II.

UNCLE JACOB'S GIFT.

When Grace passed through the doorway of the red-brick house, which the old priest had raised in such a magical fashion out of the ground, she looked eagerly round the hall, and then clapped her hands and cried, "Why, I do believe everything is here just as it used to be. I don't remember all these beautiful pictures and things; but mother and father have often told me about them. Oh, I wish they could be here to see!"

Her guide did not answer, but still holding her by the hand, he led her into a spacious room. It was so pretty that it almost took Grace's breath away. The softness of the carpets, the colours of the curtains and other drapery, the glittering mirrors on the walls, everything she saw was new and wonderful to her, and seemed like nothing so much as a story out of the "Arabian Nights."

But before she could do anything more than give one little gasp of delight, the old Indian priest at her side waved his golden wand.

Then a curtain which hung before a doorway at a little distance was suddenly looped up, and, with a light step, Grace's mother, looking rosy and well, came into the room.

Grace gave the old man's hand a hard squeeze, but although she had a great longing to run straight into her mother's arms, some strange feeling held her back. After feasting her eyes for a moment on her mother's bright and happy face, she whispered, "Where's father?"

Again the wonderful golden wand was raised, and then the curtain which had fallen into its place before the doorway was pushed hastily aside, and Grace saw her father.

All traces of sorrow and care had left his face; he held his head high, his eyes shone with a glad light, and in his hands he carried a large book bound in white and gold.

As he entered the room, Mrs. Goodman turned, and with a little cry of joy went to meet him. Then an expression came into her father's face which Grace could not understand, as silently, and with bowed head, he gave the beautiful book into his wife's hands.

"At last!" cried Grace's mother, taking it from him, and her voice was broken by a sob, while the tears gathered in her eyes; but still Grace could see that she was very happy.

Grace was very happy, too, and she could scarcely take her eyes from her father and mother when she heard the voice of the Indian priest speaking to her.

"Is there anything more you would like?" the old man asked.

"Oh, how kind and good you are!" cried Grace, squeezing his hand harder than ever; "and how ungrateful I am to forget all about you. You have chosen the loveliest things."

"But don't you want anything for yourself?" asked her strange friend. "You may choose anything you like."

Grace looked all round the big room, and it seemed so full of pretty things that at first she could not think of anything to wish for; but suddenly she gave a little jump and cried: "The Magic Cabinet! It isn't here; and I would like to have it, please."

The old man looked grave; but he answered at once: "You have chosen, so you must have it; for in this country a choice is too serious a thing to be taken back. If you don't like it you must make the best of it. But you know you can't be at both sides of the cabinet at one and the same time. Come with me."

Grace felt a little uncomfortable as the old man led her quickly across the room and through the curtained doorway by which her father and mother had entered.

Directly the curtain fell behind them she found that they were in the dark; and, although she still held her friend's hand, she began to be afraid.

"Oh, whatever is going to happen? I can't see anything at all!" she cried.

"I am going to wave my golden wand," answered the slow and solemn voice of the Indian priest.

As he spoke there was a vivid flash of light. Little Grace gave a violent start, and rubbed her eyes; and then--and then she burst into tears.

For what do you think that sudden flash of light had shown her?

It had shown her that she was back again in the shabby little home she had known so long; that her mother, pale and ill as ever, was just awakening from her sleep; that her father had returned and was lighting the lamp; that the little carved figure of the Indian priest was sitting motionless before the temple on the doors of the Magic Cabinet; and, showing her all this, it also showed her that she had been fast asleep and dreaming.

It was too hard to bear. To think that the wonderful power of the magic priest, the beautiful fairy-like country, the dear old home, her mother's health and happiness, and her father's book,--to think that all these delightful things were only parts of a strange dream was a terrible disappointment to Grace, and she cried as if her heart would break.

"Why, darling," said her father, crossing the room and lifting up the little girl in his strong arms, "is it as bad as all that? Can't you bear to part with the old cabinet, even for mother's sake?"

"It's--it's not that," sobbed Grace, hiding her face on his shoulder. "I--I wish we could keep the cabinet; but it's not that. It's my dream."

"Your dream, dear? Well, come and tell mother and me all about it."

Mr. Goodman sat down in a chair beside his wife, and when she could control her sobs, Grace told them the whole story of her strange journey to the other side of the Magic Cabinet.

When she had finished her father said: "Well, darling, it was a very pleasant dream while it lasted; but beautiful things can't last for ever any more than ugly ones. It is no wonder that you should have had such a dream after all our talk about Uncle Jacob's fancies, and the Buddhist priest, and the good fortune that was supposed to come to the owners of the Magic Cabinet."

"Yes, I'm not surprised about all that, especially as Grace has always made-believe about that funny little priest," said Mrs. Goodman; "but I can't think what set her dreaming about a knob inside the cabinet."

"Oh, that's not only a dream," cried Grace. "I have often seen the little knob, and I have pushed it and pulled it, but I can never make it move."

"Why didn't you tell us about it? I'm sure I have never seen it," said her mother.

"Come and show it to me now," said Mr. Goodman, putting Grace off his knee, and taking the lamp from the table.

Grace, followed by her mother and father, crossed over to the corner in which the Magic Cabinet stood. The lamp was placed on a chair just in front of it; and then Grace, with rather a reproachful glance at the figure of the Indian priest, twisted round the little gold bar, and opened the two ebony doors.

"There!" cried Grace, stooping down, "I can just see the knob; but you can't get low enough. You can feel it, though, if you put your hand into this corner."

Guided by the direction in which her finger pointed, Mr. Goodman thrust his hand right back into the darkest corner of the cabinet; and presently he said, "Yes, I can certainly feel something hard and round like a little button. But I can't move it."

As he spoke he pulled at the little knob with a force that shook the cabinet in its place.

"Push it, father!" cried Grace eagerly. "That's what I did in my dream."

Mr. Goodman obeyed, and instantly there was a low musical "twang," like that caused by the striking of a Jew's harp, or the quick vibration of a piece of watch-spring; a sharp click followed, and something was heard to fall on to the ebony floor of the cabinet.

Mrs. Goodman held the light closer, and in a moment her husband said, "Here is a little secret door hinged down to the bottom of the cabinet. The knob must have been fixed to a spring, and in pressing it I have released the catch of the door, which has fallen flat, leaving a small square opening."

"Is there anything inside?" asked Grace, in a hurried, excited whisper.

"Let me see," said her father, thrusting in his hand again. "Ah, yes! A little drawer!"

A moment later he stood upright, holding a tiny drawer of sweet-smelling sandal-wood in his hand.

"Come along to the table," he said; "we will soon see if there is anything nice inside."

Although it was evident that he was trying to speak carelessly, there was a strange eagerness in his manner; and as Mrs. Goodman set the lamp on the table, the light revealed a spot of bright colour on each of her pale cheeks; and as for Grace, she was in raptures.

"I know--I _know_ it's something beautiful," she cried; "and I believe my priest is a magic priest after all."

They all three gathered round the light, and Mr. Goodman laid the little secret drawer on the table.

The drawer seemed to be quite full, but its contents were completely covered by a neatly-folded piece of Indian silk. This was quickly removed; and under it there lay an ivory box of delicate workmanship. It fitted closely into the drawer, and Mr. Goodman lifted it out with great care. On opening the lid he revealed a second box; and this was so beautiful that it drew exclamations of delight from both Grace and her mother. The inner box was made of gold, and it was covered with fruit and flowers and birds, all wrought in wonderful _repousse_ work.

There was some difficulty in finding how this golden box was to be opened; but a little examination brought to light a secret spring, and at the first pressure the lid of the box flew back and the central treasure of the Magic Cabinet was exposed to view.

Grace gave a cry of disappointment, for, lying in a snug little nest of pink cotton-wool, she saw only a dull, ugly-looking stone.

Mrs. Goodman did not speak, but looked earnestly at her husband as he took the stone from its resting-place and held it close under the light. He took a glass from his pocket and examined it carefully for a moment, and then laid it back in the golden box again, and said, "It is a diamond, and, I believe, a very valuable one."

"But it isn't a bit pretty and sparkly like the diamonds in the shop windows," said Grace. "What is the good of it?"

"It is a wonderful magic gift," answered her father. "All that money can do for us, this dull-looking stone can do. It can buy all the things mother needs to make her strong and well."

"And it can print father's book, and make us all as happy as we were in your dream," said her mother.

Mr. Goodman now took the little sandal-wood drawer in his hand again, and, under another piece of Indian silk, he found a letter.

"My dear, this is for you," he said; "and see--surely this must be your Uncle Jacob's writing?"

Mrs. Goodman took the envelope from his hand, and read the inscription, which was written in strange, angular characters:

"TO MY NIECE."

Her hand shook a little as she broke the seal and drew out a small sheet of paper covered closely with the same writing, and her voice was unsteady as she read the old man's letter aloud.

"My dear Niece,--When my will is read you may be surprised to find that I have left you only one gift--my old Indian cabinet. But I value it very highly, and I believe that for my sake you will never willingly part with it. I am rich, and if you needed money I could leave you plenty; but you have enough and to spare at present, and I hope you will never know the want of it. But still, I mean to make one slight provision for you. Authors are not always good men of business, and your husband may lose his money; and however great and good his book may be, it may be rejected by the world, and you may some day be poor. I shall place an uncut diamond of some value in the secret drawer of the old cabinet, hoping that you may find it in a time of need. You may wonder why I trust to such a chance; but some wise man has said that _all chance is direction which we cannot see_, and I believe he is right, so I shall follow my whim. If you should discover the secret at a time when you are not in need of money, keep the gem uncut as a wonderful work of nature; there are not many like it in the world. But if the money it can bring you will be useful, do not hesitate to sell it; it will fetch a high price. In any case, accept it as the last gift of your affectionate

"UNCLE JACOB."

There was silence in the little room for a few moments after Uncle Jacob's letter had been read. Mr. Goodman led his wife back to her chair, and Grace stood solemnly waiting for somebody to speak.

At last her father looked at her with a bright smile.

"We must be very thankful to Uncle Jacob for his gift," he said; "but we mustn't forget that it was your wonderful dream which led us to the discovery."

"I can't help thinking that my dear Indian priest had something to do with it. You know he is a magic one; and he did look something like Uncle Jacob in my dream, you know."

Her mother and father smiled; and Mr. Goodman rose briskly and said, "I must make haste and tell the man he needn't come to look at the cabinet."

"Oh, father," cried Grace, who was feeling a little puzzled, "won't it have to go away, after all?"

"No, my child," he answered; "mother will be able to get well without losing it now. We shall keep the Magic Cabinet."

"There, I thought my Indian priest wouldn't tell a story. I asked him to promise not to go away and leave us, and he shook his hand most beautifully."

Mr. Goodman bent down and kissed her; and then he left the room, and Grace, after taking a peep at her little Indian priest, ran and threw her arms lovingly round her mother's neck.

* * * * *

Uncle Jacob's gift was the means of making Grace's dream come true in a wonderful way. First of all her mother got well and the roses came back into her cheeks again; and then, instead of going on a magic journey through the back of the cabinet, the father and mother and their little girl went into the country, which was quite as beautiful, if not so strange, as the island in the shining lake. A little later the dear old red-brick home was bought again, and they all went to live there; Mr. Goodman's book was published, and it was bound in white and gold, just as Grace had seen it in her dream. And after it had been examined and admired, at Grace's suggestion it was put away under the watchful care of the little Indian priest in the Magic Cabinet.

GIRLHOOD AND YOUTH.

ONLY TIM.

BY SARAH DOUDNEY.

## CHAPTER I.

"I say, Bee, are you coming?"

Claude Molyneux, in all the glory of fourteen summers and a suit of new white flannels, stands looking up with a slight frown of impatience at an open bay-window. It has been one of the hottest of August days; and now at four o'clock in the afternoon the haze of heat hangs over the sea, and makes a purple cloud of the distant coast. But, for all that, it is splendid weather; just the kind of weather that a boy likes when he comes to spend his holidays at the seaside; and Claude, who is an Indian-born boy, has no objection to a good hot summer.

As he stands, hands in pockets, on the narrow pebbled path under the window, you cannot help admiring the grace of his slim, well-knit figure, and the delicate moulding of his features. The fair skin is sun-tanned, as a boy's skin ought to be; the eyes, large and heavy-lidded, are of a dark grey, not brilliant, but soft; the light, fine hair is cropped close to the shapely head. He is a lad that one likes at the first glance; and although one sees, all too plainly, that those chiselled lips can take a disdainful curl sometimes, one knows instinctively that they may always be trusted to tell the simple truth. Anything mean, anything sneaky, could not live in the steady light of those dark-grey eyes.

"I say, Bee-e!" he sings out again, with a little drawl, which, however, does not make the tone less imperative. Master Claude is not accustomed to be kept waiting, and is beginning to think himself rather badly used.

"Coming," cries a sweet treble; and then a head and shoulders appear above the row of scarlet geraniums on the window-sill.

She is worth waiting for, this loitering Bee, whose thirteen years have given her none of the airs of premature womanhood. Her smooth round cheeks are tinted with the tender pink of the shell; her great eyes, of speedwell blue, are opened frankly and fearlessly on the whole world. Taken singly, not one of her features is, perhaps, quite faultless; but it would be hard to find a critic who could quarrel with the small face, framed in waves of ruddy golden hair that go tumbling down below her waist. You can see a freckle or two on the sides of her little nose, and notice that her slender hands are browned by the sea-side sun; for Bee is one of those lucky girls who are permitted to dabble freely in salt-water, and get all the benefit that briny breezes can bestow.

"I couldn't come sooner," she says in a tone of apology. "We always have to learn a hymn on Saturdays, and I've had _such_ a bother with Dolly. She _would_ want to know where 'the scoffer's seat' was, and if it had a cushion? And it does so worry me to try to explain."

"Oh, you poor thing--you must be quite worn out!" responds Claude, with genuine sympathy. "But make haste; you haven't got your hat on yet."

Bee makes a little dive, and brings up a wide-brimmed sailor's hat with a blue ribbon round it. She puts it on, fastens it securely under the silken masses of her hair, and then declares herself to be quite ready.

In the next instant the girl and boy are walking side by side along the shore, near enough to the sea to hear the soft rush of the tide. The blue eyes are turned inquiringly on Claude's face, which is just a shade graver than it ought to be on this delightful do-nothing day.

"Bee," he says after a silence, "I don't quite approve of your being great friends with Crooke--Tim Crooke. What a name it is! He may be a good sort of fellow, but he's not in our set at all, you know."

"He _is_ a good sort of fellow," she answers. "There's no doubt about that. Aunt Hetty likes him very much. And he's clever, Claude; he can do ever so many things."

"I dare say he can," says Mr. Molyneux, throwing back his head and quickening his pace. "But you needn't have got so _very_ intimate. We could have done very well without him to-day."

"He's Mr. Carey's pupil," remarks Bee quietly. "Aunt Hetty couldn't invite Mr. Carey and leave out Tim."

"Well, we could have been jolly enough without Mr. Carey. It's a mistake, I think, to see too much of this Tim Crooke; he isn't a gentleman, and he oughtn't to expect us to notice him particularly."

"He doesn't expect anything; we like him; he's our friend." The soft pink deepens on Bee's cheeks, and her ripe lips quiver a little. She loves Claude with all her heart, and thinks him the king of boys; but, for all that, she won't let him be unjust if she can help it.

Claude tramps on over sand, and pebbles, and seaweed, with lips firmly compressed and eyes gazing steadily before him. Bee, as she glances at him, knows quite well what Claude feels when he looks as if his features had got frozen into marble. And she knows, too, that he will be painfully, frigidly, exasperatingly polite to her all the evening.

Matters cannot go on like this, she says to herself in desperation. Claude arrived only yesterday, and here they are beginning his holiday with a dreadful disagreement. She has been counting the days that must pass before she sees him; writing him little letters full of sweet child-love and longing; wearing a pinafore over her newest frock, that it may be kept fresh and pretty for his critical eyes. And now he is here, walking by her side; and she has offended him.

Is it Heaven or the instincts of her own innocent little heart that teach this girl tact and wisdom? She doesn't proceed to inspire Claude with a maddening desire to punch Tim's head, by recounting a long catalogue of Mr. Crooke's perfections, as a more experienced person would probably have done. But she draws a shade closer to her companion, and presently he finds a tiny brown hand upon his white flannel sleeve.

"You dear old Empey," she says lovingly, "I've been wanting you for, oh, _such_ a long time!"

The frozen face thaws; the dark grey eyes shine softly. "Empey" is her pet name for him, an abbreviation of "Emperor;" and he likes to hear her say it.

"And I've wanted you, old chap," he answers, putting his arm round the brown-holland waist.

"Empey, we always do get on well together, don't we?"

"Of course we do,"--with a squeeze.

"Then, just to please me, won't you be a little kind to poor Tim? He's not a splendid fellow like you, and he knows he never will be. I do so want you to forget that he's a nobody. We are all so much more comfortable when we don't remember things of that sort. You're not angry, Empey?"

"Angry; no, you silly old thing!"

And then she knows, without any more words, that he will grant her request.

The little boat that Claude has hired is waiting for them at the landing-place, and Bee steps into it with the lightest of hearts. Aunt Hetty and the rest will follow in a larger boat; but Mr. Molyneux has resolved to row Miss Beatrice Jocelyn himself.

He rows as he does everything, easily and gracefully, and Bee watches him with happy blue eyes as they go gliding over the warm sea. How still it is to-day! Beyond the grey rocks and yellow sands they can see the golden harvest fields full of standing sheaves, and still farther away there are low hills faintly outlined through the hot mist. The little town, with its irregularly-built terraces, looks dazzlingly white in the sunshine; but the church, standing on high ground, lifts a red spire into the hazy blue.

"I could live on the sea!" says Bee ecstatically. "You don't know what it costs me to come out of a boat; I always want this lovely gliding feeling to go on for ever. Don't you?"

"I like it awfully," he replies; "but then there are other things that I want to do by-and-by. I mean to try my hand at tiger-shooting when I go out to the governor."

"But, oh, Empey, it'll be a long time before you have to go out to India!"

Her red mouth drops a little at the corners, and her dimples become invisible. He looks at her with a gleam of mischief in his lazy eyes.

"What do you call a long time?" he asks. "Just a year or two, that's nothing. Never mind, Bee, you'll get on very well without me."

"Oh, Empey!"

The great blue eyes glisten; and Claude is penitent in an instant.

"You ridiculous old chap!" he says gaily. "Haven't you been told thousands of times that my dad is your guardian, and as good as a father to you? And do you suppose that I'd go to India and leave you behind? You're coming too, you know, and you'll sit perched up on the back of an elephant to see me shoot tigers. What a time we'll have out there, Bee!"

"Do you really mean it?" she cries, with a rapturous face; blue eyes shining like sapphires, cheeks aglow with the richest rose.

"Of course I do. It was all arranged, years ago, by our two governors; I thought Aunt Hetty had told you. But I say, Bee, when the time _does_ come, I hope you won't make a fuss about leaving England!"

"Not a bit of it," she says sturdily. "I shall like to see the Ganges, and the big water-lilies, and the alligators. But what's to become of Dolly?"

"I don't know; I suppose she'll have to stay with Aunt Hetty. You belong to _us_, you see, old girl; so you and I shall never be parted."

"No, never be parted," she echoes, looking out across the calm waters with eyes full of innocent joy.

## CHAPTER II.

As soon as the boat grates on the shallows, two small bare-legged urchins rush forward to help Miss Jocelyn to land. But Bee, active and fearless, needs no aid at all, and reaches the pebbled beach with a light spring.

"Is tea nearly ready, Bob?" she asks, addressing the elder lad, who grins with delight from ear to ear.

"Yes, miss."

"And has your mother got an immense lobster, and a big crab, and heaps of prawns?"

"Yes, miss; whoppers, all of 'em."

"That's right; the sea does give us such appetites, doesn't it, Empey? I hope the others will be here soon."

"If they don't make haste they'll find only the shell of the lobster," he answers, joining her on the shore. "I shall never be able to control myself if I take one look at him!"

"Then don't look at him, greedy!" she cries, clapping her hands, and dancing round and round him, while the fisherman's children stare at her wonderful golden locks. "I didn't forget your weakness for lobster; Aunt Hetty said I might arrange it all; and we shall have a splendid tea!"

He looks at her with his quiet smile, half amused, wholly loving.

"Don't be whirling like a Dervish, and making yourself too hot to eat anything," he says, putting a stop to her evolutions. "Let's saunter along the beach, and sit down a bit, my Queen Bee."

It is a bright, glistening beach, strewn with many-coloured pebbles and stones, brown, yellow, purple, crimson, and snow-white; there are empty shells in abundance, out of which charming pincushions can be constructed by skilful fingers; and, best of all, there are little heaps of delicate sea-weed, capable of being pressed out into tiny tree-like forms of coral-pink. Altogether, this strip of shore is a very treasury for children, and Bee can never come here without wanting to load her own pockets and everybody else's with heavy spoils.

Claude, who has already been presented with seven shell pincushions, a polished pebble, and three copy-books filled with gummed sea-weed, does not care to add to this valuable collection of marine treasures. He arrests the little hand that is making a grasp at a clam, and says persuasively, "Stop till we come here again, Bee; don't pick up things this afternoon. It's so jolly to loaf about and do nothing, you know."

She obeys, after casting one regretful glance at that fascinating scalloped shell; and they stroll on in placid contentment. From this part of the coast they get a wide ocean outlook, and can gaze far away to the faint sea-line dissolving into the sky.

How calm it is! Beautiful, infinite sea, suggesting thoughts of voyages into unknown climes; of delightful secrets, yet unfathomed; of that enchanting "by-and-by" which is the children's Promised Land! The boy and girl are quiet for a time, dreaming their tranquil little dreams in the silence of utter satisfaction, while the waves wash the beach with the old lulling sound, and the rock-shadows are slowly lengthening on the sand.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Drake, the fisherman's wife, is busy with her preparations indoors. The cottage stands in a sheltered nook, a wooden dwelling, coated with tar, with nets hanging outside its walls, and a doorstep as white as snow. A few hardy geraniums in pots brighten the windows, but garden there is and can be none; the pebbly shore must serve the children as a playground. Rosy cheeks and sound lungs give proof that the little Drakes are thriving in their seaside home; and the youngest, a baby of two, lies placidly sucking its thumb on the sunny beach.

The boat containing Aunt Hetty and her party nears the landing, and just for one second Claude's brow darkens again. A sturdy lad is pulling strong strokes, with arms that seem almost as strong as Drake's; and the lad has a merry brown face and black curly hair, and wears a scarlet cap set jauntily on his head. It is Tim Crooke, looking provokingly at his ease among his aristocratic friends, and quite prepared to enjoy himself.

Aunt Hetty, gentlest and kindest of elderly ladies, is assisted to land by the clergyman; while Tim takes up Dolly in his strong arms and places her safely on the shore. And then they all make for the cottage, Bee lingering in the rear with Claude, and winning him back to good-humour with a pleading look from the sunny blue eyes.

Surely this tea in the fisherman's kitchen is a banquet fit for the gods! It is a happy, hungry group that gathers round the deal table; Bee, doing the honours, pours out tea, and has a great deal of business on her hands; Aunt Hetty, at the other end of the board, keeps anxious watch over Dolly, who consumes prawns with frightful rapidity; Tim Crooke beams on everybody and ministers to the wants of everybody, like the good-natured fellow that he is. And Claude, true to his unuttered promise, is kind to Tim in a pleasant, natural way.

At length the meal comes to an end; lobster, prawns, and crab are all demolished! and the last drop is drained out of the teapot. The party stroll out of doors, and revel in the cool of the evening air.

How is it that they begin to talk about heroes and heroism? Nobody can remember afterwards who started the subject; but certain it is that all, save Dolly, become interested in the conversation, and each has a word to say. Mr. Carey, the clergyman, is the leading talker; and he talks well, not priggishly, nor prosily, but speaks the right words in the right way, and wins the attention of his companions.

"Charles Kingsley has told us," he says, "'that true heroism must involve self-sacrifice;' it is the highest form of moral beauty. And it's a good thing when girls and boys fall to thinking about heroes and heroines; the thinking begets longing to do likewise. What was it that you were saying last night about your favourite hero, Tim?"

Tim lifts his head, and a rush of colour comes suddenly into his brown face.

"Jim Bludso is the fellow I like," he says, speaking quickly. "Wasn't it grand of him to hold the bow of the _Prairie Belle_ against the bank, while she was burning? The passengers all got off, you know, before the smoke-stacks fell; only Bludso's life was lost. He let himself be burnt to save the rest."

"It _was_ grand!" murmurs Bee, drawing a long breath.

"Yes," says Claude, bringing out his words slowly; "but I like Bert Harte's 'Flynn of Virginia' better still. You see, it was Jim Bludso's own fault that the steamer caught fire. Nothing would stop him from running a race with the _Movestar_; and so the _Prairie Belle_ came tearing along the Mississippi--

"'With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine!'

Jolly fun it must have been, but anybody could have foretold the end. As to Flynn, he was working on the Central Pacific Railway with his mate, a married man, when they found the whole concern giving way. And Flynn set his back against the wall in the dark drift, and held the timbers that were ready to fall, and sang out to Jake to run for his wife's sake."

"Oh, that was beautiful!" Bee sighs, with her blue eyes full of tears. "Flynn was only Flynn, wasn't he? But Jake had got somebody who couldn't live without him."

"That was just what Flynn felt, he was only Flynn," Claude replies, pleased that his hero is appreciated. "There was something splendidly deliberate in his self-sacrifice, don't you think so, sir?" he adds, turning to Mr. Carey.

"You are quite right," Mr. Carey answers thoughtfully.

Dolly comes running up to the group with shrill cries showing a little live crab in her small palm. A faint breeze is blowing off the sea, the west grows golden, and Aunt Hetty rises from her seat on the beach.

"We must be going home now," she says. "Claude, dear boy, will you look for my shawl?"

Claude obediently goes into the cottage to bring out the wraps; Mr. Carey hastens off to summon Drake; and Tim finds himself, for a few seconds, by Bee's side.

"Hasn't it been a lovely afternoon?" she says. "I've been so happy, haven't you? Oh, Tim, Claude has told me something!"

"Is it a secret?" Tim asks.

"No, he didn't say so. He says it was arranged years ago that he is to take me out to India, by-and-by. I'm so glad, Tim; I'd go anywhere with Claude."

The golden glow that shines on Tim's face seems to dazzle him, and he turns his head away from the speaker.

"I'm glad that you are glad, Bee," he says quietly. And that is all.

## CHAPTER III.

Sunday morning dawns, hot and still, but clearer than the day before. Aunt Hetty and her nieces are sitting in the bay-windowed room, which has the usual furniture of seaside lodgings. They have just gone through their morning readings, and are ready to begin breakfast when Claude comes downstairs.

"How is the wrist, dear boy?" Aunt Hetty asks tenderly.

In jumping out of the boat last night he has managed to get a sprain, but is disposed to treat the matter lightly.

"Oh, it will soon be well, thanks," he says, taking his place, and giving a smile to Bee.

A little later they all set out for church, and Bee and Claude attract many an admiring glance as they walk together along the terraces. She wears her new frock, of some soft creamy stuff, and a quaint "granny" bonnet of ivory satin lined with pale blue; her short skirts display silk stockings and dainty little shoes of patent leather. Aunt Hetty, her tall thin figure draped with black lace, follows with Dolly, that little witch of eight years old, who is the pet and plague of the good lady's life. Other seaside visitors look after the party from Nelson Lodge, and discuss them freely among themselves; but they do not speak from personal knowledge of Lady Henrietta Jocelyn and her charges. All they know is that Lady Henrietta is the maiden aunt of the two girls, and that they were committed to her care by her brother who died in India.

The church is large, recently built, and smells strongly of mortar and varnish. In winter Mr. Carey has to preach to a scanty congregation; but in summer, when the lodging-houses are full, there is always a goodly number of worshippers.

The Jocelyns, whose home is in town, are accustomed to attend St. George's, Hanover Square, and never feel perfectly comfortable in this seaside church, which is, as Bee says, "so dreadfully new, and so unfurnished." She wishes they could all worship out of doors, among the rocks, with the blue sea murmuring near them; and yet she likes to hear Tim's voice, as he stands among the other surpliced boys and leads the singing.

Not that Tim is by any means an ideal chorister. His surplice makes his brown skin look browner, and his curly head blacker than ever; and there is not a heavenly expression in his quick dark eyes. He is not in the least like one of those saintly boys we read of sometimes, who sing and lift their glances upward, and pass gently and speedily away from this wicked world. Judging from Tim's robust appearance he has many a year of earthly life before him, and many a hot battle to fight with the flesh and the devil.

But it is a marvellous voice that comes from the lad's massive throat; a voice that goes up like a lark's song, carrying heavy hearts to higher regions with its notes. In future days there are some who will remember that morning's anthem, which Tim sings with all his triumphant power and thrilling sweetness. A few fishermen, standing just within the doors, listen entranced, and one rugged old fellow puts up a hard hand to hide his eyes.

"The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves.

"The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.

"Thy testimonies are very sure; holiness becometh Thine house, O Lord, for ever."

The service comes to an end, and Aunt Hetty and her children walk homeward along the terraces, under a glaring sun. The sea is still calm, but a light breeze is stirring, creeping off the water and breathing across the hot sand and shingle. Bee gives a deep sigh of satisfaction as the zephyr kisses her rosy cheeks.

"It's going to be just a little cooler, Empey," she says, as they draw near Nelson Lodge.

"Yes; it must be jolly on the sea to-day," he remarks, following a little cutter with longing eyes.

When the midday meal is ended, Aunt Hetty repairs to the sofa to read Jeremy Taylor; and Dolly, having discovered an illustrated copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress," is silently gloating over a picture of Apollyon, dragon-winged, with smoke coming out of his nostrils. For fifteen or twenty minutes Claude and Bee whisper by the open window, and then a gentle sound from the sofa tells them that good Jeremy has lulled Aunt Hetty to repose.

Claude gives Bee an expressive glance which plainly says, "Come along." Dolly's back is turned towards them; moreover, she has just lighted upon a whole family of fiends, and cannot take her eyes off the book. So the pair slip out of the room unheard and unseen, and gain the beach without let or hindrance.

They shun the pier, and foot it briskly along the shore till they have left most of the promenaders behind. On and on they go till they get to the low rocks, and the smooth yellow sands strewn with mussel and cockle shells; and then they sit down to rest, and listen to the music of the tide.

"You must take me to White Cove one day, Empey," says Bee, after a pause. "There are the most lovely shells to be found there, and agates, and things. Mr. Carey said that somebody once picked up a bit of amber there."

"I could row you there at once," returns Claude, "if it wasn't for this wrist of mine."

"Oh, but it's Sunday; Aunt Hetty wouldn't like us to go."

"She wouldn't mind it if I reasoned with her," responds Mr. Molyneux with perfect confidence in his own powers of argument. "All those little prejudices of hers could soon be got rid of."

"Drake says it's rather dangerous near White Cove," observes Bee after another silence; "because of all the sunken rocks, you know."

"No, I don't know: I've never been there. But you've set me longing to see the place, old chap."

"Oh, it's lovely!" she cries, with enthusiasm. "Thousands and thousands of sea-birds sit on the cliffs; and there are lots of little caves, all hung with silky green sea-weeds, so quiet and cool."

Claude leans back against the low rock behind him, and looks out across the sea with eyes half-closed. The horizon line is sharp and clear to-day; the blue of the sky meets, but does not mingle with the deeper blue of the ocean; a few white sails can be distinctly seen. Now and then a gull flashes silvery wings in the sunshine, and its cry comes wailing across the water to the shore.

"Why, there's Tim!" says Bee, pointing to a broad-shouldered figure moving leisurely along the sand.

He hears the well-known voice, and turns instantly.

"Well, he may make himself useful to-day," remarks Claude, with a sudden inspiration. "I daresay he'll be glad enough to row to the cove if we ask him."

Tim is more than glad, he is delighted to be included in the plans of Claude and Bee. To tell the truth, Sunday afternoon is generally rather a lonesome time to Tim Crooke. He has no vocation for Sunday-school teaching, and always feels intensely grateful to Mr. Carey for not bothering him to take a class. The little vicarage is, however, a dreary house when master and servants are out; and Tim is usually to be found wandering on the shore till the hour for tea.

