Besides, it would have been wicked to hand the property over to Mrs. Wittleworth for her drunken husband to squander away, and make her a beggar a second time. He intended, in due time, if his daughter did not appear, to pass the property to the rightful heir when it could be safely done. The integrity of his intentions could not be doubted, for had he not given Mrs. Wittleworth ten thousand dollars? The quitclaim deed, he declared, was only to save himself from being annoyed by Fitz and his father. Of course he intended to make it all right in the end.

Mr. Checkynshaw did not forgive the Wittleworths for the mischief they had attempted to do. He hinted at steps for compelling them to restore the ten thousand dollars; but Maggie protested, in her way, against such a course, and nothing was ever done.

Marguerite Checkynshaw went to live in Pemberton Square; but she was not happy there, and every day she visited the house at No. 3 Phillimore Court. Poor André was actually miserable. He had lost his darling child, and it was little comfort to know that she dwelt in the midst of luxury and splendor. Though he saw her every day, he was sad, and almost disconsolate.

Maggie tried to be happy in her new home, but her heart was not there. Mrs. Checkynshaw was cold and distant to her, and Elinora was a little, petulant, disagreeable tyrant, who lived for herself alone. She tried to love her, but she tried in vain. Her father was kind and indulgent to her; yet she saw but little of him. Maggie went to school for two years, and was busy with her studies and her music lessons; but not an evening passed without her going to see her foster-father, after he left the shop. About nine o'clock Leo walked home with her; but he seldom entered her father's house.

In the choice of a pursuit for life, Leo won the day, and went to learn the machinist's trade. He did not give up the "mouse business" entirely, but found time to make new houses, and there were customers to purchase them, adding quite a sum to the income of his

Fitz never amounted to much. His ideas were too big for his station. He obtained several situations; but, as he aspired to manage his employers' business without their aid, he was often out of a place. When his father went into business, he was taken as an entryclerk; but he was such a trial that even parental solicitude could not tolerate him, and he was sent away. He was not a bad boy; but selfconceit was the rock on which he wrecked himself. He found another situation, and another, and another; but his stay in each was short. And so he went from one place to another, achieving nothing, until he was twenty-five years old, when he married a lady, ten years his senior, whom even the twenty thousand dollars she possessed did not tempt any one else to make a wife. Fitz is a gentleman now; and though his lot at home is trying, he still maintains his dignity, and lives on his wife's property. He is not dissipated, and has no bad habits; but he does not amount to anything. People laugh at him, and speak contemptuously of him behind his back; and he is, and will continue to be, nothing but a cipher in the community.

In the little smoking-room in the house in Pemberton Square, three years after Maggie went to live there, on the very sofa where André Maggimore had lain, was stretched the inanimate form of another person, stricken down by the same malady. It was Mr. Checkynshaw. The two gentlemen with whom he had been conversing when attacked by the fit had placed him there, and Dr. Fisher had been sent for. From that sofa he was conveyed to his bed, still insensible. His eyes were open, but he knew none of those who stood by his couch.

The doctor came; but the banker was out of the reach of human aid, though he survived a day and a half. Maggie watched over him, as she had over André; but vain was her care, and vain were her hopes. Her father died. A few days later a long funeral procession left

Leo was satisfied; for he could still love Mrs. Harding as a sister; and he had certainly never thought of her in any other relation. Perhaps he did not think of anything at that time but machines and machinery. Both he and André remained with Mrs. Harding, for she would not consent to their leaving her. And her husband liked them because she did.

When Leo was twenty-five, his inventive genius had laid the foundation of his fortune, and his " royalties soon made him independent, for he had the business ability to profit by his inventions. When he was married, the "strange family" was separated, but never in spirit. André goes from one house to the other half a dozen times a day, and is honored as a "grandpa" by four little boys and girls.

