III.

Oh! that terrible night, with the full moon shining down upon the quiet water! So still! So calm! Not a ripple on the wave! And that awful black something silently following us!

Sylvia lay with her head upon the doctor's knee--one poor thin arm, half bared, across my lap. And so the morning found us.

There was something the matter with Evans--something desperate. He was beginning to look like Davis--only worse. Something horrible in his ghastly face. It was wolfish. And his eyes--they were not like human eyes at all--they were the eyes of some fierce, wild beast. And they were fastened with a wolfish glare on Sylvia's half-bared arm. _He wanted to eat it!_

Stealthily he had got his clasp knife out. And stealthily he was crouching as if to make a spring. And I couldn't speak!

My tongue, as the Bible expresses it, clave to the roof of my mouth. I was powerless to make a sound. And none of the others happened to be looking at him.

I put my hand on Mr. Wheeler's knee and gave him a feeble push. I pointed dumbly at Evans.

"Put down that knife!" cried Mr. Wheeler in a voice of command. "Evans!"

With a cry so hideous--I can hear it now--the man lunged forward. Mr. Wheeler tried to seize the knife; but Evans suddenly plunged it into his shoulder; and the first mate fell with a groan.

Then there was an awful struggle.

Gilliland and Hookway fighting with Evans. And the doctor trying to protect Sylvia and me; and dragging the first mate away from the scuffling feet. And I praying out loud in my agony that death might come to our relief.

He was down at last. Lying in the bottom of the boat, with Gilliland sitting astride him, and Hookway getting a rope to tie him up! The doctor leaning over Mr. Wheeler and trying to staunch the blood, and the first mate fainting away!

And then--Oh! heavens! with a cry--Gilliland sprang to his feet, shouting! gesticulating! waving his cap! Had he, too, now, suddenly gone mad?

"Ship ahoy! ahoy!" he shrieked, and we followed his pointing hand.

And there, on the bosom of the endless sea, we saw a ship becalmed.

I suppose I swooned.

When I recovered my senses, the cutter was creeping under her lee, and the crew were throwing us a rope.

"The women first," said somebody in a cheerful voice. "And after them send up the wounded man."

And soon kind, pitying faces were bending over us. And very tender hands were feeding Sylvia and me.

"They've had a pooty consid'able squeak, I guess," said the cheerful voice.

And somebody answered, "That's so."

We had been picked up by an American schooner.

A STRANGE VISITOR.

BY MAUD HEIGHINGTON.

The Priory was a fine, rambling old house, which had recently come into Jack Cheriton's possession through the death of a parsimonious relative.

Part of the building only had been kept in repair, while the remainder had fallen into decay, and was, in fact, only a picturesque ruin.

The Cheritons' first visit to their newly acquired property was a sort of reconnoitre visit. They had come from Town for a month's holiday, bringing with them Thatcher--little Mollie's nurse--as general factotum.

They had barely been in the house an hour when a telegram summoned Thatcher to her mother's deathbed, and a day or two later urgent business recalled Jack to Town.

"I'll just call at the Lodge and get Mrs. Somers to come up as early as she can this morning, and stay the night with you, so you will not be alone long," he called as he hurried off.

His wife and Mollie watched him out of sight, and then returned to the breakfast-room--the little one amusing herself with her doll, while her mother put the breakfast things together.

Millicent Cheriton was no coward, but an undefinable sense of uneasiness was stealing over her. The Priory was fully half an hour's walk from the Lodge, which was the nearest house. Still further off, in the opposite direction, stood a large building, the nature of which they had not yet discovered.

Jack had never left her even for one night since their marriage--and now she had not even Thatcher left to bear her company.

"Mrs. Somers will soon be here," she said in a comforting tone to Mollie, who, however, was too intent upon her doll to notice, and certainly did not share her mother's uneasiness.

Meanwhile, Jack had reached the Lodge and made his request to Somers, the gamekeeper.

"I'm main sorry, sir, but the missus thought as you would want her at eleven--as usual, so she started off early to get her marketing done first. I'll be sure and tell her to take her things up for the night as soon as she gets home."

"Ten o'clock! No Mrs. Somers yet!"

Mrs. Cheriton picked up her little daughter and carried her upstairs.

"We'll make the beds, Mollie, you and I," she said, tossing the little maid into the middle of the shaken-up feather bed.

This was fine fun, and Mollie begged for a repetition of it.

"Hark! That must be Mrs. Somers," as a footstep sounded on the gravel path.

"That's right, Mrs. Somers, I am glad you have come," called Millicent, but as she heard no reply, she thought she had been mistaken, and finished making the bed, then tying a sun-bonnet over Mollie's golden curls, took her downstairs, intending to take her into the garden to play.

What was it that came over Millicent as she reached the hall? Again that strange uneasiness, and a feeling that some third person was near her. She grasped Mollie's hand more firmly, with an impatient exclamation to herself, for what she thought was silly nervousness, and walked into the dining-room.

There, in the large armchair, lately occupied by her husband, sat a tall, gentlemanly looking man.

He had already removed his hat, and was about to unlock a brown leather bag, which he held on his knee. He rose and bowed as Mrs. Cheriton entered the room.

"I must apologise for intruding upon you, madam, but I do so in the cause of science, so I am sure you will pardon me."

The words were fair enough, but something in the manner made Millicent's heart seem to stand still. Something also told her that she must not show her fear.

"May I know to whom I am speaking?" she said, "and in what branch of science you take a special interest?"

"Certainly, madam. My name is Wharton. I am a surgeon, and am greatly interested in vivisection."

"Indeed!" said Millicent, summoning all her presence of mind, for as he spoke his manner grew more excitable, and he began to open his bag.

"I called here," he said, "to make known a new discovery, which, however, I should like to demonstrate," and he fixed his restless eye on little Mollie, who was clinging shyly to her mother's gown.

"I am sure it is very kind of you to take an interest in us--but it is so early, perhaps you have not breakfasted? May I get you some breakfast?"

Would Mrs. Somers never come? and if she did, what could she do? for by this time Millicent had no doubt that she was talking to a madman.

"Thank you, I do not need any," replied her visitor, as he began to take from his bag all kinds of terrible looking surgical instruments, and laid them on the table.

In spite of the terror within her, Millicent tried to turn his attention from his bag, speaking of all kinds of general subjects as fast as they came to her mind, but though he answered her politely, it was with evident irritation, and he seemed to get more excitable every minute.

"This will never do," she thought, "I must humour him," and with sinking heart she ventured on her next question.

"What is this wonderful discovery, Mr. Wharton? if I may ask."

"Certainly, madam. It is a permanent cure for deafness."

Millicent began to breathe more freely as the thought passed through her mind "then it can't affect Mollie," for she forgot for a moment that her guest was not a sane man. Again his eye rested on Mollie, and he rose from his chair.

"The cure is a certain one," he said, "the right ear must be amputated, and the passages thoroughly scraped, but I will show you," and he took a step towards Mollie.

Millicent's face blanched.

"But Mollie is not deaf," she said; "it will hardly do to operate on her."

"It will prevent her ever becoming so, madam, and prevention is better than cure," and he stepped back to the table to select an instrument.

The mother's presence of mind did not desert her--though her legs trembled so violently that she feared her visitor would see her terror.

"It would be a very good thing to feel sure of that," she said. "You will want a firm table, of course, and good light. You might be interrupted here. I will show you a better room for the operation."

"Thank you, madam, and I shall require plenty of hot water and towels."

"Certainly," said Millicent, and leading him to the hall, she directed him to a room which had at one time been fitted as a laundry, and in which was an ironing bench.

With sinking heart, she followed him to the top of the house--pointing the way through two attics into a third.

"I will just leave you to arrange your things while I get hot water and towels, and put on Mollie's nightdress," she said, and closing the door, turned the key. It grated noisily, but the visitor was too much occupied to notice it, and rushing through the other rooms, Millicent locked both doors, and fled downstairs.

Snatching her little one in her arms, she hurried through the garden--pausing at the gate to shift Mollie from her arms on to her back.

She had barely left the gate when a horrible yell of baffled rage rent the air, making her turn and glance up at the window of the attic.

The maniac had just discovered that the door was locked, and rushing to the window caught sight of his hostess and desired patient fleeing from the house.

One glance showed Millicent that he was about to get out of the window, but whether he intended to clamber down by the ivy, or creep in at the next attic, she did not stop to ascertain; only praying that she might have strength to gain a place of safety she sped on, staggering under the weight of her little one, who clung to her neck in wonder.

On and on, still with the wild yells of rage ringing in her ears, until she had put three fields between herself and the house, when she stopped for breath in a shady lane.

Hark! Surely it was the sound of wheels coming towards her. "Help! oh, help!" she shouted. "Help! help! help!"

In another moment a brougham, drawn by two horses, appeared, coming slowly up the hill towards her.

The coachman at a word from his master drew up, and Millicent, now nearly fainting from terror and exhaustion, was helped into the carriage.

Giving directions to the coachman to drive home as quickly as possible, Dr. Shielding, for it was the medical superintendent of the Lunatic Asylum, the long building already referred to, drew from her between sobs and gasps the story of her fright.

At length they drew up before the doctor's house, in the grounds of the asylum, and with a hasty word of introduction, Dr. Shielding left Millicent and Mollie with his wife and daughter.

Summoning two burly-looking keepers, he stepped into his brougham again.

"To the Priory," he said, and then related the story to the men, describing the position of the attic as told him by Millicent, adding that he had just returned from a distant village, where he had been called for consultation about a case of rapidly developed homicidal mania of a local medical man, but the patient had eluded his caretaker, the previous day, and could not be found.

"I have no doubt it is the same man," he said, "and there he is!" he added, as they stopped before the Priory gate, to find the strange visitor was trying to descend from the window by the ivy.

There he clung, bag in hand, still five-and-twenty feet from the ground. When hearing their voices, he turned to look at them, and in so doing lost his hold, falling heavily to the ground.

They hastened to the spot, just in time to see a spasmodic quiver of the limbs as he drew his last breath. He had struck his head violently against a huge stone and broken his neck.

The body was removed to the mortuary of the asylum, with all speed, and the relatives of the poor man telegraphed for, and when Dr. Shielding returned home he found that his wife had insisted upon keeping Mollie and Millicent as their guests until Jack's return, to which arrangement he heartily assented.

* * * * *

Jack's face blanched as he read a paragraph describing the adventure in his morning paper the following day, and when his letters were brought in, he hastily broke the seal of one in his wife's handwriting, and read the story in her own words, finishing with, "Oh, Jack, dear, I never, never can go back there again; do come and fetch us home."

They never did return to the Priory, for on his way to the station, Jack put it into the hands of an agent for sale, and when he reached Beechcroft, he begged Mrs. Somers to go and pack up all their personal belongings and send them back to Town.

It was with feelings of deep thankfulness that he clasped his wife and little one in his arms once more, inwardly vowing that come what might, he would never again leave them without protection, even for an hour.

