looked like a palace, to my unaccustomed 
eyes—and Uncle Barnabas helped mo out. 
“Here Is where Mrs. Prudence lives,” 
said ho, with a chuckle. 
A neat little maid, with a frilled white 
apron and ruse-colorod ribbons In her 
hair, opened the door with a courtesy, 
and 1 was conducted Into an elegant 
apartment, all gliding, exotics and blue 
satin damask, when a plump old lady, 
dressod in black silk, with the loveliest 
Valenciennes lace at throat and wrists, 
came smilingly forward, like a sixty-year 
old sunbeam. 
“So you’ve come back, Barnabas, huve 
you,” said she. “ And brought one of the 
dear girla with you. Come and kiss me, 
my dear.” 
“ Yes, Suay, kiss yonr aunt," said Uncle 
Barnabas, lingering bis bat one way and 
his gloves another, as he sat complacently 
down on the sofa. 
“ My aunt ?” I echoed. 
“Why, of course," said the plump old 
lady. “ Don’t you know ? I’m your Aunt 
Prudence." 
“ But I thought,” gasped I, In bewilder¬ 
ment, “ that I was coming to a situa¬ 
tion P* 
“ Well, so you are,” retorted Uncle Bar¬ 
nabas. “ The situation of adopted daugh¬ 
ter in my family. Twenty-five dollars a 
month pocket money—the oaro of Aunt 
Prudence’s cat and canary! And to make 
yourself generally useful!” 
“ Oh 1 uncle," cried f, “Eleanor would 
have been so glad to come If she had 
known It!” 
“Fiddlestring* and little Ashes I" 11- 
logloally responded roy Uncle Barnabas. 
“I’ve no patience with a girl that'* too 
flno to work. Eleanor had the situation 
offerad her, and she chose to decline. You 
decided to come, and here you stay 1 King 
the bell, True, and order tea, for I’m as 
hungry hb a hunter, and I dare say little 
Busy hero would relish a oup or tea !" 
And this was the way I drifted into my 
luxurious home. Eleanor Inthecouutry 
cottage envies me bitterly, for she has all 
the tastes which wealth and a metropol¬ 
itan home can gratify. But Uncle Bar¬ 
nabas will not hear of my exchanging 
with her. 
“ No, no!" saya ho. “ The girl I’vo got 
Is the girl 1 moan to keep. Mias Eleanor 
Is too line a lady to suit me. 
But he lets me Bond them liberal pres¬ 
ents every month, and so I am happy. 
TAKING A SITUATION 
“ Well, girls," said my Uncle Barnabas, 
“and now what do you propose to do 
about it ?” 
We sat around the Are In a disconsolate 
semi-circle, that dreary, drizzling May 
night, when the rain pattered against the 
window panes, and the poor little daffo¬ 
dils In the borders shook and shivered as 
If they would fain hide their golden heads 
once mere in the mother-soli. My mothar, 
Eleanor and 1. The Arsi pale, and pretty, 
and silver-haired, with the widow's cap, 
and her dress of black bombazine and 
crape; the sweetest looking old lady, I 
think, that 1 ever saw. Eleanor sat beside 
her, looklog, as she always did, like a 
princess, with large, dark eyes, Diana-like I 
features, and hair twisted In a sort of cor- I 
onal around her queenly head. While I, 
plain, homespun Susannah — commonly 
called, “for short,” Susy-crouched upon 
a footstool in the corner, my elbows on 
my knees, and my chin in my hands. 
Uncle Barnabas Berkelio sat In the mid¬ 
dle of the circle, erect, stiff and rather 
grim. He was stout and short, with a griz¬ 
zled mustache, a little, round bald spot on 
the crown of ble head, and two glittering 
black eyes that were always needing their 
dusky lightnings In t.hedirection least ex¬ 
pected. Uoc'.e Barnabas was rich and wo 
were poor. Uncle Barnabas was wise in 
the ways of the world and we were Inez- ^ 
perlenced. Uncle Barnabas was prosper¬ 
ous In all he did ; while, if there was a bad ^ 
bargain to be made, we were pretty sure ^ 
to be the ones to make It. Consequently, 
and as a matter of course, we looked up to 
Uncle Barnabas, and reverenced his opin- 
Ions, 
“What do we propose to do about it?” 
Eleanor slowly repeated, lifting her beau¬ 
tiful, jetty brows. 
“ Yes, that's exactly It," said my mother, 
nervously; “ because, Brother Barnabas, 
we don’t pretend to ho business women, 
and It’s certain that we cannot live com- « 
fortably on our preseut Income. Some- " 
thing has got to be done.” 
And then my mother leaned back In her 
chair, with a troubled face. 
“Yea," said Undo Barnabas, “some¬ 
thing has got to be done 1 But who’s to 
dolt?" 
And another dead silence succeeded. 
“I suppose your girls are educated?" 
said Uncle Barnabas. “I know I found 
enough old school bills when I was looking 
over my brother’s papers.” 