"Bill Drake is down yonder," says Tim, waving his hand towards a block of stone some distance off. "And he's got a little boat, a battered old thing, but----"

"Any old thing will do," interrupts Claude, rising eagerly. "We are not going to show off in front of the pier, you know; we only want to get away to White Cove and enjoy ourselves. Do you know the place, Crooke?"

"Yes, very well. I've been there several times with Mr. Carey; it's a wonderful place for gulls. I suppose there are thousands of them."

"Well, come along," cries Claude; and Bee springs gladly to her feet. It delights her to see the magnificent Empey growing so friendly with that good old Tim, and as she trips on, leaving dainty footprints on the sands, her mind is busy with plans for the coming days. "This is only the beginning of pleasures," she says to herself; the holidays will last a long time, and they can enjoy many excursions about the coast. It is all going to be perfectly jolly, now that Claude has really consented to accept Tim; for Tim is so good-natured and useful that she hardly knows what they would do without him.

The little boat is a battered old thing indeed, but nobody is inclined to find fault with it. Bill Drake is quite ready to let the young gentleman have his way; Bee steps in lightly enough, and seats herself; the lads follow, and then Tim pushes off, leaving Bill standing grinning on the shore.

A happy girl is Bee Jocelyn as the boat glides on, and the fresh air fans her face. She has put on her broad-brimmed hat again; and the light breeze lifts her bright silky tresses, and spreads them round her head like a golden veil. She dips one little hand in the water--the beautiful sunny water that is as green as an emerald when you look deep into its depths; and then she trails her fingers in the sea and smiles at Claude.

"Oh, Empey," she says, "how nice it would be if one of Undine's sea-relations were to put a coral necklace, all red and glittering, into my hand!"

"Or some strings of pearls," suggests Tim.

"She will have a set of pearls one day," remarks Claude, in that quiet tone of his. "They were my mother's, and they are waiting in India for Bee."

There is an unwonted softness in Tim's black eyes. He is a stout-hearted, matter-of-fact lad, people say, not given to dreaming; and yet he is seeing visions this afternoon. He sees Bee, not in her sailor's hat and girlish frock, but in white robes, with all her wealth of hair plaited up, and the pearls glistening on her neck. He sees the merry face grown graver, yet lovelier than ever; and then he tries to picture her home in that far-off land that he will never behold; a land of dark faces, and temples, and palms, and flowers.

And Claude will be with her always; what a beautiful poetical life these two will live together! All the poetry is for them, and all the prose for Tim. His thoughts don't shape themselves into these very words, perhaps; but he does certainly feel that it is a dull path which lies before Tim Crooke.

While he dreams, he pulls as steadily as usual, and they are drawing nearer and nearer to the little cove. Soon they gain a full view of those cliffs where the sea-birds sit, tier upon tier, like spectators in a circus, and the calm air is filled with strange cries. Bee claps her hands in delight; the sight is so novel, and the birds that have taken wing sweep so gracefully around their rocky haunts, that there is a charm, past explaining, in the whole scene.

Meanwhile the tide is rising fast and floats the boat onward to White Cove. They are making for a landing-place just at the foot of the sea-birds' cliff, and Tim pulls cautiously, telling Claude to keep a sharp look-out for the rocks that lie treacherously hiding under the flood.

"There's the Chair!" cries Bee suddenly. "Look, Empey, we are quite close to it! It was Mr. Carey who gave it that name, because you see it's exactly like a chair, and it has a seat, and a little ledge where your feet may rest. Mr. Carey got up there once; it's quite easy to climb."

"At high water the tide comes almost up to the footstool of the Chair," says Tim. "I've noticed it standing up out of the sea with a bird or two perched on its seat. It looks very funny then, when all the rocks near it are quite covered."

"It really is curious," Claude is beginning to say, when there is a bump and a terrible grating noise. The boat has struck against one of those traitorous rocks, and her rotten planks have given way. Long before they can reach the landing-place she will be full of water; there is already a stream flowing in through the rent in her side, and Tim, quiet and cool, takes in every detail of the case before Claude has begun fully to realise their condition. Without a moment's hesitation he pulls straight towards the little strip of sand that is to be seen at the base of the Chair.

"Quick, Claude," he says in decided tones, "the wind is rising, and the tide is coming in fast. You must get Bee up into the Chair, and you'll have to follow her; although there's hardly room for two."

"Do you mean that we shall have to stay up there till the tide goes out?" asks Claude. "Why, it's absurd! Is there no other way to----"

"There _is_ no other way to save your lives, so far as I can see. Now don't lose time; the Chair isn't so easy to climb, after all. There are little dents in the rock where your toes may go, but no projections anywhere. It's just a smooth block of stone."

Poor Bee, who knows that Tim must have good reasons for being serious, tries to obey him without delay. But how could she ever have fancied that this dreadful rock was easy to climb! It is nearly as slippery as glass, and affords so little hold for hands or feet that she is almost in despair. The boys encourage her with their voices; Claude is scrambling up after her--not without difficulty, however, for his sprained wrist gives him many a sharp twinge. And then at last, after terrible efforts, the "footstool" ledge is gained, and Bee drags herself up to the seat of the chair.

But what a seat it is! Merely a niche which looks as if it had been scooped out of the solid stone and furnished with a narrow shelf. How will it be possible for her to make herself very small, and leave space for Claude?

Even in these fearful moments she finds herself thinking of the eleven swan princes in the fairy tale, and that little rock in mid ocean on which they stood crowded together when the sun went down. Claude is here, squeezed into the narrow niche by her side, and he is calling out to Tim, down below.

"Come up, Tim," he cries, and there is a ring of agony in his voice now.

But Tim's answer reaches them, clear and loud, above the roar of the advancing tide.

"I shall not come; there isn't room for three. You know that well enough."

"But, Tim, what will you do? I'll come down, and give you my place."

"Stay where you are," Tim shouts sternly. "You've got Bee to take care of. And there's a heavy sea rolling in, she'll have to sit fast."

As Tim speaks the flood is surging up to his knees, and the wind, too, is rising higher and higher. All around him the waves are foaming over the sunken rocks, and the sea-thunder grows louder and more terrible every moment.

"I'll come down," cries Claude, making a desperate movement to descend. "You sha'n't stop there and drown alone! Do you think I'll be such a hound as to let you?"

But Bee with all her strength, holds him back. "Empey, _dear_ Empey," she moans, "stay for my sake!"

"I'll take my chance," Tim sings out cheerily. "I can swim; I mean to try for the landing-place."

"You're mad; the tide will dash you on the rocks!" groans Claude, in despair. And then, so slight is his foothold that he nearly loses his balance in looking downward; and Bee, clinging to him, screams with terror.

"I can't bear it!" he says wildly.

How fast the waters rise! Great waves are breaking against the sides of the Chair, and leaping up nearer and nearer to the ledge whereon the pair support their feet. Once more Claude calls to Tim, passionately, almost fiercely,--

"I'll never forgive myself if you are lost! Tim, Tim, where are you?"

And the clear voice comes up, somewhat faintly, from below. "It's all right. God bless you and Bee."

A mighty billow flings its cloud of foam over the faces of Claude and the shrinking girl by his side, and blinds them with salt spray. But high as the tide is, the Chair is still above its reach, and although the wave may sprinkle them, it cannot swallow them up. Only they are deafened as well as blinded, and Bee feels that she is losing her senses. Surely her brain is wandering, else she could never hear the notes of the anthem again, and Tim's voice singing the words of the old psalm in such exulting tones,--

"The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea."

* * * * *

When night is closing over the little watering-place there are rejoicings and lamentations in Nelson Lodge. Aunt Hetty's heart is full of gratitude; Claude and Bee brought safely home by old Drake, have fallen asleep at last in their rooms, while she steals from chamber to chamber to look first at one tired young face and then at the other. But the tears hang on Claude's lashes as he sleeps; and more than once Bee moves restlessly on her pillow and murmurs Tim's name.

The wind, that has been blowing hard all through the night, subsides soon after sunrise. Clouds clear away from the east, and the golden morning shines upon the creamy cliffs of White Cove. Just at the foot of one of the low rocks lies Tim; his brown face turned up to the sky, and his curly hair matted with sea-weed. His life-work is done.

Only Tim;--yes, Master Claude; but what would the world be without such souls as Tim's? Fine manners, fine speech, and fine clothes, of these he had none, but he had what glorifies the earth's greatest sons, he had what the angels rank highly and what God loves, a brave, true, unselfish heart.

SMITH'S SISTER.

_A STORY BY A BOY ABOUT A GIRL._

BY ROBERT OVERTON.

Before I tell you the story about Smith's sister in particular (said Stanislaus Yarrow), I wish to make a few remarks about sisters in general.

Sisters are of two kinds--your own and other fellows'. There are boys--especially older ones--who consider their own sisters worse than other fellows' sisters.

("Hear, hear," cried Martin Abbott, who was strongly suspected of having fallen in love with Dr. Audlem's maiden aunt, who was not much more than forty).

But the general opinion amongst boys is that all sisters--all girls, in fact--are muffs and nuisances.

("So they are," agreed a number of voices cordially).

I thought so myself once. But Smith's sister taught me to take a higher view of girls. I admit that they have defects--they can't help 'em. There are times when I doubt if even boys are perfect. I freely admit that there is a certain amount of idiocy in the ways and manners of girls in general. Far be it from me to deny that they squeak and squeal when there is no occasion for squeaking and squealing. There is no use in denying that they are afraid of mice. Even Smith's sister visibly shuddered when I offered to give her my biggest piebald rat, to be her very own for ever. But we ought to be charitable and try to overlook these things, for, as I said just now, they can't help 'em.

What I insist upon is that there's real grit in girls all the same. This is how I work it out: Smith's sister was a brick--Smith's sister is a girl--therefore, as one girl can be a brick, so can other girls, other sisters, be bricks.

Now for my true yarn. To separate the circumstances of the story from the story itself, I will first give you the circumstances.

Smith and I lived next door to each other, and were close chums, especially at intervals. He was a very generous chap--he'd give a friend anything he'd got. When he was laid low with illness last summer, I slipped into his bedroom by way of the verandah, to have a look at him, and he gave me the scarlet fever. He was such a very generous chap that he never wanted to keep anything all to himself. The fever stayed with both of us as long as it could, and left us a good deal weaker than it found us. Finding us both in need of a long and thorough change, Smith's father and mine put their heads together, and finally decided to send us to North Wales for the rest of the summer and the autumn. The idea was promptly carried out.

They didn't, strictly speaking, "send" us, for they came with us. In fact, it was quite a carriage-ful of us that steamed away north-west from Paddington--namely, Smith, myself, Smith's father and mother, my father and mother, a number of boxes, portmanteaux, and parcels, and Smith's sister. I put her last because at the time she was last in my estimation.

We had a lovely journey, to a lovely little out-of-the-way and out-of-the-world station, which was spelt with all consonants, and pronounced with three sneezes, a cough and two gasps. From the station we had a long drive to the remote farmhouse in which our fathers had taken apartments.

In this delicious old farmhouse we soon made ourselves--Smith and I--quite at home. It was in a beautiful valley. Tremendous hills rose all round it. On the very tops of some of the mountains there was snow almost all the year round. Glens, and brooks, and streams, and waterfalls simply abounded.

After a fortnight our two fathers had to return to London, leaving behind them our mothers, us, and Smith's sister.

Oh, what a time we had then! Smith shot me by accident in the leg with the farmer's gun--Smith himself got almost drowned in two different streams, and was once carried over a waterfall, and dashed against the stones. On all three occasions he was getting black in the face when pulled out. I fell down a precipice in the mountains, and was rescued with the greatest difficulty. On another occasion a neighbouring farmer caught us trespassing, and thrashed us with a stick till he was too tired to hold it any longer. Smith got bitten by a dog supposed to be mad, and a horse kicked me in the stomach.

All was gaiety and excitement. Ah! when shall we have such times again? We made inquiries as to whether we were likely to catch scarlet fever a second time.

Now Smith's sister screamed at our accidents; she was afraid to join us in any of our adventures. She was as old as myself, and only a year younger than Smith, but as timid as a chicken--or so we thought her, for so she seemed. We tried at first to encourage her, to bring her out a little; but it was no good--we just had to leave her to herself.

"She hasn't pluck enough to come with us," Smith used to say as we set off on our rambles--"let her stop at home and play with the fowls."

You must understand that we didn't dislike her--we simply despised her. I think contempt is worse than dislike--at all events, it is harder to bear. Week after week passed away, till at length the end of September approached. In a few days we were to go home again.

Now high as all the hills were, there was one that towered above the others. From the very first, Smith and I had been warned not to attempt to scale this monarch of the mountains, whose crown was sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in the clouds. Being warned not to do it, we naturally wanted to do it. We had made, in fact, several tries, but had always been frustrated. Once or twice Mr. Griffiths--the farmer at whose house we were staying--caught us starting, and turned us back.

"Up towards the top of that mountain," he said, on the last occasion, "is a place so difficult of access, except by one way, that it is called the 'Eagles' Home.' Lives have been lost there. The hill is dangerous--the clefts are steep and deep. Leave it alone. There are plenty of other hills to climb that are not so dangerous."

That reference to the Eagles' Home was more than we could stand. We could make out the very spot he meant. Fancy being up there with the eagles near the sky--fancy birds-nesting in the clouds!

"Yarrow," said Smith firmly, "we must do it."

"Or perish in the attempt," I agreed recklessly, quoting from a book I'd read.

What we meant was, of course, that before our visit ended we must climb that hill, at all events as high as the Eagles' Home.

Our approaching return to London left us with no time to lose. We had only four clear days before us.

"We'll make the ascent immediately after dinner to-morrow," said Smith.

"Right you are," replied I.

The next day arrived. Dinner was always over soon after one at the farmhouse, and by two o'clock, having slipped quietly and secretly off, we were beginning our climb up the hillside. For more than an hour we made slow but easy progress, taking a rest every now and then for a minute or two. We must have got up a considerable distance, but neither the mountain-top nor the Eagles' Home seemed much nearer. On and up we trudged, walking faster and determined to take no more rests. We noticed how much colder it was, and cast uneasy glances at the dipping sun.

We met a shepherd going down, and stopped him to ask some questions. He told us that there was an easy way and a hard way to reach the Eagles' Home. The easy way was to follow the path worn up the hill to the left. That would take us _above_ the spot. Still following the path as it curved round to the right, we should find a comparatively easy way down to the "home of the eagles," unless we lost the road, and tumbled down one of the many steep declivities.

"Which was the hard way?" we asked.

With a smile, he pointed straight up the mountain-side. It wasn't far that way, he said--only that way would take us farther than we wanted to go. We looked up the frowning pathless mountain--and knew what he meant. We must take the safer and longer way.

"Not that we're _afraid_ of the other," said Smith.

"Of course not," I replied.

In vain the shepherd tried to dissuade us from going any further in the failing light: in vain he told us of the dangers we should run. We thanked him, put him off with some excuse about going "a little" further, and turned resolutely on up the "path" he had pointed us to. It was by no means the sort of path we were accustomed to.

On and on and on--I don't know how far we went. But the farther we went the more silent we became. Each knew the other knew that he was getting more and more uneasy at every step. Each knew the other wasn't going to be the first to admit that he was funky.

It grew so awfully cold. It became so awfully dark.

"The moon will be up by-and-by," Smith said.

"Yes," said I; "we shall be all right then. What's this?"

It was too dark to see it, but we felt it in our faces. We put our hands on our sleeves and felt it there.

Snow!

We both gave in then, and funked it without disguise. We turned to go down, to get home. We tried at first to disbelieve it, but it wasn't long before we both gave up the pretence.

"We're lost!" we cried together.

That was just our position. In the cold, dark night, in the midst of a rapidly-rising storm and fast-falling snow, we were lost on the wild Welsh mountains.

We stumbled about. For a long time--I don't know how long, but it was a long time--we stumbled about. That is the only expression I can use, for soon we didn't know whether we were moving up or down, left or right. We were so numbed, so bewildered. It was so cold up there, though October had not yet set in, that we had a vague idea that if we didn't keep on moving we should be frozen still, meeting the fate of many other mountaineers.

You must bear in mind that we had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and only our summer clothes on. Neither of us had a watch, so we could only judge what the time was. Smith's hope that the moon would soon rise hadn't been realised, for everything above was as dark and black as everything was beneath.

At last a frightful thing happened. Our feet slipped at the same moment, and the next moment we were both falling through space. My previous slip down a precipice was nothing compared with that awful fall in the darkness. Only one thing saved us. Before we struck the ground, we managed to break the full force of our fall by grasping the roots and branches of some low-growing shrubs and bushes which we felt without seeing. We slipped then less rapidly from hold to hold, until, with a thud, we struck the earth. It seemed more like the earth striking us.

Smith gave a loud scream of pain--then all was silent.

Smith fainted. I cried. Smith recovered and cried. I left off crying, and took his turn at fainting. There's nothing like telling the truth. We both prayed. I won't tell you about that, because praying is a thing to _do_, not to talk about.

We didn't move about any more. That fall proved that moving about was too dangerous. Poor old Smith _couldn't_ move. He couldn't even stand up. He tried to once and sank down again with a yell. He had sprained his ankle.

Please imagine for a moment that this adventure is being played on the stage, and let the curtain fall. Now imagine the curtain raised again.

In the meantime, the storm has died down. The winds are not howling now, the snow is not falling. The heavens above us are not so black we can see parts of the mountain that drops from our feet into the deep invisible valley below. We can see enough to make out where we are. We are in the Eagles' Home. Our ambition has been realised--but in what a way! We reached the spot neither by the pathway nor up the rugged steep--we rolled from the top; we came through the air with the snowflakes.

Pretty snowflakes! Smith is hopelessly crippled, and I--the other snowflake--am simply a living collection of bumps and bruises. We must spend the rest of the bleak night strung up on this dizzy height. We must wait till the morning--if we can live through the night.

What's that, down there--far away down there?

A light! a number of lights. They're moving--moving up. They've reached the spot where we met the shepherd who told us of the two ways.

They've stopped. Hark! What's that?

A shout--a hail--loud and long continued, as though a lot of people are calling together.

Hurrah! We're saved. The farmer has turned out a rescue party to find and save us. Hurrah!

Gathering all my strength--all I have left--I answer the hail. Smith joins me as well as he can. Once, twice, thrice we shout. We catch the distant cry that tells us we have been heard.

For a minute the lights are stationary. Then--their bearers sending up another great hail as though to tell us they know where we are and are coming--we see the lanterns flashing forward up the track which leads above our heads, and then round to the Eagles' Home. Mr. Griffiths, who knows the hills as well as he knows his own farm lands, has told them where we are from the direction of our frantic voices.

So cheer up, Smith--they're coming.

But they'll be such a long time coming--and we're so cold and numbed. Smith is fainting again. So am I, I'm afraid--you must remember I am knocked about. It will be such a long time before the coming help reaches us.

Will it? Then what's that solitary light stealing up the jagged steep below us? Who is it coming to us by the "hard" way, straight up the precipitous mountain-side? It must be Griffiths--he's crawling up the rough boulders--he's clinging hold of roots and branches, swinging himself over the clefts. The shepherd said it couldn't be done--but Griffiths is doing it. How torn his hands must be!

I can't be quite fainting, because I can see that Griffiths' lantern is coming nearer and nearer.

Listen! I can hear his voice--only it sounds such a weak voice. That is because I am getting so weak now myself, though I manage to call back, that Griffiths may know just where we are....

Griffiths has reached us. Griffiths is attending to poor old Smith. Now he's got his arm round me. Griffiths is pouring a cordial down my throat that brings life back into me. I can feel my heart beating again. I'm better now. I'll shake Griffiths by the hand. I dare say I shall by-and-by. But this is the hand of SMITH'S SISTER!

The strain of this theatrical style, and of the present tense, is more than I can stand any longer, so I hope it is quite clear to you what had happened. Just a few words to sum up.

When the rescue party formed by Mr. Griffiths--as soon as it was obvious that Smith and I had lost ourselves--set out, Smith's sister set out with them. Griffiths ordered her back. She went back, collared a lantern and a flask all to herself (in view of the party separating--what a thoughtful girl!), followed and rejoined them. When they stopped and halloaed to find whereabouts we were, he ordered her back again, but not until she had heard the hasty consultation which resulted in the party sticking to the safer way to us. She heard about the "two ways," and she dared the one that everybody else was afraid of. The ascent up the mountain's face was suggested, but only Smith's sister had the pluck to make it. This was the girl we had scorned and laughed at. This was the girl whom we had told to stop at home and play with the chickens!

About an hour after she reached us with the "first help" that may have saved our lives, we saw the lights of Griffith's party on the crest above us. We exchanged shouts, and they let down a rope at once, and hauled us up. Long before this, Smith's sister had bound up his injured ankle neatly and lightly with her own handkerchief and our handkerchiefs.

You should have seen the farmer's face--and, indeed, the faces of all the others too--when they realised how she had reached us.

It is all very well for her to say that she didn't know what she was doing--that she couldn't have done in the light what she did in the dark. All I am concerned with is the fact that she did do what I have told you she did.

Referring to the proposition I laid down soon after I started--about there being real grit in girls after all--you will understand what I meant when I wind up my yarn with the familiar quotation, Q. E. D.

THE COLONEL'S BOY.

BY H. HERVEY.

Marjorie had never got on well with her brother's guardian. He was a bachelor, stern and autocratic, and with no admiration for woman's ways, and she instinctively felt that he did not understand her.

His love for Miles Weyburne, the son of a brother officer who had fallen in a skirmish with an Indian frontier tribe thirteen years ago, was a thing recognised and beyond question.

Even at the age of ten the boy's likeness to his father had been remarkable. He had the same dark, earnest eyes, the same frank, winning manner, the same eager enthusiasm; he was soon to develop, to the secret pride of his guardian, the same keen interest in his profession, with a soundness of judgment and a fearless self-reliance peculiarly his own.

He had gained his star after scarcely a year's service, and had then got an exchange into his guardian's regiment.

Colonel Alleson held the command of a midland regimental district. He had the reputation of being somewhat of a martinet, and was not altogether popular with his men.

Marjorie generally spent her holidays with her aunt in the town, and the Colonel occasionally went to see her; but he was nervous and constrained, with little to say for himself, and Marjorie always did her best to show to a disadvantage when he was there. "He's such a crabby old thing," she would say, when Miles grew enthusiastic over the grave, taciturn officer,--"besides, he hates girls, you know he does, and I'm not going to knuckle under to him." Her brother had explained that the Colonel's ideas were old-fashioned, so she sometimes talked slang on purpose to shock him. She listened to his abrupt, awkward sentences with a half listless, half criticising air. She was a typical school-girl at the most characteristic age,--quick to resent, impatient of control, straightforward almost to rudeness. The Colonel might be a father to her brother--he never could be to her. She often thought about her father and mentally contrasted the two: she thought, too, though less often, of the mother who had died the very day that that father had fallen in

## action, when she herself was little more than a year old.

Miles had been spending his leave with his aunt, and the day before his return to Ireland to rejoin the battalion, he biked over to the barracks in company with his sister to say good-bye to his guardian.

"I suppose this is another of the Colonel's fads," Marjorie remarked, glancing at the notice board as she got off her bicycle outside the gates. "What an old fuss he is, Miles."

"Has he been giving you a lesson in manners?"

"Not he." She tossed back her wavy, golden-brown hair as she spoke. "I should like to see him try it on."

Miles gave a short little laugh.

"He got into an awful rage the other day because somebody came through here on a bicycle. How are you to read the notice all that way off?"

Miles was not listening to her. Hearing the sound of wheels, he had turned round and caught sight of the Colonel's dog-cart. Marjorie glanced mischievously at him, and just as the Colonel entered the gateway, she deliberately mounted her bicycle and rode through before his eyes. There was just room for her to pass. The Colonel reined in, and looked sternly round. "Stop!" he said. Marjorie obeyed. Wheeling her bicycle forward, she said in her politest manner:

"I beg your pardon. Did you want me?"

"This is quite contrary to regulations."

"Yes, I know," she answered, looking straight at him. "I read the notice, but I don't see the sense of it."

There were one or two soldiers standing near, and they exchanged glances and smiled. Miles coloured up with shame and vexation. The Colonel gave the reins to his groom and got down without another word. He held out his hand to Miles as the dog-cart passed on.

"I want to speak to you," he said shortly, and he walked on in front of them.

"I hope I shall see you again, Miles," he began, as they ascended the steps leading to his quarters. "I have only a few minutes to spare now. Come up this evening, will you?"

"Yes, Colonel."

Marjorie moved towards the door. The colour mounted to her cheeks as the Colonel stepped forward to open it for her. Miles, feeling that he ought to say something, waited behind a minute.

"I'm sorry about--about this," he said. "I don't understand it."

"I do, perfectly--well, good-bye, my boy."

His grave, stern face softened wonderfully as he grasped Miles' hand.

"What an old crosspatch he is," began Marjorie as her brother came up with her. "I daren't for the life of me ride through there again. Did you see, Miles, he was quite white with rage when I cheeked him? Those Tommies thought it awful sport."

"What a little ass you are," said Miles crossly, "to make all that row before the men."

Marjorie looked away. "It served him jolly well right," she said, pedalling faster.

They rode home the rest of the way in silence.

Miles was away with his battalion at the front, and Marjorie was spending a fortnight of the Christmas holidays with a school friend at Eastbourne. The two girls were hurrying down the esplanade together one bright, frosty morning in January when Marjorie suddenly found herself face to face with the Colonel. His eyes were bent down, and he passed without recognising her. With a few hurried words to her chum, she ran after him.

"How do you do, Colonel? I didn't know you were here."

He started as she addressed him. "I only came yesterday," he said; "I have got a few days' leave."

"Did you hear from Miles last mail? I did."

"Yes. He has been very regular so far."

"You must miss him awfully. Are you going this way?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll come a little way with you, if I may; I wanted to say something."

Putting her hands into her jacket pockets, she looked very gravely at him.

"I am sorry I was rude that day I came into the Barracks," she said hurriedly. "I have been thinking about it. It was horrid of me, when the soldiers were there. Will you forgive me?"

"Certainly," he said nervously, putting his hands behind him, and walking faster.

"You see, I want to be friends with you," she added frankly, "because of Miles. He thinks such a lot of you--the dear boy; good-bye."

Her dark eyes, generally so mocking and mischievous, had grown suddenly earnest, and his heart warmed towards her, as he held out his hand.

"Good-bye, Marjorie," he said, "you are very much alike, you and Miles."

"Are we?" she said simply, flushing a little. "I didn't know. I am glad."

She walked back to her chum with a beating heart. "He's not so bad," she said to herself. "I wish he liked girls."

Spion Kop had been abandoned, and the British Army was in orderly retreat, when Miles found himself cut off with the remnant of his company, by the enemy. The death of his captain had left him in command, and realising his responsibility, he made up his mind to act promptly. "We are cut off, men," he explained briefly to his soldiers; "will you hoist the white flag, or trust to me to bring you through?"

"No surrender, and we stand by you, sir," answered the serjeant major gruffly. "Is it agreed, boys?"

There was a general assent.

It was a gallant deed, that desperate dash to rejoin the division, though accomplished at a terrible cost. Miles, leading the forlorn hope, was soon to pay the price of his daring. They were all but through when he fell, shot by a chance bullet.

An hour later his battered troops came up with the British forces. Three or four stragglers dropped into camp as the serjeant major was making his report.

"Ah!" said the colonel, expressively--"you got through?"

"Yes, sir, beastly hard work, too."

"Who brought you?"

"Lieutenant Weyburne, sir."

"I thought so. He's the kind of fellow for that sort of thing. Is he in?"

"He was shot, sir."

"Shot, poor boy. What will Alleson say?"

It was Wednesday morning, and the entire strength of the Depot had turned out on parade. The Colonel, tall and dignified in the faultless neatness of undress uniform, was standing in his characteristic attitude, with his hands behind him and his head thrown slightly back. His blue eyes looked out, grave and watchful, from under the peak of his fatigue cap, and the tense interlocking of his gloved fingers was the only sign of his mental unrest.

Yet the vision of Miles was before him--Miles bold, earnest, high-spirited, Miles in the full joy of life and strength, with the light of affection in his eyes; Miles again with his boyish face white and drawn and his active young form still in death.

He had loved the boy, his boy as he always called him, more even than he had realised, and life seemed very blank without the hope of seeing him again.

It was two days since his name had appeared in the lists of killed and wounded, and that afternoon the Colonel went down to see Marjorie, who had returned from Eastbourne a few days before. She looked unusually pale when she came into the room, and though she ran forward eagerly enough to greet him, her eyes were tearful and her lips quivering, as she put her hand into his.

"I thought of writing to you"--began the Colonel nervously, "but----"

"I'm glad you came," said Marjorie, "very glad. I shouldn't mind so much if we knew just how he died," she added sorrowfully.

"We know how he would face death, Marjorie!"

She put her arms on the table, and hid her face with a stifled sob.

"He was your boy, and you'll miss him so," she went on. "There's no one like him, no one half so dear or half so brave. If I were only a boy I might try to be like him and make you happy--but I can't, it's no use."

She was looking up at him with those dark eyes of hers, just as his boy had looked at him when he said good-bye three months ago, and he could not trust himself to speak.

"I suppose you get used to things," she said with a sigh.

The Colonel put his hand on her head. "Poor child," he said in a husky voice, "don't think about me."

"Miles loved you," she answered softly, going up close to him. "I'm his sister. Let me love you, too."

He drew her to him in a tender fatherly manner, that brought instant comfort to her aching, wilful little heart.

"Your father was my friend, Marjorie," he said,--"the staunchest friend man ever had. I have often wondered why we failed to understand each other."

"You don't like girls," said Marjorie, "that's why."

The Colonel smiled grimly.

"I didn't," he said. "Perhaps I have changed my mind."

Lord Roberts had entered Pretoria, and the Colonel sat in his quarters looking through the list of released prisoners. All at once he gave a start, glanced hastily around, and then looked back again. About half way down the list of officers, he read:

"Lieut. M. Weyburne (reported killed at Spion Kop)."

Miles was alive: there had been some mistake. The bugle sounded. It was a quarter past nine. He walked out on to the parade-ground with his usual firm step, smiling as he went. Miles was alive. He could have dashed down the barrack-square like a bugler-boy in the lightness of his heart.

People who met him that day hastened to congratulate him. He said very little, but looked years younger.

Three weeks later there came a letter from Miles, explaining how he had been left upon the ground for dead, and on coming to himself, had fallen unarmed into the hands of the Boers. He had never fully recovered from his wounds, and by the doctor's orders had been invalided home, so that his guardian might expect him about ten days after receiving his letter.

It was a happy home-coming. The Colonel went down to Southampton to meet him, and when he reached his aunt's house he found a letter from Marjorie awaiting him. "The Colonel's a dear," she wrote; "I understand now why you think such a lot of him."

Miles turned with a smile to his guardian.

"You and Marjorie are friends at last, Colonel," he said.

"Yes, my boy," he returned gravely; "we know each other better now."

'TWIXT LIFE AND DEATH.

_A MANX STORY._

BY CLUCAS JOUGHIN.

## PART I.

Deborah Shimmin was neither tall nor fair, and yet Nature had been kind to her in many ways. She had wonderful eyes--large, dark, and full of mute eloquence--and if her mouth was too large, her nose too irregular, and her cheeks too much tanned by rude health, and by exposure to the sun as the village gossips said, I, Henry Kinnish, poetic dreamer, and amateur sculptor, thought she had a symmetry of form and a grace of movement which wrought her whole being into harmony and made her a perfect example of beauty with a plain face; and every one knew that Andrew, the young village blacksmith and rural postman, loved her with all the might of his big, brawny soul.

These two ideas of Deborah's beauty and Andrew's love for her, were revealed to me one day when, with Deborah's master, his lumbering sons and comely daughters, and my chum Fred Harcourt, an artist from "across the water," we were cutting some early grass in May, just before the full bloom of the gorse had begun to fade from the hillsides and from the tops of the hedges where it had made borders of gold for the green of the fields all the spring.

A soft west wind, which blew in from the sea, made waves along the uncut grass to windward of the mowers, and played around the skirts of Deborah, making them flutter about her, while the exertion of the haymaking occasionally let loose her long, strong black hair.

But the face of Deborah was sad; for the village policeman had laid a charge against her before his chief to make her account for her possession of a large number of seagulls' eggs, to take which the law of the Island had made a punishable offence, by an act of Tynwald passed to protect the sea fowl from extinction.

