CHAPTER II

.

_AT WORK._

AS the opinions of doctors are not always correct, so the judgments of nautical men are not invariably sure.

Daniel Barcombe was wrong when he said that the weather had settled down for a calm spell. On the contrary, the weather had made up its mind that very day to go in for one of those short, wild bursts of fury which arise sometimes, even in the midst of summer, to the discomfiture of the weather-wise.

It began with a very sultry afternoon, which induced the fisher boys to cast off their few garments and take to the water as to their native element. Then the sky became coppery in appearance, a mysterious haze seemed to settle down on the sleeping sea, and several dark cloud-banks on the horizon mounted up to the zenith before evening closed. Suddenly a flash of lightning burst through the increasing darkness; at the same time a hissing squall tore up the surface of the sea, and a prolonged peal of thunder shook the windows of the day nursery, where Edwin Boyne was still engaged in rescue work.

The boy jumped out of his table-lifeboat and ran to the window. The sea was already like indigo, with snow-white streaks all over it. There was just light enough for him to see that.

"Where are you, Master Eddy?" shouted the somewhat timid nurse, from the regions below.

[Illustration]

"All right," shouted Eddy in reply. "I'm just going out to rescue the perishing from the billows of the raging deep."

Of course the boy was quoting, but he was thoroughly in earnest. Nurse thought he was referring to his play.

"That's right," she cried, "save as many as you can; be brave, and do your best."

"Yes, nurse, I will."

Saying this, he descended to the front door, and went out wearing his cork jacket.

It had grown unusually dark by that time, so that he could not see the other side of the street, but being familiar with the town, he had no fear of losing his way even in the dark; besides, the dull roar of the breakers was of itself a sufficient guide to the beach. Rain was now falling in torrents, but the houses as yet protected him from the wind.

On turning the corner of the street, however, Edwin was caught by the blast in its full force and fury. He failed to resist it sufficiently, and was swept away in the wrong direction like a leaf in autumn. Fortunately for him a fat old woman chanced to be in the line of his flight. She was holding on to a paling with one hand, and to the wreck of an inverted umbrella with the other. Eddy plunged into her like a shot into a bale of cotton, but she was a strong old woman and stood the shock bravely.

"Marcy on us," she gasped, "what be that?"

"Oh! I 'beg' your pardon," began Eddy, but before he could utter another word the wind burst on them with fresh violence; the old woman lost her hold of the paling—also of the wrecked umbrella—and went off like a Dutch galliot under full sail. Eddy never saw her more!

"Impossible to rescue 'her,'" he muttered, gravely, as he held tight to the paling, "besides, she's in no danger from the sea."

With this comforting reflection he turned himself shoreward again, and, at the next lull, recommenced his struggle, with lips compressed and head bent low. By slow degrees he worked his way to the shore. Several people passed him on the way—running as best they could—and one or two tumbled over him, but, gathering themselves up with exclamations that were not apologetic, they ran on. It was too dark to see anything more than two yards in front of the eyes.

By intimate knowledge of the locality—rather than by sight—the boy reached the lifeboat house. He found, as he had hoped and expected, that the crew were busy getting the boat out. A number of men, and even one or two women and boys, were standing outside, looking on and ready to lend a hand. A few lanterns were carried about by them, which did little more than render darkness visible.

"What is it?" asked a woman who had just arrived.

"A wessel on the Black Rocks only just begun to signal," roared a fisherman, for nothing short of a roar could be heard.

Eddy waited for no more. That was enough. He slipped quietly past the eager men, reached the inner end of the boat-house, which was dark at the moment, scrambled up the side of the boat and plunged recklessly into the bottom of it, for he heard the voice of the Local Superintendent just then urging the men to make haste, though neither Dan Barcombe nor his men required urging. Eddy's plunge did him no harm, for his little body was protected by the great cork jacket, and a piece of tarpaulin chanced to receive his head. Seizing this latter, he covered himself with it, and thrust himself under the nearest thwart.

"Now then, haul 'er out and jump in, lads!" shouted the coxswain.

The boat on her carriage was run out with a cheer by the crowd, and in another moment the crew, in sou'westers, oilskins, and cork jackets, sprang on board, sat down and grasped the oars. Thus they were run down the steep shore, and thrust as far as possible into the seething water. Then the launching ropes were hauled, and the boat almost leaped from her carriage into the sea. Her crew dipped the oars, and strained like men who know that the first few strokes are critical. Miss a stroke or steer wrong at first, and the boat might be hurled back or rolled over and wrecked on the beach. In his energy the man who sat on the thwart just above Edwin drew back his foot and kicked the poor boy on the chest with his great heel,—a blow which would have broken his delicate ribs but for the cork jacket. As it was he received no damage, but next moment he gasped with cold, for the first wave they met went clean over the boat, not only drenching but almost choking him. He knew well, however, that the discharge tubes would empty the boat in a few seconds, so he held his breath and gripped the legs of the man above him.

That man was brave. Many a time had he faced the dangers of the lifeboat service with unflinching courage, but when he felt himself suddenly gripped round the leg, as he afterwards said, by a sea monster o' some sort, his heart went slap into his throat, an' all his inn'ards seemed to run to warm water!

He did not dare to stop rowing however to see what it was, and he could not shake off the "sea monster," though he tried hard. On getting out to sea, however, the longer swell in deep water enabled him to miss a stroke or two, seize the monster, haul it forth, and hurl it from him. There was just light enough to enable him to see that when it uncoiled itself and stood up, the monster was a small human being! The coxswain looked close into its face, and, with a gasp of mingled surprise and consternation, ejaculated—

"Edwin Boyne! Hallo, Bill, make him fast with a rope! Sit down on the floor, boy!"

Edwin had often heard Barcombe say that the chief virtue in lifeboat-men was prompt obedience, resolved to act his part well, he plumped at once into the sitting posture.

"Here, coil that round your arm and waist, and hold on for life!" cried Bill, casting the end of a rope to the boy, who again obeyed with lightning speed.

It was a terrible night, and what the boat had hitherto gone through was as nothing to what she experienced when the turmoil of water round the Black Rocks was entered.

A vessel was aground on the seaward edge of these rocks. She was fast breaking up, and only part of one mast could be seen swaying wildly to and fro against the sky. It did not take long after that to pull to windward, cast anchor, and ease off the cable until the lifeboat could drop down under the lee of the wreck.

Then, as they swung swiftly in and got near enough, they could see by the light of the blazing remnants of a tar-barrel, that a number of blanched faces were gazing wildly at them over the bulwarks. Gruff voices were heard shouting, but no word could be made out because of the whistling wind, lashing cordage, and roaring, hissing, leaping sea. It was seen that there were females on the wreck.

"I do believe it's the steamer!" said the coxswain to Bill, as he skilfully steered the boat alongside.

"Look-out for the women," shouted a deep voice from above.

"Ay, ay," responded eager voices from below. "Send 'em down."

Just then a female form was seen to swing out from the ship high in air as the boat sank into the trough of the waves. Next moment a sea raised the boat, "let go!" was sharply shouted, and a woman with a child—from which they had been unable to separate her—dropped close to Edwin and almost crushed him.

"Here!" cried our little hero jumping up and unwinding the rope that held him, "coil that round your arm and waist, and hold on—for life!"

"Sit down!" growled Bill, sternly.

True as steel to duty, Edwin sat down and watched, with intense feelings and in silence, while two more women were rescued, and several men lowered themselves into the boat by ropes hanging from spars. In this attempt some fell into the sea, but were grasped and hauled inboard. Then another female was seen to swing off from the side while the boat was dropping away from her. At the same moment a rope from the wreck caught a projection of the lifeboat close to Bill, and held it so that in another moment the side of the swaying hull would probably have come down on it and crushed them all.