THE THIRD PERSON SINGULAR.

BY LUCY HARDY.

"You remember the old coaching days, granny?"

"Indeed I do," replied the old lady, with a smile, "for one of the strangest adventures of my life befell me on my first stage-coach journey. Yes, you girls shall hear the story; I am getting into my 'anecdotage,' as Horace Walpole calls it," and granny laughed with the secret consciousness that her "anecdotes" were always sure of an appreciative audience.

"People did not run about hither and thither in my young days as you girls do now," went on the old lady, "and it was quite an event to take a coach journey. In fact, when I started on my first one, I was nearly twenty years old; and my father and mother had then debated a good while as to whether I could be permitted to travel alone by the stage. My father was a country parson, as you know, and we lived in a very remote Yorkshire village. But an aunt, who was rich and childless, had lately taken up her residence at York, and had written so urgently to beg that I might be allowed to spend the winter with her, and thus cheer her loneliness, that it was decided that I must accept the invitation. It was the custom then for many of the local country gentry to visit the great provincial towns for their 'seasons' instead of undertaking the long journey to the metropolis. York, and many another country town, is still full of the fine old 'town houses' of the local gentry, who now go to London to 'bring out' their young daughters; but who, in the former days, were content with the gaieties offered by their own provincial capital. Very lively and pleasant were the 'seasons' of the country towns in my youth; and I think there was more real hospitality and sociability found among the country neighbours than one meets with in London society nowadays. I, of course, was delighted at the prospect of exchanging the dull life of our little village for the gaieties of York; but when it actually came to saying good-bye to my parents, from whom I had never yet been separated, I was half inclined to wish that Aunt Maria's invitation had been refused. Farmer Gray, who was to drive me to the neighbouring town, where I should join the coach, was very kind; and pretended not to see how I was crying under my veil. We lumbered along the narrow lanes and at length reached the little market town where I was deposited at the 'Blue Boar' to have some tea and await the arrival of the mail. I had often watched the coach dash up, and off again, when visiting the town with my father; but it seemed like a dream that I, Dolly Harcourt, was now actually to be a passenger in the conveyance. The dusk of a winter's evening was gathering as the mail came in sight, its red lamps gleaming through the mist. Ostlers prided themselves upon the celerity with which the change of horses was effected, and passengers were expected to be equally quick; I was bustled inside (my place had been taken days previously) before I had time to think twice. Fortunately, as I thought, remembering the long night journey which lay before me, I found the interior of the coach empty, several passengers having just alighted; but, as I settled myself in one corner, two figures hurried up, a short man, and a woman in a long cloak and poke-bonnet, with a thick veil over her face.

"'Just in time,' cried the man. 'Yes, I've booked two places, Mr. Jones and Miss Jenny,' and the pair stumbled in just as the impatient horses started.

"'Miss Jenny.' Well, I was glad that I was not to have a long night journey alone with a strange man. I glanced at the cloaked and veiled figure which sank awkwardly into the opposite corner of the vehicle, and then leaned forward to remove some of my little packages from the seat; in so doing I brushed against her bonnet.

"'I beg your pardon, madam,' I said politely; 'I was removing these parcels, fearing they might incommode you.'

"'All right, all right, miss,' said the man, a red-faced, vulgar-looking personage; 'don't you trouble about Jenny, she'll do very well;' and he proceeded to settle his companion in the corner rather unceremoniously.

"'Is she his sister or his wife, I wonder,' I thought; 'he does not seem

## particularly courteous to her;' and I took a dislike to my

fellow-passenger on the spot. He, however, was happily indifferent to my good or evil opinion; pulling a cap from his pocket, he exchanged his hat for it, settled himself comfortably by his companion's side, and, in a few moments, was sound asleep, as his snores proclaimed. I could not follow his example. I felt terribly lonely, and not a little nervous. As we sped along at what appeared to my inexperience such a break-neck rate (ten miles an hour seemed so _then_, before railways whirled you along like lightning), I began to recall all the dismal stories of coach accidents, and of highwaymen, which I had read or heard of during my quiet village existence. Suppose, on this very moor which we were now crossing, a highwayman rode up and popped a pistol in at the window. I myself had not much to lose, though I should have been extremely reluctant to part with the new silk purse which my mother had netted for me, and in which she and father had each placed a guinea--coins not too plentiful in our country vicarage in those days. And suppose the highwayman was not satisfied with mere robbery, but should oblige me to alight and dance a minuet with him on the heath, as did Claud Duval; suppose--here my nervous fears took a fresh turn, for the cloaked lady opposite began to move restlessly, and the man, half waking, gave her a brisk nudge with his elbow and cried sharply,--

"'Now, then, keep quiet, I say.'

"This was a strange manner in which to address a lady. Could this man be sober, I thought, and a shiver ran through me at the idea of being doomed to spend so many hours in company with a possibly intoxicated, and certainly surly man. How rudely he addressed his companion, how little he seemed to care for her comfort! As I looked more carefully at the pair (the rising moon now giving me sufficient light to do this) I noted that the man's hand was slipped under the woman's cloak, and that he was apparently holding her down in her seat by her wrist. A fresh terror now assailed me--was I travelling with a lunatic and her keeper? I vainly tried to obtain a glimpse of the woman's countenance, so shrouded by her poke-bonnet and thick veil.

"The man was speedily snoring again, and I sat with my eyes fixed on the cloaked figure, wondering--speculating. Poor thing, was she indeed a lunatic travelling in charge of this rough attendant? Pity filled my heart as I thought of this afflicted creature, possibly torn from home and friends and sent away with a surly guardian; who, I now felt _sure_, was not too sober. Was the woman old or young, of humble rank or a lady? I began to weave a dozen romantic stories in my head about my fellow-passengers, quite forgetting all my recent fears about the 'knights of the road.' So sorry did I feel for the woman that I leant across and addressed some trivial, polite remark to her, but received no reply. I gently touched her cloak to draw her attention, but the lady's temper seemed as testy as that of her companion; she abruptly twisted away from my touch with some inarticulate, but evidently angry exclamation, which sounded almost like a growl. I shrank back abashed into my corner and attempted no more civilities. Would the coach never reach York and I be freed from the presence of these mysterious fellow-passengers? I was but a timid little country lass, and this was my first flight from home. It was certainly not a pleasant idea to believe oneself shut up for several hours with a half-tipsy man and a lunatic; as I now firmly believed the woman to be. I sat very still, fearing to annoy her by any chance movement, but my addressing her had evidently disturbed her, for she began to move restlessly, and to make a kind of muttering to herself. I gradually edged away towards the other end of the seat, so as to leave as much space between myself and the lady as possible, and in so doing let my shawl fall to the floor of the coach. I stooped to pick it up, and there beheld, protruding from my fellow-passenger's cloak, _her foot_. Oh horrors! I saw no woman's dainty shoe--but a hairy paw, with long nails--was it _cloven_?

* * * * *

"The frantic shriek I gave stopped the coach, and the guard and the outside passengers were round the door in a moment. For the first time in my life I had fainted--so missed the first excited turmoil--but soon revived to find myself lying on the moor, the centre of a kindly group of fellow-travellers, who were proffering essences, and brandy, and all other approved restoratives; while in the background, like distant thunder, were heard the adjurations of the guard and the coachman, who were swearing like troopers at the other--or rather at the _male_, inside passenger. Struggling into a sitting position, I beheld this man, sobered now by the shock of my alarm, and by the vials of wrath which were being emptied upon him, standing in a submissive attitude, while beside him, her cloak thrown back and her poke-bonnet thrust on one side, was the mysterious 'lady'--now revealed in her true character as a _performing bear_. It seemed that a showman, desirous of conveying this animal (which he described as 'quiet as an hangel') with the least trouble and expense to himself, bethought him of the expedient of

## booking places in the coach for himself and the bear, which bore the

name of 'Miss Jenny'; trusting to her wraps and to the darkness to disguise the creature sufficiently. I will not repeat the language of the guard and coachman on discovering the trick played; but after direful threats as to what the showman might 'expect' as the result of his device, matters were amicably arranged. The owner of the bear made most abject apologies all round (I fancy giving more than _civil words_ to the coach officials), I interceded for him, and the mail set off at double speed to make up for lost time. Only, with my knowledge of 'Miss Jenny's' real identity, I absolutely declined to occupy the interior of the coach again despite the showman's assertions of his pet's harmlessness; and the old coachman sympathising with me, I was helped up to a place by his side on the box, and carefully wrapped up in a huge military cloak by a young gentleman who occupied the next seat, and who was, as he told me, an officer rejoining his regiment at York. The latter part of my journey was far pleasanter than the beginning; the coachman was full of amusing anecdotes, and the young officer made himself most agreeable. It transpired, in course of conversation, that my fellow-traveller was slightly acquainted with Aunt Maria; and this acquaintanceship induced him to request that he might be permitted to escort me to her house and see me safe after my disagreeable adventure. I had no objection to his accompanying myself and the staid maidservant whom I found waiting for me at the inn when the coach stopped at York; and Aunt Maria politely insisted on the young man's remaining to partake of the early breakfast she had prepared to greet my arrival."

"Well, your fright did not end so badly after all, granny," remarked one of her listeners.

"Not at all badly," replied the old lady with a quiet smile; "but for my fright I should never have made the acquaintance of that young officer."

"And the officer was----"

"He was _Captain_ Marten then, my dears--he became _General_ Marten afterwards--and was _your grandfather_."

"HOW JACK MINDED THE BABY."

BY DOROTHY PINHO.

The _Etruria_ was on its way to New York. The voyage had been, so far, without accidents, or even incidents; the weather had been lovely; the sea, a magnificent stretch of blue, with a few miniature wavelets dancing in the sunlight.

Amongst the passengers of the first-class saloon everybody noticed a slight girlish figure, always very simply attired; in spite of all her efforts to remain unnoticed, she seemed to attract attention by her great beauty. People whispered to each other, "Who is she?" All they knew was that her name was Mrs. Arthur West, and that she was going out to New York with her two babies to join her husband.

Every morning she was on deck, or sometimes, if the sun was too fierce, in the saloon, and she made a charming picture reclining in her deck-chair, with baby Lily lying on her lap, and little Jack playing at her feet. Baby was only three or four months old; hardly anything more than a dainty heap of snowy silk and lace to anybody but her mother, who, of course, thought that nothing on earth could be as clever as the way she crowed and kicked out her absurd pink morsels of toes.

Master Jack was quite an important personage; he was nearly four years old and very proud of the fact that this was his second voyage, while Lily had never been on a ship before, and, as he contemptuously remarked, "didn't even know who dada was." He was a quaint, old-fashioned little soul, and though he rather looked down upon his little sister from the height of his dignity and his first knickerbockers, he would often look after her for his mother and pat her off to sleep quite cleverly.

We must not forget to mention "Rover," a lovely retriever; he was quite of the family, fairly worshipped by his little master, and the pet of the whole ship. He looked upon baby Lily as his own special property, and no stranger dare approach if he were guarding her.

