elapsed, when a pair of bright, scared eyes peeped through the shreds of wool, and a tawny little nose, with nostrils wide open, snuffed the air and suddenly disappeared. Plucking up more courage, the squirrel thrust out its nose again, followed it stealthily by its paws, and then drew its whole body gradually into sight. Its heart beat fast as it sat up on its hind feet, looked around the room and out of the window, and then, apparently satisfied that its enemy had gone, stretched itself at full length on Mrs. Shortwell's lap, as if completely tired out. For several minutes it lay there with its nose between its paws and with its eyes closed, the beating of its heart becoming slower and slower, till it was hardly apparent. Then the little creature aroused itself, gave so long a stretch that it seemed as if its body would be pulled apart, rolled

over, stretched again, and sat up. A pass or two over its face and head completed its toilet, and it hopped to the window-sill, whisked its tail as a good-bye, and departed.

Such an example of an animal's trust would have touched almost any one; and Mrs. Shortwell was so much affected by it that she persuaded her husband to let the war against the "redskins" cease. Many of the squirrels had been killed, and others had gone back to the woods to live; so Quashee and Tab, having grown fat on country fare and air, were returned to the city.

The few squirrels that were left at "Sunshine Cove" had been taught a wholesome lesson. They were so modest and well-behaved that the birds came back to the grove, and all lived together as harmoniously as a happy family.

It was a hot, bright July day. Before the cottage, stretched the level beach of purplish-gray, shimmering sand; and beyond it the summer sea, light turquoise blue and calm, lay smiling, streaked with lines of lazy foam from long-spent breakers far away. On a promontory reaching to the east, the large mass of the buildings of a great hotel basked in the heat, its warmly tinted walls and red roofs dimly beautiful in the soft haze of the distance. The pine woods were thick behind the cottage and stretched away to the south; near it a patch of earth was devoted to "garden stuff,"potatoes, beans, and the like, and beyond this was a flower-garden, so luxuriant and splendid in color that one wondered at seeing it in so poor a place. Peggy's childish voice was very pleasant to hear as she sang to the children.

Her father and mother had given her the sweet and stately name of Margaret, but her grandmother had adopted its old-fashioned abbreviation of Peggy, and it had grown dear in all ears where she was known. She was a girl of about thirteen, not tall for her age, but slender, with rich, redgold hair, which was a great cross and affliction to her; for every one who spoke of it did so in a halfpitying way, as if it were to be deprecated at least, if not a thing of which to be thoroughly ashamed. Such vigorous, rebellious hair, too, thronging back from her honest forehead in richly waved, thick locks, which no combing would make straight and smooth. How she envied the sleek, satin sheen of the heads of the few girls she knew! Her eyes were clear and gray, her mouth large, with fine and noble curves and even, white teeth, and her fresh cheek was touched by many salutations of the sun. No one would ever have called her pretty, the word could not apply to her,—but there was an indescribable air of modesty and sweet intelligence about her which at once attracted and charmed.

The sunshine flickered through the leaves and touched her bright head as she sat with the little ones in the porch. Inside, the mother's swift step went to and fro, about her work; by the open window the grandmother's knitting-needles clicked softly. Outside, there were the sounds of bees and early crickets, a bird's note now and then, the call of a sandpiper, the song of a sparrow, or a cry far aloft in the blue from a wandering gull afloat on white wings, ever the low, far murmuring of the sea, and again and again the dull strokes of the hammer with which the father was mending his boat. As he moved about, it was evident he was lame; a long sickness in the winter had left him " crippled," as his neighbors said, with rheumatism. He had a fine, intelligent face, and had not always lived the life which poverty now forced upon him. His eyes were sad and anxious, he

looked weather-beaten and worn, and his expression enlisted one's sympathies at once. He was fighting a hard fight to keep the wolf from his door; for his lameness made it extremely difficult to go fishing, like the rest of the folk living near. And now, since the attack of illness had exhausted every resource, very slender at the best, he was worn with anxiety for the coming winter's necessities. In summer it was well enough; they could make a shift to live from day to day; but when every force of nature should be marshaled against them in the bitter weather to come, how would they be able to endure it, and fight want away till another spring? He hardly dared to think of it.