"Clear that rope, Bill!" cried Barcombe in a tone that betrayed the urgency of the case.

But Bill was standing up with outstretched arms ready to receive the woman.

Seeing this Edwin sprang up, exerted all his strength, and unhooked the rope from the projection that had caught it. The boat immediately sheered off, leaving the woman again swinging while it sank away from her. The poor creature uttered an irrepressible scream on observing this.

Edwin Boyne's blood seemed to curdle when he heard that scream.

"Mother!" he cried, starting up.

Another intensified scream was the reply, and Mrs. Boyne, absolutely falling into her son's extended arms, carried him headlong to the bottom of the boat—fortunately without receiving damage, for Bill, having slipped his foot in his gallant efforts, had conveniently placed his burly body there in time to receive them.

"No bones broken I hope, ma'am?" enquired Bill, with a discomfited look.

"No, none, thank God," exclaimed Mrs. Boyne fervently, as she clasped Eddy in her arms—unutterably amazed but quite content to know that her boy was safe.—What! "safe," with the wreck crashing alongside, and the wild winds shrieking, and the foaming billows filling the boat at every rush? Ay, safe, because "in the lifeboat!"

Oh! it was a grand sight to see—by the light of the moon which had struggled through the driving clouds as if it were personally anxious to witness the scene—the eager faces which lined the jetty at Brindleport that night when the lifeboat came in from the seaward darkness, as if from out of the shades of Erebus, with a flag at her masthead in token of success, her crew exhausted yet re-invigorated by the strength that comes of joy, and with twenty rescued human beings packed like herrings in a barrel on her floor!

And it was thrilling to listen to the cheer that burst forth when Dan Barcombe, standing up in the stern and holding the tiller, put his hand to his mouth and shouted as they flew past "All saved!" with a roar that put to very shame the howlings of the storm.

But it was more than thrilling, it was almost appalling, to behold the cadaverous face and expression of poor nurse, when, after a long futile and exhaustive search for Eddy, she at last sat down in the vacant nursery and wrung her hands in abject despair. Yet equally striking, though indescribable, was the expression of that same face when—having run on in advance of the procession that brought Mrs. Boyne home—Eddy entered the nursery, looking, in the cork jacket, like a cask with a head, arms, and legs attached to it, and said in his own grave, quiet manner:—

"Well, nurse, I've been out with the lifeboat, and I've done my best—I've helped to rescue mother!"

* * * * * *

Years have passed since then, and the Brindleport lifeboat is still in

## active service, but Dan Barcombe and Bill are now on the retired list,

fighting their battles o'er again by the fire-side, and reaping the advantages of a useful, self-sacrificing life in a hale and hearty old age. Nurse is similarly situated, though in a totally different line of life—yet, after all, is there not some sort of analogy between the gales of nature and the squalls of the nursery?

Little Eddy, however, is gone—gone for ever! He has been long since supplanted by a big, lion-like man named Edwin Boyne, Esq., Local Superintendent of the Brindleport Branch of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, who is celebrated for having saved the lives of more human beings than any man in the town, and for retaining that grave, modest, yet indomitable enthusiasm which urged him, when yet a boy, to go out in the lifeboat and do his best by helping to rescue mother in the days gone by.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Jackie's New Dodge.

_BY AGNES GIBERNE,_

AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON, AND STARS," "MISS CON," &c.

————————

"I'M so awfully glad Jackie's coming to-day! Oh, so awfully glad!" sang out Algie Leigh, in a vigorous monotone, during the process of morning hair brushing. "So aw—fully—glad! Don't, nurse! I wish you wouldn't twist that horrid little curl in front! Jackie doesn't wear a curl."

"Now, Master Algie, you'll please stand still and not fidget. Your ma says—"

"She isn't my ma! Fellows don't say 'Ma!' Jackie doesn't! And I don't want my hair made curly. Jackie will laugh at me."

"Let them laugh as wins," nurse answered oracularly. "If all the brushes in all the world was used on Master Jack's hair, it wouldn't curl—no more than the poker."

"I wish mine wouldn't! I hate curliness for a boy," said Algie. "I'm nine years old now, and it's time to leave off that sort of rubbish. I'll ask mother if I can't begin to have my hair straight like Jackie's. He's only ten—at least, I mean eleven—and he hasn't been curly, oh, for years and years and years! Not for hundreds of years."

"A likely story!" nurse said.

"Well, you know what I mean. Nurse, I can't stand still any longer. I 'must' wriggle. I want so awfully for twelve o'clock to come! Jackie's sure to have some awfully nice new dodge; and I do want to know what it is. It's no use your brushing away like that. My hair will all go anywhere by the time I'm downstairs. There!"

Algie tore himself from nurse's grasp, and bounced down on the nearest bed, where he lay kicking; not in a temper, but merely as a vent to excitement. He was tremendously excited at the thought of seeing Jackie. Perhaps this was not surprising; for where Jackie might be, dulness was a thing impossible.

"There!" nurse echoed in a very different tone. "Well, you know what 'that' means! I've just got to do it all over again."

"O Algie, do be good! The bell will ring directly," pleaded May, the sweetest and most lovable of all his four pretty dainty little sisters, who stood in their thick white frocks, anxiously regarding his movements. The one boy in a family of five was an object of much solicitude. He really was a very nice boy, good-tempered and merry, almost girlishly pretty, and just a little apt to be girlish in some of his ways, from being brought up entirely among girls. But when Jackie appeared on the scene, Algie always developed at once into what he at least considered to be the full-blown boy.

May was one year older than Algie, and Annie was two years older still; while Lou and the youngest, still called Baby, were only seven and five. So Algie occupied a middle position between two pairs of sisters.

"Won't ring for half-an-hour yet," Algie answered, bumping his head vigorously into the pillow, by way of preliminary practice for Jackie. "O I say, won't it be jolly fun? Jackie's always got a new dodge every time. Don't you want awfully bad to know what it'll be? Oh—I say!"

Ring-a-ding-ding-ding-ding-dong! sounded the breakfast-bell, bringing Algie to his feet with a dismayed spring. The Leighs were a punctual family.

"Come, Lou! Come, Baby! We mustn't wait," said Annie.

"May! May! Stop a moment," cried Algie distractedly, finding himself anew in nurse's grasp. "O do hurry, do hurry-scurry; just one brush—that'll do—never mind the front curl for once. Nurse, let me go!" And with a flying leap Algie was down the first short flight, leaving May in his rear. He waited for her below, however, and they raced across the hall just in time.

The only remark made upon Algie's appearance was by a cousin-visitor, given to teasing. "Why, Algie, what has become of that natty little arrangement on your forehead? Nurse must have overslept herself for once!"

Algie grew very red, and wished people would remember that he was a "fellow," not a mere girl.

* * * * * *

Twelve o'clock came, and the five children watched anxiously through their playroom window for Jackie's arrival. Summer holidays were now in full swing, the governess being away; and if only it had been a fine morning they would all have been out in the garden. But alas, even August days are sometimes chilly and wet, and the rain had come down pitilessly since half-past ten. "No going out" was decreed.

Algie begged in vain for a reversal of the sentence. Jackie never stayed in for the rain, and why must he? But this is a kind of logic which grown-up people somehow never will accept. Algie was given to catching cold, they said, and Jackie was not, which made all the difference. Algie held that it made no difference at all, because he was perfectly certain not to catch cold on that particular day; but all the same he had to submit.

Grievances were forgotten when Jackie appeared. He was welcomed with a shout of delight, which he received calmly as his right. Jackie was a particularly calm and cool sort of boy; always fully aware what he meant to do, and bent on doing it; but not apt to get into excited states like Algie. He strolled in carelessly, with a hand in either pocket and a general air of middle-aged indifference to surroundings, seated himself in the most comfortable chair present, and whistled.

