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per cent in Mendocino County to ninetytwo per cent in Madera County.

In quantity of lumber produced California ranked twelfth in 1914, ninth in 1919 and seventh in 1921. She is one of eight states each of which reported a cut in excess of 1,000,000,000 board feet in 1921. The value of our forest products in the year named was $111,665,244, which was seven and one half per cent of the value of the forest products of the United States. In this regard Washington alone exceeded California. Two hundred thirty-seven sawmills were actually engaged in our state in 1921. The wood industries employed more than 27,000 persons, only Washington and Louisiana employing a larger number. Practically $25,000,000 were paid in wages during the year.

Redwood is the chief timber cut, contributing in 1921 more than thirty-four per cent of the total. Nearly 500,000,000 board feet of this lumber were produced, worth at the mill $40.57 per thousand. In 1915 the value was but $13.54. California ranks first in her cut of western yellow pine, white fir, sugar pine and eucalyptus and in Douglas fir and cedar she holds third rank.

Owing to the tremendous activity in building, the home demand for lumber is great, but large quantities are exported. Much timber is required for poles. and as mine supports. The amount of timber used in making boxes is considerable. There were in 1921 more than thirty establishments, turning out product valued at nearly $7,000,000. For the years 1915 to 1921 inclusive, the average number of orange boxes used was 17,000,000 yearly. To this must be added the number required for lemons, grapes, apples and other purposes.

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But it is not use alone that is depleting our forests. Fire is taking a heavy toll. Our long, dry summers make the fire hazard great, especially as at this season the largest number of persons visit the forests. For the years 1916 to 1922 inclusive the number of forest and brush fires in the state averaged nearly 2,000 yearly. These resulted in an average annual loss of more than half a million dollars.

Many think that brush fires do little damage, but this is far from the truth. The burning of the brush allows the water to run rapidly from the slopes after rains. This results in floods and in loss of soil. Because of the burning of the humus the capacity of the soil to hold water is decreased, sometimes to the extent of fifty per cent. The flow of the streams during the summer is greatly reduced which means a heavy loss to agriculture and the development of hydroelectric energy.

Forest trees grow slowly and if we are to have lumber in the future our

forests must be protected, and logged and burned areas must be made to grow a crop. To this end the State should purchase some of these areas and plant young trees. Eight large lumber companies engaged in cutting redwood are planning to reforest and some have made considerable progress. The Union and the Pacific Lumber Companies have established nurseries. Cones are gathered in the fall, dried and the seeds planted in nursery beds. The seedlings are set out when one or two years old. It is believed that within a few years the acreage planted annually will exceed the cut.

There are in California seventeen national forests averaging about 1,000,000 acres each. Most of our forest area is very rugged and the forests are therefore difficult to protect. Each forest is in charge of a supervisor under whose direction the rangers work. The rangers patrol on the average 250,000 acres each.

Large numbers of cattle, sheep, goats, horses and hogs are pastured in the national forests each summer. The owners are charged a small fee for this privilege. The ripe timber is from time to time. sold if purchasers can be found. The total receipts average about $700,000 each year. Twenty-five per cent of this goes to the counties in which the forests are situated and is used for the benefit of roads and schools.

It is the desire of our government that the people make extensive use of the national forests. Hunting and fishing are permitted and rangers give information along these and other lines to all who request it. For the benefit of those

who desire to visit the same place year after year, home sites are leased, the rental ranging from $10.00 to $25.00 per year. The only requirements are that campers exercise all possible care with regard to fire and keep the camps in a sanitary condition.

The forests of California constitute a vital resource the perpetuation of which should enlist the earnest co-operation of every adult in the state. The importance of this should be taught to every pupil in our schools. Each year, as the drain upon the forests in other parts of the country becomes heavier, California will contribute a larger share of the total. Protection and reforestation are especially needed as applied to the redwoods.