The eggs, all fresh, and newly taken from the nests, had been found on Deborah's dressing-table; but Deborah indignantly denied all knowledge of the means by which they had got there. There was a mystery about it to every one, for fresh clutches were seen there every morning, and the innocent Deborah made no attempt to conceal them. Where, then, could they come from but from some nests of the colony of seagulls which lived in the haughs that dropped down into the sea from Rhaby Hills? But no woman, young or old, could climb the craigs where the gulls had their nests. It was a feat of daring only performed by reckless boys and young men who were reared on the littoral, and who were strong and spirited craigsmen by inheritance and by familiarity with the dangerous sport of egg-collecting among the giddy heights of precipices on which, if they took but one false step, they might be hurled to certain destruction below.

When the mowers had made all but the last swath, and there were only a few more rucks of the early hay to be made in the field, Cubbin, the rural constable, came in from the highroad with Andrew, the smith. The hot and sweated mowers did not stop the swing of their scythes, but they talked loudly amongst themselves in imprecations against the new law which made it a criminal offence for a lad to take a few gull's eggs, which they, and their fathers before them, had gone sporting after in the good old times when men did what they thought right.

The bronzed face of Deborah Shimmin paled, her lips set into a resolve of courage when she saw Andrew in the hands of the police; and I learnt for the first time that Andrew was looked upon as the robber and Deborah as the receiver of the stolen eggs. I saw more than this, I saw, by one look, that the heart of Deborah and the heart of the tall, lithe lad, who now stood before me, were as one heart in love and in determination to stand by each other in the coming trial.

The big hands of the young smith were thrust into his pockets, and a smile played over his honest face; but Deborah looked at the constable with a hard, defiant look, and then bent over her work again as if waiting to hear him say something dreadful which she was resolved to throw back into his face, though her hand trembled as she held the fork, which moved now faster and stronger than before.

But Cubbin was a man of the gospel of peace though he was an officer of the law, and he only looked sadly on the face of Deborah as he asked her whether it would not be better for her to say where she got her supply of eggs from than allow him to get a summons against Andrew.

"I have told you before that Andrew never gave me the eggs!" cried the girl, her face flushed with the crimson setting of the sun, "and I don't know where they came from. I can't say anything different, and I wish you would not trouble me, Mr. Cubbin!"

Fred and I called Cubbin, the constable, to one side, and asked him to allow us a day or two to solve the mystery of the eggs--a little arrangement which may seem strange to dwellers in towns, but which was quite practicable at this time in this far-off place, and which he soon agreed to allow.

I had been out shooting corncrakes that day, and Fred Harcourt had come with me for a day in the meadows, as his brush and palette had wearied him of late, and he longed to stretch his limbs and to see my spaniels work in the weedy hedges and in the meadows, where the grass had stood the test of the dry spring. We had taken off our coats to help our neighbour with his sunburnt grass, and our guns were laid across them. The spaniels had fallen asleep--using the coats as beds. While conversing with Cubbin we had walked quietly to get our coats, and I saw that one of the sleeping dogs was still hunting in his dreams. There was nothing uncommon about this, for dogs will hunt in their sleep; but some inner voice said to me that Deborah Shimmin, being a highly strung, nervous girl, might hunt in her sleep also, and that such things as somnambulists walking the roofs of high houses had been heard of, and I remembered a lad in my own boyhood's days who was awakened early one morning by the riverside with his rod in his hand and his basket slung over his nightshirt. But I did not communicate my theory of the solution of the mystery of the eggs to Cubbin, the constable.

When the policeman left the field I entered into a kindly talk with Deborah Shimmin, and was not long in learning what the girl herself had probably never thought of, that on the public reading of the Act for the protection of sea-fowl, on the Tynwald day of the previous year, she had been impressed by the thought that Andrew would now be forbidden to employ his agility and his courage in a form of sport she often tried to dissuade him from.

I knew before this that she had recently lost her mother, and had suffered a bereavement through a favourite brother being lost at sea one stormy night at the back-end herring fishing off Howth Head.

"Poor Deborah," I said to Fred, "she is all nerves, and the hand of life's troubles is holding her; surely she must be innocent of encouraging her lover in risking his life--the only precious life left to her now!"

"And the jolly Andrew," said Fred, "certainly looked the most amusing picture of innocence, as Cubbin trotted him along the grass! But your theory of the somnambulant business is a bit fanciful, all the same."

## PART II.

At ten o'clock that night Fred Harcourt and I were bivouaced within sight of the only door of the house where Deborah Shimmin worked as a domestic help in the family of her uncle. The night was not dark, it seldom is dark in these northern islands so late in May, but there was a light of the moon at its first quarter, and a glint of some stars shone down upon us as we hearkened to the stillness of the air and to a frequent movement of a tired horse in the stable.

Our bivouac was a clump of trammon trees (elders) at the corner of the orchard which adjoined the farm buildings. Between us and the dwelling house there was a disused pigsty. At about a quarter to eleven o'clock a man, with a red setter dog at his heels and a fowling piece on his arm, came sneaking up, and crept into the sty.

Then there was another long spell of silence, not broken, but rather intensified, by the words which I whispered to Fred Harcourt that the fellow who crept into the sty was Kit Kermode, and that he could be after no good.

At midnight a cock crew at the far end of the village, and a dog barked. Then there was silence again, save that every now and again a sedge warbler, far away by the stream near Shenvarla, sang a faintly audible song. Our position on the slope of the foot-hill at Gordon House was between the village and the hills which girt the sea coast. This made my theory of the sleep-walking to the cliffs more plausible. But while we lay low in the clump of trammon trees the appearance of Kit Kermode, with his cat-like walk and his eyes that could wink slander faster than any old woman's tongue could wag it, gave me a theory, or at least a speculation, in another direction.

In soft whispers to Fred Harcourt, who was new to the village, I told him how the rascal Kermode hated Andrew the blacksmith. "He hates him," I said, "I do verily believe, for his good honest face, his manly outspoken tongue, his courage, and his power of arm, but most of all he hates him since Andrew, years ago as an innocent and unthinking lad, ran after him in the village street and handed him a reminder of some money which he owed his master."

"But what can that have to do with Deborah Shimmin's gulls' eggs?" asked Fred, whose mind never seemed to see anything but pictures of divers colours and inspiring outlines in the happy dreamland he lived in, all unconscious of the world's cruelty, and hate, and love of evil.

I had just finished telling him that a man like Kermode might bribe a boy to get him gulls' eggs, and sneak up to Deborah's window and quietly reach in and place the eggs on her dressing-table, as a means of getting Deborah and Andrew into trouble. I had just finished giving this outline of the thought in my mind, I say, when the door of the farmhouse opened and Deborah Shimmin, clad only in her nightdress, stepped lightly forth and started up the hillside.

The next moment the man, his gun in the hollow of his arm and the red setter dog at his heels, crawled forth from the pigsty, looked round as if to make certain he was not watched, and followed the white figure of the girl as she glided up the zig-zag path in the direction of the haughs which formed the wild sea coast.

It did not take Fred and me very long to take off our boots and noiselessly follow, guided by the figure in white, rather than by the man who went before us, for the dim light of the moon and the northern night made his dark dress difficult to see in the shadows of the hedges and trees.

I knew that Deborah would take the usual path to the rocks, and bade Fred follow close behind me while I took a shorter route. In ten minutes we were again under cover when the girl passed close by us, her long hair knotted roughly into a mass of rolls about her large and well-formed head. Her eyes were open, and fixed in a glassy stare straight ahead. She seemed to move along, rather than walk, and had no appearance of either hesitation or haste; and Kermode, with his dog and his gun, stealthily followed in her wake not twenty yards behind.

While we were crossing the field bordering the Gordon haughs, keeping under the shadow of a gorse-clad hedge, Deborah disappeared over the cliff, and the man, watched by Fred and myself, crept up to the edge of the cliffs down which the poor girl had descended.

Before another minute had elapsed, Kermode had stretched himself out his full length on a craig which overlooked the precipitous rocks down which Deborah had disappeared. We then secured the cover of a mound not thirty feet away from him.

The dog gave a low whine when he saw the head of his master craned out to watch the movements of the white figure descending the rocks, and then all was quiet as before.

Fred's suspense and anxiety for the safety of the girl was apparent in his hard breathing; but my own were inconsiderable, for I knew that if undisturbed by any noise unusual to the night, or any interference by the fellow who now held the future happiness of Andrew, the smith, in his hands she would safely climb up the haugh and make her way home to bed, all unconscious of the awful position she had placed herself in.

Wicked as I knew the man to be, I did not now imagine that he had any other intention in watching around the house than to try to discover Andrew paying a nocturnal visit, with some gulls' eggs for his sweetheart. This would have been a mean enough act, but it seems a small thing beside the cruel and murderous deed he would have committed but for the providential presence and prompt action of Fred Harcourt and myself.

Fred and I lay low, with our chins resting on our hands, not daring even to whisper. The dog whined a little now and again, and we heard the subdued cries of seagulls as they flew off, alarmed in the darkness, over the sea. Still Deborah did not make her appearance on the top of the cliff. It seemed a long time that we lay and watched thus, but it could not have been so long as it seemed.

Then Kermode, without raising himself from watching the climbing girl, reached back for the gun which he had placed on the ground by his side. He raised it to the level of his face, resting his left elbow on the ground, and I heard the click of the hammer as he cocked it. Then I saw his thumb and finger go into his waistcoat pocket.

"Good God!" I said in a loud whisper, as I sprang to my feet, for I knew in one awful moment that the villain was feeling for a cap to discharge a shot in the air above the head of Deborah, who would wake up at the shock, and fall to the base of the craig in her terrible fright. So intent was Kermode in his fell design of frightening the girl to her destruction that he did not hear me, or notice the growl of his dog, or feel the vibration of our tread as we both bore down upon him. We should have been too late if it had not been for the life-long habit of the wretch to secure himself from danger or suspicion. With his finger on the trigger, all ready to pull, he paused one moment to raise himself and look about. That moment saved the life of Deborah Shimmin, for the would-be murderer was the next instant under the knee of Fred Harcourt and his throat in his grip, while my hand was over the nipples of the gun. While we were all on the ground together, and the setter dog had a hold of Harcourt's leg, the tall form of Cubbin, the policeman, bent over us. I had lowered the hammers of the gun and thrown it to one side to grasp the dog, for Harcourt would not let go his hold of Kermode's throat lest he should shout and wake the girl.

"Gag Kermode," I said to Cubbin, as I hit the dog just above the snout with a stone, killing him by one blow.

Then Deborah Shimmin, holding something in a fold of her nightdress with one hand, and climbing with the other, came up over the edge of the cliff a few yards away from us.

She looked very beautiful as she stepped up on the sloping sward above the haugh, with the pale moonlight just lighting her airy dress, and her face all sad and careworn.

Leaving Kermode to the care of the constable, Fred and I noiselessly followed the girl home, and saw her step over the obstacles in her path as by instinct, turning her face neither to the right nor left.

We decided to awaken her before she reached the door of the farmhouse, so that, according to the popular notion, she might never again become somnambulent.

With this view I stepped before her as she approached the door, but was astonished to find that she paused as if my presence blocked the way before she yet saw me or touched me. But there was no misunderstanding the blank stare in her wonderful eyes.

I gently put out my hand and took hers, as she put it out before her to feel the influence of a presence she could not see.

She did not scream or faint. She awoke with a start, and let the eggs fall on the ground.

At first she could not understand where she was, and just thought she was dreaming; but by degrees it came to her that she was standing before me in the pale moonlight when she thought she ought to be in bed.

Then I softly told her where she had been in her sleep, keeping back all knowledge of Kermode's attempted revenge on Andrew, and how we had decided to awake her. Then, with a little pleasant laugh, we both told her that the mystery of the seagulls' eggs was solved, and that neither Andrew nor she would be troubled again.

She fell to sobbing a little, and for the first time seemed to shiver with the cold; then she lifted the latch and we bade her good night.

Nothing was done to Kermode, for the fellow swore he had no intention of discharging the gun, and we could not prove he had, though the case was clear enough in our eyes, and the deed would have been done had we not, in God's providence, been there to prevent it.

Cubbin, the constable, it transpired afterwards, had overheard me giving my theory of the sleep-walking to Fred in the hayfield, and he, too, had been in hiding at the farm, and had watched and followed us all.

So there was a wonderful story for him to tell of how Deborah had made good her defence against the charge he had laid against Andrew and her. And the beautiful Deborah with the plain face became the bride of the jolly Andrew, who was neither an artist nor an amateur sculptor, but only a village blacksmith who had an eye for beauty of form and character.

ROSE'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

_A TRUE STORY._

BY MARIE E. C. DELBRASSINE.

"Where is Rose?"

"Busy, as usual, with her mice and beetles, I suppose, father," answered Ethel; "we have not seen her all this afternoon."

"She will probably be with you at teatime," said Dr. Sinclair, "after which I should like you to ask her to come to me for a little while in the surgery."

"Very well, father, I won't forget."

Dr. Sinclair retreated again to his surgery, which was arranged also as his library, knowing that his willing helper would not fail to join him there.

"I cannot think," said Maud, Ethel's sister, "what that girl finds to interest her in all those horrid creatures--beetles and toads, and even snakes, when she can get one; the other day I saw her handling a slowworm as if it were a charming domestic pet. It was enough to make one feel cold all over."

"Well, there is no accounting for taste; Rose never seems to care if she is asked to a party or not," continued Ethel, "and she does not mind helping father with his work, which I always find so tiresome, for he is so dreadfully particular about it. Perhaps biologists are different from other folks; I sometimes think there is something uncannny and queer about them."

"I'm sure Rose is neither uncanny nor queer, she's just a brick," said Jack, a schoolboy of fourteen, who was enjoying a Saturday half-holiday at home with a new book, it being too wet to play cricket. "She is always willing to do anything to help a fellow."

"Which means," said Ethel, "that you always expect girls to be your slaves, when you are at home."

At this moment the door opened and Rose herself appeared.

"Well, Rose," said Maud, "have you pinned out a beetle, or taught your pet ants to perform tricks?"

"Not this afternoon," said Rose; "I have had a delightful time with my microscope, studying spiders and drawing slides for the magic lantern to be used at my next little lecture to the G.F.S. girls."

"That sounds dry and uninteresting," yawned Maud. "Ah, here comes tea. By the way, father would like you to go to his study afterwards. Poor Rose, I expect he has some more tiresome work for you."

"Oh, don't call it tiresome, Maud dear; I quite enjoy it."

"It's a good thing you do. I hate being shut up there; it's such a bore."

A quarter of an hour later a middle-aged man, whose snow-white hair made him appear at first sight much older than he was in reality, might have been seen busy over a manuscript, whilst a fair girl sat beside him, reading out to him the notes he had made, and which he was working into the book he was writing. The two seemed to work in perfect harmony.

Rose's father had been the rector of a remote country parish in Cornwall. Most of his friends said that he was lost in such a neighbourhood, and that it was a shame to have sent so able a man to such a parish; but Mr. Sinclair never complained himself; he may sometimes have thought it strange that other men were chosen before him to occupy positions which he felt conscious he might well have filled, but as his lot was cast in that Cornish nook, he had thrown himself heart and soul into whatever work he found to do. The affection he won from the rough fisherfolk, who regarded him as the father of the parish, whose joys and sorrows, cares and anxieties, were all well known to him, was as much to him as any brilliant worldly success. His means were small, too small for his generous heart. He wished to give as good an education as possible to his two children, Henry and Rose, and devoted much time and trouble to that end. For several years he taught the boy and girl together himself, Rose learning much the same lessons as her brother; this laid the foundation of the accuracy which characterised her in any task she undertook--a quality often lacking in feminine work.

Mr. Sinclair had been a good student of natural history, and had written books and magazine articles which had been well thought of. Rose tried to follow her father's pursuit; she would spend hours in reading about birds and butterflies, and in making little researches herself. One of her greatest pleasures had been to help her father, either by taking notes for him or by writing at his dictation. She hoped herself some day to add to her pecuniary resources by writing for biological papers or even by giving lectures.

But the happy home life in the Cornish rectory was to end all too quickly. Rose lost both her parents within a short time of each other; her brother was at Oxford, working hard; and Rose was left alone, and had to leave the home which was so dear to her.

It was then that her uncle, Dr. Sinclair, without a moment's hesitation, offered her a home in his house. He did not listen to warning voices, cautioning him against burdening himself with the charge of another girl, for his own means were not large, and his family made many demands upon his purse. He was a physician whose career might have been a brilliant one had his practice been in London; but a fanciful and invalid wife had rendered this impossible, as she declared she could only exist in the pure air of the country.

So he had reluctantly abandoned his cherished hope of working as a London doctor, and had settled near a small country town in Gloucestershire, where he soon obtained most of the practice round; but his scope was narrow. He nevertheless managed to keep in touch with his profession, a profession in which he had entered heart and soul, making various scientific researches in his laboratory, and sending the fruit of them in clearly-written articles to medical papers. Now for this work, either in writing short articles from his notes, or from his dictation, a patient helper was of great assistance to him. His own daughters, as already seen, disliked the work, and showed their father no sympathy in it, whereas to Rose it was real enjoyment, filling, in a measure, the void she felt in no longer helping her father. Between uncle and niece a tacit sympathy had grown up. He encouraged her in her natural history pursuits, and helped her to start the lectures she gave to the G.F.S. girls in the neighbourhood. The suggestion had seemed little likely to interest them, but Rose had been so clear and explicit that the girls soon became eager for them.

Time went on in this way, when something happened which was again to change Rose's circumstances. Truly it is that often trifles light as air have an unknown weight of importance in them. One morning the letter-bag brought a circular announcing that some "University Extension Lectures" were to be given at C----, their nearest town, by a professor from Oxford, the subject chosen being "Spiders," with notes from the microscope.

When Dr. Sinclair had read it, he passed it, smiling kindly, to Rose.

"This is not for me," he said, "but I think I know some one whom it may interest."

"Oh, uncle! how delightful," said Rose, when she had looked at it; "the very thing I should enjoy!"

So it came to pass that Rose attended the lectures, entering very fully into them, and taking careful notes.

At the close of the course, the lecturer said he would like any of the students who felt sufficiently interested in the subject to write a paper, and send it in to him, giving a summary of the lectures, and asking any questions they might care to ask, at the end.

Rose and several others responded to the invitation, and wrote their papers.

For some time Rose heard no more about it, but one morning she was surprised to receive the following note:--

"DEAR MADAM,--I have felt much satisfaction in reading your paper, which I return, with a few notes and answers to your questions. It shows me with what intelligent interest you have followed my lectures.

"It may interest you to know that an examination for a scholarship at St. Margaret's Hall, the new college for women, is shortly to be held at Oxford; and if you care to pursue a subject for which you show much understanding, I would suggest your trying for it. I don't promise you success, but I think it is worth the venture. A friend of mine, a lady living in Oxford, receives lady students recommended by me, and would, I am sure, make you comfortable on very moderate terms. Yours truly,

"B. FIELDING."

Rose read the letter two or three times and then passed it to her uncle. Had she the means to go there--if, oh, _if_ she could only get the scholarship, how delightful it would be!

"Come to my study," said Dr. Sinclair.

And as soon as the door was shut he said kindly,--

"I don't like you to lose this opportunity, dear child, so write and tell Mr. Fielding you will go up to Oxford, if he will introduce you to the lady he mentions."

"Oh, but, uncle," she said, "what Mr. Fielding may call moderate terms may really mean a great deal more than should be paid for me."

"Never mind, little Rose," said Dr. Sinclair, "I meant to give my kind little helper a birthday present, and this shall be it."

"Dear uncle, how kind of you. But remember, that whatever help, as you term it, I may have given you, has always been a pleasure to me."

"And so, dear, is anything that I may do for you to me."

Thus it was settled, and a few days later, Dr. Sinclair himself started for his own beloved Oxford with his niece. Jack and Maud went to the station to see them off.

"Keep up your courage, Rose," said Jack, "you're pretty sure to pass, for if any girl in England knows about creepy, crawley things, you do!"

When Rose returned some days later, she looked rather overstrained and pale, and, to the surprise of Ethel and Maud, never looked at her microscope, or at any of her treasures in the way of beetles and tadpoles, but spent her time in complete idleness, except when she helped them to do up some of their evening clothes for some forthcoming dances; and they were surprised to see how deftly a biologist could sew.

One Saturday, as the three girls were sitting working together, Jack, who was spending his half-holiday at home again, said, "Why, here comes the telegraph boy!"

"Run and see who it is for," said Ethel, who had lately shown much more sympathetic interest in Rose, and who began to realise that if Rose obtained what she was so keenly set on, she, as well as others, might miss the cousin who had been so kind and so unselfish an inmate of their home. "Run and see, Jack; and if it is for any of us, bring it here."

Rose looked very white, but did not look up from her work.

"Addressed to Miss Rose Sinclair," said Jack, who soon returned.

Rose took the telegram with trembling fingers, and then tore it open.

It announced the following:--

"_Rose Sinclair passed first. Awarded scholarship St. Margaret's for three years._"

"Oh, Ethel!" said Rose, "it is too good to be true."

"I knew you would pass," said Jack, "I always said you would, didn't I, now?"

"Well," said Ethel, "we ought to be very glad for your sake."

"Yes," said Maud, "I congratulate you, Rose--but, I am very, very sorry you are going away."

"Are you, dear?" said Rose; "I also shall feel lonely without all of you, in this my second home. But let us go and tell uncle, for I consider this his special birthday gift to me."

"So it is," said Dr. Sinclair, who appeared at that moment.

"Then your old uncle is much gratified in sending his niece to Oxford; but he will miss his little girl very much."

Rose distinguished herself even far above Jack's expectation. After she had concluded her college course, she devoted her time and knowledge to giving lectures, for which she received remuneration, also to writing articles for magazines, and subsequent events led to her settling in Oxford. Whenever Dr. Sinclair wants an especially enjoyable holiday, he goes to spend a few days with Rose, and the two compare notes on their work. When he expresses his pleasure at her success, Rose loves to remind him that she owes it greatly to his kindness that she was placed in the way of obtaining it, through the birthday gift, which was to be so helpful to her.

DOLLY HARDCASTLE'S ROSEBUDS.

_A CITY IDYLL_

BY CHARLES E. PEARCE.

Jack Cameron's office was a handsome apartment. It was approached by a broad staircase, the balusters of which were impressive from their solidity and design. The office door had a species of ornamental pediment over it, and the room itself had panelled walls of a pale green, a chimneypiece of portentous size, and a highly ornamental ceiling.

Up the staircase tripped a little lady--a pleasant vision of a silk blouse, butter-coloured lace, golden hair, fawn gloves, and tan bottines, leaving behind her an atmosphere redolent of the latest fashionable perfume mingled with the more delicate scent of the Marechal Niel roses in her corsage.

She knocked at the door, and, as there was no response from within, turned the handle.

"May I come in, please?" she said laughingly.

A young man was standing in a corner of the room opposite the telegraphic machine, from which the "tape" was issuing with a monotonous click. On this "tape"--a narrow strip of paper seemingly endless, which fell on the floor in serpentine coils--were inscribed at regular intervals some cabalistic characters unintelligible to the general public, but full of meaning to the initiated.

He turned at the sound of the voice. "What! Dolly?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, Jack; didn't you expect me?"

"Of course--of course," answered Jack Cameron, rather confusedly.

The girl crossed the room, and, taking both the hands of the young man, looked into his eyes.

"You are worried," said she softly.

"Oh, only a little. One is bound to have worries in business, especially when the market's feverish. But I'm awfully glad you've come. I shall forget all my bothers now you are here."

His tone brightened, and the shadow that was beginning to steal over the girl's face disappeared.

They were engaged. The wedding-day was fixed for the following week; naturally there was much to do in the way of house furnishing, and the bride elect was happy. Shopping before marriage has a distinct charm of its own. The feminine mind attaches to each purchase an ideal pleasure. Then there is the special joy of being entrusted by her future husband with money, and the pride of showing him how well she can bargain.

Jack Cameron was a stockbroker, and had done fairly well in South Africans. But like a good many others he had kept his "Narbatos" too long, and he saw his way to lose some money; not enough to seriously damage his stability, but enough to inconvenience him at this especial time when he was thinking of taking a wife.

Dolly Hardcastle knew nothing at all about this. Indeed, she knew nothing about stockbroking. It seemed to her simply a pleasant, light, gentlemanly profession, consisting principally in standing in Throgmorton Street, with one's hat tilted backwards, smoking cigarettes, eating oranges or strawberries according to the season, and talking about cricket or football.

This was the first time she had been to Jack's office, and she was prettily curious about everything--especially the telephone. She was not satisfied until Jack had shown her how to work the apparatus.

The "ticker" was also an all-absorbing object of attention The continuous "click, click," and the issuing of the tape without any apparent motive power, had something of the supernatural about it. Dolly looked at the white strips with wonder.

"What does this say, Jack? N-a-r-Narbatos, 2 1/2. What does it mean?"

Alas! Jack Cameron knew too well what it meant. Narbatos had gone down with a "slump." When Miss Hardcastle called he was debating whether he should sell. This quotation decided him.

"Dolly," said he hurriedly, "do you mind me leaving you for five minutes alone while I run into the 'House'?"

No, Dolly did not mind. Business, of course, must be attended to. Jack seized his hat, snatched a kiss, and vanished.

"Dear old Jack," said Dolly, seating herself at the office table and staring at the ticker. "I wonder whether he has many callers? Whatever shall I do if anybody comes?"

She was considering this matter, with the assistance of the paper-knife, pressed against her pretty lips, when the sharp ting, ting, ting, of the telephone startled her.

Somebody wanted to speak to Jack. It might be important. Hadn't she better go to the telephone? It was so nice to be able to help her future husband.

"I wonder whether I could imitate Jack's voice?"

She went to the telephone and did exactly as Jack had instructed her to do. She heard a sepulchral voice say, "Are you there?"

"Yes," said Dolly boldly.

"I have an offer of 5,000 Rosebuds. Will you take the lot, as you said you would when we were talking about them the other day? Wire just come."

"Five thousand rosebuds!" cried Dolly, with flashing eyes and cheeks like the flowers just mentioned. "Then Jack is going to have the church decorated after all. Darling fellow; he hasn't even forgotten the wire for fastening them."

The man at the other end was evidently impatient, for he shouted that Jack must decide at once. As the matter was one which concerned Dolly, she had no hesitation what answer to give.

"Yes," she declared, in as bass a tone as she could assume.

She felt half inclined to waltz round the room, but she was afraid of disturbing the occupant of the office below. Gradually she sobered down, and by the time Jack Cameron returned she was quite sedate.

Jack had sold his Narbatos, and had lost L500 over the deal. But it was no use crying over spilt milk. The immediate effect was that he would have to be very economical over his honeymoon expenses. However, he wouldn't say anything about the matter to Dolly that day. He would carry out his promise--give her a nice luncheon at Birch's.

And so, putting on a mask of gaiety to conceal his real feelings, he piloted his fiancee across Broad Street and Cornhill.

That luncheon took a long time. Basking in the smiles of his Dolly, he gradually forgot stocks, shares, backwardations, and contangoes. Then, when they came from Birch's, Dolly wanted to see the new frescoes at the Royal Exchange, and she had to be obeyed.

It was quite three o'clock when he bethought himself that, though wooing was very pleasant, he had several important letters to write, and must return to his office.

"Thank you, Jack, dear, for being so nice to me to-day," whispered Dolly, as they strolled towards the entrance of the Exchange; "and thank you especially for letting me have the church decorated. The roses will make the dear old place look sweetly pretty."

Jack stared. Had his Dolly taken leave of her senses?

"Decorations--roses!" he exclaimed, mechanically. "I don't understand."

"Ah, that's very clever of you," laughed Dolly, "pretending you know nothing about it. You wanted to surprise me."

"Upon my word I had no intention of having the church decorated. I should like to please you, of course, but----"

Well, he had already decided that the church decoration was one of the expenses he would do without.

"Come now, confess. Haven't you ordered a quantity of rosebuds? You must have forgotten. Anyway, it's all right, for while you were away from your office there came a message through the telephone asking whether you'd take 5,000 rosebuds you were talking to somebody about the other day and of course I said yes. Gracious! Jack, dear, what is the matter?"

"Rosebuds--telephone. Of course, I see what has happened," faltered the young stockbroker. "Oh, Dolly--Dolly."

"What have I done? Nothing very serious, I hope. If you don't want to have the church decorated, why, I--I--shan't mind very--very much."

"It isn't that at all," said Jack, looking very queer. "Of course you didn't know. Unluckily the message didn't mean flowers, but shares in the 'Rosebud Gold Mining Company.'"

"Oh!"

It was quite true that Jack had contemplated speculating in "Rosebud" shares, but he had heard some disquieting rumours about the mine, and had decided not to touch them. And here he was the prospective owner of 5,000! Only two days before the quotation was 10s., with a tendency to drop. To take them up was impossible, to sell would mean a loss.

"Dolly," said he hurriedly, "let me see you into an omnibus." And, after a hasty farewell, he packed the young lady into a Kensington 'bus, and rushed to the Mining door of the Stock Exchange in Broad Street.

"What are Rosebuds?" he inquired excitedly of a well-known stockbroker.

"15_s._ 6_d._, buyers, 14_s._ 6_d._, sellers."

And they were 7_s._ 6_d._, 7_s._, when the market opened that morning. What did it mean, and at what price had he, or rather, had Dolly, bought them?

He knew from whom the telephonic message had come. He dashed into his office and rang up the man, a member of a West End firm of brokers.

"Eight shillings," was the reply. "Congratulate you. Your profit already will pay for your honeymoon and a little more besides. Of course you'll sell. It's a market rig, and I happen to be in the know."

Sell? Of course he would. A profit of over L1,800 would recoup him for his loss of that morning, and leave him a handsome balance in the bargain.

"Dolly, dearest," he whispered that night, "the rosebuds are all right. The old church shall be smothered in them from end to end."

And so it was, but like a prudent man he never explained that but for Dolly's unconscious assistance there might have been no roses and perhaps very little honeymoon. He was afraid Dolly might want to help him again!

A TALE OF SIMLA.

BY DR. HELEN BOURCHIER.

There was a dinner-party that night at the lieutenant-governor's, and those of the governed who had followed him from his territory of Lahore up to Simla were bidden to the feast. In one of the pretty private sitting-rooms of the Bellevue Hotel three ladies were discussing chiffons in connection with that function.

"Elma doesn't care for dinner-parties," Mrs. Macdonald said regretfully.

Elma was her daughter, and this was her first season in Simla.

"Oh, mother, I like the parties well enough!" said Elma. "What I hate is the horrid way you have of getting to parties."

"What do you mean?" the third lady asked.

"Elma means that she doesn't like the jampans," Mrs. Macdonald explained.

"I am always frightened," said Elma in a low voice, and a little of the delicate colour she had brought out from England with her faded from her lovely face. "It seems so dreadful to go rushing down those steep, narrow lanes, on the edge of a precipice, in little rickety two-wheeled chairs that would turn over in a minute if one of the men were to stumble and fall; and then one would roll all down I don't know how many feet, down those steep precipices: some of them have no railings or protection of any kind, and in the evening the roads are quite dark under the overhanging trees. And people have fallen over them and been killed--every one knows that."

"Elma cannot speak Hindustani," the mother further explained, "and the first time she went out she called '_Jeldi, jeldi!_' to the men, and of course they ran faster and faster. I was really rather alarmed myself when they came tearing past me round a corner."

"I thought _jeldi_ meant 'slowly,'" said Elma.

"Well, at any rate you have learnt one word of the language," said Mrs. Thompson, laughing.

"I should not mind so much if mother was with me," said the girl; "but those horrid little jampans only hold one person--and mother's jampannis always run on so fast in front, and my men have to keep up with them. I wish I wasn't going this evening."

"She has the sweetest frock you ever saw," said Mrs. Macdonald, turning to a pleasanter aspect of the subject. "I must say my sister-in-law took great pains with her outfit, and she certainly has excellent taste."

"Didn't you ever feel nervous at first," Elma asked, "when you went out in a jampan on a dark night down a very steep road?"

Mrs. Thompson laughed. "I can't say I remember it," she said. "I never fancied myself going over the _kudd_--the 'precipice' as you call it. I suppose I should have made my husband walk by the side of the jampan if I had been afraid."

Then she got up to go, and Mrs. Macdonald went out with her and stood talking for a minute in the long corridor outside her rooms.

