"No, we'll have to write," said Edmund; "I'll do it." But Oscar shook his head. "No, Ned, that ain't fair. I'm the most to blame and I ought to do it. Besides _you_ wouldn't say it was my fault." Then the last barrier of Edmund's pride broke down. "Don't," he cried again. "I tell you it's I'm to blame, not you. And-- and--Oscar, I've been very mean to you all along"-- "No, you haven't," said Oscar promptly; "it was me bullying you in the first place made all the trouble. Aunt Nora told me maybe you wouldn't be friends for a while, and she told me all about the mad dog and I thought you were a pretty nice boy and I wished you would like me, but you wouldn't, so I pretended I didn't care. But I did. It's lonesome travelling around with a feller that's mad with you all the time." Edmund swallowed a little lump in his throat. "If you'll make up with me, now, I'll never be mad with you again," said he, holding out his hand. Oscar clasped it across the bed over the mangled remains of the too-adventurous Marcus Aurelius, whose adventures, thus, were not quite in vain. Edmund kept his word. Indeed, he was surprised to find how easy it was to like Oscar; and Nora's prediction was fulfilled. The two boys were very happy in Europe; but Edmund never forgot Marcus. He told the truth to Nora and she persuaded Mrs. Morris to deal gently with Oscar. He went to the races, after all. Previously Edmund had written the whole story to Lady Margaret in a letter which she read with smiles and tears. The postscript was by Oscar. It ran as follows: DEER LADY MARGARET:-- Ned wont let me see his letter but I'm sure he took all the blame on himself becaws he always dose but it was me too blame and not him becaws I pined the snake in my coat pocket becaws I was affraid to handel it and ran off too the punch and gudy show and it got out and the head water killed it I didn't give him any tip when he went away I'm very sorry and I'm sorry I kicked the mormossits but they bit my legs No more at pressent from your obedient servent too comand. OSCAR T. W----. It only remains to say that Marcus Aurelius is back home, at Lady Margaret's; but she never makes a bracelet of him, now; most ingeniously mended and stuffed, he abides perpetually in a glass case; and she describes his perfections and his lamentable end with tears in her eyes. ANNA AND THE RATTLER By Mrs. Cornell A voice rose wrathfully in the back yard, "Wee-lie! What iss this? You fell in the pig trough? Come here, that I beat you! Come here, I say!" Willie did not accept the invitation. A shrill whimpering was his sole response. Twelve-year-old Anna stepped to the kitchen door, peering round the sash. "Pa's scolding Willie," she announced to her mother. The storm continued to rage in the back yard. "Shust look at your clothes! Go now! To the creek wit' you! Come _not_ in the house until you are cleaned. Ach!"