According to Dr. John C. Merriam redwood forests were extensive in the northern hemisphere millions of years ago. They are now confined, as has been said, to a part of California. The cutting of these wonderful trees has been going on since about 1860. A few years ago a group of patriotic women in Eureka organized a movement for the preservation of the redwood forests. This in 1919, developed into the "Save the Redwoods" League.

Considerable progress has already been made. In Humboldt County 2425 acres have been saved. A large part of this extends along the State Highway between Miranda and Dyerville Flat. The Richardson Grove of one hundred twenty acres is near Gerberville. The Humboldt Pioneer Memorial Grove of one hundred sixty-six acres was given (Continued on page 88)

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Partners By Inheritance

VER the inlet hung a mist, thick to seaward, but thinning at the shore line, so that the girl in the canoe was able to make out the towering evergreens, and tangled thickets, which clothed the promontory. It was an annoying mist, for she was seeking a man outlawed. What a thrill followed that word outlaw! It brought romantic thoughts of the wild days of the Old West, in which her father, Tom Wayne, had borne an active part. Once he too had been outlawed in company with Jerry Austin, the father of the young lawbreaker for whom she was hunting. Often had she heard the story of the gunfight forced upon a peaceably inclined youth, and of the latter's quick shot which had ended the career of the bully. The dead man had had powerful friends, and there had been no hope for a fair trial, but with the assistance of his partner, Wayne had escaped to a place of safety, there to remain in hiding till the fuss and flurry had lapsed and died.

Later the partners had separated, Austin to find wealth in commercial enterprise, Wayne to achieve a comfortable existence in the forests of the North. The old intimacy had never been entirely severed. Every autumn Austin came north for the hunting, and invariably made his headquarters at the home of his former partner. But never had he been accompanied by his wife or son, both of whom preferred fashionable resorts to the rude comforts of the forest, hence Alma Wayne had no acquaintance with the man whom she was seeking.

Much she had heard, for "Uncle" Jerry was eloquent on the subject of his son, though she had sensed that the father was in a measure disappointed in his offspring. She had made the discovery the season following her return from college, when Austin had looked her over with approving eyes. Later she had overheard a fragment of a statement he had made to her father, the thought of which even now caused her to rankle with indignation.

"Just the wife he needs, one with enough strength of character to hold him straight," she repeated to herself, as she sent the canoe skimming along. "Perhaps Uncle Jerry was right, if one may judge by this latest scrape of Bob's. But he'll find I'm not reforming outlaws, even if I'm willing to aid one to find refuge."

Again that word outlaw so thrilled her that she was near to forgetting her father's disapproval, when he had

By JEAN ROSS

brought home Uncle Jerry's letter. "I don't like this running away from justice," had been Wayne's remark. "If the boy has been smashing up other folks with his high powered car, he should be made to take his medicine. But Jerry, or perhaps it is his wife, sees things differently, so he's shipping the boy up to us for safe keeping."

"But once you ran away from justice, yourself," had been her answer.

"Not from justice, girl, but from injustice. We must remember that the laws are more sanely administered today. But I owe it to Jerry to help this day. But I owe it to Jerry to help this young cub of his, and you must help, too.'

"What can I do?" Such a sudden change of front was a trifle astonishing.

"Jerry does not say which route the boy will take. You will have to watch the shore in case he comes by motorboat, while I'll try to intercept him if he comes by automobile. We must warn him in time, as the sheriff may be watching. I heard in the village that a warrant had been sent for his arrest, someone having tipped off the officials that he might seek refuge up this way. The city papers are making a great stir about a rich man's son being shown favors, so the authorities are determined to get him."

That was how Alma Wayne came to be coasting along the shore, carefully scanning each bush and thicket, and every now and then casting a keen eye to seaward for signs of an approaching motorboat. Here on the promotory Uncle Jerry landed, when he came by boat, the passage to Wayne's Landing being tortuous, and dangerous to one who did not know the channel.

