very glad of, as my mother came up to London that day to meet us, and we all three travelled home together.

The children had been listening with all their ears to papa's story. When he stopped Mary gave a deep sigh.

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"That's a bee-yu-tiful story, papa, she said. "But it nearly made me cry for the poor little boy." "You shouldn't say that, Mary," said Leigh. "The poor little boy was papa himself! Don't you understand?"

"Yes, in course I do," said Mary. "But papa were a little boy then, so I might call him the poor little boy."

"That's right, Mary," said her father. "Stick up for yourself when you know what you mean to say. Yes, indeed, I did feel a very poor little boy that day: the thought of it has always made me so sorry for children who are lost, or think they're lost. It's a dreadful feeling."

"Papa," said Mary-she was trotting beside her father, holding his hand very tight,-"I think, please, I don't want never to go to Lon

don, for fear I should get losted; and, please, never take Leigh or Artie either not to London -'cos, you see, it was when you was a little boy your papa nearly losted you, and Leigh and Artie are little boys."

"Rubbish, Mary," said Leigh. "I'm eight, and papa was only six, not much bigger than you are now. If I was with papa in London at a shop I could find my way home ever so far; there's always people in the street you can ask. It's not like getting lost when there's nobody to tell you the way.'

"The worst kind of getting lost," said Artie, "is in the snow. Up on those mountains, you know, where the snow comes down so thick that you can't see, and then it gets so deep that you are buried in it."

"Oh, how dedful!" said Mary; "you won't ever take us to that place, will you, papa? I'd be more f'ightened than in London! Where is that country, papa?”

"I suppose Artie means their father.

Switzerland,' said

"I mean the picture in my book," said Artie; "where there's dogs, you know, snuffing to find the poor people under the snow.'

"Oh, the great St. Bernard mountain you mean!" said papa; "it's sure to be that. You often see pictures of it in children's books; there are such pretty stories about the good dogs and the kind monks who live there."

"Can you teach any dogs to do things like that?" asked Leigh.

"No; they have to be a particular kind, answered papa; "but a dog like your puppy can be taught to fetch anything out of the water, from a bit of stick to a baby. He's what you call a retriever: that means fetching or finding something. You can teach a good retriever almost anything."

"I thought so," said Leigh, nodding his head wisely. "I'll see what I can't teach Fuzzy."

They were back in the park by this time. It was a beautiful May day, almost as warm as summer. The children's father stood still and looked round with pleasure.

"It is nice to have a holiday sometimes," he said. "What a lovely colour the grass is in the sunshine!"

"And how happy the little lambs are; aren't they, papa?" said Mary. "I wish I had one of my very own-like Mary and the lamb in my nursery book."

"You couldn't have a lamb and a dog," said Artie. Fuzzy would soon knock the lamb over."

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"I never thought of that," said Mary. "Oh, papa dear," she went on, "I do so want baby Dolly to get big quick! There's such lotses of pretty things to show her in the world. The grass and the trees and the lambs -and while she spoke her blue eyes wandered all round her, -"and the birds and the sky and-and-oh! the daisies, and "as at that moment she caught sight of the old woman at the lodge crossing the drive with her red cloak on "and old Mrs. Crutch and her pussy-cat, and—”

"You're getting to talk nonsense, Mary," said Leigh. "Old Mrs. Crutch isn't a pretty thing!" "Her cloak's very pretty," said Mary, "and she does make such nice ginger-b'ead cake."

CHAPTER IX.

TEARS AND SMILES.

THE spring turned into summer, and with the longer days and warmer sunshine and gentle rain there grew up a great many more "pretty things" for Mary to show to her little sister Dolly; and Dolly herself grew like the flowers and the lambs. By the time she was three months old she could not only smile, she could even give little chuckling laughs when she was very pleased. Mary was quite sure that the baby understood all she said to her, and I do not think she would have been very surprised any day if Dolly had begun to talk.

"Why can't she talk, mamma?" she asked her mother one morning.

"No little baby learns to do everything at once, mamma answered. "She has to learn to walk and run and use her little hands the way