Then the old gentleman sputtered and scolded, and said he wished little girls would look where they were going once in a while, and that they were nothing but "giggling nuisances" anyhow. Then Miriam dropped her books, and, as both she and Winnie stooped to pick them up, they knocked their heads together with such force that tears sprang to the eyes of both.

As a usual thing, such occurrences would have made them laugh, but they were far enough from being "giggling nuisances" on this occasion, and when they turned the corner and separated, it would not have been easy to find two muddier or crosser little girls, while both, I fear, had forgotten all about the giants they were intending to fight.

When Winnie reached home, she spoke to Ralph so crossly, when he ran up to her for a kiss, that his lips trembled and he turned to Mrs. Burton, saying, "Mamma, is me bad? 'Innie 'ouldn't tiss me!"

Winnie, at sight of his grieved face, began to feel ashamed of herself, but was still too cross to make any acknowledgments, and, without saying a word, went up to her room to change her muddy dress.

When she came down, Mrs. Burton looked at her searchingly, but asked no questions, and it was not until after supper that Winnie felt sufficiently herself to tell her mother about the disagreeable afternoon. Mrs. Burton only said: "Well, Winnie,—

but I hope my daughter isn't going to grow up into one of those unpleasant women who always make it disagreeable for other people when things do not turn out just as they would like to have them."

CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST MEETING.

As a consequence of the lost rubbers and wet feet, Miriam caught such a cold that she was not able to leave the house for the remainder of the week. Gretta Burger was still sulking, and Fannie Allen was, as she said, "reviewing odds and ends," so the meeting which was to have been held on Friday of that week was postponed.

But fickleness and inconstancy of purpose were not among the faults of Winnifred, and although she made many failures, and the words "by and by" and "in a minute" were frequently on her lips, she nevertheless made some progress in conquering her great fault.

Her greatest temptation, as is evident from what has already been seen of her, was to let everything else go and slip off into some nook and lose herself in what she called "a delicious read." And this habit was all the harder for her to break because she had commenced it when she was a very little girl, and it had then looked "so cunning" and studious that injudicious friends and acquaintances of the family, unable to distinguish between a love for study which costs hard work and self-denial, and a mere love for narrative which is easily gratified, had praised her when she was within hearing, and had told Mr. Burton how much they envied him the possession of so studious and intelligent a child. Not that all works of fiction are to be condemned, for they often have a good and lasting influence, and become a decided factor in the formation of a noble character. But like all things intended for recreation, they should be used only at the proper time. Winnie was fast finding out that the proper time was when her daily duties were over, and that was reducing her two or three snatched hours a day to fifteen or twenty minutes. She was also beginning to find out the close connection between various bad habits. She saw that procrastination led to carelessness, disobedience, and, in some natures, to untruthfulness and dishonesty.

But by the following Friday, the long-anticipated examination was over. Our four little friends had reason to be well satisfied with the result, so far as they were personally concerned. A mutual content had restored harmony between Gretta and the other three, and they had decided to hold their first meeting on that evening.

Winnie was very anxious to have Ernestine come, too; but, although she laughed at herself for her foolish pride, Fannie said: "Of course we know Ernestine is a nice girl, but we don't know anything about her family, and you know she never speaks of her father, although nobody ever heard that he is dead. They may be very common people, for all we know."

Winnie was greatly troubled about this, for she did not like "common people" very well herself. She had her own ideas about such things, and she called Althea Browne "common." Althea wore brass jewelry, and was always boasting about the fine things they had at home, and the grand parties her aunt in Virginia gave. She was always willing to accept fruits and sweetmeats from the other girls, but had been known, more than once, to sneak off by herself and munch candies and apples which she had brought. Winnie thought that if Ernestine's people were like Althea, she did not want to have anything to do with them.

As usual, she carried this perplexity to her mother, who said: "Let the matter rest for the present, dear. While Fannie feels as she does about it, it would not be pleasant for any of you to have her come, or for Ernestine herself, and dissension will not help you to become better. In the meantime I will consider the matter, and, if I conclude that it will be best for Ernestine to join you, I hope to be able to arrange it."

Mrs. Burton had invited the three girls to take supper with Winnie, and, as school had closed early, and they had no lessons to prepare for Monday, they had a nice, long afternoon together. Miriam read aloud the account of the combat of Fides with the Giant Sloth, and when she was through, said: "That is the giant Gretta pointed out to me; and a hard one he will be for me to overcome, I can tell you."

"What is my worst one?" asked Fannie, taking up the book which Miriam had laid down. As she glanced through the pages she said, with a slight blush, "Oh, yes; my father would tell me that I must conquer my pride, and he tries to have me see how disagreeable it makes me, by telling me that I will never be a perfect lady until I have done so. Here, Miriam, read this aloud, too; you make it so plain that I almost feel as if I were there."

