suitable for skool, I'de much rather have lived with you, and had a pretty young governess like Miss Dove who teeches embroidrey. There are some pretty girls too, they all think me so ugly, but I don't mind. Give each of the dogs a kiss from me and three to Sally just in the middle of her nose, and tell the bearers little girl I have not forgotten her, and tell Toady Dodd I am learning french and german and dancing and am going to be akom—clever, I cant spell the big word, it will vex him awfully. Be sure you write me long long long letters, you cannot think how I watch the clock on male days. If you forget me, I pray that I may take small pox and dye,—I am every yours truly, "ANGEL." But Angel was not forgotten. Some description of letter found its way into her eager hands, two out of four mail days. Her quivering white face, as the letters were distributed, caused a pang of pity in the hearts of the womenkind who witnessed it. Angel's feelings were ten years in advance of her age and her associates. As weeks and months went on, she began to spread her short wings, and to evince her personality, and was presently notorious as the most idle, clever, mischievous, and unruly girl in the whole school. She could learn, she had unusual capabilities, but she much preferred playing tricks, scribbling poetry, and affording unlimited fun to her class, among whom, thanks to the freshness and audacity of her ideas, she assumed the position of ring-leader and queen. She received punishment with the most staggering _sang-froid_. What was to be done with a child who did not mind being sent to bed, rather liked dry bread than otherwise, and heartily enjoyed her own society? Her example was spreading like an epidemic among the juniors; idleness, daring feats, and flat disobedience were the fashion since the Indian child had introduced them. At last Miss Morton sent for the culprit, and interviewed her in her own sanctum, a room that had witnessed not a few tears and scenes. Miss Morton was a clever, handsome woman of forty, admirably fitted for her position. All her girls looked up to her, not a few loved her; her influence bore fruit in many and many a future home. When the slight fair child in deep mourning was ushered in, and surveyed the room and its occupants with critical blue eyes, she said: "Little Angela Gascoigne, you may sit down," Angela took a seat, and sedately folded her arms. This action, did Miss Morton but know, portended mortal defiance. "Angela, you are old and intelligent beyond your years," continued her teacher; "you are not yet ten, but you have seen as much of life as many girls of eighteen." Angela's eyes complacently admitted the fact.