On the afternoon my story opens baby Lily had been very cross and fretful; the intense heat evidently did not agree with her. Poor little Mrs. West was quite worn out with walking up and down with her trying to lull her off to sleep. Jack was lying flat on the floor, engrossed in the beauties of a large picture-book; two or three times he raised his curly head and shook it gravely. Then he said, "Isn't she a naughty baby, mummie?"

"Yes, dear," answered his mother, "and I'm afraid that if she doesn't soon get good, we shall have to put her right through the porthole. We don't want to take a naughty baby-girl to daddy, do we?"

"No, mummie," answered Jack very earnestly, and he returned once more to his pictures.

"There, she has gone off," whispered Mrs. West, after a few moments. "Now, Jackie, I am going to put her down, and you must look after her while I go and see if the stewardess has boiled the milk for the night. Play very quietly, like a good little boy, because I don't think she is very sound asleep." And, with a parting kiss on his little uplifted face, she slipped away.

The stewardess was nowhere to be found; so Mrs. West boiled the milk herself, as she had often done before, and after about ten minutes, returned to her cabin.

Little Jack was in a corner, busy with a drawing-slate; he turned round as his mother came in. The berth where she had put the baby down was empty.

"Was baby naughty? Has the stewardess taken her?" she asked.

"No, mummie; baby woke up d'rectly you went, an' she was so dreff'ly naughty--she just _wouldn't_ go to sleep again; so I thought I'd better punish her, an' I put her, just this minute, through the porthole, like you said; but I dessay she'll be good now, and p'raps you'd better----but what's the matter, mummie? Are you going to be seasick?" for his mother had turned deathly white, and was holding on to the wall for support.

"My baby, my little one!" she gasped; then, pulling herself together with a sudden effort, she rushed towards the stairs; little Jack, bewildered, but suddenly overcome by a strange feeling of awe, following in the rear. As she reached the deck, she became aware that the liner had stopped; there was a great commotion among the passengers; she heard some one say, "Good dog! brave fellow!" and Rover, pushing his way between the excited people, brought to her feet a dripping, wailing bundle, which she strained to her heart, and fainted away.

Need I narrate what had happened? When little Jack had "put naughty baby through the porthole," Rover was on deck with his two front paws up on the side of the vessel, watching intently some sea-gulls dipping in the waves. He suddenly saw the little white bundle touch the water; some marvellous instinct told him it was his little charge, and he gave a sudden leap over the side. A sailor of the crew saw him disappear, and gave the alarm: "Stop the ship! man overboard!"

A boat was lowered, and in a few seconds Rover was on deck again, holding baby Lily fast between his jaws.

Mrs. West never left her children alone after that; and when, a few days later, on the quay at New York, she was clasped in her husband's arms, she told him, between her sobs, how near he had been to never seeing his little daughter.

MY GRANDMOTHER'S ADVENTURE.

_A STORY FOUNDED ON FACT._

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

My grandmother was one of the right sort. She was a fine old lady with all her faculties about her at eighty-six, and with a memory that could recall the stirring incidents of the earlier part of the century with a vividness which made them live again in our eager eyes and ears. She was born with the century and was nearly fifteen years old when Napoleon escaped from Elba, and the exciting circumstances that followed, occurring as they did at the most impressionable period of her life, became indelibly fixed upon her mind. She had relatives and friends who had distinguished themselves in the Peninsula war, in memory of one of whom, who fell in the last grand charge at Waterloo, she always wore a mourning ring.

But it was not at Waterloo that my grandmother met with the adventure which it is now my business to chronicle. It was a real genuine adventure, however, and it befell her a year or so after the final fall of Napoleon, and in a quiet, secluded spot in the county of Wiltshire, England, not far from Salisbury Plain; but as I am quite sure I cannot improve upon the dear old lady's oft-repeated version of the story, I will try and tell it as it fell from those dear, worn lips now for ever silent in the grave.

"I was in my sixteenth year when it was decided that, all fear of foreign invasion being over, I should be sent to London to complete my education and to receive those finishing touches in manners and deportment 'which a metropolis of wealth and fashion alone can give.'

"Never having left home before, I looked forward to my journey with some feeling of excitement and not a little of foreboding and dread. I could not quite make up my mind whether I was really sorry or glad. The quiet home life to which I had been accustomed, varied only by occasional visits from the more old-fashioned of the local country families, made me long for the larger life, which I knew must belong to the biggest city in the world (life which I was simple enough to think I might see a great deal of even from the windows of a boarding-school), and made me look forward with joyful anticipation to my journey; while the fear of flying from the humdrum that I knew, to discipline I knew not of, made me temper my anticipations with misgivings and cloud my hopes with fears. To put the matter practically, I think I was generally glad when I got up in the morning and sorry when I went to bed at night.

"My father's house stood about a hundred yards from the main road, some three miles west of Salisbury, and in order to take my passage for London, it was necessary that I should be driven into Salisbury in the family buggy to join the Exeter mail. I well remember the start. My carpet-bag and trunk had been locked and unlocked a great many times before they were finally signed, sealed, and delivered to the old man-servant who acted as gardener, coachman, and general factotum to our household, and when we started off my father placed a book in my hands, that I might have something with me to beguile the tedium of the journey. My father accompanied me as far as Salisbury to bespeak the care and attention of the guard on my behalf, but finding that the only other inside passenger was an old gentleman of whom he had some slight knowledge, he commended me to my fellow-passenger's protection, and with many admonitions as to my future conduct, left me to pursue the journey in his company.

"I was feeling rather dull after my companion had exhausted the commonplaces of conversation, and experienced a strange loneliness when I saw that he had fallen fast asleep in his comfortable corner enveloped in rugs and furs. Driven in upon my own resources I opened my book, and began to read, though the faint light of the coach lamp did not offer me much encouragement.

"The volume was one of 'Travel and Adventure,' and told of the experiences of the writer even in the lion's mouth. It recounted numerous hair-breadth escapes from the tender mercies of savage animals, and described them with such thrilling detail that I soon became conscious of those creepy sensations which are so well calculated to make us take fright at the least unusual circumstance. I had just got to a part at which a wounded lion had struck down his intrepid hunter and was standing with one paw upon his breast roaring his defiance to the four winds of heaven, when suddenly the coach pulled up with a suddenness that threw me into the arms of my companion and somewhat unceremoniously aroused him from his slumber. The next moment the coach rolled back a few paces and the next plunged forward a few more. Meanwhile, the shouts and cries of the outside passengers and the rumbling and clambering on the roof of the coach made it clear that something terrible had happened. Naturally nervous, and rendered doubly so by the narrative I had been reading, I concluded that all Africa was upon us and that either natives or wild animals would soon eat us up. My companion was no less excited than I was, excitement that was in no way lessened by his sense of responsibility for my welfare, and perceiving a house close to the road but a few yards in the rear of the coach, he hurried me out of the vehicle with more speed than ceremony, and in another moment was almost dragging me towards the door. As we alighted, our speed was suddenly accelerated by the unmistakable roar of some wild beast which had apparently leapt out of the leaves of the book I had been reading and was attempting to illustrate the narrative which had so thrilled my imagination. There was no mistake about it now; some wild beast had attacked the coach, and I was already, in thought, lying prostrate beneath his feet. The next thing that I remember was awakening in the presence of an eager and interested group gathered round a fire in the waiting-room of a village post-house.

"Many versions of the story were current for years among the gossips of the country-side, and they differed very materially in the details of the narrative. One said it was a tiger which was being conveyed to the gardens of the Zoological Society in London, another that it was a performing bear which had suddenly gone mad and killed its keeper while on its way to Salisbury Fair. Of course the papers published various accounts of it, and the story with many variations found its way into several books. As you know, I was not an eye-witness of the circumstances any further than I have described them, so I am dependent upon others for the true account of the facts. The fullest account that I have seen in print appeared in a book I bought many years after the event, and now if you will get me my spectacles I will read you the remainder of the story from that volume.

"'Not many years ago, a curious example of the ferocity of the lioness occurred in England. The Exeter mail-coach, on its way to London, was attacked on Sunday night, October 20th, 1816, at Winter's Law-Hut, seven miles from Salisbury, in a most extraordinary manner. At the moment when the coachman pulled up, to deliver his bags, one of the leading horses was suddenly seized by a ferocious animal. This produced a great confusion and alarm. Two passengers, who were inside the mail, got out, and ran in the house. The horse kicked and plunged violently; and it was with difficulty the coachman could prevent the carriage from being overturned. It was soon observed by the coachman and guard, by the light of the lamps, that the animal which had seized the horse was a huge lioness. A large mastiff dog came up and attacked her fiercely, on which she quitted the horse, and turned upon him. The dog fled, but was pursued and killed by the lioness, within about forty yards of the place. It appears that the beast had escaped from a caravan, which was standing on the roadside, and belonged to a menagerie, on its way to Salisbury Fair. An alarm being given, the keepers pursued and hunted the lioness, carrying the dog in her teeth, into a hovel under a granary, which served for keeping agricultural implements. About half-past eight, they had secured her effectually by barricading the place, so as to prevent her escape. The horse, when first attacked, fought with great spirit; and if he had been at liberty, would probably have beaten down his antagonist with his fore-feet; but in plunging, he embarrassed himself in the harness. The lioness, it appears, attacked him in front, and springing at his throat, had fastened the talons of her fore-feet on each side of his gullet, close to the head, while the talons of her hind-feet were forced into the chest. In this situation she hung, while the blood was seen streaming, as if a vein had been opened by a lancet. The furious animal missed the throat and jugular vein; but the horse was so dreadfully torn, that he was not at first expected to survive. The expressions of agony, in his tears and moans, were most piteous and affecting. Whether the lioness was afraid of her prey being taken from her, or from some other cause, she continued a considerable time after she had entered the hovel roaring in a dreadful manner, so loud, indeed, that she was distinctly heard at the distance of half a mile. She was eventually secured, and taken to her den; and the proprietor of the menagerie did not fail to take advantage of the incident, by having a representation of the attack painted in the most captivating colours and hung up in front of his establishment.'"

My dear old grandmother quite expected to see "the lions" when she reached London, but she was not quite prepared to meet a lioness even half way.

A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS EVE.

BY LUCIE E. JACKSON.

I was always a very fearless girl. I do not say I never knew what fear was, for on the occasion I am about to relate I was distinctly frightened; but I was able to bear myself through it as if I felt nothing, and by this means to reassure my poor mother, who perhaps realised the danger more thoroughly than I did.

Norah says if it had happened to her she would just have died of fright, and I do think she would have, for she is so delicate and timid, and has such very highly-strung nerves. Mother and I always call it our adventure. I, with a laugh now; but mother, always with a shudder and a paling of her sweet face, for she and Norah are very much alike in constitution. She says if I had not been her stay and backbone on that occasion she must surely have let those awful French people rob her of all she possessed. But I am going on too fast.

