time while her damp mane was drying. She had tucked up one slippered foot under her, the stone benches being high; her hair, which had recovered its natural color, with an added luster from the bath, began to creep and curl in the dry, electric air. She was pinning it back with a long, crooked shell pin, when she first became aware of voices and footsteps, not usual in that place or at that hour. She sat perfectly still, trying to catch their direction. "Do come here, bad brother, if you want to see the Lady of Shalott."

Miss Summercamp had caught at the first fancy that crossed her to characterize the figure of Dolly sitting alone in the green light of the arbor, her face half-hidden in her spreading hair. There came no answer to this invitation; but as the voices and footsteps continued to hover distinctly about the place, Dolly gathered her work, flaming with indignation, and left the arbor. Never before had the mob been so bold. Part way down the poplar walk she ran almost into the arms of Miss Summercamp, who with Philip behind her had just pushed between the tree-boles. The two girls sprang apart and stared at each other; Dolly, helpless with anger and conscious of her Ophelia-like locks, facing an alert, smiling little person, in a sailor hat and a smart mountain frock of colors as bright as a kingfisher's.

"Oh, excuse me!" Miss Summercamp began. "Would you be so good

But Dolly interrupted haughtily. "If you are wanting anything please ask at the house. We don't receive strangers by the cow-gate." With one glance at Philip from her gray eyes, now black with anger, she hurried past them, taking a near cut through the trees to spare herself the sense of being watched.

"Did you ever!" Miss Summercamp exclaimed. "Why she popped off just like an electric light when you jerk the chain. It reminds me of the way the creatures answer in Alice in Wonderland.' Would they throw things at us, do you suppose, if we knocked at the front door?"

THAT Evening Philip was in such low spirits that his father remarked it, and asked if he felt unwell.

"I am afraid you are fretting over your decision of last night," said Mr. Norrisson. "It need not rest a feather's weight upon you. I may have taken a little pride thinking we could patch up a team, you and I, and see this work through; but let it go! There is always more than one way of doing a thing. I expect you'd like to get to work. Tell me what you feel yourself able for, and I will put you in the way of it." "Yes; I think I had better go to work," Philip assented.

"Well, the fact is there is nothing out here for an intelligent man to do but work. We all work too hard just because we get bilious and are bored to death if we don't."

The consultation ended in Philip's being given charge of a reconnoissance for selecting reservoir-sites in the hill country above the cañon, with orders to meet his men at a stage station on the nearest divide, called the "Summit." Mr. Norrisson gave his son a horse, a Winchester rifle, and bade him go buy himself some dark flannel shirts, a broad-brimmed hat, and a pair of camp blankets. With this equipment Philip took the box-seat of the stage one dazzling, breezeless morning, and turned his face joyously to the hills. The old immigrant trail, now the stage-road to Idaho City and the mining region beyond, makes a long detour, after leaving the valley, to avoid the bluffs, and gains a fording-place some distance above the cañon. Every few miles there is a wayside post-office for the convenience of camps or outlying ranches. Philip made sketches in his notebook of one or two of these post-boxes, nailed to trunks of trees or propped upon posts within reach of Mosely, the stage-driver's hand. They were empty candle-boxes, or other chance receptacles, with the proprietor's name rudely lettered on one end; and all were open as birds' nests to the curiosity of a wayfaring public. In one that they passed, which bore the name of Joe Mutter, a druggist's parcel was left, a soup bone, a crumpled letter, and a loose brown paper bundle exposing a pair of woman's shoes sent to town for "two bits'" worth of cobbling.

"They 've got a sick baby at Mutter's," the driver remarked. "There comes the old woman now, on the lope, after that bottle of doctor's stuff."

Philip was drowsing along, his hat pulled over his eyes, when Mosely began rummaging in the boot again after the mail" for the cañon folks." Philip straightened up, and saw that they were at the foot of a long hill, the black crests of the lava bluffs out-cropping to the right, to the left only the swell of grassy slopes cutting off the sky.

On his own side of the road, not two rods away, sat Dolly on Alan's pony, waiting for the stage.

"Ain't that just like a woman?" Mosely chuckled. "Can't never remember which side the driver sets on. Now you'll have to hand her this newspaper truck."

"Where is their post-box?" Philip inquired. "Don't have any. The old man don't like his letters and things hung out where everybody can handle 'em."

"Could n't they have a lock-box? "

the best way is to come theirselves. I can't set here and lock up people's boxes. Anything I can chuck in without gittin' down I don't mind botherin' with."

Mosely drew up the horses, and clapped down the brake. Dolly forced the pony close to the fore wheel and held up a leather satchel for the mail which Philip had in charge. She saw too late how stupidly she had placed herself on the wrong side, as if with intention, and gave him but a cold recognition. He accepted it as his meed for complicity in the Summercamp invasion. Meantime, the young people had bungled the mail business, so that a letter bearing a London postmark fell in the dust between them.

