e do, and have disposed of our PROPERTY in
this place."

As Mark looked from the horse-block on which he was sitting at the
little weather-beaten house, nestling in the shadow of its glorious
trees, which, with its tiny grass-plot in front, was all the property
Mr. Elmer had ever owned, he flung up his hat in ecstasy at the idea of
their being property owners, and tumbled over backward in trying to
catch it as it fell.

"What I like," said Ruth, who stood quietly beside him, "is the part
about us being interesting children, and to think that the girls and
boys at school will miss us."

"Yes, and won't they open their eyes when we write them letters about
the alligators, and the orange groves, and palm-trees, and bread-fruit,
and monkeys, and Indians, and pirates? Whoop-e-e-e! what fun we are
going to have!"

"Bread-fruit, and monkeys, and pirates, and Indians in Florida! what
are you thinking of, Mark Elmer?"

"Well, I guess 'Osceola the Seminole' lived in Florida, and it's
tropical, and pirates and monkeys are tropical too, ain't they?"

Just then the tea-bell rang, and the children ran in to take the paper
which they had been reading to their father, and to eat their last
supper in the little old house that had always been their home.

Mr. Elmer had, for fifteen years, been cashier of the Norton Bank; and
though his salary was not large, he had, by practising the little
economies of a New England village, supported his family comfortably
until this time, and laid by a sum of money for a rainy day. And now
the "rainy day" had come. For two years past the steady confinement to
his desk had told sadly upon the faithful bank cashier, and the
stooping form, hollow cheeks, and hacking cough could no longer be
disregarded. For a long time good old Dr. Wing had said,

"You must move South, Elmer; you can't stand it up here much longer."

Both Mr. Elmer and his wife knew that this was true; but how could they
move South? where was the money to come from? and how were they to live
if they did? Long and anxious had been the consultations after the
children were tucked into their beds, and many were the prayers for
guidance they had offered up.

At last a way was opened, "and just in time, too," said the doctor,
with a grave shake of his head. Mrs. Elmer's uncle, Christopher Bangs,
whom the children called "Uncle Christmas," heard of their trouble, and
left his saw-mills and lumber camps to come and see "where the jam