"What's the new dodge, Jackie?" burst out the admiring Algie, who always watched and, as far as possible, imitated every motion of Jackie's. Next time he went to see a friend he would stroll leisurely in, take the best chair, and whistle a subdued tune.

"New dodge!" repeated Jackie, with an absent air.

"Yes, the new dodge! Why, you always have one, every time you come to see us," cried eager Algie. "Last time it was ropes—don't you remember?—and the time before it was toffy—and the time before—oh, I don't know what that was, but of course you've got something to-day. Because it rains, and we—and the girls can't go out, and we're going to have fun indoors. Haven't you got another new dodge?"

Jack nodded in a bland and mysterious fashion, whereupon Algie threw himself about the room in an agony of delight.

"I've taken to doctoring," Jackie announced composedly.

"Doctoring!" gasped Algie, with a recollection of rhubarb and castor oil.

"Will you doctor our dolls, Jackie?" asked May's soft voice. May was a

## particular chum of Jackie's. He liked to patronize, and she was willing

to be patronized.

"Dolls!" Jackie repeated, with ineffable disdain.

"But you don't really and truly mean you've doctored live people," objected Algie.

"I pulled out a fellow's tooth the other day," declared Jackie, in his mildest tone. "Gave him sixpence to let me do it." Jack did not think it needful to add that there had been a considerable stir in consequence—the aggrieved father making a formal complaint to the master of the school, which had resulted in a severe admonition to Jackie to refrain from further tooth-drawing.

"Was it a loose tooth?" asked May.

"Tight as a drum," said Jack.

"But you won't pull 'our' teeth out," murmured May.

"Of course he won't. Nobody will let him," said Annie.

Then Mrs. Leigh came in with a plateful of cake, and for the moment attention was diverted from Jackie's dentistry. "Are you all very hungry?" she asked. "It is raining so hard, I am afraid you must be content with indoor games this morning. What happy children you are to have a nice big playroom all to yourselves."

Algie thought that to be allowed to play in the rain and mud would make a much happier child of him; still the plateful of cake was consoling, and even Jackie's eyes glistened.

"Luncheon may be rather late to-day," Mrs. Leigh went on. "Your father and I have a call to pay on an old friend, after taking your cousin to the station, and that may delay us till half-past one. But you will not starve, after this!" and she smiled. "Mind you are all good children, and don't quarrel. There are plenty of toys and pictures for Jackie to see."

Jackie had no particular affection for picture-books, but cake was quite in his line; and he came in for the lion's share of the supply. Ten minutes passed happily; and the brougham was seen to drive away from the front door. After which nurse appeared, and walked off the reluctant Baby to her mid-day sleep. Annie obediently brought out a pile of new picture-books, and Jackie tossed over a few indifferently.

"Stupid things, pictures!" he said. "Can't think why anybody ever makes them."

"Oh, but pictures are so nice," protested May.

"Nice enough for girls," said Jackie; and Algie at once felt desperately ashamed of having always liked pictures.

"I thought you'd have had a nice new dodge," he said wistfully to Jack.

"So I have," Jackie answered, brightening up, and pushing the picture-books aside. "Let's play at doctoring."

"But I don't want to have my tooth drawn," murmured Algie.

"Doctors don't draw teeth. Only dentists do that," said Annie.

"And I don't like pills nor castor oil neither," complained Algie.

Jackie pulled slowly from his pocket a small leathern case.

"That's my medicine chest," he announced. "I have got no pills, nor castor oil. I've got a lot of millions, because they look like those sugar globules that uncle John gulps down and calls medicine. We'll all have sugar globules first."

"And not castor oil after?" asked May, suspicious of so mild a beginning.

"Not castor oil at all," said Jack.

"Why, of course not. We are all quite well. We don't want medicine," observed Annie.

"You're well now, but you mightn't be well to-morrow. I am going to doctor you beforehand," said Jackie, with the confidence of a genuine quack. "Besides," he added, as a brilliant idea came up, "if we don't want to be doctored, we can try experiments. That's the jolliest fun of all."

"Must there be explosions?" asked May.

"O dear me, no. Not that sort of experiments. Not burning gases, and making loud pops," said Jack. "I've got an awfully jolly new dodge." He helped the party round to a fresh supply of "millions," and proceeded further to extract from the leather case a small stoppered bottle.

"Mind, you are not to tell anybody what I'm going to show you now. It's the jolliest stuff you ever heard of. It sends a fellow to sleep in the middle of the day, all in a moment. I vote we go to sleep."

"All of us?" demanded Algie.

"Oh, one at a time. Not all together. That wouldn't be fun," said Jackie.

"What's the stuff called?" asked prudent Annie.

Jack held up the bottle for inspection. "Got no name you see," he said. He thought Annie might know the word, and might take fright. "It's awfully funny going to sleep. Who'll try first?"

"Not me," Algie said promptly.

"Nor me, nor May, nor Lou," said Annie. "Mother doesn't like us to drink things, if we don't know what they are."

"You haven't got to drink. It's only to sniff up—whiff! —and you're off—pop—sound asleep. The best fun in all the world," declared Jackie.

The children were getting interested. There was something fascinating about the idea.

But Annie's conscience was not easy. "I shall go and ask nurse," she said.

"And wake up Baby!" said Algie.

"No: I'll be quiet."

Jackie looked up, read resolution in Annie's face, and forthwith marched to the door. In an instant he had turned the key, and slipped it into his pocket.

"O Jackie, that is too bad. It's our house," Annie said, colouring.

"I'm not going to be interfered with," Jackie answered, in his calm middle-aged voice, and he walked back to the centre of the room. "Now, then, who'll take a whiff first?"

"I won't," Annie answered. She was vexed with Jackie, and suspicious of his mischief: yet in her heart she did feel just a little glad that it was not in her power to stop the fun.

"Who first?" repeated Jack.

Nobody answered.

"I'll tell you what! 'I'll' be the first," announced Jackie. "I'll go to sleep, and when I wake up somebody else must try."

No objections were made. Jack unstoppered the bottle, and with a great deal of fuss poured some of the liquid into a far from white pocket handkerchief. It did seem to Annie that most of the liquid somehow found its way to the carpet, but Jackie declared that all was right. He stoppered the bottle, tucked it away, put the case in his pocket, threw himself back into the easy-chair, and told Algie to hold the pocket handkerchief to his nose.

Dancing with delight, Algie obeyed; and before two seconds had gone by Jack showed every sign of coming sleep. His head dropped, his mouth opened, his breathing became loud and regular, and faint snores sounded. Algie took away the handkerchief, and whispered, giggling—"He's off!"

The four stood watching, open-eyed and intent!

"I wonder how soon he'll wake," whispered one.

"He looks very comfy," murmured another.

Jack's limbs hung loose and limp. The moments passed, and he snored on. Algie began to wax impatient. Moments seem long when one is waiting, and they were sure that Jack had been asleep an immense time. He showed no consciousness of the talk carried on around him. A very close observer might indeed have noted a suspicious quiver of one eyelid, and even a little gleam of grey moving under the lashes: but Algie and his sisters suspected nothing.

They were getting uneasy, and wondering if Jack meant to sleep the whole day, when he stirred, peeped, yawned, opened and shut his eyes, stretched himself, and drowsily sat up.

"Heigh-o! Breakfast-bell rung yet?" he asked, with another gape, and a most un-sleepy twinkle of the said eyes.

"Why, Jackie, it's the middle of the day," cried his innocent listeners.

"Middle—of—the—day! Dear me! I must have been quite sound asleep! Quite sound," declared the unblushing Jackie.

"You went off so fast, you can't think," said May. "Was it nice?"

"Lovely," declared Jack. "Like floating off among green clouds, you know." Jackie had heard this description from a lady who had taken chloroform, and it served his purpose. To be sure the said lady had sat in a room papered with green, which explained her half-sleeping fancy about "green clouds;" whereas the playroom had grey-washed walls. But Jackie never stuck at trifles.

