ous face, 'the grand part was that he never mentioned the
name of the man who did it--not even his father and mother know who it
was. He begged them not to mention it if he had by any chance let it out
in his illness. But he never had. No one in all the whole world knows
but Dick himself.'

'Was his name Dick, too?' muttered Jack to himself.

'Yes,' answered Estelle, who had heard the low murmur, 'his name is
Richard Peet.'

'What?' cried Jack, almost starting to his feet in his excitement. 'Is
Dick Peet alive?'

(_Continued on page 342._)

[Illustration: "'What! Is Dick Peet alive?'"]

[Illustration: "My partner being the lamp-post!"]

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By Harold Ericson.

VII.-AT THE ICE-HILLS.

[Illustration]

Does Bobby think he is the only one who can tell stories connected with
snow and ice?' said Denison, one evening; 'I, too, have been in high
latitudes. Have you ever enjoyed the experience of going down the
ice-hills at St. Petersburg, Bobby?'

'Rather,' replied Bobby, gazing into the fire. He smiled as he gazed;
the recollection seemed to be pleasant. 'I am still giddy when I think
of it,' he ended.

'Well, perhaps Vandeleur has not tried it. It's a kind of artificial
tobogganing, you know; they build up a wooden erection with a flight of
stairs behind, a platform at the top, and a steep slope covered with
slabs of ice going down from it, and leading straight into a level road
of ice some eight feet in width and a quarter of a mile in length; at
the end is a similar erection pointing back in the opposite direction,
the two ice runs or roads being side by side, and each ending at the
foot of the stairs leading to the other, so that after a fellow has
flashed down the first hill upon the little iron sledge, comfortably
cushioned, and darted like lightning to the end of the first run, he
only has to have his sledge carried up to the top of the second hill by
the servants employed for the purpose, and start upon the return
journey, and so _ad infinitum_. One learns how to do it after a bit, and
I suppose there is no more delicious sensation on earth than that rush
down and skim along the level--when once you _have_ learned the art;
but, my goodness! one's feelings at the first attempt--eh, Bobby?'

Bobby burst into laughter.

'It is like trying to be an amateur catherine-wheel,' he remarked; 'and
you see plenty of sparks!'

* * * * *

Ralph continu