ning.
I used to make 'em by hundreds when I was a boy, and nothing ever
happened except once, when I blew the ear off my father's coachman."

This is not reassuring. Molly gets a little closer to Cecil, and Cecil
gets a little nearer to Molly. They both sensibly increase the distance
between them and the "devil."

"Now I am going to put out the lamp," says Plantagenet, suiting the
action to the word and suddenly placing them in darkness. "It don't
look anything if there is light to overpower its own brilliancy."

Striking a match, he applies it to the little black mountain, and in a
second it turns into a burning one. The sparks fly rapidly upward. It
seems to be pouring its fire in little liquid streams all down its
sides.

Cecil and Molly are in raptures.

"It is Vesuvius," says the former.

"It is Mount Etna," says the latter, "except much better, because they
don't seem to have any volcanoes nowadays. Mr. Potts, you deserve a
prize medal for giving us such a treat."

"Plantagenet, my dear, I didn't believe it was in you," says Cecil.
"Permit me to compliment you on your unprecedented success."

Presently, however, they slightly alter their sentiments. Every
school-boy knows how overpowering is the smell of burnt powder.

"What an intolerable smell!" says Molly, when the little mound is half
burned down, putting her dainty handkerchief up to her nose. "Oh! what
is it? Gunpowder? Brimstone? _Sulphur?_"

"And extremely appropriate, too, dear," says Cecil, who has also got
her nose buried in her cambric; "entirely carries out the character of
the entertainment. You surely don't expect to be regaled with incense
or attar of roses. By the bye, Plantagenet, is there going to be much
more of it,--the smell, I mean?"

"Not much," replies he. "And, after all, what is it? If you went out
shooting every day you would think nothing of it. For my part I almost
like the smell. It is wholesome, and--er---- Oh, by Jove!"

There is a loud report,--a crash,--two terrified screams,--and then
utter darkness. The base of the hill, being too dry, has treacherously
gone off without warning: hence the explosion.

"You aren't hurt, are you?" asks Mr. Potts, a minute later, in a
terrified whisper, being unable to see whether his companions are dead
or alive.

"Not much," replies Cecil, in a trembling tone; "but, oh! what has
happened? Molly, speak."

"I am quite safe," says Molly, "but horribly frightened. Mr. Potts, are
y