o you think astronomy is such a useless
thing now?"

And she was obliged to admit that she had never thought of it as the
foundation of navigation. Thornton is at present the assistant to the
government astronomer of a European country, and is receiving a
comfortable salary.

HELEN'S CHOICE.

BY ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL.

Helen set the baby down on the floor, and the pan of clothes-pins beside
her. "There, now, we'll see," she said, gayly. She got down, too, and
arranged the pins in an orderly little circle astride the pan's edge.
They went way round, and then Helen, with a sweep of fingers, sent them
all clattering into the pan again. The baby crowed in wide-mouthed,
toothless glee.

"_You_ do it now, baby--see, just as I do," Helen said.

She sprang lightly to her feet and went back to her dishes. The water
was cold, and the teakettle almost empty, and mutton-chops did make such
greasy plates. But Helen splashed in cheerfully. She was thinking of
Uncle 'Gene's letter on the mantel-piece, and the final decision about
it that very morning over the mutton-chops. It made her sing in sudden
ecstatic anticipation. What did she care about cold dish-water and
uncanny dishes, when she was going to-- She filled out the thought with
pantomimic action, running scales up and down the edge of the sink with
dripping fingers, and executing intricate tuneless measures amid dying
soapsuds.

"Helen, Helen!" called a sweet plaintive voice from the bedroom.

"Yes'm." The musical "selection" came to a quick stop. Helen hurried in,
wiping her hands on her apron and rescuing the baby from an ignominious
descent upon her nose on the way. "What is it, motherdie? is your head
worse?" she asked, anxiously. "I'm afraid it's those noisy
clothes-pins."

"No, dear, but there's a draught somewhere. I can feel it on my neck.
And I wish you'd rub my shoulder again. It's unusually achy this
morning."

Helen found the liniment bottle, and went to work with practised, gentle
touch. It was one of the dear invalid's bad days, and she had not tried
to get up. Her pale face looked up into Helen's with wistful
appreciation of the loving care. She was thinking of Uncle 'Gene's
letter too.

The clock out in the kitchen struck eleven ponderously as Helen set the
bottle away and put the screen before the window. In half an hour the
primary children would be home, and close on their heels the older ones.
And what hungry, hurrying-scurrying lit