the aisle. Her dress is made just like mine," said Rebecca.

"She isn't so pretty as you are," said Nat, patting her cheek. "Look at that miss with her. She'll have the rheumatiks. I might throw her my muffler. She better pull her skirt up around her neck same as you do when you go out to feed the pigs."

"Oh, Father, do keep still. You'll make me laugh right out in church." "Church, oh, Jiminy, that's too good. Keep on thinking. Whew! Look at this crowd coming on the platform; the circus is coming, hear the band." Isabel had been anxious all the afternoon, and when it came time to leave and go to the theatre, she seemed much depressed. They had not come. What could have happened? She was peeping behind the curtain when she almost shouted, for they were in the box opposite. How she wanted to fly to them, but it was almost time to go before the audience. She would have to wait. She trembled with emotion. Oh, if the theatre would only disappear and leave her at the old farm, sitting on the hassock watching Aunt Rebecca knit and Uncle Nat read the newspaper. But how they had changed! The tears came into her eyes. Had she been away so many years that they looked so much older? She watched their eager faces, and could almost imagine what they were saying. Suddenly an arm was thrown around her and Miss Whitney said: "They are here, and I have been looking for you everywhere, much to tell you when I can have a little time. There, you must go now."

I've

Nat and Rebecca stood spellbound, watching everything, when suddenly the house broke into a tumult of applause.

"What's going on now? Look at that angel coming on the platform. Oh, she most takes my breath away. My, she's looking at us, and smiling. She's waving her roses at us. No, it can't be; yes, it's Isabel, it's Isabel. Oh, Mother, it's Isabel."

They stood there unmindful of the crowd, crying like two children.

"We can't call her girlie any more, she's a grown-up lady. She's singing, Mother; look at her."

Isabel sang as never before. It almost seemed as if the gates of Paradise opened and, as Uncle Nat had said, an angel came forth. The people held their breath, and when she had finished, the house fairly rang with the applause. After acknowledging this, she took her roses and tossed them into the box at Father and Mother, as if to say, "I owe it all to them, dear souls." Another storm of applause shook the building, for the papers that day had printed the story of the love and sacrifice of two old people in Maine who had made it possible for the new singer .to study, and they all knew at once that these two must be the people referred to. Every eye was turned to them. There they stood, oblivious to every one but Isabel. Rebecca hugged the roses as if they had been Isabel herself, and Nat was laughing and clapping as if it was at town meeting.

"Jiminy, we'll all have corns on our hands if we keep this up long."

After this the audience found as much pleasure in watching the box as listening to the opera, for Nat and Rebecca saw no one but Isabel, and they watched her with tense, yearning eagerness. Finally it was all over, and Isabel was called before the curtain. She sent for Nat and Rebecca, saying she wanted them. They went where they were led, and soon found themselves before that vast audience. Isabel threw her arm around Aunt Rebecca's waist, and held Uncle Nat's hand, while the people fairly went wild. Flowers were thrown at them from every quarter, and there was hardly a dry eye in the house.

"Jiminy, Isabel, I'll have to get you out of Boston, or they'll eat you up," said Uncle Nat, a trifle huskily, straightening up a little with proud satisfaction that his little İsabel should be the object of such applause. Aunt Rebecca said nothing, but she clung close to Isabel, and her eyes were brimming as she looked up half shyly, half wonderingly, at the beauti

ful young woman by her side. In their utter lack of self consciousness neither of them could comprehend that they had anything to do with the cheering. Tired and exhausted, they soon found themselves in their room at the hotel. Isabel had kissed them good-night, but they were too much excited to go to sleep immediately.

"It seems as if I was lying on air. I reckon I won't miss the feather bed," said Father; and they never did, for they neither moved nor woke until Isabel knocked on the door the next morning.

"Jiminy, where am I, Mother? Get up. Where are we? This isn't the poor house."

They soon joined Isabel, and after breakfast went out to see Boston; and the next day started for home. Old Sal had died two years before, and Isabel was going to live with them. When they reached the little Maine town they called home. Nat was surprised not to see more out. He felt he had been away a long time, and he thought every one would be out to see Isabel. As the mare climbed the last hill and the old farm came in sight, Isabel exclaimed:

"This is lovely, to be home once more. I'm so happy."

"We'll have a game of 'Everlast ing' to-night, and you may win if you can, Miss Isabel. I've been practicI've been practicing since you've been away," said Nat. "All right, Uncle Nat, only I warn you, beforehand, that you'll have to look out for your laurels, for I won't have any more mercy on you than I used to have. Do you ever play 'Bridge' here, Auntie?"

"Land sakes, Honey, I haven't played it since your birthday party, ten years ago, but I can sing it yet'London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down.'

"That's fine," said Isabel, laughing heartily.

As they came in sight of the house, Nat was quite excited.

"Jiminy, Mother, the house is lighted. I hope old skinflint hasn't

taken possession. He said he was coming down to-night, but I told him to keep away. I didn't want to see him till I had to go. Well, if he's in that house, I'll pitch him out. Hurry up your old nag, Elnathan; it seems as if we'd never get there."

But they did, and when they opened the door, they stood dumb with amazement, for it seemed as if the whole village was there to welcome them home. The table, enlarged for the occasion, was bountifully spread, and to break the spell they all began to sing:

"Home again, Home again,

From a foreign shore."

