shines forth an enticing oblong of orange light. Bathsheba gives a prolonged whinny of satisfaction, and Joe appears miraculously upon the dusky scene and holds her head while we alight. And there in the kitchen doorway, through which come delightful suggestions of a blazing fire and hot chocolate, stands Mrs. Pedley, her honest face fairly beaming with smiles of welcome. "Well, if you two ain't cases!" she cries in greeting, as we mount the steps.

Manchester-by-the-Sea has won the approval of some great and distinguished men. In 1845 Richard Henry Dana, the pioneer of the summer sojourners, bought about forty acres of land, including Graves Beach, near which and overhanging the dimpling blue waters of the Atlantic he built a summer residence, pronounced by his friend, Charles Sumner, more charming in situation than the famous resort of Napoleon III. In 1875 Bayard Taylor, visiting Mr. James T. Fields in his Manchester home, wrote a glowing description of the town for the New York Tribune, in which he mentions the Dana place and the houses of Junius Brutus Booth, John Gilbert, and Ernest Longfellow. And Agassiz Rock,

less; but then Scriba openly confesses to preferring a register and a novel to the delights of Smith's Point in March.

To be sure the ocean is shining sapphire and the sky turquoise set with pearls; the trees glitter with diamond pendants, and the shore is strewn with wonderful stone cameos. Baker's Island, too, and the Miseries have a clear-cut cameo effect upon their dark blue background, and the lighthouse tower is silhouetted sharply against the sky. One can fancy how, when the blinding sun sinks below the horizon, all the jewels of the heavenly Revelation will flash out and shed abroad their radiance, shadowing forth "the light that never was on sea or land." But a sunset and a soapbubble are painfully symbolical of man's earthly career. They begin with such an all-suffusing rosy glow, which deepens and takes on varied and exquisite opaline tints for all too brief a space, giving place inevitably, even while we watch, to paler, duller hues, which in turn vanish into night and nothingness.

Scriba's mildly expressed aversion to numb feet and freezing ears is frowned upon by her Spartan comrade, who enquires with severity how she would have

to Magnolia. How white and soundless and remote it is, this fashionable summer highway! Little gusts of wind sift the light, powdery snow off its insecure perches, and nothing breaks the miles of solitude but a single dog, which comes bounding ferociously out of a yard, gives vent to one gigantic bark, changes his absurd mind, and retreats with his tail between his legs. Magnolia, high upon her sea-girt throne, is barricaded and deserted, save for a solitary figure who, with cap. pulled well over his ears and wearing a silver badge in

sets up her tripod, "focuses" to her satisfaction, and gets one or two passable negatives, when, with little warning, the light wind increases to a heavy squall. The treacherous water darkens angrily to a vast, inky expanse, covered with tumbling white caps, and the mainsail of a little schooner off shore is ripped down like a sheet of wet paper, and she pitches and flounders perilously, recalling the first boat of similar rig, which, when it was launched, tipped so much to one side that a bystander cried out, "See how she schoons!"

scribed "Gloucester Police," tramps aimlessly about in the snow.

Leaving Bathsheba tied to a lamp-post, Neipce clambers down over the slippery rocks, bearing her large camera and its appurtenances, while Scriba, who has reached the age of too possible rheumatism, seeks the retirement of a neighboring piazza, and looks out upon the magnificent sweep of the open sea. The crested emerald breakers come rolling grandly in, dash with mad fury upon the jagged rocks, and rear into high-whirled clouds of spray and foam, while seething far up the rugged shore surges and recedes the shallow flood of snowy, bubbling brine.

Down among the rocky hollows, Neipce

Whereupon her captain, seizing the idea, immediately replied, " And a schooner she shall be!"

The cap and the rubber covering to Neipce's best beloved lens put precipitately out to sea. The tripod rocks threateningly, and its owner, like the famous "Distracted Centipede," in despair of managing so many legs, takes it down, is blown down herself, and clings amid the thunder of the surf to the freezing rocks till she can make her perilous way back to the runabout and the piazza, where Scriba, with wildly swirling draperies and head. down, fights her way back and forth in the gale. How the same wind that heaps up great billowy, scudding cloud masses in