remarked lightly that she "supposed that sort of thing was what a yachtsman enjoyed." He remembered that she had said that it worried her dreadfully to have any one that she cared for out on the water, and he meditated grimly that her attitude towards him had been clearly demonstrated. He persuaded himself that he regretted his devotion to so heartless and unfeeling a young woman, and decided that he had been rightly served for allowing himself to admire any one whose tastes were so little in sympathy with his own.

Moorfield pictured to himself at intervals during the next few days the probable result of an engagement between them (a picture which gave him more satisfaction than he wished to acknowledge), and he forced himself to conclude that they could never have been happy together. Her first request would be for him to give up yachting, he felt sure of that. Yes, she would probably ask him to sell his boat at once. That was something that he could not do; he would never relinquish yachting,

— no, not for any woman; so it was just as well that she cared nothing about him. Moorfield felt sure that this was absolutely so, as he dwelt upon her indifference on the day of the squall.

The days sped quickly by, until only one day remained before the long-talkedof race; and Moorfield in consequence remained on shore just long enough to swallow the amount of food necessary to sustain life, and actually failed to exchange a word with Miss Wainwright for over twenty-four hours.

The next morning dawned, - the perfection of a yachtsman's day. The sky was dotted with a few fleecy clouds, and a fine stiff breeze ruffled the surface of the water. Moorfield came down to breakfast in the highest of spirits, brimming over with that sense of good will towards all the world which is apt to accompany the gratification of one's own desires. He saw, in his mind's eye, his boat flying through the water and rapidly increasing the distance between her and the boats following. As he passed through the office Miss Wainwright was standing at the desk, and he fancied she smiled

less brightly than usual, in return to his cheery good-morning.

"I'm glad that you have so fine a day for your race, Mr. Moorfield," she said, in rather a subdued tone. "When do you start?" she added.

"At eleven," he rejoined, pulling out his watch. "I suppose that you will come down to the landing to wish me good luck?"

"I should like to, but I'm afraid I can't."

Something in her tone attracted his attention, and he inquired anxiously, "Is anything the matter, Miss Wainwright?"

In response she pointed to a dispatch which she held in her hand.

"My father is ill, and they have telegraphed for me to come home," she said simply, "so I shall take the twelve-o'clock train."

Moorfield's high spirits suddenly evap

orated.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," he exclaimed, looking greatly distressed. "Isn't there something that I can do for you?"

"Thank you very much, but I can't think of anything, unless you want to order a buckboard to take me over to the station. I was just going to see about one. I presume I ought to start soon after eleven, as it is a four-mile drive."

"Yes, you certainly should start as soon as that," he replied thoughtfully. Then he added, " But I don't see what I am to do without you. I shall be the picture of despair, I assure you."

"Ah, but you will have your boat for consolation," she returned, endeavoring to speak lightly.

"Yes, truly, I had forgotten that," he said, imitating her careless tone. "I see you appreciate the extent of my requirements."

"I shall have to go and finish my packing now," she exclaimed hurriedly, "so perhaps I had better say good by at once, since you will be off before I start."

She extended her hand to Moorfield, who grasped it warmly, and appeared quite unwilling to let it go again.

"I hope we shall meet again," she said faintly. "The acquaintance has been a very pleasant one to me."

"I am just beginning to realize how pleasant it has been to me, now that you are going away," he said soberly, while he looked steadily into her eyes, which drooped before his gaze; "and now that I know, you may be sure that we shall meet again, and it will be very soon," he added with decision. "Good by, I will go and see about your buckboard at once."

She watched him disappear, and then slowly went up-stairs, with a mist gathering before her eyes. When she reached her room she looked out of the window and caught sight of Moorfield wending his way towards the boat landing.

"He is sorry to have me go," she said to herself, "but he still has his yacht race."

At eleven o'clock promptly, something resembling a swarm of big white butterflies skimmed across the water. The breeze filled the snowy sails and the foam flew merrily, as the many boats scudded swiftly before the wind, and the practised eyes of the yachtsmen sparkled with pleasure as they steered towards the distant bell buoy.

