in its primitive form by Benjamin Franklin,
and later given to the world in such startling form by Morse and
Edison.

"I shall never try to turn you from your purpose, Jim," said Dorothy.
"I feel that whatever you attempt will be a success. You have it in
you, and in your lexicon there is no such word as fail. When do you
begin your apprenticeship?"

"In Baltimore this month, if I can find a place."

"Oh, Jim, won't that be fine? I'll tell Aunt Betty the moment we
arrive. Perhaps some of her friends will know of an opening. I'm sure
some of them will, and we'll have you always with us."

"That sounds good to me. I've written Dr. Sterling to send my books
and electrical apparatus by freight to Bellvieu."

"Then we'll give you a fine, large room all to yourself, where you
can set up your laboratory."

Dorothy's enthusiasm began to communicate itself to Jim, and soon he
had launched himself into an exposition of electricity and its uses,
with many comments on its future.

So engrossed were both boy and girl in the discussion that they did
not hear Ephraim, who came silently down the aisle and stood in a
respectful attitude before them.

"S'cuse me, please, Miss Dorot'y, en Mistah Jim, but p'raps yo' don't
know dat we's almos' tuh de Baltimore station."

Dorothy threw a quick glance out of the window.

"Oh, so we are! See, Jim! There's the old Chesapeake, and it's a
sight for sore eyes. Now, for old Bellvieu and Aunt Betty!"

There was a hasty gathering of satchels and paraphernalia as the
train drew into the big station. The hum of voices outside, mingled
with the shouts of the cab drivers and the shrill cries of the
newsboys, met their ears as they descended from the coach.

Through the throng Ephraim led the way with the luggage, Dorothy and
Jim following quickly, until finally, in the street, the girl
descried a familiar carriage, on the top of which a young colored boy
was perched.

"Hello, Methuselah Bonaparte Washington! Don't you know your
mistress?" cried Dorothy, running toward him.

This was probably the first time Dorothy had ever called him anything
but "Metty," by which nickname he was known at Bellvieu, where he
had always lived, and where he had served as Aunt Betty's page and
footman since he was old enough to appreciate the responsibilities of
the position.

His eyes glowed with affection now, as he viewed his little mistress
after many months' absence. Descending from his perch on the