limbs before she was successful. Mr. Stone ascended to the roof. As he did so, a small bright fragment of shawl fringe, clinging between the projecting shingles, attracted his notice. He carefully disengaged it, and then looked about him. It must, indeed, have been quite a cozy spot in summer, when the great apple-tree spread over it a grateful shade. He found nut shells, apple cores, and the mildewed remains of a story book, beneath the projecting eaves; but no Nattie,—only evidences that she had been there, and that lately, as well as in more remote times. He got down and followed the steps, but they gained the street.
Nattie, had, then, when she left the house, made her way through the back shed door, climbed to her old resort, the roof, where she, no doubt, waited the fall of evening, and then descended to hasten on her way; who could tell whither? Hattie Hartwell had's aid that she would not dare pass a night alone. Yet she was
