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Title: Fifty-Two Stories For Girls

Editor: Alfred H. Miles

Release date: July 2, 2008 [eBook #25948]
Most recently updated: January 3, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIFTY-TWO
STORIES FOR GIRLS ***

THE KING'S TRAGEDY. [See p. 434.

FIFTY-TWO
STORIES FOR
GIRLS

Edited by
ALFRED H. MILES

NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON & CO.
1912
Published September, 1905
Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF AUTHORS.
EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN MAUD HEIGHINGTON
SARAH DOUDNEY DOROTHY PINHO
ARMAND CAUMONT GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.
ALICE F. JACKSON ROBERT OVERTON
NELLIE HOLDERNESS CLUCAS JOUGHIN
MARGARET WATSON ALBERT E. HOOPER
JENNIE CHAPPELL CHARLES E. PEARCE
MARION DICKEN S. LE SOTGILLE
LUCY HARDY H. G. BELL
MARIE DELBRASSINE THOMAS ARCHER
HELEN BOURCHIER ALFRED G. SAYERS
NORA RYEMAN ROBERT GUILLEMARD
KATE GODKIN F. B. FORESTER
LUCIE E. JACKSON ALFRED H. MILES
AND OTHER WRITERS.

INDEX.

SCHOOL AND HOME.
SUBJECT AUTHOR PAGE
GLORIA DENE'S SCHOOLFELLOWS: Nora Ryeman
I. NARDA: THE NIGHTINGALE " 11
II. ESTELLA: THE HEIRESS " 16
III. MAURA: THE MUNIFICENT " 22
IV. MARGOT: THE MARTYR " 29
V. IRENE: THE SNOW FLOWER " 35
VI. NADINE: THE PRINCESS " 39
MY YEAR AT SCHOOL Margaret Watson 48
THE SILVER STAR Nellie Holderness 57
UNCLE TONE Kate Godkin 67
A NIGHT ON THE ROAD Margaret Watson 77
THE MISSING LETTER Jennie Chappell 83
"THE COLONEL" Marion Dicken 93
NETTIE Alfred G. Sayers 97
THE MAGIC CABINET Albert E. Hooper 103

GIRLHOOD AND YOUTH.
ONLY TIM Sarah Doudney 121
SMITH'S SISTER Robert Overton 139
THE COLONEL'S BOY H. Hervey 148
'TWIXT LIFE AND DEATH Clucas Joughin 155
ROSE'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT Marie E. C. Delbrassine 164
DOLLY HARDCASTLE'S ROSEBUDS Charles E. Pearce 171
A TALE OF SIMLA Dr. Helen Bourchier 177
THE TREVERN TREASURE Lucy Hardy 189
A MEMORABLE DAY Sarah Doudney 196

DORA Alfred H. Miles 202
LITTLE PEACE Nora Ryeman 211
THE STORY OF WASSILI AND DARIA Robert Guillemard 215

PLUCK, PERIL, AND ADVENTURE.
MARJORIE MAY Evelyn Everett-Green 225
Gordon Stables, M.D.,
FOURTH COUSINS 238
R.N.
THE PEDLAR'S PACK Lucie E. Jackson 245
THE UNBIDDEN GUEST F. B. Forester 264
THE WRECK OF THE MAY QUEEN Alice F. Jackson 275
ADRIFT ON THE PACIFIC " 285
A STRANGE VISITOR Maud Heighington 295
THE THIRD PERSON SINGULAR Lucy Hardy 301
"HOW JACK MINDED THE BABY" Dorothy Pinho 307
MY GRANDMOTHER'S ADVENTURE Alfred H. Miles 310
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS EVE Lucie E. Jackson 315
A NIGHT OF HORROR Alfred H. Miles 326
AUNT GRIEVES' SILVER Lucie E. Jackson 329
BILLJIM S. Le Sotgille 341

IN THE WORLD OF FAERY.
THE LEGENDS OF LANGAFFER Armand Caumont
I. THE TINY FOLK OF LANGAFFER " 353
II. THE KINGFISHER " 364
III. CASPAR THE COBBLER " 380
IV. DAME DOROTHY'S DOG " 391
V. THE LITTLE LOCKSMITH " 397

ROMANCE IN HISTORY.
HOW CICELY DANCED BEFORE THE
Thomas Archer 403
KING
A MOTHER OF QUEENS From "Old Romance" 410
THE STORY OF GRIZEL COCHRANE W. R. C. 418

A WIFE'S STRATAGEM Lucy Hardy 427
THE KING'S TRAGEDY Alfred H. Miles 434
THE STRANGER H. G. Bell 439
Lady Nithsdale's
LOVE WILL FIND A WAY 447
Records

SCHOOL AND HOME.

GLORIA DENE'S SCHOOLFELLOWS.

BY NORA RYEMAN.

I.—NARDA: THE NIGHTINGALE.

I.

"Here you are, miss," said the red-faced cabby, putting his head in at the cab
window, "this is Miss Melford's school."
It was a large, many windowed, white house on Hertford Green, in sight of
the famous spires of Silverbridge, and was for some six months to be both
home and school to me, Gloria Dene.
I was late in my arrival, and I was tired, for I had come all the way from
Erlingham in the heart of Norfolk, and moreover, I was hungry, and just a
little homesick, and already wanted to return to the old homestead and to
Uncle Gervase and Aunt Ducie, who had taken the place of my parents.
The cabman gave a loud rat-a-tat with the lion-headed knocker, and in due
course a rosy-faced servant maid opened the door and ushered me in.
Then she preceded me through a broad flagged hall, lit by crimson lamps.
And as I went I heard a sweet and thrilling voice singing,

"Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home."

The words naturally appealed to me, and I exclaimed:

"How lovely! Who is singing?" only to be told that it was Mamselle Narda,
the music mistress.
I thought of the nightingale which sang in our rose bush on summer nights
at home, and found myself wondering what Mamselle was like.
The next day I saw her—Bernarda Torres; she was a brown beauty, with
dark rippling hair, soft dark eyes, and a richly soft complexion, which put
one in mind of a ripe peach on a southern wall.
She was of Spanish extraction, her father (a fruit merchant) hailing from
Granada, her mother from Seville. Narda's path had been strewn with roses,
until a bank failure interrupted a life of happiness, and then sorrows had
come in battalions. Mamselle had really turned her silver notes into silver
coins for the sake of "Home, Sweet Home."
This love of home it was which united Narda and myself. She told me all
about the house at home, about her brother, Carlos, and his pictures, and
maman, who made point lace, and Olla Podrida, and little Nita, who was
douce et belle. And I, in my turn, told her of the thatched homestead near
the Broads, of the bay and mulberry trees, of Aunt Ducie's sweet kind face,
and Uncle Gervase's early silvered hair.
And she called me "little sister," and promised to spend her next vacation
where the heron fishes and the robin pipes in fair and fresh East Anglia.
But one May morning, when the lilacs in our playground were full of
sweet-scented, purple plumes, a bolt fell from the blue. A letter came to
Narda telling her of her mother's failing health, her father's apathy, her
brother's despair.
"It is enough," said Mamselle, "I see my duty! An impresario once told me
that my destiny was to sing in public. I will do it for 'Home, Sweet Home,' I
will be La Narda the singer, instead of Miss Melford's Mamselle. God who
helps the blind bird build its nest will help me to save mine."

II.

There had been the first fall of the snow, and "ye Antiente Citie" looked like
some town in dreamland, or in fairyland, as Miss Melford's boarders
(myself amongst the number) went through its streets and wynds to the
ballad concert (in aid of Crumblebolme's Charity), at which Mamselle, then
La Narda, the cantatrice, was announced to sing. We were naturally much
excited; it seemed, as Ivy Davis remarked, almost as though we were all
going to sing in public.
We had front seats, quite near the tapestried platform from whence we took
note of the audience.
"Look, look!" whispered Milly Reed eagerly. "The Countess of Jesmond,
and the house-party at Coss have come to hear our Mamselle. That dark,
handsome man next the countess is Count Mirloff, the Russian poet. Just
think I——"
What more Milly would have said I really cannot say, for just then there
was a soft clapping of hands, and La Narda came down the crimson steps of
the Justice Room, and advanced to the footlights.
"She's like a fairy queen! She's just too lovely!" said the irrepressible Ivy.
And though Miss Melford shook her head, I am sure she also was of the
same opinion, and was proud of my dear brown nightingale.
The petite figure was robed in white silk, trimmed with frosted leaves and
pink roses, and wore a garland of the same on her dark bright head.

"Tell me, thou bonnie bird,
When shall I marry me?
When three braw gentlemen
Churchward shall carry ye,"

sang the sweet full voice, and we listened entranced. The next song was
"Robin Adair."
Then came an encore, and as Narda acknowledged it, an accident occurred
which (as the newspapers say) might have had a fatal termination.
A flounce of the singer's dress touched the footlights, and the flame began
to creep upwards like a snake of fire.

Narda glanced downward, drew back, and was about to try to crush it out
with her hands, when in less time than it takes to tell it, the Russian
gentleman sprang forward, wrapped his fur-lined coat about her, and
extinguished the flame.
The poet had saved the nightingale, and Miss Melford's romantic girls
unanimously resolved "that he ought to marry her."

III.

And he did shortly after. Our some time music-teacher who was good
enough for any position became a grande dame with a mansion in St.
Petersburg, and a country house in Livania. She went to balls at the Winter
Palace, and was present at all the court ceremonies.
Yet was she still our Narda, she sent us girls presents of Viennese bonbons
and French fruit, bought brother Carlo's paintings, sent petite Nita as a
boarder to Miss Melford's, and studied under a great maestro.
When a wee birdie came into the Russian nest she named it Endora Gloria,
and her happiness and my pride were complete.
Then came a great—a terrible blow. The count, whose opinions were
liberal, was accused of being implicated in a revolutionary rising. He was
cast into prison, and sent to the silver mines to work in the long
underground passages for twenty years.
Ivy Davis, who was very romantic, was grievously disappointed because
the countess returned to her profession instead of sharing her husband's
exile. But there came a day and an hour when she honoured as well as loved
the cantatrice; for she with Heaven's help freed the count, and obtained his
pardon from the Czar—she herself shall tell you how she gained it.
Read the letter she sent to me:—

"Gloria, Alexis is free; he is nursing Endora as I write.

"When the officers took him from me I felt half mad, and knew not where
to go.
"One morning as I knelt by my little one's white bed an inspiration came;
over the mantel was a picture of 'The Good Shepherd,' and I clasped my
hands, and cried aloud:
"'O bon Pasteur, help me to free Thy sheep.'
"And lo, a voice seemed to answer: 'Daughter, use the talent that you have.'
"I rose from my knees knowing what course to pursue. I sought new
opportunities for the display of my one talent, I was more than successful, I
became Narda the prima donna, and won golden guineas and opinions.
"At last came my opportunity. I was to sing at Bayreuth in Wagner's
glorious opera, I was to sing the Swan Song, and the Czar was to be
present.
"The house was crowded, there was row upon row, tier after tier of faces,
but I saw one only—that of the Czar in his box.
"I stood there before the footlights in shining white, and sang my song.
"The heavenly music rose and fell, died away and rose again, and I sang as
I had never done before. I sang for home, love, and child.
"When the curtain fell the Czar sent for me and complimented me
graciously, offering me a diamond ring which I gratefully refused.
"'Sire,' I said, 'I ask for a gift more costly still.'
"'Is it,' he asked, 'a necklace?'
"'No, sire, it is my husband's pardon. Give my little daughter her father
back.'
"He frowned, hesitated, then said that he would inquire into the matter.
"Gloria, he did, God be praised! The evidence was sifted, much of it was
found to be false. The pardon was made out. Your nightingale had sung with

her breast against a thorn, 'her song had been a prayer which Heaven itself
had heard.'"

II—ESTELLA: THE HEIRESS.

Her Christian name Estella Marie, her starry eyes and pale, earnest face,
and her tall, lissom figure were the only beautiful things about Estella Keed.
Everything else, dress, home, appointments, were exceeding plain. For her
grandfather in whose house she lived was, though reputedly wealthy, a
miserly man.
He lived in a large and antique house, with hooded windows, in Mercer's
Lane, and was a dealer in antiques and curios. And his popular sobriquet
was Simon the Saver (Anglicè, miser).
Stella was the only child of his only son, a clever musician, who had allied
himself with a troupe of wandering minstrels, and married a Spaniard
attached to the company, and who, when he followed his wife into the silent
land, bequeathed his little girl to his father, beseeching him to overlook the
estrangement of years, and befriend the orphan child. She inherited her
name Estella from her Spanish mother, but they called her Molly in her new
home—it was part of her discipline.
Simon Keed had accepted, and fulfilled the trust in his own peculiar way.
That is to say, he had sheltered, fed, and clothed Estella, and after some
years' primary instruction in a elementary school, had sent her to Miss
Melford's to complete her studies.
Farther than this he had not gone, for she was totally without a proper
outfit. In summer her patched and faded print frocks presented a pathetic
contrast to the pink and blue cambrics, and floral muslins, of the other girls;
and in winter, when velvets and furs were in evidence, the contrast made by
her coarse plain serge, and untrimmed cape of Irish frieze, was quite as
strong; indeed, her plainness was more than Quakerish, it was Spartan, she
was totally destitute of the knicknacks so dear to the girlish heart, and
though she had grown used to looking at grapes like Reynard in the fable, I

am sure she often felt the sting of her grandfather's needless, almost cruel,
economy. This was evidenced by what was ever after spoken of by us girls
as the garden-party episode.
Near the old city was a quaint and pretty village, one famed in local history
as having in "teacup," Georgian, times been honoured by a visit by Mrs.
Hannah More, who described it as Arcadian.
It had a fine, well-timbered park, full of green hollows in which grew the
"'rath primrose," and which harboured a large, Jacobean mansion, occupied,
at the period of this story, by Dr. Tempest as a Boys' Preparatory School,
and as Mrs. Tempest was an old friend of Miss Melford's, the senior pupils
(both boarders and day scholars) were always invited to their annual
garden- or breaking-up party, which was held in the lovely park.
Stella, as one of the senior girls, was duly invited; but no one deemed that
she would accept the invitation, because her grandfather had been heard to
say that education was one thing, and frivolity another.
"I suppose you won't go to the party," said impulsive Ivy Davis, and Estella
had answered with a darkened face:
"I cannot say. When I'm not here I have to stay in that gloomy old house,
like a mouse in its hole. But if I can go anyhow, Ivy, I shall, you may
depend upon that."
Then we heard no more about the matter until the eventful day, when, to our
surprise, Estella presented herself with the other day scholars, in readiness
to go.
"Look, Gloria, look," said Ivy, in a loud whisper, as we filed through the
hall, "Stella's actually managed to come, and to make herself presentable.
However did she do it?"
"Hush," I whispered back, but, all the same, I also marvelled at the girl's
appearance.
Her heliotrope and white muslin skirt was somewhat faded, it was true, but
still, it was good material, and was pretty. The same could be said of her
cream blouse. The marvel and the mystery lay in hat, necklet, and shoes.

The hat was of burnt straw, broad brimmed, low crowned, and of the
previous summer's fashion. It was simply trimmed with a garland or band
of dull black silk, and large choux of the same, all of which might have
been fresher; but in front was an antique brooch, or buckle, of pale pink
coral and gold, which was at once beautiful and curiously inconsistent with
the rest of the costume. Round Estella's throat was a lovely gold and coral
necklace, and her small, worn shoes boasted coral and gold buckles. She
had got a coral set from somewhere, where and how we all wondered.
Even Miss Melford was astonished and impressed by Estella's unwonted
splendour, for touching the necklet, I overheard her say:
"Very pretty, my dear! Your grandfather, I presume, gave you the set? Very
kind of him!"
Stella, with a flushed face, replied:
"He did not give it, ma'am," and the matter dropped.
Miss Melford and I presumed that Mr. Keed had simply lent his grand-
daughter the articles—which likely enough belonged to his stock of
antiquities—for the day.
It was a delightful fête—one of those bright and happy days which are
shining milestones along the road of life. The peacocks strutted about on the
terrace and made us laugh when they spread out their tails. We ate
strawberries and cream under the elms, played all kinds of outdoor games
on the greensward, and when we were tired rested in the cool, pot-pourri
scented parlours.
I am of opinion that Estella enjoyed herself as much as any of us, though
she became strangely quiet and downcast on our way home. But, as Ivy
truly remarked, it was not to be wondered at; the fairy palace was left
behind, and the rôle of Cinderella awaited her on the morrow.
Upon the day succeeding the party, we broke up. I went home to spend the
vacation with my uncle and aunt, and when I returned to school I found as
usual, on reassembling, that there were a few vacant places, amongst them
that of Estella Keed. I wondered how this was, though I did not presume to
question Miss Melford on the subject; but one autumn morning, when

passing through Mercer's Lane, I came across Estella. She looked shabby
and disconsolate, in her faded gown and worn headgear, and I asked her if
she had been unwell.
"Oh dear no," was the response, "only very dull. I never go anywhere, or
see any one—how can I help being so? I am only Molly now. No one calls
me by my beautiful mother's name, Estella. I want to learn to be a
typewriter, or something, and go and live in a big city, but grandpa says I
must wait, and then he'll see about it! I detest this horrid lane!" she added
passionately.
I looked down the long, mediæval street, with its gabled houses, and then at
the old church tower (round which the birds were circling in the distance),
and replied with truth that it was picturesque, and carried one back into the
storied past.
"I am tired of the past—it's all past at ours—the jewels have been worn by
dead women, the old china, and bric-à-brac, has stood in empty houses! It's
all of the dead and gone. So is the house, all the rooms are old. I should like
to live in a new house."
"Perhaps you want a change?" I said. "Why don't you come back to
school?"
She shook her head, and glanced away from me—up at the old Gothic
church tower, and then said hurriedly:
"I must hurry on now, Gloria—I am wanted—at home."
One December evening not long after, during Miss Melford's hour with us,
at recreation, she said:
"Young ladies, you will be pleased to hear that your old schoolmate, Estella
Keed, returns to us to-morrow."
On the morrow Estella came, but how different was she from the old and
the former Estella!
She wore a suitable and becoming costume of royal blue, and was a
beautiful and pleasant looking girl! Her own natural graces had their own

proper setting. It seemed indeed as if all things had become new to her, as if
she lived and breathed in a fresher and fairer world than of yore!
Perhaps because I had been sympathetic in the hour of trouble, she attached
herself to me, and one day, during recess, she told me why she had been
temporarily withdrawn from school.
"Gloria," she said, "grandfather never gave me his permission to go to the
garden-party—indeed, I never asked for it, for I was quite sure that he
would not give it.
"But I meant to go all the same, and persuaded Mrs. Mansfield, the
housekeeper, to help me. She it was who altered and did up an old gown of
mother's for me to wear. But without the coral set I should not have been
able to go; for, as you know, I had no adornments. I'd often seen them when
on sale and wished for them; but I knew that they would neither be given
nor lent for the party.
"Then Fate, as it seemed, befriended me; my grandfather had to go to
London about some curios on the date fixed for the party, and I determined
to borrow the set and make myself look presentable. All I had to do was to
go to the window and take them out of their satin-lined case.
"I hoped to replace them before my grandfather returned from town, but
when I got home from the fête I found that he had returned by an earlier and
quicker train than he himself had expected to. He looked at me from head to
foot, then touched the necklace and the clasp, and demanded of me sternly
where I had been.
"I was tongue-tied for a few moments, and then I blurted out the truth:
"'Grandfather,' I said, 'I've been to Dr. Tempest's garden-party as one of
Miss Melford's senior girls, and as I didn't want to be different from the
other girls I borrowed the coral set for the day. They are not hurt in the
least.'
"The room seemed going round with me as I spoke, even the dutch cheese
on the supper table seemed to be bobbing up and down.
"At last my grandfather spoke:

