t Philadelphia; Neal,
happy in having companions of his own age again, laughing and talking in
his old way, care-free and fun-loving once more.

To Cynthia the past year seemed a hideous dream, now to be blotted out
forever.

She and Neal had one conversation alone together. It was the night
before the visitors were to leave Philadelphia, and the two were in the
old garden that was at the back of Mr. Carpenter's house. It was not
like Aunt Betsey's garden, nor the more modern one at Oakleigh, but the
roses and the lilac blossoms suggested a bit of country here among city
bricks and mortar.

Neal was very quiet, and Cynthia rallied him for being so, as she
herself laughed heartily at one of her own jokes.

"Well, perhaps I am rather glum," said he; "but I think you are horribly
heartless, Cynthia, laughing that way when you're going off to-morrow,
and nobody knows when I shall see you again."

Cynthia was sobered in a moment.

"Neal, I want to tell you something," she said. "Mamma told me that you
have decided to stay here and work instead of going to college, and I
admire you for doing it. Of course, it's a great pity for a boy not to
go to college, but then yours is a peculiar case, and I'm proud of you,
Neal. Yes, I am! You're plucky to stick it out."

"Wait until I do stick it out," said Neal, coloring hotly at the
unexpected praise. "But it's rather nice to hear you tell me I'm
something besides a coward."

"Hush! Don't remember what I said that day. Just forget it all."

"Indeed, I won't! It is written down in my brain, every word of it, in
indelible ink. There was something else you said, Cynth. You said you
had faith in me. I mean to show you that you didn't make a mistake. It
will be harder work than ever now, though. Having seen you all makes the
idea of toiling and moiling here pretty poky. My mind is made up. I
_will_ stick it out!"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

IN THE VALLEY.

The night has filled the valley up
Brimful of darkness, like a cup;
But day will spill the mists again
Over the brim--in driving rain.

MARRION WILCOX.

A PARSLEY BED.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

"I wish _I_ could make a little money," said confidential Florence to
her friend Annette.

Now Annette was notably practical, and though a diligent student,
managed to find time for apparently everything else, money-making
included. Indeed, had she not been as enterprising, much of her
enjoyment would necessar