all
home in Mr. Pokeby's big wagon.

"Really I never had more fun in my life," said Lil to Mrs. Pokeby, as
they bade her good-by at the farm gate; "and I am so much obliged to you
for letting us give that supper, though the getting it ready was the
best part."

"That's because you seasoned it."

"What with?" asked Lil, wondering.

"With work--actual work."

"Do you think so? Perhaps that's the reason boys have such good times."

"I dare say."

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 47, September 21.]

"MOONSHINERS."

BY E. H. MILLER.

CHAPTER III.

CONNY REPAYS THE DOCTOR'S KINDNESS.

But before the mountains were quite bare there came a time when even
Conny ceased to interest the family, for Joe was coming home from
college. Joe, the handsome young student, whom father, mother, Betty,
and the servants all agreed to worship. He was to bring with him a
friend, and from garret to cellar the whole house was astir to do them
honor.

Conny was in the kitchen, polishing the silver, and listening to Biddy's
raptures. "Sure, thin, Conny, and it's a young gintleman ye'll be seein'
as there isn't the likes in ahl this miserable coontry, bad luck till
it!"

"Is he like the master?" asked Conny.

"Indade, thin, I couldn't be sayin' whidder it's likest the masther or
the misthress he is. Tahl an' straight, an' sooch a look in the two eyes
of 'im."

"Conny," said the doctor, coming to the door, "I am obliged to go to
Hampton to see a very sick man. You will have to go for Master Joe and
the other gentleman to-night."

"Yes, sir," said Conny, well pleased with the commission.

"Be sure you start in season. Put Doll into the sulky, and lead Prince
behind. The young gentlemen can drive themselves back, unless Joe
chooses to ride Prince. He was always such a boy for a horse!"

The doctor's rugged face softened, as it always did at the thought of
his boy, and it was no small self-denial to go away to the bedside of
some poor old wreck of humanity, delaying for hours the delight of
greeting his prince.

Early in the afternoon Conny started on his long ride of ten miles to
meet the young gentlemen at Kilbourne, the nearest railroad station. It
was almost November, but the blue haze of the Indian summer hung over
the landscape, and the air was warm and mellow with sunshine. Any eye
but Conny's would have said that the long mountain gorges, and the
thickly wooded glens into which they opened, were deserted of