anybody know you've seen me at
all! Don't say one word about me, but when they get through singing
some hymn, won't you just start them singing, 'Shall we gather at
the River'? I want to hear it once again, but don't let them know
they're singing it for me! Will you manage it the way I want?"

"Yes," promised Addie.

The girl went back and sat down on a log beside the fire, with the
other people. The fire was beginning to burn low, and the girl was
fearful lest at the end of the hymn that was being sung, some one
should make a move to go back to the encampment. As soon as she
could Addie began:

"Shall we gather at the river?"

The other voices took up the hymn. No one noticed that Addie's voice
soon faltered and was still.

"Shall we gather at the river, Where bright angel-feet have trod:
With its crystal tide forever Flowing by the throne of God?"

The words rang, out clear and sweet, and then the joyful assurance
broke forth:

"Yes, we'll gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river.
Gather with the saints at the river That flows by the throne of
God."

The words of stanza after stanza floated out into the darkness of
the cliffs and upper sands with a distinctness that the loud waves
did not overcome. There was no form or, motion visible in all the
night that hid the shoreward side of the beach.

The next morning Addle went from the settlement, to carry the woman
and her children some milk. When the girl reached the nook, she
found it empty. She ran upon the bluffs, and looked northward, but
there was neither horse nor wagon visible. The mother, and children
had evidently resumed their journey very early, and the turns of the
country roads had hidden the travelers. They had vanished forever.

"God guide them to the River!" whispered Addie.

AT COUSIN HARRIET'S

The "filaree," or pinclover; had borne its seeds with curious long
ends--those seeds that California children call "clocks"--and among
THE filaree there stood, on slender, bare stems, small flowers of
the lily family which are known as "bluebells." A boy was walking
through the filaria. He was carrying a hatchet and an ax, and he
looked tired, though it was early in the day.

"I guess Cousin Harriet doesn't know how hard working on the alkali
patch is," he murmured softly. "She isn't like mother:"

The boy's head dropped, and a sob escaped him.

"I wish mother hadn't died;" he said chokingly. "Most every boy has
a mothe