Gretta said very little, but she had a self-satisfied air about her, as if it were as needless for anyone to be proud or untidy as for anyone to steal, and she felt herself far removed from faults such as these. And indeed she was neither indolent nor untidy. She rose at six—that magic hour in which Fides was to strike his first blow at Giant Sloth—and practiced two hours before school; she was neatness itself, both in person and in all her belongings. Besides, she was neither so conscientious as Winnie, so frank and outspoken as Fannie, nor so easily influenced, either for right or wrong, as Miriam. So her conscience lay dormant.

She was, however, conscious that she, too, had a habit of not doing things as soon as she ought, and to try to overcome that seemed to her almost like a lesson to be learned, so she was willing to try to learn it with the others.

After Miriam had finished the chapter, Winnie said, "Oh, girls, I must show you my autographs;" and, turning to Ralph, who sat by the window, gazing intently at a couple of puppies which were having a romp together, she said, "Ralphie, bring Winnie that book by the window."

Without moving a muscle of his chubby little body, or even turning his head, the child answered: "You just s'pect me to do evvyfing; I tan't do evvyfing."

"Oh, Ralph, my little partner in distress!" exclaimed Miriam, in her most dramatic way, snatching him up and kissing him in spite of his struggles. "You'll have to have a suit of armor, too. Who would have thought that one so young could be so lazy!"

The laugh was not yet over when Mrs. Burton came in, with her pleasant smile, saying, "Girls, I've a short story to tell you—that is, if you wish to hear it; and there'll just be time before supper."

Of course they were delighted, and, Fannie having coaxed Ralph to her lap, they all gathered around Mrs. Burton, making a pretty group in their unconsciously graceful attitudes, as they listened to the following narrative:

"Constance van Orten was born in New York, a descendant of one of the old Knickerbocker families, but of a branch which had preserved more of the family pride than its estates. Money, however, was not altogether lacking, and to many people their income would have seemed sumptuous; but to them, in comparison with their more wealthy friends and relatives, it seemed the merest pittance that necessity could demand.

"But this comparative lack of money never troubled little Constance, and fortune seemed to smile upon her. One might almost have believed that all the beneficent fairies had presided at her birth, so many graces of face and form and disposition were hers, and so many of the conditions necessary to human happiness seemed fulfilled in her lot.

"She was the youngest child and only daughter, and her four brothers found her so charming a plaything, and later so agreeable a companion, that they took pleasure in making her life a succession of pleasant surprises, and her every wish was gratified almost before expressed. Indeed, had she asked for the moon, it would have been a source of genuine grief to them that they could not get it for her.

"Pain seemed as far removed from her as anxiety or grief, for, although she had an odd faculty of catching all the diseases incident to childhood, they touched her so lightly that it was seldom necessary to call in a physician. If she received a cut or a wound of any kind, so pure was her blood and so perfect her physical condition that it healed as if by magic.

"Her willfulness was extreme, as might have been expected from the almost total lack of restraint under which she grew up; but so winning were her ways, and so ready her repentance for her little misdeeds, that for the most part she escaped punishment and even reproof.

"Almost without the power of application, she seemed to pick up external evidences of education and culture without effort. She talked fluently, sang charmingly, and, having almost marvelous tact, never failed to please.

"Being, as I have said, the only daughter, she entered society earlier than most girls, and, in spite of her comparative lack of means, soon became a reigning belle. During her first season she refused more than one wealthy suitor, and that, too, to the intense satisfaction of her parents and brothers, for she was a veritable sunbeam in the family, and they looked forward with dread to the thought of losing her.

"At last, however, there came, furnished with letters of introduction to one of Constance's uncles, a young and wealthy cotton planter from Louisiana. His seeming indifference to money and his prodigal use of it, his pleasant speech and manner, his languid Southern movements, so different from those of the brisk Northerners to whom they were accustomed, and, above all, the very fact of his being a stranger, made him most welcome to the girlish minds so fond of change and novelty. But it was with the greatest regret that the Van Ortens began to notice his marked attentions to Constance and the increasing pleasure she took in them. It was not only that a marriage with him would separate her from them all, but her father and brothers, constantly meeting the young stranger at clubs and places where there were no ladies present, and consequently where he was off his guard, found him capricious and changeable in his opinions and actions, extremely self-indulgent, selfishly indifferent to the comfort of others, and so fond of intoxicating liquor that, on more than one occasion, he had been directly and shamefully under its influence.

"But Constance would not, perhaps could not, see him in the light in which he was portrayed to her, and, in spite of all their warnings and her mother's pleadings, she consented to become his wife. Immediately after the marriage, they went to Louisiana, and for awhile all was to Constance as her most ardent fancy had painted it. Their home was in the beautiful Claiborne Parish, which has been named "the Eden of Louisiana." Her winning ways and delicate beauty endeared her to the new acquaintances she formed, and made her the idol of the slaves on the plantation. Here two sons were born, and the mother felt her happiness complete. But presently she found her husband less attentive to her. He absented himself on long journeys, for which he scarcely had a pretext, and when at home was either sullen or irritable.

