running from the village, rather than toward it. The attack, he knew, would be made within an hour.

There was a stretch of nearly a mile across the fields before a road could be reached. Noel, tired from his dash through the woods, started forward across the uneven pasture-land. In spite of his anxiety, he laughed to himself at the thought of Pierre's feelings when he should discover that he was chasing only a frightened cow.

As he hurried on as fast as his tired legs would carry him, it seemed to his strained senses that an unnatural and forbidding hush pervaded the warm night. Even the notes of whippoorwills that came from the bushes near the forest sounded less loud than usual, and seemed to foretell a calamity. The hares and other animals that come out in the darkness had hidden themselves.

Finally he came to the road that led on to the village, still two miles away. There was little danger of being overtaken by Pierre; but there was a chance of his being seen by the sentinels that the raiders might station on the roads leading to the village. He could not go faster than a slow trot now, and he was panting painfully. His moccasin-clad feet ploughed through the dust, striking against the stones in the rough road. He thought, a little bitterly, that the other boys were right if they believed that he was not really able-bodied; the accident that had hurt his arm had weakened him in every way. However, he plodded on steadily, resolved that determination should take the place, as far as possible, of bodily strength.

He had gone perhaps half the way when there was the sound of a horse's hoofs coming from the direction of the village. He crouched down in the shadow of some bushes, and waited. In a moment the horse and its rider came in sight, and by the dim light Noel recognized the village doctor, old Mr. Hedding, astride his white pony. Noel stepped into the road in front of the pony.

"It's only I, doctor; Noel Duval, grandson to the Widow Marston," he said, in a whisper. "Don't make any noise! Was everything quiet at the village when you left?"

"Quiet as usual, and that's quiet enough, for certain. But what's the matter, lad? Why are you stopping people in the high-road in this way? And why are you trembling and panting so? That's not like a highwayman."

"They're going to attack the village—raiders from Canada! There's no time to explain! But you must let me have the pony! I'm all tired out—and I must get to the village!"

For a moment the doctor scrutinized the boy's face. Then he got down from the pony. "I was going to farmer Tonwell's, who's down with his rheumatism again, but he shall wait. I wouldn't do this at every boy's word, but you look as if you know what you're about, and I will take the chance."

Already Noel had sprung to the saddle and turned the pony back toward the village.

"Look out for my saddle-bags," said the doctor. "There's enough costly drugs in them to kill all the English in Canada. I'll follow on slowly, and 'twill go hard with you if you've been trifling with me."

But the boy was out of hearing. It seemed as if Providence had come to the aid of his weak body, and Noel, with renewed hope of reaching the village in time to give the alarm, urged on the sturdy white pony.

They had almost reached the outskirts of the little town when a man on horseback rode into the middle of the road, and confronting Noel, ordered him to stop. Noel thought he recognized the dress of the Canadian scouts. He bent low on the saddle and struck the pony sharply. An instant later a rifle blazed in his face. Then he realized that in some way the white pony had got by the other horse and was galloping down the road, terrified by the rifle's flash. The scout's pony was close behind.

The white pony was running as it had not done since it was a colt in lower Canada, and had carried its habitant master in many a race, and won them, too. Noel was conscious of a feeling of exultation; for he saw that the scout was losing ground. He cried out to his pursuer in French, and started to wave his hand in a derisive farewell. The effort caused a sharp pain to shoot through his arm, and he found that his hand and wrist were covered with blood. The scout's bullet had torn its way through the flesh of his forearm.

He grew very faint, and had to clutch the saddle tightly with his knees to keep from falling. His weak arm had served to hold the reins, but it was good for little else. He was so dizzy that he could hardly see, and he only dimly realized that he was close to the streams of light coming from the windows of the village tavern. The sound of a galloping horse brought several men to the tavern door.

"Raiders from Canada are coming! They're close by!" he gasped, then his head swam round and he fell from the saddle. After that there was much shouting and hurrying to and fro, and finally the beating of a drum and the quick clang of the bell in the village church. But Noel, stretched out on a table in the tavern, was undisturbed by all the turmoil.

Even Congress heard of what had occurred that warm July night by the Canadian border, and when the war was ended, Noel Duval was remembered in such a substantial way that he was able to provide a good home for his mother and the old Widow Marston and for little Ninette, and to keep poverty from ever again pinching them.

One day in the autumn, Noel, who was now quite well of his wound, was asked to come to the drill-ground. Jacobus Boonter met him, and led him to where the company of boys were drawn up in line. "Noel Duval," he said, "we ask you if you will please be our captain?"

THE LAZY HOUR.

So bright are the branches,
The shadows so cool,
So dark is the water,
So deep is the pool,
So hard is the lesson,
So hot is the school—
If I were the son of a merman
I never should hear of a rule!

Light as the arrow
Springs from the bow,
Off the big ledges
Down I should go
Into the hollow
Whose secret I know,
Up I should come like a bubble,
Shake off the water and blow!

Now for a breast stroke
Under the tide—
Arm o'er arm sweeping
I float on my side;
Deep in green crystal
Slowly I slide.
There goes the class up in Cæsar!
I wish I'd a corner to hide!

Harriet Prescott Spofford.

ARTIFICIAL ICE.

AN ICE "CAN."

Sign-boards bearing the legend "Boston ice" over the doors of cellars and other places where ice was kept for sale have long been a familiar sight in the South. During the last twelve years, however, nearly every Southern town of importance has established its own factory for making ice, and the process has become so perfect and cheap that the artificial ice competes with the natural article shipped from the New England States.

The cost of transportation, handling, and enormous waste by melting serves to make "Boston ice" a costly luxury to the Southern consumer. This has stimulated