"Besides," remarks Amy quietly, "I don't suppose the man had an idea of what you meant by 'those cars,' if he even knew what a half dollar signified." "Well, we must be off. Time's up. We shall miss the train. Good-bye, boys. You can sit still and finish your dinner in peace." Good-bye to our friends from Paultons--good-bye. And then we rush out, and _do_ miss the train. It is five o'clock ten minutes and a quarter. English trains go on time--English dinners don't. We finally get off at seven o'clock. Just before we leave a waiter comes up to me and says in a casual manner, "Found your humbreller yet, sir?" "No." "Wat kind of er humbreller was it, sir?" "Neat little brown silk umbrella, with an ivory handle." "W'y, I wouldn't wonder if that was your humbreller in the corner now in the reading-room, sir." I make haste to look. Yes, there it is, my beloved, long-lost umbrella, quietly leaning against the wall in a dark corner, behind a pillar, behind a big arm-chair, where nobody ever placed it, I'll take my oath, but this rascally waiter, who expects to get a shilling for showing where he hid it. "Is _that_ your humbreller, sir?" the waiter says, rubbing his hands and getting in my way as I walk briskly out, at peril of being stumbled over by my hurrying feet. I scorn to reply, but I give him a glance of such withering contempt that I trust it pierced to his wicked heart, and will remain there, a punishment and a warning, to the last day of his base life. An English waiter's hide is very thick, however. He has probably hidden many a gentleman's umbrella since. At eleven o'clock we are back in our cozy London lodgings, and at twelve we are sleeping the sleep of profound fatigue, and dreaming of ghostly monks wandering among the weird old ruins of Netley. WIRT SIKES. DAY-DREAM. Here, in the heart of the hills, I lie, Nothing but me 'twixt earth and sky-- An amethyst and an emerald stone Hung and hollowed for me alone! Is it a dream, or can it be That there is life apart from me?-- A larger world than the circling bound Of light and color that lap me round? Drowsily, dully, through my brain, Like some recurrent, vague refrain, A world of fancy comes and goes-- Shadowy pleasures, shadowy woes. Spectral toils and troubles seem Fashioned out of this foolish dream: Round my charmèd quiet creep Phantom creatures that laugh and weep. Nay, I know they are meaningless, Visions of utter idleness: Nothing was, nor ever will be, Save the hills and the heavens and me. KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.