"'Take the set off and give them to me,' he said shortly.
"I yielded up the treasures with trembling hands, and when I had done so he
told me I should not return to school, and then added:
"'Go to your room and don't let me hear of this affair again. I fear you are as
fond of finery as your mother was.'
"You know the rest. I did not return to Miss Melford's, and I should not
have been here now but for Dr. Saunders. Soon after the garden-party my
grandfather was taken ill, and the doctor had to be called in. I think he must
have taken pity on me, and must have spoken to my grandfather about me.
Anyhow, my grandfather called me to his bedside one day, and told me that
he knew that he could not live many years longer, and that all he wanted
was to leave me able—after he was gone—to live a good and useful life
without want, and that if he had been too saving in the past, it was all that
my future should be provided for. There was a strange tenderness in his
voice. Strange at least it seemed to me, for I had never heard it there before,
and I put my face down upon the pillow beside him and cried. He took my
hand in his, and the silence was more full of hope and promise than any
words of either could have been. I waited upon him after that, and he
seemed to like to have me about him, and when he got better he told me that
he wished me to return to school and to make the best use of my
opportunities while I had them. He told me that he had decided to make me
an allowance for dress, and that he hoped that I should so use it as to give
him proof before he died that I could be trusted to deal wisely with all that
he might have to leave."
Estella remained at school until I left, and the last time I saw her there she
was wearing the red coral set which had estranged her from her grandfather
as a token of reconciliation; and she told me that the old man's hands
trembled in giving them to her, even more than hers did in giving them up,
as he said to her with tears in his eyes and voice:—
"All that I have is thine."

III.—MAURA: THE MUNIFICENT.

I.
Waste Not, Want Not.

Maura was the most popular girl in the school. She would have been envied
if she had not been so much loved. The reason was that she was amiable as
well as pretty, she had plenty of pocket-money, and was generous to a fault.
If a girl had lost, or mislaid, her gloves, Maura would instantly say, "Oh,
don't make a fuss, go to my glove-box and take a pair." Or if a pupil's stock
of pin-money ran out before the end of the quarter, she would slip a few
shillings into her hand, merrily whispering:

"For every evil under the sun,
There's either a remedy, or there's none;
I've found one."

Maura was heiress of Whichello-Towers, in the north, with the broad lands
appertaining. She was an orphan, her nearest relative being her uncle, a
banker, who was her guardian, and somewhat anxious about his charge. So
anxious indeed that he sometimes curtailed her allowance, in order to teach
her prudence.
"Maura, my dear, waste is wicked even in the wealthy; you need wisdom as
well as wealth," said Miss Melford to her one day. And indeed she did, for
sometimes the articles she bought for others were singularly extravagant
and inappropriate.
When Selina, the rosy-cheeked cook, was married from the school, the
teachers and pupils naturally gave her wedding presents. My gift took the
form of a teapot, Margot's of a dozen of fine linen handkerchiefs, and the
others (with the exception of Maura) of things useful to a country gardener's
wife.
Maura bought a dress of heliotrope silk, elaborately trimmed with white
lace, and as the bride truly observed, "Fit for a princess."
But the heiress of Whichello had a lodging in all our hearts, and when I, one
midwinter morning, saw her distraught with a troubled look in her soft
brown eyes, I was grieved, and begged her to confide in me.

"If I do, you cannot help me, Gloria," said Maura. "The fact is, I'm short of
money."
"Not an unusual state of affairs," rose to my lips, but the words changed as I
uttered them.
"Poor Maura! Surely you have a little left?"
"Only these," and she drew out two shillings.
"Well, you must draw on my little bank, until your uncle sends your next
remittance," was my reply.
"It isn't any use. Gloria, you are nice, and sweet, but your money would
only be a drop in the ocean! I'm not to have any money all next quarter.
This letter came this morning. Read it."
I did. It was a letter from Maura's guardian, who informed her that he
desired to give her an object lesson in thrift, and, therefore, would hold her
next remittance—which had already been anticipated—over. He also
intimated that any applications to him would be useless.
"Well, things might be worse," was my comment, as I returned the letter.
"You must let me be your banker and must economise, and be prudent till
the next cheque arrives."
"Yes, I will—but——"
"But what, Maura?"
"I'm in debt—dreadfully in debt. See."
With this she drew some papers from her pocket, and handed them to me.
One by one I looked them over. The first was a coal dealer's bill for a fairly
large load of coal.
"That," said Maura, "was for old Mrs. Grant, in Black-Cross Buildings. She
was so cold, it made me quite creepy to look at her."
I opened another. This was from a firm of motor-car and cycle dealers, and
was the balance due upon a lady's cycle. I was perplexed.

"Why, you said you never intended to cycle," I said, with amazement, "and
now you have bought this Peerless bicycle!"
"Yes, but it was not for myself," she said, "I gave it to Meg Morrison to ride
to and from her work in the City! Trams and 'buses don't run to Kersley, and
it was a terrible walk for the poor girl."
"Could not Meg have bought one on the instalment system for herself?"
"Why, Gloria, how mean you are! She has seven brothers and sisters, and
four of them are growing boys, with appetites! The butcher and baker claim
just all she earns."
I opened the third yellow envelope, and was surprised to see a bill with: To
Joseph Greenaway, Furniture Dealer, one child's mahogany cot £1 10s,
upon it.
"Maura," I cried, "this is the climax. Why ever did you buy a baby's cot—
and how came Mr. Greenaway to trust you? You are only a minor—an
infant in law!"
"Oh, do stop," said Maura; "you're like Hermione or Rosalind, or—
somebody—who put on a barrister's gown in the play——"
"Portia, I suppose you mean?"
"Yes, Portia. Mr. Greenaway let me have the cot because I once bought a
little blue chair from him, for Selina's baby, for which I paid cash down."
It is impossible to describe the triumphant manner in which she uttered
"cash down," it was as if she had said, I paid the national debt.
"Now," she proceeded, "I'll tell you why I bought it—I was one day passing
a weaver's house in Revel Lane, when I saw a young woman crying bitterly
but silently at the bottom of one of the long entries or passages. 'I fear you
are in trouble' I said. 'Is any one ill?'
"She shook her head. She couldn't speak for a moment, then whispered:
"'Daisie's cot has followed the loom!'
"I asked her what following the loom meant.

"'O young lady,' she replied, 'the weaver's trade has been mortle bad lately,
and last week I sold Daisie's cot for the rent—and when the broker took it
up I thought my heart would break; but hearts don't break, missie, they just
go on achin'.'
"Daisie was her only child, and the cot was a carved one, an heirloom in
which several generations of the family had slept!
"I had only a florin in my purse, but I gave her that, took her name and
address and walked on.
"But the woman haunted me. All the rest of the day I seemed to see her
weeping in the long, grey street, and to hear her sobbing above the sound of
the music in the music-room, and when I woke up in the middle of the
night, I thought I would go to Mr. Greenaway the next day, and ask him to
let me have a cot, and I'd pay him out of my next quarter's pocket-money.
The very next day he sent the crib—'From an unknown friend.' That's all,
Gloria! Now, what shall I do?"
"Go and tell Miss Melford all about it," said I. "Come, now."
Maura shrank from the ordeal, but in the end I persuaded her to accompany
me to the cedar parlour, where the Lady Principal was writing.
A wood fire burned cheerily on the white marble hearth, and the winter
sunlight fell brightly on the flower-stand full of flowers—amidst which the
piping bullfinch, Puffball, hopped about.
Miss Melford, with her satin-brown hair, and golden-brown silk dress, was
a pleasant figure to look upon as she put down her pen, and said sweetly:
"Well, girls, what is it?"
Maura drew back and was silent, but I was spokeswoman for her; and when
I concluded my story there was silence for a few moments.
Then Miss Melford rose, and putting an arm round Maura's shoulders,
gravely, but at the same time tenderly, in her own sweet way, pointed out
the moral of the situation, and then added:

"You shall accompany me to see the people who have generously (if
unwisely) allowed you to have the goods, and I will explain matters, and
request them to wait."
Maura was a quiet, subdued girl for a time after this, but a few days later
she knocked timidly at Miss Melford's door. Miss Melford was alone, and
bade her enter. Once in the room Maura hesitated, and then said:
"Please, Miss Melford, may I ask a favour?"
"Certainly, my dear! What is it?"
"If I can find any right and honourable way of earning the money to pay the
bills with, may I do so?"
"Assuredly," said Miss Melford, "if you will submit your plan to my
approval; but, Maura, I am afraid you will find it is harder to earn money
than you think."
"Oh yes, I know money is hard to get, and very, very easy to spend. What a
queer world it is!" was Maura's comment, as she left the room.

II.
The Bal Masqué.

There was to be a Children's Fancy Dress Ball—a Bal Masqué, to which all
Miss Melford's senior pupils were going, and little else was talked of weeks
before the great event was due!
Margot was to go as Evangeline, and I was to be Priscilla the Puritan
Maiden, but none of us knew in what character Maura Merle was to appear.
It was kept secret.
Knowing the state of her finances, both Miss Melford and the girls offered
to provide her costume, but she gratefully and firmly rejected both
proposals, saying that she had made arrangements for a dress, and that it
would be a surprise.
And indeed it was, for when we all assembled in the white drawing-room,
in readiness for our escort to the Town Hall, Maura was what newspapers

style "the cynosure of all eyes."
She wore a frock of pale blue silk! and all over it in golden letters were the
words: "Sweets from Fairyland."
Her waving golden hair was adorned by a small, white satin, Trigon hat,
ornamented with a blue band, on which were the words: "Fairy Queen."
From her waist depended an elaborate bonbonnière, her sash was dotted all
over with imitation confections of various kinds, her blue satin shoes had
rosettes of tiny bonbons, and her domino suggested chocolate cream.
There were of course loud exclamations of—"What does this mean,
Maura?"
"Why, you are Fairy Queen, like the Fairyland Confectioner's Company's
advertisements!" but all Maura said was:
"Girls, Miss Melford knows all about it, and approves."
At this juncture, Miss Melford's voice was heard saying: "Follow me, my
dears," and we all filed out of the room, and down the stairs to the carriages
in waiting. The Town Hall was beautifully decorated, and the costumes
were delightful. There were cavaliers, sweeps, princesses, and beggar-
maids, but no one attracted more notice than Fairy Queen, who instead of
dancing glided about amongst the company, offering fondants and caramels
from her big bonbonnière.
The young guests laughed as they ate the sweetmeats, and rallied her upon
the character she had chosen.
"Why have you left Fairyland?" asked a musketeer, and Fairy Queen
replied:
"Because I want you all to have fairy fare."
"Won't you dance, Fairy Queen?" asked Bonnie Prince Charlie,
persuasively, but Fairy Queen curtsied, and answered:
"I pray you excuse me, I'm on duty for the Company in Wayverne Square."

I guessed that there was something behind all this, and the sequel proved
my conjecture true.
For when the Bal Masqué was a golden memory, Maura came to me with a
little bundle of receipted bills in her hand, saying:
"Look, Gloria, "Fairy Queen" paid these. I was with Ivy in a confectioner's
one day when the mistress told us that a member of the newly started firm
of sweetmeat manufacturers, who traded as the Fairyland Company, had
said that he wished he had a daughter who could go to the ball as Fairy
Queen, and exploit his goods.
"I thought to myself: 'Well, Maura Merle could do it,' and I went to the
Company and offered to undertake the duty, subject, of course, to Miss
Melford's permission.
"They said they would give me a handsome sum, and provide the dress, and
I wrote to Uncle Felix, and begged him to let me have his sanction.
"His answer was: 'The money will be honestly earned, earn it.'
"So I did! The Company were much pleased with me, and here are the
receipted bills. I need hardly tell you how much I enjoyed being what a
newsboy in the street called me, 'The Little Chocolate Girl!'"

IV.—MARGOT: THE MARTYR.

I.
At School.

"Mademoiselle Margot, Professor Revere's daughter, who has come to share
your English studies, girls," said Miss Melford, presenting a tall, clear-
complexioned, sweet-faced girl one May morning on the opening of school.
The new-comer bowed gracefully, and then took a vacant seat next to me,
and we all took good-natured notice of her, for her black frock was worn for
her newly lost mother, and her father, our popular French master, was an

exile, who for a supposed political offence had forfeited his estate, near La
Ville Sonnante, as the old city of Avignon is often called. Margot would
have been une grande demoiselle in her own country had not monsieur
fallen under the displeasure of a powerful cabinet minister during a change
of régime, and Miss Melford's girls were of opinion that the position would
have suited her, and she the position.
Mademoiselle Margot soon interested us all, not only in herself, but in her
antecedents and prospects. She was never tired of talking of her old
associations, and that with an enthusiasm that aroused our sympathy and
inspired our hopes.
"Picture to yourself," she would say, "Mon Désir on a summer's day, the
lawns spreading out their lovely carpet for the feet, the trees waving their
glorious foliage overhead, the birds singing in the branches, the bees
humming in the parterre, and the water plashing in the fountains. Maman
loved it, as I did, and the country people loved us as we loved them. Maman
used to say, 'A little sunshine, a little love, a little self-denial, that is life.'
Even had we been poor there, walked instead of ridden, ate brown bread in
lieu of white, we should have been amongst our own people. But now——"
Then we would all crowd round her and spin romances about the Prince
Charming who would come her way, and present her with Mon Désir, with
all its dear delights, and with it—his own hand.
Margot's failing was a too sensitive pride. She was proud both of and for the
professor. She could not forget that he was, as she would say, un grand
gentilhomme, that his ancestors had fought with Bayard and Turenne, had
been gentlemen-in-waiting to kings, had wedded women who were ladies of
the court.
I discovered this slight fault of my darling's on one occasion in this way: as
we girls were going our usual noonday walk, we came to a large, red-brick
house, standing alone in its own grounds; it was not a cottage of gentility,
but a place which an estate agent would have described as a desirable
mansion. Everything about it, mutely, but eloquently, said money. Big
glass-houses, big coach-houses, big plate glass windows, spacious gardens,
trim lawns, etc., etc., etc.

As the school filed past, an elaborate barouche drew up to the iron gateway,
and a lady, who was about entering it, stared at our party, and then looked
keenly at Margot. She was a pretty woman, blonde, with a mass of fluffy,
honey-coloured hair, and a cold, pale blue pair of eyes. Her costume was of
smooth, blue-grey cloth, the flowing cloak lined with ermine, and her hat a
marvel of millinery; indeed, she presented a striking contrast to the
professor's daughter in her plain, neat black coat and frock, and small toque,
with its trimming of white narcissi, and I cannot say that I was favourably
impressed by the unknown, she was far too cold and purse-proud looking to
please me.
After a close and none too polite scrutiny, the lady bowed, approached, and
held out her hand.
"Good-morning, Miss Revere," she said graciously, yet with more than a
suspicion of patronage, "I trust the professor is well," and without waiting
for an answer, "and your mother? We have been so busy entertaining, that I
have been quite unable to call, or send! However, tell her that I am going to
send for her to Bellevue, the very first day I'm alone, the very first!"
We two girls were alone (the rest having gone on with Fräulein Schwartze),
and there was silence for a moment, during which the lady turned toward
her well-appointed carriage; then Margot spoke, with some asperity, though
I heard the tears in her silvery voice.
"Mrs. Seawood," she said, "there is no more need to trouble; maman has
gone where no one will be ashamed of her because she was poor."
The lady turned a little pale, and expressed herself as shocked, and then,
having offered some cold condolences, spoke to the coachman; and as we
passed on we heard the quick rattle of the horses' hoofs, as the barouche
rolled down the long drive.
There are times when silence is golden, and this was one! I did not speak
until we came to a five-barred gate, on the topmost rung of which Margot
laid her arms, bent her head, and sobbed like a little child.
I put my arm round her neck to comfort her.
"Margot, chérie," I whispered, "tell me why you weep."

It appeared that the professor had been used to teach the little delicate son
of the purse-proud lady, and that he had taken great interest in the little
fellow both on account of his backwardness and frail health.
"After he died," said Margot, "his mother seemed grateful for these small
kindnesses, and called upon us. Sometimes she sent the carriage for maman
to spend a few hours at Bellevue, but always when the weather was
unpleasant. Then, you see, I used to go to the Seawoods for my mother, take
bouquets of violets, Easter eggs, and other small complimentary tokens of
regard, and madame would exclaim, 'How sweet!' or 'How lovely!' but
always in a patronising manner. I only told the 'How sweet!' and 'How
beautiful!' to mother, because she used to look wistfully at me, and say how
glad she was that I had some English friends.
"Once, I remember, I was passing Bellevue at night with papa; it was a
cold, January evening, with snow falling, and we shivered a little. They
were giving a grand party, the house was lit up like an enchanted palace,
and papa (who is often as sweetly simple as Don Quixote) said:
"'I cannot understand why your friends have overlooked you, petite, you
could have worn the little grey frock with blue trimmings, eh?'
"They never understood how hollow a friendship it was. They could not
realise that others could display a meanness of which they themselves were
incapable, and I suppose it was only my own proud heart, less free from the
vanity of human weakness than theirs, which made me detect and resent it;
and so I had to endure the misery of this proud patronage and let my parents
think I was enjoying the friendship of love. To be proud and dependent,
Gloria, is to be poor indeed. But I must conquer my pride, if only that I may
conquer my poverty, and as Miss Melford told us at scripture this morning,
he that conquers his own proud heart is greater than he that taketh a city."
Then she linked her arm in mine, and said:
"The Good God has allowed me to become poor, but he has given me one
talent, I can paint, and if only for papa's sake I must overcome evil with
good and try to win a victory over myself."

