'And have you ever tried writing anything?' I asked him. Of course he had, what need to question! And it was, strange to say, a story about a little boy who lived with his mother and aunt, and who went to school. 'It is sort of,' he explained, 'sort of auto--bio--graphical, you know.' 'And what does Mama think of it?' was my next question, after we had discussed the advantages of drawing upon one's own personal experiences for one's material. 'Mama thinks it is very clever--in parts,' he told me. 'You read it to her?' I suggested. 'Yes,' he acknowledged, 'in the evening, when she's working, and Aunt Emma isn't there.' The room rose up before me, I could see the sweet-faced lady in her chair beside the fire, her white hands moving to and from the pile of sewing by her side, the little flushed face of the lad bending over his pages written in sprawling schoolboy hand. I saw the love light in her eyes as every now and then she stole a covert glance across at him, I heard his childish treble rising and falling, as his small finger moved slowly down the sheet. Suddenly it said, a little more distinctly: 'Please, sir, could you tell me the time?' 'Just over the quarter, Valentine,' I answered, waking up and looking at my watch. He rose and held out his hand. 'I didn't know it was so late,' he said, 'I must go now.' But as our hands met another question occurred to him. 'Oh,' he exclaimed, 'you said you'd tell me why you liked to come and sit here of an evening, like I do. Why?' 'So I did, Valentine,' I replied, 'but I've changed my mind. When you are a big man, as old as I am, you come and sit here and you'll know. But it isn't so pleasant a reason as yours, Valentine, and you wouldn't understand it. Good-night.' He raised his cap with an old-fashioned courtesy and trotted off, looking however a little puzzled. Some distance down the path, he turned and waved his hand to me, and I watched him disappear into the twilight. I sat on for a while, thinking many thoughts, until across the rising mist there rang a hoarse, harsh cry, 'All out, All out,' and slowly I moved homeward. CONTENTS PAGE READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. BY WALTER BESANT 3 THE FAMILY SCAPEGRACE. BY JAMES PAYN 15 THE WRECK OF THE 'GROSVENOR.' BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 29 PHYSIOLOGICAL ÆSTHETICS AND PHILISTIA. BY GRANT ALLEN 43 THE SHADOW OF A CRIME. BY HALL CAINE 53 THE SOCIAL KALEIDOSCOPE. BY GEORGE R. SIMS 75 DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES. BY RUDYARD KIPLING 91 JUVENILIA. BY A. CONAN DOYLE 99 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT. BY M. E. BRADDON 109