"Then the Civil War broke out and he lost much of his property, and there were almost ceaseless and taunting allusions on his part to the "plebeian Yankees" and the ruin they had brought him. After the close of the war, however, he seemed to make an effort to do the best with what property remained. He became a little more considerate, and sometimes seemed to be almost what he had been in the early years of his married life, and when Constance became the mother of a little girl, she began to feel as if, after all, life might hold some good in store for her.

"But alas! her husband's good behavior did not last long. He began to drink constantly, and at last he left one morning, without saying a word, and never returned. Then the two promising boys died of that dreadful scourge, yellow fever, and Constance was almost heartbroken.

"During the war, communication with her New York relatives had been almost impossible, and since then, as is usual in interrupted correspondence, even among those who love each other best, it had assumed a desultory character; and now that Constance felt overwhelmingly disgraced by her husband's desertion, and knowing that all this sorrow had come upon her in consequence of her opposition to the wishes of her family, she was too proud to turn to them for help or comfort. But to remain where she was was likewise almost an impossibility, for the scenes of sorrow through which she had passed made the South a hated prison from which she felt that she must escape. Besides, her husband's creditors had seized upon everything that was left, and the once lovely, petted girl, destitute, bereaved, forsaken, raised what money she could from the sale of her laces and jewelry, and, taking passage in one of the Mississippi steamers, started for Louisville. There, however, she remained but a few days, and finally came to Cincinnati, hoping here to find some way to support herself and her little daughter, without being obliged to appeal to her brothers for help.

"But for a woman reared as she had been, what was there to do? Her slender means became still more slender, and it was only after having been subjected to absolute privation, that she managed to obtain a place in a store as saleswoman, and now she and her child are able to live respectably, if not always comfortably. Her one joy and source of happiness she finds in the companionship of her daughter Ernestine, a girl of character so fine and religious principles so high that they would be a credit to one of twice her years."

"Why, that sounds like a description of Ernestine Alroy!" said Fannie.

"And it is Ernestine of whom I am speaking, although I hope it is not necessary for me to suggest that she would not like her mother's history to be made public property. In fact, I must earnestly request you not to mention it even in your own homes," said Mrs. Burton. "It was only by a mere accident that I heard this narrative yesterday afternoon. But I hear Mr. Burton and Jack in the hall, and, as supper will be served in a very few minutes, I must leave you, with an apology for telling you a sad story, and one which I would not have ventured upon had it not been an 'o'er true tale.'"

"How dreadful!" said Fannie. "And to think, girls, that her mother was as happy and well reared—"

Just then, however, supper was announced, and Fannie's sentence remained unfinished.

After supper, Jack brought out his violin, and he and Gretta played some duets together, Gretta reading the piano part at sight, and so well that Winnie felt her own poor little talent cast quite in the shade.

Then Gretta played some pretty sonatinas with fine taste and expression, and gave so much pleasure to her listeners that Fannie began to think there might be worse things in the world than being a "music teacher's daughter."

After that, to the great delight of the girls, Mr. Burton sang, in his fine bass voice, and with the merry twinkle in his eyes in accord with his extravagant gestures, a comic song, ending with a little refrain in which all the Burtons, not even excepting Ralph, joined, the latter singing at the top of his voice, and clapping his hands for accompaniment.

They had hardly had time to feel weary of sitting still and listening, when Mrs. Burton had them all in the dining-room playing the good old game of "Puss in the Corner." Here, too, Mr. Burton distinguished himself by his pathetic appeals for a "corner." The game left them all breathless but happy, and they sat down for awhile to recover themselves and "cool off," while Jack went to get on his overcoat preparatory to seeing the girls home.

CHAPTER VI.
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.

The school which Winnie and her friends attended was in the habit of selecting certain authors, whose birthday anniversaries they commemorated. This year, however, the principal had concluded to celebrate Washington's birthday by patriotic songs, declamations, and so on. In consequence the pupils were all in a state of great excitement, pleasurable to boyish and girlish hearts.

Lessons were shortened, classes dismissed early, rehearsals conducted morning, noon and night. From one end of the building to the other, "spouting" was heard, gestures were being made in the most frantic manner, the strains of "The Star Spangled Banner," "America," and "The Red, White and Blue" rose upon the air; and, as the crowds of boys and girls passed to and from school, their conversation contained allusions to "The Father of our Country," or the fine way in which Harry or Tom or Frank gave that declamation, or the sweetness of Mabel Gray's voice, or why Mr. Bowen hadn't selected Clarence instead of Bob, etc., etc., etc., until all the air around the school-house must have been as heavily charged with patriotism as the air around Lexington on the morning of that memorable battle which, too, was talked of, for there had been much "brushing up" of United States history.

The memorable day of the 21st of February arrived (there being no school on the 22d), and found the rooms finely decorated with flags and swords and battle relics, portraits of George and Martha Washington, and flowers and living plants, while the blackboards were entirely filled with ornamental scrolls containing patriotic mottoes.

Two o'clock had been set for the beginning of the programme, but long before that time visitors had begun to arrive and were shown to seats by the two gentlemanly boy-ushers in quite an impressive manner.