"She is a very lovely creature," said Mrs. Thompson pleasantly. "I should think she is quite the prettiest girl in Simla this year."

"I think she is," the mother agreed; "but I am afraid she will be very difficult to manage. She is only just out of the schoolroom, you know, and girls are so unpractical. She doesn't care to talk to any one but the subalterns and boys of her own age--and it is so important she should settle this year. You know we retire next year."

"It is early days yet," said the other cheerfully.

She had come out to India herself as the bride of a very rising young civilian, and she knew nothing of the campaign of the mothers at Simla.

Elma indeed looked a lovely creature when she came out of her room an hour or two later to show herself to her mother before she stepped into the hated jampan. Her dress was a delicate creation of white lace and chiffon, with illusive shimmerings of silver in its folds that came and went with every one of her graceful movements. She was a tall and slender girl, with a beautiful long white throat, smooth and round, that took on entrancing curves of pride and gentleness, of humility and nobleness. She had splendid rippling hair of a deep bronze, that had been red a few years earlier; and dark blue dreamy eyes under broad dark eyebrows; a long sweep of cool fair cheek, and a rather wide mouth with a little tender, pathetic droop at the corners.

"That frock certainly becomes you to perfection," said the mother. "I hope you will enjoy yourself; and do try not to let the boys monopolise you this evening. It is not like a dance, you know, and really, it is not good form to snub all the older men who try to talk to you."

Elma lifted her long lashes with a glance of unfeigned surprise. "Oh, mother," she said humbly, "how could I snub any one? I am afraid of the clever men. I like to talk to the boys because they are as silly as I am myself, and they would not laugh at me for saying stupid things."

"No one is going to laugh at you, goosey," said her mother.

"I wish I was not going," said Elma.

The ayah came out of the bedroom, and wrapped the tall young figure in a long white opera-cloak; and then they all went down together to the front verandah, where the jampans waited with the brown, bare-legged runners in their smart grey and blue liveries.

Mrs. Macdonald started first. "Don't call out _jeldi_ too often, Elma," she called back, laughing: "I don't want to be run over."

And the ayah, hearing the word _jeldi_, explained to the jampannis that the Miss Sahib desired, above all things, fleetness, and that she had no mind to sit behind a team of slugs.

Elma got in very gingerly, and the ayah settled her draperies with affectionate care. The dark little woman loved her, because she was gentle and fair and never scolded or hurried.

The night was very dark. The road was by narrow backways, rough, heavily shadowed, and unprotected in many places. The jampannis started off at a run down the steep path as soon as they had passed through the gate, and Elma sat trembling and quaking behind them, gripping both sides of the little narrow carriage as she was whirled along. Once or twice it bumped heavily over large stones in the road; and when they had gone some little distance a dispute seemed to arise between the runners. They stopped the jampan and appealed to her, but she could not understand a word they said. She could only shake her head and point forward. Several minutes were lost in this discussion, and when at length it was decided one way or the other, the men started again at a greater speed than ever, to make up for the lost time.

They bumped and flew along the dark road, and whirled round a corner too short. One of the men on the inner side of the road stumbled up the bank, and, losing his balance, let go the pole, and the jampan heeled over. Elma's startled scream unnerved the other runners, who swerved and stumbled, and in a moment the jampan was overturned down the side of the _kudd_. The white figure in it was shot out and went rolling down the rough hillside among the scrub and thorny bushes and broken stakes that covered it.

The jampannis ran away; and after that one scream of Elma's there was silence on the dark road.

It seemed to her that she was years rolling and buffeting down that steep hillside, which happily at that point was not precipitous. Then something struck her sharply on the side and stopped her farther progress. She did not faint, though the pain in her side gripped her breath for a moment. For all her delicate ethereal appearance, she was a strong girl, and, like many timid people, found courage when a disaster had really happened. She could not move. She was pinned down among the short, stiff branches of a thorny shrub; but she screamed again as loud as she could--not a scream of terror, but a call for help. Then she lay and listened. All about her there was no sound but the rustling murmur of the leaves and the tiny, mysterious noises of the little creatures of the night whose realm she had invaded. Now and again she tried to move and disentangle herself from the strong branches that held her; but they pressed her down, the thorns pinned her clothes, and her bruised side ached with every movement--and she was forced to lie still again and listen for some sound of the jampannis, who must surely be looking for her.

Presently, on the road above, there sounded, very faint and far off, the tramp of shod feet. She called again, and the tramp quickened to a run, and a man's voice shouted in the distance: "Hullo! Hullo!"

As the steps came nearer above her, she cried again: "Help! I am here--down the _kudd_."

In the leafy stillness her shrill young voice rang far and clear.

"Where are you?" came the answering voice.

"Down the _kudd_."

The steps stopped on the road above.

"Are you there?" the voice called. "I see something white glimmering."

"I am here," she answered; then, as the bushes crackled above her, she called a warning: "It is very steep. Be careful."

Very slowly and cautiously the steps came down the steep side of the _kudd_ to an accompaniment of rolling stones and crashing and tearing branches, and now and then a muttered exclamation. Then she was aware of a white face glimmering out of the darkness.

"Are you there?" said the voice again, quite close to her.

"Yes, I am here, but I cannot move; the branches hold me down."

"Wait a moment. I will get a light."

She was lying on her back, and, turning her head a little, she could see a match struck and the face it illuminated--a strong, dark, clean-shaven face; a close-cropped, dark, uncovered head. The match was held over her for a moment, then it went out.

"I see where you are," said the rescuer, "we must try to get you out. Are you hurt?"

"I have hurt my side, I think," she said.

Without more words he knelt down beside her and began to tear away and loosen the short, sturdy branches; then he took her under the shoulders, and drew her slowly along the ground. There was a great rending and tearing in every direction of her delicate garments; but at last she was free of the clinging thorns and branches.

"I am afraid the thorns have scratched you a good deal," he said in a very matter-of-fact voice. "Will you try if you can stand up now? Lean on me."

Elma scrambled to her feet, and stood leaning against him--a glimmering, ghostly figure, whose tattered garments were happily hidden by the darkness.

"Do you think you can manage to climb back to the road now?" he asked; "there may be snakes about here, you know."

"I will try," said Elma.

"I will go first," he said. "You had better hold on to my coat, I think. That will leave my hands free to pull us up."

Very slowly and laboriously they clambered back again to the road above; there was no sign of the jampannis, and the jampan itself had gone over the _kudd_ and was no more to be seen.

They sat down exhausted on the rising bank on the other side of the road.

"How did you get here?" he asked.

"My jampan went over the side, down the precipice," said Elma, "and I am afraid those poor jampannis must have been killed."

The stranger laughed long and loud, and Elma, in the reaction of her relief, laughed too.

"I have not the slightest idea what you are laughing at," she said.

"You have not been long in this country?" he asked.

"Why?"

"You do not know the jampanni. As soon as the jampan tilted they let go, and directly they saw you had gone over they ran away. Killed! Well, that is likely! I daresay they will come back here presently to pick up the pieces, when they have got over their panic: they are not really bad-hearted, you know. We will wait a little while and see."

There was silence between them for a few peaceful moments; then Elma said gently, "I thank you with all my heart."

"Oh, not at all!" said the stranger politely.

They both laughed again, young, heart-whole, clear laughter, that echoed strangely on those world-old hills.

"Words are very inadequate," said Elma presently.

"Oh, one understands all right without words," said he; "but where is the rest of your party, I wonder? I suppose you were not alone?"

"Mother has gone to a dinner-party," she answered. "Oh dear, what ought I to do? She will be so frightened! She is waiting for me. I must get some one to go and tell her I am all right. How could I sit here and forget how frightened she will be when I don't come!"

"We had better wait a little longer, I think," he said. "You cannot walk just yet, can you?"

"My shoes are all cut to pieces," she owned ruefully. "I suppose we must wait. It was very lucky for me you were passing just then."

"Yes, I had just cut the shop for an hour or two, and I came round here to have a quiet smoke. Lost my way, as a matter of fact."

"They must keep open very late at your shop," she remarked.

He hesitated a moment before he answered, "Very late."

"And I suppose you haven't dined?" she went on. "You must come back with me, and dine at the hotel. I cannot go on to the party now, at any rate; my clothes are in rags, and, besides, it must be quite late."

"Do you know your way back to the hotel?" he asked, as the time went on and the jampannis remained, to all appearance, as dead as ever.

"No, I have never walked down this way, and it is far too dark to attempt it now," said Elma very decidedly.

The time passed pleasantly enough while they waited, and more than once their light-hearted laughter rang out into the night.

At last they heard a pattering of bare feet coming down the road. The stranger hailed in Hindustani, and the natives stopped and began an excited jabbering all together, which the stranger answered in their own language.

"These are the jampannis who were killed," he announced to Elma. "If you wish it, I will send one of them with a message to your mother, and the others can fetch a couple of jampans to take us to the hotel."

"You seem to know Hindustani very well," she remarked, when the men had been sent on their various errands.

"Yes, I have been some little time in India," he answered, "though I have only been a few days at Simla. Will you allow me to introduce myself? My name is Angus McIvor."

"And I am Elma Macdonald. I hope we shall not meet any one at the hotel before I can get to my room. Oh! and will you let me go on in front, and get out before you come?--I am so dreadfully tattered and torn."

"I promise not to look at you at all until you give me leave," he answered gravely. "And what about me? I have lost my hat, and as yet I have no idea of the extent of the damage my garments have sustained."

"Then I won't look at you either," said Elma, and they laughed together again in the gayest _camaraderie_.

Dinner was over at the Bellevue when they got back there; but they neither of them felt the want of other company. They had a very merry little dinner-party all to themselves, and Angus was able to look at the damsel errant he had rescued. Her beauty came upon him with a shock of surprise. He had seen many beautiful women in his time, but never anything so enchanting as the droop of her mouth, or the lovely curves of her throat, or the transparent candour of her sweet blue eyes.

What Elma saw was a tall, well-knit young fellow, with a dark, plain face, a hawk nose, and grey eyes. He was clean-shaven; no moustache or beard concealed the masterful squareness of his jaw or the rather satirical curve of his thin lips.

Directly dinner was over he left her, though she begged him to stay till her mother came home.

"Mother would like to thank you for what you did for me," she said.

"I will come and be thanked to-morrow morning, then," he said, laughing. "I shall want to know how you are after your accident, you know--that is, if I can get away from the shop."

Mrs. Macdonald came home rather early, and not in the best of tempers. She had been a good deal alarmed and upset when Elma failed to arrive at Government House; and even after the jampanni had brought the message that her daughter was safe at the hotel she was extremely annoyed at Elma's absence from the party. There were several bachelor guests whom she would have been glad to introduce to her; and when she thought of the radiant figure in the shimmering white robe that she had last seen on the hotel verandah, she was ready to cry with vexation and disappointment.

She listened with ill-concealed impatience to Elma's account of her accident. "And pray who is this Mr. McIvor who roams about rescuing distressed damsels?" she asked. "I never heard his name before."

"He said he came out of a shop," said Elma simply.

"A shop!" cried Mrs. Macdonald. "Really, Elma, you are no better than an idiot! The idea of asking a man who comes out of a shop to dine with you here! What will people say? You must be mad."

"But he was very kind to me, mother," said Elma, "and he missed his own dinner by helping me. And, you know, I might have lain in that horrible place all night if he had not helped me out. I don't see that any one here can complain about his shop; they were not asked to meet him: we dined quite by ourselves, he and I."

Mrs. Macdonald stamped her foot. "You are hopeless, Elma--quite hopeless!" she cried. "What was your aunt dreaming of to bring you up to have no more sense than a child of three years old?"

"He is very gentlemanly," said Elma, still gently expostulating. "You will see for yourself: he is coming to call on you to-morrow, and to ask how I am."

"Elma, I forbid you to see him again!" said the mother, now tragically impressive. "If he calls to-morrow, I shall see him alone. You are not to come into the room."

"I am afraid he will think it very unkind and rude," said Elma regretfully; "and I can never forget how kind he was and how glad I was to see him when he came down the _kudd_ after me."

But she made no further resistance to her mother's orders, having privately decided in her own mind to find out what shop in Simla had the advantage of his services, and to see him there herself and thank him again.

Angus McIvor duly called next morning, and was received by Mrs. Macdonald alone; but what passed between them at that interview remains a secret between him and that lady.

After lunch Elma strolled out for her usual solitary walk while her mother was enjoying her siesta. She wandered idly along under the trees down the road along which the jampannis had whirled her the evening before, and so to the broken edge of the _kudd_ where she had rolled over.

There, sitting on the bank, smoking serenely, was Angus McIvor. He threw away his cigar, and got up as soon as she saw him.

Her lovely face flushed, her blue eyes darkened with pleasure, as she held out her hand in greeting.

"I thought you would be sure to come here," he said, smiling down upon her.

"Oh, you expected me, then?" she said, and her eyes fell before his.

"Why weren't you there this morning when I came to be thanked?" he asked.

She turned her head away uneasily. "Mother did not wish me to come in," she said.

"Why not?"

No answer.

"Well, never mind that now," he said. "I will ask you again some other time. Now let us go up towards the top of Jacko; there are some pretty views I should like to show you."

And, nothing loth, Elma went with him.

"Why did your mother not wish you to see me this morning?"

"I cannot tell," said Elma lamely.

"Was it because of the shop?" he persisted. "Tell me. I promise you I will not mind. Was it?"

The fair head drooped a little, and the answer came in a whisper he could hardly hear: "Yes."

"And do you mind about the shop?"

She raised indignant blue eyes to his. "Of course not!" she said. "You ought to know that without asking me."

"Then will you meet me again to-morrow outside here?" he asked.

"No, I cannot do that."

"Then you are ashamed of the shop?"

"Indeed, I am not!"

"But I cannot meet you any other way," he urged. "I cannot come to see you, and you have not been to my shop yet since I came to Simla. So where can I see you? Will you meet me again?"

"Indeed, I cannot!"

"Then it is the shop?"

The blue eyes were full of distress, the tender mouth grew more pathetic. "I will come just once," she said, "to show you I care nothing about the shop. But you must not ask me again to do what I know my mother would not like. I cannot deceive her."

And on the next day they met again and walked together.

He did not ask her to meet him again, but on the third day he joined her at the gate.

"This is quite accidental, you know," he said, laughing down into her happy eyes.

And as they walked in the tender green shadows upon wooded Jacko, his eyes said, "I love you," and hers faltered and looked down.

And on the homeward way he took her hand. "I will not ask you to meet me again in secret, my sweetest," he said, "because I love you. I am ashamed that for one moment I doubted your innocent, unworldly heart. I will woo and win you openly as you should be wooed."

And without waiting for an answer, he kissed her hand and left her.

That evening there was a great reception at Government House, and the Viceroy's new aide-de-camp, Lord Angus McIvor Stuart, helped to receive the guests.

"This is my 'shop,' Mrs. Macdonald," he said. "It was a silly and slangy way to speak of it; but, upon my honour, I never meant to deceive any one when I said it first."

Then was Elma Macdonald openly wooed and won by the man who loved her.

THE TREVERN TREASURE.

BY LUCY HARDY.

A garden in the west of England some two and a half centuries ago; an old-world garden, with prim yew hedges and a sundial, and, in one shady and sequestered nook, two persons standing; one, a man some forty years of age, tall and handsome, the other a lady of grace and beauty some fifteen years his junior. Both were cloaked and muffled and spoke in low and anxious tones.

"An anxious task well done, sweetheart," the husband said at length, in tones of satisfaction; "and now, my darling, remember that this secret lies betwixt thou and I. Be heedful in keeping it--for thine own sake and that of our little babe. Should evil times arise, this hidden treasure may yet prove provision for our boy and for thee." So saying, he drew her arm within his own and led her into the house.

Sir Ralph Trevern had strongly espoused the Royal cause from the commencement of the Civil troubles, and was now paying a hurried visit to his home, to conceal his chief valuables, and to arrange for the departure of his wife Sybil and his baby heir to Exeter; a town still loyal to the king, and where he hoped his wife and babe would be safer than in their remote Devonshire Manor House amid neighbours of Parliamentary sympathies.

At Exeter Sybil Trevern remained until the city was forced to capitulate in the spring of 1646; and then, widowed and landless (for Sir Ralph had fallen at Marston Moor and his estate had been confiscated), she was thankful to accept the invitation of some Royalist friends, who had accompanied the queen, Henrietta Maria, in her secret flight to France some while before, and journeyed, with her babe, to join them in Paris.

There was no opportunity for Sybil Trevern to return to her old home, now in the possession of enemies; and, remembering her husband's strict charge of secrecy, she was reluctant to mention the hidden treasure, even to her friends.

"I will reveal it to our boy when he is of an age to understand it," thought Lady Trevern; but she never lived to see her son grow into manhood, or even into youth.

The trials and sorrows which had befallen her had told upon the gentle woman; and while the little Ralph was still a child, his mother passed into the Silent Land.

The concealment of valuables in secret places frequently results in misadventure. Sybil had often described to her little son the concealed valuables, which, if the exiled Royalists were ever able to re-visit England, she hoped to recover for herself and for him; and, in later years, Sir Ralph could still recall the enigmatical words in which his mother had (possibly with the idea that the rhyme might, as it did, cling to his childish memory) spoken to him of the hidden treasure.

"Near the water, by the fern, The Trevern secret you shall learn,"

had often been whispered into his childish ears, and this rhyme was now the only clue that he possessed to the hiding-place of all that remained of his family's fortunes. The articles heedfully concealed by the elder Sir Ralph were of no small value. Besides papers and documents of some moment to the family, and some heirlooms (antique silver so prized as to have been exempted, even by the devoted Royalists, from contribution to the king's "war treasure chest," for which the University of Oxford, and many a loyal family, had melted down their plate), Sir Ralph had hidden a most valuable collection of jewels, notably a necklace of rubies and diamonds, which had been a treasured possession of the Treverns since the days of Elizabeth, when one of the family had turned "gentleman adventurer," become a companion of Drake and Hawkins, and won it as a prize from a Spanish galloon.

In his childhood, the present Sir Ralph had heard (from old servants as well as from his mother) descriptions of these treasured jewels; but the secret of their hiding-place now rested with the dead.

Sir Ralph grew to manhood, returned to England at the Restoration, and finally, after much suing and delay, succeeded in obtaining repossession of his small paternal estate. Then, for many months, did he devote himself to a careful, but utterly unavailing, search about his property, vainly seeking along the lake-side and all round the big pond for the concealed valuables--but never finding aught but disappointment. The neighbours said that the silent, morose man, who spent his days walking about the estate with bent head and anxious, searching eyes, had become a trifle crazed; and indeed his fruitless search after his hidden wealth had grown into a monomania.

As the years rolled by, Sir Ralph became a soured and misanthropic man; for his estate had returned to him in a ruinous and burthened condition, and the acquisition of his hidden treasure was really necessary to clear off incumbrances and to repair the family fortunes.

Lady Trevern often assured her husband that it was more than probable that the late Cromwellian proprietor had discovered the jewels during his occupancy, and that, like a prudent man, he kept his own counsel in the matter. But Sir Ralph still clung to the belief that somewhere in his grounds, "near the water and by the fern," the wealth he now so sorely needed lay concealed. That in this faith Sir Ralph lived and died was proved by his will, in which he bequeathed to the younger of his two sons, "and to his heirs," the jewels and other specified valuables which the testator firmly believed were still concealed _somewhere_ about the Trevern property. The widowed Lady Trevern, however, was a capable and practically-minded woman, little inclined to set much value upon this visionary idea of "treasure trove." She was most reluctant to see her sons waste their lives in a hopeless search after the missing property, and succeeded in impressing both her children with her own views regarding the utter hopelessness of their father's quest. And, as the years passed away, the story of the "Trevern Treasure" became merely a kind of "family legend." The ferns said nothing, and the water kept its secret.

Fortune was not more kindly to the Treverns in the eighteenth century than she had been in the seventeenth. Roger Trevern, the elder son and inheritor of the estate, found it a hard struggle to maintain himself and his large family upon the impoverished property, while the younger son Richard, the designated heir of the missing treasure, became implicated in the Jacobite rising of 1715, was forced to fly to Holland after Mar's defeat, and died in exile, a few years after the disaster of Sherrifmuir, bequeathing a destitute orphan girl to his brother's charge.

Roger Trevern, a most kindly man, welcomed this addition to his already large family without a murmur; and little Mary Trevern grew up with her cousins, beloved and kindly treated by all in the household. It was only as the child grew into womanhood that a change came over Madam Trevern's feelings towards her young niece; for Madam Trevern was a shrewd and sensible woman, a devoted, but also an ambitious, mother. Much as she liked sweet Mary Trevern, she had no desire to see her eldest son, the youthful heir of the sadly encumbered estate, wedded to a portionless bride, however comely and amiable. And Dick Trevern had lately been exhibiting a marked preference for his pretty cousin, a fact which greatly disturbed his mother's peace of mind.

Mary herself knew this, and did not resent her aunt's feelings in the matter. The girl, as one of the elders among the children, had long been familiar with the story of the family straits and struggles, and could only acquiesce (though with a stifled sigh) in Madam Trevern's oft repeated axiom that "whenever Dick wedded, his bride must bring with her sufficient dowry to free the estate" from some of the mortgages which were crushing and crippling it. Mary knew that a marriage between herself and Dick could only result in bringing troubles upon both--and yet--and yet--love and prudence do not often go hand-in-hand--and although no word of actual wooing had ever passed between the young folk, both had, unfortunately, learned to love each other but too well. Wistfully did she think of that hidden treasure, now but a forlorn hope, yet all the hope she had.

"And had the poor child but a dowry there is none to whom I would sooner see our Dick wedded," Madam Trevern once remarked to her husband; "for Molly is a good girl, and like a daughter to us already. But, Roger, 'tis but sheer midsummer madness to dream of such a marriage now; truly 'twould be but 'hunger marrying thirst.' Dick must seek for a bride who at least brings some small fortune with her; and is there not Mistress Cynthia at the Hall, young and comely, and well dowered, casting eyes of favour upon him already?"

Roger Trevern sighed a little; he honestly liked Mary, and would have welcomed her heartily as a daughter-in-law, though prudent considerations told him that his wife spoke truly regarding the hopelessness of such a marriage for his son.

And then Madam Trevern went on to discuss with her husband the scheme she had now much at heart, viz., the separation of the young folks by the transference of Mary to the family of a distant kinsman in London.

"You do but lose your youth buried here with us, child," said Madam Trevern to Mary, with kindly hypocrisy one day, "while with our cousin Martin, who would be glad enough to take a bright young maid like thee to be companion to his ailing wife, thou mayst see the world, and perchance make a great marriage, which will cause thee to look down upon us poor Devon rustics." But Mary wept silently, though she was ready, even willing, to go to London as desired.

It was the girl's last day in the old home; her modest outfit had been prepared and packed, and the old waggoner was to call on the morrow to convey Mary and her uncle (who was to be her escort to the wonderful, far-off "London town") to Exeter; whence, by slow and tedious stages, the travellers would reach the metropolis at last.

Dick, who had been astutely sent away from home for a few weeks, knew nothing of his cousin's intended departure--Madam Trevern had purposely schemed thus to escape any "farewells" between the young people, arranging Mary's London visit very suddenly; and "perhaps 'twas the wisest," the girl sighed to herself as she wandered for the last time round the old, familiar garden, and seated herself, _alone!_ on the mossy well curb, where she and Dick had so often sat and talked together on sweet summer evenings in the past.

Mary's heart was indeed sad within her, and visions of what "might have been" would keep welling up before her. Oh! if only some good fairy had been keeping back the secret of the hidden treasure to reveal it now, how happy it would be.

Her solitary musings were, however, put to flight by the appearance of the younger children, with whom she was a great favourite, and who had gained an hour's respite from their usual "bed-time" upon this, their cousin's last night at home. Tom, and Will, and Sally, and Ben, had indeed received the tidings of their beloved "Molly's" impending departure with great dismay; and their vociferous lamentations were hardly to be checked by their mother's assurances that one day "Cousin Molly" might come back to see them, when she was "a great lady, riding in her coach and six," and would bring them picture-books and gilt gingerbread.

It was with a strange pang at her heart that Mary now submitted to the loving, if rather boisterous, caresses of the urchins who climbed her lap and clung around her neck.

But Mary had not chosen her quiet seat with a view to childhood's romps or she had chosen a safer one. As it was the shout of merriment was quickly followed by a sudden cry, a splash, and a simultaneous exclamation of dismay from Mary and the children. Will, the youngest, most troublesome, and therefore best beloved of the family, the four-years-old "baby," had slipped on the curb of the well, overbalanced himself, and fallen in; dropping a toy into the water as he did so. In a moment Mary was on her feet. Seizing the bucket, she called the elder boys to work the windlass, and, with firm, but quiet instructions and a face as white as death, consigned herself to the unknown deep.

Near the bottom of the well, which was not very deep, she came upon her little cousin suspended by his clothes to a hook fastened in the well side. She was not long in disengaging the little fellow's clothes from the friendly hook, and was about to signal to be drawn up, when beneath the hook, and explanatory of it--"near the water, by the fern"--what was it? A large hole in the side of the well, and in it--the Trevern treasure, found at last!

Though the lapse of many years had rotted some of the leather covering of the jewel casket, the gems themselves, when lifted out, flashed forth in undimmed beauty; the silver cups and flagons, if discoloured, were still intact, and the papers in the metal case were well preserved.

These last proved of great importance to Roger Trevern, enabling him to substantiate his claim to some disputed property, which was quite sufficient to relieve his estate of all its embarrassments.

And as for Mary, she restored her youngest cousin to his mother's arms, and took the eldest to her own.

A MEMORABLE DAY.

BY SARAH DOUDNEY.

Miss Tillotson's grey parrot had called "Clarissa" a dozen times at least, and was listening with his cunning head on one side for footsteps on the stairs. Breakfast was ready; an urn, shaped something like a sepulchral monument, was steaming on the table, and near it stood an old china jar filled with monthly roses. It was a warm, bright morning--that twenty-ninth of August in the year 1782. The windows at each end of the room were wide open, but scarcely a breath of air wandered in, or stirred the lilac bushes in the garden. For the Tillotsons' house could boast of a respectable strip of ground, although it stood in a street in Portsea.

At a quarter past eight Clarissa Tillotson came downstairs, and entered the room with a quick, firm step, taking no notice of the parrot's salutation. She was a tall, fair girl of nineteen; her hair, worn according to the fashion of that period, in short curls, was almost flaxen; her eyes were clear blue, her features regular, and, but for a certain hardness and sternness about the mouth, she might have been pronounced beautiful. She was dressed in a short-waisted gown of white muslin, with a blue girdle; her bodice was cut square, leaving her neck uncovered; her tight sleeves reached to the wrists. The gown was so scanty, and the skirt clung so closely to her figure, that it made her appear even taller than she really was. And at this day, on the wall of a modern London mansion, Clarissa's grandchildren and great-grandchildren behold her in a tarnished gilt frame, habited in the very costume which she wore on that memorable morning.

"Good-morning, Anthony," she said stiffly, as a young man, two years older than herself, made his appearance.

"Good-morning, sister," he answered in a cheery tone, drawing a step nearer as if he meant to give her a kiss. But Clarissa drew up her stately figure to its full height, and turned quickly to the table.

Her brother coloured with annoyance. There had been a quarrel between them on the preceding day, and Anthony was willing to make the first advance towards reconciliation. But he saw that Clarissa intended to keep him at a distance, and he knew the obstinacy of her nature too well to renew his attempt. He took his seat with a sigh, thinking how bright the home-life would be if the cloud of her unyielding temper did not too frequently darken the domestic sunshine.

"I find that father is not well enough to come down yet," he said at last, breaking an awkward silence. "He means to leave his room this afternoon."

"Dr. Vale charged him to be very cautious," rejoined Clarissa.

These young people were motherless; the daughter reigned as mistress of her father's house, acknowledging no control save his, and that was of the mildest kind. Captain Tillotson was the most indulgent of parents; his wife had died while Clarissa was still too young to realize her loss, and the child had been entirely left to the care of an old servant, who allowed her to have her own way in all things. At school she had been forced to submit to discipline; but her strong will was never conquered, and she generally contrived to gain an ascendency over her companions. Having retired from long and honourable service in the Royal Navy, the captain settled himself at home, to pass his old age in peace; and Clarissa proved herself an affectionate daughter. But Anthony was scarcely so easy to manage as her father; to him, his sister's word was not always law, and she sometimes found herself good-humouredly contradicted.

"If I give in," thought she, going over the before-mentioned quarrel, "he will think that he has got the mastery. No; I will treat him with marked coldness until he makes an apology."

Thoroughly chilled by her frigid tone and manner, Anthony made few efforts to sustain the conversation. Breakfast was finished in silence, and he rose rather hastily from his seat at the table.

"I am going on board the _Royal George_ this morning," he said, moving towards the door. "If my father asks for me, Clarissa, please tell him that I wanted to say a few words to Lieutenant Holloway. He will have to sail again shortly."

"Very well," replied Clarissa, indifferently.

The hall-door closed behind him, and she rung the bell to have the breakfast-table cleared. Then the sunshine tempted her to saunter into the garden, and gather a bunch of sweet lavender, but from some unexplained cause her mind was ill at ease. She could take no pleasure in her flowers; no interest in the vine which had been her especial care; and she returned to the house, determined to spend the morning at her worsted-work. Seating herself near the open window, she drew her frame towards her, and arranged her crewels. The shining needle darted in and out, and she was soon deeply absorbed in her occupation.

Every piece of work has a history of its own; and this quaint representation of the woman of Samaria was fated to be of great interest to succeeding generations. But the busy worker little guessed what memories would hereafter cling to that morning's labour, nor dreamed that some day those very stitches would remind her of the darkest hours in her life.

She worked on until the old clock in the hall struck ten; and at the same moment a sudden gust of wind swept through the room, strewing the table with petals from the over-blown roses in the jar, and blowing Clarissa's curls about her head. It was a welcome breeze, coming as it did after the sultry stillness, and she stood up between the two windows to enjoy the draught. Then, after pacing the long room to and fro for awhile, she sat down to her frame again, and began to think about her brother Anthony.

Had she been quite right after all? Would it not have been well to have received that kiss of peace? Was it such a very meritorious thing to hold out until her adversary had humbled himself before her? Even if the apology were made, would it not be rather a poor victory--one of those conquests which degrade instead of exalting the conqueror? Anthony was a noble fellow, a brother of whom most girls would be proud. His only fault was that determination to maintain his own opinion; but was that indeed a fault? She worked faster, and almost decided that it was not.

So busy was her brain that time flew by unheeded, and she started to hear the clock striking one. Scarcely had the stroke died away, when a shrill cry came ringing through the quiet street, driving the colour out of her face in an instant. Springing up from her chair, she hurried to the window that overlooked the pavement, and saw that people had come to their doors with dismayed faces, for a woman was standing on the causeway, raising that terrible wail.

"It's all true--it's all true!" she shrieked. "The _Royal George_ has gone down at Spithead."

The two maid-servants rushed upstairs in affright, for the cry had reached their ears. The captain heard it in his room overhead, and came down in his dressing-gown and slippers; but his daughter scarcely stayed to exchange a word with him. Mechanically seizing the garden-hat and shawl that hung in the hall, she put them on, and ran out into the street, setting off at full speed for the dockyard gates. Could it be true? Alas! the news was confirmed before she reached her destination, and the first wail was but the herald of many others. Even in that hour of universal distress and consternation people took note of the tall, fair young lady whose face and lips were as white as the dress she wore.

The _Royal George_ had lately arrived at Spithead after a cruise, and on that fatal morning she was undergoing the operation known as a "parliament heel." The sea was smooth and the weather still, and the business was begun early in the morning, a number of men from Portsmouth dockyard going on board to assist the ship's carpenters. It was found necessary, it is said, to strip off more of the sheathing than had been intended; and the men, eager to reach the defect in the ship's bottom, were induced to heel her too much. Then indeed "the land-breeze shook her shrouds," throwing her wholly on one side; the cannon rolled over to the side depressed; the water rushed in; and the gallant ship met her doom. Such was the story, told in hurried and broken words, that Clarissa heard from the pale lips of an old seaman; but he could give no other tidings. The boats of the fleet had put off to the rescue; that was all he could tell.