It happened in this way. Father had some business to transact in France in connection with his firm, and had gone off in high spirits, for after the business was finished and done with he had arranged to do a little travelling on his own account with Mr. Westover--an old chum of his.

We had heard regularly from him as having a very good time till one morning the post brought a letter to say he had contracted a low fever and was lying sick at a wayside inn. He begged us not to be alarmed for his friend was very attentive, and he hoped soon to be himself again. Mother was unhappy, we saw that, but Norah and I tried to cheer her up by saying how strong father always was, and how soon he shook off any little illness. It was his being sick away from home and in a foreign country that troubled her.

A few days after a telegram arrived from Mr. Westover. He said mother must come at once, for the doctor had serious misgivings as to the turn the fever might take.

"Mother, you must take Phyllis with you," decided Norah, who was trembling from head to foot, but trying to appear calm for mother's sake.

I looked up at mother with eager eyes, for though the thought of dear father lying dangerously ill chilled me all over, yet the idea of travelling to France made my heart leap within me.

Mother was packing a handbag when Norah spoke. She looked up and saw my eyes round with delight.

"Yes," she said, "I would prefer a companion. Phyllis, get ready at once, for we haven't much time."

Her voice sounded as if tears were in it, and I sprang up and kissed her before rushing away to my room.

My little bag was packed before mother's, but then she had money arrangements to make which I had not.

Two hours after the receipt of the telegram we were driving down the road to the railway station two miles from our home.

Our journey was of no moment at first starting. We crossed the water without any mishap, and on arriving at Dunkirk bore the Custom-house officers' searching of our handbags with a stoical calmness. What mattered such trifles when our one thought, our one hope lay in the direction of that wayside inn where father lay tossing in delirium?

We spent one night at an hotel, and the next morning, which was Christmas Eve, we were up early to catch the first express to Brives. From Brives to Fleur another train would take us, and the rest of our journey would have to be accomplished by _diligence_.

It was cold, bitterly cold, and I saw mother's eyes look apprehensively up to the leaden sky. I knew she was fearing a heavy fall of snow which might interrupt our journey.

We reached Fleur at three o'clock in the afternoon, and took the _diligence_ that was awaiting the train. Then what mother feared took place. Snow began to fall--heavy snow, and the horses in the _diligence_ began to labour after only one hour's storm. Mother's face grew paler and paler. I did not dare to look at her, or to think what we should do if the snow prevented us getting much farther. And father! what would father do! After two hours' weary drive we sighted the first stopping place.

"There is the inn!" said a portly fellow-traveller. "And a good thing, too, that we'll have a roof over our heads, for there will be no driving farther for some days to come."

"We must make a jovial Christmas party by ourselves," said another old gentleman, gathering all his belongings together in preparation for getting out.

I looked at mother. Her face was blanched.

"But surely," she said, "this snow won't prevent the second _diligence_ taking my daughter and myself to the _Pomme d'Or_ at Creux? It is only a matter of an hour from here."

"You'll get no _diligence_ either to-day or to-morrow, madame," was the answer she received.

The inn was reached--a funny little old-fashioned place--and we all descended ankle deep into the newly-fallen snow.

The landlord of the inn was waiting at the door, and invited us all in with true French courtesy. The cosy kitchen we entered had a lovely wood fire in the old-fashioned grate, and the dancing flames cast a cheery light upon the whitewashed walls. Oh, if only this had been the inn where father was staying! How gladly we would have rested our weary limbs and revelled in that glorious firelight. But it was not to be.

Mother's idea of another _diligence_ was quite pooh-poohed.

"If it had been coming it would have been here before now," announced the landlord.

"Then we must walk it," returned my mother.

"Impossible," was the landlord's answer, and the portly old gentleman seconded him. "It is a matter of five miles from here."

"If I wish to see my husband alive I must walk it," said my mother in tremulous tones.

There was a murmur of commiseration, and the landlord, a kindly, genial old Frenchman, trotted to the door of the inn and looked out. He came back presently, rubbing his cold hands.

"The snow has ceased, the stars are coming out. If Madame insists----" he shrugged his shoulders.

"We shall walk it if you will kindly direct us the way."

As she spoke my mother picked up her handbag, and I stooped for mine, but was arrested by a deep voice saying,--

"I am going part of the way. If madame will allow me I will walk with her."

I saw the landlord's open brow contract, and I turned to look at the speaker. He was a tall, dark, low-browed man, with shaggy black hair and deep-set eyes. He had been sitting there on our arrival, and I had not liked his appearance at first sight. I now hoped that mother would not accept his company. But mother, too intent on getting to her journey's end, jumped at the offer.

"_Merci, monsieur_," she said gratefully. "We will start at once if you have no objection."

The fellow got on his feet at once, and stretching out his hand took a slouched hat off the chair behind him and clapped it on his head. I did see mother give him one furtive look then--it gave him such a brigand-like appearance, but she resolutely turned away, and thanked the landlord for the short shelter he had afforded us. She was producing her purse, but the landlord, with a hasty glance in the direction of our escort, motioned her to put it away. He and the two gentlemen came to see us start, the landlord causing me some little comfort by calling after us that he would make inquiries as soon as he was able, as to whether we had reached our destination in safety.

Our escort started ahead of us, and we followed close on his footsteps. We had journeyed so for two miles, plodding heavily and slowly along, for the snow was deep and the wind was cutting. Our companion never once spoke, and would only look occasionally over his shoulder to see if we were keeping up with him, and I was beginning to lose my fear of him and call myself a coward for being afraid, when suddenly the snow began again. This time it came down in whirling drifts penetrating through all our warm clothing, and making our walking heavier and more laboured than before. It was all we could do to keep our feet, for the wind whistled and moaned, threatening at every turn to bear us away.

Then only did our companion speak.

"_C'est mauvais_," he shouted above the storm, and his voice, sounding so gruff and deep and so unexpected, made me jump in the air.

Mother assented in her gentle voice, and we plodded on as before, I wishing with all my heart that we had never left that cosy kitchen, for I could not see how we were to cover another three miles in this fashion. I said not a word, however, for I would not have gainsaid mother in this journey, considering how much there was at stake.

It was she herself who came to a standstill after walking another half mile.

"Monsieur," she called faintly, "I do not think I can go farther."

He turned round then and, was it my fancy? but I thought, as he retraced his steps to our side, that an evil grin was making his ugly face still uglier.

"Madame is tired. I am not surprised, but if she can manage just five minutes' more walk we shall reach my own house, where she can have shelter."

Mother was grateful for his offer. She thanked him and continued her weary walk till a sudden bend in the road brought us almost upon a small house situated right on the road, looking dark and gloomy enough, with just one solitary light shining dimly through the darkness.

The fellow paused here with his hand on the latch, and I noticed a small sign-board swaying and creaking in the wind just above our heads. This then was an inn too? Why then had the landlord of that other inn cast such suspicious glances at the proposal of this man?

Such questions were answerable only the next morning, for just now I was too weary to care where I spent the night as I stumbled after mother into a dark passage, and then onwards to a room where the faint light had been dimly discernible from outside.

In that room there was an ugly old woman--bent and aged--cooking something over a small fire; and crouched upon a low seat near the stove sat a hunchbacked man, swarthy, black-haired, and ugly too. My heart gave one leap, and then sank down into my shoes. What kind of a house had we come into to spend a whole night?

Our escort said something rapidly in French--too rapidly for me to follow, and then motioned us to sit down as he placed two wooden chairs for us. Mother sank down, almost too wearied to return the greeting which the old hag by the fire accorded her.

The hunchback eyed us without a word, but when I summoned up courage to occasionally glance in his direction I fancied that a sinister smile crossed his face, making him look curiously like our escort.

Two bowls of soup were put down before us, and the old woman hospitably pressed us to partake of it. The whole family sat down to the same meal, but the hunchback had his in his seat by the fire. It was cabbage soup, and neither mother nor I fancied it very much, but for politeness' sake we took a few spoonfuls, and ate some of the coarse brown bread, of which there was plenty on the table.

The warmth of the room was beginning to have effect on me, and my body was so inexpressibly weary that I felt half dozing in my seat, and my eyelids would close in spite of myself.

All of a sudden I heard mother give a little scream. I was wide awake in an instant, and to my amazement saw the hunchback crawling on his hands and knees under the table. My mother's lips were white and trembling as she stooped to pick up the purse she had let fall in her fright, but before she could do so our escort stooped down and handed it to her with a--

"_Permettez moi, madame._"

At the same time he kicked out under the table, muttering an oath as he did so, and the hunchback returned to his seat by the fire and nursed his knees with his sinister grin.

Mother began to apologise for her little scream.

"I am very tired," she said, addressing the old woman; "and if it will not inconvenience you, my daughter and I would much like to retire for the night, as we wish to be up early to continue our journey."

The old woman lighted a candle, looking at our escort as she did so.

"Which room?" she asked.

He gave a jerk of his head indicating a room above the one we were in; and then he opened the door very politely for us, and hoped we'd have a pleasant night.

I could not resist the inclination to look back at the hunchback. He had left off nursing his knees, but his whole body was convulsed with silent laughter, and he was holding up close to his eyes a gold coin.

The room the old woman conducted us to was a long one, with half-a-dozen steps leading up to it. She bade us good night and closed the door, leaving us with the lighted candle.

The minute the door closed upon her, I darted to it. But horrors! there was no key, no bolt, nothing to fasten ourselves in. I looked at mother. She was sitting on the bed, and beckoned me with her finger to come close. I did so. She whispered,--

"Phyllis, be brave for my sake. I have done a foolish thing in bringing you to this house. I distrust these people."

"So do I," I whispered back.

"That purse of mine that fell--they saw what was in it."

"Did it fall open?"

"Yes, and a napoleon rolled out--that hunchback picked it up and put it into his pocket. He did not think I saw him."

"How much money have you got altogether?"

"Twenty napoleons, and a few francs."

"And they saw all that?"

"I am afraid so. Of course they could not tell how much there was. They saw a number of coins. If they attempt to rob us of it all to-night we shall have nothing to continue our journey to-morrow. And how we can keep it from them I don't know."

Mother's face was white and drawn. Father and Norah would not have recognised her.

"We shall hide it from them," I answered as bravely as I could. I would not let mother see that I was nervous.

The room was bare of everything but just the necessary furniture. A more difficult place to hide anything could not easily be found. Every article of ours would be ransacked, I felt sure. Our handbags would be searched; our clothes ditto. Where on earth could we put that purse?

I was sitting on the bed as I looked round the room. We would, of course, be lying in the bed when they came to search the room, and even our pillows would not be safe from their touch. Stay! What did the bed clothes consist of? A hasty examination disclosed two blankets and a sheet, and under those the mattress. That mattress gave me an idea. I had found a hiding-place.

"Have you scissors and needle and cotton in your bag?" I whispered.

Mother nodded. "I think Norah put my sewing case in."

She opened it. Yes, everything was to hand.

With her help I turned the mattress right up, and made an incision in the middle of the ticking.

