the words. Somebody's
arms were about me; warm tears were falling on my head, and the scent of
roses was in the air. Where was I? Was this my own little bed, with its
snowy curtains and soft, fresh pillows? Was Baby Robin lying beside me,
stroking my cheek with his tiny hand? I was not dead, then? Where were
the water and the cold sea-weed? A kiss fell on my forehead, and a voice
murmured soft love-words in my ear. "Allie! my little girl! Mamma's
darling!"

[Illustration: ON THE ROCK.]

Then I raised my head and looked straight into my mother's sweet,
tearful eyes. "Mamma," I said, throwing my arms around her neck, "O,
mamma, I was so afraid! I wanted you so!"

"But you are safe, Allie, now. Lie down again, dear. You are weak yet."

So I lay back on the soft pillow with a feeling of rest and content in
my heart, such as had never been there before. I cared to ask no
questions. It was enough that I was safe, with my mother beside my bed
and the early sunbeams flickering on the wall opposite. It was a long
time before I thought of even Georgie. When I asked for him, mamma's
eyes filled with tears. "Dear Allie," she said, "Georgie saved your
life. My little girl would have been taken away from me, but for him. He
caught you when you slipped, and, tired as he was, held you up till help
came. He fainted as soon as papa took him into the boat. We thought you
were both dead!" Her voice broke in a sob, and she clasped me closer in
her arms. "He is better now," she went on. "Allie, we must never forget
his courage. Thank God, he was with you!"

"Mamma, O mamma!" I cried, "he said he was trying to be like Saint
George. _Isn't_ he like him? He saved me, and he prayed there in the
dark--and, O mamma, I love him so for it!"

"Yes, Allie," answered my mother, "not one of the old knights was braver
than ours, and not one of all the saints did better service in the sight
of God than our little Saint George last night."

BORN IN PRISON.

BY JULIA P. BALLARD.

[Illustration: THE PRISONERS.]

I am only a day old! I wonder if every butterfly comes into the world to
find such queer things about him? I was born in prison. I can see right
through my walls; but I can't find any door. Right below me (for I have
climbed up the wall) lies a queer-looking, empty box. It is clear, and a
pale green. It is all in one piece, only a little slit in the top. I
wonder what came out of it. Close by it there is another green box, long
a