THE burglar alarm was put up, and Aunt Penelope pronounced herself happy at last.

      "It's only a wonder that we have not all been robbed and murdered in our beds a hundred times," she said, in a voice as full of reproach as if she rather suspected me of having connived at some such tragedy. "I've prophesied it, over and over; but nobody listened. Now, thank goodness, I have taken the matter into my own hands, and my mind is at rest."

      Dear Aunt Penelope! She was eight-and-fifty, if a day, but as timorous as a girl of sixteen. But she was a good old soul, and I was very fond of her. As a rule, we lived very amicably together; and, though occasionally she vexed me by her manias and inconsistencies, I seldom interfered, unless where her son and daughter were concerned. She was an affectionate mother, but a very unwise one; and, after having inordinately indulged her offspring while they were little, seemed now often to forget that they were grown up, and would fret herself and them by trying to assume the reins of government with a firm hand, invariably pulling in the wrong direction.

      Just now, the old lady had seen fit to oppose a mutual fondness between her daughter and a distant cousin, which had been allowed to grow, undisturbed, till opposition would be useless - except to worry us elders and distress the young people. This as preliminary to my story.

      She was so impatient to try her "alarm," that she went to bed, that night, a full hour before her time, having first adjusted the machine, which was in a room next hers and quite near mine. Half an hour later, as I was reading comfortably, there came a noise as if the roof had fallen in. Downstairs and upstairs rushed family and servants, in great excitement, all supposing that we had had a burglar-nibble, if I may so term it, on this very first night.

      But Aunt Penelope presently appeared in her doorway, and observed, with dignified composure:

      "I hadn't adjusted the machine exactly right; some jar must have set it off."

      As she said this, she glanced about with a benign smile; but her remark was received in such dead silence, and she met such black looks from relatives and domestics, that she retreated without another word; though, amid the sudden confusion visible in her face, I descried an expression of triumph which caused me to say to her daughter Minnie:

      "I believe she did it on purpose; she couldn't resist setting it off, any more than a boy could a pack of fire-crackers."

      "I've not a doubt of it. Really, mamma is too exasperating with her fads," Minnie replied; for, that very day, there had been a fresh discussion in regard to Tom Everett, during which Minnie's feelings and temper had both been severely excoriated.

      The next morning, pretty Mrs. Warner came to stop over night with us, on her way to Washington. We gave a dinner-party, and a reception afterward, in her honor, and it was past two o'clock before we got safely to our rooms.

      I was half undressed, when again that awful racket shook the house. I heard a violent slamming of doors, a swift skurrying of feet in the halls, and then Aunt Penelope shrieking, in tones of rejoicing rather than terror:

      "Burg-lars! burg-lars! Come, come — all of you!"

      I reached the corridors as the servants descended — all, alas! in costumes more picturesque than proper; while Aunt Penelope, on the threshold of her door, looked at least seventeen feet high, in a white night-gown and a tower of a cap, valiantly brandishing a poker as she jumped up and down, still yelling:

      "Burglars! Take 'em! hang 'em! Burg-lars! burg-lars!"

      Then, out of her bower, rushed pretty Mrs. Warner, in a captivating deshabille and a state of great confusion, half laughing and half crying, as she said:

      "I'm the burglar; I did it. Oh, Mrs. Lawrence, I am so terribly ashamed! Mr. Montagu, you will never forgive me. I took a fancy my room was too warm, and I put up the window, forgetting all about the alarm."

      "Never mind, my dear," said Aunt Penelope, with a beaming smile; "it is not the least matter. Indeed, an occasional false summons will keep the servants on the alert; I am rather glad than otherwise."

      I saw the entire band glare at her in turn as they retreated, but my aunt paid no heed thereto. "It makes a beautiful whirr, doesn't it?" she cried, enthusiastically.

      At this, we all laughed like maniacs, and retired.

      The next evening, old George went out, and omitted to tell us that he was going; he had lived in the family for forty years, and naturally did as he pleased. On his return, he set the alarm off in trying to open the back-door; of course, remembering the "institution" just a second too late.

      The following morning, Aunt Penelope discovered that the machine was out of order; it took the workmen two days to set the thing to rights, so for a couple of nights we had peace and rest.

      "George and one of the other men must sit up," my aunt announced with great decision, as bed-time approached, on the first evening of this loss of our metal Cassandra. "I certainly shall not risk being chloroformed and — and burglared — without some effort to prevent it."

      "Good heavens, mamma, what an idea!" cried Minnie; the two had just had some words in regard to Tom Everett, and the bitterness of Minnie's feelings was audible in her voice. "Have George and one of the men been sitting up every night all these years?"