"Give me the money," I said in a low voice.

She handed it silently. I slipped each coin carefully into the incision.

"We'll leave them the francs," mother whispered. "They might ... they might ... wish to harm us if they found nothing."

I nodded. Then with the aid of the needle and cotton I stitched up the opening I had made, and without more ado we took off our outer clothes, our boots and stockings, and lay down in the bed.

But not to sleep! We neither of us closed an eyelid, so alert were we for the expected footstep on the other side of the door.

They gave us a reasonable time to go to sleep. Our extinguished candle told them we were in bed. Near about twelve o'clock our strained hearing detected the sound of a slight fumbling at the door. It opened, and the moonlight streaming in through the uncurtained windows showed us, through our half-shut eyelids, the figures of our escort and the hunchback. They moved like cats about the room. It struck me even then that they were used to these midnight searches.

A thrill of fear went through me as the hunchback passed the bed, but a dogged persistency was with me still that they should not have our money. Our handbags were taken out of the room, doubtless to be examined at leisure by the old woman, and mulct of anything valuable. We heard a slight clink of money which meant the purse was emptied. Our clothes were shaken and examined, even our boots were looked into.

Lastly they came to the bed. My eyes were glued then to my cheeks, and mother's must have been so as well. I could not see what they did, but I could feel them. They were practised though in their handling of our pillows, for had I been really asleep I should never have felt anything.

They looked everywhere, they felt everywhere, everywhere but in the right place, and then with a hardly-concealed murmur of dissatisfaction they went from the room, closing the door after them. Mother and I lay quiet. The only thing we did was to hold one another's hands under the bed-clothes, and to press our shoulders close together.

Only once again did the door open, and that was to admit our escort, who had brought back our handbags.

And then the door closed for good and all, but we never said a word all the long night through, though each knew and felt that the other was awake. The grey dawn stealing in saw us with eyes strained and wide, and we turned and looked at each other, and mother kissed me. It was Christmas Day.

Our hearts were braver with the daylight, and what was joy unspeakable was to see the snow melting fast away under the heavy thaw that had set in during the early hours of the dawn. Our journey could be pursued without much difficulty, for if need be we could walk every step of the way.

When it was quite light we got up and dressed. I undid my stitching of the night before, gave mother back the gold safe and intact, and then sewed up the incision as neatly as I could.

We went down hatted and cloaked to the room we had supped in the night before. It presented no change. Over the fire the old woman bent, stirring something in a saucepan; our escort was seated at the table, and by the stove sat the hunchback nursing his knees--with only one difference,--there was no grin upon his face. He looked like a man thwarted.

We had just bade them good morning and the old woman was asking us how we had slept, when the noise of wheels and horses' feet sounded outside. It was the second _diligence_. The landlord of the inn had told the conductor to call and see if we had been forced to take refuge in our escort's house. The jovial conductor was beaming all over as he stamped his wet feet on the stone floor of the kitchen, laughing at the miraculous disappearance of all the snow. His very presence seemed to put new life into us.

"And what am I indebted to you," asked mother, "for the kindly shelter you have afforded us?"

Our escort shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever madame wishes," was his reply.

So mother placed a napoleon upon the table. It was too much, I always maintained, after all the francs they had robbed from the purse, and the gold piece the hunchback had picked up, but it was the smallest coin mother had, and she told me afterwards she didn't grudge it, for our lives had been spared us as well as the bulk of our money.

The _diligence_ rattled briskly along, and we reached the _Pomme d'Or_ to find that father's illness had taken a favourable turn during that terrible night, and the only thing he needed now was care and good nursing. When he was well again he reported our experiences to the police, and we had good reason to believe that no credulous wayfarer ever had to undergo the terrible ordeal that we did that night. The house was ever after kept under strict police surveillance.

A NIGHT OF HORROR.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

The jaguar, otherwise known as the American leopard, belongs to the forests of South America, and has many points of difference from, as well as some of similarity with, the leopard of Asia. Though ferocious in his wild state, he is amenable to civilising influences and becomes mild and tame in captivity. He is an excellent swimmer and an expert climber, ascending to the tops of high branchless trees by fixing his claws in the trunks. It is said that he can hunt in the trees almost as well as he can upon the ground, and that hence he becomes a formidable enemy to the monkeys. He is also a clever fisherman, his method being that of dropping saliva on to the surface of the water, and upon the approach of a fish, by a dexterous stroke of his paw knocking it out of the water on to the bank.

But the jaguar by no means confines his attention to hunting monkeys and defenceless fish. He will hunt big game, and when hungry will not hesitate to attack man.

The strength of the jaguar is very great, and as he can climb, swim, and leap a great distance, he seems to be almost equally formidable in three elements. He is said to attack the alligator and to banquet with evident relish off his victim. D'Azara says that on one occasion he found a jaguar feasting upon a horse which it had killed. The jaguar fled at his approach, whereupon he had the body of the horse dragged to within a musket shot of a tree in which he purposed watching for the jaguar's return. While temporarily absent he left a man to keep watch, and while he was away the jaguar reappeared on the opposite side of a river which was both deep and broad. Having crossed the river the animal approached, and seized the horse with his teeth, dragged it some sixty paces to the water side, plunged in with it, swam across the river, pulled it out upon the other side, and carried it into a neighbouring wood.

Such an animal could not but be a formidable foe to any one who had the misfortune to be unarmed when attacked, as many an early settler in the Western States of America found to his cost. Among such experiences, the following story of a night of horror told by Mrs. Bowdich stands out as a tale of terror scarcely likely to be surpassed.

Two of the early settlers in the Western States of America, a man and his wife, once closed their wooden hut, and went to pay a visit at a distance, leaving a freshly-killed piece of venison hanging inside. The gable end of this house was not boarded up as high as the roof, but a large aperture was left for light and air. By taking an enormous leap, a hungry jaguar, attracted by the smell of the venison, had entered the hut and devoured part of it. He was disturbed by the return of the owners, and took his departure. The venison was removed. The husband went away the night after to a distance, and left his wife alone in the hut. She had not been long in bed before she heard the jaguar leap in at the open gable. There was no door between her room and that in which he had entered, and she knew not how to protect herself. She, however, screamed as loudly as she could, and made all the violent noises she could think of, which served to frighten him away at that time; but she knew he would come again, and she must be prepared for him. She tried to make a large fire, but the wood was expended. She thought of rolling herself up in the bed-clothes, but these would be torn off. The idea of getting under the low bedstead suggested itself, but she felt sure a paw would be stretched forth which would drag her out. Her husband had taken all their firearms. At last, as she heard the jaguar this time scrambling up the end of the house, she in despair got into a large store chest, the lid of which closed with a spring. Scarcely was she within it, and had dragged the lid down, inserting her fingers between it and the side of the chest, when the jaguar discovered where she was. He smelt round the chest, tried to get his head in through the crack, but fortunately he could not raise the lid. He found her fingers and began to lick them; she felt them bleed, but did not dare to move them for fear she should be suffocated. At length the jaguar leaped on to the lid, and his weight pressing down the lid, fractured these fingers. Still she could not move. He smelt round again, he pulled, he leaped on and off, till at last getting tired of his vain efforts, he went away. The poor woman lay there till daybreak, and then only feeling safe from her enemy, she went as fast as her strength would let her to her nearest neighbour's, a distance of two miles, where she procured help for her wounded fingers, which were long in getting well. On his return, her husband found a male and female jaguar in the forest close by, with their cubs, and all were destroyed.

Human hair has been known to turn white in a single night, and is often said to do so in the pages of fiction. Whether it did so or not in the present case is not recorded, but certainly if it did not, it lost an exceptional opportunity.

AUNT GRIEVES' SILVER.

BY LUCIE E. JACKSON.

When Kate Hamilton's father had been dead six months, and Kate had had time to realise that the extensive sheep station belonged to her and to her alone--that she, in fact, was what the shearers called "the boss"--then did she sit down and pen a few lines to her aunt in England--her father's only sister. She did not exactly know what possessed her to do it. She had never at any time during her nineteen years corresponded with her aunt; it was her father who had kept up the tie between his sister and himself. But notwithstanding that she was now "boss," perhaps a craving for a little of the sympathy and the great affection with which her father had always surrounded her, had something to do with her wishing to get up a correspondence with his sister. Whatever the reason the impulse was there, and the letter was despatched to the England that Kate had never seen except through her father's eyes.

A few weeks later she received an answer that filled her with surprise.

After a few preliminary remarks relating to the grief she felt at the news of her brother's death, Mrs. Grieves wrote as follows:

"Your cousin Cicely and I cannot bear to think of your being alone--young girl that you are--without a single relative near for comfort or advice. I have made up my mind to start for Australia as soon as I can arrange my affairs satisfactorily. There is nothing to keep us in England since Cicely's father died last year, and I long to see my brother's only child. Moreover, the voyage will do Cicely good, for she is very fragile, and the doctor warmly approves of the idea. So adieu, my dear child, till we meet. I shall send a cablegram the day before our vessel starts.

"Your affectionate aunt, "CAROLINE GRIEVES."

Kate's face was a study when she had finished reading the letter. Surprise she certainly felt, and a little amusement, too, to think that she--an Australian bush-born girl--could not look after herself and her affairs without an English aunt and an English cousin travelling many thousands of miles across the water to aid her with their advice.

Hadn't she been for the last three years her father's right hand in the store, and in the shearing-shed, too, for that matter? Didn't she understand thoroughly how the books were kept? For this very reason her father, knowing full well that the complaint from which he suffered would sooner or later cause his death, had kept her cognisant of how the station should be managed. And now these English relatives were leaving their beautiful English home to give her advice upon matters that they were totally ignorant of!

Kate sat down with the letter in her hand and laughed. Then she looked sober. It would after all be pleasant to see some of her own relatives, not one of which--either on her dead mother's or her father's side--did she possess in Australia.

Yes, after all, the idea, on closer investigation, did not seem at all disagreeable, and Kate took up the letter again and read it with pleasure this time.

Even if she had wished to put a stop to the intended visit, she could not have had time, for three weeks later she received the cablegram:

"_We are leaving by the steamer Europia._"

She really felt a thrill of joy as she read this. She could now calculate upon the day they were likely to arrive. The days flew fast enough, for Kate had not time to sit down and dream over the appearance of the travellers. The "boss" was wanted everywhere, and she must needs know the why and wherefore of matters pertaining to account-books, shearing sheds, cattle-yards, stores, and everything relating to the homestead.

"It is good you were born with your father's business head," said Phil Wentworth, with a scarcely concealed look of admiration.

He was the manager of the station at Watakona. Mr. Hamilton had chosen him five years before to be his representative over the shearing-shed and stores, finding him after that length of time fully capable of performing all and more than was expected of him. He was a good-looking young man of thirty, with a bright, cheery manner, that had a good effect upon those employed at the station.