Among the visitors, our friends the Burtons, not excepting Ralph, were represented. Ralph sat snuggled up to his mother, his big eyes having their most pleased and wondering look. Mrs. Alroy, too, was there, dressed quietly but tastefully, and looking a perfect lady; having indeed so thoroughbred an air that even Fannie's somewhat haughty mamma who sat next her, could scarcely equal her.

Gretta Berger took her place at the piano, and soon the inspiring strains of a patriotic medley were heard, while the boys and girls from the various rooms marched into the hall and took their places with such a fine idea of time and military precision of movement that to see them was not the least pleasure of the afternoon.

The next thing on the programme was a sketch of George Washington's life, by Ernestine Alroy, read by her in a sweet, dignified way, in a well-modulated voice, and an expression which showed a thorough appreciation of the fine character and life she was describing. One of the boys followed with a recitation of Drake's "American Flag." Next a small choir of girls and boys (the girls dressed in the national colors and the boys wearing flag badges) sang the "Star Spangled Banner." Then Winnie went upon the stage, and recited the following, which is given in full, as it is one of those fugitive things which seem to have no home. It is entitled:

The amusing little poem suited Winnie's childish face and figure, and her mother had read between the lines for her, so that the picture was plain to her mind. Winnie saw the pretty young mother playing the little joke on the children, and the affected wrath of the grandmother as she spanked each of the little ones—saw the picture so plainly herself that it was easy for her to make her good-natured audience see it, too, and her hearers laughed while they applauded.

Of course they had "The Red, White and Blue" sung by the whole school; and "America," which can never be old to any of us; and for further recitations. "Independence Bell," and "The Blue and the Gray"—for what patriotic celebration would be complete without these?

The finest declamation of the day, given by the pride of the class, so far as elocutionary ability was concerned, and with a drum accompaniment by a corps of boys well drilled for the occasion, was the following stirring

But the crowning performance of the day, in the opinion of all the girls and boys, was a little drama, written expressly for the occasion, entitled, "Revolutionary Days." The characters represented were an elderly lady, two young girls, two little children, a negro servant girl, an elderly gentleman, a Tory, and two young men, Continental soldiers.

While the platform was being cleared and prepared, the girls and boys who took part were having what they called "fine fun" in the dressing-room, getting their hair powdered, caps and wigs adjusted, and so on.

When the curtain rose, Miriam was discovered, dressed as an elderly lady of the eighteenth century, sitting in an old-fashioned chair beside a spinning-wheel, and singing a song of Revolutionary days. As she ceased singing, two little children, borrowed from the primary class in the "Colony," came in, begging their grandmother to tell them something about George Washington. She tells them that she is busy, but they persist, and then tell her that they know some verses about him, and each recites, alternately, a verse of four lines, descriptive of Washington's childhood and school days, and, as seems inevitable, winding up with the story of the hatchet.

As they finish, a negro servant girl rushes in, in which burnt-cork heroine it would be utterly impossible to discover the maiden of the pickles and of the ardent desire to enjoy herself while young, had she not been seen in the dressing-room "making up" for the occasion. She informs Mrs. Grey that the cat or something has pulled all the yarn off the reel, and of its consequent fearful state of entanglement. Mrs. Grey rouses herself from her reverie, and asks the children if they know anything about it. Each accusingly points to the other, whereupon their grandmother looks at them sternly, when they say they "can't tell a lie," that they did it with—

They are interrupted by Mrs. Grey, who tells Dinah to take them away and put them to bed without their supper. They begin to howl, and reproachfully tell their grandmother that she ought to say, "Come to my arms, my precious children;" whereupon an audacious small boy in the audience—a visitor, it is needless to say—shouts, "Chestnut!" and Mrs. Grey's face hardens into a look of positive inflexibility, as if this were the last straw, and the children, howling and struggling, are carried away by Dinah.

Quiet being thus restored, Mrs. Grey paces up and down, indulging in a long soliloquy. She speaks of the long years of war, and the hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. She regretfully recalls the bonnie little island, with its green fields and blooming gardens, which had been forsaken for these scenes of hardship. Then, however, she remembers the days of oppression there, and bursts into a thanksgiving that they had at last found a spot where they could worship God in peace according to the dictates of their own conscience. Then she thinks of the Declaration of Independence, and tries to remember the resolution of Richard Henry Lee. Seeing the girls come in, she says that they will remember.

The two girls, Winnie and Fannie, attired in short-waisted dresses, big poke bonnets, and immense outside pockets, are asked by Mrs. Grey to recall the resolution which has for the moment slipped from her recollection. One of them (Fannie), in answer, declaims the resolution, and as she comments, in rather excited tones, "Glorious, mother, isn't it?" Mr. Cranston, the Tory gentleman, enters. This was one of the boys of the class, resplendent in hempen wig, frilled shirt front, and the veritable "brass-buttoned coat, with long blue flaps," knee breeches, and silver-buckled slippers. He tauntingly informs them that they will find it "too glorious, when the rebellion is crushed, and they are all sentenced to be executed as rebels."

