"Well?" she asked, smiling at his hesitation. "What is it, Charley?" "Ah, do you know, Mrs. Claverly, I think that General Lee is here." His voice was husky with excitement. "General Lee! Where?" But without waiting for a reply, she stepped quickly to the door of the old-fashioned parlor, and exclaimed in soft, suppressed tones to a group of women sitting there: "They think that General Lee is here!" "What makes them think so?" asked a thin, gray-haired woman, as she hastily arose. "Why," replied the young man, his tones now quite positive, "his saddle with 'R. E. L.' on it is out there by the gate." "There he comes now," said one of the group, eagerly; "at least, I suppose that it is he." "Let me see," said Mrs. Claverly, going rapidly to the window. "I saw him once at the Greenbrier White, and I am sure that I would know him. Yes, it is he!" she exclaimed, as she looked at the man coming slowly across the lawn, talking earnestly to the barefoot boy at his side. His thoughts were so completely occupied by what he was saying that not until he was quite near the inn did he see the group on the porch, and his face flushed slightly as he realized that they were there to greet him. Lifting his hat, he ascended the steps with bared head. Mrs. Claverly walked quickly forward, and extended her slim white hand. "General Lee, I believe." "Yes, madam," he replied gravely, as he bowed low over her hand. At the sound of Lee's name Jimmy's eyes grew round, and filled with astonishment. For one brief moment he stood gazing up at the stately old soldier, whom every one was greeting, then he backed slowly away until he reached the door. There he stood another moment, seeing nothing but his hero. Suddenly he turned and darted down the long hall, up the stairway, and into his mother's room. "Mother!" he exclaimed in breathless wonderment, "mother! General Lee is downstairs, and he is just splendid, and--er--mother, he's just exactly like anybody else!"[1] [Footnote 1: This story is based upon the personal experience of one who related it to the author.] JERICHO BOB BY ANNA EICHBERG KING Jericho Bob, when he was four years old, hoped that one day he might be allowed to eat just as much turkey as he possibly could. He was eight now, but that hope had not been realized. [Illustration] Mrs. Jericho Bob, his mother, kept hens for a living, and she expected that they would lay enough eggs in the course of time to help her son to an independent career as a bootblack. They lived in a tumble-down house in a waste of land near the steam cars, and besides her hens Mrs. Bob owned a goat. Our story has, however, nothing to do with the goat except to say he was there, and that he was on nibbling terms, not only with Jericho Bob, but with Bob's bosom friend, Julius Caesar Fish, and it was surprising how many old hat-brims and other tidbits of clothing he could swallow during a day.