"Not a grumble from one of the men has ever been heard since Wentworth came here as manager," Kate's father had often said to her. "So different from that rascal Woods, who treated some of the men as if they were dogs, and allowed many a poor sheep to go shorn to its pen cut and bleeding from overhaste, with never a word of remonstrance."

And Kate bore that in mind, as also some of her father's last words:

"Don't ever be persuaded to part with Wentworth. He is far and away the best man I have ever had for the business."

At last the day came when Mrs. Grieves and her daughter Cicely arrived at Watakona.

There was a comical smile on the manager's good-looking face as trunk after trunk was lifted down off the waggon, and Kate's aunt announced that "there was more to come."

"More to come!" answered Kate, surprised. And then, bursting into a laugh, "Dear aunt, what can you have brought that will be of any use to you in this out-of-the-way place?"

Mrs. Grieves smilingly nodded her head. "There is not one trunk there that I could possibly do without."

And Kate, with another smile, dismissed the subject.

But not so her aunt. When they were all seated together after a comfortable tea, she began in a whisper, looking round cautiously first to see that no one was within hearing:

"You are curious, Kate dear, to know what those trunks contain?"

"My curiosity can stay, aunt. I am only afraid that what you have brought will be of no use to you. You see, I live such a quiet life here, with few friends and fewer grand dresses, that I fear you will be disappointed at not being able to wear any of the things you have brought."

Cicely, a pretty, delicate-looking girl, laughed merrily.

"They do not hold dresses, Kate. No, I have not thought to lead a gay life on a sheep station in Australia. What I have brought is something that I could not bear to leave behind. Those trunks contain all the silver I used to use in my English home."

"Silver! What kind of silver?"

"Teapots, cream ewers, epergnes, candlesticks, to say nothing of the spoons, forks, fish-knives, etc.," said Cicely gaily.

"You've brought all those things with you here?" cried Kate, horrified. "Oh, aunt, where can I put them all for safety?"

Mrs. Grieves looked nonplussed. "I suppose you have some iron safes----" she began.

"But not big enough to store that quantity of silver!"

Kate spent a restless night. Visions of bushrangers stood between her and sleep. What would she do with that silver?

"Bank it," suggested Phil Wentworth the next morning, as she explained her difficulty to him in the little counting-house after breakfast.

Kate shook her head. "Aunt wouldn't do it. If she did she might as well have banked it in England."

The manager pulled his moustache. "How much is there?"

"I haven't seen it, but from what Cicely says I should say there are heaps and heaps."

"Foolish woman," was the manager's thought, but he wisely kept it to himself.

When, however, the silver was laid before her very eyes, and piece after piece was taken from the trunks, ranged alongside one another in Mrs. Grieves's bedroom, Kate's heart failed her.

"Mr. Wentworth must see it and advise me," was all she could say. And her aunt could not deter her.

Kate's white brow was puckered into a frown, and her pretty mouth drooped slightly at the corners as she watched Mr. Wentworth making his inspection of the silver. She knew his face so well, she could tell at one glance that he was thinking her aunt an exceedingly foolish woman, and Kate was not quite sure that she did not agree with him.

However, the silver was there, and they had to make the best of it, for Mrs. Grieves utterly rejected the idea of having it conveyed to a bank in Sydney.

"The only thing to do," said the manager gloomily, turning to Kate, "is to place it under the trap-door in the counting-house."

Kate looked questioningly at him. He half smiled.

"I think that the only thing you are not aware of in the business is the fact that the flooring of the counting-house can be converted at will into a strong lock-up. Come, and I will show you."

The three women followed him. To Cicely's English eyes the entire homestead was a strangely delightful place.

Rolling to one side the matting that covered the floor of the counting-house, Mr. Wentworth paused, and introducing a lever between the joining of two boards upheaved a square trap-door, revealing to the eyes of the astonished English ladies, and the no less astonished Australian "boss," a wide, gaping receptacle, suitable for the very articles under discussion.

It looked dark and gloomy below, but on the manager's striking a wax match and holding it aloft, they were enabled each one to descend the short ladder which the opening of the flooring revealed. Beneath the counting-house Kate found to her amazement a room quite as large as the one above it, furnished with chairs, a table, and a couple of stout iron safes. Upon the table stood an old iron candlestick into which Mr. Wentworth inserted a candle lighted from his wax match.

"You never told me," were Kate's reproachful words, and still more reproachful glance.

"I tell you now," he said lightly. "There was no need to before. Your father showed it me when I had been here a year. Indeed, he and I often forgot that the counting-house had been built for a double purpose,--but that was because there was nothing to stow away of much value. Now I think we have just the hiding-place for all that silver."

It was indeed the place, the very place, and under great secrecy the silver was conveyed through the trap-door, and firmly locked into the iron safes.

So far so good, and Kate breathed again with almost as much of her old light-heartedness as before.

In spite of her doubt of the wisdom of bringing such valuables so far and to such a place, she and Cicely took a secret delight in a weekly cleaning up of the silver, secure of all observation from outsiders. It was a pleasure to Kate to lift and polish the handsome epergne, and to finger the delicate teaspoons and fanciful fish-knives and forks.

"What a haul this would be for a bushranger!" she said one day, as she carefully laid the admired epergne back into its place in the iron safe.

Cicely gave a gasp and a shudder. "You--you don't have them in these parts, surely!" she ejaculated.

"If they find there is anything worth lifting they'll visit any homestead in the colony," returned Kate.

"But oh! dear Kate, what should we do if they came here? I should die of fright."

"Yes, I'm afraid you would," said Kate, glancing compassionately at the delicate figure beside her, and at the cheeks which had visibly lost their pink colour. "No, Cicely, I don't think there is any chance of such characters visiting us just now. The first and last time I saw a bushranger was when I was fifteen years old. He and his men tried to break into our house for, somehow, it had got wind that father had in the house a large sum of money--money which of course he usually banked. I can see dear old father now, standing with his rifle in his hand at the dining-room window, and Mr. Wentworth standing beside him. They were firing away at three men who were as much in earnest as my father and his manager were."

"And what happened?" asked Cicely breathlessly, as Kate stopped to look round for her polishing cloth.

"Father killed one man, the two others got away, not, however, before Mr. Wentworth had shot away the forefinger of the leader. We found it after they had gone, lying on the path beside the cattle-yard. He was a terrible fellow, the leader of that bushranging crew. He went by the name of Wolfgang. He may be alive now, I don't know. I have not heard of any depredations committed by him for two or three years now."

"And I hope you never will," said Cicely with a shudder. "Kate, have you done all you want to do here? I should so like to finish that letter to send off by to-day's mail."

"Then go. I'll just stay to lock up. You haven't much time if you want Sam Griffiths to take it this afternoon."

Cicely jumped up without another word, and climbed the ladder.

Kate lifted the case of fish-knives into the safe, and stretched out her hand for the other articles without turning her head. She felt her hand clutched as in a vice by fingers cold as ice. She turned sharply round. Cicely was at her side with lips and cheeks devoid of colour.

"Good gracious, Cicely! what is the matter? How you startled me!" said Kate in a vexed tone.

Cicely laid one cold, trembling, finger upon her cousin's lips.

"He has seen us--he has been looking down on us," was all she could articulate.

"Who? What do you mean?" But Kate's voice was considerably lowered.

"The bushranger Wolfgang. He--he has seen all the silver!"

Kate broke into a nervous laugh. "I think you are dreaming, Cicely. How do you know you saw Wolfgang? And how could he see us down here?"

"It is no dream," answered Cicely in the same husky whisper. "Kate, as I climbed the ladder quickly I saw the face of a man disappear from the trap-door, but not before I caught sight of the forefinger missing off the hand that held one side of the trap-door. Kate, Kate, it was Wolfgang. He has been staring down at us."

Kate looked up wildly at the opening above. It was free from all intruders now. She locked every article into the safe without uttering a word; then said, "Come."

Together they mounted the ladder; together they latched down the trap-door; together they left the counting-house.

"Tell Sam to ride to the shed and ask Mr. Wentworth to come to me at once--at once." Kate gave the order in a calm voice to the one woman servant that did the work in the house.

"Sam isn't in the yards," was the answer. "He told me three hours ago that he was wanted by Mr. Wentworth to ride to the township for something or other. He was in a fine way about it, for he said it was taking him from his work here."

Some of Kate's calm left her. She looked round at the helpless women--three now, for her aunt had joined them.

"Aunt," she said, forcing herself to speak quietly, "I have fears that this afternoon we shall be attacked by bushrangers. Unfortunately Sam has been called away, and he is the only man we have on the premises. There is not another within reach, except at the shearing-shed, and you know where that is. Which of you will venture to ride there for help? I dare not go, for I must protect the house."

She glanced at each of the three faces in turn, and saw no help there. Becky, the servant, had utterly collapsed at the word bushranger; the other two faces looked as if carved in stone.

"Kate, Kate, is there no other help near?"

"Not nearer than the shearing-shed, aunt."

"I daren't go. I couldn't ride that distance."

"Cicely?" Kate's tone was imploring.

"Don't ask me," and Cicely burst into a flood of tears.

"We must defend ourselves, then."

The Australian girl's voice was quiet, albeit it trembled slightly.

"Come to the counting-house. Becky, you come too. We must barricade the place. I'll run round and fasten up every door. They will have a tough job to get in," she murmured grimly.

How she thanked her father for the strong oak door! The oaken shutters with their massive iron clamps! It would seem as if he had expected a raid from bushrangers at some time or other in his life. The counting-house door was stronger than the others. She now understood the reason why. The room below had been taken into consideration when that door was put up.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. A broiling, sun-baking afternoon. They were prepared, sitting, as it were, in readiness for the attack they were momentarily expecting.

It came at last. The voice that sounded outside the counting-house door took her back to the time when she was fifteen years of age. It was a strange, harsh voice, grating in its harshness, strange in being like no other. She remembered it to be the voice of the man that had challenged her father that memorable day--remembered it to be the voice of Wolfgang.

Like an evil bird of prey had he scented from afar the silver stored under the trap-door, just as he had scented the sum of money her father had hidden away in the house.

"It's no use your sheltering yourselves in there," said the voice. "We want to harm no one--it's against our principles. What we want is just the silver hidden under the counting-house, and we want nothing more."

With one finger upraised, cautioning silence, Kate saw for the twentieth time to the priming of her rifle--the very rifle that had shot Wolfgang's chief man four years before. There was no need for her to caution her companions to silence. They knelt on the floor--a huddled, trembling trio.

If only Kate could see how many men there were! But she could not.

"It will take them some time to batter in that door," thought she, "and by that time, who knows, help may come from some unexpected quarter."

"Do you dare to defy us?" said the voice again. "We know you are utterly helpless. Sam has been got out of the way by a cooked-up story, ditto your manager. They are both swearing in the broiling township by now." And the voice broke off with a loud "Ha! ha!"

At which two other voices echoed "Ha! ha! ha! ha!"

Kate strained her ears to catch the sounds. Were there only three, then, just as there had been three four years before?