II.
The Palm-Bearers.

Miss Melford, and a chosen party of the senior girls (of whom I was one),
stood in our beautiful Art Gallery attentively studying a water colour on the
line. The picture was numbered 379 in the catalogue, was called "Palm-
Bearers," and was painted by Miss Margot Revere! Our Margot, the girl
who had been my classmate, whom I had loved as a sister. The scene
portrayed was a procession of early Christians entering an Eastern city at
Eastertide. There were matrons and maids, golden-haired children, and
white-haired men, all bearing green palm branches, under an intense,
cerulean sky.
"Well done, Margot," said Miss Melford softly, with a suspicious dimness
in her eyes, and there was a general chorus of approval from all beholders.
Margot, who was much older than I, had left school long since, had studied,
worked, copied in the great Art Galleries, exhibited, and sold her works.
She was then in Rome with her father, who had become blind, and I had at
that moment a long letter from her in my bag, as I stood looking at her
picture. In one passage of it she had written: "the girl with the crown of
white roses in my last painting is my little Gloria, my girl comrade, who
consoled me when I was sad, who watched next my pillow when I was sick,
and when sad memories made me cry at night crept to me through the long
dormitory and knelt beside me, like a white-robed ministering angel.
Apropos of palms, mama was a palm-bearer; I must win one before I look
on her dear, dear face." As I thought on these words, Miss Melford's voice
speaking to Gurda broke in on my thoughts.
"Dear, dear, how extremely like to Gloria is that figure in the middle of
Margot's painting!"
"Of course, Miss Melford, Margot will have sketched it from her. She was
her chum, her soul's sister."
"Her soul's sister!" Those three words went with me through the gallery;
into the sculpture room, amidst white marble figures, into the room full of
Delia Robbia and majolica ware, everywhere!

Even when we descended the flight of steps, and came into the great white
square, I seemed to hear them in the plashing of the fountains.

III.
The Rain of Fire.

It was August, and rain had fallen on the hot, parched earth.
The bells in the church tower were ringing a muffled peal, and as I listened
to the sad, sweet music, I thought of Margot, lonely Margot, who had seen
her father laid under the ilex trees, and then gone to visit a distant relative at
Château Belair in the West Indies. It was a strange coincidence, but as I
thought of her the servant brought in a card, bearing the name, M. Achille
Levasseur, beneath which was pencilled:
"Late of Château Belair, and cousin of the late Mademoiselle Margot
Revere."
So Margot was dead, had gone to join her loved ones where there are no
distinctions between rich and poor.
Stunned, and half incredulous, I told the maid to show him in, and in a few
minutes a tall, dark, foreign looking man stood in the bright, flower-scented
room which (it being recess), I occupied in Miss Melford's absence.
I rose, bowed, and asked him to be seated, then, with an effort, said:
"M'sieu, I am Gloria, Margot's chum, and chosen sister. Tell me about her."
The story was a short one, we had neither of us a desire to dwell upon the
details. The island had been subject to the fury rain of a quenchless volcano.
Whole villages had been overwhelmed and buried in the burning lava, and
hundreds had met with a fiery death. In the midst of the mad confusion,
Margot's calm presence and example inspired the strong, reassured the
terrified, aided the feeble, and helped many on the way to safety. How many
owed their lives to her, her cousin could not say, but that it was at the cost
of her own, was only too terribly true. She had helped her cousin's family
on to the higher ground, which ensured safety from the boiling lava, only to
discover that one little one had been left behind peacefully sleeping in her

cot, the little baby who had been christened Gloria at Margot's desire in
memory of me. It was a terrible moment to all but Margot, and to her it was
the moment of a supreme inspiration. She dashed down the hill before she
could be stayed, though the ground shook under her feet, and the burning
sea of fiery rain was pouring down the valley below. She reached the house
and seized the infant, and started with frenzied speed to ascend the hill
again. Her cousin, who had seen to the safety of the others of his family,
had now started out to meet her. They saw each other and hurried with all
the speed they could to meet. Within touch a terrific explosion deafened
them as the father seized his child, and Margot, struck by a boulder belched
from the throat of the fierce volcano, sank back into the fiery sea.
As M. Levasseur ceased, there came through the open window the silvery
sound of the minster bells. They were playing the lovely air,

Angels ever bright and fair,
Take, O take, me to your care.

It came to me that they had taken Margot in a chariot of fire, and I seemed
to see her in an angel throng with a palm branch in her hand.
My favourite trinket is a heart-shaped locket, containing a lock of dark
brown hair, intermixed with golden threads. It is both a souvenir, and a
mascot; for the hair is from the head of my girl chum Margot.

V.—IRENE: THE SNOW FLOWER.

I.
Bedfellows.

Amongst Miss Melford's intimate friends, when I was a boarder at her
school, was a silvery-haired, stately lady, known as Mrs. Dace, who in her
early life had been gouvernante to the Imperial children at the court of the
Czar. Her old friends and pupils wrote to her frequently, and she still took a
keen interest in the Slav, and in things Slavonic.

When her Russian friends—the Petrovskys—came to England, they left
their youngest child, Irene, as a pupil at Miss Melford's school, to pursue
her education while they travelled in Western Europe for a while.
Irene Petrovsky was a pretty little thing, with flaxen hair and clear blue
eyes, and we called her the Snow Flower, after that beautiful Siberian plant
which blooms only in midwinter. I have never forgotten her first appearance
at the school. When Miss Melford led her into the classroom we all looked
up at the small figure in its plain white cloth frock trimmed with golden
sable, and admired the tiny fair curls which clustered round her white brow.
She made a grand court curtsey, and then sat silently, like a wee white
flower, in a corner.
We elder pupils were made guardians of the younger ones in Miss Melford's
school, and it was my duty as Irene's guardian to take her to rest in the little
white nest next to mine in the long dormitory. In the middle of the first
night I was disturbed by a faint sobbing near me, and I sat up to listen. The
sobs proceeded from the bed of the little Russian girl, and I found she was
crying for her elder sister, who, she said, used to take her in her arms and
hold her by the hand until she fell asleep. A happy thought came to me; my
white nest was larger than hers. So I bade her creep into it, which she
readily did, and nestled up to me, like a trembling, affrighted little bird,
falling at last into a calm, sweet sleep.
From that time forward we two were firm friends, and the girls used to call
the Little Russ, Gloria's shadow.
She was very grateful, and I in my turn grew to love her dearly; so dearly
that when her father, the count, came to take her home, in consequence of
the death of her mother, I felt as if I had lost a little sister.
Ever after this our little snow flower was a fragrant memory to me. I often
thought of her, and wondered as I watched the white clouds moving across
the summer sky, or the silver moon shining in the heavens, whether she too
was looking out upon the same fair scene from the other side the sea and
thinking of her some time sister of Miss Melford's school.

II.
After Many Days.

Some years after I had left the school financial difficulties beset my uncle's
affairs. Aunt Ducie died in the midst of them, and Uncle Gervase did not
long survive. Our household gods went under the auctioneer's hammer, our
beautiful home became the home of strangers, and I went to live in an
obscure quarter of a distant town. My means being exceeding small, I took
rooms in a small house in a semi-rural suburb, and from thence began to
look for work for pen and pencil. I had learned to draw, and had succeeded
in one or two small attempts at story telling, and with my pen and pencil for
crutches, and with youth and hope on my side, I started out with nervous
confidence upon the highway of fame.
Cherry-Tree Avenue was a long, narrow street within a stone's throw of the
grim, grey castellated towers of the county gaol, and the weekly tenants
who took the small, red-brick houses were continually changing.
Facing us was No. 3, Magdala Terrace, a house which was empty for some
weeks, but one April evening a large van full of new furniture drove up to
it, followed by a respectable looking man and woman of the artisan class,
who soon began to set the house in order. Before sleep had fallen on the
shabby street a cab drove up to No. 3, and from it stepped a woman, tall,
slight, and closely veiled. I had been to the pillar box to post an answer to
an advertisement, and it happened that I passed the door of the newly let
house as the cab drew up. Without waiting to be summoned, the trim young
woman came out to welcome the new-comer, and said in French:
"Madame, the place is poor, but clean, and quiet, and," lowering her voice,
"fitted for observation."
In spite of my own anxieties I wondered who the stranger could be, and
why the little house was to be an observatory. Then I remembered the
vicinity of the big gaol, and thought that madame might have an interest in
one of the black sheep incarcerated there.
Very soon strange rumours began to circulate amongst the dwellers in the
avenue. The bright young woman was madame's foster sister; madame
herself was of high degree, a countess, or one of even nobler rank,
travelling in disguise; the quiet, dark young man, her foster sister's husband,
was a woodcarver, who was out of work and only too glad to serve the
foreign lady, who out of generous pity had come to stay with them.

I, of course, gave no credence to these seemingly absurd reports, but, all the
same, I was aware that there was a mystery at No. 3. The lady was young,
beautiful, and distinguished looking, she had dark, pathetic, haunting eyes,
which reminded me forcibly of other eyes I had seen, but when and where I
could not recall; and though her dresses were dark, they were chic, the word
Paris was writ plain on all her toques.
Madame made no friends, and it was clear from the first that she desired to
be undisturbed, at any rate by her neighbours. Every now and again there
were visitors at No 3, but these were strangers, foreign looking visitors,
cloaked, swarthy and sombre men who came and went, one of whom I
overheard say in French as he flicked the ash from his cigar: "Chut! the rat
keeps in his hole, he will not stir."
At Maytime, in the early gloaming, the foreign lady and I met in the narrow
street.
We met face to face, and passed each other with a slight bow of recognition;
a moment after I heard soft, hurried footfalls, and the strange lady was by
my side.
She held out an envelope addressed to me, saying:
"Pardon me, if I mistake not, you dropped this. Is it not so?"
I thanked her, and took the letter, saying:
"It is mine, and I should have troubled had I lost it."
This little incident broke down our old-time reserve, and saying:
"I go to-morrow," she placed a bunch of amber roses she was carrying in
my hand. I thanked her, and asked by what name I might remember her?
"As Nadine," she whispered softly. "I need not ask you yours."
The mention of the name electrified me. Here was I bidding farewell to
Nadine, whose little sister Irene, our sweet snow flower, I had loved and
lost at the old school far away.

Nadine noticed my excitement, and putting her finger to her lips, cautioned
me to silence. But I was not to be denied.
"Irene?" I said in a whisper, "Irene, where is Irene?"
"Hush!" she said, taking me by the arm and drawing me in at the open
doorway of No. 3. "Speak of it not again. Irene fell a victim to our cruel
Russian laws, and lies beside her husband among the snow tombs of
Siberia."
The next morning the strange dark house was empty. The woodcarver and
his wife, and the beautiful Nadine, had vanished with the shadows of the
night.

VI.—NADINE: THE PRINCESS.

I.
Whichello Towers.

It was between the lights. I was looking down the dingy street from behind
the curtains of my little window at the postman who was working his way
slowly from side to side delivering his messages of hope and fear, and was
wondering whether I was among those to whom he bore tidings of joy or
sorrow. I had few correspondents, and no expectations, and so it was with
surprise that I saw him ultimately turn in at our little garden gate and place
a letter in our box.
I was not long in breaking the seal, and it was with real delight and surprise
that I discovered that it was from my old schoolfellow, the generous and
sometimes extravagant Maura. It ran thus:
"Whichello Towers,
October 3rd.
"My dear absurd little Gloria,—

"Why have you hidden away from your friends so long? Was it pride, self-
styled dignity? Never mind, I have found you out at last, and I want you to
join our house-party here. We have some interesting people with us of
whom you can make pencil sketches and pen pictures (they call them
cameos or thumbnails, do they not?). Amongst them are the beautiful
Princess Milontine, who wrote, 'Over the Steppes,' and the famous Russian
General, Loris Trakoff.
"The change will do you good. Name the day and time of your arrival, and I
will meet you at the station. There are surprises in store for you, but you
must come if you would realise them.
"Your affectionate Maura."
I put by the missive, and meditated over the pros and cons. My wardrobe
would need replenishing, and I had none too much money to spend. I could
manage this, however, but there arose another question.
I was a worker—would it do me harm to disport myself in the flowery
mead with the butterflies? Should I feel a distaste for the bread earned by
labour and pain after the honey placed, effortless, on my plate?
So much for the cons. The pros were these:
Black, being most inexpensive in a smoky town, was my wear, relieved by
a few touches of blue. And I should not go as a butterfly, but as a quiet
worker in my dark things. I need only buy a new walking costume, and a
fresh dinner dress. The costume difficulty was disposed of. Then again, I
had been without a day's change for five years; and here was the prospect of
one I should enjoy. The pros had the victory, I went.
I arrived at the station in the gloaming, when twilight veiled the everlasting
hills, and found two figures waiting on the narrow platform.
One of these had a fresh, fair, bonnie face, framed in hair of a golden
brown, and I knew her for Maura Merle, my old schoolfellow, the lady of
Whichello Towers. The other was darker, taller, and the very dark blue eyes
had a pensive expression, she could have posed as a study for Milton's Il
Pensoroso, and I did not recognise her for an instant, and then I exclaimed:
"Not—not 'Stella."

"Yes, 'Stella," said Maura. Our own beautiful Estella and the miser's heiress
came forward and kissed my first surprise away. As she did so I noticed that
she was wearing the beautiful coral set which had wrought the tragedy of
her school days.
We had naturally much to say to each other, and as we walked towards
Whichello Towers together, Maura said:
"You have worked and suffered, Gloria, since we were last together. You
look thoughtful, are graver, and there are violet circles under your eyes,
which used to be so merry."
"Yes," I said, "I've had to fight the battle of life for myself since I left
school, but it makes the more welcome this reunion with my old
schoolfellows."
"Speaking of them," interposed Maura, "we have Princess Milontine staying
with us—little Irene's sister—I left her doing the honours on my behalf
when I came to meet you."
This then was the second surprise in store for me. Neither of my
companions had the slightest idea how great a surprise it was.
Naturally, we had much to talk of during our walk up to the Towers, Miss
Melford had passed away, and one or two of my old companions had
followed her across the border. Irene was, of course, one of them, but I took
the news of her death as though I had not heard it before.
I had not heard of Miss Melford's death previously, and the angel of
memory came down and troubled the waters of my soul, so I was silent for
a time.
The silence was broken by Maura, saying:
"There is something painful, if not tragical, connected with Irene's death, of
which the princess refuses to speak; so the subject is never mentioned to
her." And then, as if to change the subject, she added, "I have named my
little daughter Cordelia after Miss Melford, but we call her Corrie."
As she spoke we came in sight of The Towers—a large, four-winged
mansion, with pepper box turrets, oriel windows, a square lawn, and many

tree-lined walks.
"Home," said Maura, and in a few minutes I found myself in the large warm
hall, bright with firelight, and sweet with autumn flowers.
Standing by a table, and turning over the leaves of a book, stood a graceful
woman in fawn and cream, who turned round upon our entrance, saying:
"There is tea on the way, you will take some?"
"Thank you, princess, yes, directly we come down," said Maura, and then
she added: "See, I have brought an old friend to see you, Gloria, Princess
Milontine."
The foreign lady held out her hand, and as I took it I found myself almost
involuntarily murmuring, "Nadine." For the dark pathetic eyes of the
Russian princess were those of the mysterious foreigner who had lodged in
Cherry-Tree Avenue. She kissed me (foreign fashion) on both cheeks, and
as she did so whispered: "Hush! let the dead past sleep."
Wondering much, I held my peace and went to inspect the sunshine of
Whichello Towers, the pretty dimpled Corrie; and though I forgot the
incident during the evening, I remembered it when I found myself in my
own room.
Why had Nadine lived in the mean street with the so-called woodcarver and
his wife? She was a widow, true, but widows of rank do not usually lodge in
such humble places for pleasure. Then again, what was the mystery
attaching to Irene? Would the tangled skein ever be unravelled? Time would
show.
Whichello Towers was more than a great house, it was a home, a northern
liberty hall, surrounded by woods and big breezy moors. There was
something for every one in this broad domain. A fine library full of rare
editions of rare books, a museum of natural history specimens, a gallery of
antiquities, a lake on which to skate or row, preserves in which to shoot, a
grand ball-room with an old-world polished floor, a long corridor full of
pictures and articles of vertu, and a beautiful music-room.

Princess Nadine and I were much together, we talked of her little sister's
school-days, but never of her latter ones, the subject was evidently tabooed.
General Trakoff (a stern, military man who had once been governor of the
penal settlement of O——) was evidently devoted to the beautiful Russ,
and I found myself hoping that she would not become "Madame la
Générale," for though the general was the very pink of politeness, I could
not like him.
I had spent a happy fortnight at the Towers when the incident occurred
which will always remain the most vivid in my memory. A sudden and
severe frost had set in. All the trees turned to white coral, the lake was
frozen stone hard. There were naturally many skating parties organised, and
in these Nadine and I generally joined. One morning, after we had been
skating for nearly half an hour, the princess averred herself tired, and said
she would stand out for a time. The general declared that he would also rest
awhile, and the two left the lake together, and stood watching the skaters at
the edge of the pine wood.
By-and-by I too grew a little weary, and thought I would go for a stroll by
myself through the woods I loved so much. The air was fresh and keen,
squirrels jumped about in the trees, and the storm-cock sang blithely.
Through an opening in the glade I saw the princess and the general chatting
en tête-à-tête.
As I came up the former was saying, in a tone of earnest raillery:
"Now, tell me, general, is there nothing you regret doing, or having allowed
to be done, when you were administrator of O——?"
She spoke with a strange, almost tragic, earnestness, and when her
companion replied:
"No, on my honour, princess."
She bowed gravely. A moment later, with a careless laugh, she opened a
gold bonbonnière full of chocolate caramels, and held it temptingly towards
him.

He hesitated, and as he did so I put my arm through the branches, and with
a playful:
"By your leave, princess," attempted to help myself.
Nadine started, and closed the box with a snap, a strange pallor coming over
her white, set face. The general looked gravely at her, and then, raising his
hat, with a "Till we meet again," walked leisurely away.
I must own to being slightly offended, I was childishly fond of chocolate,
and the act seemed so inexplicably discourteous. We walked to the house in
silence, neither of us speaking, until we reached the side entrance. Here the
princess paused by the nail-studded oaken door, and said:
"There will come a day when things done in secret will be declared upon
the housetops, then (if not before) you will know the secret of the gold
bonbonnière. Say, 'Forgiven, Nadine.'"
And I said it with my hand in hers.
How glad I was afterwards that I had done so.