A bush on shore crackled, and she bent forward, eager and alert. An instant later she caught a glimpse of antlers as a deer plunged away into the cover of the thickets. She rested her paddle, and pondered a moment. Something had startled the buck, but what? Herself? Hardly, for she had approached silently, and apparently the creature had been feeding with its head down, and had not seen her. The slight breeze was blowing toward her, and though. the air currents were shifty along a wooded coast, she doubted if the deer had scented her. Doubly intent, she again scanned the undergrowth.

Suddenly the foliage parted, and she was staring into the muzzle of an auto

matic pistol. Behind it she had a startled vision of deep blue eyes-Uncle Jerry's eyes were blue-set in a stern face that suddenly relaxed. A flush of confusion, deep enough to be visible through his tan, spread over the man's countenance as the girl's laugh rang out.

"It was the mist," he stammered, putting away the pistol. "I thought-I thought—"

"That I was the sheriff," she supplied, as he halted uncertainly.

The situation gave her a keen enjoyment. Though her years at school had given her much knowledge of the great world, she had been a bit afraid of meeting this city bred youth with the polished ease of his kind. Now the advantage was all hers. It was she who had command of herself, while he was as awkward as a backwoods schoolboy.

"Welcome, O outlaw bold," she called gaily. "I am Alma Wayne, your partner by inheritance."

"Partner by inheritance?" he blurted stupidly.

"Surely you know that your father and mine were partners long ago? And that makes us partners by inheritance, doesn't it?"

As she spoke, she brought the canoe alongside the rock on which he was standing, and reached out her hand in greeting. He held it in his a trifle longer than was necessary, while he gazed admiringly into her wide brown eyes. That look was disconcerting, and almost abruptly she withdrew her hand, and bade him enter the canoe. He did so, taking the seat in the bow facing her.

"So you are taking me on as a partner?" he asked, as she turned the canoe about. The surprise that had been his from the first was still in evidence.

"For the time you are in hiding. yes. As soon as Uncle Jerry-I've always called your father that gets things fixed up so you can go back, I reckon Father will consider that he has squared accounts. If it wasn't for paying off old scores he would not have helped you. He says a lawbreaker should be punished, but Uncle Jerry being his old partner

"I see.

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But if this inherited partnership is to be but a transient affair, how about you and I forming one of our own that will be more enduring?"

He seemed to have recovered his assurance all too quickly; really he must be properly squelched.

"Dear me! You are as bad as Uncle Jerry," she countered mischievously.

"He was suggesting that very thing the last time he was here."

"What?" he exclaimed, again staring stupidly.

"Yes, I overheard him telling Father that his son needed the right sort of a wife to steady him. I gathered he was picking me for the victim.".

"And your father?"

"I was eavesdropping, so I thought it more delicate not to wait to learn his views. I imagine he would not be keen on a son-in-law that needed propping up."

"I should hope so," he answered shortly, and lapsed into silence.

She experienced a twinge of conscience. Perhaps she had been needlessly rude. It was hardly the lad's fault if he had been spoiled by a rich father, and an indulgent mother. And looking at him more closely, she could find no traces of dissipation, or of weakness. Strength of character showed in the firm outlines of his features. In all respects his tanned face and athletic figure were good to look upon. Very likely Uncle Jerry, wishful of perfection in his only offspring, had magnified his defects. Certainly this son of his bore the appearance of one able to stand alone, whatever the crisis that confronted him.

"Seeing that this-er-partnership was not entirely to your liking, why did you bother to meet the fugitive? Why not leave that task to your father?"

"There were two routes to watch, and Father could not watch both. We did not know whether you would come by land or sea."

"I'm glad I chose the water route. But Good Heavens! Suppose I had shot you! I was nervous enough for anything."

She laughed with gay amusement. "Just what were you planning to shoot? Not our sheriff, I hope? Then you surely would have been in bad."

"You talk as though he were a friend of yours."

"No, I have never met him. He's a new man, and something of a tenderfoot, I'm told, though some girls I know say he is real nice."

