There was so much more than hospitality in her voice that he stumbled
forward. Their shadows collided and merged in one embrace.

"Oh, Amelie!" he sighed in her neck.

And she answered behind his left ear: "Don't call me Amelie any more. I
like Em betterr from you! It's so shorrt and sweet--as you say it. We'll
forget the passt forreverr."

"Am! my dolling!"

"Oh, Arrthurr!"

THE END

RECENT BOOKS OF TRAVEL

* * * * *

_IN VACATION AMERICA_ By HARRISON RHODES

_In this book of leisurely wanderings the author journeys among the
various holiday resorts of the United States from Maine to Atlantic
City, Newpo