      "No matter what they have or have not done," rejoined Aunt Penelope, with dignity; "two of the servants will guard the house to-night. It is never too late for people to begin to do their duty. If you would remember that, you might show a little common gratitude, instead of sneering at your mother for her efforts to keep you from being murdered or carried off."

      "I wouldn't care where I was carried to, if I could only get away," muttered Minnie. Then for a few moments the atmosphere of the library was far from serene, and the storm ended in Minnie's retiring to her chamber in a shower of tears.

      I doubt whether George and one of the other men held vigil, though they received strict orders to do so; and, into the bargain, Aunt Penelope eloquently impressed on my mind the desirability of my getting out of bed now and then, to see that they were at their post — a cheerful request, which I received with Machiavelian responses.

      On the fifth night, the "institution" was again in order, and animated by a diabolical eagerness to find some work to do. It roused us about three o'clock in the morning, and once more we dashed downstairs and along corridors like a troop of sheeted ghosts urged by some irresistible summons to begin a frantic promenade.

      This time we were all prepared to believe in the presence of the much-sought-for burglars, because, an instant before the alarm sounded, George had heard a window bang in the second-story hall.

      However, Minnie presently remembered that she had left it open, and then we all remembered that the spring was loose and frequently gave way; but the recital of those facts did not prevent our being forced to search the house from garret to cellar. Aunt Penelope refused to allow a soul to go to bed until this was done.

      The next morning, two of the men-servants threw up their situations and departed, declaring that they wouldn't stop another night in a house where such a dratted machine was kept to harry people's lives out — no, not for double wages!"

      "And small blame to 'em," the under house­maid observed in the hall. Aunt Penelope overheard the remark, and gave the girl a month's warning; but Mary Ann vowed that she would leave on the instant, and did: not so much, I fancy, to assert her independence, as because one of the masculine rebels was her "young man," and she wanted to live in the same establishment.

      After breakfast, George went into town, to leave word in regard to our needs at the intelligence-office; and several applicants for the vacant situations presented themselves before noon, but none of them pleased my aunt's fastidious taste. Fortunately, a fine capable-looking young fellow, who wanted a place, heard of this opening, through some acquaintance, and came to try for it. He was a stranger in Acton, but he showed excellent recommendations signed by a couple of people in Buffalo whom we knew; so Aunt Penelope engaged him, and he entered upon his duties at once, his appearance meeting even with the approval of old George, who was rather more fastidious than his mistress.

      So the sixth night of our possession of that bulwark of safety, the "institution," came on; of course, we had another commotion — this time about eleven o'clock. Aunt Penelope had a bad headache, and went to bed quite early, not forgetting to wind the alarm before she did so.

      Her son Joe arrived home unexpectedly after an absence of a month, and, seeing by the lights that the family had not retired, was seized with the inspiration — in any case that ever came under my observation, invariably an unlucky one — to give his affectionate relatives an agreeable surprise by appearing unheralded in the library.

      So, having his pass-key in his pocket, he opened the outer door with its aid; was greeted by that terrific explosion whose music the rest of us had learned to know so well; generally assaulted in the hall as a first-class burglar before we recognized him, all muffled up as he was in his ulster: while he nearly throttled the new young man, in his wrath at being pounced upon in that inhospitable fashion.

      I was very glad to have Joe back; not only because I had missed his society — for he was as genial and companionable a young fellow as ever an old-bachelor uncle delighted in — but I trusted to his influence in aiding me to soften Aunt Penelope where Minnie and Tom Everett were concerned, and to render the young people themselves less impatient and rebellious.

      Matters had reached their present unhappy climax since Joe's departure. Before that, my aunt's newly-awakened opposition to the tenderness between the pair had been nearly tacit; but, the very week Joe left, Tom had the misfortune to offend her hugely, and the most unpardonable point in the matter was that the course of events had shown him to have right on his side.

      Out of the goodness of his heart, he warned her against some woman who had appealed to her ready sympathies with a piteous tale; and a terrible rating Tom received for his pains. When the woman was soon proved an impostor, my aunt was more angry than ever; seeming to consider that what she called Tom's unwarrantable interference and slanderous aspersions had been, not the result, but the cause, of the creature's misdemeanors.

      Besides this, a disagreement between Tom and the widow of his former guardian had culminated in a law-suit, which, as it ought to have done, had gone in the young man's favor. Mr. Townley had been no business-man; his books were in a state of terrible confusion; and, to add thereto, his muddleheaded old wife had chosen to act as administratrix, and she was noted for getting everything wrong she undertook.