II.
The Passing of Nadine.

Throughout the great house of Whichello Towers there was a hush. Soft-
footed servants went to and fro, all the guests save Estella and I went away
with many condolences. The Princess Nadine was passing away in the room
overlooking the pine woods. She had been thrown from her horse whilst
hunting with the Whichello hounds, and the end was not far off.
I was sitting in the library with a great sadness in my heart, when the door
opened, and Canon Manningtree, the white-haired rector of Whichello,
came into the room.
"Miss Dene," he said gravely, "in the absence of a priest of the Greek
Church, I have ministered to Princess Milontine. She is going to meet a
merciful Saviour who knows her temptations, and the singular
circumstances in which she has been placed. She desires to see you. Do not

excite her. Speak to her of the infinite love of God. Will you please go to
her now."
Weeping, I went.
Sitting beside the sufferer was Maura, who rose when I came in, and left us
two alone, save for that unseen Angel who calls us to the presence of our
God.
The princess looked at me with her beautiful wistful eyes, as she had looked
when she gave me the amber roses in the narrow street.
"Gloria, little sister, I am going to tell how Irene died."
"No, no, not if it distresses you."
"I would rather tell you. Listen! I have not much time to speak. As you
know, we are of a noble Russian family, and Irene and I were the only
children. I was ten years older than Irene, and was educated in France; she
came to England, and was your schoolmate!
"I was passionately fond of the child I had seen an infant lying in her pink-
lined cot, and when she came out and married Prince Alex Laskine, I prayed
that God's sunshine might light on my darling's head. Then, I myself
married, and travelled with my husband in all kinds of strange, out-of-the-
way places; in one of which he died, and I came back to St. Petersburgh, a
childless, lonely widow!
"But there was no Irene; her husband had been implicated in a plot, and had
been sent to O——, one of the most desolate places in Siberia, and my
sister had voluntarily accompanied him!
"When I heard this, I never rested until I too was en route to Siberia! I
wanted to take Irene in my arms and to console her as her dead mother
would have done. O—— was a fearful place, just a colony of dreary huts by
the sea. Behind were the wolf-infested forests; in the midst of it, the
frowning fortress prison! When I showed my ukase, and demanded to see
my relations, they simply showed me two graves. Irene and Alex rested side
by side, in the silent acre, and an exile told me how they had died! Alex had
been knouted for refusing to play the part of Judas, and had passed away in

the fortress. Irene was found dead inside their small wooden hut, kneeling
beside her bed. Her heart had broken! My little Snow Flower had been
crushed under the iron heel of despotism.
"He by whose mandate this iniquity was done was General Loris Trakoff,
the governor of the province! I was turned to stone by Irene's grave, and
afterwards became a partisan of the Nihilists.
"Night and day I pondered upon how I could be revenged upon Trakoff, and
at last Fate seemed to favour me.
"The general (so it was reported) was coming to visit a former friend of his.
I made up my mind to be there also, and to shoot him, if opportunity served.
"So, two members of our society, a young mechanic and his wife, rented a
house in Cherry-Tree Avenue, to which I came, and whilst waiting for my
revenge I became acquainted with you."
She paused, whispered, "The restorative," and I gave her the medicine.
The sweet, faint voice spoke again.
"I knew that you were Irene's friend because I saw your name upon the
letter that I picked up, and I loved you, Gloria, aye, and was sorry for you."
I laid my cheek next hers.
"Dear, I knew it, and was fond of you."
"Fond of the Nihilist Princess, my little English Gloria! 'Tis a strange
world!
"After all, the general did not come, and then we all left. I bided my time.
No outsider knew me for a Révolutionnaire, so I mixed in society as before,
and accepted the invitation to Whichello, on purpose to meet him here.
"The bonbonnière was filled with poisoned caramels, prepared by a Nihilist
chemist, and it was my intention to destroy myself after I had destroyed my
enemy. I gave him one chance; I asked him if he repented of anything, and
he answered 'No.'

"At the great crisis your little hand, as a hand from another world—as
Irene's hand might have done—came between us.
"Your coming saved him. I could not let you share his fate."
"Oh, thank God!" I said. "Nadine, tell me—tell God, that you are sorry, that
you repent your dreadful purpose."
"I do, I do," she whispered. "Lying here I see all the sins, the errors, the
mistakes. I do not despair of God's mercy though I am myself deserving of
His wrath. Irene used to tell me that when she fell asleep, in the new world
of school life, it was in your arms. Put them round me, Gloria, and let me
fall asleep."
I placed my arm gently, very gently, under her head, and then sat very still.
I heard the big clock in the clock-tower slowly and distinctly strike the hour
of twelve, I saw the pale lips move and heard them murmur: "Agnus Dei,
qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere mei."
But save for this, all was silence! And in the silence Princess Nadine slept.

MY YEAR AT SCHOOL.

BY MARGARET WATSON.

I was rather old to start out as a school-girl, for I was seventeen, and had
never been to school before.
We lived in the heart of the country, and my education had been rather
casual—broken into now for a day's work, and now for a day's play, now
for visitors staying in the house, now for a visit to friends or relations; as is
the way when you are one of a large family, and do your lessons at home—
especially if your tastes lie rather in the line of doing than thinking.
I did not love books. I loved gardening and riding the pony, and making
cakes, and minding the baby. My sisters were much cleverer than I, and I
had never believed it possible that I could excel in anything requiring study,
so I satisfied myself with being rather clever with my hands.
However, I didn't really mind work of any kind, and I worked at my lessons
when I was at them, though I was always ready enough to throw them aside
for anything else that might turn up. When my mother said I must go away
to a good school for a year I was quite willing. I always loved a change.
The school chosen was a London High School, and I was to board with
some people we knew. They had no connection with the school, so I was
thrown pretty much on my own resources, and had to find my way about for
myself.
I had to go up first for the entrance exam., and I shall never forget my
feelings that day. The headmistress had a sharp, quick manner, and I
thought she set me down as very stupid for my age. I was put in a room
with a lot of girls, mostly younger than myself, and given a set of exam.
papers to do. The way the questions were put was new to me, I was nervous

and worried, but I worked on doggedly with the courage of despair, certain
that I was showing appalling ignorance for a girl of seventeen, and that I
should be placed in a form with the babies.
Two very pretty girls were working beside me. They had curly black hair,
and bright complexions, and lovely dark eyes, and there was a fair girl, who
wrote diligently all the time, and seemed in no difficulty. When it was over
I asked her how she had got on, and she said she had found it quite easy,
and answered most of the questions. We compared notes, and I saw that if
she was right I must be wrong, and as she was quite sure she was right I
went home very despondent indeed, but determined to work my way up
from the bottom if need be.
Next morning I hardened my heart for what was to befall me, and started
for school. I had to go by omnibus, and found one that ran just at the right
time.
I was met at the school entrance by a tall, thin, small-featured lady, who
wore glasses, and spoke in a sharp, clear voice, but quite kindly, telling me
that I was in the Fifth Form, and my desk was that nearest the door.
There was a good deal of crush and confusion as there were a lot of new
girls, and I sat at my desk and wondered whether the Fifth Form was the
highest or the lowest. I could hardly believe I was in the highest form, but
the other girls sitting at the desks looked as old as myself. The two pretty
dark girls were there, but I saw no sign of the fair girl who had worked so
easily.
I sat and watched for her, and presently she came in, but she was moved on
to the form behind. She was in the Fourth Form, and I heard her name—
Mabel Smith.
I had a good report at the end of the first term, and went home happy—very
happy to get home again, for I had never been so long away before, and I
found my little brothers grown out of knowledge. But the Christmas
holidays were soon over, and I went back in a cold, snowy week; and
London snow is a miserable spectacle, not like the lovely pure white
covering which hides up all dirt and ugliness in the country.

However, I knew my way about by this time, and found my old familiar bus
waiting for me, and the conductor greeted me with great friendliness. He
was a most kind man, and always waited for me as long as he could.
This term we had a new mistress for mathematics, and I didn't like her a bit.
I was always very slow and stupid at mathematics, and the new mistress
was so quick, she worked away like lightning, and I could not follow her.
She would rush through a proposition in Euclid, proving that some figure
was, or was not equal to some other figure, and leave me stranded vainly
trying to understand the first proof when she was at the last, and I couldn't
care, anyhow, whether one line could be proved equal to another or not, I
felt it would be much simpler to measure it and have done with it. It was the
same in arithmetic; she took us through innumerable step-fractions with
innumerable steps, just as fast as she could put the figures down, and all I
could do was to stare stupidly at the blackboard and hope that I might be
able to worry some sense out of it all at home; and she gave us so much
home-work that I had to toil till after ten at night, and then had to leave my
sums half done, or neglect my other work altogether.
I was slow and stupid, I knew, but the others all suffered too, though not so
much, and presently complaints were made by all the other mistresses that
their work was not done, and all the girls had the same reason to give, the
arithmetic took so long.
So Miss Vinton made out a time-table for our prep., and said we were to
leave off when the time was up, whether we'd finished or not. It was a great
relief, my hair was turning grey with the work and worry! But I did not get
on at all with mathematics, and in the end of term exam. I came out very
badly in that and in French.
As most of us had done badly in those subjects our poor madame and the
mathematical mistress did not come back next term.
Miss Vinton gave us mathematics herself, and a splendid teacher she was,
letting some daylight even into my thick head, which was not constructed
for that kind of work, and her sister gave us French, and we really began to
make progress. Some of the girls had done well before, those who sat near
madame and talked to her, but most of us had not learnt much from her.

Altogether it was with regret that I saw the end of my school-year drawing
near; and I was very anxious to do well in the final exams.
They were to be rather important, as we were to have a university examiner,
and there were two prizes offered by people interested in the school, one for
the best literature paper, and one for the best history. I did want a prize to
take home.
There was great excitement in the school, and we all meant to try our best.
The Fourth and Fifth Forms were to have the same papers, so as to give the
Fourth Form girls a chance for the prize, and Mabel Smith said she was
determined to win that offered for literature.
The exam. week began. Geology, arithmetic, Latin, French, German. We
worked through them all conscientiously but without much enthusiasm.
Then came the literature, you could hear the girls hold their breaths as the
papers were given to them.
I read the questions down the first time, and my head spun round so that I
could not understand one.
"This won't do," I said to myself, and set my teeth and clung to my desk till
I steadied down. Then I read them through again.
I found one question I could answer right away, and by the time I had done
that my brain was clear, and I knew the answers to every one.
Alice Thompson was sitting next me, she was one of the pretty dark girls,
and very idle.
"What's the date of Paradise Lost?" she whispered.
I didn't know what to do. I wouldn't speak, and of course I knew that it was
very mean of her to ask, but I was sure of the date, and I thought it would
be mean of me not to tell her. Just then Miss Vinton walked up the room
and glanced round at us.
Alice bent over her work, writing diligently. Miss Vinton went down the
room again, and Alice edged up to me, questioning me with her pretty dark
eyes.

I hesitated, then I pushed the sheet I had just finished close to the edge of
my desk so that she could read the date, which she did quickly enough.
After that she looked over my papers freely whenever Miss Vinton wasn't
looking.
I was rather worried about it, but I didn't think she could win the prize, for I
knew she hadn't worked at the subject at all, and if she didn't I thought it
couldn't matter much to any one.
I had answered all the questions a good while before the time was up, I
thought we had been allowed too long, and was surprised to see Mabel
Smith and one or two more scribbling away for dear life till the last minute.
However, the time was up at last, and we all gave in our papers.
"How did you get on, Margaret?" asked Miss Vinton, smiling kindly at me.
"I think I answered all the questions right," I replied.
"That's good," she said.
The history paper was given us next day, and it filled me with despair. The
questions were so put that short answers were no use, and I was afraid to
trust myself to write down my own ideas. However, after a bit the ideas
began to come, and I quite enjoyed scribbling them down.
Alice had been moved to another desk, so I was left in peace, for Joyce,
who was a friend of mine, was next to me, working away quietly.
I was getting on swimmingly, when all at once the bell rang, and I had only
answered three quarters of the questions.
I was vexed, for I could see one or two more I could have done. However,
there was no help for it. The papers must be given up.
"I wish I had had a little more time," I said to Miss Vinton, as I gave in my
work.
"You had as much as the rest," she answered, rather sharply, and I went
away feeling sad and snubbed.
The exams. were over, and we were to know the result next day.

I don't think any of us wanted that extra half hour in bed in the morning,
which generally seemed so desirable; and we were all waiting in the cloak-
room—a chattering throng, for discipline was relaxed on this occasion.
When the school-bell rang, and we hurried in to take our places, Miss
Vinton made us a speech, saying that the general results of the examinations
had been very satisfactory. Our term's work had been on the whole good.
We could hardly listen to these general remarks when we were longing for
particulars. At last they came:
Alice Thompson was awarded the literature prize. Her work was so very
accurate, and her paper so well written.
There was a silence of astonishment.
Alice turned scarlet. I felt horrified to think what mischief I had done by
being so weak-minded as to let her copy my work. Mabel Smith was white.
But Miss Vinton went on calmly:
"Mabel Smith comes next. Her paper was exceptionally well written, but
there were a few blunders which placed it below Alice's."
Then came Nelly, Joyce, and the rest of the Fifth Form, and one or two of
the Fourth—and I began to get over the shock of Alice's success and to
wonder what had happened to me. At last my name came with just half
marks.
My cheeks were burning. I was dreadfully disappointed and ashamed. Miss
Vinton saw what I was feeling and stopped to explain that the examiner had
not wanted mere bald answers of dates and names, but well-written essays,
showing thought and intelligence. This was how I had failed, while Alice,
cribbing my facts, had worked them out well, and come out first. I felt very
sore about it, and almost forgot the injustice done to Mabel Smith.
There was still the history prize, and a hush of excited expectation fell on us
when Miss Vinton began again:
"The history prize has been awarded to Nelly Gascoyne for a very good
paper indeed. Margaret and Joyce have been bracketed second. Their papers
were excellent, and only just behind Nelly's in merit."

I gasped with surprise. I had left so many questions unanswered that I had
had no hope of distinction in history.
This was some consolation for my former disgrace—and then my mind
went back to the question of what was to be done about the literature prize.
As soon as the business of the morning was concluded Mabel Smith
touched my arm. She was still quite white, and her eyes were blazing.
"I must speak to you," she said.
"Come to the cloak-room," I answered, "we can get our books after."
"You know Alice Thompson cheated," she said, the moment we were alone.
"I sat just behind, and I saw you push your papers over to her, and she leant
over, and copied whatever she wanted."
"I never dreamt she'd get the prize," I answered, "I only wanted to help her
out of a hole."
"Well, she did get it—and it's my prize, and what are you going to do about
it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. Of course I oughtn't to have let her copy—but I
thought it wouldn't hurt any one."
"You'll have to tell Miss Vinton now. It's not fair I should be cheated out of
the prize I've honestly won, and I'd worked so hard for it too. I can't think
how I came to make those mistakes."
"I wish to peace you hadn't!"
"But, anyhow, Alice could never have got it if she hadn't cheated, and you
must tell Miss Vinton."
"Oh! that's too much," I cried. "It's for Alice to tell Miss Vinton, I can't. I'm
willing to tell Alice she must."
"And if she won't?"
"Then I don't quite see what's to be done."

"You'll let her keep my prize?"
"Well, you can tell Miss Vinton if you like."
"It's you that ought to tell her. It was all your fault, you'd no right to help
Alice to cheat."
"I know that's true. But it makes it all the more impossible for me to tell on
her."
Just then Alice came in:
"Oh, Margaret!" she cried.
Then she saw Mabel and stopped.
"Are you going to tell Miss Vinton you cheated?" said Mabel, going up to
her with flaming eyes.
"Margaret, did you tell?" said Alice.
"I saw you!" said Mabel, "I sat just behind and saw you! You're not going to
try to keep my prize, are you?"
"No, of course not," said Alice, "I never thought of getting the prize. I only
wanted to write a decent paper and not have Miss Vinton pitching into me
as usual. You're welcome to the prize, if that will do."
Mabel said nothing.
"I'm afraid that won't quite do," I said. "It would be too difficult for Mabel
to explain at home without telling on you. You'd much better tell on
yourself."
"I can't," said Alice, "I'm as sorry as I can be, now, that I did it—but I can't
face Miss Vinton."
She looked ready to cry.
"Well, I shall have to confess too," I said. "It was partly my fault. Let us go
together."
"I daren't," said Alice.

But I could see she was yielding.
"Come along," I said, taking her arm. "It's the only way out. You know you
won't keep Mabel's prize, and it's as bad to keep her honour and glory. This
is the only way out. Let's get it over."
She came then, but reluctantly.
Fortunately we found Miss Vinton alone in her room, and between us we
managed to stammer out our confession.
Miss Vinton, I think, was not surprised. She had feared there was something
not quite straight. But she was extremely severe with us both, as much with
me as with Alice, and as it was to be my last interview with her I was heart-
broken.
However, I lingered a moment after Alice, and then turned back and said:
"Please forgive me, you can't think how sorry I am."
"Remember, Margaret," she replied, "that it is not enough to be honourable
in your own conduct—you must as far as possible discourage anything
dishonourable in other people. I know you would not cheat yourself, but if
it is wrong to cheat, it is equally wrong to help some one else to cheat—
don't you see? Will you remember this in future—in big things as well as in
small? You must not only do right yourself. Your influence must be on the
right side too. Certainly, I forgive you. You've been a good girl all this year,
and I'm sorry to lose you."
So I went away comforted.
And I came home with never a prize to show. But I had what was better. I
had acquired a real love of study which I have never lost. I don't know what
became of Alice Thompson, I only hope that she never had to earn her
living by teaching. Nelly Gascoyne went home to a jolly family of brothers
and sisters and gave herself up to the pleasures and duties of home. Joyce
became assistant mistress in a school, and Mabel followed up her successes
at school by winning a scholarship at Cambridge a year later.
And I—well, I've never come in first anywhere, but I'm fairly contented
with a second place.

THE SILVER STAR.

BY NELLIE HOLDERNESS.