Peggy adored her father. She was his chief and best joy in the world. When she saw him so full of care, and heard him with the good and patient mother discussing ways and means of getting bread, when they dreamed not she was listening, she would have given worlds to help them. Her whole mind was full of the problem. What could she do? Leave them and go away and try to earn something to help? But they would not listen to it; they could not live without her. She was their courage, their stay, their joy, and cheer, embodied. One winter's day, when her father was at his worst, and she felt as though despair were settling down upon them, she remembered the groups of idle pleasure-seekers she had seen wandering across the sands in summer days, from the great hotel on the Point. "How wonderful must be their lives, with no anxieties like ours!" she thought. As the picture of these loiterers lingered in her imagination, she remembered the flowers they wore, the button-hole bouquets of the men, and the nosegays of the maidens; and like a flash it came to Peggy what she might do. She might have a garden of her own, and sell flowers to these people at the hotel - why not? She would try, at least. She told her mother and father of her thought; but they did not give it much weight at first. Still she was not daunted. With a resolute energy she bent all powers to compass it. First, she chose a piece of ground wherein some former occupant of the place had raised vegetables; it was partly surrounded by a ruinous wall to keep out stray cattle, and was close under the southern windows of their rickety little cottage. There was not much snow upon the ground, and every day she went to the beach and brought basket after basket of kelp, which she spread upon the ground, till by patience and perseverance she had covered it all over. It was not an easy task, and she had driftwood to bring daily from the beach, beside. But she knew how much more hope of success she would have if only she could spread the sea-weed and leave it to impart its nourish

ment to the sandy soil; and when it was done, she rejoiced in every rain that helped it to decay. The next thing was to get seeds for her garden. And when her father was better, so that she could be spared, she took long walks inland among their widely scattered neighbors to beg of each a few; for every house had its little flower-plot in summer; and the folk were kind and gave her all they could spare, marigolds, larkspur, sweet peas and mignonette, sunflowers, nasturtiums, pansies and coreopsis hardy, humble flowers, friendly and swift to grow.

"I'm sure you 're welcome to 'em, child," Aunt Sally, the blacksmith's wife, had said, as she put the packet into Peggy's hand; "and I hope ye 'll do all you 're thinkin' to with 'em; but I calc'late ye have no idea what a job 't is to take care on 'em,”a fact which Peggy did indeed discover in good time. "If ye 'll come up in the spring, I'll give ye a root o' lad's love and lemon-balm; they smell very sweet an' pure, but they don't have any seeds to speak on," the old lady added.

With what anxious joy Peggy watched for the first signs of spring! As soon as the snow was melted, she began to work about her garden plot, every day a little, as long as she could be spared. With her strong young arms she brought stone by stone to the broken wall till she had made it whole again; but it was a work of days and weeks. Then little by little she raked away the kelp. But the most difficult part of the work was to come, to dig up the earth thoroughly-" could she do it?" she wondered! Here came an unexpected help. One day a neighbor with spritsail spread to the breeze, flying past at high tide, came so near that he made out what Peggy was trying to do in her walled inclosure. "Wal, if that don't beat all!" he said to himself; "if there is n't Maxwell's red-haired gal tryin' to dig a garden! Her father's laid up blest if she has n't spunk!" That night, after supper, he walked down from "his place" and presented himself with a broad spade in his hand. "Why couldn't ye have asked some on us to help ye?" he cried, with rough kindness; and straightway set himself to work with such a will that before dark it was all done, nor would he listen to her thanks as he went off. "I wish ye good luck with your garden!" he said, and so departed, followed by Peggy's gratitude.