      Tom had letters and documents in plenty to establish satisfactorily the justice of his claim; but Mrs. Townley flew into a rage at the first mention of the matter, and, from that, took refuge in tears and wounded feeling. Tom tried to settle the affair amicably; I tried; a lawyer-friend used his best efforts; but good old Mrs. Townley was not to be induced to hear reason. She even refused to submit the matter to arbitration; so Tom, thoroughly vexed at last, brought the threatened suit.

      Mrs. Townley and my aunt had been friends since childhood. They quarreled fiercely once in three months — I think, for the pleasure of making up; and Jemima's woolly-headedness was always a source of contemptuous amusement to Aunt Penelope; but, on this occasion, she elected to believe Jemima clear-headed and correct.

      Mrs. Townley had quite convinced herself that not only had her husband, to her certain knowledge, paid Tom Everett the money, but he never had owed it; and, whatever story she happened to believe when talking, my aunt believed also. She anathematized Tom as the despoiler of a helpless widow, the defrauder of an innocent struggling woman — which was delicious, as the old lady had an income of over ten thousand a year — and threatened him with her own ever-­lasting displeasure, unless he dropped that iniquitous suit.

      This, of course, Tom declined to do; so, when he won his case, Aunt Penelope banished him from the house, and ordered Minnie never again to exchange a syllable with the bold-faced Barabbas.

      Minnie was about as obedient as the generality of American girls; and I knew that she met Tom out, and corresponded secretly with him. Nor could I much blame her therefor, though I lectured them both on the duty of submission, and the wisdom of leaving time to show the mother her error.

      My common-sense advice met with the reception such counsel usually receives: my aunt was angry with me for taking the young people's side; and the young people considered me a flinty-hearted old bachelor, with a dog-in-the-manger's dislike to see anybody happy.

      I related my difficulties to Joe, and we had a long chat, before we went to bed. Joe promised to talk to his sister and Tom. We knew that expostulation would only increase Aunt Penelope's obstinacy; but Joe thought we might succeed in bringing on some dispute between her and Jemima Townley, which would cause a rapid change in her sentiments: so I went to rest, exultant in a malicious determination that the two old friends should be set by the ears on the first possible occasion.

      The next day, Joe came to me somewhat crest-­fallen by the lack of success which his efforts had met.

      "I don't know who is the most unreasonable and wrong-headed among the whole set," he said. "I'm very fond of Tom, but he nearly succeeded in quarreling with me; and Minnie wept like a water-nymph, declaring that I had joined her enemies."

      "You've had a slight taste of what I have been undergoing for weeks," I rejoined, sorry for him and disappointed at his failure, though feeling that peculiar satisfaction we all do, in spite of ourselves, when other people's efforts are proved to be as impotent as our own.

      "Then I met Mrs. Townley," continued Joe, "and she wanted to tell me her wrongs; but I stopped that. And the 'mater' has been at me with her tale. I feel as if I had been under a douche for half a day."

      "I hope you didn't exasperate her by any opposition?"

      "Not a bit. I just fell to and abused Minnie, until she began to defend her; and declared that, except in this one instance, she had always been the most dutiful girl that ever lived."

      "Good!" cried I. "There's something gained."

      "Not a gain!" retorted Joe, slangy, but emphatic. "Minnie came in, just then; and mother — she was looking over her laces — gave her a bit, saying something about its being worth its weight in gold; and Miss Minnie burst into high tragedy, and asked if lace could bind up a broken heart, or some such rubbish."

      "And, of course, Aunt Pen got angry; so matters are worse than they were," said I, disconsolately.

      "No, they're not," replied Joe; "mother was in a melting-mood, and beat Minnie doing Niobe."

      "Then there is some hope. Any change must be for the better," I exclaimed, with renewed cheerfulness.

      "Matters are just where they were before," retorted Joe, tired and disappointed enough to feel in an exasperating humor, while I was in one easily to be exasperated.

      However, we had the wisdom to smoke a pipe before saying anything further, and soon got all right, though we were far from cheerful; for Joe shared my fears that the young pair would do something desperate. They both looked on themselves as first-class martyrs, and, being alike terribly headstrong, the danger was they might elope, some fine evening; and I had a horror of anybody connected with me causing gossip or remark.

      The next day came and passed; the burglar-alarm went off once, of course; but it was in the morning: Aunt Penelope had forgotten to arrest its harmful powers before she came downstairs.

      Still another day was upon us, not altogether a pleasant one; for Jemima Townley called, and began to abuse Tom before Minnie, thereby evoking a battle in which the young lady rather worsted both god-mother and parent.

