tell your Mother this is my new address," and then she repeated it slowly twice to the child: "5, George-street, Bloomsbury. Now, you will remember that, little girl, won't you? and when I want your Mother to come to do a day's charing I will let her know."

Netty had scarcely listened at the time. What did it matter to her? for she was not Susy Minchin: she was Netty Floss.

But now like a ray of sunshine the memory of this address crossed her mind.

George-street, Bloomsbury, was a long way off, but Netty was a brave walker. It took two hours, carrying that heavy baby, to get there, and as she walked the baby's face frightened her more and more, but with the aid of several friendly policemen she did get at last to George-street. She walked up the steps of the tall house and sounded the knocker, and waited with great anxiety until the door was opened. It was opened, not by a servant, who in all probability would have sent Netty away, but by no less a person than Mrs. Holmes herself.

"Why, Susy!" cried the lady, starting back; "who would suppose that I should see you here, and the dear baby too? What is the matter?"

"Oh! let me in," panted poor Netty; "do, please, and I ain't Susy—I'm Netty, and this ain't my little cousin—he's my own brother, and he's bad, very bad. Oh, ma'am, I'm such a miserable girl!"

In great astonishment Mrs. Holmes did allow the little girl to come into the house. She took her into a small room and looked at once at the baby. One glance showed her that he was very ill indeed.

"My dear child," she said, "what a good thing you came when you did. In an hour's time the poor baby might have died."

Mrs. Holmes rang the bell briskly.

"Bring a hot bath here and some mustard immediately," she said to the servant; "and be quick, please, and then go round to Dr. Ross at the corner and say that Mrs. Holmes wants to see him at once."

"Why, Susy! what is the matter?"

All these things were done. The baby was taken out of Netty's arms, undressed, and put into the bath. The doctor called, felt his little swollen gums, and said they were really at the root of the mischief. He lanced them and the baby got immediate relief. In less than an hour he was lying in a soft sleep in Netty's arms.

"He will do now," said Dr. Ross; "but if matters had been postponed I would not have given much chance of his life."

"And now, Susy, what is it?" said Mrs. Holmes, looking for the first time attentively at the child. "Don't cry, my dear, the little fellow will live; but what was that you said to me about not being Susy?"

"Oh! I must tell you," cried Netty; "I know you'll turn me out, but it doesn't matter now, for you have saved baby's life."

And then she did tell her story; with sobs, bitter sobs, she told it, and somehow Mrs. Holmes had never felt nearer crying in her life than as she listened.

At last the poor little accusing voice was silent, and Netty looked up with swollen eyes of misery to receive her sentence.

"You did very wrong, of course, Netty," said Mrs. Holmes; "and I shall be obliged to tell my Vicar, for we must enquire immediately where Tom and Susy Minchin really were. But, my dear child, I am not going to be very angry with you. I think when Daniel suffered so much this morning you received your punishment, and I am not going to give you another. I mean to forgive you, and to try to give you a chance in life."

"Oh, you're an angel," said poor Netty; "will you be my friend even though I have done this?"

"You must promise never to do anything of the kind again."

"Do you think I would want to?" said Netty; "and will you please forgive Ben too, ma'am; he isn't bad really, but we did so pine to look at the sea. We had never seen it, and it was such a big temptation."

"I quite understand," said Mrs. Holmes, and she stooped and kissed Netty. "I will come round this evening to your house in order to see your Mother," she said. "I am going to be your friend in the future."

Mrs. Holmes was as good as her word. The baby quickly got well again, Netty and Ben were forgiven, and were made bonâ-fide scholars at the Sunday-school. When the school feast came round the following year they were able to go to the feast, and as a matter of course had tickets; but a greater treat was in store, for there was a special ticket sent by the Ladies' Committee to no less a person than Dan himself. He was the only baby allowed to come, and he had his own ticket.

The Other Carews.

By

M. B. Manwell.

"Don't you wish that the other Carews could come to our birthday party?" wistfully said Clary, the only girl among Doctor John Carew's "seven little pickles," as he called them.

"They would come like a shot if Uncle George would allow them, I know," observed Mark, the second Carew boy, with the red hair that was always so handy to fire off a joke about.

"Hum! perhaps so. The weather's getting coldish, and they'd be glad to come, if it was only to warm themselves a bit!" Oliver's eyes rolled significantly at Mark's head, the owner of which, with an angry whoop, made a dive at the speaker. There was an uproar in the play-room on the spot. Five Carew boys, pursued by the furious Mark, leaped, laughing and shouting, over chairs and stools, and even across the table.

"Wait till I catch one of you, that's all!" panted Mark, stumbling over a stool which Chris mischievously pushed in his way.

"Wait, sir! Oh, certainly, sir!" teasingly said Chris, bowing almost in two while Mark ruefully rubbed his shins.

"Oh, boys, don't quarrel! Let us sit quiet and talk about the other Carews!" Clary plaintively pleaded. "Don't you think we could somehow get them to my birthday party?"

The little sister was tucked away in the old rocking-chair in a corner, safely out of the way of the line of march of her wild brothers. She was a frail, small mortal, with long, smooth, yellow hair and anxious blue eyes, just the apple of everybody's eye in the Tile House.

"Father and Uncle George have never spoken to one another for three whole years. Everybody in Allonby Edge knows that, and so do you, Clary! Is it likely that the other Carews would be allowed to come to your birthday party—is it now, I ask?" Oliver, the eldest, put his hands in his pockets, and stood with his back to the empty fireplace, secretly flattering himself that even Father could not strike a more manly attitude.

It was Saturday—a pouring wet Saturday—and the boys were house-prisoners. They had struggled through every indoor game they knew, starting with a pillow-fight before the beds were made, to the tearful wrath of old Euphemia, who kept Dr. John Carew's house because the sweet-faced Mother, whom the children adored so, was ill and frail most of her days.

When in the pillow-fray a bolster burst and the feathers thickly snowed the staircase and hall,