so people say--
Follows the short December day;
And if by hours you count the night,
Then surely what they say is right.

But years, and years, and years ago,
When I was very young, you know,
The longest night, I'm bound to say,
Followed the shortest month's last day.

_That_ night I always lay awake,
And longed to see the morning break,
And sunshine through the window burst,
For I was born on March the First.

I heard the big clock--stiff and stark--
Sedately ticking in the dark,
And when I murmured: 'Hurry, _do_!'
It made reply by chiming 'Two.'

And on from hour to hour it seemed
I dozed, I waked, I thought and dreamed
Of pleasures mine--an endless sum--
If March the First would ever come.

And yet the morning's earliest peep
Would always find me fast asleep:
So fast asleep that at my door
They called and called me o'er and o'er.

So, since that time I've learned, my dear,
The longest night in all the year
Is that on which we lie awake,
Impatient for the dawn to break.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 87._)

CHAPTER V.

'Where's Estelle?' cried Alan, bursting into the schoolroom at the Moat
House a few days later. 'I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle, for startling you
like that, but I thought Estelle was sure to be here.'

'She has gone to the Bridge House,' answered Mademoiselle, with an
indulgent smile.

She was quite prepared for any amount of interruption and noise during
the holidays, since Alan always brought a lively, breezy air with him,
in his delight at being home again, and free from school work.

'Estelle is taking some grapes and roses to Dick Peet,' continued
Mademoiselle. 'He seemed very weak and poorly when we passed yesterday,
and she has so wanted to do something for him. He's a sad wreck, poor
fellow!'

'Poor chap! It's hard lines on him. I will cut down and catch Estelle
before she leaves the Bridge House.'

He was off, and Mademoiselle heard his fleet steps in the corridor a
moment. Then she saw him going at full speed down the drive, so brimming
over with health and spirits, so keen in the enjoyment of life and
activity, with a future before him so rose-coloured and fortunate, that
she could not but contrast him with that poor broken specimen of
humanity, Richard Peet, the gardener's son. A contrast to him, indeed,
were the children as they stood together in the little garden at the
Bridge