"I 'should' like to float off among green clouds," murmured May, who was of an adventurous though timid nature.

"All right. You try next," said Jack, jumping up.

"I don't believe nurse would like it," objected Annie.

But Annie had the voice of the conclave against her.

Gentle May had a will of her own, and the green clouds sounded tempting, and what 'could' be the harm of so placid a sleep and so mild an awakening? The key was still in Jackie's pocket, and they could not ask nurse. Perhaps nobody really wished to do so. Trying experiments was great fun.

May held to her point, and still more Jackie held her to it. The one of them all most to blame was Jackie, for though only eleven years old, he did know the name and something of the nature of the liquid he held. He knew that chloroform was given to people by doctors to make them unconscious, when something very painful had to be done. He knew that patients had sometimes even died from taking chloroform. Of course he meant to be careful, and only to let May sniff just a little, but all the time he knew perfectly well that he was doing a very very wrong and foolish thing. His inquisitive mind liked to be always trying some new "dodge" as he called it, and the present opportunity was a great temptation. But Jack knew well enough that he had no business to give way to the temptation.

"Now, May, tuck up your feet, and make ready," he said, refusing to listen to the voice within, which cried to him to stop. "O there's no harm," he told himself.

May obeyed; and again Jackie poured some of the liquid on a pocket handkerchief. This time he did the business thoroughly. The cambric, and not the floor, was soaked.

"It's a queer smell," Algie remarked, and May said, "I like it!" Jack alone knew with what edged tools they were foolishly playing.

Still he went on—madly. He held the handkerchief to her face, and May shut her eyes, breathing up the strong scent.

Yes, she was going off—fast. Not so fast as Jackie had appeared to do, but somehow she seemed soon more genuinely asleep. There was one little feeble attempt at resistance, one effort to pull away the handkerchief, but Jackie held it firm, and May's little hand fell.

Sound asleep, and looking so peaceful. The children were greatly interested.

"She doesn't snore like Jackie," cried Algie.

"You'll wake her if you kick up such a row," declared Jack; but May did not stir.

They waited again, moment after moment, till the time seemed very long.

"Hasn't she slept enough?" asked Annie.

"Well, perhaps she has," admitted Jackie. "Suppose you give her a kiss."

Annie followed his advice, but there was no response. Jack pulled her by the hand, and it dropped as before, limp and helpless. Algie shouted in her ear, and May did not hear. She lay pale, still, with shut eyes, never stirring a finger.

"Stupid! She ought to wake up," Jack said, getting uneasy.

"I shall call nurse. Nurse will know what to do," exclaimed Annie. "O do give me the key."

"Bother nurse! Let's make a noise, and she's sure to wake."

But they stamped and shouted in vain. May still lay as before, white and senseless.

"Jackie, Jackie, I 'must' call nurse," almost sobbed Annie.

Whether Jack would have yielded is doubtful; but at that moment the sound of the returning brougham was heard. Mr. and Mrs. Leigh were back much earlier than they had expected. Happily, the lady upon whom they went to call was not well enough to see them.

Nor was this all. Almost more happily still, they had met their doctor in the village, and had asked him to come back with them to see Baby, who had not been quite well for a day or two. So when the brougham rolled up, the doctor was sitting inside.

The moment Annie heard the brougham, she rushed to the window, threw it opened, and shrieked—"Mother! Father! May!!"—in a voice which brought them all to the playroom, without a moment's delay.

Jack had not been quick enough to keep Annie from the window, and now he had no choice about opening the door. He dared not disobey his uncle's voice outside.

Then there was a rush of frightened questions; and the mother was kneeling with her arms round little sleeping May; and Mr. Leigh demanded of Jackie what it all meant; and the doctor said shortly, "Ha! Chloroform!" The children were hurried out of the room—Annie crying bitterly, Algie dismayed, Jackie still pretending to be cool. And their last glimpse of May was of the same little pale unconscious face.

The half-hour that followed would not soon be forgotten by those three elder children. Nobody could attend to them: but through one of the maids they heard that May's life was in danger. For a while the doctor feared that she might never wake out of the sleep into which Jack had recklessly thrown her. But for the doctor's presence there and then on the spot, so that not a moment was lost in doing everything that could be done, she probably would "not" have recovered.

Soon the worst was over: and the tiny pulse which had all but stopped beating grew stronger. May came slowly back to life: and though very sick and weak she was no longer in danger.

At last Mr. Leigh made his way to the unhappy Annie and Algie and Jack. He looked paler and more serious than Annie had ever seen him: and he seemed only able to say—"She is better!"

Then, after a pause, as Annie and Algie clung to him he went on—

"Jack, is this your doing? Do you know that you have nearly killed my little May?"

Jackie wanted to brave it out still, but I am glad to say he could not succeed. He burst into a fit of sobbing, in the midst of which broken words were heard,—"I'll never—never—again!"

It is pretty certain that Jack never "would" again do quite so wild and foolish a deed. There was no need to talk to him much. May's narrow escape spoke for itself, and Jack was really impressed. He had learnt his lesson. Even in later years, when he should have grown to be a man, he would scarcely be able to think of his experiment that day without a shudder.

[Illustration]

Joan's Adventure.

_BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID._

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EVER since she was old enough to think of such things, Joan Winstone had always wished to go abroad, and when she was ten years old she went. Joan was the only young one in a party of six; she was full of enterprise—her father and mother, their old friend Mrs. Oswald, and the two maids, Nixon and Howe, seemed to her far too calm and prosaic.

They were going to Eastern Switzerland by way of Calais and Laon, and Joan's excitement and delight at all the new sights and sounds on the way made her feel as if she could not be really awake during the early part of the journey; everything was so new and fresh that it seemed as if she must be dreaming. She had begun to feel quieter when in the evening the train made twenty minutes' stop at Tergnier, so that travellers might dine. Joan's mother and Mrs. Oswald were, however, so overtired, that Mr. Winstone decided to dine and sleep at Laon, and to spend part of the next day in seeing the old city.

This arrangement disappointed Joan, she was more hungry than tired, and when she saw the other travellers enjoying their dinner, she mentally decided that Laon would turn out a stupid old place, not worth upsetting their plans for. The country had been dull before they reached Tergnier, but when they started again for Laon, Joan thought it looked quite ugly.

All at once she sprang forward with a cry of delight.

"Father, father, look—do you see them—four big towers, square ones; I never saw such towers; you must look there, high up." Her father looked out of the window. "That is Laon Cathedral," he said, as the suddenly caught glimpse of the towers was again hidden. "It is a fine old church, Joan."

Just then the train stopped at the station; the party of travellers got into an omnibus, which had to mount the steep ridge on which Laon stands, so steep that the road climbs up it zigzag fashion.

Joan had read "The Little Duke," so she knew about the ancient grandeur of Laon; and as the omnibus clattered over the stones she became enthusiastic about the quaint houses which showed dimly in the fading light.

When she went to bed she could not at first go to sleep. She kept on thinking of those lofty towers, and she longed for the morning that she might see the stone oxen which her father told her stood at the angles of some of them. At last she fell asleep and dreamed that she was sitting on the back of a huge brown ox at the top of one of the towers; she shuddered and trembled as she looked down at the immense plain below. Joan always shrank from looking down a height unless someone held her hand; she waked up feeling sick and giddy.

"You have slept sound, Miss," said Nixon, "Your papa sent up to ask if you would like to go to the Cathedral with him."

Joan was soon dressed, and going down to breakfast she saw how bright the sunshine was as it streamed through the windows of the salle-à-manger. She thought she had never tasted such nice coffee and such delicious rolls, but she hurried over her breakfast, she was impatient to go out with her father and the others.

