Annie F. Johnston

Joyce was crying, up in old Monsieur Gr ville's tallest pear-tree. She had gone down to the farthest corner of the garden, out of sight of the house, for she did not want any one to know that she was miserable enough to cry. She was tired of the garden with the high stone wall around it, that made her feel like a prisoner; she was tired of French verbs and foreign faces; she was tired of France, and so homesick for her mother and Jack and Holland and the baby, that she couldn't help crying. No wonder, for she was only twelve years old, and she had never been out of the little Western village where she was born, until the day she started abroad with her Cousin Kate.

"Johnny make a quilt " repeated Rob Marshall, with a shout of laughter. "I'd as soon expect to see a wild buffalo knitting mittens " "But you're not to speak of it outside the family, Rob," his mother hastened to say, "and you must not tease the little fellow. You older children have ways of earning pocket-money, -Rhoda with her painting, and you with your bent iron work, but Johnny hasn't had a cent of income all fall