er.

"But Poor Jane has no brother," said mummie; "he died long ago. Jane's
mind has never grown up. One day, when she was a girl, her mother took
her to a circus at Woodstead, and when they came home, after it was
over, they were told the sad news that Jane's brother had fallen from
the top of a wagon of hay on to his head. He died a few hours later. But
Jane could not understand death--she only knew that Harry had gone away
from them, and she believed that the circus people had stolen him from
the village and made him a clown. Ever since that sad day Jane has gone
up and down the village to look for him, hoping that he will come back."

"And will Poor Jane never see him again?" asked Dumpty.

"Yes," answered mummie, with her sweetest smile--"yes, darlings, one day
she may!"

[Sidenote: An Englishwoman's adventure in Arkansas, issuing in a great
surprise to all concerned.]

The Sugar Creek Highwayman

BY

ADELA E. ORPEN

When Mrs. Boyd returned from Arkansas, I, having myself spent a very
uneventful summer at home, with only the slight excitement of a month at
Margate, was most anxious to hear an account of her adventures. That she
had had adventures out there on those wild plains of course I felt
certain. It would be manifestly preposterous to go to Arkansas for three
months, and come back without an adventure.

So, on the first day when Mrs. Boyd was to be "at home" after her
return, I went to see her; and I found, already assembled in her cosy
drawing-room, several other friends, impelled there, like myself, by
curiosity to hear what she had to say, as well as by a desire to welcome
her back.

"I was just asking Mrs. Boyd what she thought the most singular thing in
America," said Miss Bascombe, by way of putting me _au courant_ with the
conversation after my greeting was over with our hostess.

"And I," replied Mrs. Boyd, "was just going to say I really did not know
what was the one most curious thing in America, where most things seem
curious, being different from here, you know. I suppose it is their
strange whining speech which most strikes one at the outset. It is
strong in New York, certainly, but when you get out West it is simply
amazing. But then they thought my speech as curious as I did theirs. A
good woman in Arkansas said I talked 'mighty crabbed like.' But a man
who travelled in the next seat to me, across Southern Illinois, after
talking with me for a long time, said, 'Wal, now, y