told Cynthia?"

"Yes; but not meaning any harm to you, Ida. I never thought but what you had made a mistake, and as you seemed a little unhappy ever since Mrs. Lennox had called. I made sure you were grievin' because Cynthy wasn't to go with you."

"Oh, how I wish it had been a mistake," said Ida; "but it was deliberate deceit. I knew Cynthia had no gown fit for such an occasion, and I thought I might be mortified before Angela Leverton."

"Cynthy saw just how it was," said Aunt Patty. "She met me at the gate, and when I told her what Mrs. Lennox had said, she knew that it wasn't a mistake at all."

"She was very forgiving." Ida sighed heavily. "I felt conscience-stricken when I saw that she was so bitterly disappointed. And then think of how much you have to forgive me. Do you remember that day I was in the carriage with Angela, and you were coming from the village with that big box in your arms? Oh, Aunt Patty! to think I was so mean as to pretend I didn't know you! It makes me wretched now just to think of it."

"There, there!" said Aunt Patty, who could not restrain her own tears. "It doesn't matter now, dearie. We will forget all about it."

CHAPTER IX.

A few days later Ida was once more back at the old farm; and how different now did everything look to her. The days of grumbling and complaint were past forever. She was no longer annoyed by her old aunt's unwitting offences against etiquette; and she found a new and strange pleasure in simple things which she had once regarded with indifference or aversion. She fed the fowls, learned to harness the old horse, and insisted on helping with the work of the dairy. And how proud she was of her first pat of delicious butter!

"It really seems a pity to eat it," she said, as she exhibited it in triumph to Aunt Patty.

One day she took the horse and light wagon and drove to Bell's Falls. She said she had some shopping to do there, and several errands to which she must attend.

"One of them is a commission from Doctor Stone," she said, trying not to smile, but failing signally.

Lately she had received several letters from the old doctor, but she never read them to her aunt and sister.

"Some day you may read them," she said to Aunt Patty, "but not now. Doctor Stone and I have a secret which you and Cynthia are not to know just yet."

"It seems to make you very happy, whatever it is," said Cynthia.

"Well, I am more anxious than happy just now," returned Ida. "But I can't explain why."

About a week after her trip to Bell's Falls, Ida entered the farm-house kitchen late one afternoon with two letters in her hand. Her face was glowing from her brisk walk to and from the village post-office, and her bright eyes were dancing in anticipation of some rare enjoyment.

"One of those letters for me?" asked Cynthia, who was busy at a table making rolls for supper.

"No; both for me," answered her sister, "and great news in both. One is from Aunt Stina, who says she will be home by the 1st of November, and wants me to be ready to live with her again."

"Oh, Ida!"

It was a simultaneous exclamation from Aunt Patty and Cynthia. They both looked blank, and Cynthia dropped her rolling-pin and sat down in the nearest chair, as if she felt suddenly weak.

Ida laughed. She looked wonderfully radiant and happy. "Calm yourselves," she said. "I have other plans in my head. Listen to this." She tossed Aunt Stina's letter into the wood-box back of the stove, and opened the other—a business document—which announced that Miss Ida Worley had been appointed a teacher in the grammar school at Bell's Falls at a salary of seven hundred and fifty dollars per annum, her duties to begin the following Monday. "And as Bell's Falls is only fifteen miles off, I can come home every Friday night," said Ida.

"How'd you ever get the place?" asked Cynthia, when she and Aunt Patty had exhausted their vocabulary of exclamations of delight and astonishment.

"Through Doctor Stone's influence. He knows all three of the trustees. Dear old man! He was so ready to help me!"

"Aunt Stina will be dreadfully disappointed that she isn't to have you again, Ida."

"Perhaps so, just at first. But she will hire a companion—some one who will suit her much better than I. She won't approve of my teaching, and will wonder that I prefer it to a life of idleness in her house. But I am longing to feel that I am of some use in the world—not a drone in the hive."

"You dear child!" said Aunt Patty. "Your kind and unselfish act in helping that poor fever-stricken woman has brought a great reward. Had you passed her by you would never have known Doctor Stone, and wouldn't now have a chance to show what a busy bee you can become."

"My first month's salary shall be spent in fitting out my dear Aunt Patty with everything she needs in the way of comfortable dress," said Ida, with her arms around her aunt's waist, "and the month after that every cent shall go to Cynthia. Oh, I can hardly wait to begin! How thankful I am that I came here last June. It was the beginning of a new life. And to think how I mourned and made myself utterly miserable because I couldn't go abroad with Aunt Stina!"

Cynthia's plain little face fairly beamed with joy. "And now Aunt Stina is never to have you again," she said.

"Never again! I belong now to you and Aunt Patty."

THE END.

THE CAPTURE OF THE SLAVER.

BY AN OLD SHIPMASTER.

I had run away to sea, and was serving as cabin-boy on the Flying Scud. But by the time we got to Cienfuegos, Cuba, I had suffered so much from ill-treatment, that I resolved to desert before the ship sailed. I had an afternoon ashore, and while amusing myself with the sights I went into a restaurant for dinner.

At a table opposite mine was a fine-looking sailorly man, dressed in a white duck suit and a broad-brimmed Panama hat. While he sipped his coffee, and lazily smoked his long, black Cuban cigar, he appeared to take considerable notice of me. When I was ready to depart he called me to him, and asked the name of the ship I belonged to, the treatment and wages I received, and so on. He seemed so friendly and interested that I made free to tell him of my troubles, and stated that I longed for the termination of the voyage. At this he said:

"It seems, my boy, that Providence has sent me to deliver you. I am Captain of a fine ship, and am in need of a cabin-boy on account of mine having met with an accident that will keep him on shore for some time. What do you say to shipping with me? I will promise you good treatment and much better wages than the Flying Scud pays you."

Here was a golden avenue of escape for me. I was young and trustful, and Captain Ward of the Dragon—for such he told me were the names of himself and vessel—seemed so sympathetic and kindly that I gladly signified my willingness to desert to him.

"Very well," he answered, seemingly well pleased; "I am going on board now, for we are to sail immediately, and you can come right along with me."

As we made our way to the landing-stage through the fast growing darkness, Captain Ward kept up an easy, friendly flow of talk, and by the time that we were seated in the handsome long boat belonging to the Dragon I had, in the impulsiveness of youth, become strongly attached to him. When we reached the latter vessel it was too dark to observe anything more about her than the fact that she was fore-and-aft rigged, with a long yard on her foremast for bending a big square sail to when running before the wind, and had a broad, clean sweep of deck, with high bulwarks, through whose port-holes several cannon looked out. The Captain was received at the gangway by his chief mate, to whom I was pointed out with the half-laughing remark, "this is