ic journey
through the back of the cabinet, the father and mother and their little
girl went into the country, which was quite as beautiful, if not so
strange, as the island in the shining lake. A little later the dear old
red-brick home was bought again, and they all went to live there; Mr.
Goodman's book was published, and it was bound in white and gold, just
as Grace had seen it in her dream. And after it had been examined and
admired, at Grace's suggestion it was put away under the watchful care
of the little Indian priest in the Magic Cabinet.

GIRLHOOD AND YOUTH.

ONLY TIM.

BY SARAH DOUDNEY.

CHAPTER I.

"I say, Bee, are you coming?"

Claude Molyneux, in all the glory of fourteen summers and a suit of new
white flannels, stands looking up with a slight frown of impatience at
an open bay-window. It has been one of the hottest of August days; and
now at four o'clock in the afternoon the haze of heat hangs over the
sea, and makes a purple cloud of the distant coast. But, for all that,
it is splendid weather; just the kind of weather that a boy likes when
he comes to spend his holidays at the seaside; and Claude, who is an
Indian-born boy, has no objection to a good hot summer.

As he stands, hands in pockets, on the narrow pebbled path under the
window, you cannot help admiring the grace of his slim, well-knit
figure, and the delicate moulding of his features. The fair skin is
sun-tanned, as a boy's skin ought to be; the eyes, large and
heavy-lidded, are of a dark grey, not brilliant, but soft; the light,
fine hair is cropped close to the shapely head. He is a lad that one
likes at the first glance; and although one sees, all too plainly, that
those chiselled lips can take a disdainful curl sometimes, one knows
instinctively that they may always be trusted to tell the simple truth.
Anything mean, anything sneaky, could not live in the steady light of
those dark-grey eyes.

"I say, Bee-e!" he sings out again, with a little drawl, which, however,
does not make the tone less imperative. Master Claude is not accustomed
to be kept waiting, and is beginning to think himself rather badly used.

"Coming," cries a sweet treble; and then a head and shoulders appear
above the row of scarlet geraniums on the window-sill.

She is worth waiting for, this loitering Bee, whose thirteen years have
given her none of the airs of premature womanhood. Her smooth round
cheeks are tinted with the tender pink o