There was no hope in Clarissa's heart as she turned her steps homewards. Anthony had gone down--gone down with Admiral Kempenfeldt and his eight hundred. The same breeze that had scattered the rose-petals and played with her curls had a deadlier mission to perform. She remembered how she had stood rejoicing in that sudden gust of cool wind, and the thought turned her faint and sick as she reached her father's house.

"Clarissa," cried the captain, meeting her at the door, "what is all this? Surely it can't be true. Where's Anthony?"

Ay, where was Anthony? She threw her arms round the old man's neck, and hid her eyes upon his shoulder that she might not see his face.

"Father--dear father! He said he was going to see Lieutenant Holloway on board----"

She could not finish her sentence, and there was no need of more words. Captain Tillotson was a brave man; he had faced death many a time without flinching, but this was a blow which he was wholly unprepared to meet. Putting his daughter gently aside, he sat down on a sofa, and looked straight before him with that terrible blank look that tells its own tale of a stroke that has crushed out all strength. The servants, glancing from the father to the daughter, saw that on both faces this sudden sorrow had done the work of years. What was time? Was it months or minutes ago that the first cry had sounded through the street?

"If I had only kissed him!" Clarissa did not know that she was saying the words aloud. To her, indeed, this cup was doubly bitter, for it was mingled with the gall of remorse. But for that hard nature of hers, she might have had the sweetness of a kind parting to think upon. Had he forgiven her, in his loving heart, while the great ship was going down, and the water was taking away his life? Ah, she might never know that, until the cruel sea gave up its dead.

There was a noise of wheels in the street; but what were noises to her? The sound drew nearer; the wheels stopped at the door, but it could be only some friend, who had come in haste to tell them the bad news which they knew already.

Battered, and bruised, and dripping with water, a man descended from the hackney coach, and Clarissa started up.

The face was so pale, the whole aspect so strange, that she could not receive the great truth all at once. It was not until he entered the room, and knelt down, wet and trembling as he was, at his father's feet, that she realized her brother's safety.

Anthony had been on the upper deck when the ship sank, and was among that small number who escaped death. All those who were between decks shared the fate of the great Admiral who went down with his sword in its sheath, and ended his threescore years and ten of hard service, in sight of shore. The many were taken, the few left; but although hundreds of homes were made desolate that day, there were some from whence the strain of thanksgiving ascended, tempered by the national woe.

People were wont to say afterwards that Clarissa never again looked so young and fair as she did before the blow fell. But if that day's agony robbed her of her bloom, it left with her the "meek and quiet spirit" which never comes to some of us until it is gained through a great sorrow.

DORA.

_AN OSTLER'S STORY._

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Tell you a story, Master 'Arry? Ah! there's only one story as ought to be told in this yer stable, and that's the old un as allus hupsets me to tell. But I don't mind a-goin' over the old ground once ag'in, Master 'Arry, as you know werry well, if these yer gents 'as a mind to listen to a hold man's yarn. It beats all the printed stories as ever I see, but then, as I ain't no scholar, and can't see werry well neither, p'raps that ain't no much wonder arter all. Reading ain't much in my line, yer see, sir, and, as the old master used to say, "Bring up yer boys to the prerfishuns yer means 'em to foller." 'Osses is my prerfishun, sir, and 'osses I was brought up to.

Excuse me just a minute, sir, if yer don't mind a-settin' on this yer stool. I don't like to see nobody a-leanin' ag'in that there post. That were "Snowflake's" stall, sir, in the old time, and "Snowflake" were little Dora's pony.

My father were os'ler here, sir, afore I were born, and I growed up to the stable, Master 'Arry, just as your ole father growed up to the 'All. It were in ole Sir Markham's time, this were--ole Sir Markham, whose picture hangs above the mantel in the dinin'-'all, as fine a hold English gen'leman as ever crossed a 'unter and follered the 'ounds. The first time as ever I see Sir Markham were when I were about four year old. O' course, we lived on the estate, but I don't know as I'd ever been up to the 'All till that partickler mornin', when I came wi' a message for my father, and meets ole Sir Markham in the park. Now, yer know, Sir Markham were a queer ole chap when he liked. He didn't take no nonsens from nobody, he didn't. I've seen him thrash the keeper afore now with his own ridin' whip, and he wouldn't 'a' stood partickler about a boy or two, and as there'd been a deal of fruit stole out o' the orchard about that time, he thought he'd jist up and frighten me a bit. So he hollers out--"Hi! there, you boy, what right 'a' you got in my park?" but I see a sort o' twinkle in his eye, so I knowed he weren't real cross, and so I up and says, "Ain't boys got a right to go where their fathers is?" He didn't say nothing more to me then, but when he sees my father he says, "That's a smart boy o' yours, Jim," he says, "and when he's a bit older yer must 'ave 'im up 'ere to 'elp."

Well, sir, I got a bit older in time, and I come up 'ere to 'elp, and, 'ceptin' for a very little while, I've been 'ere ever since.

I were a boy of fourteen when the things 'appened as make up the rest o' my story. Sir Markham he were a matter o' sixty year old, I should say, and Miss Dora, as I see it said in a book, once, "sweet, wery sweet, wery, wery sweet seventeen."

I allus 'ad a hadmiration for Miss Dora. "Darling Dora" they called 'er at the 'All, and so did I, when nobody wasn't listenin'. Nobody couldn't know 'er without admirin' 'er, but I 'ad a special sort of hadmiration for 'er as 'ad made me do any mortal thing she asked me, whatever it might 'ave costed.

Yer see, when I were quite a little chap, and she were no much bigger, she ses to me one day, when I were a bit scolded, she ses, "Never mind, Jim," she ses, "cheer up; you'll be a man o' some sort some day;" and I tell you, though I allus 'ad a hidea that way myself, when she said it I grow'd a hinch straight off. If yer believes in yourself, Master 'Arry, yer can do a lot, but if somebody else believes in yer there ain't nothink in the whole world what yer can't do.

My particler business in the stable were Miss Dora's pony, Snowflake, darling Dora's darling, as it got called o' times. She rode out a great deal, did Miss Dora, and she rode well, and I generally 'ad to foller 'er on the bay cob. She'd spend a lot o' time about this yer stable, one way and another, and we got to be werry partickler friends. Not as I presum'd, mind yer, nor as she forgot 'er station; she were just a hangel, she were, what couldn't be spoilt by nobody's company, and what couldn't 'elp a-makin' o' other people wish as they were summut in the hangel line, too.

But yer a-gettin' impatient I see, gents, and I ax yer pardon for a-ramblin' a bit.

Well, it were Chris'mas time, as it might be now, and young Markham (that were your father, Master 'Arry) he were 'ome from Oxford for 'is 'olidays, with as nice a young fellow as ever stepped, as 'ad come with him to spend Chris'mas at the 'All. They called 'im the "Captain," not that he were a harmy captain, or anythink of that, he were a captain of summut at the college--maybe football or summut else. Somehow he often came 'ome with young Markham at 'oliday times, and 'im and Miss Dora was

## partickler friendly like.

It were not a werry snowy Chris'mas that year, though there were plenty of frost, and the lake in the park would 'a' borne the London coach and four without a crack. Young Markham and the Captain and Miss Dora did a deal o' skatin', and ole Sir Markham invited a lot o' friends to come and stay Chris'mas for the sake o' the sport. They did say as Aunt Dorothy as Miss Dora were called arter 'ad been a-preachin' at 'im for a-neglectin' o' Miss Dora and a-keepin 'er at the 'All without no society, and I s'pose that's why Sir Markham were a-aggitatin' himself a bit cos' we never 'ad no fuss at Chris'mas as a rule.

Well, we was werry busy at that time, I can tell yer; several of the wisitors brought their own 'osses with them, and me and my father had plenty to do a-lookin' arter 'em.

Among the wisitors as come from London were a real military hofficer, a reg'lar scaff'ld pole he were, for length and breadth, with mustaches as 'ud 'a' done for reins, if 'e'd only been a 'oss. He weren't no favourite o' mine, not from the fust. He were a bit too harbitry for me. He were a-thinkin' he were a-goin' to hintroduce 'is harmy regerlations into our stables; but he allus 'ad to wait the longest, for all 'is hinterferin'. But what used to rile me the most with him were 'is nasty, sneerin' ways at young Markham's friend, the Captain. Yer see, sir, he were a real harmy captain, and so I s'pose he were a bit jealous o' our young Captain, as was a lot better than 'im, arter all. O' course I didn't see it at the time, but I've said to myself lots o' times since, it were a reg'lar plant, that's what it were, that Aunt Dorothy 'ad brought the big soldier down o' purpose for Miss Dora to fall in love with; but 'e were just a little bit too late.

Well, yer know, gents, I told yer as I were quite a youngster at the time, and though ole Sir Markham said as I were werry sharp, I must confess as I didn't quite understand 'ow things were a-goin' on. I noticed that the two captains kept pretty clear of each other, and that Miss Dora never came near the stables for three days together, which were a werry unusual thing for 'er; and one of the ole servants at the 'All told me as the hofficer 'ad been hasking Sir Markham if he might pay his addresses to Miss Dora, and that Sir Markham 'ad said he might.

My ole father were a-hactin' a bit queer about that time, too; he kept a-hasken' me if I'd like to be a postboy, or drive the London coach, or anything o' that, cos', he ses, "Yer know, Jim, Miss Dora 'll be marryin' somebody one o' these days, and maybe you'll 'ave to find summut else to do when Snowflake's gone." "Well," I ses, "if Miss Dora got married and go'd away, I reckon she'd take me with 'er to look arter 'er 'osses, so I sha'n't want no postboy's place, nor coachun's neither, as I sees." And father he seemed pretty satisfied, he did, only 'e says, "If ever you should want to drive to Scotland, Jim," he ses, "you go across the moor to the Burnley Beeches, and then yer bears off to yer right by the Ambly Arms, three mile along you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are."

Well, I didn't take no notice of this, though father he kept on sayin' o' summut o' the sort all day long, and when it came to evenin', bein' Chris'mas Eve, we went up to the 'All to 'ave supper in the kitchen, and drink ole Sir Markham's 'elth. Sir Markham come down in the servants' 'all and made a speech, and some o' the gents come down too; but while things were a-goin' at their 'ighest, my father he says to me, "Jim," 'e says, "if ever you want to go to Scotland you go across the moor to the Burnley Beeches, and then yer bears off to yer right by the Ambly Arms, three mile along you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are." "All right," I says, angry like, "I don't want no Scotland; what d'yer want to bother me for with yer Burnley Beeches, and yer Ambly Arms?" "Jim," 'e ses solemn, "yer never know how useful a bit of hinformation may come in sometimes; now," he says, "you'd better run over to the stables, and see if all is a-goin' on right." Well, I see it was no use argifyin', so off I starts. I sees as I comes near the stables as there were a light there, as ought not to be, and o' course, I run back'ard to tell my father, but lor, I thought he were off 'is 'ed, for all he ses was, "If ever you wants to go to Scotland, Jim, it's across the moor to the Burnley Beeches, off to yer right, by the Ambly Arms, three mile along you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are."

They'd been a-drinkin' a bit 'ard some of 'em, and I ses to myself father's been a'elpin' of 'em, and I tears off to the stables to see what was up.

Well, when I gets here, I comes in at that there door behind yer, sir, and what should I see, but Miss Dora in Snowflake's stall, a-kissin' and a-cryin' over 'im like mad. She didn't take no notice o' me no more'n if I hadn't been there at all, and I came and stood ag'in that there post as you were a-leanin' ag'in just now, sir. Little Dora were a-sobbin' as if 'er 'art would break, and she were a-tryin' to say "Good-bye." They're only little words, sir, at the most, but werry often they're the 'ardest words in all the world to say.

Well, sir, to make a long story short, it were just this: Sir Markham had told 'er as she mustn't think nothink of young Markham's college friend, 'cos 'e were poor and 'adn't nothink but 'is wits and 'is learnin' to live on, and that the tall soldier 'ad been a-haskin' for 'er, and he'd promised 'er to 'im; and it 'ad clean broke 'er 'art, and so she 'ad come down to this yer stable where everythink loved 'er to tell 'er sorrows to her old pet Snowflake, to bury her face in his snowy neck, and wipe 'er eyes on his flowin' mane.

But, afore I 'ad time to say anythink, who should foller me in at the door but the young Captain hisself, and 'e come and stood by me a moment without sayin' a word. He were werry pale, and 'is eyes shone like fire, and at last he ses, in a hoarse sort of a whisper, "Jim," 'e ses, "they wants to marry darling Dora to the big swaggerin' soldier, and I want yer to 'elp me prewent 'em." "'Elp yer prewent 'em," I ses; "why, I'll prewent 'em myself. I ain't werry big, p'r'aps, and maybe I couldn't reach 'is bloated face, but a stone 'ud find 'is head as quickly as it did the big Bible chap as David killed; and maybe I can shie." I hadn't practised on ole Sir Markham's apples for nothink.

Well, sir, I needn't say as it didn't come to that. The fact is, everythink were arranged. It were a matter o' seventy miles to Scotland by the road, and they'd made up their minds to start for Gretna Green as soon as the wisitors 'ad gone to bed. Father were in the swim, and that's why he'd been a-'intin' to me all day and 'ad sent me to see what the light meant. My father 'e were a artful ole man, 'e were; he knowed better nor to 'ave anythink to do with it hisself. Why, I b'leave Sir Markham 'ud a murdered 'im if he 'ad, but me, o' course,--I was only a boy, and did as I were told.

Well, sir, a-hactin' under horders, I were a-waitin' with the post-chaise at them Burnley Beeches at eleven o'clock. I'd been a-waitin' some time, and I begun to be afraid as they weren't a-comin'. At last I see a white somethink comin' along, and in another minute they was alongside. I shall never forget that night. Miss Dora fainted directly she were inside the carriage, and to me she looked as if she were dead. "For God's sake, and for Dora's sake, drive for your life, Jim!" said the young Captain, and I just did drive for my werry life. It was werry dark and I couldn't see much, and it must a bin a-rainin' or summut else,--anyhow there were a preshus lot o' water got in my eyes, till I couldn't see nothink. Father had taken care to git the 'osses in good condition, and they went away as though they knew as they were a-carryin' their darlin' Dora from death to life.

From the Burnley Beeches I drove as I 'ad been directed, past the Ambly Arms, and three mile further I found the great North Road, and there I wore. You never know how useful a bit o' information may come in sometimes. It were pretty straight work now, and the only thing I 'ad to fear was a-wearin' out me 'osses afore we reached the Border. At two o'clock we stopped and baited, and the young Captain he give me the tip. He says, "Don't go _too_ fast," he ses; "they won't be arter us for an hour or two yet, if they come at all. I've given 'em summut else to look for fust," 'e ses, "and it'll take 'em all their time."

Weil, there ain't no need to make a long story out o' our run to Scotland; we got there safe enough arter imaginin' as we was follered by highwaymen, and goblins, and soldiers, and hall sorts o' other hevil sperits, which were nothink but fancy arter all.

Why, bless yer, we 'adn't no real need to fear; the young Captain he were one too many for 'em, he were, in more ways nor one. Afore he came away he smashed a big hole in the ice, in the middle of the lake, and put 'is 'at and Miss Dora's muff on the edge of the hole; and they were a-breaking up the ice and dragging the lake all Chris'mas Day instead of a-follerin' us.

Next thing came the weddin' in the blacksmith's shop, where the young Captain took our darling Dora all to hisself, with ne'er a bridesmaid but me to give 'er away and everythink else. Poor little Dora, she fainted right off ag'in directly it were all over; and the young Captain he flushed up regular, like one o' them hero chaps as they put in books. I never see such a change in any one afore or since. 'E seemed as if 'e could do anything now Miss Dora were hall 'is own. I tell yer, sir, you can't fight nothing like 'arf so 'ard for yourself as yer can if you've got some one else to fight for.

After the weddin', the Captain put up at the "Blacksmith's Arms," where 'e writes a long letter to ole Sir Markham, and one to your father, Master 'Arry, which he give me to deliver, and with which I started 'ome ag'in.

Ole Sir Markham never forgave the young Captain for a-runnin' off wi' Miss Dora, and if it 'adn't 'a' bin for your father, Master 'Arry, I shouldn't never 'a' come back to the 'All. Arter that they went abroad to some foreign place as I never heerd of, and they lost track of 'em up at the 'All too arter a bit; though I know as your father, Master 'Arry, used to send 'em lots o' things without Sir Markham a-knowin' anythink about it. And then came the letter with the black edge as said as our Dora 'ad died o' one of them furren fevers as I didn't even know the name of, and arter that we never heard no more. Poor ole Sir Markham began to break up werry soon arter that. He were not like the same man arter Miss Dora went, and werry soon 'e kept to the 'ouse altogether, and we never saw nothink of 'im out o' doors.

Next thing we 'eard as he were ill, and everybody were a-wishin' as Miss Dora 'ud come back and comfort 'im. At last, when he were really a-dyin', 'e kep' on a-callin' her, "Dora, Dora," in 'is wanderin's like, and nobody couldn't answer 'im, their 'arts was that full as there weren't no room for words. I remember that night, sir, as if it were yesterday, and yet it were forty year ago, Master 'Arry, ten year afore you were born. It were Chris'mas Eve, and ole Sir Markham he were keepin' on a-haskin' for Miss Dora, and I couldn't stand it no longer, so I come over 'ere to smoke my pipe and be to myself, yer see, and bide my feelin's like. Well, I were a-sittin' on a stool in that there corner, a-thinkin' about ole Sir Markham and our darlin' Dora, when I looks up, and as true as I ever see anythin' in my life I see her a-standin' there afore me. She didn't take no notice of me, though, but she run into Snowflake's stall there, sir, and buried her pretty face in 'is neck and stroked his mane and patted his sides, then she laughed one o' her silv'ry laughs and clapped 'er 'ands and calls out, "'Ome again, 'ome again at last; happy, happy 'ome. Jim, Jim, where's that lazy Jim?" But lor', sir, she were gone ag'in afore I could get up off the stool. I rushed up to the 'All like lightnin', I can tell yer, and I see a bright light a-shinin' in ole Sir Markham's bedroom. I never knowed 'ow I got up them stairs, but I heerd ole Sir Markham cry out as loud as ever I heerd 'im in my life, "Dora, Dora, come at last; darling Dora, darling!" 'E never said no more, did ole Sir Markham, she had taken 'im away.

* * * * *

You'll excuse me a-haskin' you not to lean ag'in that post, won't you, sir? It's a kind o' sort o' friend o' mine. There ain't a sorrow as I've ever had these forty year that I haven't shared with that post. It 'ave been watered by little Dora's tears, and it 'ave been watered by mine, and there ain't nothink in the 'ole world as I walues more. It ain't for the likes o' me to talk o' lovin' a hangel like 'er, sir, but I 'av'n't never loved no one else from that day to this, and maybe when my turn comes at last, Master 'Arry, to go where there ain't no difference between rich and poor, I may 'ear 'er bright sweet voice cry out ag'in to me: "'Ome ag'in, Jim: happy, happy 'ome!"

LITTLE PEACE.

BY NORA RYEMAN.

In the heart of England stands a sleepy hollow called "Green Corner," and in this same sleepy hollow stands a fine old English manor house styled "Green Corner Manor." It belongs to the Medlicott family, who have owned it for generations. In their picture gallery hangs a most singular picture, which is known far and wide as "The Portrait of Little Peace." It depicts a beautiful child in the quaint and picturesque costume of the age of King Charles II. A lamb stands by her side, and a tame ringdove is perched on her wrist. Her eyes are deeply, darkly blue, the curls which "fall adown her back are yellow, like ripe corn." Beneath this portrait in tarnished golden letters are these words of Holy Writ, "Blessed are the peacemakers," and if you read the chronicles of the Medlicott family you will read the history of this child. It was written by Dame Ursula, the wife of Godfrey Medlicott, and runs as under:--

"It was New Year's Eve, and my heart was heavy, so also was my husband's. For 'Verily our house had been left unto us desolate.' Our son Hilary had died in France, and our daughter, Grace, slept in the chancel of the parish church with dusty banners once borne by heroic Medlicotts waving over her marble tomb. 'Would God, that I had died for thee, my boy,' said dead Hilary's father when he looked at the empty chair in the chimney corner; 'and, my darling, life is savourless without thee,' I cried in bitterness of spirit, as I looked at the little plot of garden ground which had been known as Mistress Gracie's garden when my sweet one lived. Scarcely had this cry escaped my lips when a most strange thing befel. Seated on the last of the terrace steps was a little child, who as I passed her stretched out her hand and caught fast hold of my gown. I looked down, and there, beside me, was a most singular and beautiful child. The moonlight fell on her small, pale face and long, yellow hair, and I saw that she was both poorly and plainly clad. 'What do you want, my little maid?' I asked. 'You, madam,' she said serenely. 'From whence have you come?' was my next query. 'From a prison in London town,' was the strange reply. Doubtless this child (so I reasoned) was the daughter of some poor man who had suffered for conscience' sake; and, mayhap, some person who pitied his sad plight had taken the girl and thrown her on our charity, or, rather, mercy. 'Child,' said I, 'wilt come into the Manor with me, and have some chocolate and cake?' 'That will I, madam,' she answered softly. 'I came on purpose to stay with you.' The little one has partly lost her wits, I thought, but I said nothing, and the stranger trotted after me into my own parlour, just as a tame lamb or a little dog might have done. She took her seat on a tabouret at my knee, and ate her spiced cake and sipped her chocolate with a pretty, modest air. Just so was my Gracie wont to sit, and even as I thought of her my dim eyes grew dimmer still with tears. At last they fell, and some of them dropped on the strange guest's golden head, which she had confidingly placed on my knee. 'Don't, sweet madam,' she said, 'don't grieve overmuch! You will find balm in giving balm! You will find comfort in giving comfort! For _I am Peace_, and I have come to tarry with you for a little space!' I perceived that the child's wits were astray, but, somehow, I felt strangely drawn to her, and as she had nowhere else to go I kept her with me, and that New Year's Eve she slept in my Grace's bed, and on the succeeding day she was clothed in one of my lost ewe lamb's gowns, and all in the household styled her Little Peace, because she gave no other name at all.

* * * * *

"Time passed on--and the strange child still abode with us, and every day we loved her more, for she 'went about doing good,' and, what is more, became my schoolmistress, and instructed me in the holy art of charity. For my own great woe had made me forgetful of the woes and afflictions of others. This is how she went about her work. One winter day, when the fountain in the park was frozen, the child, who had been a-walking, came up to me and said, 'Dear madam, are apples good?' 'Of a surety they are--excellent for dessert, and also baked, with spiced ale. Wherefore dost ask?' 'Because old Gaffer Cressidge, and the dame his wife, are sitting eating baked apples and dry bread over in Ashete village, and methinks that soup would suit them better. Madam, we must set the pot boiling, and I will take them some. And, madam, dear, there must be a cupboard in this house.' 'Alack, my pretty one,' said I, 'of cupboards we already have enow. There is King Charles's cupboard in which we hid his Majesty after Worcester fight, and the green and blue closet, as well as many others. Sure, you prattle of that of which you do not know.' She shook her fair, bright head, and answered, 'Nay, madam, there is no strangers' cupboard for forlorn wayfarers, and there must be one, full of food, and wine, and physic, and sweet, health-restoring cordials. And the birdies must have a breakfast daily. Dorothy, the cookmaid, must boil bread in skimmed milk, and throw it on the lawn; then Master Robin and Master Thrush and Mistress Jenny Wren will all feast together. I once saw the little princes, in King Edward's time, feed the birdies thus; and so did Willie Shakespeare, in Stratford town.' Alas, I thought, alas, all is _now too_ plain. This child must have been akin to some great scholar, who taught her his own lore, and too much learning hath assuredly made her mad; but I will humour her, and then will try to bring her poor wits home. Thus reasoning, I placed her by my side, and cast my arms around her, and then I whispered, 'Tell me of thyself.' 'That will I,' she replied. 'I am Peace, and I come both in storms and after them. I came to Joan the Maid, on her stone scaffold in the Market Place of Rouen. I came to Rachel Russel when she sustained her husband's courage. I came to Mere Toinette, the brown-faced peasant woman, when she denied herself for her children. I came to Gaffer and Grannie Cressidge as they smiled at each other when eating the apples and bread. And I came to a man named Bunyan in his prison, and lo! he wrote of _me_. Now I have come to you.' 'Yea, to stay with me,' I said, but she answered not, she only kissed my hand, and on the morrow, when the wintry sunlight shone on all things within the manor house, it did _not_ shine upon her golden head! Her little bed was empty, so was her little chair; but the place she had filled in my heart was _still_ filled, and so I think it will be for ever! Some there are who call her a Good Fay or Fairy, and some there are who call her by another and sweeter name, but I think of her always as Little Peace, the hope giver, who came to teach me when my eyes were dim with grief. For no one can tell in what form a blessing will cross his threshold and dwell beside him as his helper, friend, and guest."

THE STORY OF WASSILI AND DARIA.

_A RUSSIAN STORY._

BY ROBERT GUILLEMARD.

Whilst staying in Siberia, on one occasion, when returning from an evening walk in the woods I was surprised at seeing a young Russian girl crying beside a clump of trees; she seemed pretty, and I approached; she saw me not, but continued to give vent to her tears.

I stopped to examine her appearance; her black hair, arranged in the fashion of the country, flowed from under the diadem usually worn by the Siberian girls, and formed a striking contrast, by its jet black colour, with the fairness of her skin. Whilst I was looking at her, she turned her head, and, perceiving me, rose in great haste, wiped off her tears, and said to me:

"Pardon me, father--but I am very unfortunate."

"I wish," said I, "that it were in my power to give you any consolation."

"I expect no consolation," she replied; "it is out of your power to give me any."

"But why are you crying?"

She was silent, and her sobs alone intimated that she was deeply afflicted.

"Can you have committed any fault," said I, "that has roused your father's anger against you?"

"He is angry with me, it is true; but is it my fault if I cannot love his Aphanassi?"

The subject now began to be interesting; for as Chateaubriand says, there were love and tears at the bottom of this story. I felt peculiarly interested in the narrative.

I asked the young Siberian girl who this Aphanassi was whom she could not love. She became more composed, and with enchanting grace, and almost French volubility, she informed me that the summer before a Baskir family had travelled further to the north than these tribes are accustomed to do, and had brought their flocks into the neighbourhood of the zavode of Tchornaia; they came from time to time to the village to buy things, and to sell the gowns called _doubas_, which their wives dye of a yellow colour with the bark of the birch tree. Now her father, the respectable Michael, was a shopkeeper, and constant communications began to be established between the Baskir and the Russian family. This connection became more close, when it was discovered that both families were of that sect which pretends to have preserved its religion free from all pollution or mixture, and gives its members the name of _Stareobratzi_. The head of the Baskir family, Aphanassi, soon fell in love with young Daria, and asked her in marriage from her father; but though wealthy, Aphanassi had a rough and repulsive look, and Daria could not bear him; she had, therefore, given him an absolute refusal. Her father doated on her, and had not pressed the matter farther, though he was desirous of forming an alliance so advantageous to his trade; and the Baskir had returned to his own country in the month of August to gather the crops of hemp and rye. But winter passed away, and the heats of June had scarcely been felt before Aphanassi had again appeared, with an immense quantity of bales of rich _doubas_, Chinese belts, and kaftans, and a herd of more than five hundred horses; he came, in fact, surrounded with all his splendour, and renewed again his offers and his entreaties. Old Michael was nearly gained by his offers, and Daria was in despair, for she was about to be sacrificed to gain, and she detested Aphanassi more than she had done the year before.

I listened to her with strong emotion, pitied her sorrows, which had so easily procured me her confidence, and when she left me, she was less afflicted than before.

The next day I returned to the spot where I had seen her, and found her again; she received me with a smile. Aphanassi had not come that morning, and Daria, probably thinking that I would come back to the spot, had come to ask me what she ought to reply to him, as well as to her father. I gave her my advice with a strong feeling of interest, and convinced that pity would henceforward open to me the road to her heart, I tried to become acquainted with her family. The same evening I bought some things from old Michael, and flattering him on his judgment and experience, endeavoured to lay the foundation of intimacy.

During several days I went regularly to the same spot, and almost always found Daria, as if we had appointed a meeting. Her melancholy increased; every time she saw me she asked for further advice, and although she showed me nothing but confidence, yet the habit of seeing her, of deploring her situation, of having near me a young and beautiful woman, after hearing for many, many months no other voices than the rough ones of officers, soldiers, and smiths--all these circumstances affected my heart with unusual emotion.

The sight of Daria reminded me of the circumstances of my first love; and these recollections, in their turn, embellished Daria with all their charms.

One day she said to me:

"You have seen Aphanassi this morning at my father's; don't you think he is very rough, and has an ugly, ill-natured countenance?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Well, I will show you whom I prefer to him." She smiled in saying this, and I was powerfully affected, as if she had been about to say, "You are the man!" She then threw back the gauze veil that flowed from her head-dress, and instantly, at a certain signal, a young man sprung from behind the trees and cried out to me:

"Thank you, Frenchman, for your good advice! I am Wassili, the friend of Daria!"

This sight perfectly confounded me. So close to love, and to be nothing but a confidant after all! I blushed for shame, but Daria soon dispelled this impulse of ill-humour. She said to me:

"Wassili, whom I have never mentioned to you, is my friend; I was desirous of making you acquainted with him. But he was jealous because you gave me consolation and I wished him to remain concealed from you, that he might be convinced by your language of the worthiness of your sentiments. Wassili will love you as I do; stranger, still give us your advice!"

The words of Daria calmed my trouble; and I felt happy that, at a thousand leagues from my native land, in the bosom of an enemy's country, I was bound by no tie to a foreign soil, but could still afford consolation to two beings in misfortune.

Wassili was handsome and amiable; he was also wealthy; but Aphanassi was much more so, and old Michael, though formerly flattered with the attentions of Wassili to his daughter, now rejected them with disdain. We agreed upon a plan of attack against the Baskir. I talked to Michael several times on the subject, and tried to arrange their differences; but it was of no avail.

Meanwhile took place the feast of St. John, the patron saint of Tchornaia, which assembled all the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages.

Early in the morning of the holiday, the whole of the inhabitants, dressed in their finest clothes, get into a number of little narrow boats, made of a single tree, like the canoes of the South Sea savages. A man is placed in the middle with one oar in his hands, and strikes the water first on one side and then on the other, and makes the boat move forward with great velocity. These frail skiffs are all in a line, race against each other, and perform a variety of evolutions on the lake. The women are placed at the bow and stern, and sing national songs, while the men are engaged in a variety of exercises and amusements on the shore. A large barge, carrying the heads of the village and the most distinguished inhabitants, contains a band of music, whose harmony contrasts with the songs that are heard from the other boats.

Beautiful weather usually prevails at this season, and the day closes with dances and suppers in the open air; and the lake of Tchornaia, naturally of a solitary aspect, becomes all at once full of life and animation, and presents an enchanting prospect.

Wassili had got several boats ready, which were filled with musicians, who attracted general attention, and were soon followed by almost all the skiffs in the same way as the gondolas in the Venetian lagoons follow the musical amateurs who sing during the night. Wassili knew that Michael would be flattered to hear an account of the success he had obtained: but Aphanassi had also come to the festival. As soon as he learned that the musicians of Wassili were followed by the crowd, and that his rival's name was in every one's mouth, he collected twenty of his finest horses, covered them with rich stuffs, and, as soon as the sports on the lake were over, began, by the sound of Tartar music, a series of races on the shore, which was a novel sight in the summer season, and was generally admired. His triumph was complete, and at Tchornaia nothing was talked of for several days but the races on the shore of the lake, and the Baskir's influence with Michael increased considerably.

The grief of Daria made her father suspect that she met Wassili out of the house, and he confined her at home. I saw none but the young man, whose communications were far from being so pleasing to me as those of Daria. Towards the end of July he informed me that Aphanassi had made another attempt to get her from her father; but that the old man was so overcome with her despair that he had only agreed that the marriage should take place the ensuing summer, delaying the matter under the pretext of getting her portion ready, but, in truth, to give her time to make up her mind to follow the Baskir.

About this period Wassili was sent by M. Demidoff's agent, at the head of a body of workmen, to the centre of the Ural Mountains to cut down trees and burn them into charcoal. He was not to return till the middle of September. During his absence I saw Daria almost daily; she had lost the brilliancy of her look, but it seemed to me that her beauty was increased, her countenance had assumed such an expression of melancholy. I had gradually obtained the goodwill of Michael, and dispelled, as far as lay in my power, the sorrows of his daughter. I was a foreigner, a prisoner, little to be feared, and pretty well off in regard to money, so that Michael felt no alarm at seeing me, and neglected no opportunity of showing me his goodwill.

