THAT same evening, after tea, I was seated quietly at my desk, deeply engrossed in the perusal of that fascinating child's book, "The Swiss Family Robinson."

Little it mattered that this was the second time of reading, for though the freshness and novelty were, of course, somewhat wanting, yet the incidents and experiences which this most truly remarkable family encountered and suffered, were far too exciting to lose their interest by a first recital.

But why had the Swiss Family such a very downright English name? And what a splendid woman that Mrs. R———— must have been for surely, such forethought and anticipation of coming emergencies, as exhibited by her in the unfailing production from her mysterious bag of every conceivable article, whenever most wanted and least expected, were never heard of before, and would have been qualities great and rare enough to have raised her, had she been placed under other and more favourable circumstances, to the highest pinnacle of glory and renown, wherever foresight and tact were the qualifications most eagerly sought after and faithfully rewarded.

These were the two thoughts that had puzzled my brain for the last few pages, but the tale was too absorbing to be interrupted by any such vain and trivial ponderings as these; so up went my hand to my forehead again, and down sunk my head

upon my breast once more, as I leant earnestly over the book.

Bang! Some one had shut up my book with a rude, sudden jerk.

I looked up hastily, with a shout of anger and surprise. Ah! it was Rogers. Who else but he would have served me so mean and aggravating a trick?

He seated himself sideways upon the form, a little distance from me, and regarded me with so steadfast a stare of menace and defiance, that I stifled the rising exclamation of wrath, and turning away from him with an ill-disguised motion expressive of disgust and impatience, slowly reopened my book.

But in my nervousness and anxious desire to appear as cool as possible, I hunted aimlessly about to find my place, and even when that desired end was attained, though I fixed my eyes steadily upon the page before me, my mind drank in nothing of the meaning of the words that I gabbled over, again and again, to myself, in the vain hope that by constant repetition I might drive out that dread suspense of coming evil, which hung over me like a dull, black cloud.

"S-n-e-a-k!" slowly spelt out Rogers, as he sprawled carelessly over the desk, his head resting on his hand, and his eyes-cruel, hard eyes-fixed immovably upon my fast reddening face.

I took no notice-apparently!

"S-n-e-a-k!" repeated the voice, with slow and deliberate emphasis.

Still no outward sign of the inward tempest raised in my heart by such uncalled-for provocation.

For though I kept my eyes glued to the page lying before them, only a confused, tangled mass of lines and letters presented themselves, blurred and blotted, to my mental vision; whilst my brain, instead of grasping the sense of the writing, was in a perfect whirl of distraction, through which chased one another, in rapid succession, the oft-repeated thoughts, "What

will he say next? What shall I do? Oh, how I hate him! loathe him! detest him! Oh, how I hate him! detest him! loathe him! What shall I do? What will he say next?” and so on, over and over again, backwards and forwards, in one continuous stream of bewilderment and suspense.

Then in order to "make believe" still further, I turned over a leaf, with an assumption of indifferent unconcern intended to appear as though his provoking insult caused no interruption to my literary pursuit, as well as to persuade myself that I really understood the paragraph I had been mumbling over to myself for the last two minutes, and was anxious to proceed with the account of the stirring incident which it described. But my patience was to be tried yet more sorely.

Finding that his attack, couched in this style, did not rouse me as he expected, he changed his tactics and his position, and sitting bolt upright, rattled off rapidly, with scarcely a pause for breath,

"Sneak! sneak! sneak! sneak! sneak! sneak! sneak!" repeating the words without limit as to time or number, until my head fairly swam at the maddening sound.

Well, I was roused now, at any rate! If that was his desire, it was amply fulfilled.

Clenching my tongue between my teeth, and casting upon him a look of bitter anger and hatred, I slid hastily along the form, and struck him.

No word passed. I felt too bitter and wrathy for utterance, just at present, but the hard, sharp, stinging slap proclaimed the state of mind into which I had been lashed by his irritating epithets, more plainly than any verbal expression would have done.

Then I slid back to my seat again, and pretended to go on with my reading.

Pretended, I say, for with such a war raging, conflict must ever be the order of the day, secretly as well as visibly, and any peaceable occupation is necessarily out of the question.

Almost before I had regained my place, Rogers followed me, and in another moment I was suffering a small agony from the result of a violent "dig in the ribs."

Little Reader, can you remember what a "dig in the ribs " feels like? Do you know what it is to have all your wind knocked out of you, and to gain in its place a dull, lingering pain, whose effects are noticeable long after the first gasping struggle for breath has passed away?

If so, you can appreciate my sensations now. My first quick impulse was to rush furiously upon my enemy, and engage in pitch battle, even at the imminent risk of a defeat, but even as my hand was uplifted in retaliation, this thought flashed through my brain, and made me pause :-"Hullo! You are the chap who professes to want to be a peacemaker; and yet you can't even hear another fellow call you a 'sneak,' without striking one blow first, and then wishing to follow it up with a regular fight. A fine peacemaker you are, certainly!"

My hand fell listlessly to my side in suspense, but Rogers took advantage of the lull to break out savagely, "Why don't you run and tell Her that I've been calling you names? Go on, now,-quick, quick-before it's too late-before your shoes wear out!"

There was no standing such an aggravating speech as that, calmly, with my temper at boiling point as it was now; so away flew all my qualms of conscience about peacemaking, just as though they had never entered my head at all.

"Why can't you leave a fellow alone, Rogers?" I cried indignantly. "You are a great, mean, cowardly GIRL,that's what you are! No one but a girl would go on like you!"

Out it came, with such bitter emphasis upon the word "girl," that nobody could fail to appreciate the utter contempt which the tone, quite as much as the word itself, was intended to convey.

It stung Rogers to the quick, as it was intended to do; and with a glare of passion in his eyes, although his lips emitted a

short laugh-irritated and contemptuous, it is true, but still a laugh-he retorted, sharply,—

"A girl, am I? Well then, I'll just let you know what a girl's fist feels like: then, perhaps, you won't be so fast again with your long tongue, you mean, little, sneaking rascal !"

Just then, Bob North came by, with Johnnie Harris and some others, and Rogers, placing a strong restraint upon his itching fingers, fell back upon verbal weapons with which to prosecute his attack, and called out,

"Bob, what does 's-n-e-a-k' spell?"

"Bernard Ayres,'" quickly responded his chum, to whom the question was apparently no fresh one.

"Right. Now spell Bernard Ayres' in three letters."

"P-e-t'" was the prompt reply. Evidently, too, this variation of the old riddle was no novelty to either of them, although it had never before been publicly repeated in my presence.

"Right again! I say, Bob, 'tisn't fair for this youngster to be let off eating his share of rice, is it?"

"Certainly not. If She makes us eat it, She ought to make him, too," remarked Bob North, logically.

"Yes," struck in Johnnie Harris, with some gusto; "if he won't eat rice, I'm sure he ought not to be allowed to have cheese."

"Oh dear! dear!" thought I, "how you do get in for the kicks, when once you are down!"

"He shan't, either!" replied Rogers, answering Johnnie Harris' observation, and striking the desk with his clenched hand as he spoke, the more strongly to emphasize his remark. "Look here, youngster, will you take your solemn 'davy never to touch a morsel of cheese again, whenever we have that vile rice to swallow,-even if She offers it?"

I looked sullenly down upon the desk, my eyes fast growing misty with tears.

"Will you?" he repeated, threateningly, snatching away my book ere I could lay a detaining hand upon it.