shouted with glee, as they too were lifted up and deposited on the seat. Then Jule helped the older girl into the carriage, jumped in himself, and gave the door a good smart bang, for "big Jule" had strong muscles. The horses started; but now another cry arose.

"If Schnurri is going, I can take Philomele with me. Trine! Trine! bring me Philomele, I want to take Philomele!" shouted the little girl as loud as she could call.

The young, strong-fisted servant-maid who now appeared in the door-way, grasped the situation at once. She seized the gray cat that stood on the stone step casting angry looks at Schnurri, and flung her into the carriage. The whip cracked, and off they rolled.

Aunt Ninette hastened into her husband's room in great alarm, not knowing what effect all this disturbance would have upon him. He was sitting calmly at his table, with all the windows in the room closed and fastened.

"My dear Titus! who could have foreseen this? What shall we do?" she called out in tones of despair.

"It strikes me that the next house has a great wealth of children. We cannot help that, but we can keep the windows shut," replied her husband resignedly.

"But, my dearest Titus, only remember that you have come here expressly to breathe the healthy mountain air! As you never go out, you must let the air come in to you. But what will be the end if this is the beginning? What will become of us if this goes on?"

"We must go home again," said Uncle Titus, continuing to write.

Somewhat calmed by this proposition, Aunt Ninette returned to her room.

Dora had been very busy, putting her little room in perfect order, for she had formed a plan, which she meant to carry out as soon as this was done. The happy noise of the six children had so excited the lonely little girl that she was filled with the strongest desire to see them come back again, to see them get out of the carriage, and to see what would happen next; whether they wouldn't perhaps come into the garden where the triumphal arch stood, and then she could have a nearer view. She had made a little plan for watching them if they came into the garden. She thought that she might perhaps find a hole in the hedge that divided Mrs. Kurd's little garden from the large grounds next door, through which she could get a good view of what the children were doing, and how they looked. The child did not know what Aunt Ninette would say to this, but she determined to ask directly. At the door of her aunt's room she met Mrs. Kurd, who had come to call them to supper. Dora made her request then and there, to be allowed to go into the little garden, but her aunt said that it was now supper time, and after supper it would be quite too late. Mrs. Kurd put in a word in Dora's favor, saying that no one would be out there, and it would be safe for Dora to run about there as much as she chose, and at last Aunt Ninette consented to allow her to go out for a while after supper. The child could scarcely eat, so great was her excitement. She listened all the while for the sound of the returning wheels and the children's voices, but nothing was to be heard. When supper was over, her aunt said,

"You may go out now for a little while, but don't go far from the house."

Dora promised not to leave the garden, and ran off to search the hedge for the opening she wanted. It was a white-thorn hedge, and so high and thick that the child could see neither through it nor over it, but down near the ground were here and there thin places, where one could look into the next garden; but only by lying close on the ground. Little did Dora mind that; her one idea was to see the children. She had never seen so large a family, boys and girls, big and little, and all so happy and merry. And to have seen them all climbing into the carriage and driving off together! What a jolly party! She lay down on the ground in a little heap, and peered through the hedge. There was nothing to be heard; the garden beyond was still; the odor of the flowers was wafted to her on the cool, evening air, and she felt as if she could not get enough of it into her lungs. How beautiful it must be in there, she thought; to be able to walk about among the flower-beds! to sit under the tree where the red apples were hanging! And there under the thick branches stood a table, covered with all sorts of things which she could not see plainly, but which shimmered white as snow in the evening light. She was quite absorbed in wonder and curiosity, when—there—that was the carriage, and all the merry voices talking together. The children had returned. Dora could hear very plainly. Now all was still again; they had gone into the house. Now they were coming out again; now they were in the garden.

Mr. Birkenfeld had just returned from a long journey. The children had all gone down to the lake, to meet him at the landing when the steamboat came in. Their mother had remained at home to complete the preparations for the grand reception and the feast in the garden under the big apple-tree. The father's home-coming after so long an absence was a very joyful occasion for the family, and must be celebrated as such.

As soon as the carriage stopped at the door, the mother came running out to meet her husband. All the children jumped down, one after another, and the cat and the dog too, and they all crowded into the large hall, where the welcomings and greetings grew so loud and so violent that the father hardly knew where he was, nor which way to turn as they all pressed about him.

"Now one at a time, my children, and then I can give you each a good kiss," he said at last, when he succeeded in making himself heard through the tumult, "first the youngest, and then the others according to age. Now, my little Hunne, what have you to tell me?"

So saying, Mr. Birkenfeld drew his chubby five-year old boy to his knees. The child's name was Hulreich, but as he had always called himself Hunne, the other children and the parents had adopted the nick-name. Moreover, Julius, the eldest brother, declared that the baby's little stumpy nose made him look like a Hun, and so the name was very appropriate. But his mother would not admit the resemblance.

The little one had so much to tell his father, that there was not time to wait for the end of his story, and it had to be cut short.

"Bye and bye, little Hunne, you shall tell me all about it. Now it is time for Wili and Lili." And giving the twins each a kiss he asked them, "Well now, have you been very good and happy? and obedient, too, all this long time?"

"Almost always," replied Wili rather timidly, while Lili, recalling certain deviations from perfect obedience during her father's absence, thought it best not to make any answer. The twins were eight years old, and perfectly inseparable, never more so than in planning and carrying out various delightful plans, of whose mischievousness they were really only half conscious.

"And you, Rolf, how is it with you?" said the father, turning to a twelve-year old lad with a high forehead, and a strong, firm neck. "Plenty of Latin learned? More new puzzles ready?"

"I have been doing both, father," said the boy. "But the children will not guess my riddles, and my mother has not time to try."

"That is too bad," said his father, kindly and turning to the eldest daughter, a girl of nearly thirteen, he drew her to his side and said tenderly,

"And you Paula, are you still alone in your garden walks? have you no dear friend with you yet?"

"No, of course not, father, but it is beautiful to have you at home again," she answered as she embraced him."

"And I hope my 'big Jule,' is using his vacation in some sensible way?"

"I combine the agreeable with the useful," said Julius gaily, returning his father's embrace. "You must know, father, that the hazel-nuts are almost ripe