Whereupon he and the colonial young ladies enter into a heated argument, with taunts on one side about the minute-men of Massachusetts and the battles of Lexington and Concord, and retaliations from the Tory about the battle of Long Island and the miseries at Valley Forge. They retort with the news of the treaty of alliance with France, and he replies by reminding them of the loss of their ports in the north.

He is interrupted by the entrance of the children, who tell the group that every one in the village is shouting "Hurrah!" that the bell in the church is ringing, and that the big flag is waving over the roof. While the patriots are exclaiming that "there must be good news," two young men enter, carrying guns. All spring up in surprise, and the children dance and caper about, with shouts of "Uncle Mark! Uncle John!"

Mark and John inform Mrs. Grey and their sisters of the surrender of Cornwallis. The Tory makes his way out as quietly as possible, with a very evident desire to do so unobserved, saying, "Cornwallis surrendered! Then this is no place for me!" The curtain falls, as Mrs. Grey exclaims, with clasped hands and upraised eyes, "The morning has dawned at last!"

There was the usual applause, and soon visitors and children—the entertained and the entertainers—were on their homeward way, and the "exhibition" had become a part of the past.

CHAPTER VII.
THE YOUNG WARRIOR MAIDS.

After the entertainment, things went on in their accustomed routine. Winnie, Miriam, Gretta and Fannie became more intimate than ever, and really tried, in spite of many discouragements, to conquer their bad habits.

For a couple of weeks the little band of "Giant Killers" had had no meetings, but on the second week after the Washington celebration, the four girls received a pretty invitation from Winnifred's Aunt Kitty to take tea with her on the following Friday, and to consider themselves invited to hold their next meeting at her home, bidding them tell their mothers that the hostess would see that they arrived home safe not later than half-past nine. Also, inclosed under cover to Winnie, was an invitation for Ernestine Alroy, to be delivered only in case the other three girls were willing. Upon Winnie's showing this, Fannie was the first to propose that not only should the invitation be delivered, but that Ernestine should be invited to join their society.

The family of Winnie's grandmother was a small one, Mrs. Benton often saying, with a sigh, that her children had all left her except Kitty and Fred. Whereupon Kitty would take hold of her mother's hand and assure her, in a serio-comic manner, that this daughter she would have ever beside her, "to warn, to comfort, to command." Mrs. Benton was not wealthy, but she had a comfortable income of her own, and as Fred received a very good salary in one of the large railroad offices, they always had means for the comforts of life and many of its luxuries. They lived in a suite of rooms in one of the finest apartment houses of the city.

The "Arlington" was a very large building, and as the girls were not accustomed to such immense houses, they had arranged with Winnie that they should all go together at five o'clock. Accordingly that hour found them all standing in the vestibule together, to the manifest amusement of the janitor when he answered Winnie's ring. As Mrs. Benton's apartment was only one flight up, they did not take the elevator, but Winnie ran lightly up the stairs, the others following more slowly. She knocked at the door at the right of the hall, which was immediately opened by Miss Benton, to whom Winnie introduced the other girls, who more or less timidly put their hands into the outstretched one of this pleasant young lady, but found their timidity vanish almost as if by magic when they felt her warm, cordial clasp as she drew them into the parlor.

And a very pretty parlor it was, with a quaint individuality of its own—"just like Kitty Benton herself," as her friends were wont to say. There were no two chairs alike, but they all agreed in one respect—that of being exceedingly comfortable, from the high-backed willow to the low chair upholstered in old gold and scarlet tapestry.

On the walls were five or six oil paintings—a couple of marines, and the others bright, summer landscapes. There was one, which Miss Benton had herself painted, entirely different from the others. A cloudy sky, with dim, gray mountains in the distance. In the foreground a single grave under a willow, but lying in such vivid sunlight, which came from a break in the clouds, that it had almost a jubilant look for so sad a subject, as most people would have deemed it. On a low shelf stood a beautifully engraved Madonna, and on a table near was a portfolio of fine etchings. About the room were bits of bric-a-brac of various kinds, among them a piece of genuine old Wedgwood. On the upright piano stood a tall vase of Easter lilies.

Miss Benton, having helped her young visitors to divest themselves of their wraps, seated them close to the open fire, and then took down the etchings to show them. These, however, proved a little beyond them, so she took from the table a stereoscope and some views, every one of which had been collected by her mother or herself during their various trips, and about each one she told some incident, amusing or pathetic, so that an hour had passed away almost before the girls knew it.

Fred had been requested by his sister to take his supper downtown, as she felt that the girls would feel more at their ease without his presence. When the bright-faced maid announced supper, Miss Benton took Gretta by the hand, and said, as they all entered the dining-room, "'We are seven,' and, I presume, if Wordsworth were here, he would write a poem about us."

As the five friends took their places, they simultaneously burst into an exclamation of delight. At each of their places was a bunch of flowers, with a card on which was a pretty little painting in water-colors of a young girl, with fair hair streaming over her shoulders, in full armor, receiving from an angel a sword. Underneath were the words in old English text, in scarlet and gold, "He that overcometh shall inherit all things."