"Thanks," he replied dryly.

The expression on his face was hard to read. Was he jealous of even such faint praise of another? Such pettiness should be beneath him, but she remembered that he was a spoiled boy.

"You haven't told me about your accident," she said, changing the subject. "Or does it hurt your conscience to speak of it?"

"My conscience is giving me no trouble, though I suppose I should be ashamed to say so. I must be a hardened offender."

"Or else you feel that you were not entirely to blame?"

It was another moment before he answered.

"I have noticed that a man who falls afoul of the law usually claims that it was the other fellow's fault, or he was framed by the police. Let me be original, and plead guilty."

She smiled a little at the reply. The men of her own family would have taken that stand. She was beginning to like this Bob Austin; almost she was ready to condone his wrong doing.

"Let me paddle," was his next word. "It's not fair for you to do all the work of outlawry."

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"To the Cave of Echoing Tides. It's a place Father found one time when he was following a wounded bear. I don't believe there's another white man that knows of its existence. You'll be safe there."

"But why the fanciful name?"

"You'll know in a minute. Sit quiet." Despite her command, he turned his head, and cried out sharply, "Good Heavens, Miss Wayne, what are you trying to do? Wreck us?"

"Keep still. I know what I'm about." It was no empty boast, for even as the bow of the canoe seemed about to crash into an outstanding cliff, she sheered off to one side, then with a quick flirt of her paddle changed course, rounded the point of rock, and drove into a narrow cleft between it and the adjoining cliffs. They were in a cavern made by the unceasing tides of long centuries. And it was fitly named, for the echoes repeated each dip of the paddle a dozen times, then gradually ceased as the canoe drew out of the focus of the natural sounding board. They landed on a strip of sand that bordered the water on one side.

"The Indians tell of a place where the water gods speak, and I think this is the spot. But come with me. This beach is below high tide, so we must

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With a sure step she led the way, but the rock was wet and slippery, and the man's eyes, not yet accustomed to the dimness of the cavern, failed him. A slip, a vain attempt to regain his footing, and the next instant he was lying at the base of the wall, conscious only of an agony in his right ankle that meant a sprain or something equally bad.

Lightly springing down beside him, in spite of his protests, she helped him to arise.

"Can you stand? Can you climb by leaning upon me?"

"If you'll bring me the paddle, I'll use that. I'll admit that I need a partner, but I'd rather not use one for a prop." Despite his misery, he was able to smile.

She brought the paddle, and with that for support, he tried the ascent. Regardless of his remonstrances, she insisted on aiding him.

"Don't mind being helped by a woman," she said, quick to sense his embarrassment. "Forget what I said about Uncle Jerry's son needing a prop. Just remember that you are an invalid, and I am your nurse. Now then, let's try another step."

Somehow the ascent was accomplished, though there were beads of sweat upon his forehead when finally he gained the summit, and sank down upon the bed of fragrant cedar boughs that already had been laid in place. He was not too overcome to notice that the cave had been stocked with other necessities of life. Alma would have removed his shoe and bandaged his ankle, but he would not permit her.

"If I'm to be holed up here for some weeks, I had better make the most of little chores like that. Time surely is going to hang heavy."

"I'll go and call Father," was her next offer. "He'll bring you what medicines you need, and if you must have a doctor, he'll find a way to get you one. I was going to leave you the canoe, but seeing you can't use it, I'll take it." She picked up the paddle, then paused.

"You'll be needing a crutch. I'll find you one."

She caught up a hatchet,and passed out of sight at the upper end of the cave, where, he surmised, another exit led. to the outside world. Presently she was back with two forked saplings that would well serve as crutches.

"Won't you stay and talk awhile?" he begged.

She shook her head, while her eyes brightened with a mischievous smile.

"It wouldn't look well, you being such a dangerous outlaw. You won't be afraid to stay alone?"