Leo has always been the determined and persevering individual he was in his youth, when engaged in the "mouse business." As an apprentice, as a journeyman, as a master machinist, and as an inventor, it has been 66 MAKE or BREAK "with him; and, though the | parts of his machinery often did break, and the apparatus failed to do its expected work, he did not give up; and he conquered in the end, whatever trials and difficulties interposed. Mrs. Harding is superlatively happy in her husband, her children, her foster-father, whom she still lovingly calls "mon père," and in her noble brother. She calls, at long intervals, upon Mrs. Checkynshaw and Elinora; and peace reigns between the two houses of Checkynshaw and Wittleworth. Though she was never happier than when she knew no other relation than that of the, poor man's daughter, she has every reason to be thankful, and is thankful, to God for the blessings which have come to her as THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER.

furious snarls, and torn to pieces. There was hardly a mouthful for each, however, and the result was a series of fights, which bade fair for a little while to lead to the total extinction of the drove, after the fashion of the Kilkenny cats, which ate each other up, leaving nothing behind but the tips of each other's tails.

Fred looked on at this scene with great interest; and Gum stood behind Fred's skirts, looking over his shoulders, and indulging in such ejaculations as "Whoo! Look dar!look dar! My, my, my! What beastesses dey is? Bress de stars! Whoo!"

We soon had the hides, and such portions of the carcasses as we could use for food, strapped upon the backs of our horses, which had been unpicketed and brought to the spot; and, when all was in readiness, we moved off in the direction of Black Pan.

We had barely reached the spot near by where we had left our horses at the time of the attack, when, looking back, we beheld a sight which was enough to awaken exclamations even from those of us who were usually less given to that sort of thing than old Gum. The carcasses of the bull bisons were swarmed over by an angry, snarling, snapping, tearing, jumping bevy of wolves, all ravenous with hunger. They stumbled over each other, mounted each other's backs, leaped far over each other's heads, any way to get at the meat, — and champed and tore it with their ragged teeth, with a growling ferocity, which made old Gum exclaim,

---

"My, my! Look at 'em! Anybody would tink dey wuz ravin' mad at de pore buffler, and wuz satiatin' deir vengeance onto 'em arter hatin' 'em fer years an' years. My, my! Wuz dar eber sech a wicked lot ob creaturs afore?"

"Wicked!" said Bucket. "So are you wicked, when yer hungry! Coyote ain't a 'sponsible moril agent, I reckon; but he are ther hungriest creatur that ever picked er bone!"

Dan Cooper took up the conversation that night, when we were all comfortably full of bison meat, and sitting on the grass in the snug shelter of Black Pan.

"Yer karn't call coyote wicked, nohow," said he; "ner any other wild creatur, 'cept Injin. Coyote hain't no more cruel ner we ourselves, fer that matter. Don't we kill buffler and eat him? Jest same as coyote. Don't we foller our prey fer ther purpose of jest takin' his life fer our own good? Wal! Thar it is! Any wild animal does that ar! And what's more, I've knowed white men ter hunt dumb critters jest fer ther fun on it, though I tell yer

"Yer right, Dan," said Bucket. "And I go furder," said Cooper. "I go furder. I say ther land war made fer Christian, and that Injin has no right ter live in it. Talk about wickedness and cruelty! Them is ther identicle word that applies ter Injin straight. Thar ain't no way ter deal with Injin but ter shute him. I've heerd people talk about Lo ther poor Injin. Injin is low enough, I'll admit; but, ef yer got any sympathy in yer buzzum, yer best holt is ter guv it

Many are the stories Fred has told his father and mother and his two sisters since he returned home; and, as he is a capital storyteller, and has a way of “acting out" when he is talking, you may imagine how delighted his sisters, Katie and Mary, are with his "yarns," as he calls them. If Mr. Optic thinks Fred equal to the task, I have no doubt he will some day employ him to tell Our Boys and Girls these stories - how we chased the bison, what an experience we had with a family of bears that we discovered in another part of our cave, and other things that happened during our life Out on the Prairies.

THE BRAVE BOY

Professor Larned here observed that Cooper's remarks were very severe on the Indians. "You must not forget," said he, "that the prairies are the red man's original property his hunting-grounds."

"Wal, I say no more," said Cooper. "I never did see a man frum New York that would listen to reason on this subjeck from ther mouth of Dan'el Cooper. But I tell yer this, my larned friend: I've seed a heap of your sort come out here and git convarted to my way of thinkin' arter they'd seen a few of thar white bruthren roasted by ther red varmints not fer food, but jest fer ugliness. And ef yer stays yere long enough, you'll git over ter my way of thinkin', er I'm a Injin myself!"