I received a strong proof of this about the middle of August. He brought me to a family festival that takes place at the gathering of the cabbage, and to which women only are usually admitted; it is, in fact, their vintage season.

On the day that a family is to gather in their cabbage, which they salt and lay up for the winter season, the women invite their female friends and neighbours to come and assist them. On the evening before, they cut the cabbages from the stem, and pull off the outside leaves and earth that may be adhering to them. On the grand day, at the house where the cabbages are collected, the women assemble, dressed in their most brilliant manner, and armed with a sort of cleaver, with a handle in the centre, more or less ornamented, according to the person's rank. They place themselves round a kind of trough containing the cabbages. The old women give the signal for action; two of the youngest girls take their places in the middle of the room, and begin to dance a kind of allemande, while the rest of the women sing national songs, and keep time in driving their knives into the trough. When the girls are tired with dancing, two more take their place, always eager to surpass the former by the grace with which they make their movements. The songs continue without intermission, and the cabbages are thus cut up in the midst of a ball, which lasts from morning till night. Meanwhile, the married women carry on the work, salt the cabbages, and carefully pack them in barrels. In the evening the whole party sit down to supper, after which only the men are admitted, but even then they remain apart from the women. Glasses of wine and punch go round, dancing begins in a more general manner, and they withdraw at a late hour, to begin the same amusement at another neighbour's till all the harvest is finished.

Amidst all these young girls Daria always seemed to me the most amiable! she danced when called upon by her mother; her motions expressed satisfaction, and her eyes, scarcely refraining from tears, turned towards the stranger, who alone knew her real situation, though amidst so many indifferent people who called themselves her friends.

Towards the end of September, Wassili returned from the woods. Daria had a prospect of several months before her before the return of Aphanassi, if ever he should return at all; and she gave herself up to her love with pleasing improvidence.

At this period there came to Tchornaia two Russian officers, with several sergeants, who were much more like Cossacks than regular soldiers. Their appearance was the signal of universal mourning--they came to recruit. They proclaimed, in the Emperor's name, that on a certain day all the men in the district, whatever their age might be, were to assemble in the public square, there to be inspected.

At the appointed day every one was on the spot; but it was easy to see by their looks that it was with the utmost repugnance that they had obeyed. All the women were placed on the other side, and anxiously waited for the result of the inspection, and some of them were crying bitterly. I was present at this scene. The officers placed the men in two rows, and passed along the ranks very slowly. Now and then they touched a man, and he was immediately taken to a little group that was formed in the centre of the square. When they had run over the two rows, they again inspected the men that had been set apart, made them walk and strip, _verified_ them, in a word, such as our recruiting _councils_ did in our departments for many years. When a man was examined he was allowed to go, when the crowd raised a shout of joy; or he was immediately put in irons, in presence of his family, who raised cries of despair--this man was fit for service.

These unfortunate beings, thus chained up, were kept out of view till the very moment of their departure. No claims were valid against the recruiting officer; age, marriage, the duties required to be paid to an infirm parent, were all of no avail; sometimes, indeed, it happened, and that but rarely, that a secret arrangement with the officer, for a sum of money, saved a young man, a husband, or a father from his caprice, for he was bound by no rule; it often happened, also, that he marked out for the army a young man whose wife or mistress was coveted by the neighbouring lord, or whom injustice had irritated and rendered suspected.

To finish this description, which has made me leave my friends out of view, at a very melancholy period, I shall add a few more particulars.

Wassili, as I said before, was at the review; the recruiting officer thought he would make a handsome dragoon, or a soldier of the guard, and, having looked at him from top to toe, he declared him fit for the army.

Whilst his family were deploring his fate, and preparing to make every sacrifice to obtain his discharge, some one cried out that the officer would allow him to get off because he was wealthy, but that the poor must march.

The Russian heard this, and perhaps on the point of making a bargain, felt irritated, and would listen to no sort of arrangement, as a scoundrel always does when you have been on the point of buying. Wassili was put in irons, and destined to unlimited service--that is, to an eternal exile, for the Russian soldier is never allowed to return to his home.[1] Daria nearly fell a victim to her grief, and only recovered some portion of vigour when the recruits were to set out.

[Footnote 1: He is enrolled for twenty years--that is, for a whole life.]

On that day the recruiting party gorge them with meat and brandy till they are nearly dead drunk. They are then thrown into the sledges and carried off, still loaded with irons. A most heart-rending scene now takes place; every family follows them with their cries, and chants the prayers for the dead and the dying, while the unfortunate conscripts themselves, besotted with liquor, remain stupid and indifferent, burst into roars of laughter, or answer their friends with oaths and imprecations.

Notwithstanding the force that had been shown to him, Wassili had drunk nothing, and preserved his judgment unclouded; he stretched out his arms towards Daria, towards his friends, and towards me, and bade us adieu with many tears. Amidst the mournful sounds that struck upon her ears, the young girl followed him rapidly, and had time to throw herself into his arms before the sledge set out; but the moment he was beyond her reach, she fell backward with violence on the ice. No one paid the least attention to her; they all rushed forward and followed the sledges of the recruiting party, which soon galloped out of sight. I lifted Daria up; I did not attempt to restrain her grief, but took her back to her father's, where she was paid every attention her situation required. In about a month's time she was able to resume her usual occupations, but she recovered only a portion of her former self.

Winter again set in. I often saw Daria, either at her father's house, or when she walked out on purpose to meet me, which her father allowed, in the hope of dissipating her sorrows. How the poor girl was altered since the departure of Wassili! How many sad things the young Siberian told me when our sledges glided together along the surface of the lake! What melancholy there was in her language, and superstition in her belief!

I attempted to dissipate her sombre thoughts; but I soon perceived that everything brought them back to her mind, and that the sight of this savage nature, whose solitude affected my own thoughts with sorrow, contributed to increase her melancholy. Within her own dwelling she was less agitated, but more depressed; her fever was then languid, and her beautiful face despoiled of that expression, full of agreeable recollections, that animated her in our private conversation. These walks could only make her worse, and I endeavoured to avoid them. She understood my meaning. "Go," said she, "kind Frenchman, you are taking fruitless care; Wassili has taken my life away with him; it cannot return any more than he can."

I still continued to see her frequently. Old Michael was unhappy because she wept on hearing even the name of Aphanassi; he foresaw that it would be out of his power to have this wealthy man for his son-in-law, for his promises had gained his heart long ago. However this may be, he made his preparations in secret, bought fine silks, and ordered a magnificent diadem to be made for his daughter. She guessed his object, and once said to me, "My father is preparing a handsome ornament for me; it is intended for the last time I shall be at church; let him make haste, for Daria won't keep him waiting."

About the middle of June Aphanassi returned, more in love and more eager than ever, and, as soon as he appeared, the daughter of Michael was attacked by a burning fever that never left her. In a few days she was at the gates of death. All the care bestowed upon her was of no avail, and she died pronouncing the name of Wassili.

Full of profound grief, I followed her body to the church of the Stareobratzi, at Nishnei-Taguil. It had been dressed in her finest clothing, and she was placed in the coffin with her face uncovered. The relations, friends, and members of the same church were present. The men were ranged on one side, and the women on the other. After a funeral hymn, in the language of the country, the priest, who was bare-headed, pronounced the eulogium of the defunct. His grey hair, long beard, Asiatic gown, and loud sobs, gave his discourse a peculiar solemnity. When it was finished, every one came forward silently to bid farewell to Daria, and kiss her hand. I went like the rest; like them I went alone towards the coffin, took hold of the hand I had so often pressed, and gave it the last farewell kiss.

PLUCK, PERIL & ADVENTURE.

MARJORIE MAY: A WILFUL YOUNG WOMAN.

BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN.

"How perfectly delightful! Just fancy riding along those lovely sands, and seeing real live Bedouins on their horses or camels! I declare I see camels padding along now! I wish it wouldn't get dark so fast. But the city will look lovely when the moon is up."

"Is it quite safe?" asked a lady passenger, eager for the proposed excursion, but a little timid in such strange surroundings. For Mogador seemed like the ends of the earth to her. She had never been for a sea voyage before.

"Oh, yes; safe enough, or Captain Taylor would never have arranged it. Of course, it might not be safe to go quite alone; but a party together--why, it's as safe as Regent Street."

"What is this excursion they are all talking about?" asked Marjorie May, who had been standing apart in the bow of the boat, trying to dash in the effect of the sunset lights upon the solemn, lonely African mountains, with the white city sleeping on the edge of the sea, surrounded by its stretch of desert. It was too dark for further sketching, and the first bell had sounded for dinner. She joined the group of passengers, eagerly discussing the proposed jaunt for the morrow. Several voices answered her.

"Oh, the captain is going to arrange a sort of picnic for us to-morrow. We have all day in harbour, you know, and part of the next. So to-morrow we are to go ashore and take donkeys, and ride out along the shore there for several miles, to some queer place or other, where they will arrange lunch for us; and we can wander about and see the place, and get back on board in time for dinner; and next day we can see the town. That only takes an hour or so. We leave after lunch, but it will give plenty of time."

"I think the town sounds more interesting than the donkey-rides," said Marjorie. "I had not time to sketch in Tangiers, except just a few figures dashed off anyhow. I must make some studies of the Arabs and Nubians and Bedouins here. I shan't get another chance. This is the last African port we stop at."

"Oh, I daresay you'll have plenty of time for sketching," answered her cabin companion to whom she had spoken; "but I wouldn't miss the ride if I were you. It'll be quite a unique experience."

The dinner-bell rang, and the company on board the _Oratava_ took their seats in the pleasant upper deck saloon, where there was fresh air to be had, and glimpses through the windows of the darkening sky, the rising moon and brightening stars.

Marjorie's next-door neighbours were, on one side, the lady whose cabin she shared, on the other a Mr. Stuart, with whom she waged a frequent warfare. He was an experienced traveller, whilst she was quite inexperienced; and sometimes he had spoken to her with an air of authority which she resented, had nipped in the bud some pet project of hers, or had overthrown some cherished theory by the weight of his knowledge of stern facts.

But he had been to Mogador before, and Marjorie condescended to-night to be gracious and ask questions. She was keenly interested in what she heard. There was a Jewish quarter in the city as well as the Arab one. There was a curious market. The whole town was very curious, being all built in arcades and squares. It was not the least like Tangiers, he told her, which was the only African town Marjorie had yet visited. This cruise of the _Oratava_ had been a little unfortunate. The surf had been so heavy along the coast, that the passengers had not been able to land at any port of call since leaving Tangiers. They had had perforce to remain upon the vessel whilst cargo was being taken on and shipped off. But the sea had now calmed down. The restless Atlantic was quieting itself. The vessel at anchor in the little harbour scarcely moved. The conditions were all favourable for good weather, and the passengers were confident of their pleasure trip on the morrow.

As Marjorie heard Mr. Stuart's description of the old town--one of the most ancient in Africa--she was more and more resolved not to waste precious moments in a stupid donkey-ride across the desert. Of course it would be interesting in its way; but she had had excellent views of the desert at several ports, whereas the interior of the old city was a thing altogether new.

"I suppose it's quite a safe place?" she asked carelessly; and Mr. Stuart answered at once:

"Oh, yes, perfectly safe. There are several English families living in it. I lived there a year once. Of course, a stranger lady would not walk about there alone; she might get lost in the perplexing arcades, and Arab towns are never too sweet or too suitable for a lady to go about in by herself. But I shall go and look up my friends there. It's safe enough in that sense."

Marjorie's eyes began to sparkle under their long lashes. A plan was fermenting in her brain.

"I think I shall spend my day there sketching," she said.

"All right; only you mustn't be alone," answered Mr. Stuart in his rather imperious way. "You'd better take Colquhoun and his sister along with you. They're artists, and he knows something of the language and the ways of the Arabs."

A mutinous look came over Marjorie's face. She was not going to join company with Mr. and Miss Colquhoun any more. She had struck up a rather impulsive friendship with them at the outset of the voyage, but now she could not bear them. It was not an exceptional experience with her. She was eager to be friends with all the world; but again and again she discovered that too promiscuous friendship was not always wise. It had been so in this case, and Mr. Colquhoun had gone too far in some of his expressions of admiration. Marjorie had discovered that his views were much too lax to please her. She had resolved to have very little more to do with them for the future. To ask to join them on the morrow, even if they were going sketching, was a thing she could not and would not condescend to.

No, her mind was quickly made up. It was all nonsense about its not being safe. Why, there were English families and agents living in the place, and she would never be silly and lose herself or her head. She would land with the rest. There were about five-and-twenty passengers, and all of them would go ashore, and most would probably go for the donkey-ride into the desert. But she would quietly slip away, and nobody would be anxious. Some would think she had gone with the Colquhouns, who always sketched, or perhaps with Mr. Stuart, who had taken care of her in Tangiers. She was an independent member of society--nobody's especial charge. In the crowded streets of an Arab town nothing would be easier than to slip away from the party soon after landing; and then she would have a glorious day of liberty, wandering about, and making her own studies and sketches, and joining the rest at the appointed time, when they would be going back to the ship.

So Marjorie put her paints and sketching pad up, provided herself with everything needful, and slept happily in her narrow berth, eagerly waiting for the morrow, when so many new wonders would be revealed.

The morning dawned clear and fair, and Marjorie was early on deck, watching with delight the beautiful effects of light as the sun rose over the solemn mountains and lighted up the wide, lonely desert wastes. She could see the caravans of camels coming citywards, could watch the sunbeams falling upon the white walls, domes, and flat roofs of the ancient town. She watched the cargo boats coming out with their loads, and the familiar rattle of the steam crane and the shouts of the men were in her ears. The deck was alive with curious forms of Arabs come to display their wares. A turbaned man in one of the boats below was eagerly offering a splendid-looking, sable-black Nubian for sale, and Mr. Colquhoun was amusing himself by chaffering as though he meant to buy, which he could have done for the sum of eight pounds; for there is a slave market yet in Mogador, where men and women are driven in like cattle to be bought and sold.

A duck had escaped from the steward's stores and was triumphantly disporting himself in the green water. The steward had offered a reward of half a dozen empty soda-water bottles to the person who would recapture the bird, and two boats were in hot pursuit, whilst little brown Arab boys kept diving in to try to swim down the agile duck, who, however, succeeded in dodging them all with a neatness and sense of humour that evoked much applause from the on-lookers. Marjorie heard afterwards that it took three hours to effect the capture, and that at least a dozen men or boys had taken part in it, but the reward offered had amply contented them for their time and trouble.

Breakfast was quickly despatched that morning. Marjorie was almost too excited to eat. She was full of delightful anticipations of a romantic, independent day. Mr. Stuart's voice interrupted the pleasant current of her thoughts.

"Would you like to come with me, Miss May? My friends would be very pleased, I am sure. We could show you the town, and you would be sure of a good lunch." He added the last words a little mischievously, because Marjorie was often annoyed at the persistent way in which people made everything subservient to meals. A bit of bread and a few dates or an orange seemed to her quite sufficient sustenance between a ship's breakfast and dinner.

But such a commonplace way of spending a day was not in the least in accord with Marjorie's views. She thought she knew exactly what it would be like to go with Mr. Stuart--a hurried walk through the town, an introduction to a family of strangers, who would wish her anywhere else, the obligation to sit still in a drawing-room or on a verandah whilst Mr. Stuart told all the news from England, and then the inevitable lunch, with only time for a perfunctory examination of the city. She would not have minded seeing one of the houses where the English families lived, but she could not sacrifice her day just for that.

"Oh, thank you, but I have made my plans," she answered quickly; "I must do some sketching. I've not done half as much as I intended when I started. I am a professional woman, you know, Mr. Stuart; I can't amuse myself all day like you."

This was Marjorie's little bit of revenge for some of Mr. Stuart's remarks to her at different times, when she had chosen to think that he was making game of her professional work.

Marjorie was not exactly dependent upon her pencil and brush. She had a small income of her own; but she would not have been able to live as she did, or to enjoy the occasional jaunts abroad in which her soul delighted, had it not been that she had won for herself a place as illustrator upon one or two magazines. This trip was taken partly with a view to getting new subjects for the illustration of a story, a good deal of which was laid abroad and in the East. An Eastern tour was beyond Marjorie's reach; but she had heard of these itinerary trips by which for the modest sum of twenty guineas, she could travel as a first-class passenger and see Gibraltar, Tangiers, several African ports, including Mogador, the Canary Islands, and Madeira, and be back again in London within the month. She was a good sailor, and even the Bay had no terrors for her; so she had enjoyed herself to the full the whole time. But she had not done as much work upon Arab subjects as she had hoped, and she was resolved not to let this day be wasted.

Mr. Stuart would have offered advice; but Marjorie was in one of her contrary moods, and was afraid of his ending by joining her, and sacrificing his own day for her sake. She had a vaguely uneasy feeling that what she intended to do would not be thought quite "proper," and that Mr. Stuart would disapprove rather vehemently. She was quite resolved not to allow Mr. Stuart's prejudices to influence her. What was he to her that she should care for his approval or good opinion? After the conclusion of the voyage she would never see him again. She never wanted to, she said sometimes to herself, rather angrily; he was an interfering kind of autocratic man, for whom she felt a considerable dislike--and yet, somehow, Marjorie was occasionally conscious that she thought more about Mr. Stuart than about all the rest of the passengers put together.

It was very interesting getting off in the boats, and being rowed to the city by the shouting, gesticulating Arabs. Marjorie liked the masterful way of the captain and ship's officers with these dusky denizens of the desert. They seemed to be so completely the lords of creation, yet were immensely popular with the swarms of natives, who hung about the ship the whole time she was in harbour. The quay was alive with picturesque figures as they approached; but they did not land there. They passed under an archway into a smaller basin, and were rowed across this to another landing-place, where the same swarms of curious spectators awaited them.

Marjorie's fingers were itching after brush and pencil. Everything about her seemed a living picture, but for the moment she was forced to remain with her fellow-passengers; and Mr. Stuart walked beside her, vainly offering to carry her impedimenta.

"No, thank you," answered Marjorie briskly; "I like to have my own things myself. I am not used to being waited on. Besides, you are going to your friends. Oh, what a curious place! what big squares! And it's so beautifully clean too! Call Arab towns dirty? Why, there's no dirt anywhere; and oh, look at those people over yonder! What are they doing?"

"Washing their clothes by treading on them. They always chant that sort of sing-song whilst they are trampling them in the water. That is the custom-house yonder, where they are taking the cargo we have just sent off. Now we must go through the gate, and so into the town; but you will find it all like this--one square or arcade leading into another by gateways at the end. That's the distinguishing feature of Mogador, and you will find some of them pretty dirty, though it's more dust than mud this time of year."

Marjorie was enchanted by everything she saw. She only wished Mr. Stuart would take himself off, for she saw no chance of slipping away unobserved if he were at her side. Luckily for her, a young man came hurriedly to meet them from somewhere in the opposite direction, and, greeting Mr. Stuart with great effusion, carried him off forthwith, whilst Marjorie hurried along after the rest of the party.

But they had no intention of exploring the wonderful old town that day. They turned into a little side street, where there was nothing

## particular to see, but where, outside the agent's office, a number of

donkeys were waiting. Marjorie caught hold of Miss Craven, her cabin companion, and said hastily:

"I'm not going this ride; I don't care for being jolted on a donkey, with only a pack of straw for a saddle and a rope for a bridle. I must get some sketches done. The Colquhouns are going to sketch. I can find them if I want. Don't let anybody bother about me. I'll join you in time to go back to the boat at five."

"Well, take care of yourself," said Miss Craven, "and don't wander about alone, for it's a most heathenish-looking place. But you will be all right with the Colquhouns."

"Oh, yes," answered Marjorie, turning away with a burning face. She felt rather guilty, as though she had gone near to speaking an untruth, although no actual falsehood had passed her lips. Nobody heeded her as she slipped through the crowd of donkey boys and onlookers. Some offered her their beasts, but she smiled and shook her head, and hurried back to the main route through the larger arcades. Once there, she went leisurely, eagerly looking into shop doors, watching the brass-beating, the hand-loom weaving, and dashing off little pencil sketches of the children squatting at their tasks, or walking to or fro as they performed some winding operations for an older person seated upon the floor.

Nobody molested her in any way or seemed to notice her much. Sometimes a shopkeeper would offer her his wares in dumb show; but Marjorie had very little money with her, and, knowing nothing of the value of these things, was not to be tempted.

The sun poured down hot and strong, but there was shade to be had in these arcaded streets; and though some of them were anything but clean or sweet, Marjorie forgave everything for the sake of the beauty and picturesqueness of the scene. She wandered here, there, and all over; she found herself in the long, straggling market, and made hasty sketches of the men and women chaffering at their stalls; of camels, with their strange, sleepy, or vicious faces, padding softly along, turning their heads this way and that. She watched the lading of the beasts, and heard their curious grunts of anger or remonstrance when the load exceeded their approval. Everything was full of attraction for her, and she only waited till she had explored the place to set herself down and make some coloured sketches.

She soon had a following of small boys and loiterers, all interested in the doings of the strange lady with her sketchbook, but Marjorie did not mind that. She made some of the children stand to her, and got several rather effective groups.

Then she set herself to work in greater earnest. She obtained a seat in one or two places, and dashed in rapid coloured studies which she could work upon afterwards. Her _forte_ was for bold effects rather than for detail, and the strange old city gave her endless subjects. She did not heed the flight of time. She passed from spot to spot, with her following growing larger and larger, more and more curious: and so engrossed was she in her task, that the lengthening of the shadows and the dipping of the sun behind the walls did not attract her attention. It was only when she suddenly found herself enveloped in the quick-coming, semi-tropical shades of darkness that she realised the necessity to beat a retreat.

She rose quickly and put up her things. There was a ring many deep about her of curious natives, Arabs, Moors, Jews, Turks--she knew not how many nationalities were gathered together in that circle. In the broad light of day she had felt no qualm of uneasiness at the strange dusky faces. Nobody had molested her, and Marjorie, partly through temperament,

## partly through ignorance, had been perfectly fearless in this strange

old city. But with the dimness of evening gathering, she began to wish herself safe on board the _Oratava_ again; and though she retained her air of serene composure, she felt a little inward tremor as she moved away.

The crowd did not attempt to hold her back, but walked with her in a sort of compact bodyguard; and amongst themselves there was a great deal of talking and gesticulating, which sounded very heathenish and a little threatening to Marjorie.

She had realised before that Mogador was a larger place than she had thought, and now she began to discover that she had no notion of the right way to the quay. The arcades hemmed her in. She could see nothing but walls about her and the ever-increasing crowd dogging her steps. Her heart was beating thick and fast. She was tired and faint from want of food, and this sudden and unfamiliar sense of fear robbed her of her customary self-command and courage. She felt more like bursting into tears than she ever remembered to have done before.

It was no good going on like this, wandering helplessly about in the darkening town; she must do something and that quickly. Surely some of these people knew a few words of English.

She stopped and faced them, and asked if nobody could take her to the ship. Instantly they crowded round her, pointing and gesticulating; but whether they understood, and what they meant, Marjorie could not imagine. She remembered the name of the ship's agents, and spoke that aloud several times, and there were more cries and more crowding and gesticulation. Each man seemed struggling to get possession of her, and Marjorie grew so frightened at the strange sounds, and the fierce faces--as they seemed to her--and the gathering darkness, that she completely lost her head. She looked wildly round her, gave a little shrill cry of terror, and seeing the ring thinner in one place than another, she made a dart through it, and began to run as if for her very life. It was the maddest thing to do. Hitherto there had been no real danger. Nobody had any thought of molesting the English lady, though her behaviour had excited much curiosity. Anybody would have taken her down to the quay, as they all knew where she came from. But this head-long flight first startled them, and then roused that latent demon of savagery which lies dormant in every son of the desert. Instantly, with yells which sounded terrific in Marjorie's ears, they gave chase. Fear lent her wings, but she heard the pursuit coming nearer and nearer. She knew not where she was flying, whether towards safety or into the heart of danger. Her breath came in sobbing gasps, her feet slipped and seemed as though they would carry her no farther. The cries behind and on all sides grew louder and fiercer. She was making blindly for the entrance to the arcade. Each moment she expected to feel a hand grasping her from the rear. There was no getting away from her pursuers in these terrible arcades. Oh, why had she ever trusted herself alone in this awful old city!

She darted through the archway, and then, uttering a faint cry, gave herself up for lost, for she felt herself grasped tightly in a pair of powerful arms, and all the terrible stories she had heard from fellow-passengers about Europeans taken captive in Morocco, and put up for ransom recurred to her excited fancy. She had nobody to ransom her. She would be left to languish and die in some awful Moorish prison. Perhaps nobody would ever know of her fate. That was what came of always doing as one chose, and making one's friends believe a falsehood.

Like a lightning flash all this passed through Marjorie's mind. The next instant she felt herself thrust against the wall. Some tall, dark figure was standing in front of her, and a masterful English voice speaking fluent Arabic was haranguing her pursuers in stern and menacing accents.

A sob of wonder and relief escaped Marjorie's white lips. She had not fallen into the hands of the Moors. Mr. Stuart had caught her, was protecting her, and when the mists cleared away from her eyes she saw that the crowd was quickly melting away, and she knew that she was safe.

"Take my arm, Miss May," said Mr. Stuart; "they have sent back a boat for you from the ship. Captain Taylor is making inquiries for you too. Had you not been warned that a lady was not safe alone in Mogador--at least, not after nightfall?"

Marjorie hung her head; tears were dropping silently. She felt more humiliated than she had ever done in her life before. Suppose Mr. Stuart had not come? It was a thought she could not bear to pursue.

They reached the boat. The captain listened to the story, and he spoke with some grave severity to Marjorie, as he had a right to do; for he had done everything to provide for the safety of his passengers, and it was not right to him, or the company, for a wilful girl to run into needless peril out of the waywardness of her heart.

Marjorie accepted the reproof with unwonted humility, and Mr. Stuart suddenly spoke up for her:

"She will not do it again, captain; I will answer for her."

"All right, Mr. Stuart; I don't want to say any more. All's well that's ends well; but----"

He checked further words, but Marjorie's cheeks whitened. She seemed to see again those strange, fierce faces, and hear the cries of her pursuers. In the gathering darkness Mr. Stuart put out his hand and took firm hold of hers. She started for a moment, and then let it lie in his clasp. Indeed, she felt her own fingers clinging to that strong hand, and a thrill went through her as she felt his clasp tighten upon them.

They reached the side of the vessel; officers and passengers were craning over to get news of the missing passenger.

"Here she is, all safe!" cried the captain rather gruffly, and a little cry of relief went up, followed by a cheer.

Mr. Stuart leant forward in the darkness and whispered:

"You see what a commotion you have made, Marjorie, I think you will have to let me answer for you, and take care of you in the future."

"I think I shall," she answered, with a little tremulous laugh that was half a sob, and in the confusion of getting the boat brought up alongside Marjorie felt a lover's kiss upon her cheek.

FOURTH COUSINS.

BY GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.

In the early summer of 1860 I went upon a visit to a distant relative of mine, who lived in one of the Shetland Islands. It was early summer with myself then: I was a medical student with life all before me--life and hope, and joy and sorrow as well. I went north with the intention of working hard, and took quite a small library with me; there was nothing in the shape of study I did not mean to do, and to drive at: botany, the _flora_ of the _Ultima Thule_, its _fauna_ and geology, too, to say nothing of chemistry and therapeutics. So much for good intentions, but--I may as well confess it as not--I never once opened my huge box of books during the five months I lived at R----, and if I studied at all it was from the book of Nature, which is open to every one who cares to con its pages.

The steamboat landed me at Lerwick, and I completed my journey--with my boxes--next day in an open boat.

It was a very cold morning, with a grey, cold, choppy sea on, the spray from which dashed over the boat, wetting me thoroughly, and making me feel pinched, blear-eyed, and miserable. I even envied the seals I saw cosily asleep in dry, sandy caves, at the foot of the black and beetling rocks.

How very fantastic those rocks were, but cheerless--so cheerless! Even the sea birds that circled around them seemed screaming a dirge. An opening in a wall of rock took us at length into a long, winding fiord, or arm of the sea, with green bare fields on every side, and wild, weird-like sheep that gazed on us for a moment, then bleated and fled. Right at the end of this rock stood my friend's house, comfortable and solid-looking, but unsheltered by a single tree.

"I sha'n't stay long here," I said to myself, as I landed.

An hour or two afterwards I had changed my mind entirely. I was seated in a charmingly and cosily-furnished drawing-room upstairs. The windows looked out to and away across the broad Atlantic. How strange it was; for the loch that had led me to the front of the house, and the waters of which rippled up to the very lawn, was part of the German Ocean, and here at the back, and not a stone's throw distant, was the Atlantic! Its great, green, dark billows rolled up and broke into foam against the black breastwork of cliffs beneath us; the immense depth of its waves could be judged of by keeping the eye fixed upon the tall, steeple-like rocks which shot up here and there through the water a little way out to sea: at one moment these would appear like lofty spires, and next they would be almost entirely swallowed up.

Beside the fire, in an easy chair, sat my grey-haired old relation and host, and, not far off, his wife. Hospitable, warm-hearted, and genial both of them were. If marriages really are made in heaven, I could not help thinking theirs must have been, so much did they seem each other's counterpart.

Presently Cousin Maggie entered, smiling to me as she did so; her left hand lingered fondly for a moment on her father's grey locks, then she sat down unbidden to the piano. My own face was partially shaded by the window curtain, so that I could study that of my fair cousin as she played without appearing rude. Was she beautiful? that was the question I asked myself, and was trying hard to answer. Every feature of her face was faultless, her mouth and ears were small, she had a wealth of rich, deep auburn hair, and eyes that seemed to have borrowed the noonday tints of a summer sea, so bright, so blue were they. But was she beautiful? I could not answer the question then.

On the strength of my blood relationship, distant though it was, for we were really only third or fourth cousins, I was made a member of this family from the first, and Maggie treated me as a brother. I was not entirely pleased with the latter arrangement, because many days had not passed ere I concluded it would be a pleasant pastime for me to make love to Cousin Maggie. But weeks went by, and my love-making was still postponed; it became a _sine die_ kind of a probability. Maggie was constantly with me when out of doors--my companion in all my fishing and shooting trips. But she carried not only a rod but even a rifle herself, she could give me lessons in casting the fly--and did; she often shot dead the seals that I had merely wounded, and her prowess in rowing astonished me, and her daring in venturing so far to sea in our broad, open boat often made me tremble for our safety.

A frequent visitor for the first two months of my stay at R---- was a young and well-to-do farmer and fisher, who came in his boat from a neighbouring island, always accompanied by his sister, and they usually stayed a day or two. I was not long in perceiving that this Mr. Thorforth was very fond of my cousin; the state of her feelings towards him it was some time before I could fathom, but the revelation came at last, and quite unexpectedly.

There was an old ruin some distance from the house, where, one lovely moonlight night, I happened to be seated alone. I was not long alone, however; from a window I could see my cousin and Thorforth coming towards the place, and, thinking to surprise them, I drew back under the shadow of a portion of the wall. But I was not to be an actor in that scene, though it was one I shall never forget. I could not see _his_ face, but hers, on which the moonbeams fell, was pained, half-frightened, impatient. He was telling her he loved her and asking her to love him in return. She stopped him at last.

What she said need not be told. In a few moments he was gone, and she was standing where he left her, following him with pitying eyes as he walked hurriedly away.

Next day Magnus Thorforth said goodbye and left: even his sister looked sad. She must have known it all. I never saw them again.

One day, about a month after this, Maggie and I were together in a cave close by the ocean--a favourite haunt of ours on hot forenoons. Our boat was drawn up close by, the day was bright, and the sea calm, its tiny wavelets making drowsy, dreamy music on the yellow sands.

She had been reading aloud, and I was gazing at her face.

"I begin to think you are beautiful," I said.

She looked down at me where I lay with those innocent eyes of hers, that always looked into mine as frankly as a child's would.

"I'm not sure," I continued, "that I sha'n't commence making love to you, and perhaps I might marry you. What would you think of that?"

"Love!" she laughed, as musically as a sea-nymph--"love? Love betwixt a cousin and a cousin? Preposterous!"

"I daresay," I said, pretending to pout, "you wouldn't marry me because I'm poor."