Maysie Grey had set her heart on the Drawing Society's Silver Star. She
kept her ambition to herself as a thing too audacious to be put into words.
That she possessed talent, the school fully recognised. She was only
thirteen, and by dint of steady perseverance was making almost daily
progress. Her painting lessons were a source of unmixed pleasure to her, for
hers was a nature that never yielded to discouragement, and never
magnified difficulties.
"You must aim at the Bronze Star this year," her science mistress had said to
her, while helping her to fix the glass slides she was to paint from, under the
microscope, "and next year you must go on to the Silver——"
"Look, how beautiful the colours are!" Maysie exclaimed in delight. The
delicate, varying tints fascinated her. She set to work with enthusiasm,
never having done anything of the kind before. "'Mycetozoa,' do you call
them?" she asked.
"Yes. Be sure you spell it rightly."
The next day, when the first of her three sheets was finished, Miss Elton
came in to examine it. Though she said little, she was evidently more than
satisfied. It was nearly tea-time, and Maysie spent the few minutes before
preparation was over in tearing up some old drawings. After breakfast, on
the following morning, before the bell rang for class, she went over to Ruth
Allen's desk to ask her how to spell "Mycetozoa." Ruth was her particular
chum, and the best English scholar in the form.
"I've got something to show you, Maysie," she said, when she had furnished
the desired information. She brought out a piece of paper as she spoke, and

passed it on to her friend behind the cover of her open desk. It was a
fragment of one of Maysie's zoological drawing-sheets, evidently picked up
out of the waste-paper basket—a wasp with wings outspread, showing the
three divisions of an insect's body. The head was roughly altered so as to
form a caricature of a human face, and above was printed, in letters that
might have done credit to Maysie herself: "Miss E. in a tantrum," and
below: "How doth the little waxy wasp rejoice to snap and snarl!"
Maysie did not share Ruth's unreasonable animosity towards Miss Elton,
but she could not repress a smile at this specimen of school-girl wit. Just
then the bell rang, and she went back to her own desk, while Ruth, letting
the lid of hers slip down, was so startled by the noise it made in the sudden
silence that she did not see a piece of paper flutter out on to the ground, and
gently glide underneath the platform of the mistress's desk, which was just
in front of her.
That morning Maysie began her second sheet, and joined the others in the
garden after dinner. Molly Brooks, another of her friends, came eagerly
running up to her.
"Why didn't you come to botany?" she asked.
"I've been doing my exhibition work."
"Oh, of course! I suppose it's nearly finished?"
"About half. It hasn't to be sent off till next week, so there's plenty of time."
At that moment Ruth Allen linked her arm in Maysie's.
"I'm in my third row," she began casually.
"What, already?" asked Maysie.
"Yes, haven't you heard?" Molly chimed in.
"Oh, it's Miss Elton again!" went on Ruth. "We never can hit it off. You
weren't at botany class this morning."
"No, what happened?"

Ruth shrugged her shoulders. Molly looked expressively at Maysie. Ruth
seldom got through a botany class without an explosion.
"I hate botany," said Ruth recklessly, "and I hate Miss Elton. I'm supposed
to be in silence now, but as Miss Bennet came in and told us all to go out, I
thought I'd better not risk another disobedience mark."
Miss Elton, who had been stooping down over some flower-beds, in search
of museum treasures, came up at this point. Her face was grave and white,
and her manner very stern and quiet.
"What are you doing out here, Ruth?" she demanded.
"Miss Bennet sent us all out; she said it was such a lovely day," answered
Ruth carelessly.
"Then you can go and explain to Miss Bennet why I told you to remain in
this afternoon."
Ruth looked at Miss Elton, and then looked away; she slowly withdrew her
arm from Maysie's, and walked off without a word. At the door she came
face to face with Miss Bennet, the headmistress.
"Where are you going to, Ruth?" asked the latter.
"Miss Elton sent me in."
"Why?" There was grave rebuke in Miss Bennet's voice.
"Because I'm in silence."
"I do not understand why you were out at all."
Ruth made no attempt to defend herself.
"You'd better come to my room," continued Miss Bennet. "There is
something here that needs explaining.... Now, what were you in silence
for?" she continued, seating herself in her chair by the fire.
"I got sent out of botany class."
"And how many times have you been sent out of botany class?"

Ruth did not answer.
"Well, it has come to this, Ruth," Miss Bennet went on gravely, "that a girl
of your age—you are fourteen now, I believe—can no longer be allowed to
go on setting an example of insolence and disobedience to the younger girls
in the school. Now, remember, this is the last time. Let me have no more
complaints about you, or it will be my unpleasant duty to write to your
mother, and tell her that you cannot remain here."
There was a pause. The colour had left Ruth's face, and she was staring
moodily into the fire.
"You will apologise to Miss Elton," added Miss Bennet, rising, "and you
will remain in silence at meals for the rest of the week. And try to make an
effort over your botany. Your other work is good: you were top last week.
Now, promise me that you will make an effort."
Ruth, moved to penitence at the thought of her mother, promised to do her
best. That afternoon she apologised to Miss Elton, and made a resolution to
keep out of rows for the rest of the term. Maysie and she walked about in
the garden as usual, and talked things over. Maysie looked grave when Ruth
told her what Miss Bennet had said about sending her away.
"Oh, Ruth!" she said, "you really must be careful! Why, if you got expelled,
it would be almost as bad for me as if I were expelled myself. Miss Elton's
awfully nice, if you only knew. I had such a lovely talk with her on Sunday,
all about home, and drawing. And then she's so jolly at games, and she's
never cross when you don't cheek her. And think how horrid it must be for
her whenever she comes to botany class, always knowing that you're going
to be dense! And you do do it on purpose sometimes, dear, you know you
do."
Ruth forced a laugh.
"Oh, I'm going to be awfully good," she said. "You'll see!"
It was Saturday the next day, and Maysie was just settling down to her
drawing in the music-room, when Miss Elton appeared. Maysie looked up
and smiled at her. It was no unusual thing for her science-mistress to come
in and remark on her progress. But on this occasion no answering smile

greeted her. Maysie was puzzled. Her inquiring grey eyes fell before Miss
Elton's; she began to search her conscience. What had she done?
"I think it is a pity, Maysie," began Miss Elton, "that you put your talents to
such an improfitable use."
As she spoke she laid before Maysie the paper that Ruth had exhibited to
her in such triumph the day before. Maysie grew scarlet, and remained quite
speechless. Her name up in the corner, the neat, even printing, so like her
own, the altered diagram that Miss Elton had seen in its original form—they
stared her in the face, condemning her beyond hope of appeal. She raised
her head proudly, and tossed back the thick curly hair that hung over her
shoulder.
"Where did it come from?" she asked.
"I picked it up from under the edge of my platform, but that is of no
concern."
"But, Miss Elton——" stammered Maysie, growing suddenly confused.
"You have no excuse," put in Miss Elton, and her voice was all the harder
because of the disappointment that she felt. "This is a piece of your paper, is
it not?"
Maysie admitted that it was.
"And your diagram?"
"Yes; at least——"
"Is it, or is it not?"
Maysie's voice was very low.
"Yes, it is," she said.
Silence ensued, a brief, awkward silence. It was at this moment that Maysie
made up her mind. She would not clear herself at the expense of her chum!
Ruth should not be expelled through her!
Miss Elton believed her guilty; she would not undeceive her.

Miss Elton waited with her eyes on Maysie's paintings.
They were done as no other girl in the school would have done them, but
the thought afforded her no satisfaction, though she had always prophesied
great things of Maysie. Then she glanced at the child's downcast face.
"I am sorry about this, Maysie," she said, with the faintest suspicion of
reproach in her voice, "I thought we were better friends."
A lump came into Maysie's throat, and the tears into her eyes. She looked at
the microscope, at the tiny glass slides, at her unfinished sheet; but she had
nothing to say.
"Of course," continued Miss Elton, "I shall have to show it to Miss Bennet.
This comes, no doubt, of your friendship with Ruth. I have always said that
she would do you no good."
Maysie listened with a swelling heart. Supposing Ruth should be sent for,
and hear the whole story? Miss Elton was at the door; she ran up to her in
desperation.
"Miss Elton," she faltered, "don't say anything to the girls, will you?"
Miss Elton made no promise. The petition made her think no better of
Maysie.
The Fourth Form girls soon discovered that Maysie was in trouble, but no
one could get anything out of her. Ruth was forbidden to join her in
recreation, but on Sunday evening she managed to get a few minutes' talk
with her.
"Do tell me what the row's about, Maysie," she said.
"Oh, nothing much," said Maysie. "Do let's talk about something else."
"But I always thought you liked Miss Elton?"
"So I do. Can't you get into a row with a mistress you like?"
"Well, I'd apologise, if I were you. She was very nice to me."

"I can't, so it's no good." And Maysie sat silent, confronting this new
difficulty with a sinking heart. For how could she apologise, she asked
herself, for what she had never done?
"Well, I think you might tell me," Ruth went on. "I told you about my row;
and what's the good of being chums if we can't keep each other's secrets?"
But Maysie only sighed impatiently, and took up her library book.
"I wish you'd hurry up and finish those paintings of yours, and come back
properly to class," went on Ruth. "Aren't they nearly done?"
Maysie grew white, and turned away her face.
"I'm not going to try this year," she said.
"Why, I thought——" began Ruth. "Oh, I see! What a shame!"
Maysie choked down a sob. After a pause she said:
"Perhaps I shall have more chance of a Star next year."
"You'd have got one this!" said Ruth indignantly. "How mean to punish you
like that! And it's the only thing you care about!"
Maysie smiled. "Oh, never mind, dear," she said. "Everything seems mean
to us. You don't understand."
"But if you apologised it would be all right?"
"I daresay it might, but I don't think so. Besides, they've got to be sent in by
Wednesday, and I should hardly have time to do another sheet."
Things went on like this until Monday evening. Though there was only one
day left, Maysie made no attempt to apologise. Miss Elton gave her every
opportunity, for she, too, hoped that Miss Bennet might thus be induced to
allow Maysie to finish her exhibition work, even at the last moment.
Maysie went to bed early that night. Her head had been aching all day, and
by the time tea was over she could hardly hold it up. Ruth was greatly
concerned about her, and, as a last resource, determined to speak to Miss
Bennet.

Maysie soon got into bed, and, being alone in the dormitory, hid her face
under the bed-clothes and sobbed. She was terribly homesick, poor child,
and now, for the first time, she began to doubt whether she had done right
after all; whether it would not have been wiser to have taken Miss Bennet
into her confidence, and trusted to her to set things right. And then, there
was that Silver Star! And a year was such a long time to have to wait. But,
thinking of Ruth, she grew ashamed of herself, and dried her tears, and tried
to go to sleep, though it was still quite light out of doors.
Ruth, meanwhile, was sitting on the floor in front of Miss Bennet's fire.
"It's about Maysie, Miss Bennet," she was saying. "I don't understand what
she has done, but I'm sure there must be some reason for her not
apologising."
Miss Bennet made no remark.
"She's so fond of Miss Elton, too. I don't see how she could have meant to
be rude to her."
"I'm afraid there is not much doubt about that," was the answer.
"It seems to me," went on Ruth nervously, "that there's some mystery about
it. Maysie won't tell me anything."
"Maysie has no reason to be proud of herself," replied Miss Bennet coldly.
"It seems so horrid her not going in for the exhibition, and she's so good at
painting."
"There are various ways of making use of one's talents," said Miss Bennet,
rising. "Now this——"
Ruth jumped to her feet, and stood gazing. There, on Miss Bennet's writing-
table, lay the identical scrap of paper that she had shown to Maysie the
Friday before. "Miss E. in a tantrum!" There, too, was Maysie's name in the
corner. In a moment everything was clear.
"That!" she exclaimed. "Maysie didn't do that!"
Miss Bennet looked at her doubtfully.

"I did it!" she went on. "Oh, if I'd only known! Why didn't some one tell me
about it?"
"My dear child," began Miss Bennet.
"Yes, I did it!" repeated Ruth passionately. "It's Maysie's drawing, but I
altered it, I made up the words. Poor little Maysie! And she was so keen on
trying for the exhibition! It's so horribly unfair, when I did it all the time!"
She broke off with a sob, hardly knowing what she was saying.
"But why——"
"I didn't know, and of course she wouldn't sneak about me—catch Maysie
sneaking! I told her I should be expelled if I got into another row."
Miss Bennet tried to calm her.
"Come, dear child," she said gravely; "if Maysie has been punished for your
fault, we must do our best to set things right at once. Tell me how it
happened."
Ruth explained as well as she could.
"And now Maysie's gone to bed," she added regretfully.
"Then I will go up to her. You can go back to your class-room."
Miss Bennet found Maysie asleep, with flushed cheeks, and eyelashes still
wet with tears. She stooped down, and kissed her gently. Maysie opened her
eyes with a sigh, and then sat up in bed. It had seemed almost as if her
mother were bending over her. "I am going to scold you, Maysie," said Miss
Bennet, but her smile belied her words.
Maysie smiled faintly in answer.
"Why have you allowed us to do you an injustice?"
The child was overwrought, and a sudden dread seized hold of her.
"Why—what do you mean, Miss Bennet?" she faltered.

"Ruth has explained everything to me. It is a great pity this mistake should
have been made——"
Maysie interrupted her.
"It was before she got sent out of class, Miss Bennet," she said. "Oh! don't
be angry with her! Don't send her away, will you?"
In her earnestness she laid her hand on Miss Bennet's arm. Miss Bennet
drew her to her, and kissed her again.
"Poor child!" she said. "So that's what you've been worrying your little head
about. No, I won't send her away, Miss Elton tells me that she has improved
already, and I am sure she will forgive her when she knows everything."
Maysie thanked her with tears in her eyes.
"And now, I have one other thing to say," Miss Bennet continued. "You
must go to sleep at once, and wake up quite fresh and bright to-morrow
morning, and you shall give up the whole day to your painting. What do
you say to that?"
"How lovely!" exclaimed Maysie. "I shall get it done after all! Thank you
very, very much, Miss Bennet. Oh, I am so happy!" And she put her arms
round Miss Bennet's neck, and gave her an enthusiastic hug.
Maysie worked hard at her "Mycetozoa" the next day, and finished her third
sheet with complete success. Some weeks afterwards, Miss Bennet sent for
her to her room.
"I am glad to be able to tell you, Maysie," she said, "that you have gained
the Drawing Society's Silver Star."
Maysie drew a long breath; her heart was too full for words. The Silver
Star! Could it be true?
Ruth was one of the first to congratulate her.
"I always said you'd get it, dear," she remarked as they walked round the
garden together. "And I'm just as glad as you are about it. I haven't forgotten
that it was through me you nearly lost the chance!"

Maysie returned the pressure of Ruth's hand without answering. Was not the
Silver Star the more to be prized for its association in thought with those
hours of lonely perplexity that she had gone through for the sake of her
friend?

UNCLE TONE.

BY KATE GODKIN.

"Mother darling! Is Uncle Tone really coming to see us at last? I heard you
tell father something about it," I said to my mother as she sat by my couch,
to which I had been tied for some weeks in consequence of a cycling
accident.
I had broken my leg, but had now so far recovered as to be able to move
cautiously with a stick. It was the first illness that I could remember, and I
was an only child, much loved, and I suppose much spoiled by the most
indulgent of fathers and mothers. I therefore made the most of my
opportunities and called freely on their resources for entertainment.
"Yes, love, I am happy to say he is. He has not been here now since you
were quite a little girl, eight years ago. You were just eight."
"Mother," I continued coaxingly, for I loved a story, "why are you so fond
of him, he is only your step-brother?"
"Step-brother!" she exclaimed. "He has been more than a brother to me. He
has been a father, far far more," she added sadly, "than my own father was.
He is, you know, nearly twenty years older than I."
"Will you tell me something about it?" I asked softly.
It was twilight in July, and I lay at the open French window which led from
the drawing-room to the lawn, and from which we had a view across the
park, far out over the country, bounded by the twinkling lights of
Southampton in the distance, for our house was situated on an elevation in
one of the loveliest spots in the New Forest. Dinner was over and father was

in the library clearing off some pressing work, as he had to leave home for a
day or two. It seemed to me the very time for reminiscences.
"I think I will," said my mother slowly and thoughtfully.
She was a small, graceful woman, of about forty then, whose soft, dark hair
was just beginning to be touched with grey, but her face was as fresh and
dainty-looking as a girl's; a strong, sweet face that I loved to look at, and
that now, that she is no longer with me, I love to remember.
"You ought to know what he did for your mother, and how much you owe
him indirectly. I should like him, too, to feel that he has his reward in you."
My curiosity was excited, for I had never heard my mother speak like that
before, and so I settled myself to listen, and to enjoy what she had to say.
"My childhood was a very wretched one, Cora," she began. "For that reason
I have spoken little of it to you, but endeavoured, assisted by your father, to
make yours the very opposite to it as far as lay in my power, and that I
could do so is due, I may say wholly, to your Uncle Tone, who taught me to
be happy myself, and to endeavour to make others so."
I slipped my hand into my dear mother's; she was the best, most loving, and
wisest mother that ever lived.
"My mother died when I was born," she continued, "and my father took his
loss so to heart that he shut himself off from all society, grew silent and
morose, and," she added after some hesitation, "became in time a
drunkard."
She brought these words out with such an effort, such difficulty, that the
tears came to my eyes, and I whispered, "Don't go on, mother darling, if it
hurts you." She continued, however, without appearing to notice my
interruption.
"I ran wild till I was twelve or thirteen years of age, I had no society but my
father's and the servants', and I got no regular education. He would not send
me to school, but the vicar's daughter came over for an hour or two every
day to teach me what I could be induced to learn, which was little enough. I
was hot-tempered, headstrong, self-willed, accustomed to fight for what I

wanted, getting nothing by any other means, and doing without what I
could not get in that way. No softening, no refining influence came into my
life. My one pleasure even then was music. I had a passion for it. Miss
Vincent, the vicar's daughter, taught me to play the piano, and I used to
spend hours in the deserted drawing-room, playing what I knew, and
picking out tunes by myself, while my father was shut up in his study. We
had no near relation, no one who cared enough to take pity on an unruly,
troublesome, little girl, with a drunken father. When I was between twelve
and thirteen he died, and a godmother who lived in Scotland took charge of
me, and sent me to a boarding-school, at which I spent the next four years.
Schools were not then what they are now, particularly in Scotland, and
between the time spent there and the holidays with Miss Clark, who was a
stern, old maid and a confirmed invalid, my life was very dreary; I was
becoming harder, and harder. I did not know in fact that I had any feelings;
they were not cultivated amongst the people who had to do with me. She,
also, died before I was seventeen, and then something happened which was
to change my whole life. My step-brother, whom I had never seen, wrote to
Miss McDougall, with whom I was at school, saying that my home would,
henceforth, be with him. Your Uncle Tone was my father's son by his first
marriage, and when his father married my mother, Tone went to live with
his maternal grandfather, who, on his death, left him the beautiful place in
Derbyshire to which I was to go. He lived there with an old aunt. This news
affected me very little; I had never had a happy home, a real home; I did not
know what that was, but I presumed I should go somewhere on leaving
school.
"My love of music had, in the meantime, increased. I had had a very good
master, a real musician, and I had worked hard for him. To me it was a
delight, but I never thought nor cared that it could give pleasure to any one
else. I used to shut myself up for hours in the holidays, out of hearing of my
godmother, who seldom left her room, and play, and play, till my arms
ached.
"I remember well the day he came for me. I was ready, waiting, when the
maid brought me the message that Sir Tone Wolsten was in the drawing-
room. He was standing on the hearth-rug talking to Miss McDougall, and
looked so tall to me. He is over six feet. I can see him now as he stood
there, erect, broad-shouldered, with bright chestnut hair, clear, keen, dark

