presinted to you three children. The red is for Master Rudolph, the white is for Miss Mabel, and the blue is for you, Miss Tattine."

"Oh, Mrs. Kirk!" the three children exclaimed, with delight, and Mabel added politely, "But do you really think you can spare them, Mrs. Kirk?"

"Why, of course she can! can't you, Mrs. Kirk?" cut in Rudolph warmly, for the idea of relinquishing such a splendid gift was not for a moment to be thought of. "I wonder how we can get them home," he added, by way of settling the matter.

"Indade, thin, and I have this foine crate ready to go right in the back of your cart," and there, to be sure, was a fine sort of cage with a board top and bottom and laths at the sides, while other laths were lying ready to be nailed into place after the geese should have been stowed away within it. The children were simply wild over this addition to their separate little sets of live-stock, and although the whole day was delightful, there was all the while an almost impatient looking forward to the supreme moment when they should start for home with those beautiful geese in their keeping. And at last it came.

"I wonder if my goose will be a little lonely," said Tattine, as they all stood about, watching Patrick nail on the laths.

"Faith and it will thin," said Mrs. Kirk. "It never came to my moind that they wouldn't all three be together. Here's little Grey-wing to keep Blue-ribbon company," and Mrs. Kirk seized one of the smaller geese that happened to be near her, and squeezed it into the cage through the small opening that was left.

"Well, if you can spare it, I think that is better, Mrs. Kirk, because everything has a companion over at our place. We have two cats, two pairs of puppies, two little bay horses, and two greys, and two everything, but as there's only one of me I am friends with them all—"

"Bless your heart, but I'm glad you thought to mintion it," and then Patrick and Mrs. Kirk gave each little extended hand a hearty shake, and the children—declaring over and over that "they had a lovely time and were so much obliged for the geese"—climbed into the cart and set off for home.

"I'd go the short cut by the ford," advised Patrick; "it looks like we might get a shower by sunset."

"Yes, I think we would better," said Rudolph, glancing toward the clouds in the west Rudolph prided himself on his ability to forecast the weather, and was generally able to tell correctly when a shower was pretty sure to come and when it was likely to "go round."

So Barney was coaxed into a good gait, which he was ready as a rule to take towards home, and the little ford by way of a farm-lane, and which saved a good mile on the road home, was soon reached. Barney knew the place well and, always enjoying it, picked his way carefully to the middle of the ford, and then he took it into his stubborn little head to stand stock still, and to plant his four hoofs firmly in the nice soft mud at the bottom of the stream.

"Go on," urged Tattine; "Go on," urged Mabel, and Rudolph applied his sapling whip with might and main, but all to no effect. Meantime some geese from a neighboring farm had come sailing out into the ford, to have a look at their friends in the crate, and the geese in the crate, wild to be out on the water with their comrades, craned their long necks far out between the laths, and set up a tremendous squawking. It was rather a comical situation, and the children laughed till their sides ached, but after a while it ceased to be so funny. The clouds were rolling up blacker, and there was an occasional flash of lightning far off in the distance, but Barney stood still obdurate and unmoved, simply revelling in the sensation of the cool water, running down-stream against his four little donkey-legs. At last Rudolph was at his wits' end, for what did Tattine and Mabel do but commence to cry. Great drops of rain were falling now, and they COULD NOT BEAR THE THOUGHT of being mid-way in that stream with the storm breaking right above their heads, and when girls, little or big, young or old, cannot bear the thought of things they cry. It does not always help matters; it frequently makes them more difficult, but then again sometimes it does help a little, and this appeared to be one of those things, for when the girls' crying put Rudolph to his wits' end, he realized that there was just one thing left to try, and that was to jump overboard and try and pull Barney to land, since Barney would not pull him. So into the water he jumped, keeping the reins in his hand, and then, getting a little ahead of Barney, he began to walk and pull. Now fortunately, there is nothing like the force of example, which simply means that when Barney saw Rudolph walking and pulling he began to walk and pull too.

Meantime, while Patrick and his wife were thinking that the children had had plenty of time to reach home before the storm, there was great anxiety in the two homes where those three dear children lived. Patrick the coachman and Philip the groom had been sent with the wagonette by the main road to Patrick Kirk's—Patrick to bring the children and Philip to take charge of Barney, but as the children were coming home, or rather trying to come home, by the ford, of course they missed them.

All the while the storm was growing in violence, and suddenly for about five minutes great hailstones came beating down till the lawn was fairly white with them, and the panes of glass in the green-house roof at Oakdene cracked and broke beneath them. "And those three blessed children are probably out in it all," thought Tattine's Mother, standing pale and trembling at her window, and watching the road which the wagonette would have to come. And then what did she see but Barney, trotting bravely up the hill, with the geese still craning their necks through the laths of the cage, but the reins dragging through the mud of the roadway, and with no children in the little cart. Close behind him came the wagonette, which Barney was cleverly managing to keep well ahead of, but Mrs. Gerald soon discovered that neither were the children in that either. In an instant she was down the stairs and out on the porch to meet Patrick at the door.

"It isn't possible you have no word of the children?" she cried excitedly.

"Patrick Kirk says they started home by the ford in time to reach here an hour before the storm," gasped Patrick, "but we came back by the ford ourselves and not a sign have we seen of them, till Barney ran out of the woods ahead of us five minutes ago."

And then a dreadful thought flashed through her mind. Could it be possible they had been drowned in the ford? But that moment her eyes saw something that made her heart leap for joy, something that looked drowned enough, but wasn't. Rudolph was running up the hill as fast as his soaking clothing would let him, and, reaching the door breathless enough, he sank down on the floor of the porch.

"Oh, Mrs. Gerald," he said, as soon as he could catch his breath, "Mabel and Tattine are all right; they're safe in the log play-house at the Cornwells', but we've had an awful fright. Is Barney home? When the hail came I tied him to a tree and we ran into the log house, but he broke away the next minute and took to his heels and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Barney's an awful fraud, Mrs. Gerald."

But Mrs. Gerald had no time just then to give heed to Barney's misdoings. Seizing a wrap from the hall, she ordered Rudolph into the house and to bed, as quickly as he could be gotten there, sent Philip to Rudolph's Mother with the word that the children were safe, and then started off in the wagonette to bring Mabel and Tattine home.

"Mamma," said Tattine, snuggling her wet little self close to her Mother's side in the carriage, "Rudolph was just splendid, the way he hauled Barney and us and the cart out of the water, but Mamma, I am done with Barney now too. He's not to be trusted either."

Mrs. Gerald thought of two or three things that might be urged in Barney's favor, but it did not seem