"Well, this does beat all, Isabel; I reckon they are glad to see you; and I am glad enough to see them instead of old skinny."

Such a merry evening as they had. Nat and Rebecca seemed to forget their care, and were as young as the rest. Nat was telling a funny story, when someone came and whispered that Mr. Fairweather wished to see him a minute. Isabel heard the name and followed him out into the entry, for Miss Whitney had told her the whole story and she had come prepared. As soon as Nat saw the man, he exclaimed:

"I told you not to come here tonight. I wanted to enjoy my last night here in peace. Oh, Isabel, why did you come out?"

"I knew you were in trouble, Uncle, and I thought perhaps I could help you. What does this mean, Mr. Fairweather?" as she saw Nat was completely broken down.

"It means that I hold a mortgage on this place, and I shall be compelled to foreclose to-morrow morning if he cannot pay."

"Cannot you give him a little more time? You know he will do his best, and perhaps I can get so that I can help him," said Isabel.

"She hasn't any money now," thought the man.

"I would if I could, but I need money badly, and I cannot wait any longer."

"Who told you?"

"Oh, never mind. As you do have so much, it seems as if you could wait just a little while longer."

"I am sorry. Nat is a good fellow, but if I am to have the place, the spring work ought to begin soon."

"Have you forgotten the time when your barn was burned, and Uncle worked until he nearly dropped, helping you? It seems as if you might show a little kindness to him."

Isaac winced under this examination.

"I'm only wasting time. I'd help him if I could, but I must have the money or the farm to-morrow." "Have you the papers?"

"Yes."

"How much is it?"

Isaac told her.

"Get the pen and ink, Uncle; we might as well settle it to-night, and then we'll sleep better."

"What, have you got the money?" said Isaac in astonishment.

"Yes," said Isabel.

"Why didn't you tell me so at first?" "I thought I would give you a last chance to redeem yourself.”

Uncle Nat was so astonished he could hardly move. Isaac was so chagrined, he could scarcely speak, for he really did not care so much for the money as the farm. He had wanted that for years, and now, when he thought he had it, it was going to slip away from him. Isabel went in after the pen and ink.

"Here is the money, Uncle; it's all yours. I haven't needed all you sent me, but I kept it, fearing to hurt your

I was growing independent and wished to be rid of you, and I knew I could make it right with you when I returned. Now pay him off and we'll be happy once more."

Isaac took the money and signed and handed over the papers. As soon as the door closed, Nat grasped Isabel by the hand and broke down completely. Rebecca had missed them, and came hurrying out and found them in tears.

"Oh, what is the matter? I thought we were going to be happy to-night."

"I never was so happy in my life," said Nat. "These are tears of joy; and the house is ours, the mortgage is paid, and we haven't got to go to the poor house; and, Oh, dear, just thank Isabel, she did it all."

"Oh, Auntie, I'll tell you about it later; let's go in now and have a jolly evening."

Auntie couldn't understand it, but Nat was happy, and she must be so also; and when the neighbors departed for their homes, there were two very happy old people left at the farm; happy because the dear old home was theirs once more, and because Isabel had returned to be their very own.

"Oh, Jiminy," said Nat, as the last team rattled across the bridge; "I wonder what Miss Remember thought to-night. The day you went away she told me that you wouldn't know us when you had your furbelows on. I wish she'd seen you at the theatre, all silk and jewels, standing before. that immense crowd, holding Mother and me by the hand. Whew! It most took my breath away."

W

HEN the sturdy English explorers and adventurers in their ignorance of the extent of the country sailed up the rivers of New England in an endeavor to find a passage through to the Pacific, they encountered a series of rapids and falls which obstructed their course. The falls of these streams which impeded the progress of the crude vessels were looked upon as only another of the numerous impediments which offered themselves on every side to the conquest of the country. But the history of these rapids of New England is as romantic as the story of the discovery of the New World. To tell the story of the waterfall is to tell the story of the race, so closely are they woven together.

Before the white man set foot on the western primeval wilderness the rapids of the rivers tumbled boisterously over the rocky slant; the time-worn. mountains rose, perhaps, in the distance, to form the background of a picture of fascinating wildness and abandon. In all the ages no white face had yet appeared to view the grandeur of the scene and when he did appear he was too intent in subjugating a wild and hostile country with his pigmy man-power to stop for an instant to

cast even a dubious prophecy that the massive strength of the rivers, which so contemptuously whirled his canoe out of its course and broke the paddle in his hands, should some day be harnessed to do work of men in cities far away; to light the streets and the homes, to run the factories, the street and traction cars whirling millions of passengers yearly across the self-same country over which he so slowly and laboriously fought his way.

But these things have come to pass. The mystic Indian legends of the river, telling of rites and sacrificial ceremonies, have given place to the romantic story of the white man, of how he has harnessed the turbulent flood to do his bidding and transmuted its mighty strength to wires carrying it far away to the places of their own little physical efforts.

It is true that eventually the settlers designed crude water-wheels with which they made the water-falls grind the corn, but the little power which they could thus extract from the rapids had to be used on the spot where the falls were located. It could not be sent to the villages and cities which were springing up and which were being located with reference to harbors

J. HENRY & SONS PAPER Co., LINCOLN, N. H. STAND-PIPE AT UPPER POWER STATION