Then ensued a battering at the door, but it stood like a rock. They were tiring at that game. It hurt them, and did no good. There was silence for the space of some minutes, and then the sound of scraping reached Kate's ears.

What were they doing now?

It sounded on the roof of the counting-house. O God! they were never going to make an entrance that way!

Scrape, scrape, scrape. The sound went on persistently.

Kate's face was hidden in her hands. Was she praying? thought Cicely. Then she, too, lifted up a silent prayer for help in their time of need.

Kate's voice whispering in her ear aroused her. "Come," she breathed.

And with one accord, without a question, the three followed her silently.

The room beyond the counting-house was up a narrow flight of stairs. It used to be called by Kate, in derision, "Father's observatory." Through a small pane of glass in this room she could see the roof of the counting-house.

Sawing away at the wooden structure upon which he was perched sat Wolfgang himself, whilst the man beside him was busily engaged in removing the thatch piece by piece.

Kate waited to see no more. Raising her rifle to her shoulder she fired--fired straight at the leading bushranger.

She saw him stagger and roll--roll down the sloping roof, and fall with a dull thud to the ground below.

She could only lean against the wall, and hide her face in her trembling hands. Was he dead? Had she killed him? Or had the fall off the house completed the deed?

She felt a hand on her arm. Becky was standing beside her. "Give me the rifle," she breathed. "I can load it."

With a faint feeling of surprise at her heart, Kate handed her the weapon with fingers slightly unsteady. She received it back in silence, and mounted to her place of observation again.

Wolfgang's companion was crouching. His attitude struck Kate disagreeably. His back was turned to her. What was he looking at?

She strained her eyes, and descried, galloping at the top of his speed, Black Bounce, and on his back was Phil Wentworth. Behind him at breakneck pace came six of the shearers--tall, brawny men, the very sight of whom inspired courage.

Wentworth's rifle was raised. A shot rang through the air. Then another. And yet another. Bang! bang! bang! What had happened?

Kate, straining her eyes, only knew that just as the manager's rifle went off, the bushranger on the roof had fired at him, not, however, before Kate's shot disabled him in the arm, thus preventing his aim from covering the manager.

"Thank God, thank God, we are saved!" she cried.

And now that the danger was over, Kate sank down upon the floor of the "observatory," and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Becky--her bravery returning as the sound of horses' hoofs struck upon her ear--slipped from the room, leaving Mrs. Grieves and Cicely to play the part of consolers to her young mistress.

It appeared that a trumped-up story, purporting to come from one of his friends in the township, had caused Phil Wentworth to go there that morning, and that on his way he overtook Sam Griffiths, who grumpily asked him why he should have been ordered to the township when his hands were so full of work at home. This led the young manager to scent something wrong, and telling Griffiths to follow him home quickly he rode straight back to the shed, and getting some of the shearers to accompany him, made straight tracks for the house.

Mrs. Grieves and Cicely had by this time had as much as they cared for of bush life, and very shortly after announced that the Australian climate did not suit either Cicely or herself as she had hoped it might, and that they had made up their minds to return to England.

"I hope they intend to take their silver away with them," said the manager when Kate told him.

She replied with a laugh, "Oh yes, I don't believe aunt would think life worth living if she had not her silver with her."

Poor Aunt Grieves! the vessel she travelled by had to be abandoned before it reached England, and the silver she had suffered so much for lies buried in the sands of the deep.

As for Kate, she subsequently took Philip Wentworth into partnership, and he gave her his name.

BILLJIM.

BY S. LE SOTGILLE.

Nestling in the scrub at the head of a gully running into the Newanga was a typical Australian humpy. It was built entirely of bark. Roof, back, front, and sides were huge sheets of stringy bark, and the window shutters were of the same, the windows themselves being sheets of calico; also the two doors were whole sheets of bark swung upon leathern hinges.

The humpy was divided into three rooms, two bedrooms and a general room. The "galley" was just outside, a three-sided, roofed arrangement, and the ubiquitous bark figured in that adjunct of civilisation.

In springtime the roof and sides of this humpy were one huge blaze of Bougainvillaea, and not a vestige of bark was visible. It was surrounded by a paling fence, rough split bush palings only, but in every way fitted for what they were intended to do--that is, keep out animals of all descriptions.

In the front garden were flowers of every conceivable hue and variety, from the flaring giant sunflower to the quiet retiring geranium, and stuck to old logs and standing dead timber were several beautiful orchids of different varieties. Violets, pansies, fuchsias and nasturtiums bordered the walks in true European fashion, and one wondered who had taken all this trouble in so outlandish a spot.

At the back of the humpy rose the Range sheer fifteen hundred feet with huge granite boulders, twice the size of the humpy itself, standing straight out from the side of the Range, giving one the idea that they were merely stuck there in some mysterious manner, and were ready at a moment's notice to come tumbling down, overwhelming every one and everything in their descent.

On the other three sides was scrub. Dense tropical scrub for miles, giving out a muggy disagreeable heat, and that peculiar overpowering smell common, I think, to all tropical growth. No one could have chosen a better spot than this if his desire were to escape entirely from the busy world and live a quiet sequestered life amongst the countless beautiful gifts that Dame Nature seems so lavish of in the hundred nooks and corners of the mountainous portion of Australia. In this humpy, then, hidden from the world in general, and known only to a few miners and prospectors, lived Dick Benson, his wife, and their daughter Billjim. That is what she was called, anyway, by all the diggers on the Newanga. It wasn't her name, of course. She was registered at Clagton Court House as Katherine Veronica Benson, but no one in all the district thought of calling her Kitty now, and as for Veronica--well, it was too much to ask of any one, let alone a rough bushman.

The name Billjim she practically chose herself.

One evening a digger named Jack L'Estrange, a great friend of the Bensons, was reading an article from the _Bulletin_ to her father, and Kitty, as she was then called, was whiling away the time by pulling his moustache, an occupation which interfered somewhat with the reading, but which was allowed to pass without serious rebuke.

In this article the paper spoke of backblocks bushmen under the generic soubriquet of Billjim. And a very good name too, for in any up-country town one has but to sing out "Bill" or "Jim" to have an answer from three-fourths of the male population.

The name tickled Kitty immensely, and she chuckled, "Billjim! Billjim! Oh, I'd like to be called that."

"Would you though?" asked her father, smiling.

"Yes," answered Kitty; "it's a fine name, Billjim."

"Well, we will call you Billjim in future," said Dick; and from that day the name stuck to her. And it suited her.

She was the wildest of wild bush girls. At twelve years old she could ride and shoot as well as most of us, and would pan out a prospect with any man on the Newanga.

She had never been to school, there being none nearer than Clagton, which was some fifteen miles away, but she had been taught the simple arts of reading and writing by her mother, and Jack L'Estrange had ministered to her wants in the matter of arithmetic.

With all her wildness she was a good, kindly girl, materially helping her mother in the household matters, and all that flower garden was her special charge and delight.

Wednesday and Thursday of every week were holidays, and those two days were spent by Billjim in roaming the country far and wide. Sometimes on horseback, when a horse could be borrowed, but mostly on her own well-formed feet.

She would wander off with a shovel and a dish into the scrub, and, following up some gully all day, would return at night tired out and happy, and generally with two or three grains of gold to show for her day's work. Sometimes she would come back laden with some new orchid, and this she would carefully fix in the garden in a position as similar as possible to that in which she had found it, and usually it would blossom there as if it were thankful at being so well cared for.

When Billjim wasn't engaged making her pocket-money, as she termed it, her days would be spent with Jack L'Estrange.

Jack was a fine, strapping young fellow of twenty-three, and was doing as well on the Newanga as any. Since the day he had snatched Billjim (then a wee mite) from the jaws of an alligator, as Queensland folk will insist upon calling their crocodile, he had been _l'ami de la maison_ at the Bensons', and Billjim thought there was no one in the world like him. He in return would do any mortal thing which that rather capricious young lady desired.

One evening, when they were all sitting chatting round the fire in the galley, Benson said:

"Don't you think, Jack, that Billjim ought to go to some decent school? The missus and me of course ain't no scholars, but now that we can afford it we'd like Billjim to learn proper, you know."

Jack looked at Billjim, who had nestled up closer to him during this speech, and was on the point of answering in the negative, when less selfish thoughts entered his head, and he replied:

"Well, Dick, much against my inclination, I must say that I think she ought to go. You see," he continued, turning to Billjim and taking her hand, "it's this way. We should all miss you, lass, very much, but it's for your own good. You must know more than we here can teach you if you wish to be any good to your father and mother."

Billjim nodded and looked at him, and Jack had to turn his eyes away and speak to Mrs. Benson for fear of going back on his words.

"You see, Mrs. Benson," said Jack, "it wouldn't be for long, for Billjim would learn very quickly with good teachers, and be of great use to you when Dick makes that pile."

Mrs. Benson smiled in spite of herself when Jack mentioned "that pile." Dick had been going to strike it rich up there on the Newanga for over seven years, and the fortune hadn't come yet.

"I suppose you're right," she said, "and I'm sure Billjim will be a good girl and study quick to get back. Won't you, lass?"

"Yes'm," answered Billjim, with a reservoir of tears in her voice, but none in her eyes. She wouldn't have cried with Jack there for the world!

So after a lot of talking it was settled, and Billjim departed for school, and the humpy knew her no more for four long years.

Ah! what a dreary, dreary time that was to Mrs. Benson and Dick. Jack kept her flower garden going for all those years, and Snowy, her dog, lived down at his camp. These had been Billjim's last commands.

Dick worked away manfully looking for that pile, and succeeded passing well, as the account at Clagton Bank could show, but there was no alteration made at the "Nest," as the humpy was designated.

Jack passed most of his evenings up there, and on mail days was in great request to read Billjim's epistles out loud.

No matter who was there, those letters were read out, and some of us who knew Billjim well passed encouraging remarks about her improvement, etc.

We all missed her, for she had been used to paying periodical flying visits, and her face had always seemed to us like a bright gleam of sunshine breaking through that steaming, muggy, damp scrub.

One mail day, four years very near to the day after Billjim's departure, the usual letter was read out, and part of it ran so:

"Oh, mum dear, do let me come back now. I am sure I have learned enough, and oh! how I long for a sight of you and dad, and dear old Jack and Frenchy, and Jim Travers, and all of you in fact. Let me come, oh! do let me come back."

Upon my word, I believe there was a break in Jack's voice as he read. Mrs. Benson was crying peacefully, and Dick and French were blowing their noses in an offensive and boisterous manner.

A motion was put and carried forthwith that Billjim should return at once. Newanga couldn't go on another month like this. Quite absurd to think of it.

The letter was dispatched telling Billjim of the joyful news, and settling accounts with the good sisters who had sheltered and cared for her so long.

Great were the preparations for Dick's journey to the coast to meet her when the time came. So great was the excitement that a newcomer thought some great reef had been struck, and followed several of us about for days trying to discover its location and get his pegs in!

