makes me uneasy. But it is just fancy, and will pass off. Probably there will be a letter from him to-night."

Cynthia also had remarked on Neal's silence, and this confirmed her fears. She did not say anything more to Mrs. Franklin, however, for Neal had again made her promise to repeat nothing he had told her.

"I'll never confide in you again if you tell," he had said; so, of course, Cynthia had promised.

Her mind was busy during the remainder of the trip to Boston, and when the train glided into the station she had determined to put her thoughts into action.

"We will go to Shreve's and then to Bigelow's to look at watches," said Mrs. Franklin, as they walked across the Common. "We had better look at both places before you decide."

"I have changed my mind, mamma. I don't think I will buy a watch."

"Why, Cynthia!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin, almost stopping short in her surprise; "you want one so much!"

"No, I don't think I do—at least not just now. Let us just go buy the clothes, and I'll keep Aunt Betsey's money a little longer."

She would give no further explanation, and her mother could not induce her even to glance at the watches in Shreve's window. No; she had decided that she did not need one.

When they reached home she took the money and went to her own room. She was standing by the window, carefully packing the coins in a little box with cotton, and about to do it up for the mail—for she knew no better way of sending the money—when she heard the sound of wheels on the drive.

Looking out, she saw one of the depot carriages approaching, and in the vehicle was Neal himself.

Full of apprehension, dreading she knew not what, Cynthia dropped the box of money and flew down stairs.

It was not vacation, it was the middle of the school-term.

Why had Neal come home?

[to be continued.]

CORPORAL FRED.

A Story of the Riots.

BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.

CHAPTER VII.

Even that drive of a dozen blocks was full of excitement. As the buggy whirled away from the post of the outermost sentry, after a brief impatient interview, the sergeant of the guard sang out to the only occupant whom he knew or in whom he felt personal interest, "Look out for 'toughs' down the street, Fred. A gang of 'em's just been scattered over at the Amity Works."

"That's where we're bound," was the answer shouted back over the lowered buggy top, and then our corporal turned to his whilom "boss," but now silent and embarrassed convoy. "Now, Mr. Manners, whether they recognize you or not they'll see my uniform, and while they're meek enough in front of a company, they're bold as a lion against a single militiaman. Hoist the buggy top. That'll fend off rocks from the back and sides, anyhow, and if anybody tries to stop us before we get to the works, whip up and drive for all you're worth."

It was good counsel. Turning out of the avenue with its electric lamps, the buggy was spinning through a dimly lighted, unpaved cross street. Knots of people were still hovering about the corners—even women and children. Loud, harsh voices were wrangling in a saloon, but for three or four blocks northward the buggy whirled unmolested, then ahead could be seen groups of uncouth-looking men arguing under the lamp-posts or skulking about the street corners, and presently, as Manners's swift roadster came springing up the street, the gas-light fell one instant on the buttons and white chevrons of the corporal's blouse. A burst of yells and taunts was the result as they drove by the first group. This drew the attention of the others, and redoubled yells and a crash of stones followed from the next, and presently the street ahead was alive with straggling rioters running out to head off this lone vehicle, freighted with they knew not what, but quickly divined to be of the hated "capitalistic class." Manners reached for his whip and lashed his spirited mare over the haunches. She seemed to leap into air, amazed and indignant, and two rough fellows who sprang at her head were banged aside as easily as an ironclad would burst through a shad net. But up the street the crowd was thicker. Only five blocks away now, around the second turn to the right, were the Amity Works and Fred's comrades of Company L, but between them lurked some hundreds of the foiled and furious mob, balked in their scheme of wrecking and burning the laden cars and the magnificently inflammable plant of the wealthy corporation, and eager to revenge themselves either on the owners or on those who had become its guardians and protectors. Some one recognized the buggy and Manners as they flashed by a lamp-post, and shouted his name. "Head 'em off!" "Stop 'em!" "Shoot 'em!" "Kill the bloody hounds!" were the only intelligible yells, and the gangs of "toughs" and tramps along the street and among the lumber piles yelled mad echo to the cry. Stones and other missiles came whirling through the night, some striking the mare and redoubling her wild speed, some clattering upon the buggy top, some few, better aimed, and from the front, whizzing into the buggy itself. One of these stung Manners on the cheek, just as Fred, bending low to dodge another, shouted to his companion, "Turn her to the right—next street—it's our only chance."

Not a second too soon. Galloping now, the game little mare was hard to guide, but Manners stood up and fairly dragged her around the corner, the dust whirling in clouds from the flashing wheels, the buggy nearly capsizing by the sudden turn. Here they came face to face and easily burst through a little knot of rioters running to join the crowd on the street they had just left, a yell of battled rage following them as they went dashing away up the dim, dusty lane. "Courage! Only three blocks more and we're safe," said Fred, as the manager, his grim mouth set, gripped hard at the reins and strove to regain control. But the mare was mad with fear and excitement now, and at the very next cross street swerved to the left, the shortest line to her stable. The buggy careened, whirled against the wooden curb, and in another instant, shooting its occupants across the sidewalk, went bounding and dashing up the street, shedding spokes, tires, cushions, and springs with every jump, and landing, a moment later, only a dangling wreck at the heels of the reeking mare in the hands of Company L, still ranked in front of the shops.

"It's Manners's buggy," cried Sercombe, "and he's spilled out somewhere up the street. The mob have got him. Save him if it's a possible thing."

So, too, said the Captain, and forty men of the "Backwoods Boys," as L was facetiously termed by the city companies, went doubling down the dusty street, peering eagerly ahead through the darkness.