The boys made loud protestations of regret, which goes without saying, at the necessary parting to come. How long the vacation seemed, looking from the standpoint of June. How impossible to wait till September before George Edward’s round countenance should burst upon them like a ray of sunshine, and his cheery voice call to some sport, in which they could see no hint of fun if he did not lead off. But all things are finally pronounced ended. So at last George Edward found himself at home, with the only prospect of enjoyment ahead of him, an invitation to visit at Uncle Frost’s. “I’m sorry it’s all the outing we can give you this summer, my boy,” said Mother Allen soberly; “your father intended to take you if he went on the Maine trip, but Mr. Porter wanted the Western business done now, and that is altogether too expensive to be thought of.” George Edward’s eyes glistened. That Western trip would have made a vacation beating every other boy’s that he had known. He broke out eagerly, “O mother—” then stopped. She looked pale and troubled. “It’s a good enough place at Uncle Frost’s,” he finished indifferently; “when do I start?” “No, it isn’t very pleasant,” said Mrs. Allen truthfully. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have gone into the country; but we can’t afford it unless I go and shut up the house, and I can’t do that, because grandma isn’t well, and must come here.” “Never mind,” said George Edward, “there’s some fun in it, anyway. We’ll call it bully.” “It will be a change,” said his mother, “and that’s all you can say, and you’ll have a chance to learn something new, and see other people.” “When does he want me to come?” asked George Edward, dashing at the letter again. “Next week,” said Mrs. Allen. “All right; I’ll put my traps together, and be off. Gainesburg is the cry now,” cried George Edward. But for once the boy was in luck. Two days after Uncle Frost’s house had received him, Mrs. Allen was reading the following letter: MY DEAR MOTHER: Hurrah—hurrah—hurrah! Uncle Frost is a brick (beg pardon, mother)! He’s given me a royal, out-and-out invite to go to the White Mountains with the family. Expenses all thrown in, etc., etc. Start on Saturday. Telegraph “yes” please. Your affectionate Son, GEORGE EDWARD. “Yes” was telegraphed over the hills on Thursday, and for two weeks our boy revelled in the bliss of mountain life, with quantities of fun, frolic and adventure thrown in by the way, to return all made over, to Uncle Frost’s, there to meet the ill news travelling fast over the electric wires: “Your father died suddenly at St. Paul. Come at once.” Had it come so soon? George Edward looked life in the face this vacation time, accepted his cross, bade good-by to all hopes of ever entering school or college life again, and thanked God for the situation in the drug store that the apothecary around the corner gave him.