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Most human ills can be conquered, however, if they are taken in time, and the mosquitos were vanquished by gunpowder.

Ben Norris drilled the boys like a true leader.

Each lad washed his own dishes. They took turns in going for water, cleaning vegetables, fishing, bargaining with the butcher, who brought them meat every other day.

To cap the climax of this delightful "camping out," an unexpected party of thirty people, large and small, took them by surprise one morning, with plenty of pies, puddings, cold meats and jellies.

Wasn't there a chowder manufactured on that day that beat the hotels? It filled the three biggest kettles, which had to be set near their impromptu table, and the savory mess was served out in all sorts of dishes.

Nothing marred their pleasure that week of weeks. No shower came up, indeed they rather longed for that event. The fish seemed eager to be taken; Ben Norris was one of the best of cooks; Fred, the invalid, grew quite ruddy, so that when he returned, one would hardly have taken the sunburned lad for the pale stripling who went to Granby.

Ben Norris is to get up another party, and they are going to camp out for two weeks.

"What a good time boys do have!" cried Tilly. "And I'm sure I shall always remember Granville, for being so kind. I could imagine just how the poor, sick boy felt when they invited him. Don't you think if every body was so thoughtful," and her eyes beamed with gratitude, "we should have a lovely world?"

"I am sure we should," said Anne, hastening to the door at the sound of a knock she knew. Yes, it was as she expected, there stood Uncle Ralph stroking his great gray beard and two smiling faces peeped over his shoulder.

"May we come in?"

"You know you are always welcome, grandpa," said Anne, and there was a flutter of delight at his entrance.

"So good Mrs. Margery is making the fire," said Uncle Ralph, saluting them all.

"I'm sure I'm proud and happy of the honor," murmured the humble woman, with a curtsey. "And she's so happy!"

"Well, yes, we seem to have come upon rather a happy company," said Uncle Ralph, seating himself. "I have just parted from a friend," he continued, "lately from England, and he gave me a story from his pen, which pleased me so much that I wanted to come right over and read it at the Social.

"O, Uncle Ralph, do, please do!" was the general cry.

"Yes, Uncle Ralph, we're not through our work yet, there is half an hour before tea. By that time the kettle will be boiling," said another.

"Very well, as you all look so eager I suppose it is the universal wish, so I'll comply. My story is just about half an hour long. The locality is in England, where people talk and act a little different from what they do in America, and it is entitled --

Well, how old are I? Most 'leven, thankee. How long have I been on the streets? Don't know, allays, I 'spects. I don't remember scarcely nothin' else. Buy any matches, any matches? Do I git tired? Well, would you git tired a walkin' up an' down, an' over an' across, the cold wind cuttin' through into ye that way, it's like knives to think of? And maybe it's a storm. Don't talk to me about gittin' tired. I ain't got no umbril, I aint, and if I had, I wouldn't git time to open it, nor yet go alone, with every body pushing it into your eyes. No, I goes independent, and if I gets tired I don't cry about it. When it rains, why then I'm here, in course, and though I gits under doorways, when I can, there ain't mostly no doorways, but shops, where I walks, with the p'leece-man hanging about, cryin' 'git out o' that there.' It's wery hard on a cove when it rains, 'specially if he ain't got no shoes. Some coves is so precious lazy they can't get shoes, but I ain't one o' them kind, I ain't. I'm one o' your spry sort, always slippin' under people's heels; and I knows the tired dodge, though I never goes the whine, cos why? I'm independent, I am. What's the tired dodge? Well, you jest take your stand on the street by seven, and holler an' run, an' talk about your matches, and ask every body that comes along and be sure they're all going to tell you to 'git out!' and you'll know what the tired dodge is, by the time it comes round seven again. Not that I doesn't take care o' myself; I alleys gits a meat pie if nothin' else, and I keeps all the rest of the money for Lady Nelly.

Who's Lady Nelly? Why she's a glorious one with gold hair. I never looks into them shops where the toys stands all shining, and see them dolls dressed fit for the Lord Mayor's show, but I feel as if I'd like to be one, if I could only be give to Nelly. But I takes care of her decent. I'll tell you how it is, if you won't mind my walking along with you a bit. I live down in Wynch Mew's. (Mews is a narrow by street, my dears, said Uncle Ralph, looking up.) That's my place, I've got a room there, and I pays for it. I ain't a cove as sleeps in market-places and under bridges, an' anywheres I can creep into. I'm independent, I am. I was born in the matches line, but that's no reason I should stay in it, is it? My daddy used to make 'em and I'd do a bit at 'em before I could walk. My mother died when I was born, and my daddy brought me up by hand. There was a little too much hand, sometimes, when daddy had been drinking, but perhaps it helped make me independent. Well, you see, my daddy, he up and took sick. 'Twas hard the poor old soul couldn't lay easy in his bed as it were, but were all the time a roamin' and a roamin' and crying out his matches beautiful to the last. I've seen him as he lay on his bed, actually a beggin' of somebody, holding him, imaginary, by the coattail, an' whinin' to that extent that I would a been ashamed of him if he had been well.