Miss Wainwright, arrayed in a dark travelling suit, stood, bag in hand, waiting for the buckboard to appear.

"I hope that Mr. Moorfield did not forget to give the order," she remarked to her aunt, who was waiting to see her depart.

After bidding her aunt good by, she glanced over her shoulder at the fleet of white sails, and at the pier crowded with gay spectators, and alive with flags and fluttering streamers which waved in the breeze; then she turned with a sigh towards the buckboard which had just driven up to the door. As the driver jumped out and extended his hand to assist her, a sudden wave of color mounted to her cheeks.

"Why, Mr. Moorfield is that you? How very kind! But I thought—”

She faltered, looking over her shoulder towards the flying sails. He made no reply, but helped her into the buckboard and sprang in after her.

"And you gave up the race," she murmured reproachfully, "just to drive me over to the station? Oh, Mr. Moorfield!"

He laughed derisively.

"The race! Is there a race? I had quite forgotten it." quite forgotten it." Then he continued more gently, "Do you suppose that all the yacht races in the world are anything to me, when you are going away?"

Before they reached the station, Moorfield had learned with much satisfaction that, far from being indifferent on the afternoon of the squall, Miss Wainwright had suffered untold agony until she saw him once more safely on shore. As the train came into sight, she murmured,

"Oh, there is one thing which I want you to promise me, Clyde, dear."

"Anything in my power, dearest," he replied, feeling that to give up yachting forever would be a joy rather than otherwise.

"It is this," she went on hurriedly; "I know that I am often very selfish, though I don't mean to be; and so I am going to get you to help me to try not to be so any longer. You shall begin by promising not to give up your yachting on my account. I want you to enjoy it just as much as if I could go with you. You will promise, won't you?" and she stepped on board the train.

"I will do anything to please you, my love," he answered as the train moved away.

Yet in spite of this promise, Clyde Moorfield ceased to be a yachtsman from that moment. His interest in his old pastime seemed to have suddenly departed; and at the end of a month he had sold his boat to a friend, who had several times offered to take it off of his hands if at any time he wished to dispose of it.

The other fellows said that Clyde was "very much engaged now," but declared that he "would get over it in time"; they gave him six months. At last accounts, however, two years had elapsed, and he had failed to fulfil their predictions.

Mrs. Clyde Moorfield often asks him why he doesn't go off on a nice long cruise, though I suspect she is none too anxious to have him do it; but he always replies that somehow or other he has lost his interest in yachting, and he can't understand how he ever could have cared so much about it.

JOR years there has been a family feud between the Howards and the Fletchers. The exact cause of the first unpleasantness I do not remember, but I know it grew out of a disputed will and some deeds, and especially concerned the Fletcher diamonds, which were bequeathed to one of the early Howards, another branch of the family, when they should have descended to us. I have always been a rabid Fletcher, and am sure now, as I always have been, that the Howards were utterly in the wrong.

It was strange that I did not suspect him from the very first. We had been staying for a month at the same hotel, he with a college friend or two, and I with Aunt Sue and my cousin Ellen. We had had glorious weather and a most enjoyable time altogether, what with rowing, sailing, tennis and dancing; and till that very evening I had never suspected that he might be one of the Howards. were enjoying our usual leisurely evening stroll on Prospect Hill, I remember, when in the course of our talk he said lightly, and with a queer little laugh,

We

"Do you know, Miss Fletcher, one of my ancestors was a Fletcher also? Queer, isn't it?"

There was a blood-curdling pause before I managed to articulate, "Certainly, very queer indeed."

I was not enthusiastic; indeed I could barely restrain my feelings of indignation at the base way in which I had been deceived; through my own stupidity, perhaps, but still unwarrantably deceived. For now it dawned upon me that he was actually one of the mortal enemies of my

race.

I am afraid I was very impolite to Mr. Howard during the rest of our stroll. I know he talked a great deal, but I spoke hardly a word and heard nothing of what he said, being shocked and uneasy at the sudden suspicion which had been thrust

upon me. I do not believe on the whole that what he said was worth hearing, so perhaps it was just as well I was deaf to his remarks.