(Continued on page 82)

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New Lamps For Old

CROSS the breakfast table, on the Saturday morning that Mrs. John Williams had taken her departure for a visit with city relatives, Imogene critically inspected her father. "You are a nice-looking man,' she said, nodding her approval.

John Williams helped himself to a muffin and tried not to show that he was pleased.

There was a subdued, but derisive, hoot from Junior.

"Mother's the good-looking one of the family. She's the handsomest lady in this town."

"Much you know about the ladies of this town," Imogene scoffed. "You worry mother and me half to death with your unmannerly ways. Why, Father, he won't even stay in the room when my friends drop in—"

"What does a fellow want to hang 'round with a lot of girls for?" he objected. "Now don't begin to nag me about society stunts. I've got a lot of things to do."

He hastily excused himself, and disappeared with the usual banging of doors, timed to shrill whistling, into his work shop at the rear of the house, where he passed his Saturdays.

John Williams declined a second cup of coffee, and rose from the table. Imogene followed him into the hall, and demanded a moment of his attention before he should be on his way to that mysterious haunt of business men known as down town. He smiled, remembering his little girl's flattery. What did she want now?

"Let's surprise Mother, and get a lot of things done in the house," she suggested, fussing with his hair and necktie. "Make it more up-to-date. Some new furniture for the living room. Mother says it's one woman's work to keep those old mahogany pieces dusted-"

"Um-m!" rumbled John Williams. "That's apt to cost me money, Baby. New furniture! Um-m!"

Imogene always tried to look dignified when her father called her "Baby," but this time she could not quite manage it. Her dimples twinkled; a smile had its way, showing teeth even, white. She slid her little fists into the pockets of her blue bungalow apron—a blue that nicely matched her eyes-and put on a jaunty and confident air.

"We want to cut down these partitions" she nodded at two walls-"and have a huge living-room. Get a new phonograph; and have a great big win

By CAROLINE KATHERINE FRANKLIN

dow in the living-room overlooking the sunken garden-"

"W-where's the sunken garden?" her father wanted to know, with a bewildered look that passed over the blonde head of his daughter to the sunny space without, where spring flower-beds, bisected by gravel paths, showed yellow daffodils and ranks of bee-attended hyacinths. "Where's this sunken garden?" he repeated.

Imogene's glance followed her father's, and then came back to rest beseechingly on his face.

"Couldn't we fix it, Daddy?" "Mother'll only be gone a fortnight," he reminded her; "and perhaps it would be just as well to ask her what she thinks of this sunken garden and huge living-room idea. Where'd you get it?"

"Out of a-a story." Imogene followed her father to the door and thence onto the porch. "If we get these things started, Mother'll like them so well she won't even think of objecting."

"Do what you like, dear, within reason. But that doesn't include a huge living-room nor a sunken garden. I've made handsome commissions lately; and it might be a good idea to fix up the place a little. Mother thought we'd better bank the money for Junior's University course. I told her I was bound to make more, but she said you never can tell. Good-bye!" He had suddenly remembered that early board meeting.

Imogene waved her father down the street; then she turned and surveyed the field of action.

"Yes," she mused, "I'll begin here. A lot more ferns and hanging baskets. Two wicker porch chairs. Won't mother be surprised?"

She ran into the house and looked critically over the living-room.

"Mother has saved too-t-o-o much! It all goes into something. Why not furniture? These old mahogany things -suppose they have been in the family since great-grandmother days? I know a place where I can sell the big rocking chair, and the gate-leg table, and the sewing table."

Full of the idea, she went to her room and dressed for the street in her new spring suit and hat. On her way out she was waylaid by Nora, the old family "help" and stand-by, who wished to be told what she should order for the evening meal, and for Sunday dinner.

"Don't bother," said Imogene, kindly. "I am going down town, and I'll see to

everything. All you'll have to do is to cook what I send up."

She vaguely considered lamb and green peas as she swung down the street. But her thoughts quickly went to matters of more importance. It was lovely to plan surprises for people.