      That evening, visitors fortunately came in, and we remained in the library for awhile after their departure. Minnie was a wonderful mingling of melancholy and dignity, and Aunt Penelope vibrated between severity and fractiousness, and Joe and I talked politics diligently, which annoyed them both.

      Suddenly, my aunt discovered that it was nearly twelve o'clock, and ordered us to our rooms.

      "The hours people keep in this house are ridiculous," she said; "those poor servants are worked to death. I am only afraid the new man won't stand it; and he's a perfect treasure. Minnie, you ought to have been asleep, long ago. Get to bed at once."

      "It's of no use to go," replied Minnie. "That horrid alarm is sure to go off; we may as well wait till it does."

      "If it sounds to-night, without rhyme or reason, I'll smash it," cried Joe, roused to wrath by the memory of the inhospitable reception he had met on his return home.

      "Really, you two children are dreadful," sighed Aunt Penelope; "I should think you would be afraid of a judgment. To talk in that way of a safeguard which — which — well, it is so precious, one feels as if the man who invented it must have been fairly inspired."

      "I hope he's gone, or will go, where he'll get his deserts," said Joe. "In that case, he will be surrounded by burglars and burglar-alarms through endless ages."

      Minnie laughed, for the first time that evening, and poor Aunt Pen looked so hurt and shocked that I hastened to add:

      "This is the seventh night the machine has been in working-order. There's luck in odd numbers, so perhaps it will let us rest."

      "The machine, as you call it, will do its duty," said Aunt Penelope, far from appeased: "I wish I could be certain that all the human members of this household would always prove as trustworthy."

      "That's a hit at you, Uncle Ted," cried Joe: "all because you owned you didn't pay the insurance this morning."

      "And we may be burned in our beds this night," said my aunt, in tones of solemn reproach.

      "Well, if we are, the money wouldn't help us," I retorted.

      "We might find ourselves houseless," pursued Aunt Penelope. "Oh, I wonder at the example you set your cousins, Edward Montagu — a man of your age."

      "I shall be older before the insurance is due; for that won't be till next week. I had no chance to explain, when you asked before those people," said I, calmly.

      "I will bid you all good-night," Aunt Penelope observed, after a brief silence, and departed without other leave-taking.

      There was no alarm that night. I awoke several times, and blessed the quiet. I overslept myself, the next morning; and it appeared, later, that Aunt Penelope and old George had done so too — an unexampled misfortune, on the latter's part; and, in consequence, all the servants were behind time.

      I was awakened by George's abrupt entrance into my chamber, calling despairingly: "Sir — sir — we've been robbed! The pantry-safe's been broken open. Every blessed bit of silver is gone. The medals and coins — and the new servant is gone, too."

      By the time I hurried into my clothes, Aunt Penelope and Joe were roused, and coming out of their rooms. We went downstairs to examine things. The state of the safe showed that it had been opened by an experienced "cracksman." The dishes and remains of eatables in the servants' hall proved that our "treasure" had called in a couple of confederates to assist him, and that the trio had supped daintily before their departure. Further examination made it clear that, during the previous day, the "treasure" must have disconnected the burglar-alarm wires in the basement, so that he could open the door to his friends without risk of disturbing the household; and, even in the midst of her consternation, my aunt called out triumphantly:

      "I knew the alarm couldn't be in fault — I knew it!"

      The silver was exceedingly valuable, and a good deal that we usually kept in the bank had not been returned there since it was brought home to be used at a large entertainment we had given about a fortnight previous. Then, too, my collection of medals and coins was such as to make me quite famous among people interested in such curios.

      While we were discussing the manner in which the robbery had been committed, after the imbecile fashion people always do on such occasions, one of the maids rushed into the room, crying:

      "Oh, Mrs. Lawrence, the burglars have carried Miss Minnie off! She's gone — she's gone!"

      Aunt Penelope neither shrieked nor fainted; she put her hand to her head like a person who had received a sudden blow. She walked upstairs in silence, and Joe and I followed, after pausing to exchange a single word, which we pronounced simultaneously:

      "Eloped!"

      We found my aunt in her daughter's chamber, which exhibited no sign of confusion. The bed had been slept in, and the windows were open. The poor mother stared at us in such a dazed speechless fashion that I feared a paralytic stroke might ensue, and knew that to tell what I was certain must be the truth would prove a relief, compared to her present horrible dread.

      "Aunt, aunt," I cried, "it isn't what you fear! Minnie couldn't have been carried off without some of us hearing the struggle. She has run away."

      "Run away?" my aunt repeated, vaguely, unable to take in the significance of my words.