blue eyes, and bronzed skin, a strong, kind, fearless face. He looked a
thorough man, one to be trusted. He greeted me very kindly as his little
sister, and took me home with him. Goldmead Park was the loveliest place I
had ever seen. His Aunt Evangeline, whom I also called 'aunt,' was a frail,
querulous old lady, whom he treated as his mother. He did not marry till
after her death, five years later. I was planted in entirely new surroundings,
with everything pleasant about me, everything that I could desire, or ought
to have desired. Your uncle was kindness itself. He taught me to ride and to
drive, supplied me with books, took the greatest interest in me; but the
restrictions of every well-ordered home which would have been nothing to
a properly trained girl were unendurable to me. I resisted from sheer
perverseness and dislike of control. I do not mean to say that I was always
ill-tempered; I was lively and merry enough, and your uncle used to tease
me, and jest with me, which I enjoyed very much, and responded to
willingly.
"Some weeks had passed like this, my step-brother being most kind and
indulgent. Frequently Aunt Evangeline had asked me to play to them in the
evening after dinner, but I had refused obstinately. I liked to play to myself,
but I had never been accustomed to do so before any one, and it never
entered my head that it could give them pleasure, or that I was bound to do
it out of politeness. At last she became more irritable and frequently made
sarcastic remarks about the young people of the present day. This happened
again one evening, and I answered sharply, not to say rudely.
"The next morning I wandered through the woods belonging to the park,
gathering violets, and had sat down, hot and tired, under a lovely chestnut,
with my lap full of flowers which I was arranging and tying up in bunches
in order to carry them home more easily. I heard footsteps, which I
recognised by their briskness and firmness, and looking up I saw my
brother approach, walking, as usual, erect, with his head well thrown back
but with stern lines in his face which I had not seen there before. I looked
up smiling, expecting his usual kind greeting, but instead of that he strode
straight up and stopped in front of me.
"'I was just thinking of you, Elfie,' he said, looking down at me, 'I have
something to say to you which I can as well say here as any place else. I
don't know why you should be so unamiable and discourteous to my aunt,

as you are, and I cannot allow it to continue. I will say nothing of your
manner to me. You receive here nothing but kindness. My great desire is to
make you happy, but it does not seem as if I succeeded very well. At any
rate, Aunt Evangeline must not be made uncomfortable, and I should be
doing you a wrong if I allowed you to behave so rudely.'
"'Why can't she leave me alone?' I exclaimed angrily, 'I don't want to play to
her.'
"'One does not leave little girls alone,' he answered calmly and sternly, 'and
such behaviour from a young girl to an old lady is most unbecoming. It
must come to an end, and the sooner the better! To-night,' he continued in a
tone that made me look up at him, 'you will apologise to my aunt and offer
to play.'
"'I shall do nothing of the sort!' I exclaimed, turning crimson.
"'Oh yes, you will,' he answered quietly, 'I am accustomed to be obeyed,
and I don't think my little sister will defy me.'
"And with that he strode away, leaving me in a perfect turmoil of angry
feelings. I jumped up, scattering my lapful of violets, and started to walk in
the opposite direction. At lunch we met, he ignored me completely, but I did
not care, I felt hard and defiant.
"After dinner, he conducted Aunt Evangeline to the drawing-room as usual,
and as soon as she was seated he turned and looked at me, and waited. I
made no move, though I felt my courage, which had never before forsaken
me, ebb very low. He waited a few moments, and then said in a tone, which
in spite of all my efforts I could not resist:
"'Now, Elfie!'
"I rose slowly, with his eyes fixed on me all the time, crossed the room to
Aunt Evangeline, and stopped in front of her. 'I am sorry, Aunt Evangeline,
that I have been so rude to you,' I said in a low, trembling voice. 'If you
wish, I will play to you now.'
"I felt as if it were not I myself, but some one outside me that was moving
and speaking for me. I wished not to do it, but I was compelled by my

brother's force of will, as much as if I had been hypnotised.
"'Do, dear, do!' the old lady exclaimed kindly and eagerly. 'I am so fond of
music, we both are, and we rarely have any one here who can play.'
"I chose a piece in which I could give vent to the stormy feelings raging
within me. When I had finished I rose from the piano.
"'Thank you, dear,' she exclaimed. 'That was a treat!'
"'Such a treat,' remarked my brother, 'that it is hard to understand the
discourtesy and want of amiability that have deprived us of it so long. Play
something else, Elfie!' This was said quietly, but I was as powerless to resist
as if it were the sternest command.
"So I played three or four more pieces at his request, and then getting up,
took my work and sat down in silence at some distance from them, while
they 'talked music' In about half an hour he turned to me again and asked
me to play a particular piece which they had been discussing. 'Perhaps she
is tired,' suggested Aunt Evangeline kindly.
"'It does not tire her to play for hours by herself,' was the quiet rejoinder.
"I went to the piano in a mutinous, half desperate mood, thinking I would
go on till they were sick of it, so I played on and on. Presently I forgot
them, got lost in my music, and as usual my angry feelings died away. I had
no idea how long I had been playing when I became conscious of a feeling
of emotion I had never experienced before. I felt my heart swell and my
face flush, and with a sudden sob I burst into tears. I was more startled than
they were, for I had never, as far as I could remember, shed a tear except
with anger, and this was certainly not anger. I started up and was about to
leave the room hastily, when Tone said in the same calm tone:
"Stay here, Elfie, you have no need to be ashamed of those tears.'
"At home I should have rushed from the room, banging the door after me: I
could give myself no account of my reason for going and sitting down
quietly instead; I did so, nevertheless, though I could not suppress my sobs
for some time. At last I became, outwardly at least, calm.

"Aunt Evangeline always retired to her room about nine o'clock, and at first
I did the same, but then my brother detained me for a game of chess which
he taught me to play, and to talk about some books that he had given me to
read, so that we usually sat together till ten o'clock. That night, however, I
had no mind to sit alone with him for an hour, so I turned to say good-night
as aunt was leaving the room. He held the door open for her, bade her
'good-night,' and then closed it as deliberately as if he had not seen my
outstretched hand. He then turned to me, and took it, cold and trembling as
it was, in his own firm, warm grasp, but with no intention of letting me go.
Holding it, he looked searchingly, but with a kind smile, into my face.
"'Is this revenge or punishment, Elfie?' he asked.
"'I don't know what you mean,' I exclaimed in confusion.
"'My game of chess?'
"'You won't want to play with me to-night, and I can't play either,' I said,
pressing my disengaged hand to my hot forehead. 'My stupidity would try
your patience more than ever.'
"'You must not say that,' he replied quietly, 'you are not stupid, and as I have
never felt the slightest shade of impatience, I cannot have shown any. You
play quite well enough to give me a very good game, but I daresay you
cannot to-night. One wants a cool, clear head for chess. Let us talk instead.'
So saying he led me to the chair aunt had just left, put me in it, and drew his
own chair nearer.
"'I don't want you to go to your room feeling lonely and upset,' he said, 'I
should like to see your peace of mind restored first. I should like you to feel
some satisfaction from the victory you have won over your self-will to-
night.'
"'The victory, such as it is, is yours!' I blurted out, looking away.
"'You say that,' he replied very gently, 'as if you thought it a poor thing for a
man to bully a young girl. Don't forget, Elfie, that I am nearly old enough to
be your father, that, in fact, I stand in that position to you—I am your only
relative and protector—that I am right and you are wrong, and above all that
it is for your own sake that I do it. Poor child! you have had far too little

home life and home influence. I want you to be happy here, but the greatest
source of happiness lies in ourselves. What Milton says is very true, "The
mind is its own place, and in itself can make a hell of heaven, a heaven of
hell." You cannot be happy and make those around you happy, as long as
you are the slave of your will. A strong will is one of the most valuable gifts
we can have, but it must be our servant, not our master, or it will prove a
curse instead of a blessing. It must be under our control, or it will force us
to do things of which our good sense, good feeling, and our consciences all
disapprove. We must be able to use it against ourselves if need be. You are
nearly grown up, Elfie, and still such an undisciplined child! What you will
not learn with me and let me teach you in the next two or three years, the
world will teach you very harshly later. We none of us can go through life,
least of all a woman, doing what we like, knocking against every one as we
go along. We get very hard knocks back, and they hurt. We miss, too, the
best happiness that life can give. It contains none to equal that of making
other people happy. As we treat them, they treat us.
"'It is not in the least your fault, little one,' he added very kindly, 'you have
had no chance of being different. You have, I am afraid, received very little
kindness, but help me to change all this. Don't think for a moment that I
want to subdue your will to mine, that I want forced obedience to my
wishes—that is the last thing I desire. I want to place your will under your
control. I forced you to do to-night what I wanted, to make a beginning, to
show you it was possible, to let you feel the pleasure of being agreeable, to
stir some gentler, softer feelings in you. They came, much to your surprise,
though not to mine. We all have them, and it is not good to crush them.'
"While he was talking, a strange, subdued feeling came over me, such as I
had never known before. He spoke gently and impressively, in a deep, soft
tone peculiar to him when very much in earnest. I felt I wanted to be what
he wished me to be, to do what he wanted, and this sensation was so new to
me, that I could not at all understand it. I felt impelled to tell him, but I was
ashamed. I had never in my life been sorry for anything I had done, still less
acknowledged a fault. It was a new and strange experience, I felt like a
dumb animal as I raised my eyes piteously to his.
"'What is it, little one? You want to say something, surely you are not
afraid?' he asked gently.

"'Forgive me, Tone,' I gasped, as two big tears rolled down my cheeks, 'I am
sorry.'
"'I am glad to hear you say you are sorry,' he said, taking my hand, 'but
between us there is no question of forgiveness. I have nothing to pardon, I
am not angry, I want to help you.'
"'I never felt like this before,' I muttered, 'I don't understand it, but I will try
to do what you want.'
"'You feel like this, Elfie, because you know that I am right, and that I only
want what is good for you. I want you to be happy, to open your heart to the
kindness we wish to show you, and to encourage feelings of kindness in
yourself towards other people. When you feel hard, and cross, and
disobliging, try to remember what I have been saying, and let me help.
Even if I have to appear stern sometimes, don't misunderstand it.'
"He then talked about my mother, my home, told me something of my
father as he had known him, until he actually succeeded in making me feel
peaceful and happy.
"From that day he never for a moment lost sight of the object he had in
view. He had me with him as much as possible, for long walks, rides and
drives. With infinite patience but unvarying firmness, he helped me along,
recognising every effort I made, appreciating my difficulties, never putting
an unnecessary restriction on me. So he moulded and formed my character,
lavishing kindness and affection on me in which, I must say, Aunt
Evangeline was not far behind, awakening all that was best and noblest in
my nature, never allowing simple submission of my will to his.
"On my wedding-day, as we were bidding each other 'Good-bye!' he said:
"'You will be happy now, little sister, I know it. You have striven nobly and
will have your reward.'
"'The reward should be yours, Tone, not mine,' I answered, as I put my arms
round his neck and kissed him.
"Do you wonder now, Cora, that I love him so dearly, though he is my step-
brother?" my mother asked as she concluded, "and that I should like him to

see that I have endeavoured to do for you what he did for me?"

A NIGHT ON THE ROAD.

BY MARGARET WATSON.

The summer holidays had begun, and I was to travel home alone from
Paddington to Upperton.
I was quite old enough to travel alone, for I was fourteen, but it so happened
that I had never taken this journey by myself before. There was only one
change, and at Upperton the pony-cart would be waiting for me. It was all
quite simple, and I rather rejoiced in my independence as my cab drew up
under the archway at Paddington. But there my difficulties began.
There was a raging, roaring crowd going off for holidays too. The cabman
demanded double the legal fare. It was a quarter of an hour before I could
get a porter for my luggage, and then I had almost to fight my way to the
ticket-office. When at last I had got my ticket the train was due out.
"Jump in anywhere," said the porter; "I'll see that your luggage goes."
The carriages were crammed full. I raced down the platform till I saw room
for one, and then tore open the door, an sank into my seat as the train
steamed out of the station.
I looked round for sympathy at my narrow escape, but my fellow-travellers
were evidently one party. They looked at me coldly, as at an unwelcome
intruder, and drew more closely together, discussing the day's doings; so I
curled up in my corner and gave myself up to anticipations of the holidays.
These were so engrossing that I took no count of the stations we passed
through. I was just picturing to myself the delights of a long ride on the
pony, when, to my amazement the stopping of the train was followed by the
loud exhortation:

"All change here!"
"Why, where are we?" I asked, looking up bewildered.
"At Lowford," replied one of my fellow-passengers.
But they gathered up their parcels, and swept out of the carriage without a
question as to my destination.
I seized on a porter.
"How did I get here?" I asked him; "I was going to Upperton. What has
happened?"
"Upperton, was you?" said the man. "Why, you must ha' got into the slip
carriage for Lowford. I s'pose 'twas a smartish crowd at Paddin'ton."
"It was," I replied, "and I hadn't time to ask if I was right. I suppose my
luggage has gone on. But what can I do now? How far is it to Upperton? Is
there another train?"
"Well, no, there ain't another train, not to-night. It's a matter of fifteen mile
to Upperton by the road."
"Which way is it?"
"Well, you couldn't miss it, that goes straight on pretty nigh all the way.
You've only got to follow the telegraph-postes till you comes to the
"Leather Bottle," and then you turns to the right."
"I know my way from there."
"But you could never walk all that way to-night. You'd better by half stay at
the hotel, and go on by rail in the morning."
"I'll wire to them at home to drive along the road and meet me, and I'll walk
on till they do."
"Well, it's fine, and I dessay they'll meet you more'n half way, but 'tis a
lonely road this time o' night."
"I'm not afraid," said I, and walked off briskly.

I bought a couple of buns in a baker's shop, and went on to the telegraph
office—only to be told it was just after eight o'clock, and they could send
no message that night.
I turned out my pockets, but all the coins I had were a sixpenny and a
threepenny piece—not enough to pay for a night's lodging, I was sure. The
cabman's extortion, and a half-crown I had given to the porter at Paddington
in my haste, had reduced me to this.
What should I do? I was not long deciding to walk on. Perhaps they would
guess what had happened at home and send to meet me. The spice of
adventure appealed to me. If I had gone back to the porter he would
probably have taken me to the hotel, and they would have trusted me. But I
did not think of that—I imagine I did not want to think of it. I had been
used to country roads all my life, and it was a perfect evening in late July.
My way lay straight into the heart of the setting sun as I took the road. In a
clear sky, all pale yellow and pink and green, the sun was disappearing
behind the line of beech-covered hills which lay between me and home, but
behind me the moon—as yet only like a tiny round white cloud—was
rising.
I felt like dancing along the road at first. The sense of freedom was
intoxicating. The scent of wild honeysuckle and cluster roses came from the
hedgerows. I ate my buns as I walked along; I had made three and a half
miles by the milestones in the first hour, and enjoyed every step of the way.
"If they don't meet me," I thought, "how astonished they will be when I
walk in! It will be something to brag of for many a day, to have walked
fifteen miles after eight o'clock at night."
The daylight had faded, but the moon was so bright and clear that the
shadows of my solitary figure and the "telegraph-postes" were as black and
sharp as at noonday. Bats were flitting about up and down. A white owl
flew silently across the road. Rabbits were playing in the fields in the silver
light. It was all very beautiful, but a little lonely and eerie. I hadn't passed a
house for a mile.
Then I heard wheels behind me.

If it were some kind person who would give me a lift!
But I heard a lash used cruelly, and a rough, hoarse voice swearing at the
horse.
I hurried on, but of course the cart overtook me in a minute.
The man pulled up. He leaned down out of the cart to look at me, and I saw
his coarse, flushed face and watery eyes.
"Want a lift, my dear?" he asked.
"No, thank you," I answered, "I much prefer walking."
"Too late for a gal like you to be out," he said; "you jump up and drive
along o' me."
"No, thank you," I repeated, walking on as fast as I could.
He whipped his horse on to keep pace with me; then, leaning on the
dashboard, he made as though he would climb out of the cart. But just at
that moment a big bird rustled out of the hedge—the horse sprang aside,
precipitated his master into the bottom of the cart, and went off at a gallop.
Very thankful I was to see them disappear into the distance!
I was shaking so with fear that I had to sit down on a stone heap for a while.
I pulled myself together and started on again, but all joy was gone from the
adventure—there seemed really to be too much adventure about it.
Three miles, four miles more I walked; but they did not go as the first miles
had gone. It was eleven o'clock, and I was only halfway; at this rate I could
not be home before two in the morning. If they had been coming to meet
me they would have done so before this. They must have given me up for
the night, every one would be in bed and asleep, and to wake them up in the
small hours would frighten them more than my not coming home had done.
Moreover, the long road over the hill and through the woods was before me.
The thought of the moonlit, silent woods, with their weird shadows, was too
much for me; I looked about for a place of refuge for the night.
I soon found one.

