Boxer to lie down beside him.

But it was quite a long time after Willie's mouth opened, to let out some not unmusical snores, that Mrs. Hayling's thoughts were hushed into quiet dreams.

Mothers have so many things to think about and puzzle over!

About four o'clock her little son suddenly opened his eyes, and as suddenly remembered where he was.

He was wide awake!

Boxer did not like the vigorous shake that his little master gave him. He roused himself, it is true; but when Willie climbed on to the seat and looked out of the window, he curled himself round for another nap. Why did not his little master do the same?

"Boxer, I'm 'samed of you! How lazy you are! Come and play wid me."

And the fat arms dragged the dog up again and held him in a tight embrace, from which there seemed no escaping.

"Mother is fast as'eep! We'll play widout her, dis time," and Willie fixed his eyes longingly upon the window-strap. Then he looked back again at his mother's white tired face.

He was thinking to himself, "Mother said, Willie mustn't play wid dat fing—and—and me wants to."

Poor mother! why do you not wake? See! your little child is getting nearer and nearer to that forbidden plaything.

He leant against the door and held the window-strap in one hand, while his little face grew grave and ashamed. It was not quite so nice to be disobedient as Willie thought it would be.

Mother, mother! why do you not wake? There is something wrong with the fastening of the door, and even the child's light weight has made it shift a little.

He was peeping down with eager eyes into the depths out of which the window-sash had been drawn.

"I'll send dis strap down dere, and fis' somefing up. S'all I, Boxer?"

The dog stood close beside him, wagging his bushy tail and looking up with two bright loving eyes.

And then the train gave a sudden lurch, the door flew open, and as the child fell forward with a little cry, Boxer sprang after him and seized him by his sailor-collar. Powerless to save his little master from falling, he yet dragged him sideways to the ground, and received the full force of the fall, as they rolled over and over down the long green bank.

And yet mother did not wake! No! not until that motionless bundle—the child and the dog—had been left many miles away.

"Boxer! wake up! It's time for bekfust."

Boxer did not move.

"I said I was 'samed of you. Now I'm 'sameder. You are a lazy dog!"

And then Willie's eyes opened wider, and he turned over on his bed. His bed? Why! it was soft green grass! and that was not a bed-curtain up there. It was a tree, and branches of whispering leaves.

Slowly the truth crept into the child's mind, and very slowly it drove two large tears into his blue eyes. Where was mother—dear, dear mother?

He sat up and looked round him. "Mother! mother! I'm very, very sorry!" he cried; the remembrance of his disobedience being full upon him. But his voice ended in sobs, as he buried his face in the grass again. "Oh, mother! Willie does want you so!"

Mother was coming. Her strained, anxious eyes had already discovered the little figure lying stretched upon the ground.

In another moment the pilot-engine had stopped, and she had clasped her darling in her arms—alive—unhurt—and was covering him with kisses, while thankful tears ran down her cheeks.

It was left to Hetty Saunders to stoop down and stroke Boxer's motionless figure, and in that touch to learn how the dear doggie had lost his life for his little master.

IT WAS ALL THOSE HORRID BELLOWS!

A STORY TOLD BY A LITTLE GIRL.

I don't often remember things; but that is because I've got a head like a sieve—nurse says so.

"What's in a name?" he read out of the book—and then something about a rose smelling sweet. That part doesn't matter.

If Dick had asked me "What's in a name?" I could have told him quite well. But Dick didn't ask me, and so I will tell you instead. I think there's a great deal in a name—at least, in a nickname. There are all kinds of spiteful little prickles that hurt ever so much more than others, because they stick in our feelings.

I think I must have got a whole lot of that kind of thorn in me just now, for I do feel sore.

Every one has begun to call me Matty, and I can't bear it!

Did you say Matty was rather a pretty name?

Perhaps it is, if it is the proper short for your name; I mean, if you were christened Matilda. But my name's Ginevra!

Now, do you understand that they all call me Matty just to tease me, and I hate it. I do.

I've got as far as adjectives in grammar, so I know that the long horrid word which they put before Matty sometimes is an adjective. I'm not going to write it down here—no, not for any one—because it is such a nasty, unkind word. But it begins with an M. The next letter is an E, and then comes D, and there are seven more letters, I think.

And this is all because the other day it was raining very fast, and there was nothing to do!

There never is anything to do on a wet day; I mean, nothing interesting. Dick plays with me sometimes; but he was reading a story, with dreadful fighting pictures to it, in the Boy's Own Paper, so I knew he wouldn't want to come. And Teddie had gone to sleep in the armchair.

Wasn't that a stupid thing to do?

Well! I was obliged to get something to do—wasn't I? And it wasn't my fault that Ann left the dear little drawing-room bellows behind her, when she came to make up the fire, was it?

You can do nice, funny things with bellows.

I've tried.

But Dick didn't like me to blow down his neck; and Teddie got quite cross when I sent a puff of wind into his ear and woke him up. He needn't have thrown the footstool at me, need he?

I went out of the schoolroom after that, and such a nice thought came into my head.

I would be a wind-fairy.

I would be a naughty wind-fairy first, and go and blow everything out of its place—all untidy and crooked; and then I could change, and be a good wind-fairy, and go and blow all the things straight again.

So I went into all the rooms.

It was funny!

I blew the antimacassars on to the floor, and the visiting-cards out of the china-plate.

That was in the drawing-room.

The best fun was in the nursery, where all the clean handkerchiefs and collars and cuffs were on the table. They went puff, puff, all over the floor, just like big snowflakes, and I could hardly help stepping on them.

The bedrooms were not so much fun. So I finished by going to the dining-room, as soon as Ann had gone away, after setting the tea.

Nobody will believe me when I say that I really was going to put everything tidy again! But I never got so far as being the good wind-fairy. Everything always goes just the wrong way!

First of all, the servants finished their tea sooner than they generally do, and nurse went straight back to the nursery. She might