something about a day anywhere being, etcetera, etcetera.

My mother remarked that she did not understand exactly what a torpedo was, and looked at me for an explanation. I confess that her remark surprised me, for during the course of my investigations and inventions, I had frequently mentioned the subject of torpedoes to her, and once or twice had given her a particular description of the destructive machine. However, as she had evidently forgotten all about it, and as I cannot resist the temptation to elucidate complex subjects when opportunity offers, I began:—

“It is a machine, mother, which—”

“Which bursts,” interrupted Bella, with a little laugh.

“But that is no explanation, dear,” returned my mother; “at least not a distinctive one, for guns burst sometimes, and soap-bubbles burst, and eggs burst occasionally.”

“Bella,” said Nicholas, who spoke English perfectly, though with a slightly foreign accent, “never interrupt a philosopher. Allow Jeff to proceed with his definition.”

“Well, a torpedo,” said I, “is an infernal machine—”

“Jeff,” said my mother, seriously, “don’t—”

“Mother, I use the word advisedly and dispassionately. It is a term frequently given to such engines, because of their horrible nature, which suggests the idea that they were originated in the region of Satanic influence. A torpedo, then, is a pretty large case, or box, or cask, or reservoir, of one form or another, filled with gunpowder, or gun-cotton, or dynamite, which is used chiefly under water, for blowing-up purposes. Sometimes men use torpedoes to blow up rocks, and sunken wrecks; and sometimes, I grieve to say it, they blow up ships and sailors.”

“Dreadful! my dear,” said my mother; “nevertheless I should like to go with you on this excursion, and see what devices men invent for the purpose of killing each other.”

“Very well, that’s settled,” said I. “Now, as to the other letter about the yacht. I will buy it, mother, and go on a cruise to the Mediterranean, on one condition, namely, that you and Nicholas and Bella go with me.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed my mother, firmly; “I never could bear the sea.”

“But you’ve had little experience of it,” said I.

“Well, not much—but I cannot bear it.”

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