stooping down and picking up a handful of
guineas from the mass of dust and dirt and horsehair that was strewn on
the floor of the yard. 'They're guineas right enough; they came pouring
out like water when I got to the middle of the chair.'

'They _look_ like guineas,' said the poor woman, trembling with anxiety.
'Oh, George, if they should be, and if they are rightfully ours, then
Father could get to Bath and be cured, and you could be apprenticed to a
cabinet-maker, like your poor father before you.'

'They _are_ guineas,' said George, stoutly. 'Let's show them to
Grandfather--he will know; and if they are--and I _know_ they are'--he
repeated, 'some of the money must be spent on you, Mother; I won't have
it all go to apprentice me. If that ever comes off, you must have a new
gown and cloak to sign my articles in,' and George got up from the dirty
ground and gave his mother a hearty hug.

Grandfather gave his verdict: the guineas were real, and had the effigy
of George I. stamped on them, and there were just a hundred of them, all
told.

Of course, the news of the widow's lucky find was soon known, and the
auctioneer claimed the money, but the clergyman of the parish supported
the widow's claim, and though the auctioneer went to law about it, he
lost his case and had to pay the costs.

Later on in the year a happy family party went to a solicitor's office
to sign George's indentures.

Grandfather was there, erect and well, for the Bath waters had done
wonders for him. His widowed daughter hung on his arm in a fine new
dress and cloak, and George, looking very important at the thought of
being apprenticed to the first cabinet-maker in Wolverhampton, had
everything on new from top to toe, and all this was the outcome of the
purchase (for a shilling) of 'the old rosewood armchair.'

S. C.

[Illustration: "'Mother, this chair was full of gold pieces!'"]

[Illustration: "Set to the hardest and most menial work."]

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

II.--The Constant Prince.

[Illustration]

One summer's day, nearly five hundred years ago, a queen lay dying in
the royal city of Lisbon. She was an English princess, daughter of our
own John of Gaunt, bearing the loved name of her grandmother, good Queen
Philippa, and she had been a helpful wife to her husband, King Joao of
Portugal, and a wise and tender mother to the five lads who stood in
bitter sorrow round her death-bed. Even now, as her life ebbed away, she
r