"Poor!" she repeated, looking very firm and earnest now; "if the man I loved were poor, I'd carry a creel for him--I'd gather shells for his sake; but I don't love anybody and don't mean to. Come."

So that was the beginning and end of my love-making for Cousin Maggie.

And Maggie had said she never meant to love any one. Well, we never can tell what may be in our immediate future.

Hardly had we left the cave that day, and put off from the shore, ere cat's-paws began to ruffle the water. They came in from the west, and before we had got half-way to the distant headland a steady breeze was blowing. We had hoisted our sail, and were running before it with the speed of a gull on the wing.

Once round the point, we had a beam wind till we entered the fiord, then we had to beat to windward all the way home, by which time it was blowing quite a gale.

It went round more to the north about sunset, and then, for the first time, we noticed a yacht of small dimensions on the distant horizon. Her intention appeared to be that of rounding the island, and probably anchoring on the lee side of it. She was in an ugly position, however, and we all watched her anxiously till nightfall hid her from our view.

I retired early, but sleep was out of the question, for the wind raged and howled around the house like wild wolves. About twelve o'clock the sound of a gun fell on my ears. I could not be mistaken, for the window rattled in sharp response.

I sprang from my couch and began to dress, and immediately after my aged relative entered the room. He looked younger and taller than I had seen him, but very serious.

"The yacht is on the Ba,"[2] he said, solemnly.

[Footnote 2: _Ba_ means a sunken rock.]

They were words to me of fearful significance. The yacht, I knew, must soon break up, and nothing could save the crew.

I quickly followed my relative into the back drawing-room, where Maggie was with her mother. We gazed out into the night, out and across the sea. At the same moment, out there on the terrible Ba, a blue light sprang up, revealing the yacht and even its people on board. She was leaning well over to one side, her masts gone, and the spray dashing over her.

"Come!" cried Maggie, "there is no time to lose. We can guide their boat to the cave. Come, cousin!"

I felt dazed, thunderstruck. Was I to take active part in a forlorn hope? Was Maggie--how beautiful and daring she looked now!--to assume the _role_ of a modern Grace Darling? So it appeared.

The events of that night come back to my memory now as if they had happened but yesterday. It is a page in my past life that can never be obliterated.

We pulled out of the fiord, Maggie and I, and up under lee of the island; then, on rounding the point, we encountered the whole force of the sea and wind. There was a glimmering light on the wrecked yacht, and for that we rowed, or rather were borne along on the gale. No boat, save a Shetland skiff, could have been trusted in such a sea.

As we neared the Ba, steadying herself by leaning on my shoulder, Maggie stood half up and waved the lantern, and it was answered from the wreck. Next moment it seemed to me we were on the lee side, and Maggie herself hailed the shipwrecked people.

"We cannot come nearer!" she cried; "lower your boat and follow our light closely."

"Take the tiller now," she continued, addressing me, "and steer for the light you see on the cliff. Keep her well up, though, or all will be lost."

We waited--and that with difficulty--for a few minutes, till we saw by the starlight that the yacht's boat was lowered, then away we went.

The light on the cliff-top moved slowly down the wind. I kept the boat's head a point or two above it, and on she dashed. The rocks loomed black and high as we neared them, the waves breaking in terrible turmoil beneath.

Suddenly the light was lowered over the cliff down to the very water's edge.

"Steady, now!" cried my brave cousin, and next moment we were round a point and into smooth water, with the yacht's boat close beside us. The place was partly cave, partly "_noss_." We beached our boats, and here we remained all night, and were all rescued next morning by a fisherman's yawl.

The yacht's people were the captain, his wife, and one boy--the whole crew Norwegians, Brinster by name.

My story is nearly done. What need to tell of the gratitude of those Maggie's heroism had saved from a watery grave!

But it came to pass that when, a few months afterwards, a beautiful new yacht came round to the fiord to take those shipwrecked mariners away, Cousin Maggie went with them on a visit.

It came to pass also that when I paid my very next visit to R---- in the following summer, I found living at my relative's house a Major Brinster and a Mrs. Brinster.

And Mrs. Brinster was my Cousin Maggie, and Major Brinster was my Cousin Maggie's fate.

THE PEDLAR'S PACK.

BY LUCIE E. JACKSON.

Colonel Bingham was seated in his library facing the window that looked out on to the green sloping lawn, the smiling meadow, and the dark belt of firs which skirted the wood. There was a frown on his brow, and his eyes wore a perplexed look. On the opposite side of the room stood a young girl of seventeen balancing herself adroitly on the ridge of a chair, and smiling with evident satisfaction at her own achievement.

The colonel was speaking irritably.

"You see, you can't even now sit still while I speak to you, but you must poise yourself on your chair like a schoolboy. Is it a necessary part of your existence that you must behave like a boy rather than a girl?"

Patty hung her head shamefacedly, and the smile left her lips.

"And then, what is this that I hear about a rifle? Is it true that Captain Palmer has lent you one?"

"Only just to practise with for a few weeks. Dad, don't be angry. He has a new one, so he doesn't miss it. Why"--warming to her subject and forgetting for the moment that she was in great danger of still further disgracing herself in her father's eyes by her confession--"I can hit even a small object at a very considerable distance five times out of six."

The perplexed look deepened in her father's eyes, but the irritability had cleared away. He toyed with the open letter that he held in his hand. "I suppose it is for this as well as for your other schoolboy pranks that your aunt has invited only Rose. But I don't like it--it is not right. If it were not for the unfairness to Rose, I should have refused outright. As it is, the invitation has been accepted by me, and it must stand, for Rose must not be deprived of her pleasures because you like----"

"Invitation! What invitation?" interrupted Patty.

"Your aunt is giving a big ball on the 13th, and she is insistent that Rose should be present. It will be the child's first ball, and I cannot gainsay her. But, Patty, I should like you both to go. You are seventeen, are you not?"

"Seventeen and a half," returned Patty with a little choke in her voice.

It was the first she had heard of the invitation, and it stung her to think that Lady Glendower thought her too much of a hoyden to invite her with the sister who was but one year older. Patty was girl enough to love dancing even above her other amusements, and the unbidden tears came into her eyes as she stood looking forlornly at her father.

Colonel Bingham coughed, and tapped his writing-desk with the letter.

"Seventeen and a half," he repeated, "quite old enough to go to a ball. Never mind, Patty, I've a good mind to give a ball myself and leave out her younger daughter, only that it would be too much like _tu quoque_, and your aunt has a reason for not extending her invitation here which I should not have in relation to your cousin Fanny, eh, Patty?"

But Patty's eyes were still humid, and she could only gaze dumbly at her father with such a pathetic look on her pretty face that Colonel Bingham could not stand it.

"Look here, child," he said, "why aren't you more like your sister Rose? Then her pleasures would be always yours----"

"Who's talking about me?" asked a gay voice, and into the room walked Patty's sister Rose.

"I am. I have been telling Patty about the invitation."

"Poor Patty!" said Rose, and she put her arm sympathetically round Patty's neck. "Aunt Glendower is most unkind, I think."

"It can't be helped," murmured Patty, choking back the rising sob. "If I had been born a sweet maiden who did nothing but stitch at fancy-work all day long perhaps she would have invited me, but I can't give up my cricket, my riding my horse bare-backed, my shooting, just for the sake of a ball or two that Aunt Glendower feels inclined to give once a year. Much as I love dancing, I can't give up all these pleasures for an occasional dance."

"Rose has pleasures too," said her father quietly, "but they are of the womanly kind--music, painting, reading, tending flowers."

Rose laughed gaily as Patty turned up her pretty nose scornfully.

"Let Patty alone, dad. You know very well that you would grow tired of too much sameness if Patty showed the same tastes that I have."

Colonel Bingham glanced fondly at her and then at Patty, whose face, in spite of her brave words, was still very tearful-looking. He knew that in his heart he loved his two daughters equally--his "two motherless girls," as he was wont to call them--and although he belonged to the old school of those who abhor masculine pursuits for women, yet he felt that Rose's words were true, and for that very dissimilarity did he love them.

"Heigho," said Patty, jumping off her chair, "I am not going to grieve any more. Let's talk of Rose's dress, and when she is going."

"We both start to-morrow."

"To-morrow? And do you go too, dad?"

"Yes, Patty. I have business in town with my lawyer, which I have been putting off from day to day, but now I feel I shall take the opportunity of transacting it with him on the occasion of taking Rose up with me. Besides, I can't let her go to her first ball without being there to see how she looks."

"And what about the dress?"

"Aunt says she will see to that, so we have to start a few days before the ball takes place for Celine to get a dress ready for me," said Rose, looking tenderly at Patty as she spoke, for the two girls loved each other, and it hurt her to think that Patty must be left behind.

"You won't be nervous, child?" asked her father.

"Nervous, father! dear me, no, a tomboy nervous? Why, I have Mrs. Tucker, cook, and Fanny to bear me company, and if you take the groom we shall still have the stable boy," returned Patty triumphantly.

"I am glad you sent away that new coachman, dad," said Rose earnestly. "I never liked his face, it always looked so sly and sneaking."

"Yes, I am glad too, and we must endeavour to find one when we are in town, and perhaps bring him back with us, Rose--the place is a lonely one without a man when I am away." He spoke the last words to himself, but the girls heard him and laughed. They knew no fear. Why should they? Nothing had ever come near to harm them during the short years of their existence in their country home.

Colonel Bingham had of late questioned the wisdom of continuing to live with his daughters in his beautiful, isolated house. It was three miles from the nearest village, post-office, and church, and there was not another habitation within that distance; it was five miles from the nearest market town. But his heart clung to it. Hadn't he and his bride, twenty years before, chosen this beautiful spot of all others to build their house upon and make it their home? Had not his wife loved every nook and cranny, every stick and stone of the home they had beautified within and without? And therein lay the colonel's two chief objections to leaving the place--it was beautiful--and--his wife had loved it.

So did his daughters too, for that matter; but they were growing up, and newer scenes and livelier surroundings were now needed for them. The colonel often caught himself pondering over the matter, and one of the reasons for his wishing to visit his sister was that of laying the matter open before her, and hearing her opinion from her own lips.

At an early hour the next morning Colonel Bingham, Rose, and the groom, with two of the horses, had left the house.

There was nothing to alarm Patty. The beautiful home with its peaceful surroundings was perfectly quiet for the two days that followed, and if Patty, in spite of her brave heart, had felt any qualms of fear, they had vanished on the morning of the third day, which dawned so brilliantly bright that she was eager to take her rifle and begin practising at the target she herself had set up at the end of the short wood to the left of the house.

Meanwhile, the housekeeper had set both maids to work in turning out several unused rooms, and a great amount of brisk work was going on. The trim housemaid, Fanny, who was the housekeeper's niece, had come down the back stairs with an armful of carpets, and had brushed into the flagged yard before she noticed a pedlar-like-looking man standing before the back door with a pack upon his back.

"What do you do here?" she called out sharply.

The man appeared weighted down with his bundle, which looked to Fanny's eyes a good deal bigger than most of the pedlars' packs that she had seen.

"I am on my way through the country-side selling what maids most love--a bit of ribbon, a tie, a good serviceable apron, a feather for the hat, and many a pretty gown; but on my way from the village I met a friend from my own part of the country, which is not in this county, but two counties up north, who tells me that my wife is lying dangerously ill. If I wish to see her alive I must needs travel fast, and a man can scarce do that with as heavy a pack on his back as I bear. What I venture to ask most respectfully is that I may place my pack in one corner of this house, and I will return to fetch it as soon as ever I can."

He gave a furtive dab to his eyes with the corner of a blue-checked handkerchief he held in one hand, and hoisted his bundle up higher with apparent difficulty.

Fanny looked gravely at him "Why didn't you leave your pack at the village inn?" was all she said.

"I would have done so had I met my friend before leaving the village, but I met him just at the entrance to the wood, and it seemed hopeless to trudge all that way back with not only a heavy burden to bear, but a still heavier heart."

He sighed miserably as he spoke, and Fanny's soft heart was touched.

The man spoke well--better than many pedlars that Fanny had met with, and his tone was respectful, albeit very pleading. Fanny's heart was growing softer and softer. He looked faint and weary himself, she thought, and oh! so very sad----

"Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? Ain't those carpets finished yet?" The housekeeper's voice sounded sharply at the top of the back staircase.

The pedlar looked scared. Fanny beckoned him with one finger to follow her.

"Coming, aunt," she called back. And, still silently beckoning, she conducted the pedlar into the small breakfast-room.

"Put it down in this corner," she said, "and come for it as soon as you can."

"May I beg that it will remain untouched," said the pedlar humbly. "It contains many valuables--at least to me--for it comprises nearly all that I possess in the world."

"No one will touch it in here, for this room is never used."

"I cannot thank you enough for your compassion----" began the pedlar, when the sharp voice was heard again.

"Fanny, cook's waitin' for you to help her move some things. Are you comin' or not?"

"Coming now," was Fanny's answer, and, shutting the breakfast-room door, she hustled the pedlar out into the flagged yard without ceremony.

With a deferential lifting of his cap the pedlar again murmured his grateful thanks, and made his way out the way he had come in. Fanny waited to lock the yard gate after him, murmuring to herself: "That gate didn't ought to have been left open--it's just like that lazy boy Sam to think that now Britton's gone off with the horses he can do as he likes."

It was not until the furniture in the room had been moved about to her satisfaction that the housekeeper demanded to know the reason for Fanny's delay downstairs.

"It isn't cook's business to be waitin' about for you," she said sharply, "she's got her other duties to perform. What kept you?"

Then Fanny told what had caused the delay, and was aghast at the effect it produced upon her aunt.

"I wouldn't have had it happen just now for all my year's wages," the housekeeper exclaimed hotly. "What do we know about the man and his pack?"

"He looked so white and quiet-like, and so sad," pleaded her niece half tearfully.

"That's nothin' to us. I promised the master before he went away that I wouldn't let a strange foot pass over the doorway while he was away. And here you--a mere chit of a housemaid--go, without sayin', 'With your leave,' or, 'By your leave,' and let a dirty pedlar with his pack straight into the breakfast-room. He's sure to have scented the silver lyin' on the sideboard for cleanin' this afternoon. If I didn't think he'd gone a long way from here by this I would send you after him to tell him to take it away again."

Having delivered herself of this long, explosive speech, the housekeeper proceeded in the direction of the breakfast-room to review the pack, and Fanny and the cook followed in her wake.

"As I thought," she ejaculated, eyeing the pack from the doorway, "a dirty pedlar's smellin' pack." But the tone of her voice was mollified, for the pack looked innocent enough, although it was somewhat bulky and unwieldy in appearance.

Her niece took heart of grace from her tone, and murmured apologetically:

"He's got the loveliest things in that bundle that ever you'd see, aunt. Feathers, ribbons, dresses, aprons, and he'll unpack them all when he comes back to let us see them."

"A pack o' tawdry rubbish, I have no doubt," was her aunt's reply; "only fit for flighty young girls, not for gentlemen's servants."

Thus silenced, Fanny said no more, and the three women betook themselves to their different occupations.

After half an hour's work her girlish glee was still unabated, and on passing the door of the breakfast-room mere curious elation impelled her to open it softly and to look in. A perplexed look stole into her eyes as they rested on the black object in the corner. It was there sure enough, safe and sound, but had it not been shifted from the corner in which the pedlar had placed it, and in which her aunt had seen it in company with herself and the cook? No, that was impossible. She had only fancied that it was right in the corner, and Fanny softly shut the door again without making a sound, and went on with her daily duties.

This time her aunt employed her, and she was not free again till another two hours had passed. It was now close on the luncheon hour, and Fanny thought she would just take one little peep before setting the luncheon-table for the young mistress who would come home as usual as hungry as a hunter.

Gently she turned the handle, and stood upon the threshold. Her eyes grew fixed and staring, her cheek blanched to a chalky white. Without all doubt--_the pack had moved_!

Fanny stood rooted to the spot. Wild, strange ideas flitted through her brain. There was something uncanny in this pack. Was it bewitched? She dared not call her aunt or the cook: she was in disgrace with both, and no wonder, the poor girl thought miserably, for the very sight now of that uncouth-looking object in the corner was beginning to assume hideous proportions in the girl's mind. She must watch and wait, and wait and watch for every sign that the pack made, but oh! the agony of bearing that uncanny secret alone! Oh for some one to share it with her!

A figure darkened the window of the breakfast-room, and Fanny caught sight of her young mistress's form as it passed with the rifle over her shoulder.

With a soft step she left the room, and intercepted her on the other side of the verandah. "Miss Patty," she whispered miserably.

Patty turned, her pretty face lighting up with a good-humoured smile as she nodded and said, "Luncheon ready, Fanny? I am simply ravenous."

"Ye-es, I think so, miss. But oh! miss, I want to speak to you badly."

Fatty came forward with the smile still on her lips. "Has Mrs. Tucker been scolding you dreadfully, you poor Fanny?"

"Then she's told you?" gasped the girl.

"She's told me nothing. I haven't seen her, but you look so woebegone that I thought she had been having a pitch battle with you for neglecting something or other, and you wanted me to get you out of the scrape."

Fanny groaned inwardly. No, her aunt had said nothing, and she must brace herself up, and tell the whole story from beginning to end. The beginning, she began to think, was not so dreadful as the end. Oh that she could dare to disbelieve her eyes, and declare that there was no end--no awful, uncanny end!

At length, in the quiet of the verandah, the story was told, and Fanny's heart misgave her more and more as she observed the exceeding gravity of her young mistress's bright face as the story neared its finish. When the finish did come, Patty's face was more than grave; the weight of responsibility was on her, and to young, unused shoulders that weight is

## particularly difficult to bear.

"Come and show me where it is," was the only remark she made, but Fanny noticed that the red lips had lost some of their bright colour, and the pink in the soft cheeks was of a fainter tinge than when she had first seen her.

Without making the slightest sound, without one click of the handle, Fanny opened the door, and Patty looked in. Her courage came back with a bound. Fanny was a goose, there was nothing to be alarmed about.

She looked up to smile encouragingly at Fanny, when the smile froze on her lips, for Fanny's face was livid. Without a word she beckoned her young mistress out of the room, and as softly as before closed the door. Then, turning to her, she whispered through her set teeth:

"_It has moved again!_"

A cold shiver ran down through Patty's spine, but she was no girl to be frightened by the superstitious fancies of an ignorant serving maid.

"Nonsense, Fanny!" she said sharply, "you are growing quite crazed over that stupid pack. I saw nothing unusual in it, it looked innocent enough in all conscience."

"You never saw it move," was the answer, given in such a lifeless tone that Patty was chilled again.

"I'll tell you what, Fanny. I'll go in after luncheon, and see if it has moved from the place I saw it in."

"Did you notice the place well where it stood?" asked Fanny.

"Yes," replied Patty, "I'd know if it moved again. Don't tell Mrs. Tucker or cook anything about it. You and I will try to checkmate that pack if there is anything uncanny in it. Now tell cook I am ready for luncheon if she is."

But when the luncheon came on the table Patty had lost all hunger. She merely nibbled at trifles till Fanny came to clear away.

"I'm going to that room," she whispered. "If Mrs. Tucker should want me, or perhaps Sam might, for I told him I was going to see how well he had cleaned the harness that I found in the loft, then you must come in quietly and beckon me out. Don't let any one know I am watching that pack."

"Yes, miss," was Fanny's answer, given so hopelessly that Patty put a kind hand on her shoulder with the words:

"Cheer up, Fanny. I don't believe it's so bad as you make out. It is my belief you have imagined that the pack moved."

"It isn't my fancy, it isn't," cried the girl, the tears starting to her eyes. "If anything dreadful happens, then it is me that has injured the master--the best master that a poor girl could have." And with her apron to her eyes Fanny left the room.

She came back a minute later to see Patty examining the priming of her rifle. "Miss Patty," she whispered aghast, "you ain't never going to shoot at it!"

"I am going to sit in that room all the afternoon," said Patty calmly, "and if that pack moves while my eyes are on it I'll fire into that pack even if by so doing I riddle every garment in it." And without another word Patty stalked out of the room with her rifle on her shoulder.

At the door of the breakfast-room she set her teeth hard, and opened the door.

_The pack had moved since she saw it._

It was with a face destitute of all colour that Patty seated herself upon the table to mount guard over that black object now lying several yards away from the corner. Her eyes were glued to the bundle; they grew large and glassy, and a film seemed to come over them as she gazed, without daring even to wink. How the minutes passed--if they revolved themselves into half hours--she did not know. No one called her, no one approached the door, she sat on with one fixed stare at the pedlar's pack.

Was she dreaming? Was it fancy? No, the pack was moving! Slowly, very slowly it crept--it could hardly be called moving, and Patty watched it fascinated. Then it stopped, and Patty, creeping nearer, stood over it, and watched more closely. Something was breathing inside! Something inside that pack was alive! Patty could now clearly see the movement that each respiration made. She had made up her mind, and now she took her courage in both hands.

She retreated softly to the opposite side of the room, and raising the rifle to her shoulder fired.

There was a loud, a deafening report, a shrill scream, and a stream of blood trickled forth from the pack. Fanny was in the room crying hysterically, Mrs. Tucker and cook were looking over her shoulder with blanched faces.

Patty, with her face not one whit less white than any of the others, laid the smoking rifle on the table, and spoke with a tremulousness not usual to her.

"Mrs. Tucker, some vile plot has been hatched to rob this house while your master is away. That pack doesn't hold finery as Fanny was at first led to believe, but it holds a man, and I have shot him."

With trembling hands and colourless lips Mrs. Tucker, with the help of her maids, cut away the oilcloth that bound the pack together, and disclosed the face of a short sturdy man, it was the face of the late coachman, Timothy Smith! With one voice they cried aloud as they saw it.

"Dead! Is he dead?" cried Patty, shuddering and covering her face with her hands. "Oh, Mrs. Tucker, and it is I who have killed him!"

A groan from the prostrate figure reassured the party as to the fatality of the adventure, and aroused in them a sense of the necessity of doing what they could to relieve the sufferings of their prostrate enemy.

The huddled-up position occupied by the man when in the pack made him, of course, a good target, and made it possible for a single shot to do much more mischief than it might have done in passing once through any single part of his body. It was, of course, a random shot, and entering the pack vertically as the man was crouching with his hands upon his knees, it passed through his right arm and left hand and lodged in his left knee, thus completely disabling him without touching a vital part.

With some difficulty they managed to get the wounded man on to a chair bedstead which they brought from the housekeeper's room for the purpose, and such "first aid" as Patty was able to render was quickly given.

"And now," said Patty, "the question is, who will ride Black Bess to the village and procure help, for we must have help for the wounded as well as aid against the ruffians who no doubt intend to raid the house to-night."

"Sam, miss?" questioned the housekeeper timidly. All her nerve seemed to have departed from her since the report of that shot had rung through the house, and there was Timothy Smith's face staring up at her. Usually a stout-hearted woman, all her courage had deserted her now.

"Yes," said Patty gravely, "I think we shall have to take Sam into our confidence, unless I go myself. Perhaps, Mrs. Tucker, I had better go myself. Sam is only a boy, and he might be tempted to tell the story to everybody he met, and if the thieves themselves get wind of what has happened we shall have small chance of ever catching them. Would you be afraid if I rode off at once?"

Without any false pride the young girl saw how much depended on her, and saw too the blanched faces of the two women as they looked in turn at each other at the thought of their sole protector vanishing.

But it was only for a minute. Mrs. Tucker shook off with a courageous firmness the last remnant of nervousness that possessed her.

"Go, and the Lord go with you, Miss Patty," she said.

* * * * *

As she rode along through the quiet country lanes smelling sweet of the honeysuckle in the hedge and the wild dog-rose bursting into bloom, Patty's thoughts travelled fast and furiously, every whit as fast as Black Bess's hasty steps. Should she draw bridle at the village? No. She made up her mind quickly at that. In all probability the would-be thieves had made the village inn their headquarters for that day and night, and the pedlar--the man she wished most to avoid--would be the very person she would encounter. The village was small. Only one policeman patrolled the narrow-street, and that only occasionally, and how quickly would the news fly from mouth to mouth that a would-be robbery had been detected in time to save Colonel Bingham's valuable silver!

No, the pedlar would not be allowed to escape in that way if she could help it. Every step of the five miles to the town of Frampton would she ride, and draw help from there.

As she neared the village she walked her horse at a quiet pace, albeit her brain was throbbing, and her nerves all in a quiver to go faster. She nodded smilingly to the familiar faces as she met them in the street, although she felt very far from smiling, and everywhere she seemed to see the face of Timothy Smith. Then her heart gave a bound as she saw, leaning against the wicket-gate of the village inn, three men--two with the most villainous faces she had ever seen, and the third bore the face of the man that Fanny had described as the pedlar. She was not mistaken, then, when she thought they would make this their headquarters.

She drew bridle as she neared the inn. Her quick brain saw the necessity of it, if but to explain her presence there.

"Will you be so good as to ask the landlady to come out to me?" she asked, with a gracious smile--the smile that the villagers always said was "Miss Patty's own."

The pedlar lifted his cap with the same air that Fanny had so accurately described, and himself undertook to go upon the mission.

"Bless you, Miss Patty," exclaimed the buxom landlady as she came out, curtseying and smiling, followed in a leisurely manner by the pedlar, "where be you a-ridin' that Black Bess be so hot and foam-like about the mouth?"

Patty stooped forward and patted her horse's neck, fully aware that three pairs of ears at the wicket-gate were being strained to catch her answer.

"It is too bad of me to ride her so fast, Mrs. Clark. The fact of the matter is I ought to be at Miss Price's this moment for tennis and tea, but I am late, and have been trying to make up for lost time. However, I must not breathe Black Bess too much, must I, or else I shall not be allowed to ride her again?" and Patty smiled her bewitching smile, which always captivated the heart of the landlady of the Roaring Lion.

An order for supplies for the servants' cellar, given in a firm voice, justified her appearance in the village and satisfied the eager listeners as to the object of her visit, after which, with a nod and a smile, Patty rode onwards.

Not till she was out of sight and hearing of the village did she urge Black Bess to the top of her bent, and they flew onwards like the wind.

Thud, thud, thud went the horse's hoofs, keeping time to the beating of Patty's heart as she recalled again and again the villainous faces leaning over the wicket-gate.

Even Black Bess seemed to realise the importance of her mission and it was not long before Patty's heart grew lighter as she caught sight not very far off of the spire of Trinity Church, and the turreted roof of the Town Hall of Frampton. Reaching the town she drew rein at Major Price's house, where, with bated breath, her story was received by the major and his two grown-up sons. A message was sent to the police station, and in a short while two burly sergeants of police presented themselves, to whom Patty repeated her tale.

Arrangements were soon made. A surgeon was sent for and engaged to drive over with the police.

"They rascals won't break in till darkness falls, miss," said one of the men. "But we'll start at once in a trap. Better be too early than too late."

The Prices would not hear of Patty riding Black Bess back. They themselves would drive her home in the high dog-cart, and Black Bess would be left behind to forget her fatigue in Major Price's comfortable stables.

Of course they didn't go the way that Patty had come. It would never have done to go through the village and meet those same ruffians, who would have understood the position in the twinkling of an eye. Instead, they took a roundabout way, which, although it took an extra half hour, brought them through the wood on the other side of Colonel Bingham's house.

"It is lonely--too lonely a place," muttered Major Price, as the two conveyances swung round to the front of the house.

"But it's lovely, and we love it," answered Patty softly.

Then the door was opened cautiously by Sam, and behind him were the huddled figures of Mrs. Tucker, cook, and Fanny. What a sigh of relief ran through the assembly when the burly forms of the two policeman made their appearance in the hall! And tears of real thankfulness sprang to poor Fanny's eyes, whose red rims told their own tale.

Poor Patty's heart beat painfully as she conducted the six men to the breakfast-room where the wounded coachman lay. She stood with averted face and eyes as they bent over him, twining and re-twining her fingers with nervous terror as she thought that it was her hand that had perhaps killed him.

"Ah! this tells something," exclaimed one of the officers in uniform, detaching as he spoke a small whistle fastened round the neck of the man who lay all unconscious of that official attention. "This was to give the alarm when all in the house were asleep. We shall use this when the time comes to attract the men here."

Beyond the discovery of the whistle, and a revolver, nothing more of importance was found, and all caught themselves wishing for the time for

## action to arrive.

The surgeon dressed the man's wounds and declared him to be in no immediate danger, after which they carried him upstairs to a remote room, where it would be quite impossible for him to give any warning to his confederates, even if he should have the strength.

The hour came at last when poor Patty felt worn out with suspense and fearful anxiety; came, when Mrs. Tucker and her two maids were strung up to an almost hysterical pitch of excitement; came, when Sam was beginning to look absolutely hollow-eyed with watching every movement of the police with admiring yet fearful glances.

It was twelve o'clock. The grandfather's clock on the stairs had struck the hour in company with several silvery chimes about the house, making music when all else was still as death.

Up to that time the sky had been dark and lowering, causing darkness to reign supreme, till the full moon, suddenly emerging from the heavy flying clouds, lighted up the house and its surroundings with its refulgent beams. Then suddenly throughout the silent night there rang forth a low, soft, piercing whistle. Only once it sounded, and then dead silence fell again. The wounded man started in his bed, but he could not raise his hand, and the whistle was gone.

The eyes of the women watchers looked at each other with faces weary and worn with anxiety and fear.

Then another sound broke the stillness. Another whistle--an answering call to the one that had rung forth before! It had the effect of startling every one in the house, for it came from under the very window of the room in which they were gathered.

With an upraised finger, cautioning silence, the sergeant stepped to the window and raised it softly.

"Hist!" he said in a thrilling whisper, without showing himself, "the lib'ry winder."

He softly closed the casement again, having discerned in that brief moment the moonlit shadows of three men lying athwart the lawn.

In stockinged feet the five men slid noiselessly into the library where the Venetians had been so lowered as to prevent the silvery moonrays from penetrating into the room. Placing the three gentlemen in convenient places should their assistance be needed, one of the men in uniform pushed aside the French window which he had previously unfastened to be in readiness.

"Hist! softly there," he growled; "the swag is ours."

With a barely concealed grunt of satisfaction the window was pushed farther open, and the forms of three men made their way into the room.

With lightning-like celerity the arms of the first man were pinioned, and when the others turned to fly they found their egress cut off by the three Prices, who stood pointing menacing revolvers at them.

"The game's up!" growled the sham pedlar. "Who blabbed?"

"Not Timothy Smith," said the elder sergeant lightly, as he adroitly fastened the handcuffs on his man.

"What's come of him?"

"He's in bed, as all decent people ought to be at this time o'night," and the sergeant laughed at his own wit.

The police carried their men off in triumph in the trap, and the wiry little pony, rejoiced to find his head turned homewards, trotted on right merrily, requiring neither whip nor word to urge him on to express speed, in total ignorance of the vindictive feelings that animated the breasts of three at least of the men seated behind him.

Major Price and his two sons remained till the morning, for Patty had broken down when all was over, and then a telegram summoned Colonel Bingham to return.

"I am not exactly surprised," he said at length, when he had heard the story; "something like this was bound to occur one day or other, and I cannot be too thankful that nothing has happened to injure my dear brave girl, or any of the household. Patty, I have felt so convinced of something dreadful happening during one of my unavoidable absences from home that I have made arrangements with an old friend of mine in town to lease this place to him for three years."

"And when does he come?" asked Patty breathlessly.

"Next month. He is going to make it a fishing- and shooting-box, and have bachelor friends to stay with him. So, my dear, we all clear out in a month's time."

Patty gave a long-drawn sigh. Her father did not know whether it was one of pleasure or regret.

"We can come back if we like after the three years," he whispered.

"I am glad we are going just now," she whispered back. "That pedlar's eyes haunt me, and they are all desperate men."

These words were sufficient to make Colonel Bingham hurry on his arrangements, so that before three weeks were over he and his whole household were on their way to their new home.

As they got out of the train Colonel Bingham turned to Patty. "You and I will drive to Lady Glendower's, where we shall stay the night."

"Oh, dad, darling dad, don't take me there. Aunt Glendower won't like a hoyden to visit her."

"She will like to welcome a brave girl," answered her father quietly.

But as Patty still shrank away from the thought he added:

"I have told her all that has happened, and she herself wrote asking me to bring you, and I promised I would."

Rose met her with soft, clinging kisses, and then Lady Glendower folded her in an embrace such as Patty had not thought her capable of giving.

