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just as much concerned about the health of Toto and Dulcie as she is as to the vicissitudes of her own. Toto is now a handsome brown little sailor of about seven years old. He is a true son of the soil, and generally has a good deal of it on his nose. He walks about with his hands in his pockets, in close imitation of the big boys of the place, and has a really wonderful command of the fashionable school slang of the day, perfectly up to date. At present the adjective ‘jolly’ is in the ascendant. ‘No jolly fear’ is his invariable reply to his anxious mother’s questions as to the risk of the various nautical excursions he proposes every morning. Toto’s only real fault is a misplaced contempt for domestic ablutions, other than rubbing his mother’s best cambric handkerchief over his face with a circular movement, on occasions, and restoring it in a damp ball to his trousers pocket along with a pocket-knive, a few shell-fish—preparing for his museum—and a piece of tarry string used in voyages. Ordinary water baths he looks upon as useful in case of illness, or as a precautionary measure before going to church, but quite unadapted to young persons in robust health and activity. Dulcie is one of those angelic hazel-tinted, brown-haired little beings, with great solemn eyes, and an expression of being-in-this-