letter was ready for post." The boys were right; the secret of all progress in life is earnest, persevering work; and the secret of true greatness is loving God sincerely, and serving Him faithfully.

CHAPTER VII.

AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL.

WHEN the letters were delivered at the Dale the next morning there was one from Mr. Melville's only unmarried sister, Lucy, saying that she intended coming to spend a few weeks at the Dale, and would be with them that same day about noon. This was a most unexpected announcement, for all thought that Aunt Lucy was too lame to leave her home. However, there was no mistake about it, for she wished them to meet the mid-day train.

Miss Melville was several years younger than her brother, she was nearly as tall as he; and the smooth braids of her brown hair were streaked with silver as plentifully as his.

Everybody loved Aunt Lucy. To the Dale

children and their cousins she was the embodiment of love and kindness. She had nursed them in many of their illnesses, and spent hours in making toys to amuse them in younger days. Nobody like Aunt Lucy to tell stories; and as to games she seemed to know an endless number.

You may easily imagine what a stir Aunt Lucy's letter caused at Sunberry Dale on that Tuesday morning. Everybody wanted to meet her; but the carriage would not hold everybody, so everybody could not go. Charlie and George and Nellie were frantic with delight, and kept the house in a continuous uproar all the morning.

When the carriage stopped at the door about mid-day, it seemed rather likely that Aunt Lucy would be forcibly carried into the house, so boisterous was the joy.

"Gently, gently, children; you will pull me to pieces," said she.

"That's what I call being taken by storm," said Mr. Melville, laughing.

"I think so too, brother," said Miss Melville.

"Well, aunt, it's only a storm of hugs and

kisses; and you mustn't mind that, because we are so glad to see you," said Charlie.

After dinner the excitement subsided a little, and Miss Melville spent the afternoon in quietly talking over some business matters with her brother and his wife.

In the evening they all gathered in the library, and a pleasant group it was sitting round the bright fire. Aunt Lucy had the "very easiest chair," Charlie said he could find, and with the firelight playing on her countenance and the glow of the warm crimson curtains behind her she did look, as Nellie said, "one of the very nicest of aunts."

"Now, aunt, you must please tell us a story," said Edith.

"A story, my dear! why, I should think you have heard all my stories."

"Oh, no, we haven't," said George. "You know no end of stories."

"Yes, that's quite true, aunt," said Nellie. "I am sure you know lots.”

"I am not so sure about that, my dear," said Aunt Lucy, smiling. "But, however,

I'll try and tell you about

"MADAM SQUIRREL, AND HER DISOBEDIENT CHILDREN.

"Greyley Park was a very large and pleasant place, with its thick woods, its green drives, and long shady walks. It was well filled with many kinds of trees, but, perhaps, the finest trees in it were the beeches; they were very old, large, and very numerous, so that when the thick underwood was cleared away at certain seasons, their tall straight trunks, clustered together, bearing up a heavy mass of foliage high overhead, made you think of the pillars and vaulted roof of some grand old cathedral. Perhaps one of the finest beech trees in Greyley Park was one which stood very near to old Squire Tenderden's filbert ground, which skirted just one corner of the great park, and was only divided from it by a low hedge and a carriage road.

"Early one morning in spring a fine brown squirrel was seen springing from one tree to another in the park near to the old Squire's garden. The movements of this squirrel seemed to puzzle the birds very much, who,