As soon as we returned to the hotel, and it was much more speedily than usual, I looked him up in the Fletcher Genealogy, which, in case of just such emergencies, I always carry with me. Yes, sure enough, he was there. “ "Chester Lawrence Howard, son of," etc., etc. I traced him away back to our common ancestor, Pinkerton Fletcher, who came over on the second trip of the "Mayflower." Then I figured him up. He was a twenty-fourth cousin twice removed, and a Howard! A Howard! It became my imperative duty to hate him immediately, which I accordingly began to do with all my heart.

All that night I dreamed how fiercely I hated him. So vivid was my dream, that I arose the next morning with a wretched headache and feeling very cross and miserable. I went down-stairs quite eager to open the feud with the enemy of my race; and the first object which met my eyes in the morning room was Chester Lawrence Howard, sitting comfortably in an easy-chair and turning over the leaves of the Fletcher Genealogy, which I had carelessly left on the table.

"Good morning, Miss Fletcher," he began, with a queer smile upon his lips. "Good morning," I answered stiffly. "I see you have my book, Mr. Howard, my book."

"Ah, yes," he replied, somewhat disagreeably I thought, "your book. I might almost venture to say our book, since we both seem to appear in its cast of characters."

"Oh, then you have found yourself out also, as I did last night!" I interrupted, glad he had opened the subject so easily.

"Yes," he replied gently, "I believe I

"You see then," I went on hastily, "that it is quite out of the question for us to be friends any longer."

"I am afraid it is- friends!" he answered sadly.

"Feeling strongly as we both must, as I at least do," I continued, "the bitterness of our family feud, it will of course be impossible for us to meet in the future as we have been doing. I shall not, Mr. Howard, sail, row, walk, dance or play tennis with you hereafter, either in company with others, or

or

- by ourselves. I shall never forget that I am a Fletcher, and you will please bear in mind that you are a Howard. Do you understand, sir?”

"I understand," he answered calmly, yet I thought with a disagreeable little smile at the corner of his mouth. I began to suspect he was glad of the new arrangement, to feel a relief at the proposed relaxation of his duties as squire of dames.

I left him and went into breakfast. For a week we kept strictly to the agreement, and I saw little or nothing of Chester Lawrence Howard. I must confess that the time hung much more heavily on my hands. Besides being very ornamental, he had been quite useful and entertaining, and I missed him more than I had expected. I was sorry he was a Howard. I even began to wish that I had not been a Fletcher, or that our ancestors had not invented that silly quarrel. For now I was almost convinced that it was silly.

One morning about a week after our last conversation, Mr. Howard approached me timidly, as I was sitting on the piazza railing dying for a game of tennis.

thinking we have not an everlasting

hatred for one another?"

I saw there was some truth in this, and hesitated. Seeing his advantage, he

went on—

"If you will try to endure the sight of me, Miss Fletcher, I will attempt to smother my feelings of-hatred towards you."

I considered for a moment, and finally agreed that he was right. For the sake of appearances, then, we would smother our hatred under a mask of conventional enjoyment, as if we were mere ordinary people, and not Fletchers and Howards.

It was not, on the whole, a difficult task for me. After this I had a much pleasanter time than during the preceding week. We danced, sailed and flirted cheerfully as if nothing had happened, and succeeded effectually in silencing the gossips, who had been sure that we had "quarrelled." Of course there was a coolness and restraint between us. Mr. Howard felt this particularly; indeed, I could see that his repugnance to me increased daily hourly

as we were together. He seemed to find it hard even to pronounce my name, "Miss Fletcher," as if the words themselves were hateful to his lips.

One hot afternoon he asked if I would not like to go to the woods close by, where he would read to me. I agreed, for I was too listless for any other exertion. When I was comfortably arranged on the rugs and pillows, which he had thoughtfully provided, he seated himself. on a rock opposite me and opened the book which he had brought to read. It was the Fletcher Genealogy.

He was going, then, to have it out with me on the old score. He had come to declare his antipathy, too strong for control, to say that the game was over, he must depart, with an execration perhaps. All this passed instantaneously through my mind as I sat listlessly among the pillows biting a sweet pine needle. I was sorry, for I had grown rather to like him in these last weeks; but I resolved not to let him outdo me in implacableness, so I frowned, bit my lip, and waited. He began at last abruptly, not to read, but to speak.

