could afford to marry. At the time I write of, he was coming back, not to claim his bride, for his father thought him still too young, but to see her, and to pay us a visit.

“Now you know, mother,” said I, “after the young people have seen each other for half-an-hour or so, they will naturally want to take a walk or a ride, and—”

“Only half-an-hour?” interrupted my mother, with one of her peculiar little smiles.

“Well, an hour if you like, or two if they prefer it,” I returned; “at all events, they will want a walk before luncheon, and I shall take the opportunity to show them some experiments, which prove the power of the singular compound about which you questioned me just now.”

“The explosive?”

“Yes. Its name is dynamite.”

“And what may that be, Jeff? Something very awful, I daresay,” remarked my mother, with a look of interest, as she sipped her tea.

“Very awful, indeed,” said I; “at least its effects are sometimes tremendous.”

“What! worse than gunpowder?”

“Ay, much worse, though I should prefer to say better than gunpowder.”

“Dear me!” rejoined my mother, lifting her eyebrows a little, in surprise.

“Yes, much better,” I continued; “gunpowder only bursts things—”

“Pretty well that, Jeff, in the way of violence, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but nothing to dynamite, for while powder only bursts things, dynamite shatters them.”

“How very dreadful! What is dynamite?”

“That is just what I am about to explain,” said I. “You must know, then, that it is a compound.”

“Dear, dear,” sighed my mother; “how many compounds you have told me about, Jeff, since you took to chemistry! Are there no uncompounded things—no simple things in the world?”

“Why, yes, mother; you are a simple thing, and I only wish there were a good many more simple things 

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