The cards were exactly alike, but the flowers were different. Miriam had a glorious red rose, with buds and leaves; Gretta, garden daisies and primroses; Fannie, scarlet geraniums, a calla lily and a wild jack-in-the-pulpit; Ernestine, lilies of the valley; Winnie, ferns and mignonette. Mrs. Benton lifted caressingly to her face a bunch of English violets, and their hostess pinned on her bodice a cluster of yellow rosebuds.

"Oh, Aunt Kitty, what a hunt you must have had among the florists and markets for all these flowers!" said Winnie.

"And how well you have suited us all!" cried Miriam.

"What is this, Miss Benton?" asked Fannie, holding up the jack-in-the-pulpit.

"That is a wild-flower," replied Miss Benton, giving the blossom its name, "which was sent me from Tennessee this week; it does not bloom quite so early here. If you will examine it and compare it with your calla, you will see many points of resemblance; indeed, they are of the same family, although the splendid Egyptian calla has all the advantages of climate, water and sun, which make it the handsome thing it is. But our little American Jack, all the same, lifts its head out of its green pulpit and preaches to us of the eternal kinship of all things. Put your geraniums in your button hole, and after tea I'll put your calla and its country cousin in water for you to keep fresh till you go home."

"How did you know I was fond of lilies of the valley, Miss Benton?" asked Ernestine. "It is my mother's favorite flower, too; she says they used to grow in great clumps in the yard of her home when she was a girl, and she never sees one without thinking of her childhood."

"Of course I couldn't know that, my dear; I only thought that you would like them. Although I had never met any of you I have heard Winnifred talk about you, and her little tongue sometimes gives me queer ideas," said Miss Benton, smiling at her niece with an air of good comradeship.

"Mother, let Winnie serve the chocolate, while I attend to this end of the table. You see, girls, we only have the maid bring in the dishes from the kitchen, for we like to wait on each other," she said, helping them to chicken croquettes, cold ham, and delicious muffins, as Winnie passed around the chocolate in dainty china cups.

How they all enjoyed that supper! They were just like girls in a book, Miriam said. Everything seemed so different from ordinary occasions. Even the orange jelly tasted so much better than at other times, because of the orange baskets in which it was served. They sat at the table a long time, for both Mrs. Benton and her daughter encouraged their visitors to talk; and while they were eating their candy and nuts, they played the game of rhymes and "yes and no."

Then Miss Kitty sent them into the parlor with her mother, excusing herself and Winnie for a few moments. When they entered the parlor, they found Mrs. Benton with her silk socks in her hands, knitting as rapidly as she was talking. She was giving them an account of the old turkey gobbler that used to chase her when she was a little girl, and they were all laughing heartily.

This anecdote led to Miriam's giving an account of a goat which one of her aunt's friends had presented to her little boy, and which was the terror of the neighborhood.

"My aunt and I," said Miriam, "were making an afternoon visit at Mrs. Kincaid's, and, as it was warm and pleasant, we were invited into the yard to look at the flowers. My aunt was very enthusiastically admiring a fine Yucca which, for a wonder, was in bloom, when the goat was seen peering through a gap in the fence which divided the front from the back yard.

"Mrs. Kincaid immediately took to her heels, and I was about to follow, when Aunt Jennie said, 'Miriam, I am surprised that you should be afraid of a goat. Even if he were to come near you, you would only have to seize him by the horns; it is the easiest thing in the world to conquer a goat.'

"By this time Mrs. Kincaid was safe in the house, tapping loudly on the window, from which she was viewing the scene, for us to come in, and 'dancing crazy' (as the girls say about things), because we were still outside.

"My aunt was walking in a leisurely and dignified manner toward the house, holding her head a little higher than usual, and I was following very meekly for me—for I hate to be thought a coward—when the goat gave a sudden bound, broke another picket in the fence, and went straight toward her with his head down, and his bob tail switching.

"Well, Aunt Jennie did turn and face him, and she really did take the vicious little beast by the horns. But was he conquered? You wouldn't have thought so, had you been there; he just raised himself on his hind legs and shook himself loose. Aunt Jennie suddenly dropped her dignity, and flew, rather than ran, toward the house, the goat after her, and she just escaped him by Mrs. Kincaid's pulling her inside the door and slamming it shut.

"As for me, I went through the hole in the fence to the back yard, rushed pell-mell into the kitchen door, without stopping to knock, and dropped into the nearest chair, where I sat and laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks, to the astonishment of the kitchen girl and the washerwoman, who were enjoying a cup of tea.

"I was wicked enough to laugh afterward, for Aunt Jennie did not lecture on courage or dignity for a month after that, and I notice now that when we pass a livery stable she keeps a quiet but effective lookout for 'the horned monarch of the livery stable,' as I once heard him called."