A splendid rick of hay in a field close to the road had been cut. Halfway up
it there was a wide, broad ledge—just the place for a bed. I did not take
long to reach it, and, pulling some loose hay over myself in case it grew
chilly at dawn, I said my prayers—they were real prayers that night—and
was soon asleep in my soft, fragrant bed.
The sun woke me, shining hot on my nest. I looked at my watch, it was six
o'clock. Thrushes and blackbirds were singing their hearts out, swallows
were darting by, high in air a lark was hovering right above my head, with
quivering wings, singing his morning hymn of praise. I knelt, up there on
the hayrick, and let my thanks go with his to heaven's gate.
I had never felt such a keen sense of gratitude as I did that summer
morning: the dangers of the night all past and over, and a beautiful new day
given to me, and only seven miles and a half between me and home.
'Tis true that I was very hungry, but I started on my way and soon came to a
cottage whose mistress was up giving her husband his breakfast. She very
willingly gave me as much bread-and-butter as I could eat, and a cup of tea.
I did not quarrel with the thickness of the bread or the quality of the butter,
or even with the milkless tea—I had the poor man's sauce to flavour them.
When she heard my story, the woman overwhelmed me with pity and
regrets that I had not reached her house overnight and slept there. But I did
not regret it. I would not have given up my "night on the road" now it was
over for worlds.
She was grateful for the sixpence I gave her—having learnt wisdom, I
reserved the threepenny bit—and I went on.
The air was delicious, with a spring and exhilaration in it which belongs to
the early morning hours. The sunlight played hide-and-seek in the woods.
Patches of purple heath alternated with lilac scabious and pale hare-bells.
The brake ferns were yellow-tipped here and there—a forewarning of
autumn—and in one little nook I found a bed of luscious wild strawberries.
My heart danced with my feet, and I wondered if the tramps ever felt as I
did, in the summer mornings, after sleeping out under a hedge.
I reached home by nine o'clock, and then there was a hubbub, and a calling
out of, "Here's Muriel!" "Why, Muriel, where have you sprung from?"

"What happened last night? We were so frightened, but they told us at the
station that it was an awful crowd at Paddington, and you must have missed
the train, and of course we thought you would go back to Miss Black's, but
you ought to have wired."
It was ever so long before I could make them believe that I had been out all
night, and slept in a hayrick; and then mother was almost angry with me,
and father told me if ever I found myself in such a predicament again I was
to go to a respectable hotel and persuade them to take me in. But he said he
would take very good care that no child of his should ever be in such a
predicament again. But I could not be sorry, the beginning and the end were
so beautiful.

THE MISSING LETTER.

BY JENNIE CHAPPELL.

The Briars was a very old-fashioned house, standing in its own grounds,
about ten miles from Smokeytown. It was much dilapidated, for Miss Clare
the owner and occupier, had not the necessary means for repairing it, and as
she had lived there from her birth—a period of nearly sixty years—did not
like to have the old place pulled down. Not more than half the rooms were
habitable, and in one of them—-the former dining-room—there sat, one
January afternoon, Miss Clare, with her young nephew and niece. They
were having tea, and the firelight danced cosily on the worn, once
handsome furniture, and the portly metal teapot, which replaced the silver
one, long since parted with for half its value in current coin. The only
modern article in the room, excepting the aforesaid nephew and niece, was
a pretty, though inexpensive, pianoforte, which stood under a black-looking
portrait of a severe-visaged lady with her waist just under her arms, and a
general resemblance, as irreverent Aubrey said, to a yard and a half of pump
water.
Just now Miss Clare was consuming toast in silence, and Kate was
wondering if there was any way of making bows that had been washed
twice and turned three times look like new; while Aubrey's handsome head
was bent over a book, for he was addicted to replenishing mind and body at
the same time. Suddenly Miss Clare exclaimed, "Dear me; it is fifty years
to-day since Marjorie Westford died!"
Kate glanced up at the pump-water lady, with the laconic remark, "Fancy!"
"It's very likely that on such an interesting anniversary the fair Miss
Marjorie may revisit her former haunts," said Aubrey, raising a pair of

glorious dark eyes with a mischievous smile; "so if you hear an unearthly
bumping and squealing in the small hours, you may know who it is."
"The idea of a ghost 'bumping and squealing,'" laughed Kate. "And Miss
Marjorie, too! The orthodox groan and glide would be more like her style."
Then her mind wandered to a story connected with that lady, which had
given rise to much speculation on the part of the young Clares. Half a
century ago there lived at the Briars a family consisting of a brother and
two sisters; the former a gay young spendthrift of twenty-five; the girls,
Anna, aged twenty, and Lucy, the present Miss Clare, nine years old
respectively. With them resided a maiden sister of their mother's, Marjorie
Westford, an eccentric person, whose property at her death reverted to a
distant relative. A short time before she died she divided her few trinkets
and personal possessions between the three young people, bequeathing to
Anna, in addition, a sealed letter, to be read on her twenty-first birthday.
The girl hid the packet away lest she should be tempted to read it before the
appointed time; but ere that arrived she was drowned by the upsetting of a
boat, and never since had the concealed letter been found, although every
likely place had been searched for it. Lucy never married, and George had
but one son, whose wife died soon after the birth of Kate, and in less than a
year he married again, this time to a beautiful young heiress, subsequently
mother to Aubrey, who was thus rather more than two years Kate's junior.
The younger George Clare, a spendthrift like his father, speedily
squandered his wife's fortune, and died, leaving her with barely sufficient to
keep herself and little son from want. Yet such was Mrs. Clare's undying
love for the husband who had treated her so badly, that in their greatest
straits she refused to part with a locket containing his likeness and hers
which was valuable by reason of the diamonds and sapphires with which it
was encrusted. This locket was the only thing she had to leave her little
Aubrey when she died, and he, a lovely boy of nine summers, went with his
half-sister (who had a small sum of money settled on her by her maternal
grandfather) to reside with their great-aunt, Miss Clare.
Presently the quietness at the tea-table was disturbed by a loud single knock
at the front door, and Aubrey bounced out of the room.

"A note from Mr. Green," he said, returning. "I wonder what's up now? No
good, I'm afraid."
This foreboding was only too fully realised. The agent for Miss Clare's little
property at Smokeytown wrote to tell her that during a recent gale one of
her best houses had been so much injured by the falling of a factory
chimney, that the repairs would cost quite £30 before it could again be
habitable. This was a dire misfortune. So closely was their income cut, and
so carefully apportioned to meet the household expenses, that, after fullest
consideration, Miss Clare could only see her way clear for getting together
about £15 towards meeting this unexpected demand, and three very anxious
faces bent around the table in discussion.
Presently Aubrey slipped away and ran upstairs to his own room. He then lit
a candle, and pulling a box from under an old horse-hair chair, unlocked it,
taking out a small morocco case, which, when opened, revealed something
that sparkled and scintillated even in the feeble rays of the cheap
"composite." It was the precious locket, placed in his hands by his dying
mother four years before. Inside were two exquisite miniatures on ivory—
the one a handsome, careless-looking man, the other, on which the boy's
tender gaze was now fixed, was the portrait of a lady, with just such pure,
bright features, and sweet, dark-grey eyes as Aubrey himself.
"Mother, my own darling," he murmured, pressing the picture to his lips,
"how can I part with you?" And dropping his head on the hard, prickly
cushion, by which he knelt, he cried in a way that would considerably have
astonished the youths with whom he had, a few hours earlier, engaged in a
vigorous snowball fight. They only knew a bright, mirthful Aubrey Clare,
the cleverest lad in his class, and the "jolliest fellow out;" none but Kate had
any idea of the deepest affections of his boyish heart, and she truly
sympathised with her half-brother in his love for the only portrait and
souvenir remaining of the gentle creature who had so well supplied a
mother's place for her. Something in Aubrey's face when he left the room
had told her of his thoughts, so presently she followed him and tapped at the
half-open door. Obtaining no answer, she entered, and saw the boy kneeling
before the old chair with his head bent. The open case lay beside him, and
Kate easily guessed what it was held so tightly in his clenched hand. She

stooped beside him, and stroked his wavy hair caressingly as she said, "It
can't be that, Aubrey."
"It must," replied a muffled voice from the chair cushion.
"It sha'n't be," said Kate firmly. "I've thought of a plan——"
But Aubrey sprang to his feet. "See here, Katie," he said excitedly, but with
quivering voice; "I've been making an idol of this locket. It ought to have
gone before, when aunt lost so much money by those Joneses; but you both
humoured my selfishness."
"Being fond of anything, especially anything like that, isn't making an idol
of it, I'm sure," said Katie.
"It is if it prevents you doing what you ought, I tell you, Katie; it's
downright dishonest of me to keep this," he continued, with burning cheeks,
"living as I am upon charity, and aunt so poor. I see it plainly now. Mr.
Wallis offered to buy it of me last summer, and if he likes he shall have it
now."
"He is gone to Rillford," said Kate, in whose mind an idea was beginning to
hatch.
"He'll be back on Saturday, and then I'll ask him. It won't be really losing
mamma's likeness, you know," he added, with a pathetic attempt at his own
bright smile. "Whenever I shut my eyes I can see her face, just as she
looked when——" but he was stopped by a queer fit of coughing and
rubbed the curl of his hair that always tumbled over his forehead; so Katie
couldn't see his face, but she knew what the sacrifice must cost him, and,
girl-like, exalted him to a pedestal of heroism immediately; but when she
would have bestowed an enthusiastic embrace, he slipped away from her
and ran downstairs.
Left alone, Kate stood long at the uncurtained window, gazing at the
unearthlike beauty of the moonlit snow. When at last she turned away, the
afore mentioned idea was fully fledged and strong.
She found her hero with his nose ungracefully tucked into an uncut
magazine, and his chair tilted at a perilous angle with the floor, just like any

ordinary boy, and felt a tiny bit disappointed. Presently she turned to the
piano, which was to her a companion and never failing delight. She had a
taste for music, which Miss Clare had, as far as was practicable, cultivated;
and although Kate had not received much instruction, she played with a
sweetness and expression that quite made up for any lack of brilliant
execution. This evening her touch was very tender, and the tunes she played
were sad.
By-and-bye Katie lingered, talking earnestly with her aunt long after
Aubrey had gone to bed; and when at last she wished her good-night, she
added, anxiously, "Then I really may, auntie; you are sure you don't mind?"
And Miss Clare said, "I give you full permission to do what you like, dear.
If you love Aubrey well enough to make so great a sacrifice for him, I hope
he will appreciate your generosity as he ought; but whether he does or not,
you will surely not lose your reward. I am more grieved than I can tell you
to know that it is necessary."
Two days later, Aubrey was just going to tear a piece off the Smokeytown
Standard to do up a screw of ultramarine, when his eye was arrested by an
advertisement which he read two or three times before he could believe the
evidence of his senses; it was this,—
"To be sold immediately, a pretty walnut-wood cottage pianoforte, in
excellent condition, and with all the latest improvements. Price 15l. Apply
at 'The Briars,' London Road."
He rushed upstairs to Kate, who, with her head adorned by a check duster,
was busy sweeping (for they had no servant), and burst in upon her with,
"What on earth are you going to sell it for?"
There was no need to inquire what "it" was, and Kate, without pausing in
her occupation, replied, "To help make up the money aunt wants."
"But if Mr. Wallis buys the locket;" then the truth flashed upon him, and he
broke off suddenly, "Oh, Katie, you're never going to——"
"Sell the piano because I don't want the locket to go," finished Katie, with a
smile, that in spite of the check duster made her look quite angelic.

Aubrey flew at her, and hugging her, broom and all, exclaimed,—
"Oh, how could you! You are too good; I didn't half deserve it. Was there
ever such a darling sister before?" and a great deal more in the same strain,
as he showered kisses upon her till he took away her breath, one moment
declaring that she shouldn't do it and he wouldn't have it, and the next
assuring her that he could never thank her enough, and never forget it as
long as he lived. And Katie was as happy as he was.
It was rather a damper, however, when that day passed, and the next, and no
one came to look even at the bargain. Aubrey said that if no purchaser
appeared before the following Wednesday, he should certainly go to Mr.
Wallis about the locket; and it really seemed as if Katie's sacrifice was not
to be made after all.
Tuesday afternoon came, still nobody had been in answer to the
advertisement. It was a pouring wet day, and Aubrey's holiday hung heavily
on his hands. He had read every book he could get at, painted two
illuminations, constructed several "patent" articles for Kate, which would
have been great successes, but for sundry "ifs," and abandoned as hopeless
the task of teaching Cæsar, Miss Clare's asthmatic old dog, to stand upon
his hind legs, and was now gazing drearily out on the soaked garden, almost
wishing the vacation over. Suddenly he turned to his sister, who was
holding a skein of worsted for her aunt to wind, exclaiming, "Katie, I've
struck a bright!"
"What is it?" she asked, understanding that he had had an inspiration of
some sort. "An apparatus for getting at nuts without cracking them; or a
chest-protector for Cæsar to wear in damp weather?"
"Neither; I'm going to rummage in the old bookcase upstairs, and see if I
can come across anything fit to read, or an adventure." And not being in the
habit of letting the grass grow under his feet (if vegetation was ever known
to develop in such unfavourable circumstances), he bounded away; while
Miss Clare observed, rather anxiously, "When that boy goes adventure-
seeking, it generally ends in a catastrophe; but I don't think he can do much
mischief up there."

Ten minutes afterwards, Katie went to see how Aubrey was getting on, and
found him doing nothing worse than polishing the covers of some very dirty
old books with one of his best pocket-handkerchiefs. When she
remonstrated with him, he recommended her to get a proper, ordained
duster, and undertake that part of the programme herself. So presently she
was quite busy, for Aubrey tossed the books out much faster than she could
dust and examine them. Very discoloured, mouldy-smelling old books they
were, of a remarkably uninteresting character generally, which perhaps
accounted for their long abandonment to the dust and damp of that unused
apartment. When the case was emptied, and the contents piled upon the
floor, Aubrey said, "Now lend us a hand to pull the old thing out, and see
what's behind."
"Spiders," replied Katie promptly, edging back.
"I'll have the satisfaction of a gentleman of the first spider that looks at
you," said Aubrey, reassuringly. "Come, catch hold!"
So Katie "caught hold;" and between them they managed to drag the
cumbrous piece of furniture sufficiently far out of the recess in which it
stood for the boy to slip behind. The half-high wainscoting had in one place
dissolved partnership with the wall; and obeying an impulse for which he
could never account, Aubrey dived behind, fishing out, among several odd
leaves and dilapidated covers, a small hymn-book bound in red leather.
Kate took it to the window to examine, for the light was fading fast. On the
fly-leaf was written in childish, curly-tailed letters, "Anna Clare; July
1815," followed by the exquisite poetical stanza commencing,—

"The grass is green, the rose is red;
Think of me when I am dead,"

which she read aloud to her brother. A minute afterwards, as she turned the
brown-spotted leaves, there fell out a packet, a letter superscribed, "Miss
Anna Clare; to be read on her twenty-first birthday, and when quite alone."
Katie gasped, "Oh, look!" and dropped the paper as if it burned her fingers.
Aubrey sprang forward, prepared to slay a giant spider, but when his eyes
fell upon the writing which had so startled his sister, he too seemed
petrified. They gazed fixedly into each other's eyes for a minute, then
Aubrey said emphatically,—
"It's that!" And both rushed precipitately downstairs, exclaiming, "Auntie,
auntie, we've found it!"
Now Miss Clare was just partaking of that popular refreshment "forty
winks," and was some time before she could understand what had so greatly
excited her young relations; but when at last it dawned upon her, she hastily
brought out her spectacles, and lit the lamp, while every moment seemed an
hour to the impatient children. When would she leave off turning the yellow
packet in her fingers, and poring over the faded writing outside? At last the
seal is broken, and two pairs of eager eyes narrowly watch Miss Clare's face
as she scans the contents.
"It is the long-lost letter!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "Where did you
find it?"
Both quickly explained, adding, "Do read it, auntie; what does Miss
Marjorie say?"
So in a trembling voice Miss Clare read the words penned by a dying hand
fifty years before,—
"My Dearest Anna,—I feel that I have but a short time longer to live, and
but one thing disturbs my peace. It is the presentiment that sooner or later
the thoughtless extravagance of your brother George will bring you all into
trouble. It is little I can do to avert this calamity, but years of economy have
enabled me to save 280l. (which is concealed beneath the floor in my room,

under the third plank from the south window, about ten inches from the
wall). I wish you, niece Anna, to hold this money in trust, as a profound
secret, and to be used only in case of an emergency such as I have hinted. In
the event of none such taking place before your sister is of age, you are then
to divide the money, equally between yourself, George and Lucy, to use as
you each may please. Hoping that I have made my purpose clear, and that
my ever trustworthy Anna will faithfully carry out my wishes, I pray that
the blessing of God may rest richly on my nephew and nieces, and bid you,
dearest girl, farewell.
"Marjorie Westford.
"January 2nd, 1825."
Miss Clare's eyes were dim when she finished these words, sounding, as
they did, like a voice from the grave, while Kate and Aubrey sat in
spellbound silence. The boy was the first to speak.
"Do you think it is still there?"
"There is no reason why it should not be," replied Miss Clare; "indeed it
seems that this legacy, so strangely hidden for half a century, and as
strangely brought to light, is to be the means by which our Father will bring
us out of our present difficulties."
"Get a light, Katie, and let's look for the treasure; that will be the best way
of making sure that our adventure isn't the result of a mince-pie supper,"
suggested Aubrey, producing his tool-box.
So they all proceeded to the room, now seldom entered, where Marjorie
Westford breathed her last. It was almost empty, and the spot indicated in
the letter was soon determined upon. Aubrey knelt down on the floor, and
commenced, in a most unsystematic way, his task of raising the board;
while Katie, trembling with excitement, dropped grease spots on his head
from her tilted candlestick.
Aubrey's small tools were wholly inadequate to their task, and many were
the cuts and bruises his inexperienced hands received before he at length
succeeded in prising the stubborn plank.

There lay the mahogany box, which, with some trouble, owing to its
weight, they succeeded in bringing to the surface. It fastened by a simple
catch, and was filled with golden guineas.
When Kate bade Aubrey good-night upon the stairs, he detained her a
minute to murmur with a soft light in his dusky eyes,—
"I'm so very, very glad your sacrifice isn't to be made, darling, but the will
is just the same as the deed. I shall love you for it as long as you live; and
better still," he added, with deepening colour and lowered voice, "God
knows, and will love you too."

"THE COLONEL."

BY MARION DICKEN.

Dick was only thirteen years of age, but he was in love, and in love too with
Captain Treves's wife, who, in his eyes, was spick-span perfection. In their
turn Mrs. Treves's two little boys, aged six and five respectively, were in
love with Dick, who appeared to them to be the model of all that a
schoolboy ought to be.
It was in church on Easter Sunday that Dick first realised his passion, and
then—as he glanced from Mrs. Treves to the captain's stalwart form—the
hopelessness of it! He remarked, afterwards, to his brother Ted, a lieutenant
in Treves's regiment, that Mrs. Treves looked "ripping" in grey. But Ted was
busy with his own thoughts, in which, if the truth be told, the sermon
figured as little as in those of his younger brother.
Dick was on very friendly terms with the Treves and was rather surprised to
find that the captain and his wife treated him more like a little boy than a
"chap of thirteen—in fact, almost fourteen," as he put it to himself. He used
to take Jack and Roy out on the river and to the baths, where he taught them
both to swim. To use Ted's own expression to a brother-sub, "Dick was
making a thorough nursemaid and tutor of himself to those kids of the
captain's." He was teaching them certainly, unconsciously, but steadily, a
great many things.
Jack no longer cried when he blistered his small paws trying to scull, and
when Roy thought of Dick, or the "colonel," as they called him, he left off
making grimaces at, and teasing, his baby sister, because Dick had
answered carelessly when Jack once offered to fight him, "No thanks, old
boy, I only hit a chap my own size." Roy recognised the difference between
tormenting a girl and fighting a boy.