“Of course," said my mother, with evident 
pride; “their education has been most ex¬ 
pensive. Music, drawing, use or the globes—” 
“ Yes, yes, of oourae,” Interrupted Uncle Bar¬ 
nabas. “But Is It. practical ? Can they teach ?’’ 
Eleanor looked dubious. I was quite certain 
that! could not. Madame Lonolr, among all 
her list of accomplishments, had not included 
the art of practical tuition. 
“ Humph 1" grunted Uncle Barnabas. “A 
queer thing, this modern idea of education. 
Well, If you can’t teach, you can surely do 
something! What do you say, Eleanor, to a 
situation ?" 
“A situation ?" 
The color Outtered In Eleanor’s cheeks liko 
pink and white apple blossoms. 
“ I spoke plain enough, didn’t I ?" «aid Uncle 
Barnabas, dryly. “ Yes, a Situation t" 
** What sort of a situation. Uncle Barnabas ?’’ 
“ Well, I can hardly say. Part s«ffvant, part 
companion to au elderly lady 1” explained the 
old gentleman. 
“O, Uncle Barnabas, I couldn’t do that." 
“Not do it? And why not?” 
“It's too much—too much," whispered Elea¬ 
nor, losing her regal dignity in the pressure of 
the emergency, “ like going out to service.” 
“ And that Is precisely what It is!” retorted 
Uncle Barnabas, noddtng his head, “ Service ! 
Why, we're all «ut at service, In one way or an¬ 
other, In this world!” 
“Oh, yes, I know," faltered poor Eleanor, 
who, between her distaste for the proposed 
plan and her anxiety not to offend Uucle Bar¬ 
nabas Berkelln, didn’t quite know what to say. 
“ But I—I’ve always been educated to bo a 
lady." 
“So you won’t take the situation, eh !” said 
Uncle BarnabaB, staring up at a wishy-washy 
little water color drawing of Ouptd and Psyche, 
an “ exhibition piece " of poor Eleanor's, which 
hung above the chimney piece. 
“ 1 couldn’t, lndee.1, sir." 
“ Wages twenty-Ave dollars a month," me- 
chanloally repeated Uncle Barnabas, as If he 
wore saying off a lesson. “Drive out in the 
carriage every day with the missus, oat and 
canary to take care of, modern house, with all 
the Improvements. Sunday afternoons to your¬ 
self, and two weeks, spring and fall, to visit 
jrour mother.” 
“ No, Uncle Barnabas, no," said Eleanor, with 
a little shudder. " I am a true Berkellu, and I 
cannot stoop to menial duties.” 
Uncle Barnabas gave such a prolonged sniff 
as to suggest the Idea of a very bad cold in his 
head,Indeed. 
“ Sorry,” said he. “ Heaven helps those who 
A SUMMER AT OAKDALE 
“ Only for this once,” pleaded Amy Edge- 
worth. “Aunt, if you only knew how tired I 
am of fashionable watering places you could 
not say ‘no.’ ” 
Miss Edgeworth—for she was a lady of uucer- 
rolled her eyes and clasped her hands 
HOME PROM THE COUNTRY. 
BY MARY D. BRINE, 
tain ace 
at her niece's rem irk. 
** Oh, the degeneracy of this age I" she cried. 
“A child of your years to talk as if life had al¬ 
ready lost its freshness I” 
“ Just think, auntie,” she continued, “I have 
spent one season at Newport, one at, Saratoga, 
one at Long Branch, and one at Cape May since 
I was Alteen years old, and not one good, long 
visit in the real country during all that time. I 
want to go to some ictired country village 
where not a beau can disturb the calm serenity 
of my thoughts.” 
“ And that place—whero shall It bo found?” 
Inquired Miss Edgeworth. “Ever since you have 
been in short clothes I have found It trouble 
enough to break up your Alrtations.” 
Amy laughed. “ I am in earnest this time. I 
do not wish to see one of the male sex to speak 
to for the next six mouths." 
“ I devoutly hope your wish may bo granted," 
responded the lady fervently, “ for then I may 
have aHeason of peace ; but where shall we go ?’’ 
“ Oh, 1 know a charming spot. Annie Lander 
brought a number of sketches to school which 
sho had made of a village called Oakdale—a 
little, sleepy place containing only about one 
hundred Inhabitant*. We'll go there." 
Miss Edgeworth made no objections, and a 
week later they were en route for Oakdale. 
“A delightful spot!’’ Miss Edgeworth ex¬ 
claimed, after they were duly settled In a dear 
old-fashioned farm-house. “ We no encircled 
by mountains, shut out from the whole world 
hy nature’s own bulwarks, and no one will And 
us here." 
“No, indeed,” rejoined the laughing Amy. 
“Hero you will have the rest you sighed for, 
dear aunt." 
For a week everything went on smoothly. 
The two ladies occupied their time by sketch¬ 
ing, rldlt g and rowing on the little lake. 
"Aunt," observed Amy, one morning, “I am 
going over to Gton Cove to make a sketch of 
that highest peak. Farmer Grey hits offered to 
go over with me for guide." 