"Well, I'm afraid of goats myself," said Miss Kitty, "and I think there ought to be a law against their being allowed inside the city limits. What with the small boy who torments the goat, and the goat which cannot distinguish between his tormentor and any other member of the human race, every passer-by is certain of being made ridiculous, if nothing more serious occurs. But to change the subject, would you young giant-killers like to hear a story that I have written for you?"

Of course they were delighted, and, the softly-shaded lamp having been adjusted, and Mrs. Benton seated so that the light fell upon her knitting, Miss Benton took her seat at the other side of the table, and read the following allegory:

GIANT PROCRASTINATION.

Stretching off far as the eye can reach, lies a vast plain, intersected by many roads of various widths, from the narrowest foot-path to those wide enough for three or four vehicles to pass abreast. Pleasant roads they seem to be, too; wild-flowers of brilliant hues grow along their sides, birds of beautiful plumage twitter their varied notes, and pretty little squirrels and rabbits dart here and there. But when the saunterer along one of these by-paths plucks the blossoms, they fall to pieces in his hands, and, on near approach, the birds circle for a few moments about the head, and then fly away and are seen no more.

These by-ways continually lead into and cross one another, but all at last meet in one broad road, and this is the road of "By and By," which leads to the castle of "Never." This castle stands at the entrance to a dark and gloomy forest, through which no path has ever been cut, and which is so dense and wild that one draws back in fear, finding it impossible not to think of it as inhabited by beasts and serpents and insects as wild and poisonous as those which infest the South American forests or the jungles of India.

At the right and left of the castle rise huge cliffs unscaled by mortal foot during the lifetime of the present owner, and seldom attempted even during the ages gone by, when his ancestors, in a more or less direct line, held high orgies, while with demoniac laughter they tortured their victims.

The present owner and occupant of the castle is a giant, so skilled in the art of metamorphosis that he is constantly deceiving and deluding his victims, each of whom he approaches in a different manner. With some he wears an air of haughty though courteous dignity, and gives them fair and sweet promises of granting their every desire as soon as his plans are perfected and he is ready. With others, he puts on a smiling, joyous look, points out to them the birds and flowers along the roadside, and tells them that to-morrow all these pleasures shall be theirs. A different face and garb for every deluded follower, who ever ends in becoming his victim; for, just at the entrance to the castle, still covered by the seemingly fair flowers, is a frightful morass, out of which the wanderer is helped only by the giant himself, and taken by him thence into the castle, from which there is no escape.

The dreadful Castle of Never! And yet, how fair it looks to those who stand just outside its gates! Its battlemented towers, decorated with flags and banners floating gayly in the air, its many windows, catching and reflecting every ray of sunlight, its majestic proportions, make it seem a dwelling much to be desired. And either because it is enchanted, or from some strange property of the surrounding atmosphere, it often appears to be raised high in the air, so that at a very great distance it shows larger, if less distinct, than when viewed near by.

It is early morning. The sun himself has not yet risen, although his approach is heralded by lovely green and rose tints on the eastern horizon. The great Giant Procrastination lies stretched upon his huge bed, dreaming uneasily, for he groans and starts many times, but still sleeps on. The inside of the far-famed castle shows not so fair as the outside. There are many things lying about on tables and chairs, or tucked away under articles of larger furniture; some of them are pretty, some elegant, but all unfinished.

The morning wind, rising as if it, too, had lain asleep during the night, shrieks and whistles as if in wrath, or moans and sighs as though in mortal anguish. And hush! What other sound is that which rises above the roar of the wind and fills one's soul with terror? Alas! it is the shrieks of despair from the prisoners in the dungeon, and one hears, mingled with their groans, the dreadful words, "Too late! Too late!"

But who are these descending the heretofore unscaled cliff? And how comes it that thus unguided they have escaped the dangers of the forest, and that, now stealing upon their sleeping foe from the unguarded rear, they are not dashed into pieces as they make the steep and terrible descent? Ah! they have an invisible Guide, who goes before and smooths every difficulty; and their feet are shod with a divine determination which leads them securely over the most dangerous places.

And yet they move with caution. Clinging now to the bushes that grow along the cliff, now stepping carefully on some jutting crag, they come one by one. Now they have reached the bottom, and stop a moment to take breath and consult as to the next movement. For behold! five little maidens, scarcely in their teens, have come to give battle to one of the strongest enemies of mankind, and to attack him in his own stronghold. Brave as they are, however, and resolutely as they have nerved themselves to the task ahead of them, they cannot repress a shudder as they gaze upon the frowning mass before them. For, never dreaming of attack in the rear, the giant's ancestors had taken no pains to make that part of the castle beautiful or to endow it with the enchantment of illusion, so all is dark and strong and terrible.

Regaining courage, the five young warriors kneel upon the rocky path and ask their invisible Guide for succor and strength. They rise encouraged and hopeful, and each assists the other to readjust her armor. Wonderful armor! light to wear, but stronger than mailed steel.

They advance to the heavy door. It is all unguarded, and even stands partly open, so that all their strength is saved to them for the combat. One by one, and noiselessly, they climb the iron stairs, and, guided by his snores, they find themselves at last in the presence of their sleeping enemy.