Cooper's prediction was verified to the utmost before Professor Larned left the country; for the professor remained in that region long after the rest of our party had returned to our homes. We were only out on the prairies during the hottest months of the summer, but the professor staid all through the autumn and the following winter. His adventures during that period were deeply interesting; but of course I cannot relate them now it would take a whole volume of OUR BOYS AND GIRLS to do that. And indeed I cannot even relate any more of our own adventures at present, for Mr. Optic tells me I have got to the end of the volume. So I must say good by to my young friends who have followed my story thus far, with a hearty wish that we may meet again some time.

-

We remained out on the prairies for several weeks more; and, when I returned to Boston,

THE MEAN CHAP THAT DID.

BY ROSA ABBOTT.

JOHNNY DIGGS and Sammy Ragg lived

in the same house, up three flights of stairs, with only a dingy bit of an entry dividing their respective apartments.

Though such near neighbors, they were as wide apart as the North and South Pole.

The Diggs lot, which numbered seven strong, were an industrious and hard-working people, taking their poverty unmurmuringly, and striving, with thrift and economy, to make both ends meet. The children, of whom Johnny, aged eight years, was the oldest, were decently clothed, and no one went hungry, for the table was spread three times a day; and, though likely as not there was but one dish to eat from, such as bean porridge or baked potatoes, or Indian mush, yet there was always enough to go round, with sometimes a little left over.

The Ragg family, on the contrary, were a shiftless set. Mrs. Ragg had a white lace bonnet, with a yellow calico rose on top; but this luxury was acquired at the expense of the little Raggs, who went barefoot in consequence.

A stitch in time, which saves nine, was never taken in this household; and jackets out at elbows, buttonless shirts, and petticoats fringed with tatters, were chronic affections.

Saturday nights, when Sammy's father drew his week's wages, this happy family threw care to the dogs, and dined — I should say supped most sumptuously off roast pork, garnished with cabbage and boiled onions, with baker's

This one night of riotous living, however, scrimped supplies for the succeeding week. Indeed, when pig was high, the larder at times ran so low, that Sammy was despatched with the wood-basket after cold victuals. Being an apt mimic, and able to say, in a beggarly whine, "Please, a crust of bread for my starving mother, six sick sisters, and dying baby brother," with two big teardrops just ready to fall from his woe-begone eyes, he generally managed to obtain a goodly number of odd bones and broken crusts, which served to allay the hunger of the Ragg family until the return of the jovial Saturday feast night.

But, in his extra haste, he stubbed his toe, and tumbled forward, while his basket fell backward, and went whirling over and over, to the bottom of the stairs.

Bones and crusts were strewn in little heaps all the way down, and Johnny could not help laughing at Sammy's shavings.

What made it still worse was the fact, that Mrs. Diggs, hearing the noise, had run out into the entry, and now stood on the landing above, looking over.

Mortified enough was Sammy's mother, who had also run out to see what the noise meant, to find herself thus exposed before "those Diggser."

But it would seem as though this was a family history, when it is meant to be a story relating particularly to Johnny and Sammy. There is nothing to do, as I see, but to start at once on a fresh tack

Johnny and Sammy stood on the sidewalk one day, with their eyes hanging out of their heads, and as big as watermelons, for the most wonderful procession was moving up the street.

"Ho, ho! Ain't you a soapy! What's two deadheads to those show folks. It won't hurt them, when they're taking in piles of money every day, hand over fist."

"I'd give anything to go."

"Well, what's to hinder," said Sammy, impatiently. “Don't I tell you I can get you in.” "Yes; but it wouldn't be exactly right to go so."

"Bosh! Stay at home, then, and play cat'scradle with your grand-daddy." And Sammy, thoroughly disgusted, went off whistling, with his hands in his pockets.

Johnny stood still a few minutes, with a rueful face.

"I've a good mind to call after him, and say | I'll go," thought he. "I never wanted to see anything so bad in all my life; and, as long as it won't cost anybody anything