Joan had always lived in London, and she had not had much change in her ten-year-old life, but the adventurous spirit in her had gathered strength from its very inexperience, and she longed to exercise it; she felt so very, very happy in this brilliant sunshine, and she babbled out her delight as she walked beside her father past the grey-green houses, with gardens gay with flowers; sometimes through an open door Joan got a glimpse of the green country in the distance.

They reached the Cathedral, and while her father was looking at the grand west front, Joan had a full view of the huge stone oxen on the towers; but she was greatly disappointed when she followed her father into the Church to find the interior of the nave and choir given up to workmen and to scaffolding, the Cathedral being under repair. However, the sacristan said they could see down into the nave from the gallery above, though the scaffolding would prevent them from seeing the choir.

Her father had bought Joan a French guide to Laon, and she sat down to study this near the spiral staircase by which they had come up, while her companions went along the triforium gallery.

Joan learned as she read her guide book that there was yet an upper gallery, and that a fine view was to be had from the platform on the roof. She shuddered at the idea of looking down from the roof, but it seemed to her that if she went up the next flight of stairs, till she reached the upper gallery, which would no doubt be as broad as the one she now sate in, she should be above the scaffolding and be able to see into the choir.

Joan never waited to reflect, it was not her way, she hurried to the dark winding staircase, and began to climb the upper flight.

The staircase became narrower as it mounted, the steps were broken in several places, and although it was so gloomy that she could scarcely see, Joan felt sure it was very dirty. When she had climbed some way the air felt less close and unpleasant, and at last she saw a gleam of light above her.

This cheered her, for she had begun to feel timid and uneasy in the dismal place.

"I did not think it looked nearly so far to the upper gallery," she said to herself, "I suppose everything is so big in this Cathedral that one cannot guess distances rightly."

It never occurred to her that she might have mounted the wrong staircase; as she turned the next curve, a rush of air blew her hair into her eyes and she found herself in daylight—one more flight and the steps ended.

Joan looked out of the square opening before her, and she trembled all over. She saw that instead of the upper gallery she had reached the roof of the Cathedral. On one side was a mere stone platform without a railing, and on the other there was a smooth wall.

Her first impulse was to turn back, and then she felt ashamed of her cowardice, it would be so pitiful to confess that she had climbed all this way and had not seen anything; she seemed, too, to be drawn forward by some other will than her own.

The spirit of daring, which had so often led Joan into peril, once more mastered the girl; she thought it would be grand to see what her companions had not seen, and she stepped out boldly on the platform. The platform itself was narrower than it had looked from the staircase, and Joan shivered at finding herself so near the bare edge of the flagged pavement. She kept her eyes fixed on the stone wall on her right and went on bravely for a couple of yards, then she stopped and looked to her left.

Joan had known before what she expected to see, and yet she felt dizzy. She knew that she had not reached the very highest part of the Cathedral because of the stone wall that rose up on her right, but it seemed to her that she must be somewhere near the clouds.

Below her, very far below, were the red roofs of the old houses, so close together that it seemed as if one could walk on their tops. Beyond, was the far-stretching plain from which rose the ridge, on the highest point of which Laon Cathedral stands.

Joan felt desperately giddy, and instinctively her hands went out to the wall beside her, it reached high above her head, and the stones were so firmly and smoothly laid that it was quite impossible to cling to them with any hope of support. The wind was blowing strongly, it seemed to Joan that it was blowing her towards the edge of the platform; surely, she thought, an extra strong blast must whirl her off her feet and send her over the edge.

And if it did, what would come after, she wondered, and she seemed to see herself falling—falling downwards towards those tiled roofs below. Were there tiled roofs just below?

A wild longing seized on Joan. From where she stood she could not see all that must be visible from the edge of the platform; she could not be sure what there was just beneath it. She felt that she must know, she must look over the edge, and she took a step towards it, then she took another step; her dizziness increased, she was being drawn nearer and nearer to the edge—so much against her will that she longed to cry out for help, while she trembled so violently from head to foot that she felt herself sway to and fro. Yet she went on, slowly, step by step, conscious of her danger, yet powerless to resist the fascination that drew her on.

The deep-toned clock struck the quarter, and as the sound reached Joan the spell that held her passive was broken. She turned with a sob, and stretching out to the stone wall behind her she leaned her cheek against it and began to cry.

She had awakened to the danger in which she had placed herself, but she did not know what to do. There was no use in calling out for help; she thought it was not likely that the platform was visited, or a railing would have been placed along the dangerous edge. She looked towards the door by which she had come out, and she knew that she could not reach it without help; she dared not to venture along the space that lay between. Joan closed her eyes, and hid her face on the hard wall; her knees were shaking with agitation, and she was desperately giddy. It seemed to her, in her terror, that if she ventured to move she should infallibly be drawn once more to the terrible stone edge of the platform.

She kept her eyes hidden against the stone wall. The sun was beating so fiercely down on her that her head ached painfully, but she could not move towards the cool inviting darkness within the doorway. Everything was so still. There was not a sound to break the awful quietude.

At last Joan fancied she heard something. It sounded like a gasping breath. She listened. No, she must have fancied it, she told herself. And then it came again, louder, and then in plain unmistakeable words, "Oh, my goodness! what stairs!" Joan looked up, and there framed by the darkness of the doorway she saw the good-natured face of Mrs. Oswald's maid, Howe.

"Come, Miss Joan," the woman said, "We've been looking everywhere for you. This isn't a fit place for you, Miss, come, please."

"I can't," Joan said. "Dear Howe, please come and lead me along while I shut my eyes; I—I'm afraid, Howe; I dare not move by myself."

Howe shrugged her shoulders, but she came forward and helped Joan out of her self-made danger.

"Well, I never heard of such a fancy," the maid said to herself. But Joan was right, and a day or so passed before she recovered from the shock which her adventurous climb had caused her.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

True to her Charge.

_BY G. A. HENTY,_

AUTHOR OF "FACING DEATH," "THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN," "THE LION OF S. MARK," &c., &c.

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FOUR great waggons had just halted by the banks of what in the rainy season was a stream, but was now only a succession of pools, with a mere thread of running water connecting them. As soon as they came to a standstill, men released the oxen that drew them from the ropes that served as traces, and left them to find their way down to one of the water-holes, and then pick what sustenance they could from the short grass and scanty bushes. Cooking-pots were taken from the waggons; the children, of whom there were several, started to gather sticks for fuel, and in a short time smoke was curling up.

The waggons were the property of four families travelling West, to reap as they hoped a rich harvest of the gold, whose discovery in California had a short time before caused such excitement. They were strangers to each other, but had met at Omaha, and had agreed to travel together. As a rule the caravans across the prairie consisted of much stronger

## parties, but it happened that one of these had started upon the very

morning of the day on which they reached Omaha, and rather than wait perhaps a fortnight until another party were ready to start, the owners of the waggons determined to push forward alone on the following day, and to overtake the caravans that had just started.

They had been joined by five or six men at Omaha; two of these were mounted, the rest were on foot, and all had been waiting some days there in hopes of such a chance as now offered. The emigrants were glad to accept their proposal to accompany them, and to carry for them their kits and scanty stores, agreeing to provide them with flour upon the journey, in return for which the men were to hunt, and provide the party with meat, and to aid in the protection of the waggons if attacked by Indians.

They had not, as they expected, overtaken the caravan; they had started so hurriedly from Omaha—the last place where it was possible to obtain stores of any kind—that several articles of absolute necessity had been forgotten, and one of the emigrants, with two of the men who had joined them, went back with a light cart belonging to the latter, and bought the stores required. This caused two days' loss of time, and the time so thrown away was never regained, for it would not have done to risk breaking down the cattle by overworking them at the outset, and as the tales of attacks by Indians were very vague, and by many believed to be mere inventions of those who had gone on first, put about to scare others from following them, and sharing the treasures they looked forward to, there was little uneasiness among the travellers.