If they can but strike now! One blow from either of their swords, and he would lie slain before them. But alas! they hesitate for one short moment, and in that brief space of time the wind bangs a heavy shutter against the iron casement, and, at its fearful clang, the giant awakes and rises to his feet. He stares about him for a moment, stupefied, but there is no mistaking the fact that he is in the presence of an enemy; for their armor, their uplifted swords, their resolute mien, all proclaim their errand to be one of war. Then, gazing upon their diminutive forms, he laughs a horrid, blood-curdling laugh, as he gloats over the prospect that he will soon have five more victims to languish in his dungeons.

He springs forward to seize the foremost of his youthful foes, but her fear has vanished. Raising her shield for protection, she strikes with her sword, and the giant receives a fearful gash in the hand outstretched to grasp her, and starts back, howling with pain. The five girls close around him at once, but so immense of stature is he, that they soon perceive it will be impossible for them to reach a vital part unless he can be thrown.

Fast and furious they rain the blows upon him, and not in vain. He has no armor on, his usual weapons are beyond his reach, and he knows instinctively that his usual powers of metamorphosis are useless. One blow, at last, inflicts a ghastly wound in his ankle; he clutches at the bed for support, but misses it, and falls, groaning heavily, at full length on the floor, where, taken at a disadvantage, a sword is thrust into his heart, and with horrid struggles he dies.

The maiden warriors embrace each other joyfully, and, kneeling together in that moment of victory, give all the praise and glory to that invisible Power which has enabled them, weak girls as they are, to conquer.

But their work is not yet done. Taking the keys from under the pillow of the dead monster, they pass down a winding staircase, until they find themselves so far beneath the surface of the earth, that not a ray of light shines over their pathway.

One of them lights a tiny lamp which she has brought with her, and they proceed. At length they reach the foot of the stairs and find themselves in a dark, narrow passage, with many windings and turnings. Along this they proceed carefully, until they stand before the massive doors of the dungeon. Trying one key after another, they find one that turns the lock, and the door swings open. What a sight meets their sorrowful gaze! Bones—human bones—lie scattered everywhere, and, as they become more accustomed to the darkness, they distinguish human forms still living, with haggard faces, and despair written on every feature.

"Your enemy is dead!" say the maidens. "We have come to set you free, and then we are going to burn the castle, for thus has our Guide commanded us."

As they all stand once more in the glad sunlight, they set fire to the mighty structure, and see the leaping, victorious flames devour it, even to the flags and banners which had so short a time before streamed gayly from its towers.

"Thank you, Aunt Kitty," said Winnifred, as Miss Benton laid down the manuscript. "I don't see how you ever thought of all that."

"Well, Winnie, we all know that the idea is taken from the book you have recently been reading, but where no pretense is made to originality, imitation is not deception."

"But do you really think, Miss Benton," said Ernestine, raising her eyes, "that we can so completely conquer our faults?"

"Alas, no! I'm afraid we never can completely conquer them, but by striving constantly we can strike many a blow, each one of which leaves the enemy weaker, and ourselves stronger. The great pity of it all is, that we can kill only our own giants, and destroy their strongholds for ourselves; we can never do it for others, dearly as we may love them."

"Well," said Fannie, in her decided manner, "I wish that Procrastination were the only giant to fight; but I have some enemies which are still harder for me to conquer;" and she blushed slightly, as she involuntarily glanced toward Ernestine.

"It is a great gain, however," said Mrs. Benton, pausing in her knitting, "when we have learned to do that which must be done, without unnecessary delay. Procrastination, it is quite true, is the least vicious and the least malicious of all the faults; but stronger, almost, than any other, and holding more people, young and old, under its control. If this be overcome, the struggle with the others grows easier. Indeed, it is surprising how many little misdeeds are the outcome of that one fault. Untidiness, fits of temper, disobedience, prevarication, and sometimes even downright untruth, might often be avoided if things were done in time."

"But it is hard always to remember," sighed Miriam. "Ernestine, how do you keep from forgetting?"

"Oh, I forget oftener than you know," said Ernestine, flushing under her delicate skin; "but I have had mamma to think of, and have tried to please her and make her happy; then, too, I had a nurse in Louisiana who taught me to remember that there is One 'who is a very present help in time of trouble.'"

"That is the best help of all, girls, and one that you can carry with you always. I find mottoes and texts a great help, too, when I want to succeed in any one particular thing. How would it do, at your next meeting, for each one to contribute a text from the Bible, and, if possible, a quotation from one of the poets, applicable to this same wheedling fault?" said Miss Benton.

"I should like that very much," replied Ernestine.

"So would I!" "And I!" "And I!" replied Miriam, Fannie and Winnie.

Gretta only was silent, but Miss Kitty judged it best to pass her silence by without remark.

At this moment, Mr. Fred Benton entered the parlor and was introduced to the girls, and very soon they were all escorted to their homes by their friend's uncle, who proved himself as good an entertainer of these little women as was his sister.