"With better advice it never would have ended, you contrary little minx," said Mr. John to himself as she drove away. The doctor came and Mollie was ordered to bed; but even his opiate did not make her sleep. It was soothing, indeed, to lie there in the twilight with her hand in her mother's, and feel that she was her little girl entirely, no more to be her boy while life should last. And pleasant visions of a Gothic school-house, where she should some day be mistress of sweet, rosy-cheeked children, rose gracefully on the ruins of her manly aspirations. By and by the bell rang, and her mother brought a lamp, and a package which Mollie sat up and opened. There, with a note pinned on the left leg of her trousers and a box of Mollie's best-beloved candies clasped on her jacket, lay Helena. "I have never been to the ash-man's house, Mother Mollie," said the note. "I have been visiting Mr. John's cuffs and collars in the bureau-drawer. I want my girls' clothes on to-morrow. I claim it as my right. We all have our rights. Put me in dresses and take me home to the play-room. You have your rights too, and I wouldn't let any one tell me that I hadn't a right to be a girl. It is my opinion that if you had been meant for a boy you would have been made one. Come, mother, cuddle me up, and let's go to sleep and have sweet dreams, and a blithe waking to girlhood in the morning, when we will make up with Mr. John; for he sends these chocolate-creams to let you know that he is sorry." "So we will, dear," said Mollie, tucking Helena's head under her chin. "You were always wiser than your mother, child." THE LARGEST VOLCANO IN THE WORLD BY SARAH COAN. [Illustration: THE LAKE OF FIRE.] "Why, it isn't on the top of a mountain at all! What a humbug my geography must have been!" So wrote a little fellow to a young friend in America. He was right. It isn't on the top of a mountain, though the geographies do say, "A volcano is a mountain sending forth fire, smoke and lava," and give the picture of a mountain smoking at the top. This volcano is nothing of the kind; but is a hideous, yawning black pit at the bottom of a mountain, and big enough to stow away a large city. Of course you want to know, first, where this wonder is. Get out the map of the Western Hemisphere, put your finger on any of the lines running north and south, through North America, and called meridians; follow it south until you come to the Tropic of Cancer, running east and west; then "left-about-face!" and, following the tropic, sail out into the calm Pacific. After a voyage of about two thousand miles, you'll run ashore on one of a group of islands marked Sandwich. We will call them Hawaiian, for that is their true name. Not one of the brown, native inhabitants would call them "Sandwich." An English sailor gave them that name, out of compliment to a certain Lord Sandwich.