never did I promise myself more genuine pleasure in writing a reply. I determined that it should be a masterpiece of analysis and of calm yet forcible expression of opinion.

Upon one step, at any rate, I was positively determined. Calling the girl, I asked her where the key was that locked the door between my room and the children.

"Please, sir, Toddie threw it down the well."

"Is there a locksmith in the village?"

"No, sir; the nearest one is at Paterson."

"Is there a screwdriver in the house?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring it to me, and tell the coachman to get ready at once to drive me to Paterson."

The screwdriver was brought, and with it I removed the lock, got into the carriage, and told the driver to take me to Paterson by the hill-road--one of the most beautiful roads in America.

"Paterson!" exclaimed Budge. "Oh, there's a candy-store in that town, come on, Toddie."

"Will you?" thought I, snatching the whip and giving the horses a cut. "Not if _I_ can help it. The idea of having such a drive spoiled by the clatter of SUCH a couple!"

Away went the horses, and up rose a piercing shriek and a terrible roar. It seemed that both children must have been mortally hurt, and I looked out hastily, only to see Budge and Toddie running after the carriage, and crying pitifully. It was too pitiful,--I could not have proceeded without them, even if they had been afflicted with small-pox. The driver stopped of his own accord,-- he seemed to know the children's ways and their results,--and I helped Budge and Toddie in, meekly hoping that the eye of Providence was upon me, and that so self-sacrificing an act would be duly passed to my credit. As we reached the hill-road, my kindness to my nephews seemed to assume, greater proportions, for the view before me was inexpressibly beautiful. The air was perfectly clear, and across two score towns I saw the great metropolis itself, the silent city of Greenwood beyond it, the bay, the narrows, the sound, the two silvery rivers lying between me and the Palisades, and even, across and to the south of Brooklyn, the ocean itself. Wonderful effects of light and shadow, picturesque masses, composed of detached buildings so far distant that they seemed huddled together; grim factories turned to beautiful palaces by the dazzling reflection of sunlight from their window-panes; great ships seeming in the distance to be toy- boats floating idly;--with no sign of life perceptible, the whole scene recalled the fairy stories, read in my youthful days, of enchanted cities, and the illusion was greatly strengthened by the dragon-like shape of the roof of New York's new post-office, lying in the center of everything, and seeming to brood over all.

"Uncle Harry!"

Ah, that was what I expected!

"Uncle Harry!"

"Well, Budge?"

"I always think that looks like heaven."

"What does?"

"Why, all that,--from here over to that other sky way back there behind everything, I mean. And I think THAT (here he pointed toward what probably was a photographer's roof-light)--that place where it's so shiny, is where God stays."

Bless the child! The scene had suggested only elfindom to ME, and yet I prided myself on my quick sense of artistic effects.

"An' over there where that awful bright LITTLE speck is," continued Budge, "that's where dear little brother Phillie is; whenever I look over there, I see him putting his hand out."

"Dee 'ittle Phillie went to s'eep in a box and the Lord took him to heaven," murmured Toddie, putting together all he had seen and heard of death. Then he raised his voice, and exclaimed:--

"Ocken Hawwy, you know what Iz'he goin' do when I be's big man? Iz'he goin' to have hosses and tarridge, an' Iz'he goin' to wide over all ze chees an' all ze houses, an' all ze world an' evvyfing. An' whole lots of little birdies is comin' in my tarridge an' sing songs to me, an' you can come too if you want to, an' we'll have ICE-cream an' 'trawberries, an' see 'ittle fishes swimmin' down in ze water, an' we'll get a g'eat big house that's all p'itty on the outshide an' all p'itty on the inshide, and it'll all be ours and we'll do just evvyfing we want to."

"Toddy, you're an idealist."

"AIN'T a 'dealisht."

"Toddy's a goosey-gander," remarked Budge, with great gravity. "Uncle Harry, do you think heaven's as nice as that place over there?"

"Yes, Budge, a great deal nicer."

"Then why don't we die an' go there? I don't want to go on livin' forever an' ever. I don't see why we don't die right away; I think we've lived enough of days."

"The Lord wants us to live until we get good and strong and smart, and do a great deal of good before we die, old fellow--that's why we don't die right away."

"Well, I want to see dear little Phillie, an' if the Lord won't let him come down here, I think he might let me die an' go to heaven. Little Phillie always laughed when I jumped for him. Uncle Harry, angels has wings, don't they?"

"Some people think they have, old boy."

"Well, I know they DON'T, cos if Phillie had wings, I know he'd fly right down here an' see me. So they don't."

"But maybe he has to go somewhere else, Budge, or maybe he comes and you can't see him. We can't see angels with OUR eyes, you know."

"Then what made the Hebrew children in the fiery furnace see one? Their eyes was just like ours, wasn't they? I don't care; I want to see dear little Phillie AWFUL much. Uncle Harry, if I went to heaven, do you know what I'd do?"

"What WOULD you do, Budge?"

"Why, after I saw little Phillie, I'd go right up to the Lord an' give him a great big hug."

"What for, Budge?"

"Oh, cos he lets us have nice times, an' gave me my mama an' papa, an' Phillie--but he took him away again--an' Toddie, but Toddie's a dreadful bad boy sometimes, though."

"Very true, Budge," said I, remembering my trunk and the object of my ride.

"Uncle Harry, did you ever see the Lord?"

"No, Budge; he has been very close to me a good many times, but I never saw him."

"Well, _I_ have; I see him every time I look up in the sky, and there ain't nobody 'with me."

The driver crossed himself and whispered, "He's foriver a-sayin' that, an' be the powers, I belave him. Sometimes ye'd think that the howly saints thimselves was a-sphak-in' whin that bye gits to goin' on that way." It WAS wonderful. Budge's countenance seemed too pure to be of the earth as he continued to express his ideas of the better land and its denizens. As for Toddie, his tongue was going incessantly, although in a tone scarcely audible; but when I chanced to catch his expressions, they were so droll and fanciful, that I took him upon my lap that I might hear him more distinctly. I even detected myself in the act of examining the mental draft of my proposed letter to Helen, and of being ashamed of it. But neither Toddie's fancy nor Budge's spirituality caused me to forget the principal object of my ride. I found a locksmith and left the lock to be fitted with a key; then we drove to the Falls. Both boys discharged volleys of questions as we stood by the gorge, and the fact that the roar of the falling water prevented me from hearing them did not cause them to relax their efforts in the least. I walked to the hotel for a cigar, taking the children with me. I certainly spent no more than three minutes in selecting and lighting a cigar, and asking the barkeeper a few questions about the Falls; but when I turned, the children were missing, nor could I see them in any direction. Suddenly before my eyes arose from the nearer brink of the gorge two yellowish disks, which I recognized as the hats of my nephews; then I saw between the disks and me two small figures lying upon the ground. I was afraid to shout, for fear of scaring them, if they happened to hear me, I bounded across the grass, industriously raving and praying by turns. They were lying on their stomachs and looking over the edge of the cliff. I approached them on tip-toe, threw myself upon the ground, and grasped a foot of each child.

"Oh, Uncle Harry!" screamed Budge in my ear, as I dragged him close to me, kissing and shaking him alternately, "I hunged over more than Toddie did."

"Well, I--I--I--I--I--I--I hunged over a good deal, ANY how," said Toddie, in self-defense.

That afternoon I devoted to making a bouquet for Miss Mayton, and a most delightful occupation I found it. It was no florist's bouquet, composed of only a few kinds of flowers, wired upon sticks, and arranged according to geometric pattern. I used many a rare flower, too shy of bloom to recommend itself to florists; I combined tints almost as numerous as the flowers were, and