ad been seen walking
over the Boston road. That's the very reason I came up here, to see if
it was true, and here he is away off in Philadelphia!"

"The Boston road?"

"Yes, and to think of his being in Philadelphia all the time! Well, I
must be going, Mrs. Franklin. Edith did look sweet. You dress her so
prettily. I always did think those girls needed a mother. Here's
Cynthia."

Walking up across the green from the river came Cynthia, with a paper in
her hand which she was reading. At sight of Mrs. Parker and her mother
standing at the carriage door, she hastily thrust the paper into her
pocket.

Cynthia had been after wild-flowers to plant in the bed she had for
them. She was in the woods not far from home when a small and ragged boy
approached her.

"Be you Cynthy?" he asked.

She looked up from her digging, startled.

"Yes," she said.

"Then here's for yer, and yer not to tell nobody."

So saying, the messenger disappeared as rapidly and mysteriously as he
had come.

Cynthia opened the crushed and dirty paper, and to her astonishment
found Neal's handwriting within.

"Meet me on Brenton Island near the bridge, Tuesday, as early as you
can. And don't tell I am here. Remember, _don't tell_."

The last words were heavily underlined.

Cynthia's heart stood still from excitement. Neal so near, and his
sister not to know it! But she would prevail upon him to come home. He
could not refuse her after all they had been through on his account.

Full of hope, she gathered up her trowel and her basket of plants and
ran towards the house. Fortunately that tiresome Mrs. Parker was there,
and so her mother would not notice her excitement. For once Cynthia was
glad to see the lady. Since her escapade of the year before she had
always been somewhat ashamed of meeting her.

An hour or two later a closed carriage came slowly up the avenue. Dennis
Morgan was on the box with the coachman. Inside were Gertrude, Dr.
Farley, and Edith, and Edith was unconscious.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[Illustration: Mr. & Mrs. Tumble-bug.]

BY WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON.

Of all the insects which occasionally claim our attention in our country
rambles, there is probably no example more entitled to our distinguished
consideration than the plebeian, commonly despised, but admittedly
amusing beetle known the country over as the funny "tumble-bug." As we
see him now, so he has always been the same in appearance, the same in
habits