"Our ancestor, Pinkerton Fletcher, would have been sorry to see two of his descendants so estranged." I was silent, and he went on. “You being a Fletcher, however, and I a Howard, it is of course eminently proper - indeed inevitable that we should dislike and detest one another."

I assented with a languid nod. "But," continued he excitedly, “I find this utterly impossible. Dearest May, I Dearest May, I cannot, try as I like, loathe and detest you as I ought. May Fletcher, I am ashamed to confess it, but "

Here I interrupted him to observe feebly, "Chester Lawrence Howard,

neither can I."

"Then don't try, May dear," he went on rapidly, filling the Fletcher Genealogy nervously with sticky pine needles. "Be"Be

fore the feud which made our families enemies, our ancestors had one name, Fletcher. Now that we cannot hate one another as we should, and cannot conscientiously and consistently bury the hatchet while you remain a Fletcher and I a Howard, let us make the two names again one. But let it be mine this time. May, shall we?"

So it happened, solely to settle the difficulty, that I let him write FletcherHoward with a brace at the end of the Genealogy, left blank for that especial purpose. And so it is that, to celebrate the burying of the hatchet under the pine needles that summer afternoon, I wear on my left hand great-great-great-grandmother Fletcher's diamond ring, restored at last to its lawful inheritor — as I shall always maintain.

THE Old South Lectures for the present summer are to be devoted to the subject of "The Founders of New England." Eight representative men have been chosen for treatment, the selection being made with a view to bring before the Boston young people, who on the summer afternoons gather in the old meeting-house, the most significant and influential forces, political and religious, which at the beginning worked together to make New England what she was. The chosen subjects are as follows: William Brewster, the Elder of Plymouth; William Bradford, the Governor of Plymouth; John Winthrop, the Governor of Massachusetts; John Cotton, the Minister of Boston; John Harvard, and the Founding of Harvard College; John Eliot, the Apostle to the Indians; Roger Williams, the Founder of Rhode Island; Thomas Hooker, the Founder of Connecticut. Edward Everett Hale, the greatest of to-day's New England "elders," will speak on Elder Brewster; two Massachusetts governors will speak on Bradford and Winthrop; Rev. John Cotton Brooks, a lineal descendant of John Cotton, will speak on the great Boston minister; Rev. James De Normandie, the present occupant of Eliot's pulpit, will treat John Eliot; President Andrews will come from Providence to give the address on Roger Williams.

The subjects proposed for the Old South Essays for the year, for which prizes are offered, open to the competition of all graduates of the various Boston high schools, of the current year and the preceding year, are these: 1. The Relation of the Founders of New England to the Universities of Cambridge and Oxford. 2. The Fundamental Orders of Connecticut and their Place in the History of Written Constitutions.

It

It is now almost twenty years since work for the historical and political education of the young people of Boston was instituted at the Old South Meeting-House by Mrs. Mary Hemenway. was in 1876, the centennial year, that the Old South was saved from destruction, chiefly by her exertions and great generosity; and from that time to this, in an ever larger and broader way, it has been made, by the same high public spirit, a centre for the teaching best calculated to make the rising generation understand what their country's history means, how its institutions have developed and what they have cost, and what the duties of good citizenship are. For fourteen years the Old South prizes have been offered annually for the best essays by the Boston high school graduates on subjects in American history; and for almost that length of time the annual courses of summer lectures for the young people have been given. The service which Mrs. Hemenway has rendered for the cause of intelligent patriotism, not in Boston only, but throughout the country, where the work sustained by her at the Old South has in so many places and so many ways given new impulse to the study of our American history, is incalculable. Her death is not alone a loss to Boston and New England; it is a loss to the nation. The educational enterprises which she inaugurated and sustained were almost numberless, and they were all of them most vital. Many of them, when their value was demonstrated and they were properly developed, became merged in the public system. Others will still be strongly carried on by provision of her will; and so for the present the Old South work will be carried on. The importance of the work, we believe, is now so clearly recognized and so deeply felt by