otion among the passengers; she heard
some one say, "Good dog! brave fellow!" and Rover, pushing his way
between the excited people, brought to her feet a dripping, wailing
bundle, which she strained to her heart, and fainted away.

Need I narrate what had happened? When little Jack had "put naughty baby
through the porthole," Rover was on deck with his two front paws up on
the side of the vessel, watching intently some sea-gulls dipping in the
waves. He suddenly saw the little white bundle touch the water; some
marvellous instinct told him it was his little charge, and he gave a
sudden leap over the side. A sailor of the crew saw him disappear, and
gave the alarm: "Stop the ship! man overboard!"

A boat was lowered, and in a few seconds Rover was on deck again,
holding baby Lily fast between his jaws.

Mrs. West never left her children alone after that; and when, a few days
later, on the quay at New York, she was clasped in her husband's arms,
she told him, between her sobs, how near he had been to never seeing his
little daughter.

MY GRANDMOTHER'S ADVENTURE.

_A STORY FOUNDED ON FACT._

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

My grandmother was one of the right sort. She was a fine old lady with
all her faculties about her at eighty-six, and with a memory that could
recall the stirring incidents of the earlier part of the century with a
vividness which made them live again in our eager eyes and ears. She was
born with the century and was nearly fifteen years old when Napoleon
escaped from Elba, and the exciting circumstances that followed,
occurring as they did at the most impressionable period of her life,
became indelibly fixed upon her mind. She had relatives and friends who
had distinguished themselves in the Peninsula war, in memory of one of
whom, who fell in the last grand charge at Waterloo, she always wore a
mourning ring.

But it was not at Waterloo that my grandmother met with the adventure
which it is now my business to chronicle. It was a real genuine
adventure, however, and it befell her a year or so after the final fall
of Napoleon, and in a quiet, secluded spot in the county of Wiltshire,
England, not far from Salisbury Plain; but as I am quite sure I cannot
improve upon the dear old lady's oft-repeated version of the story, I
will try and tell it as it fell from those dear, worn lips now for ever
silent in the grave.

"I was in my sixteenth year when it was decided that, all fear of
foreign invasion