utes more of pleasant conversation they separated, Mr. Owen--such
was the natural philosopher's name--having received John's assurance
of a speedy call upon him, and given his address with an alacrity
which proved, John thought, that they were kindred spirits.

As they walked home, John suddenly exclaimed, "You know I never
remember faces, Peg, but somehow I feel as if I had seen that fellow
before. He's an uncommonly good fellow, and Mrs. Grove says he is very
fond of my hobby, as you call it, so I shall go to see him soon."

Of course Marjory gave him an outline of her evening's adventure "upon
this hint," and he laughed heartily at the whole thing, assuring
her that _he_ had never believed for a moment in such an absurd
possibility as she had fancied.

Well, what of it all? Nothing particular. Mr. Owen and John are fast
friends by this time. Marjory is beginning to take an interest in
natural history. Also, she has lost all faith in conviction upon
circumstantial evidence. She is "o'er young to marry yet," her aunt
thinks, and so do I of course, for this is not a love-story: I wish
that to be distinctly understood.

MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

THE MYSTERY OF MASSABIELLE.

It was a mild and pleasant day in the middle of February, and the
bright sunlight streamed through the windows of the poor little room
where Madame Soubirons sat alone. The table, with its dishes neatly
arranged for the noonday meal, stood in the middle of the room. A pot
hung in the large fireplace, and a skillet sat upon the few remaining
coals. There was nothing with which to replenish the fire, and Madame
Soubirons sat gazing at the flickering embers with a rueful face. "A
cold hearth is more chilling than the mountains," she said; and she
rose and went out of the poor little apartment, which, with all its
poverty, would not have been cheerless had a bright fire glowed upon
the neatly-kept hearth, and sat down upon the doorstep, where the
sunlight fell warmly.

From this position was afforded a view of a picturesque and romantic
landscape, presenting in the foreground a portion of the quaint
village of Lourdes, with the cross of the old church brightly gleaming
in the sunlight above the thickly-clustered cottage roofs. Farther
away stood the great mill, and grimly from its rocky seat frowned
the ancient castle, of which the people of Lourdes never wearied of
telling that it had been besieged by Charlemagne centuries ago. In the
distan