At any rate they thought that the caravan in front was sure to make a halt somewhere, in which case they would overtake it, or they themselves would be overtaken by the next caravan. The two mounted men who had joined them at Omaha had been hunters on the prairies for years. These had at first endeavoured to impress upon the emigrants that the journey was a really dangerous, as well as toilsome one, but the four men who owned the waggons were Eastern farmers, full of dogged perseverance, and not easily scared.

So the journey went on for weeks. As yet the number of emigrants who had passed was comparatively small, and the plains still abounded with deer, the hunters therefore had no difficulty in doing their part, and keeping the caravan well supplied with meat. There was no difficulty in finding the way, for the wheels of preceding caravans had worn a track across the prairie; the halting places were marked by empty tins, and the ashes of the fires. The daily journeys varied considerably in length, being sometimes but ten or twelve miles, while at others they were thirty or even thirty-five, as the camping-places were decided by the presence of water.

Of the occupants of the waggons Winnie Price, a niece of one of the emigrants, was the favourite with the men who accompanied them. She was a quiet girl of thirteen years old, who helped her weakly and complaining aunt, looked after the children, cooked the food, and bore silently the grumbling and scolding of her surly and ill-tempered uncle.

"I should like nothing better than to give that fellow the best thrashing he ever had," one of the hunters said to his comrade, as they sat together round the fire. "He seems to consider, because he gave house-room to Winnie when her father and mother died, he has a right to make a slave of her. That girl gets through as much work as any two women in the outfit. She cooks for the waggon, does all the washing and mending, looks after the brats, and yet is always cheerful and good-tempered, and ready in her spare moments to do a good turn to anyone. Yesterday, when I had split my hunting shirt up, she said in the evening, 'Josh, if you will give that shirt to me, I will mend it for you,' and this morning when I turned out as soon as it was daylight, there she was sitting on the ground outside the waggon at work at it, having stolen out to get an hour to herself before the others roused up. That girl's a daisy, she is, and if I had a chance of doing her a good turn would, you bet. When I hear that uncle of hers going on at her, it is as much as I can do not to go for him, but I know it would do her harm if I interfered."

At the stations where the ponies were kept for what were called express riders, who carried the post across the plains, the party heard tales of Indian attacks, and they were several times warned that it was better to wait for a few days until another caravan came along. But the thirst of gold was too overpowering in the minds of the emigrants for the advice to be taken. Each day's delay meant to them the loss of so much gold, and added to the chances of the best places being taken up by the emigrants proceeding to California by the sea route. They had fourteen rifles, for there were several young men and big boys belonging to the families in the waggons, and they flattered themselves that they could beat off any attack that might be made upon them.

At night the waggons were packed together with two men always on guard, so the emigrants thought themselves safe from surprise. The two hunters by no means shared in the feeling of security, but they were both very well mounted, and although perfectly ready to take their share in fighting if there was a chance of successful resistance, had determined that they would not throw away their lives if attacked by an overwhelming force. The last thing at night, therefore, they always brought in their horses and picketed them close to the waggons, sleeping outside in order, as they said, to escape the crying of children and the hubbub of talk among the emigrant families.

One morning, as soon as the camp was in motion, Winnie Price had gone down with the youngest of her charges, Bobby, a boy of three, to the pool, fifty yards from where the waggons were gathered, to give him his morning's wash. She had just finished, had dressed Bobby, and was herself washing, when she heard a terrible yell, and saw a band of wild horsemen sweeping down upon the caravan. She saw at once that she could not get back in time, and snatching up Bobby, and stooping so as to be concealed by the bank of the stream, she ran along till she reached a large clump of bushes, into which she dived.

A tremendous din was going on; rifles were cracking, men shouting, women screaming, and Indians yelling. It lasted but a few minutes, and then everything became quiet save the triumphant yells of the Indians. Winnie felt sure that the attack had succeeded, and that the whites had been murdered, for had not that been the case the firing would have continued. Holding the frightened child closely to her, and silencing him by telling him that if he cried, or made a noise, the Indians would find him, she sat there for hours. Once she thought she heard Indians talking at the pool above, but, with that exception, all was quiet. Bobby passed the greater part of the time in sleep, and in the afternoon, laying him down, she crawled cautiously until she neared the edge of the bushes, and then looked out through the leafy screen towards the waggons. She made out a number of dark figures on horseback, and as she watched them saw them a few minutes later gather and ride off in a body, driving before them the bullocks of the waggons.

Half-an-hour later she ventured to stand up and peer out between the leaves. There was no sign of life or movement about the waggons; numbers of figures lay stretched about around them, but the Indians had all left. Some, however, might still be in the neighbourhood, and returning to Bobby, she waited until the sun set. Bobby was wide awake now, and clamorous for food; had she been alone, Winnie would have suffered anything rather than go up to that terrible scene of slaughter, but she felt that for Bobby's sake it was absolutely necessary to try to obtain something to eat.

"Now Bobby," she said, "you sit here at the edge of the bushes; I will go up and try and get you something to eat; but you must be very good and quiet until I come back, because there are wicked Indians about, and they might hurt you if you were to go there."

It needed very strong persuasion to induce Bobby to remain alone, but at last he agreed to do so on her promising to run all the way there and back.

It was a terrible scene for a young girl; round the waggons the bodies of men, women, and children lay scattered thickly, all gashed with tomahawks, and scalped. Several Indians, too, had fallen, though Winnie did not know it, for their bodies had been buried by their friends. Shutting her eyes as much as possible to avoid the sight, Winnie moved straight through up to the waggons. The contents lay about in confusion; everything of the slightest value to the Indians had been taken—flour sacks had been opened, and the contents carried off done up in smaller packets to be carried on the horses behind the Indians.

Articles of wearing apparel lay scattered about, and cases of preserved meat forced open; but their contents left as worthless. Winnie gave an exclamation of satisfaction as she saw a tin of biscuits laying among the wreck. She took this and two empty bottles, and with them hurried back towards the bushes. She met Bobby coming to meet her.

"All right, Bobby, here are some nice biscuits," she said, and taking him to the pool they sat down and made a meal. Then she emptied the contents of the box into her apron and tied it up in front of her so as to leave her hands free; then she filled the bottles with water, and tearing a strip off the bottom of her dress, tied one end to each of their necks and slung-them in front of her.

"Now Bobby," she said, "we must walk."

"Where is dada and mammy," the child said, "me want dem."

"They cannot come now, dear, you must come with me;" but Bobby rebelled and began to howl. "Bobby," Winnie said, "you don't want the wicked Indians to catch you, do you? If you make a noise they are sure to come. We must keep very quiet and walk a long way to get away from them."

Bobby was again frightened into quiet, and taking Winnie's hand started off. She had made up her mind to retrace her steps. It had been a long march on the previous day, but she felt that there was far more chance of meeting a caravan behind them, than of overtaking that in front. Winnie walked until it became quite dark. Bobby was cross and fractious, and in a very short time she had to carry him on her back. It at last became too dark for her to follow the track further, and she lay down with the child to wait until the moon rose, which it would do, she knew, about midnight.

She was unable to sleep, and as soon as the moon was up she got the sleeping child on to her back, lifted her dress up, and drew it tightly round him so as to keep him in that position, and then journeyed on until day began to break, when she took shelter in some low bushes. From time to time she looked out, and presently saw a party of Indians riding along a crest, looking down into the cleft along which the track run. After this she abandoned all idea of making her way forward by daylight, and passed the time, until it became dark, in telling stories to Bobby, and in sleeping whenever he did so. When it became dark she again set out, keeping the track as well as she was able, Bobby sometimes walking by her side, sometimes sleeping on her back.