Imogene found the shop which had advertised for "antiques" more than willing to take the mahogany chair and the two tables-indeed, they would send right out for them. But only to sell on commission. She finally agreed to this, and went on to the modern furniture store, where she "shopped" enthusiastically. As it was Saturday, there would be no delivery till Monday.

It was a good day's work, and Imogene glowed with satisfaction as she ran up the broad, shallow steps of her home, at four-thirty by her not-too-reliable wrist watch. The glow ebbed as she gazed about the living-room. The old things were gone. How sort of-of deserted, forsaken the room looked! Who'd have thought those few things would make such a difference? Well, she must see that Father had a scrumptious dinner, to take his mind off- Perhaps she should have left him the easy chair!

Nora came in.

"Immy-" the girl greeted the abhorred shortening of her pretty name with a frown; but no frown could get past Nora's cheerful grin, and daunt the loving heart of her. "Immy, sur-e, darlint, an' it's yerself fergot t' order the ma'te an' things fer dinner."

Imogene gave Nora one horrified look and dashed to the 'phone. But the butcher assured her that, no Ma'am, they didn't make deliveries after four o'clock any day, let alone a busy Saturday.

"If we give him plenty of hot biscuits, Father'll never notice whether we have meat or not," said Imogene, adding, hopefully, as Nora shook her head; "And there's bacon and eggs."

At dinner time, six o'clock, when John Williams and Junior came home, Imogene had a list as long as her arm of all the changes she wished to make to surprise Mother. She was on the porch, sitting in her mother's chair and dressed in a simple white dress which made her look like a little girl. She put on, however, a most grown-up air as she greeted her father. Her big blue eyes danced when her father called her the lady of the house. Nora had been "put through" as much as a whole garden of sprouts in preparing dinner. Imogene had made

a novel dessert, and the table decorations were beautiful.

To be sure, Mothers' best ferns were sacrificed for the center-piece, and the best silver and china had been pressed into service. She only hoped that careless Nora wouldn't break anything; Mother always washed those things herself.

As they left the table, John Williams to seek the easy chair-which was not in the living-room-Junior side-tracked his sister and demanded: "Say! What's going on? You've got something up your sleeve-”

"Sh-h!" she whispered, an anxious eye on the door of the living-room. "Sh-h-h! I've only just started. I'm trying to see if it's really true that tackling a man through his stomach reaches his heart. Wasn't that dessert scrumptious? A little bit scorched maybe, but it looked fine. You slip into your goodlooking flannels and your dark blue serge coat and trot over and call on the girl who lives across the street. While I'm getting things for Mother, I'll see if I can get a new camera for you."

Junior looked abused; but somewhat heartened by the thought that Imogene would fix the matter of a camera with Father, went up to his room to dress. He was going to call on an almost perfectly strange girl!

Imogene made her father comfortable in a many-pillowed chair, drew up a hassock and set at his feet. "Let's turn off the electric and just visit in the dark," she began, and immediately jumped up and put out the light; this hid the bareness of the room.

"H-m-m-m!" said Father, breaking the moment of silence that followed. "My daughter, don't let your liking for the new drive out your sense of what the old things mean in a home, and in life. Dear, I've seen your mother rock Junior and you to sleep in that old mahogany rocker; and when I sit in it, I can feel her presence. Didn't know your Dad was such a sentimental Daddy, did you? Well, new things won't mean so much to Mother and to me. They'll be like new friends-all right, maybe; but we have to get acquainted with 'em."

"I-I'm sorry!" faltered Imogene. "There, there, child! I know you mean well. But you can see for yourhelf how it is. I suppose, though, your young eyes and my old ones see differentently. Now for something pleasant. I've been offered a partnership in the firm." "D-does Mother know?" she managed to stutter. "And Junior?"