"I am proud of my brave niece," she whispered. "Patty, go upstairs with Rose, and get Celine to measure you for your ball-dress. I am going to give another ball next month, and you are to be the heroine."

Under skilful treatment Timothy Smith recovered his usual health, though the injury to his hand and knee made him a cripple for the rest of his life. The trial was another terrible experience for Patty, and Fanny thought she would have died when she saw the prisoners stand forward in the dock to receive sentence. "Five years' penal servitude," said the judge, and Patty sometimes shudders to think that the five years are nearly up.

THE UNBIDDEN GUEST.

BY F. B. FORESTER.

"No, sir," the old keeper said reflectively. "I don't know no ghost stories; none as you'd care to hear, that is. But I could tell you of something that happened in these parts once, and it was as strange a thing as any ghost story I ever heard tell on."

I had spent the morning on the moor, grouse shooting, and mid-day had brought me for an hour's welcome rest to the lonely cottage, where the old superannuated keeper, father to the stalwart velvet-jacketed Hercules who had acted as my guide throughout the forenoon, lived from year's end to year's end with his son and half-a-dozen dogs for company. The level beams of the glowing August sun bathed in a golden glow the miles of purple moorland lying round us; air and scenery were good to breathe and to look on; and now, as the three of us sat on a turf seat outside the cottage door enjoying the soft sleepy inaction of the afternoon, a question of mine concerning the folk-lore of the district, after which, hardened materialist though I called myself, I was conscious of a secret hankering, had drawn the foregoing remark from the patriarchal lips.

"Let's hear it, by all means," said I, lighting my pipe and settling myself preparatory to listening. A slight grunt, resembling a stifled laugh, came from Ben the keeper.

"You'll have to mind, sir," he put in, a twinkle in his eye. "Dad believes what he's agoing to tell you, every word of it. It's gospel truth to him."

"Ay, that I do," responded the old man warmly. "And why shouldn't I? Didn't I see it with my own eyes? And seein's believin', ain't it?"

"You arouse my curiosity," I said. "Let us have the story by all means, and if it is a personal experience, so much the better."

"Well, sir," began the old man, evidently gratified by these signs of interest, and casting a triumphant glance at his son, "what I've got to tell you don't belong to this time of day, of course. When I says I was a little chap of six years old or thereabouts, and that I'll be eighty-five come Michaelmas, you'll understand that it must have been a tidy sight of years ago.

"Father, he was keeper on these moors here, same as his son's been after him, and as _his_ son"--with a glance of fatherly pride at the stalwart young fellow beside him--"is now, and will be for many years to come, please God. Him and mother and me, the three of us, lived together in just such another cottage as this one, across t'other side of the moor, out Farnington way. The railway runs past there now, over the very place the cottage stood on, I believe; but no one so much as dreamt o' railways, time I talk on. Not a road was near, and all around there was nothin' but the moors stretching away for miles, all purple ling and heather, with not a living soul nearer than Wharton, and that was a good twelve miles away. It was pretty lonely for mother, o' course, during the day; but she was a brave woman, and when dad come home at night, never a word would she let on to tell him how right down scared she got at times and how mortally sick she felt of hearing the sound of her own voice.

"'Been pretty quiet for you, Polly?' dad would say at night sometimes, when the three of us would be sitting round the fire, with the flame dancing and shining on the wall and making black shadows in all the corners.

"'Ye-es, so, so,' mother would answer, kind of grudging like, and then she'd start telling him what she'd been about all day, or something as I'd said or done, so as to turn his attention, you see, sir. And as a woman can gen'rally lead a man off on whatever trail she likes to get his nose on dad would never think no more about it; and as for mother and me being that lonely, when he and the dogs were all away, why, I don't suppose the thought of it ever entered his head. So, what with her never complaining, and that, dad grew easier in his mind, and once or twice, when he'd be away at the Castle late in the afternoon, he'd even stay there overnight.

"Well, sir, one day when dad comes home to get his dinner he tells mother as how there's a lot of gentlemen come down from London for the shooting, and as he'd got orders to be on hand bright and early next morning,--the meaning of that being that he'd have to spend the night at the Castle. Mother didn't say much; 'twasn't her way to carry on when she knew a thing couldn't be helped, and dad went on talking.

"'To-morrow's quarter-day, Polly, and you've got our rent all right for the agent when he comes. Put this along wi' it, lass, it's Tom Regan's, and he's asked me to hand it over for him and save the miles of walking.'

"I don't know what come to mother, whether something warned her, or what, but she give a sort of jump as dad spoke.

"'Oh, Jim,' says she, all in a twitter, 'you're never going to leave all that money here, and you away, and the child and me all alone. Can't you--can't you leave one of the dogs?'

"Dad stared at her. 'No,' he says, 'I can't, more's the pity. They're all wanted to-morrow, and I've sent them on to the Castle. Why, Polly, lass, what's come to you? I've never known you take on like this before.'

"Then mother, seeing how troubled and uneasy he looked, plucked up heart and told him, trying to laugh, never to mind her--she had only been feeling a bit low, and it made her timid like. But dad didn't laugh in answer, only said very grave that if he'd ha' known she felt that way, he'd have took good care she wasn't ever left alone overnight. This should be the last time, he'd see to that, and anyhow he'd take the rent money with him and wouldn't leave it to trouble her. Then he kissed her, and kissed me, and went off, striding away over the moors towards Farnington--the sunset way I called it, 'cause the sun set over there; and I can see him big and tall like Ben here, moving away among the heather till we lost him at the dip of the moor. And I mind how, just before we saw no more of him, he pulled up and looked back, as if mother's words stuck to him, somehow, and he couldn't get them out of his mind.

"Mother seemed queer and anxious all that afternoon. Long before dusk she called me in from playing in the bit of garden in front of the door, and shut and barred it closely, not so much as letting me stand outside to watch the sunset, as I always liked to do. It was getting dark already, the shadows had begun to fall black and gloomy all round the cottage, and the fire was sending queer dancing gleams flickering up the wall, when I hears a queer, scratching, whining noise at the door.

"Mother was putting out the tea-cups, and she didn't hear it at first. But I, sitting in front of the fire, heard it well enough, and I tumbled off my stool and ran to the door to get it open, for I thought I knew what it was. But mother had pulled the bar across at the top and I couldn't stir it.

"'There's something at the door that wants to come in,' I says, pulling at it.

"'There ain't nothing of the sort,' says mother shortly, and goes on putting out the tea. 'Let the door alone.'

"'Yes, there is,' I says. 'It's a dog. It's Nip, or Juno,' meaning the brace of pointers that dad had usually in the kennels outside.

"Then mother, thinking that perhaps dad had found that one of the dogs could be spared after all, and had told it to go home, went to the door and opened it. I had been right and wrong too, for on the doorstep there was a large black dog.

"My word! but he was a beautiful creature, sir, the finest dog I ever set eyes on. Like a setter in the make of him, but no setter that ever I saw could match him for size or looks. His coat was jet-black, as glossy as the skin of a thoroughbred, with just one streak of white showing down the breast, and his eyes--well, they were the very humanest, sir, that ever I see looking out of a dog's face.

"Now mother, although she had expected to find a dog outside, hadn't dreamt of anything except one of ourn, and she made like to shut the door on him. But the creature was too quick for her. He had pushed his head through before she knew it, and she scarcely saw how, or even felt the door press against her when he had slipped past and was in the room.

"Mother was used to dogs, and hadn't no fear of them, but she didn't altogether like strange ones, you see, sir, me being such a child and all; and her first thought was to put the creature out. So she pulled the door wide open and pointed to it, stamping her foot and saying, 'Be off! Go-home.'

"It was all very well to say that, but the dog wouldn't go. Not a step would he budge, but only stood there, wagging his tail and looking at her with them beautiful eyes of his, as were the biggest and beautifullest and softest I ever see in dog before or since. She took up a stick then, but his eyes were that imploring that she hadn't the heart to use it; and at last, for the odd kind of uneasiness that had hung about her ever since dad had gone was on her still, and the dog was a dog and meant protection whatever else it might be, she shut the door, barred it across, and said to me that we would let it stop.

"I was delighted, of course, and wanted to make friends at once; but the queer thing was that the dog wouldn't let me touch him. He ran round under the table and lay down in a corner of the room, looking at me with his big soft eyes and wagging his tail, but never coming no nearer. Mother put down some water, and he lapped a little, but he only sniffed at a bone she threw him and didn't touch it.

"It was quite dark by this time, and mother lit a candle and set it on the table to see to have tea by. Afterwards she took her knitting and sat down by the fire, and I leaned against her, nodding and half asleep. The dog lay in the corner farthest from us, between the fireplace and the wall; and I'd forgotten altogether about him, when mother looks up sudden. 'Bless me,' says she, 'how bright the fire do catch the wall to-night. I haven't dropped a spark over there, surely!' And up she gets and crosses over to t'other side to where the firelight was dancing and flickering on the cottage wall.

"Now, sir, whether it was no more than just the light catching them, mind you, I can't say. I only know that as mother come to the corner where that dog was a-lying, and he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes were a-shining with a queer lamping sort of light, that seemed to make the place bright all round him. But it wasn't till afterwards that she thought of it, for at that moment there came a sudden sharp knock at the door.

"My eye! how mother jumped; and I see her face turn white. For in that lonely out-of-the-way place we never looked for visitors after dark, nor in the day time, many of 'em; and the sound of this knock now give her quite a turn. Presently there come a faint voice from outside, asking for a crust of bread.

"Mother didn't stir for a moment, for the notion of unbarring the door went against her. The knock come a second time.

"'For pity's sake--for the sake of the child,' the voice said again, pleading like.

"Now, mother was terrible soft-hearted, sir, wherever children were concerned, and the mention of a child went straight home to her heart. I see her glance at me, and I knowed the thought passing through her mind, as after a moment's pause she got up, stepped across the room and unbarred the door. On the step outside stood a woman with a baby in her arms.

"Her voice had sounded faint-like, but there was nothing in the fainting line about her when she had got inside, for she come inside quick enough the moment mother had unbarred the door. She looked like a gipsy, for her face was dark and swarthy, and the shawl round her head hid a'most all but the wild gleam of her eyes; and all the time she kep' on rock, rocking that child in her arms until I reckon she must have rocked all the crying out of it, for never a word come from its lips. She sat down where mother pointed, and took the food she was given, but she offered nothing to the child. It was asleep, she said, when mother wanted to look at it.

"Yes, she was a gipsy, and on the tramp across the moor she had missed her way in the fog; for there was a heavy fog coming up. 'How far was it to Farnington? Twelve miles? She'd be thankful to sit and rest by the fire a bit, then, if mother would let her.' And without waiting for yes or no, she turned round and put the child out of her arms down on the settle at her back. Then she swung round again and sat staring with her black eyes at the fire. I was sat on my stool opposite, and, child-like, I never so much as took my eyes off her, wondering at her gaunt make, the big feet in the clumsy men's boots that showed beneath her skirts, and the lean powerful hands lying in her lap. Seems she didn't altogether like me watching her, for after a bit she turns on me and asks:

"'What are you staring at, you brat?'

"'Nothin',' says I.

"'Then if you wants to look at nothin',' says she with a short laugh, 'you can go and stare at the kiddy there, not at me.' And she jerked her head towards the settle, where the baby was a-lying.

"'Ah, poor little thing,' says mother, getting up, 'it don't seem natural for it to lie there that quiet. I'll bring it to the fire and warm it a drop o' milk.'

"She bent down over the baby and was just about to take it in her arms, when she give a scream that startled me off my stool, and stood up, her face as white as death. For it was nothing but a shawl or two rolled round something stiff and heavy as was lying on the settle, and no child at all.

"I was a-looking at mother, and I had no eyes for the woman until I see mother's face change and an awful look of fear come over it. And when I turned to see what she was staring at with them wild eyes, the woman had flung off her shawl and the wrap she wore round her head, and was stood up with a horrid, mocking smile on his face. For it was no woman, sir, as you'll have guessed, but a man.

"'Well, mistress,' he says, coming forward a pace or two, 'I didn't mean to let the cat out of the bag so soon; but what's done's done. There's a little trifle of rent-money put by for the agent, as I've taken a fancy to; and that's what's brought me here. If you hand it over quietly, so much the better for you; if not.... I'm not one to stick at trifles; I've come for that money, and have it I will.'

"'I have not got it,' mother said, plucking up what heart she could, and speaking through her white and trembling lips.

"'That don't go down with me,' said the fellow with an oath. 'I didn't sleep under the lee of Tom Regan's hayrick for nothin' last night, and I heard every word that was spoken between him and your Jim. You'd better tell me where you've got it stowed, or you'll be sorry for it. You're a woman, mind you, and alone.'

"Mother's lips went whiter than ever, but she said never a word. I had begun to cry.

"'Hold your row, you snivelling brat,' the fellow said with a curse. 'Come, mistress, you'd best not try my patience too long.'

"Now, mother was a brave woman, as I've said, and I don't believe, if the money had been left in her charge, as she'd have given it up tamely and without so much as a word. But of course, as things were, she could do no more than say, over and over again, as she hadn't got it. Then the brute began to threaten her, with threats that made her blood run cold; for she was only a woman, sir, and alone, except for me, a child as could do nothing in the way of help. With a last horrid threat on his lips the fellow turned towards the settle--there was a pistol hid in the clothes of the sham baby we found out afterwards--when he was stopped by something as come soft and noiseless out of the corner beyond and got right in his way. I see what it was after a minute. Between him and the settle where the pistol was lying there was standing that dog.

"The creature had showed neither sight nor sound of itself since the woman had come in, and we'd forgotten about it altogether, mother and me. There it stood now, though, still as a stone, but all on the watch, the lips drawn back from the sharp white teeth, and its eyes fixed, with a savage gleam in them, on the fellow's face. I was nothing but a child, and no thought of anything beyond had come to me then; but I tell you, sir, child as I was, I couldn't help feeling that the grin on the creature's face had something more than dog-like in it; and for nights to come I couldn't get the thought of it out of my head.

"Our visitor looked a bit took aback when he saw the creature, for most of his sort are terrible feared of a dog. But 'twas only for a moment, and then he laughed right out.

"'He's an ugly customer, but he won't help you much, mistress,' he said with a sneer. 'I've something here as'll settle _him_ fast enough.' With that he stretched out his hand towards the bundle on the settle.

"The hand never reached it, sir. You know the choking, worrying snarl a dog gives before he springs to grip his enemy by the throat, the growl that means a movement--and death! That sound stopped the scoundrel, and kept him, unable to stir hand or foot, with the dog in front of him, never moving, never uttering a sound beyond that low threatening growl, but watching, only watching. He might have been armed with a dozen weapons, and it would have been all the same. Those sharp, bared fangs would have met in his throat before he could have gripped the pistol within a foot of his hand; and he knew it, and the knowledge kept him there still as a stone, with the dog never taking its watching, burning eyes from his face.

"'I'm done,' he owned at last, when minutes that seemed like hours had gone by. 'I'm done this time, mistress, thanks to the dog-fiend you've got here. I tell you I'd not have stopped at murder when I come in; but that kid of yours could best me now. Make the devil brute take his eyes off me, and let me go.'

"All trembling like a leaf, mother got to the door and drew back the bar. The fellow crossed the kitchen and slunk out, and the dog went with him. It followed him with its nose close at his knee as he crossed the threshold, and the two of them went like that, out into the fog and over the lonely moorland into the night. We never saw nor heard of the dog again.

"There were gipsies in the neighbourhood, crossing the moor out Wharton way, and when the story got about folk told us as 'twas known they had some strange-looking dogs with them, and said that this one must have belonged to the lot. But mother, she never believed in nothin' of the sort, and to the day of her death she would have it as the creature had been sent to guard her and me from the danger that was to come to us that night. She held that it was something more than a dog, sir; and you see there was one thing about it uncommon strange. When dad come back that next morning, our two pointers, Nip and Juno, followed him into the cottage. But the moment they got inside a sort of turn came over them, and they rushed out all queer and scared; while as for the water mother had set down for the black dog to drink, there was no getting them to put their lips to it. Not thirsty, sir? Well, sir, seeing as there warn't no water within six mile or so, and they'd come ten miles that morning over the moor, you'll excuse me saying you don't know much about dogs if you reckon they warn't thirsty!

"Coincidence you say, sir? Well, I dunno the meaning of that--maybe it's a word you gentles gives to the things you can't explain. But I've told you the story just as it happened, and I'd swear it's true, anyhow. If a gentleman like you can't see daylight in it, t'ain't for the likes of me to try; but I sticks to it that, say what folks will, the thing was uncommon strange.... Not tried the west side, haven't you, sir? Bless your heart, Ben, what be you a-thinking of? The birds are as thick as blackberries down by the Grey Rock and Deadman's Hollow."

"That's a gruesome name," I said, rising and lifting my gun, while Ben coupled up the brace of dogs. I noticed a glance exchanged between father and son as the younger man lifted his head.

"Yes, sir," responded the former quietly; "the morning after that night I've been telling you of, the body of a man was found down there, and that's how the hollow got its name. Mother, she knew him again the moment she set eyes on the dead face, for all he'd got quit of the woman's clothes; and there warn't no mark nor wound on him, to show how he'd come by his death. Oh, yes, sir; I ain't saying as the fog warn't thick that night, nor as how it wouldn't have been easy enough for him to ha' missed his footing in the dark; though to be sure there were folks as would have it 'twarn't _that_ as killed him.... Good-day to you, sir, and thank you kindly. Ben here'll see to your having good sport."

* * * * *

It was vexing to find so much gross superstition still extant in this last decade of the nineteenth century, certainly. Yet for all that, and though the notion of a spook dog was something too much for the materialistic mind to swallow, there is no use denying that, as I stood an hour later in Deadman's Hollow, with the recollection of the weird story I had just heard fresh in my memory, I was conscious of a cold shiver, which all the strength of the August sunshine, bathing the moorland in a glow of gold, was quite unable to lessen or to drive away.

THE WRECK OF THE _MAY QUEEN_.

BY ALICE F. JACKSON.

There was something in the air. Something ominous. A whisper of which we heard only the rustle, as it were--nothing of the words; but when one is on the bosom of the deep--hundreds of miles from land--in the middle of the Pacific Ocean--ominous whispers are, to say the least of it, a trifle disconcerting.

"What is it?" whispered Sylvia.

"I don't know," I said.

"Anything wrong with the ship?"

But I could only shrug my shoulders.

Sylvia said, "Let us ask Dr. Atherton."

So we did. But Dr. Atherton only smiled.

"There was something behind that smile of his," said Sylvia, suspiciously. "As if we were babies, either of us," she added, severely.

Yes, there was something suspicious in that smile. And Dr. Atherton hadn't looked at us full in the face while he talked. Besides, there was a sort of lurking pity in his voice; and--yes, I'm sure his lip had twitched a little nervously.

"Why should he be nervous if there is nothing the matter with the ship?"

"And why should he look as if he felt sorry for us?"

"Let's ask the captain," I said.

"Just leave the ship in my keeping, young ladies," said the captain, when we asked him. "Go back to your fancy-work and your books."

The _May Queen_ was not a regular passenger ship. Sylvia, and I, and Dr. Atherton were the only passengers. She was laden with wool--a cargo boat; but Sylvia and I were accommodated with such a pretty cabin!

We had left Sydney in the captain's charge. Father wanted us to have a year's schooling in England; and we were coming to Devonshire to live with Aunt Sabina, and get a little polishing at a finishing school.

Of course we had chummed up with Dr. Atherton, though we had never met him before. One's obliged to be friendly with every one on board, you know; and then he was the only one there was to be friendly with. He was

## acting as the ship's surgeon for the voyage home. He was going to

practise in England. He was, perhaps, twenty-five--not more than twenty-six, at any rate, and on the strength of that he began to constitute himself a sort of second guardian over us.

We didn't object. He was very nice. And, indeed, he made the time pass very pleasantly for us.

Sylvia was sixteen, and I was fifteen; and the grey-haired captain was the kindest chaperon.

For the first fortnight we had the most delightful weather; and then it began to blow a horrid gale. The _May Queen_ pitched frightfully, and "took in," as the sailors said, "a deal of water."

For three days the storm raged violently. We thought the ship would never weather it. I don't know what we should have done without Dr. Atherton. And then quite suddenly the wind died away, and there came a heavenly calm.

The sea was like a mill-pond. It was beautiful! Sylvia and I began to breathe again, when, all at once, we felt that ominous something in the air.

"Thud! thud! thud!" All day long we heard that curious sound--and at dead of night too, if we happened to be awake. "Thud! thud! thud!" unceasingly.

The sailors, too, forgot their jocular sayings, and seemed too busy now to notice us. Some looked flurried, some looked sullen; but all looked anxious, we thought. And they were working, working, always working away at the bottom of the ship. And always that "thud! thud! thud!"

And then we learned by accident what the matter was.

"Five feet of water in the well!" It was the captain's voice.

And Dr. Atherton's murmured something that we did not catch.

We were in the cabin, and the door was just ajar. They thought we girls were up on deck, I suppose. Sylvia flung out her hand and pressed me on the arm; and then she put her finger on her lip.

"All hands are at the pumps," the captain said. "Their exertions are counteracting the leak. The water in the well is neither more nor less. I've just been sounding it again."

"Can't the leak be stopped?" asked Dr. Atherton.

"Yes, if we could find it. We've been creeping about her ribs all the better part of the morning, but we cannot discover the leak."

"And the water's still coming in?"

"Still coming in. They're working like galley-slaves to keep it under, but we make no headway at all. I greatly fear that some of her seams have opened during the gale."

"And that means----"

"That means the water is coming in through numerous apertures," said the captain grimly.

"Is the _May Queen_ in danger, captain?" asked Dr. Atherton in a steady voice.

There was a pause. We could hear our own hearts beat. And then:

"I would to Heaven that those girls were not on board!"

"But we are!" It was Sylvia's voice. With a bound she had flung open the door, and stood confronting the astonished pair. "We are here. And as we are here, Captain Maitland, oh! don't, don't keep us in the dark!"

"Good heavens!" ejaculated the doctor.

And the captain said in his severest tones:

"Young lady, you've been eavesdropping, I see. Let me tell you that's a thing I won't allow."

"Oh! Captain Maitland, is the ship in danger?" I cried.

But the captain only glared at me. He looked excessively annoyed.

Then Sylvia ran up and put her hand upon his arm.

"We could not help hearing," she said. "If the ship is in danger really, it is better for us to know. Please, don't be vexed with us; but we'd rather be told the truth. We--we----"

"Are not babies," I put in, with my heart going pit-a-pat.

"Nor cowards," added Sylvia, with a lip that trembled a little.

It made the captain cough.

"The--the _May Queen_ has sprung a leak?" she said.

"You heard me say so, I suppose."

"And the ship is in danger, Captain Maitland?"

"Can you trust me, young lady?" was his answer.

Sylvia put her hand in his.

"You know we trust you," she said.

He caught it in a hearty grasp; and gave me an encouraging smile.

"Thank you for that, my child. The _May Queen's_ got five feet of water in her well, because she got damaged in that gale. So far we're managing to pump the water out as fast as the water comes in. D'you follow me?"

"Yes," fluttered to her lips.

"So far, so good. Don't worry. Try not to trouble your heads about this thing at all. Just say to yourselves, 'The captain's at the helm.' All that can be done _is_ being done, young ladies. And," pointing upwards, "the other CAPTAIN'S aloft."

He was gone. In a dazed way I heard Dr. Atherton saying something to Sylvia. And a few minutes after that he, too, had disappeared. "Gone," Sylvia said in an awe-struck whisper, "to work in his turn at the pumps."

No need to wonder now at that unceasing "Thud! thud!" The noise of it not only sounded in our ears, it struck us like blows on our hearts.

We crept up on deck. We could breathe there. We could see. Oh! how awful was the thought of going down, down--drowning in the cabin below!

Air, and light, and God's sky was above. And we prayed to the CAPTAIN aloft.

The sea was so calm that danger, after having weathered that fearful gale, seemed almost impossible to us. The blue water reflected the blue heaven above; and when the setting sun cast a rosy light over the sky, the sea caught the reflection as well.

It was beautiful.

"It doesn't seem so dangerous now, Sylvia," I whispered, "as it felt during the gale."

"No," came through her colourless lips.

"There's not a ripple on the sea," I said; "and if they keep on pumping the water out, we'll--we'll get to land in time."

"Yes," she said, and held my hand a little tighter. After a while, "I wonder if we're very far from land."

"Nine hundred miles, I think I heard Mr. Wheeler say." She shuddered.

Mr. Wheeler was the first mate.

I looked across the wild waste of water, and shuddered too. So calm--so endless!

The men were working like galley-slaves down below, pumping turn and turn about, watch and watch. We saw the relieved gang come up bathed in perspiration. They were labouring for their lives, we knew.

Now and again some sailor, passing by, would say:

"Keep a good heart, little leddies," and look over his shoulder with a cheerful smile.

It made us cheer up too.

We heard one say they were pumping one hundred tons of water every hour out of the ship. It sounded appalling.

In a little while a light breeze began to blow. "From the south-west," somebody said it was.

And then we heard the captain give an order about "making all sail" in the ship.

Every man that could be spared from the pumps set about it directly; and soon great sails flew up flapping in the breeze, and the _May Queen_ went flying before the wind.

By-and-by Dr. Atherton came, and ordered us down to the saloon, and made us each drink a glass of wine. And then Mr. Wheeler joined us; and we sat down to supper just as we had done many a happy evening before--only that the captain didn't come to the table as usual, but had his supper carried away to him.

We learned that the captain had altered the ship's course, and "put the _May Queen_ right before the wind," and that he was "steering for the nearest land."

It comforted us.

"We have gained a little on the leak," the first mate said. "Three inches!"

"Only three inches!" we cried.

"Three inches is a great victory," Mr. Wheeler replied. "I think it's the turn of the tide."

"Thank God!" muttered Dr. Atherton.

We lay down in our narrow berths still comforted, and slept like tops all night. I'm not sure that the doctor hadn't given us something to make us sleep when he gave us a drink, as he innocently said, "to settle and soothe our nerves."

"Thud! thud! thud!" The ominous sound was in my ears the moment I opened my eyes, and all the terror of the preceding day came crowding into my mind.

"Sara, are you awake?"

"Yes, Sylvia."

"Did you sleep?"

"Like a top."

"So did I."

Yes, we had slept, and while we slept the sailors had worked all night. And all night long, like some poor haunted thing, the _May Queen_ had glided on.

"Mr. Wheeler, has the water lessened in the well?"

"Good-morning, Miss Redding," was his reply.

His face was pale. Great beads of perspiration were rolling down his cheeks. He began to mop them with a damp handkerchief.

At that moment Dr. Atherton came on the scene. "Good-morning, young ladies," he said.

Such a slovenly-looking doctor! And we used to think him such a sprucely-got-up man. There was no collar round his neck, and his hair hung in damp strings on his forehead. And he had no coat on, not a waistcoat either, nor did he look a bit abashed.

"Sleep well?" he said.

Mr. Wheeler seized the opportunity to slink away.

"_You_ haven't slept!" we cried.

He didn't reply. His haggard face, the red rims round his tired eyes were answer enough.

"You've been up all night?" said Sylvia calmly.

I burst into a whimpering wail.

"No, don't, Miss Sara," urged the doctor soothingly.

Sylvia said, "Has more water come into the ship?"

"The water has gained on us a trifle," he said reluctantly.

"But Mr. Wheeler said we'd gained three inches yesterday."

"Go back into your cabin," he said. "Some breakfast will be sent to you there directly. We--we are not fit to breakfast with ladies this morning," he added.

"Oh! not to the cabin. Please let us go on deck."

"The captain's orders were the cabin," he said. "Hush, hush! Don't cry any more, Miss Sara," patting my shoulder, "there's a good girl. It would worry the captain dreadfully to hear you. His chief anxiety is having you on board. You wouldn't make his anxiety greater, would you now? See, Miss Sylvia, I rely on you. Take her to the cabin, and eat your breakfast there. After breakfast," he added soothingly, "I daresay you will be allowed to go on deck."

We went back. We sat huddled together. We held each other's hands. Sylvia didn't cry. Her face was white. Her eyes were shining. "Don't, Sara," she kept on saying, "crying can do no good."

Breakfast came. Neither of us ate much. How callously we sent the greater part of it away! Afterwards we remembered it. At present we could think of nothing but the leaking ship.

And "Thud! thud! thud!" It was like the heart of the _May Queen_, beating, beating! How long would it take to burst?

After breakfast we were allowed to go on deck. Oh! how the brilliant sunshine seemed to mock us there! And such a sea! Blue, beautiful, peaceful, smiling! A vast mill-pond. And water, water everywhere!

Sea and sky! Nothing but sea and sky! And not a little, littlest speck of Mother Earth!

"Mr. Wheeler, are we nearer land?"

"A little nearer, Miss Sylvia."

"How much nearer?"

"She's run two hundred and fifty miles," he said.

"Two hundred and fifty miles! And yesterday we were nearly a thousand miles from land!"

"Yes, Miss Sara."

I could have screamed. It was sheer despair that kept me silent--perhaps a little shame. Sylvia stood beside him with her hands clenched tight.

"Isn't there any likelihood of some ship passing by?"

"Every likelihood," he said.

At that moment the relieved gang came up. They were changed. Not the brave hopeful men we had seen yesterday. They were disheartened. Indeed, we read despair in many faces.

One big burly fellow lighted a pipe. He gave a puff or two. "No use pumping this darned ship," he said. "She's doomed."

And as if to corroborate this awful fact a voice sang out:

"Seven feet o' water in the hold!"

This announcement seemed to demoralise the sailors. One burst out crying. Another cursed and swore. Others ran in a flurried way about the ship. For ten minutes or so all was confusion. And then a stentorian voice rose above the din.

"All hands to the boats!" It was the captain's. And immediately every man came scrambling from the pumps, and I felt my hand taken in an iron grasp.

"We're going to abandon the ship. We're going to take to the boats. Come down to your cabin and gather all you value. Be quick about it," said the doctor, "there isn't much time to spare. They're going to provision the boats before they lower them, so you can pack up all you want."

He spoke roughly. He pushed me along in front of him. I was so dumfounded that I could not resent it. Down in the cabin he looked at me. His stern eye dared me to faint.

I heard Sylvia say, "Can we take that little box?"

And I heard him answer, "Yes."

He was gone. I saw Sylvia, through a mist, pushing things into the box. And the doctor was back again.

A fiery something was in my mouth, and trickling down my throat. I tasted brandy.

"That's better," said the doctor, patting my back. "Make haste and help your sister. Yes, Miss Sylvia, shove it all in." And then he began to drag the blankets from our berths.

"The leddies ready? Leddies fust!" And down tumbled a sailor for the trunk.

Up the companion-ladder for the last time, the doctor prodding me in the back with his load of blankets. Sylvia, with a white face, carrying a little hand-bag. And the captain coming to meet us in the doorway.

"This one first." And I was picked up in his arms as if I'd been a baby. "Ready, Wheeler?" And I was lowered into the first mate's arms, and placed on a seat in the cutter.

The next thing I knew was that Sylvia was by my side; and that the doctor was tucking a blanket about our knees. After that four or five sailors jumped into the boat, and the captain shouted in a frantic hurry:

"Shove her off!"

The cutter fell astern. The long-boat then came forward, and all the rest of the sailors crowded in. The captain was left the last.

"Hurry up, sir!" shouted Mr. Wheeler. But the captain had disappeared. He had run down to his cabin for some papers.

"She's full of water!" cried one of the sailors in the long boat. And as he spoke the _May Queen stopped dead, and shook_.

With a yell one of the men cut the rope that held the long-boat to the ship, and shoved off like lightning from the sinking vessel.

Only in time.

The next moment the _May Queen_ pitched gently forward. Her bows went under water.

"Captain!" shrieked the sailors in a deafening chorus.

Then her stern settled down. The sea parted in a great gulf. The waves rolled over her upper deck. And with her sails all spread the _May Queen_ went down into the abyss.

A hoarse cry burst from every throat; and the boats danced on the bubbling, foaming water. The sailors stood up all ready to save him, crying to each other that he'd come to the surface soon. But he never did.

They rowed all round and round the spot, but not a vestige of the captain did we see.

"Sucked under--by Heaven!" cried the first mate in a tone of horror.

And we were adrift on the Pacific.

ADRIFT ON THE PACIFIC.

BY ALICE F. JACKSON.