There was yet much work to be done, but she could do it all, she knew, and she toiled away with a light heart, till she had raked out every stone and laid the beds all straight and even, and planted every seed; and then she paused to rest. By this time her father was able to creep about a little, for the days were growing long, and he looked at Peggy's handiwork with tears in his eyes. He was

too helpless to do much to the little patch where every year he tried to raise a few vegetables, so Peggy put her young shoulder to that wheel also, and planted the beans and potatoes, and gave them all the care she could. Meantime she rejoiced in the fresh showers which fell to moisten the hidden flower-seeds, and the warm sun which would coax the green leaves from the dark earth. Every turn of weather had a new interest for her, every hour was bright with hope. "I declare," said the grandmother, "it does me good just to see the child; she's brighter than a summer mornin'!" Indeed she was, so full of cheer, so modest, dutiful and patient, the kindest little heart that ever beat in human breast, always ready to help and comfort wherever comfort was needed! Happy girl! Her gentle nature was a key that - all unconsciously to herself - opened for her rich treasures of love that should not fail.

But

One morning in the last week in May, small Willy came running in, quite breathless. "Peggy, come out and look! The seeds have comed up all in a row, like little green so'diers!" And Peggy, with the baby on her arm, followed the delighted little fellow to the garden. It was true, at last; there were rows of corn-flowers and marigolds piercing the soil, the first and strongest of them all. And after them, day after day, came the rest in a swift procession, till it seemed as if a soft green veil were laid over the earth. Then began work indeed, for with the flowers had sprung ten thousand weeds more vigorous than they. there is no saying truer than that "Where there's a will there's a way," and Peggy, not being able to get away from household cares during the day, would steal the hours from sleep to accomplish her object. It was light enough to see between three and four o'clock in the morning, and many and many a pink dawn found her kneeling on the dewy ground (whereon she had spread a bit of carpet, for she had been taught never to trifle with her health), weeding industriously, till there was not a green thing except the flowers to be seen in the whole place. No sooner were the weeds conquered, however, than they rose again, a second colony,- clover, quitch-grass, purslane, chick-weed, pig-weed, rag-weed and the rest, and when these had been exterminated, then came transplanting, separating the crowded plants, putting sticks and strings along the wall for the vines to climb, and a tiresome, daily system of watering to be carried on, without which the whole attempt would have been a failure. Fortunately there was a fine well near the house, and even little Willy could help, and father could stand and pump for them, and sometimes bring water, too; and so at last the reward of so much toil and care was

before them. The garden was truly a beautiful sight. Over the wall the nasturtiums ran like flame, and the sweet peas climbed, just breaking into white and pink and purple and wonderful scarlet, and the flowering-bean clusters were almost as red as pomegranate blossoms. There were

and fire colors, and the California poppies — cups of flaming gold,- and the pied pansies and crimson flax and pink mallows! Well might the whole family wonder and rejoice over Peggy's garden, and all the neighbors make pilgrimages to see it!

And now at last it was time for the great attempt, and she was trying to summon all her courage to take on the morrow her first flowers to the hotel, for sale. A kind of stage fright came over the poor child at this eleventh hour. After all her brave toil, it would seem a simple thing to take her blossoms and pace quietly the long piazzas where wealth and beauty and idleness would give

ranks of corn-flowers in lovely, delicate rose and azure; there were marigolds and venidiums, whole solar systems of suns and stars; there were golden summer chrysanthemums and Coreopsis coronata superb to see, and phloxes that were like masses of rich velvet-scarlet, maroon and pink and crimson. There were others to come, asters and zinnias and sunflowers later; but the mignonette had begun, and spikes of larkspur,- burning, brilliant blue- set off the yellow

her the daily bread for herself and her dear ones in exchange. But the shy girl felt as if it were an absolute impossibility. Suddenly all her courage ebbed and left her in deep despondency. She sat by the little window in the grandmother's old chair; the wind that wandered through the beautiful summer twilight brought her the delicate sweet odors from her garden; their sweetness made her heart sink. She turned from the open casement. In the corner, by a dim little lamp, her mother was mending the worn sleeves of her father's coat. Peggy looked at her. How pale and patient she was! The cradle stood near, and her foot sought the rocker and stirred it gently