clandestinely, and then run away, not stopping until he should get his bride plump to Vermont. For even the bravest find it necessary sometimes to retreat.

Of the practicability of this plan he had no doubt, because he knew that Miss Wilkins had five hundred dollars in hard cash a whole stockingful. This sum seemed to him immensely adequate for their support in becoming style for an indefinitely long period of time.

As the day of his majority approached, he grew more and more reserved in his intercourse with his family. This was scarcely to be avoided now, when he was already beginning to consider himself as not one of them. If his conscience ever upbraided him as he looked upon his toiling mother and his. helpless brothers and sisters, and knew that he alone was to rise into luxury while they were to be left in their lowly estate, he reflected that it was a selfish world at best, and that every man must take care of himself. But one day, after a season of unusual reserve, and when he had behaved to Miss Susan in a way which she considered outrageously supercilious, the latter availed herself of his going into the village, fulfilled her threat, and gave her mother full information of the state of his feelings.

That resolute woman was in the act of ironing a new homespun frock she had just made for Susan. She laid down her iron, sat down in a chair, and looked up at Susan.

"Susan, don't be foolin' 'long o' me." "Ma, I tell you it's the truth."

«< Susan, do you want me to believe that Tom's a fool? I knowed the child didn't have no great deal of sense; but I didn't think he was a clean-gone fool."

But Susan told many things which established the fact beyond dispute. In Mr. Thomas's box were found several evidences of guilt. There was a great red picture of a young woman, on the margin of which was written the name of Miss Louisa Wilkins. Then there was wrapped carefully in a rag a small piece of sweet soap, which was known by Susan to have been once the property of Miss Wilkins. Then there were sundry scraps of poetry, which were quite variant in sentiment, and for this and other reasons apparently not fully suited for the purposes for which they were employed. Mr. Watts's acquaintance with amatory verses being limited, he had recourse to his mother's hymnbook. Miss Wilkins was assured how tedious and tasteless were

the hours. Her attention was directed alternately to Greenland's icy mountains and India's coral strand. She was informed that here he was raising his Ebenezer, having hitherto thus safely come. But immediately afterwards his mind seemed to have been diverted to thoughts of distant travel, and he remarked that his home was over Jordan, and he suggested to Miss Wilkins that if she should get there before he did, she might tell them he was a-coming. Then he urged Miss Wilkins to turn, sinner, turn, and with great anxiety inquired why would she die? These might have passed for evidences of a religious state of mind, but that they were all signed by Miss Wilkins's loving admirer, Thomas Watts. Indeed, in the blindness of his temerity he had actually written out his formal proposition to Miss Wilkins, which he had intended to deliver to her on the very next day. This had been delayed only because he was not quite satisfied either with the phraseology or the handwriting. As to the way in which it would be received, his ardent soul had never entertained a doubt.

"Well, well!" exclaimed his mother, after getting through with all this irrefragable evidence. "Well, well! I never should a' b'lieved it. But I suppose we live and larn. Stealin' out of my hime-book too! It's enough to make anybody sick at the stomach. I knowed the child didn't have much sense; but I didn't know he was a clean-gone fool. Yes, we lives and larns. But bless me, it won't do to tarry here. Susan, have that frock ironed all right, stiff and starch, by the time I git back. I sha'n't be gone long."

The lady arose, and without putting on her bonnet, walked rapidly down the street.

"What are you lookin' for, Mrs. Watts?" inquired an acquaintance whom she met on her way.

"I'm a-looking for a person of the name of Mr. Watts," she answered, and rushed madly on. The acquaintance hurried home, but told other acquaintances on the way that the Widow Watts. have lost her mind and gone ravin' distracted. Soon afterwards, as Mr. Watts was slowly returning, his mind full of great thoughts and his head somewhat bowed, he suddenly became conscious that his hat was removed and his roach rudely seized. Immediately afterwards he found himself carried along the street, his head foremost and his legs and feet performing the smallest possible part in the act of locomotion. The villagers looked on with

wonder. The conclusion was universal. Yes, the Widow Watts have lost her mind.

When she reached her cabin with her charge, a space was cleared in the middle by removing the stools and the children. Then Mr. Watts was ordered to remove such portions of his attire as might oppose any hindrance whatever to the application of a leather strap to those parts of his person which his mother might select.

"O mother, mother!" began Mr. Watts.

"No motherin' o' me, sir. Down with 'em," and down they came, and down came the strap rapidly, violently.

“O mammy, mammy!"

"Ah, now! that sounds a little like old times, when you used to be a boy," she exclaimed in glee, as the sounds were repeated amid the unslackened descent of the strap. Mrs. Watts seemed disposed to carry on a lively conversation during this flagellation. She joked her son pleasantly about Miss Wilkins; inquired when it was to be, and who was to be invited? Oh, no! she forgot: it was not to be a big wedding, but a private one. But how long were they going to be gone before they would make us all a visit? Mr. Watts not only could not see the joke, but was not able to join in the conversation at all, except to continue to scream louder and louder, "O mammy, mammy!" Mrs. Watts, finding him not disposed to be talkative, except in mere ejaculatory remarks, appealed to little Jack, and Mary Jane, and Polly Ann, and to all, down even to the baby. She asked them, did they know that Buddy Tommy were a man grown, and were going to git married and have a wife, and then go away off yonder to the Vermonties? Little Jack, and Polly Ann, and Baby, and all, evidently did not precisely understand; for they cried and laughed tumultuously.

How long this exercise, varied as it was by most animated conversation, might have continued if the mother had not become exhausted, there is no calculating. Things were fast approaching that condition, when the son declared that his mother would kill him if she didn't stop.

"That," she answered between breaths, "is — what—I— aims -to do if I can't git it-all-all-every-spang-passel do—if -outen you."

Tom declared that it was all gone.

"Is you

a man- or is you

--

a boy?"

"Boy! boy! mammy," cried Tom.

"Let me up, mammy

and I'll be a boy-as long as I live."

She let him up.

"Susan, whar's that frock? Ah, there it is. Lookee here. Here's your clo'es, my man. Mary Jane, put away them pantaloonses."

Tom was making ready to resume the frock. But Susan remonstrated. It wouldn't look right now, and she would go Tom's security that he wouldn't be a man any more.

He was cured. From being an ardent lover, he grew to become a hearty hater of the principal of the Dukesborough Female Institution; the more implacable upon his hearing that she had laughed heartily at his whipping. Before many months she removed from the village; and when two years afterwards a rumor came that she was dead, Tom was accused of being gratified by the news. Nor did he deny it.

"Well, fellers," said he, "I know it weren't right, I knew it were mean; but I couldn't' a' kep' from it ef I knowed it would 'a 'kilt me."