"I'm going to keep it as a surprise. Tonight, only you know."

new furniture I've picked out? He was a darling about the dinner-and I won't forget to order the next time. He says he'll kill a chicken for tomorrow's dinner and he hates so to kill things! Besides, they're laying. It's a perfectly gorgeous moonlight night. There's Junior, just come in from his call. I'll slip out and ask him how it went."

Sunday found Imogene in even a more thoughtful frame of mind than on the previous evening. The confidences of Junior, proud of having, for once, successfully accomplished the thing that his sister had wished him to do, set her heart a-whirl. What had she done? What had she done! Everything persistently went wrong when she tried to make things right for everybody. Perhaps she didn't try hard enough. She would try twice as hard.

Imogene, in a fit of gentle sadness, went out into the rose arbor, which was just greening over. It was lonely without Mother. She welcomed the appearance of Junior, who dropped-apparently, from the blue sky, or some other unlikely place. His eyes, though shy, were bright, as he sat down on the bench beside Imogene.

"There's another girl visiting across the street. Her-her name's Mildred," he said. "She's got blue eyes like you, only they're prettier."

QUERY

They say the moon is without life, Yet tonight she has made beautiful A pile of dead leaves.

Can an exiled hope Make beautiful Decaying memories?

-Joseph Upper.

"Thanks!" laughed Imogene.
"She's little but she's a nice-girl!"
"Yes?" encouraged Imogene.

"I guess I've been a nut! Girls are easy to talk to. We went outside because there was other company, and sat in the big swing; and she told me she was cross enough to eat nails. And I said she'd break some mighty pretty teeth-"

"You said what?"

"—and that she had a grouch about everything. I told her I was glad it wasn't humans that grouched her-"

"Junior!" Imogene seized her brother by the shoulders and shook him into That night Imogene wrote thought- silence. "I don't know what you're talkfully in her diary: ing about. For heaven's sake, come out of the clouds and talk so a person can understand you."

"I wonder if Mother will feel the same way that Father does about the

"I am," the boy insisted. "You see, Mildred wants to be a great singer, and her people won't let her go away from home. She says she has half a notion to run away; but I told her she'd better not. I told her it's the craziest thing a girl can do. I told her if she'd marry me, she could then do just as she pleased without running away-"

"Junior," exclaimed the horrified Imogene. "How old is she?”

"Sixteen. I asked her."

"And you are fifteen. Junior, listen to sister." She took his hand and compelled his attention. "You know you both would have to get the consent of your families, for you're not of age. And I don't really think the little girl will run away. (Imogene felt very old and superior in the world's ways; was she not half-past seventeen?) I'll have her over here, and we'll get up a picnic or two; and she'll have such a good time that she'll forget that she has a grouch on. Then when Mother-"

"I'll go and tell her what you said." The boy spoke in a relieved tone, as if he has been taking a "second thought" of the burden he had so lightly taken on himself. He retrieved his cap, which he had thrown on the ground, and went briskly away.

"That night Imogene wrote feverishly in her diary:

"I do wish Mother was home! Oh, my poor brother! Maybe he'll never be the same again! Why did I try to make him over? It really seems as if the more one tries to do for one's family, the less it amounts to. But who would have imagined it—and Junior so shy! I think Junior is turning out to be the greatest surprise of all."

But in this, she was mistaken.

The days went by, and not a word from Mother; but then, mother was a "poor hand"-as Father expressed itto write. The hanging baskets, ferns and awnings for the porch were accomplished facts. The new furniture really was handsome; and though there was a wistful look in Fathers' eyes when he sat in the new easy chair of evenings, he said nothing. Imogene concluded that she would never try to surprise Father; he didn't seem to care for them.

Came the day when Mother was expected home. Somehow the sun seemed brighter, the world a better place in which to live. They were all at the station when the mid-day train rolled in; but she did not come. That was a strange thing. Surely, Mother must be as anxious to see them as they were to see her.

"We'll come down down here at eight o'clock," said Father, in a tone (Continued on page 94)

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