After three hours' walking she came to a rise where the wheels had no longer sunk in the ground, and was obliged to wait until the moon rose again; but even with this assistance she found it very difficult to follow the track. As before, she lay hid during the day. She had, she knew, thirty-five miles in all to travel, and her progress had been very slow from the necessity of stopping continually to kneel down and examine the grass. The next night, in spite of her care, she missed the track. She knew that her safest plan would be to wait until morning, when she would be able to find it without difficulty, but the supply of water was already running very low, although she had stinted Bobby to the utmost, and had contented herself with merely moistening her own lips. She knew by the stars that she had each night seen before her the direction she should take, and guiding herself by them pressed steadily on. Fortunately one of the hunters had one evening pointed out the North Star to her, and had told her how to find it by following the line of the pointers wherever they might be, and keeping this steadily over her left shoulder, she walked on.

Two days later a large caravan arrived at the Express Station. They found there, in addition to the two men in charge, two hunters—the one a man of forty, the other a young fellow of two or three and twenty, who told them that they were the sole survivors of the train that had preceded them.

"We were a small party," the elder of the two said—"four waggons, with fifteen guns in all. The men of the teams were obstinate fellows, who did not believe in Indians, and did not take any precautions. Just as we were coupling up the bullocks to make our start for the next station, a party of about a hundred Indians came down on us. There were two men out on guard, but they gave us no warning. I expect some of the Indians must have crept up and tomahawked them; the band were not a hundred yards away when we saw them. Josh and I had our horses handy, and jumped into our saddles. We saw that it was all over at once, but we stopped for a minute or two, but it were no use—half the men were cut down before they had time to get their rifles out of the waggons, and Josh and I, seeing as we should only throw our lives away without doing no good, rode for it. It was not in Indian nature to chase two men, and they well mounted, far, when there were scalps and booty to be had; so although five or six did set out after us they gave it up as soon as they found our ponies was as good as theirs. So we rode on here to wait until you came up."

"And you think they are all killed?" the leader of the caravan asked.

"Sure of it," the hunter said. "They came down so suddenly; there was no time for anyone to bolt."

As the caravan contained twenty waggons, and could muster sixty rifles, it considered itself strong enough to beat off any party of Indians they might meet. Its leader, too, was an experienced scout, and everything was arranged both on the march and in camp in readiness for resistance. Five or six mounted men rode a mile out on each flank, and many of the younger men wished for nothing better than that the Indians should attack them, and that they should have an opportunity for taking revenge for the massacre they had heard of.

The next morning the caravan pursued its journey, the two hunters accompanying it. They took their place with the scouting party to the left of the line of the march. They had ridden two hours, when Josh, the younger hunter, reined in his horse suddenly.

"Look there," he said, pointing to a rise in the distance, "what is that?"

A figure was seen passing along over a crest. The hunters looked at it with astonishment.

"It's a woman," Josh exclaimed, "she seems to have something on her back, she is a white sure enough by her dress. Come on, lads!"

They galloped forward; twice, as they approached, they saw the figure fall, and then rise to her feet again, and stagger forward. She did not seem to perceive them, but went blindly on. When they were within a hundred yards of her, Josh exclaimed, "By gosh, Bill, it's Winnie. Thank Heaven she was not wiped out. Winnie!" he shouted, at the top of his voice; but she still kept on, apparently without hearing. The men reined in their horses to a walk. They were old hands on the prairies, and knew what it meant; the girl had lost her way, and her senses had gone. The two hunters, who knew her, dismounted and walked up to her. Her eyes were dull and glazed, her lips black and swollen, she tottered rather than walked. One hand grasped the skirt of her dress, which was wrapped round her shoulders, and above which a little head drooped backwards.

"Winnie," Josh said in a low tone. The girl looked towards them. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then she reeled, and would have fallen had not the men caught her. The others now came up. Some water was poured upon her lips, and a few drops made their way down her throat. Then similar attention was given to the child. He was also insensible, but came round before long, for his sufferings had been less severe than hers, for while for three days she had been altogether without water, the last drops in the bottle had been used for soaking his biscuit, and it was only on the previous day that the supply had altogether given out.

Josh lifted her in his arms, and mounting his horse rode off at full speed to the caravan, while Bill carried the child before him. For weeks, while the caravan made its way across the plains, Winnie lay in one of the waggons between life and death. She was tenderly cared for by the women, and at last the fever abated; but it was not until the train began to descend the slopes of the Sierra Nevada that she was able to walk by the side of the waggons with Bobby, long before restored to perfect health. When they descended into the plains of California Winnie and Bobby were adopted by a childless couple, who were wise enough to settle on a small farm, instead of going to the diggings.

Five years later she had a home of her own, for the young hunter did well at the gold mines, and as soon as he had earned enough to purchase a farm, settled down, and when she became old enough asked her to share it with him.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Christmas Eve with Bruin.

_BY FRANCES CLARE,_

AUTHOR OF "A CHILD'S PILGRIMAGE," "A STORE OF STORIES," &c.

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IT was Christmas Eve, long, long ago, and the good folks of Nancy were fast asleep in their beds, dreaming doubtless of the coming festival of the morrow. And very peaceful was the sleep of the citizens of this old French town, for they knew that the gates of their city were closed, and that it was securely guarded against the foe.

But outside the fast-shut portals stood one who could not sleep, although he was very weary, and hungry, and footsore, for he had no place wherein to rest.

This sleepless one was a little lad, an Italian musician, with a wistful face, and dark, earnest eyes—eyes which were full of tears, as well indeed they might be, for Carlo Caffarelli had hoped to reach Nancy before its gates were shut.

He had hoped to earn a Christmas cake, and a night's lodging, by his skilful lute-playing and his sweet singing.

But alas, he had arrived too late.

And as he looked wistfully up to the starry sky, he exclaimed, "Oh, I wish that I could spend to-morrow in Heaven, with father, mother, and darling Domenica. Oh, how I wish that last Christmas Eve could come again!"

Ah, no wonder the little wanderer thought sorrowfully of that Christmas Eve, for then he had come down from the mountains with his father, Sebastian, the shepherd, and they twain had played sweet, simple music in the classic streets of Rome; then he had bought for his little sister, his pretty, dear Domenica, a picture of the Manger of Bethlehem. Now, father, mother, and little sister slept side by side in a cypress-shaded graveyard, for the ruthless fever had wrecked his home, not sparing even one of his loved ones.

Therefore it was that he stood, a wanderer and an exile, houseless and homeless, in a foreign land, on the blessed Christmas Eve.

All at once he recalled the last words of his dying mother.

"Carlo," she had said, "my own little Carlo, you are poor, and you will be very lonely; dangers and difficulties will surround you, but never forget, my beloved, never forget that God is the Helper of the helpless."

Comforted by the remembrance of these words, Carlo knelt down on the frosty ground, and prayed that His Heavenly Father would help him, or take him to those loved ones for whom he grieved.

But there came no immediate response to his petition; all was outwardly the same after he had prayed as it had been before. The starry heavens did not open, no burning, fiery chariot appeared as it did to the Prophet in days of old to bear him upward, and yet the lonely lad's prayer was both heard and answered.

Before kneeling down to pray, Carlo placed his beloved lute at some little distance from him on the ground, and when he rose from his knees, and went to take up his lute again, he perceived the mouth of a large hole or pit, which was surrounded by a low wooden palisading.

The wind had risen, and poor, thinly-clad Carlo, who was very cold, thought that it would be warmer down in the pit than it was on the surface of the earth; so he slung his lute round his neck, climbed over the railing, and slid gently down into the pit.

The first thing he did on reaching the bottom was to look around him, in order to see in what kind of lodgings he was going to pass the remainder of his Christmas Eve; and, by the faint, silvery light of the moon, he saw a large straw-covered den, or hole, at the far end of which lay some kind of animal—a big dog, seemingly, for it was rough-looking, and curled up into the semblance of a huge ball.

