emselves as crossing the water, and it being
impossible, from the description given, to distinguish between the
Rubicon and the Atlantic Ocean; the Lady of the Lake and Pocahontas were
confused, as they each saved a life; and every one mistook the Old Woman
that lived in a Shoe for Puss in Boots, because of her persistent talk
about foot-wear.

Cynthia had made a greater number of correct guesses than any one, but
as she was one of the hostesses she could not, of course, claim a prize,
so it fell to Tony Bronson, who was next on the list. Cynthia turned
away to hide the grimace which she could not repress when the dear
little clock in a red-leather case was given to him as first prize.

Kitty Morgan, Gertrude's cousin, was awarded the "booby" prize, for
having made the poorest guesses--a dainty little pin, which, she said,
quite repaid her for her stupidity; while one of the Brenton girls,
whose list was next best to Bronson's, received a pretty silver-framed
calendar as "Consolation."

It made a merry evening, and after the game was over they danced and
played other games until it was time to go home. It was eleven o'clock
when the last sleigh drove away.

"Only an hour to midnight," said Cynthia; "can't we sit up and see the
old year out? Do, papa, let us! We never have, and it must be such fun.
We couldn't go to sleep, anyhow, after such an exciting evening."

Mr. Franklin consented, and they sat about the fire discussing the
success of the game and the girls and boys who had been there, one or
two of whom remained for the night at Oakleigh.

Neal and Cynthia were alone for a few moments. They had gone out into
the hall to see the hour by the tall clock, and they found the hands
pointing to ten minutes of twelve.

"Let us wait here for it to strike," said Cynthia, going to the window.

The lamp had gone out in the hall, and it was but dimly lighted from the
room where the family were sitting. Outside, the moon was shining on the
white fields and frozen river. The old year was dying in a flood of
glory.

"I always feel so full of good resolutions on New-Year's Eve," said
Cynthia, in a low voice; "I wish I could keep them all."

"So do I," returned Neal. "I am always turning over a new leaf. I must
have turned over three volumes of new leaves by this time. But they
don't amount to much."

"It is discouraging, isn't it? I have never said anything about it to
any one before. It seems to me I am always breaki