Miss Edgeworth held up her hands in horror. 
“ Impossible, Amv. You will surely get hurt 
—perhaps killed. It Is a perilous place.” 
“And, therefore, another reason why I should 
go; so good-by, auntle-your bad penny will 
return safe enough." 
Three hours later the farmer returned, fol¬ 
lowed by agentleman carrying Amy in bisarms. 
Miss Edgeworth rushed down the steps. 
“Is she dead?" *ho cried. “Oh, what haa 
happened ?’’ 
Home from the oountry—home again !— 
How they gather by boat and train ! 
Back from the Acids, or the Ocean’s Shore- 
Back to their dry life once more. 
Blissful sketches must henceforth yield 
Ketnlnlicence of shore and Held. 
Matilda Jang and her dearest Fred 
B y sketches over the past arc led. 
Now a tnug little coterie 
Of Belles comparing their notes we see. 
Of many a conquest they will tell. 
OI the bliss of being-“ A Belle 1” 
Wonry and tired, the fond mamma 
Blesses release from the dusty car. 
She has done her duty the season thro’, 
And Matilda Jane has a lover true. 
Pater Famlllns groans, “ Ah me ! 
What frightful bill is this I see !” 
He thanks his stars for the season’* end, 
And strives the hole In Ms purse to mend. 
Augustus aud Charles, the bachelor beaux 
Grow irate o'er their mined clothe*, 
And what with vents in their hearts ns well, 
They think " the season a fraud and sell!” 
But what of the landlords?—now they grin 
At the memory of rtrungers “ taken in.” 
And they chuckle long o’er tlielr lucky trade, 
And vow that " (he sra.-on really paid!” 
While Samuo, grinnlmt from >ar to ear, 
Dances a Jig aud erics '* Look lieoh ! 
Dem’s my perquisites; cos. ye sec, 
T< ugh steaks, 1 / dis nigger don’t get no fee!” 
help themselves, and you oan’t expect me to be 
any more liberal minded than Heaven. 81st,er 
Rachel,” to my mother, “ what do you say ?’’ 
My mother drew her pretty little ilgure up a 
trlQe more erect than usual. 
“ I think my danguter Eleanor Is quite right," 
said she. “The Berkellns have always been 
ladies.” 
I had sat quite silent, still with my chin In 
my hand*, during all this family discussion; 
but sow I rose up and came creeping to Uncle 
Barnabas’s side, 
"Well, little Susy,” said the old gentleman, 
laying his hand kindly on my wrist, “ what is 
It?" 
“ If you please. Uncle Barnabas,” said I, with 
a rapidly throbbing heart, “1 would like to 
take the situation.” 
** Bravo 1" cried Uncle Barnabas. 
“ My dear child !" exclaimed my mother. 
“ Sueannali uttered Eleanor, In accents by 
no means laudatory. 
“ Yes," said I. “ Twenty Ave dollars a month 
Is a great deal of money, and I was never afraid 
of work. I think I will go to the old lady, Uncle 
Barnabas. I’m sure 1 could send home at least 
twenty dollars a month to mother and Eleanor, 
and then the two weeks, spring and fall, would 
be so nioe! Please, Uncle Barnabas, I'll go 
back with you, when you go. What Is the old 
lady’s name?" 
“ Her name ?” said Uncle Barnabas. “Didn’t 
I tell you ? It’s Prudence— Mrs. Prudence 1” 
“ What a nice namesaid I. “ I know I shall 
like her.” 
“Well,I think you will,” said Uncle Barna¬ 
bas, looking klridiy at me. "And I think she 
will like you. Is It a bargain for the nine 
o’clock train to-morrow morning?” 
“Yes," I answered, stoutly, taking care not 
to my color*. "We can’t starve. Some of us 
must do something. And you can live very 
nicely, mother, darling, on twenty dollars a 
month." 
"That Is true,” sighed roy mother from be¬ 
hind her black-bordered pookei-hnnakerohiaf. 
“ But I never thought to see a daughter of mine 
going out to—to service 1" 
** And Uncle Barnabas isn’t going to do any¬ 
thing for us, alter all," cried out Eleauor, In¬ 
dignantly. " Stingy old fellow; I should think 
he might at least adopt one of us! He's a 3 rich 
as Croo.us, and never a chick nor a child.” 
“ He may do as he likes about that," I answer¬ 
ed independently. I prefer to earu my own 
money." 
So the next morning I set out for the un¬ 
known bourn of New York life. 
“ Uncle Barnabas," said I, as the train reach¬ 
ed the city, “ bow shall I And where Mrs. Pru¬ 
dence lives?” 
“ Oh, I’ll go there with you," said he. 
“Are you well acquainted with her?" I ven¬ 
tured to aalc. 
“ Ob, very well Indeed 1” replied Uocle Bar¬ 
nabas, nodding his head approvingly. 
Wo took u carriage at the depot and drove 
through so many streets that my head apun 
around and around like a tee-totum, before we 
stopped at a pretty, brown stone mansion—it 