Every one wanted to lend something for Billjim's comfort on the journey out. No lady's saddle was there in all the camp, and great was Dick's trouble thereat, until Frenchy rigged his saddle up with a bit of wood wrapped round with a piece of blanket, which, firmly fixed to the front dees, did duty for a horn.

"It's a great idea, Frenchy," said Dick; "but, lord, I'd ha' sent her the money for one if I'd only ha' thought of it, but, bless you, I was thinking of her as a little girl yet."

'Twas a great day entirely, as Micky the Rat put it, when Billjim came home.

Every digger for miles round left work and made a bee-line from his claim to the road, and patiently waited there to get a hand-shake and a smile from their friend Billjim, and they all got both, and went back very grateful and very refreshed.

Billjim had turned into a pretty woman in those four years, and I think every one was somewhat staggered by it.

Jack L'Estrange's first meeting with his one-time playmate was at the Nest, and it so threw Jack off his balance that he was practically maudlin for a week after the event.

When he entered the door he stood at first spell-bound at the change in his favourite, then he said:

"Why, Bill--er Kate, I.... 'Pon my word, I don't know what to say. Oh, Christopher! you know this is comical; I came up here intending to kiss my little friend Billjim, and I find you grown into a beautiful woman."

"Kiss me, Jack?" broke in Billjim; "kiss me? Why, I'm going to hug you!" And she did, and Jack blushed to the roots of his curly golden hair, and was confused all the evening over it.

The four years' schooling had not changed Billjim one iota as far as character went. She was the identical Billjim grown big and grown pretty, that was all.

But something was to happen which was to turn the wild tom-boy into a serious woman, and it happened shortly after her return home.

It was mail night up at the Nest, and Jack L'Estrange was absent from the crowd that invariably spent an hour or two getting their mail and discussing items of grave interest. Being mail night, Jack's absence was naturally noticed, and every one made some remark about it.

However, old Dick said: "Oh, Jack's struck some good thing, I suppose, and got back to camp too late to come up. He'll come in the morning likely."

This seemed to satisfy every one save Billjim. She turned to Frenchy, and said:

"Do you know whereabouts Jack was working lately?"

"Yes," answered Frenchy. "He was working at the two mile, day before yesterday, so I suppose he's there yet."

"Yes," said Billjim, "I suppose he will be." But Billjim wasn't satisfied. When every one was asleep she was out, and knowing the scrub thoroughly, was over to Jack's camp in a quarter of an hour. Not finding Jack there, she made for the two mile with all speed, for something told her she knew not what. An undefinable feeling that something was wrong came across her. She saw Jack lying crushed and bleeding and no one there to help him! Do what she would, dry, choking sobs burst from her tight-closed lips as she scrambled along over boulders and through the thick scrub. Brambles, wait-a-bit vines, and berry bushes scratched and stung her, and switched across her face, leaving bleeding and livid marks on her tender skin. But she pushed on and on in the fitful moonlight through the dense undergrowth, making a straight line for the two mile.

Arrived there, she stopped for breath for a while, and then sent forth a long "Coo-ie." No answer. "I was right," thought Billjim, "he is hurt. My God! he may be dead out here, while we were there chatting and laughing as usual. Oh, Jack, Jack!"

Up the gully she sped, from one abandoned working to another, over rocks and stones, into water-holes, with no thought for herself. At last, there, huddled up against the bank, with a huge boulder pinning one leg to the ground, lay poor Jack L'Estrange.

Billjim's first impression was that he was dead, he looked so limp and white out in the open there with the moon shining on his face, but when her accustomed courage returned she stooped over him and found him alive, but unconscious.

She bathed his temples with water, murmuring:

"Jack dear, wake up. Oh, my own lad, wake up and tell me what to do."

Jack opened his eyes at last, as if her soft crooning had reached his numbed senses.

"Halloa, Billjim," he said faintly. "Is that you or a dream?"

"It's me, Jack," replied Billjim, flinging school talk to the four winds. "It's me. What can I do? How can I help? Are you suffering much?"

"Well," said Jack, "you can't shift that boulder, that's certain, for I've tried until I went off. It's not paining now much, seems numbed. Do you think you could fetch the boys? Get Frenchy especially; he knows something about bandaging and that. It's a case with the leg, I think."

"All right, dear," said Billjim; and the "dear" slipped out unawares, but she went on hurriedly to cover the slip: "Yes, I'll get Frenchy and Travers, Tate and Micky the Rat; they all live close together. You won't faint again, Jack, will you? See, I'll leave this pannikin here with water. Keep up your pecker, we shan't be long," and she was gone to hide the tears in her eyes, and the choke in her voice. "It's a case with the leg" was too much for her.

She was at Frenchy's camp in a very short time. Frenchy was at his fire, dreaming. When he saw who his visitor was he was startled, to say the least of it.

"What, Billjim the Beautiful? At this hour of night? Why, what in the name of...?" were his incoherent ejaculations.

And Billjim for the first time in that eventful night really gave way. She sat down and sobbed out:

"Oh, Frenchy.... Come.... Poor Jack.... Two mile ... crushed and bleeding to death, Frenchy.... I saw the blood oozing out.... Oh, dear me!... Get the boys ... come...."

Frenchy's only answer was a long, melodious howl, which was promptly re-echoed from right and left and far away back in the scrub, and from all sides forms hurried up clad in all sorts of strange night costumes.

Some shrank back into the shadows again on seeing a woman sitting at the fire sobbing, but one and all as they hurried up asked:

"What's up? Niggers?"

They were told, and each hurried back for clothes. Frenchy got his bandages together, and fetched his bunk out of his tent.

"We'll take this," he said; "it's as far from Jack's camp to the two mile as it is from here. Now then, Billjim, off we go."

Her followers had to keep moving to keep near her, loaded as they were, but at last they arrived at the scene of Jack's disaster.

Jack was conscious when they arrived, and Frenchy whipped out a brandy flask and put it in Billjim's hand, saying:

"Give him a dose every now and again while we mend matters. Sit down there facing him. That's right. Now, chaps!"

With a will the great piece of granite was moved from off the crushed and bleeding limb. With deft fingers Frenchy had the trouser leg ripped up above the knee, and then appeared a horribly crushed, shattered thigh. Frenchy shook his head dolefully. "Any one got a small penknife? Ivory or smooth-handled one for preference," he demanded.

"You're not going to cut him?" queried Billjim, without turning her head.

"No, no," said Frenchy; "I want it to put against the vein and stop this bleeding. That'll do nicely," as Travers handed him a knife. "Sit tight, Jack, I must hurt you now."

"Go ahead," said Jack uneasily; "but don't be longer than you can help," and he caught hold of Billjim's hand and remained like that, quiet and sensible, while Frenchy put a ligature round the injured limb and bandaged it up as well as was possible.

"Now, mates," he said, as he finished, "this is a case for Clagton and the doctor at once. No good one going in and fetching the doctor out, it's waste of time, and then he mightn't be able to do anything. So we must pack him on that stretcher and carry him in. Everybody willing?"

Aye, of course they were, though they knew they had fifteen miles to carry a heavy man over gullies and rocks and through scrub and forest.

So Jack was carefully placed on the stretcher.

"Now you had better get home, Billjim, and tell them what has happened," said Frenchy.

"No, no, I won't," said Billjim; "I'm going with you;" and go she did, of course, holding Jack's hand all the way, and administering small doses of brandy whenever she was ordered. "La Vivandiere," as Frenchy remarked, sotto voce, "but with a heart! Grand Dieu, with what a heart!"

It was a great sight to see that gallant little band carrying twelve stone of helpless humanity in the moonlight.

Through scrub, over rocks and gullies, and through weird white gum forest, and no sound but the laboured breathing of the bearers. There were twelve of them, and they carried four and four about, those fifteen miles.

Never a groan out of the poor fellow up aloft there, though he must have suffered agonies when any one stumbled, which was bound to occur pretty often in that dim light.

Slowly but surely they covered the distance, and just as day began to dawn they reached the doctor's house at Clagton.

In a very little time Jack was lying on a couch in the surgery.

After some questions the doctor said:

"Too weak. Can't do anything just now."

"It's a case, I suppose?" asked Frenchy.

"Yes," said the doctor; "amputation, of course, and I have no one here to help me. Stay, though! Who bandaged him?"

"I did," answered Frenchy; "I learnt that in hospitals, you know."

"Oh, well," said the doctor, quite relieved, "you'll do to help me. Go and get a little sleep, and come this afternoon."

"Right you are," said Frenchy. "Come on, Billjim. Can't do any good here just now. I'll take you to Mother Slater's."

Billjim gave one look at Jack, who nodded and smiled, and then went away with Frenchy.

For three weeks after the operation Jack L'Estrange lay hovering on the brink of the great chasm. Then he began to mend and get well rapidly.

Billjim was in constant attendance from the day she was allowed to see him, and the doctor said, in fact, that but for her care and attention there would probably have been no more Jack.

Great was the rejoicing at the Nest when Jack reappeared, and the rejoicing turned to enthusiasm when it was discovered that there was a mutual understanding come to between Billjim and the crippled miner.

Micky the Rat prophesied great things, but said:

"Faix, 'tis a distressful thing entirely to see a fine gurrl like that wid a husband an' he wed on wan leg. 'Twas mesilf Billjim should ha' tuk, no less."

But we all knew Micky the Rat, you see.

The wedding-day will never be forgotten by those who were on the Newanga at the time.

The event came off at Clagton, and everybody was there. No invitations were issued. None were needed. The town came, and the miners from far and near, _en masse_.

Those who couldn't get a seat squatted in true bush fashion with their wide-brimmed hats in their hands, and listened attentively to the service; a lot of them never having entered a church door in their lives before.

At the feast, before the newly married couple took their departure, everybody was made welcome. It was a great time.

Old Dick got up to make a speech, and failed ignominiously. He looked at Billjim for inspiration. She was just the identical person he shouldn't have looked at, for thoughts of the Nest without Billjim again rose before him, and those thoughts settled him, so he sat down again without uttering a word.

Jack said something, almost inaudible, about seeking a fortune and finding one, which was prettily put, and Frenchy as best man was heard to mutter something about "Beautiful ... loss to camp ... happiness ... wooden leg," and the speech making was over.

At the send off much rice flew about, and as the buggy drove off, an old dilapidated iron-shod miner's boot was found dangling on the rear axle of that conveyance.

That was Micky the Rat's parting shot at Jack for carrying Billjim away.

Clagton was a veritable London for that night only. You couldn't throw a stone without hitting some one, and as a rule an artillery battery could have practised for hours in the main street without hitting any one or anything, barring perhaps a stray dog.

Things calmed down at last, however, and when the newly married returned and, adding to the Nest, lived there with the old couple, every one was satisfied. "Billjim" remained "Billjim" to all of us, and when a stranger expresses surprise at that, Billjim simply says, "Ah! but you see we are all mates here, aren't we, Jack?"

IN THE WORLD OF FAERY.

THE LEGENDS OF LANGAFFER.

BY MADAME ARMAND CAUMONT.