      "Yes, mother — she has eloped with Tom," said Joe, putting his arm about the poor creature, who was growing more stony each instant. "She's a wicked girl, to make us such trouble; but it's better than having her kidnaped! Tom's a good fellow, and will make her a capital husband."

      Aunt Penelope pushed her son aside; went, without speaking, to the bureau, and opened the drawers; they were heaped with neatly-folded articles of wearing-apparel. Then she set a closet-door ajar, exposing to view a goodly store of dresses hanging within, and pointed from closet to bureau, saying, with difficulty:

      "Kidnaped — my child has been kidnaped! Save her — oh, you are men — save her!"

      She sank into a chair and closed her eyes, and Joe whispered to me:

      "I'll drive to Tom's lodgings at once — of course they are married and off, hours ago — try and convince her."

      He departed, and I did my best to obey his request; but, though at times she tried to believe, my poor aunt could not. "No girl," she said, "would elope without taking some of her wardrobe." She strove hard to control herself, but we spent a dreadful half-hour. I was never more relieved than when I heard the sound of the wheels which warned us of Joe's return.

      Aunt Penelope rose; I held fast to her, afraid she would fall; the door opened, and in rushed Tom Everett, the whitest man I ever saw.

      "You thought we had run away," he groaned. "Oh, if you'd only given her to me, I'd have taken better care of her than this. I know nothing of her. Where can she be? Oh, my darling!"

      Joe had followed into the room, and he and I stared at each other in dumb horror, while my aunt flung herself into Tom's arms, crying:

      "Find her; bring her back! She shall be your wife. I always loved you, Tom. Go: go quick! Only find her."

      Suddenly the door opened, and Minnie herself appeared.

      She stared in palpable wonder at the sight of her mother in Tom's embrace, and the sound of our united voices shrieking:

      "Minnie! Minnie!"

      Tom dropped Aunt Penelope, and got foremost in the rush we made: seized Minnie in his arms, actually lifting her from the floor, and danced about like a maniac.

      "Set me down," she cried. "Are you all crazy? What on earth has happened? The front-doors are open; not a servant to be seen; not a sign of breakfast —"

      "We're to be married: your mother consents," broke in Tom, hugging her tighter.

      "Set me down this instant, or I'll never speak to you again," she threatened. "Ted! Joe! do stop this lunatic! What is the matter?"

      Aunt Penelope had now fainted away, and Joe and I were occupied in lifting her on the sofa. Tom let Minnie free, at last, and she hurried forward, frightened enough now, but able to employ the needful remedies, like the sensible efficient girl she was, to restore her mother.

      We hastily explained what had happened, and our fright; and Aunt Penelope came to in time to hear Minnie's side of the story.

      She had risen early, Minnie said, and the autumn morning was so gorgeous that she was inspired to something entirely unprecedented in her experience — take a walk. She remembered about the alarm, and so left the side-door ajar, knowing that the servants would soon be down; anyway, it gave into the centre of our large grounds. Passing the house of a poor widow, who was a protegée of my aunt's, she found the worthy soul in great distress; one of the children had just fallen and broken his arm. Minnie sent the oldest boy for a doctor, bidding him return by our house and leave word where she was, and stopped till the doctor arrived and set the arm. In his excitement, the lad doubtless forgot all about leaving the message, and Minnie had been too much occupied to remind him of it.

      "But she's found, Aunt Pen; so your promise holds good," cried Tom, again making a dash at his recovered prize, as if prepared instantly to undertake the rôle of kidnaper himself, if any refusal followed his words.

      But Aunt Penelope could only cry and hold out her arms beseechingly; and, after she had hugged them both well, she was too happy to oppose her child, if she had felt inclined.

      Before the day was over, she had attacked Jemima Townley and forced an explanation into her head, and the old lady was more delighted than anybody at the reconciliation. By the end of a week, if anyone had told her she ever had a difficulty with Tom Everett, she would indignantly have denied the fact, and, better still, have firmly believed what she affirmed.

      The "treasure's" recommendations proved forgeries, of course; but, after awhile, the thieves condescended to enter into communication with us; we paid a great deal of money, and finally got back the silver and other valuables.

      In the meantime, the burglar-alarm was found to have been so much injured by the "treasure's" performance on the wires, that Aunt Penelope was induced to dispose of it, and peace again reigned in our dwelling at night: indeed, Jemima Townley always blamed the "institution" for the robbery; and I am not certain but Aunt Pen did, too.

      "Anyway," said Tom Everett, impertinently, at his wedding-breakfast, "there's nothing left in the house to guard. You keep your silver in the bank, and I've got Minnie safe at last in my own keeping, so you're sure all the valuables are secure."

(THE END)