"Dear me, that 's an important one," thought Dolly, as she jumped from her saddle. Philip had his foot upon the wheel. "I'll catch you up at the toll-gate," he said to Mosely, who nodded and drove on.

Dolly, though she was down first, allowed Philip to hand her the letter, not to cheat him of his thanks. He fastened the post-bag to the saddle, and stood at the pony's head expecting the pleasure of putting her on. But the wise lassie had no mind to attempt this delicate manoeuver, for the first time in her life, with a stranger's assistance.

"Oh, thanks, I 'm used to getting on by myself," she intimated cheerfully, as one who knows what she is about. She gathered the reins and placed her hands for a spring, while Philip stood aside to see her go up. But something happened: Modoc did something at the critical moment not in the program, and instead of finding herself where she had expected to be, Dolly was hopping through the dust on one foot, clinging with both hands to the saddle, and Modoc was steadily backing away from her. A very little of this sort of exercise suffices a proud girl on a warm day, with a sophisticatedlooking stranger for spectator. When Dolly had got both feet once more upon the ground,

she hauled Modoc around with a vicious pull, and stood against his shoulder, trembling with a mixture of excitements, but ready now for assistance- -not that she could not have mastered the pony easily had she been alone. "He is acting in my interest," said Philip, coming up and making Modoc's acquaintance with a horseman's touch. "Shall we try it now?" He dropped into the proper attitude, and offered his right hand; it had a new, lightcolored seal-leather glove upon it. But now Dolly hung back, blushing and weak with the ordeal before her. Philip might have given a hundred guesses; he could never have come near the cause of her sudden misery. She had put on that morning her worst shoes,- her tan buskins, of all things, for riding,-and had hurried away without changing them; they were scoured by the rocks, and whitened by alkali dust. How could she place a foot so disgracefully shod into the faultless hand held out to receive it with that particular air of homage so new and confusing? The contrast was too much! It took away all Dolly's nerve for the critical attempt, and though she knew quite well in theory what was to be done, the affair went off badly. Indeed, without going into details, it could hardly have been worse, from a bashful novice's point of view.

Dolly withdrew her weight from Philip's shoulder. He gave the rein tenderly into her hand, murmuring apologies, he hardly knew for what, unless that he could not feel as unhappy as she looked, nor quite regret her sweet awkwardness. Dolly rode home burning with the resolution to get a quiet hour with Alan behind the corral at once, and to make him teach her the trick of mounting from the ground beyond peradventure of accidents. As for the tan buskins-she put them into the kitchen range before she went to dress for lessons, Margaret protesting there was "wear in them yet," and asking if shoes grew on the bushes, that she could afford to be so reckless.

POLITICAL caricature in the United States virtually dates from the first administration of Andrew Jackson. There had been occasional efforts to use caricature as a political weapon previous to that time, but they were too crude in execution, too spasmodic in appearance, and too indefinite in purpose to be taken into consideration in tracing the beginnings of our modern school. The advent in national politics of so robust a personality as General Jackson seems not unnaturally to have stimulated a resort to pictorial means for both assailing and defending him. He had entered the presidency as the savior of his country, a military hero of indomitable valor. His fight against the United States Bank, his vociferous and unceremonious methods of conducting controversies with political opponents, the subservient conduct of his famous "kitchen cabinet," and its dissolution when Van Buren withdrew from it, had combined during his first term to enhance greatly his attractiveness as a popuLar idol. He appeared before the people as their only champion against the oppressive designs of a huge money monopoly in which the whole world was joined. He was the "People's Friend" in all crises; the giant who, sin

gle-handed, was fighting their battles against enemies from all quarters. Every conspicuous act of his public life was performed amid uproar and turmoil. Even when his "kitchen cabinet" was dissolved, there was so much dramatic disturbance that one of the political caricatures of the time pictures him, armed with a

churn-dasher, clearing the kitchen of all opponents as with the very besom of destruction.

Few of the earlier caricatures are to be found now. They were issued at frequent intervals, mainly in New York city, in lithograph sheets to be nailed upon walls or passed from hand to hand. They were crude in drawing, and sometimes coarse to the point of indecency. They bore evidence that their designers had gone abroad for inspiration, taking their ideas mainly from English caricaturists. In fact our modern school of caricature dates from almost the same time as that of England, and both followed closely after that of Italy, France, and Germany. In all these countries the first political caricatures were lithograph sheets, passed about from hand to hand; usually issued by the artists themselves at first, and subsequently by some publishing house. The founder of the modern school in England was James Gillray,