"What is that, I wonder?" said Carlo to himself. "It looks like a big dog. Can I have fallen into a dog kennel? What strange folks these citizens of Nancy must be! In Italy we do not shut our dogs out, we keep them inside to guard our homes, but they seem to keep theirs outside. I suppose they think the dogs will keep strangers away; they haven't kept me away, though. I wonder if it's safe to stay here. I hope the creature isn't savage."

But it was warm and sheltered there, in the straw, and poor Carlo's limbs were so tired, and his eyeballs ached so for want of rest, that his heavy eyelids drooped over his weary eyes, and he curled himself up in a corner and slept.

And lo, in his dreams, all his household treasures were restored to him. He was at home in his mountain village once again. The clear wood fire was burning on the hearth; his mother was baking cakes, his father was telling him beautiful tales, his little sister was playing with her dog—"this" was Carlo's happy Christmastide dream.

And in his sleep the little wanderer smiled.

But the happiest dreams must come to an end, as well as the happiest days, and after a time Carlo awoke.

And he saw that the big dog was also awake, for it had come from its corner and was sitting up not far from Carlo.

"Poor old fellow!" said the boy, holding out his hand. But the animal did not in any way respond, nor did it growl, as a savage dog might have done. Carlo peered through the dim light, and wondered more and more what it could be. Presently, it reared itself on its hind legs and looked at Carlo. And, as it did so, the little musician saw that the strange animal was "a bear!" Yes, actually a brown bear, with a shaggy coat and small, deep-set, blinking eyes.

"O dear!" he cried. "What shall I do? Pray, pray, come and help me!"

But nobody came, for nobody heard his cries.

The citizens of Nancy were fast asleep in their warm, soft beds; they were not thinking of the bear pit, which their town, in common with many others in the middle ages, kept outside its gates, and Carlo was left alone with Bruin.

Alone with Bruin! and the Pifferari were playing in the streets of Rome, as the child and his father once had played in the days which were no more.

[Illustration]

Alone with Bruin! and in the Eternal City many a lad was singing Pastorals as Carlo once had sung them, with a clear, unfaltering, lark-like voice.

Alone with Bruin! and great fear took possession of the poor boy's mind, for the bear began to approach him—cunningly and stealthily; surely, though slowly.

In an agony of terror he began to move backward step by step, until he stood close against the wall of the well-like pit, and there was no more space in which to stir.

But with a great effort he fastened his gaze steadily on Bruin, who, in his turn, kept his evil-looking little eyes fixed on Carlo, as if to say, "You won't run away from me, my lad. I am Ursus, the public bear of Nancy, and I can hug, as well as climb poles, and one, only one of 'my' hugs means—death."

Great drops of perspiration stood on Carlo's brow, and as he pressed himself against the grey stone wall he felt with his feet for a piece of bread, or a bone, or something with which he might mollify his foe, or, at least, gain some respite from the death which seemed to await him.

And while he was doing this, Bruin gave a low, deep-chested growl, which made the little musician start as the thunder of cannon could not have done.

For to him that growl said "Die," and his trembling arms hung helpless by his side, and his head drooped forward on his breast.

For although a brave heart beat within that young bosom, the boy could not endure the sight of the animal coming towards him, its fore-paws extended in order to draw him into its embrace—that terrible embrace from which he could never hope to be set free except by death.

But as, in his despair, he closed his eyes, he thought once more of his mother's words, "God arms the helpless," and as he murmured a prayer there suddenly flashed across his mind the recollection of having seen a performing bear dance clumsily to the sound of a rough instrument played by its master. His lute! It had often purchased him a meal and a night's lodging—would it help him now? Once mare hope sprang up in his heart, and taking the lute in his trembling fingers, he played, in the darkness of that gloomy place, more sweetly than he had ever done in the fresh air and the bright sunlight, for his whole soul was in his music.

Bruin's angry growls ceased, and he gazed with astonishment on the unwelcome intruder who was producing these strange sounds. Presently, he came forward again, and once more Carlo's heart beat loud and fast, but at that moment he espied a large piece of cake close to his foot. He took it up and threw it to the farthest end of the den. The bear stopped, looked after the cake, then at Carlo, who had begun to play again; then Bruin ambled to the other side of the den and sniffed at the cake, but did not eat it, and then, to Carlo's unspeakable delight, it curled itself round and seemed to go to sleep again. Now, the truth was that Mr. Bruin had had a very hearty meal that day, and had been, besides, so plentifully supplied with cakes, and bread, and honey by the holiday-makers, that, I think, he really felt too lazy to do any harm to the poor lad who had so unwittingly come to disturb his slumbers.

Though safe for the moment, Carlo felt that all danger was not yet over, but that he must watch unceasingly until morning.

Just think for a moment what a weary watch was that of the boy musician. Think how he watched for the stars to disappear, think how he welcomed the daylight—he to whom it had always before come too soon. And now how long it seemed in coming!

But when he looked upwards, and saw that at last it was light, he found that weakness and terror had made his voice almost inaudible, for although he cried "Help! help! good people, help!" as loud as he could, his voice sounded low and feeble even to himself, and no one heard him, no one came.

So once more he took up his lute and played, hoping that its melody might reach farther than his voice could do. And as it happened, the Captain of the Guard, who was strolling round the top of the bear pit, heard the sound, and stopped in amazement to listen.

"This is strange," he muttered to himself. "I have heard of many prodigies, but never of a musical bear." And as he spoke, the officer leant over the low palisading, and bent his head downwards to listen.

And all at once the music ceased, and a plaintive cry for aid arose, and the Captain leant still farther forward and peered down into the den.

And lo! at the bottom he saw Bruin, and cowering in a corner was a form which seemed to be that of a little lad.

Then he hasted away, and summoned some of the guard.

"Hasten, Guilbert and Rauf," he cried. "Hasten, my men; a child, if I mistake not, is down in yonder bear pit, and we must try to bring him up alive."

So the good-natured soldiers hurried, and in a very short time Carlo was drawn by means of ropes up from the pit, and the good people of Nancy came in crowds to see the boy who had lodged on Christmas Eve with Ursus, the public bear, and whom Ursus, strange to say, had not hurt in any way.

And Carlo had a beautiful Christmas Day after all, for the worthy Messire Desmoulins the Mayor of Nancy, took him into his house, and made much of him.

And the little exile felt no longer a wanderer and a stranger when he sat in the Mayor's parlour, by the great stone hearth, on which an immense "Souche de Nöel," or Yuletide log, blazed cheerily, and he played sweet melodies on his lute, and ate rich sugared dainties which Marie Desmoulins, the Mayor's bright-faced little daughter, gave him. And, later on, when Christmas Day was over, when Carlo rested his wearied limbs once more on a bed, a soft, white bed, he thought of his midnight watch with Bruin, and also of the kindness which these citizens of Nancy had shown him, and felt far happier than he had ever expected to be.

There is little more to tell of Carlo.

Only this.

When the King heard of Carlo's marvellous escape, he sent for him to his Court, and the little musician pleased him greatly, and became one of the royal choristers.

But his good fortune did not stop here. As years passed on he advanced more and more in life, and when he grew to be a man, and became Choirmaster, he married pretty Marie, the daughter of the kind Mayor of Nancy, and he never forgot Him to whom he prayed, and who helped him in his extremity.

And in time to come he had children of his own—little boys and girls, who never wearied, on wintry nights or summer afternoons, of hearing how their father had spent Christmas Eve with Bruin.

[Illustration]

Pea Blossom.

_BY ALICE CORKRAN,_

AUTHOR OF "DOWN THE SNOW STAIRS," "MRS. WISHING TO BE," "MARGERY MERTON'S GIRLHOOD," "MEG'S FRIEND," &c.

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