Washington rose and read a short address, in which he resigned his commission. He delivered the paper into the hands of the President, who replied with a little speech; and Washington was now a private citizen. The next day he left Annapolis, and made all haste to return to his beloved Mount Vernon. (_To be continued._) ON THE WILLEY-BROOK TRESTLE. BY WILLIS BOYD ALLEN. There had been rain among the mountains for almost a week. Every day the newspapers brought reports of clear, warm weather in Boston and New York, while the Crawford House guests gathered in shivering groups around their open fires and applied themselves to indoor occupations, discontentedly or cheerily, according to their various dispositions. Among the most impatient in the hotel was a group of young people, who, as the season drew to its close, were more eager than ever to improve each shining hour. The hours, however, refusing to shine on any terms, that gloomy September week, the bees were left “to hum,” as Lou Elwin plaintively remarked. When, therefore, the sun at last looked over the mountain-tops one cool, delicious morning, and with his shining fingers gently drew aside the misty draperies that had so long overhung the little valley of the Notch, great was the delight of old and young at Crawford’s, and it was an eager company of boys and girls that assembled about the big parlor fireplace after breakfast. As soon as they were fairly together, half a dozen were chattering at once. “Isn’t it glorious?” “What shall we do——?” “Where shall——?” “Fabyan’s!” “Tennis!” “Bugle Cliff!” “A walk down the track.” A shout of laughter greeted this last proposal, which was offered by a delicate-looking youth of about eighteen. “Fred is afraid that he’ll rub the shine off his boots!” cried one of his companions, slapping him on the shoulder. “Or tear that tennis suit on the rocks,” suggested Lou Elwin, with a toss of her pretty head, as she leaned back in her chair and planted her own stout little boots emphatically on the hearth. Lou was the acknowledged leader among her set at Crawford’s, that season, in all the jaunts and good times that were planned. She was a Boston girl, and she had her full share of the independent spirit that characterized her ancestors. Whenever the party set out on a scramble over the rough mountain-paths, her joyous laugh was sure to be heard far in advance of the rest; it was always her tennis-racket that met and returned the ball when the play was apparently lost; it was Lou Elwin whose name zigzagged all over the cards of the best partners an hour before dancing began. Fred Seacomb did not quail, however, before her little broadside of irony, but just looked straight into her eyes for a moment, and said quietly, “You know better, Lou.” And then he proceeded to argue his proposal, with such effect that in five minutes more the whole party of young folks were racing down the plank walk toward the railroad.