About three weeks after Dick went back to school for the summer term,
both the little Treves's fell ill, and Jack cried incessantly for "the colonel."
Yet when kind old Colonel Duke came to see him one afternoon, and
brought him some grapes, the child turned fretfully away and still cried,
"'Colonel'; I want the 'colonel'!"
"But, Jack dear, this is the colonel," remonstrated his mother, gently
smoothing the crumpled pillow.
But Jack still wailed fretfully, and would not be comforted.
Colonel Duke happened to remark on the incident at mess that evening, and
Ted Lloyd knitted his brows, as if trying to solve some mental mystery. The
result of his cogitations was an early visit to Mrs. Treves next day.
The children were worse. Roy was, indeed, dangerously ill; and neither his
father nor mother could persuade Jack to take his medicine.
"We cannot think whom he means by 'colonel'," added the poor lady
despairingly.
"That's just what I've come about, Mrs. Treves; they used to call my young
brother that at Easter."
"You are sure, Mr. Lloyd?"
"Quite. I heard them myself more than once. I'll trot round and see the
Mater, and we will wire for him if it will do any good."
That afternoon Dick received a telegram which sent him off full speed to
his housemaster for the necessary permission to go home.
"Is Mater ill?" he asked breathlessly, as he bundled out of the train on to
Ted, who bore the onrush heroically.
"No, she's quite well, only Treves's kids are ill."
"Well?" queried Dick rather indignantly, as he thought of the cricket-match
on the morrow, in which he had hoped to take part.
"Well, you see, Dick, they're seriously ill, and they can't make the little 'un
take his physic."

"Well, I can't take it for him, can I? queried Dick, as they started home.
"Nobody wants you to, you little duffer. But the kids used to call you
'colonel,' and now he keeps crying for you. Perhaps if you order him to take
the physic, he will—that's all."
"Oh!" briefly responded Dick.
He was sorry to hear that his whilom chums, the "captain" and "lieutenant,"
were ill. But weren't kids always having something or other, and would he
always be sent for to dose them? "Rot!"
However, these thoughts abruptly left him, when, directly after tea, he went
to the captain's and saw Mrs. Treves' pale and anxious face, and instead, his
old allegiance, but deeper and truer, returned.
"Thank you, Dick," she said kindly in reply to his awkward tender of
sympathy. And then they went upstairs.
By Jack's bed a glass of medicine was standing. A nurse was turning Roy's
pillow, and Captain Treves stood by her, gnawing his long moustache.
Just then Jack's fretful wail sounded through the room for "'Colonel!'
Daddy, Jack wants the 'colonel'!"
"I'm here, old man," said Dick, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Drink
this at once," he added, taking up the glass, as he remembered his brother's
suggestion.
But Jack had clutched Dick's hand and now lay back sleepily.
Dick felt desperate. He glanced round. Captain and Mrs. Treves and the
nurse were gathered round the other little white bed. Was Roy worse? With
what he felt to be an unmanly lump in his throat, he leaned over the boy
again.
"Jack, I say, Jack" (hurriedly), "if you drink this you shall be a captain."
Jack heard, and when Dick raised him up, he drained the glass.
"But Roy, Dick, he's a captain?"

"Roy shall be promoted too," replied Dick.
And just then the captain left the other bed and came over to Jack. Dick
could see Mrs. Treves bending over Roy, and the nurse leaving the room.
He looked up and saw that there were actually tears in the captain's eyes. He
had never seen a soldier cry before, and guessed what had happened. Roy
had indeed been promoted. He would never again "play soldiers" with Jack
or Dick.
Jack was now sleeping quietly, and the doctor, who came in an hour later,
pronounced him out of danger.

"Goodbye, my boy. We thought you'd like Roy's watch as you were fond of
him," said the captain next day; and then Mrs. Treves not only shook hands,
but stooped and kissed him.
Dick flushed, muttered some incoherent thanks, and went off to the station.
Dick reached school in time for the cricket-match, after all; but, fond as he
was of cricket, he absented himself from the ground that afternoon, and
spent the time printing off some photos of "two kids," as a chum rather
scornfully remarked.
One of those "kids" is now a lieutenant in the regiment of which Dick is a
captain, and, indeed, in a fair way to become a colonel—for the second time
in his life.

NETTIE.

BY ALFRED G. SAYERS.

Nettie was a bright, fair girl of fifteen years of age, tall and graceful in
movement and form, and resolute in character beyond her years. She was
standing on the departure platform of the L. & N. W. Railway at Euston
Square, watching the egress of the Manchester express, or rather that part of
it which disclosed a head, an arm, and a cap, all moving in frantic and
eccentric evolutions.
Tom, her brother, two years her senior, was on his way back to school for
his last term, full of vague, if big, ideas of what he was going to be when,
school days over, he should "put away childish things." "Most of our
fellows," he had said loftily, as he stood beside his sister on the platform a
few moments before, "go into the Army or Navy and become admirals or
generals or something of that sort." And then he had hinted with less
definiteness that his own career would probably combine the advantages of
all the professions though he only followed one. But Tom soon dropped
from these sublime heights to more mundane considerations, and his last
words concerned a new cricket bat which Nettie was to "screw out of the
gov'nor" for him, a new pup which she was to bring up by hand under his
special directions, and correspondence, which on her part at least, was to be
regular, and not too much occupied with details about "the kids."
Nettie sighed as she turned her steps homewards, and her handkerchief was
damped by at least one drop of distilled emotion that bedewed the rose upon
her cheek. Poor Nettie, she too was conscious of a destiny, and had
bewildered thoughts of what she was going to be! She had opened her heart
on this subject to her brother Tom during the holidays; but she had not
received much encouragement, and at the present moment she was inclined

to murmur at the reflection that the world was made for boys, and after all
she was only a girl.
"What will you be?" Tom had said in answer to her question during one of
their confidential chats. "You? why, you—well, you will stay with the
mater, of course."
"Yes; but girls do all sorts of things nowadays, Tom," she had replied.
"Some are doctors, some are authors, some are——"
"Blue-stockings," responded the ungallant Tom. "Don't be absurd, Net," he
added patronisingly; "you'll stay with the pater and mater, and some day
you will marry some fellow, or you can keep house for me, and then, when
I am not with my ship or my regiment, of course I shall be with you."
Poor Nettie! She had formed an idea that the possibilities of life ought to
include something more heroic for her than keeping house for her brother,
and she had determined that she would not sink herself in the hum-drum of
uneventful existence without some effort to avoid it; and so it happened that
that same evening, after doing her duty by the baby pup and Tom's new
cricket bat, she startled her father and mother by the somewhat abrupt and
altogether unexpected question,—
"Father, what am I going to be?"
"Be?" repeated her father, drawing her on to his knee, "why, be my good
little daughter as you always have been, Nettie. Are you tired of that, dear?"
But no, Nettie was not tired of her father's love, and she had no idea of
being less affectionate because she wanted to be more wise and useful, and
so she returned her father's caresses with interest, and treated her mother in
the same way, so that there might be no jealousy; and then, sitting down in
the armchair with the air of one commanding attention, harked back to the
all-absorbing topic. "You know, father, there's Minnie Roberts, isn't there?"
"What if there is?" replied her father.
"Well, you know she's going to the University, don't you, dad?"
"No, I didn't."

"Well, she is. Then she'll be a doctor, or professor, or something. That's
what I should like to be."
Mr. Anderson looked from his wife to his daughter with somewhat of
surprise on his face. He was a just man; and he and his wife had but
recently discussed the plans (including personal sacrifices) by which Master
Tom's advancement was to be secured. Really, that anything particular
needed to be done for Nettie had hardly occurred to him. He had imagined
her going on at the High School for another year, say, and then settling
down as mother's companion. His desire not to be harsh, coupled with his
unreadiness, led Mr. Anderson to temporise. "Well, little girl," he said, "you
plod on, and we'll have a talk about it." Nettie was in a triumphant mood.
She had expected repulse, to be reminded of the terrible expense Tom was,
and was to be, and she felt the battle already won. Doubtless the fact that
Nettie was heartened was a great deal toward the success that was
unexpectedly to dazzle her. She worked hard at school, and yet so buoyant
was her spirit, that she found it easy to neglect none of her customary duties
at home. She helped dust the drawing-room, and ran to little Dorothy in her
troubles as of yore; and Mrs. Anderson came to remark more and more
often to her husband, what a treat it would be when Nettie came home for
good. "You can see she has forgotten every word about the idea of a
profession," said that lady; "and I'm very glad. She's the light of the house."
Forgotten! Oh no! Far from it! as they were soon to realise. The end of the
term came—Tom was expected home on the morrow, Saturday. In the
afternoon Nettie walked in from school, her face ablaze with excitement.
For a moment she could say nothing; so that her mother dropped her work
and wondered if Nettie had picked up a thousand-pound note. Then came
the announcement—"Mother! I've won a Scholarship!"
"You have?"
"Yes, mother dear, I'm the Queen Victoria Scholar!" Nettie stood up and
bowed.
"And what does that do for you?"
"Why, I can go on studying for my profession for three years, and it won't
cost father a penny!"

"What profession, dear?"
"I don't know, mother, what. But I want to be a doctor."
"A what!"
"A doctor, mother. Minnie Roberts is studying for a doctor; and I think it's
splendid."
"What! cut people open with a knife!"
"Yes, mother, if it's going to do them good."
"But, my dear——"
However, Nettie knew very little about the medical profession; she only
knew that Minnie Roberts went about just in the independent way that a
man does, and was studying hard, and seemed very lively and witty. So
detailed discussion was postponed to congratulation, inquiry, and surmise.
"What will Tom say?" Nettie found herself continually asking herself, and
herself quite unable to answer herself. What Tom did actually say we must
detail in its proper place, which comes when Mr. Anderson and Nettie go to
meet him at the station. They were both rather excited, for Mr. Anderson
had, to tell the truth, felt somewhat guilty towards his little daughter over
the question of the profession. While he had flattered himself that the idea
was a passing fancy, she had cherished his words of encouragement, and
had made easier the realisation of her dream by her steady improvement of
the opportunity at hand, viz., her school work.
Tom kissed Nettie and shook hands with his father, and then it was that
Nettie said,—
"Tom, I've won a Scholarship!"
And then it was, standing beside his luggage, that Tom replied,—
"Sennacherib!"
Though not strictly to the point, no other word or phrase could have shown
those who knew Tom how much he was moved. Nettie knew. She was
rather sorry Tom had to be told at all, for he had been quite unsuccessful

this term, a good deal to his father's disappointment; and Nettie was sure he
must feel the contrast of her own success rather keenly. They talked of other
things on the way home, and directly Tom had kissed his mother and
Dorothy and Joe, Nettie said, "Now shall we go and get the pup? I can tell
you he's a beauty!"
"What a brick you are, Net, to think of it!" said Tom. "Yes; let's go."
These holidays were very delightful to Nettie and Tom; that young man
permitted, even encouraged, terms of perfect equality. He forgot to
patronise or disparage his sister or her sex. Perhaps his sister's success and
his own lack of it had made him feel a bit modest. Nettie had explained her
achievement both to herself and others by the fact that she had been so
happy. And she was right. Some people talk as though a discipline of pain
were necessary for all people in order to develop the best in them. That is
not so. There are certain temperaments found in natures naturally fine, to
whom a discipline of pleasure is best, especially in youth, and happily God
often sends pleasure to these: we mean the pleasure of success; the pleasure
of realising cherished plans; the pleasure of health and strength to meet
every duty of life cheerfully. And now Nettie began to build castles in the
air for Tom. Tom would go to Sandhurst; he would pass well; he would
have a commission in a crack regiment. And Tom's repentance of some
former disparagement of the sex was shown in such remarks as "that
Beauchamp major—you know, the fellow I told you a good deal about."
"Oh yes, a fine fellow!"
"Well, I don't know, Net—I begin to think he's a beastly idiot. That fellow
was bragging to me the other day that he bullied his sisters into fagging for
him when he was at home. I think that's enough for me." And so holidays
again came to an end, to Nettie's secret delight. She hated parting with Tom,
but she longed to be back at her work.

Six years passed away and Nettie's career had been one of unbroken
success. She had proceeded to Newnham and had come out splendidly in
her examinations. Only one thing clouded her sky. Tom had not been

successful. In spite of all that coaching could do, he had been plucked at
Sandhurst, and the doctor had prohibited further study for the present.
Nettie wrote to him constantly, making light of his failure, and assuring him
of ultimate success. And now she was to make her start in her chosen
profession. Before long she would be able to write herself "Nettie
Anderson, M.D." and she was then to go into practice with her elder friend,
Minnie Roberts. Little paragraphs had even appeared in some of the papers
that "for the first time in the history of medicine in England, two lady
graduates in medicine are to practise in partnership." Miss Roberts was
already settled in one of the Bloomsbury squares, and had a constantly
increasing circle of clients.
One Saturday afternoon in October the inaugural banquet was held. Nettie
had a flat of her own in the house, and here the feast was spread. Mr. and
Mrs. Anderson, Tom, and the two doctors formed the company. They were
all so proud of Nettie that they almost forgot Tom's lack of success. There
was what is understood as a high time. Who so gay and bright as Nettie!
Who so gentle and courteous as Tom! (I am afraid a discipline of failure is
best for some of us!) How the time flew! How soon mother and Nettie had
to go to Nettie's room for the mother to don her bonnet and get back home
in decent time!
"But you'll be marrying, you know, some day, Nettie."
"Ah! time will show, mother dear," was Nettie's answer; and then she
added, "but if I do it will be from choice and not necessity."

THE MAGIC CABINET.

BY ALBERT E. HOOPER.

"A castle built of granite.
With towers grim and tall;
A castle built of rainbows,
With sunbeams over all:—
I pass the one, in ruins,
And mount a golden stair,—
For the newest and the truest,
And the oldest and the boldest,
And the fairest and the rarest,
Is my castle in the air."—M.

I.
ON TWO SIDES OF THE CABINET.

"Plenty of nourishment, remember, Mr. Goodman," said the doctor; "you
must really see that your wife carries out my instructions. And you, my dear
lady, mustn't trouble about want of appetite. The appetite will come all in
good time, if you do what I tell you. Good-afternoon."
Little Grace Goodman gazed after the retreating figure of the doctor; and
when the door closed behind him and her father, she turned to look at her
mother.
Mrs. Goodman looked very pale and ill, and as she lay back in her
cushioned-chair she tried to wipe away a tear unseen. But Grace's sight was

very sharp, and she ran across the room and threw her arms impetuously
round her mother's neck.
"Oh, mother, are you very miserable?" she asked, while her own lip
quivered pitifully.
"No, no, my darling, not 'very miserable,'" answered her mother, kissing the
little girl tenderly. "Hush! don't cry, my love, or you will make father
unhappy. Here he comes."
Mr. Goodman re-entered the room looking very thoughtful; but as he came
and sat down beside his wife, he smiled and said cheerfully, "You will soon
be well now, the doctor says. The worst is over, and you only need
strengthening."
Mrs. Goodman smiled sadly.
"He little knows how impossible it is to carry out his orders," she said.
"Not impossible. We shall be able to manage it, I think."
A sudden light of hope sprang into the sick lady's eyes.
"Is the book taken at last, then?" she asked eagerly.
"The book? No, indeed. The publishers all refuse to have anything to do
with it. It is a risky business, you see, to bring out such an expensive book,
and I can't say that I'm surprised at their refusal."
"How are we to get the money, then?" asked his wife. "We have barely
enough for our everyday wants, and we cannot spare anything for extras."
"We must sell something."
Mrs. Goodman glanced round the shabbily furnished room, and then looked
back at her husband questioningly.
"Uncle Jacob's Indian cabinet must go," said he.
Mrs. Goodman looked quickly towards a large black piece of furniture
which stood in a dusky corner of the room, and after a moment's pause, she
said: "I don't like to part with it at all. It may be very foolish and

superstitious of me, but I always feel that we should be unwise to forget
Uncle Jacob's advice. You know what he said about it in his will."
"I can't say that I remember much about it," answered her husband. "I have
a dim remembrance that he said something that sounded rather heathenish
about the cabinet bringing good luck to its owners. I didn't pay much
attention to it at the time, because I don't believe in anything of the sort.
And besides, your Uncle Jacob was a very peculiar old gentleman; one
never knew what to make of his odd fancies and whims."
"Yes, you are quite right; he was a strange old man; but somehow I never
shared the belief of most people that his intellect was weak. I think he had
gathered some out-of-the-way notions during his life in India; but his mind
always seemed clear enough on practical questions."
"Well, what was it he said about the Indian cabinet?"
"He said that he left it to us because we had no need for any of his money—
we had plenty of our own then!—that the old Magic Cabinet, as he called it,
had once been the property of a rich Rajah, who had received it from the
hands of a wise Buddhist priest; that there was something talismanic about
it, which gave it the power of averting misfortune from its owners; and that
it would be a great mistake ever to part with it."
Mr. Goodman laughed uneasily.
"I wonder what Uncle Jacob would say now," said he. "When he amused
himself by writing all that fanciful rubbish in his will, he little thought that
we should be reduced to such want. It is true, he never believed that my
book would be worth anything; but he could not foresee the failure of the
bank and the loss of all our money. I scarcely think, if he were alive now,
that he would advise me to keep the cabinet and allow you to go without the
nourishment the doctor orders."
The invalid sighed.
"I suppose there is no help for it," she answered. "The old cabinet must go;
for I am useless without strength, and I only make the struggle harder for
you."

All the time her father and mother had been talking, little Grace had been
looking from one to the other with eager, wide-open eyes; and now she
cried: "Oh, mother! must the dear old black cabinet be taken away? And
sha'n't we ever see it again!"
Her father drew her between his knees and smoothed back her fluffy golden
hair as he said gently: "I know how you will miss it, dear; you have had
such splendid games and make-believes with it, haven't you? But you will
be glad to give it up to make mother well, I know."
"Will mother be quite well when the old cabinet is gone away?" asked
Grace. "Will her face be bright and pink like it used to be? And will she go
out of doors again?"
"Yes, darling, I hope so. I am going out now to ask a man to come and fetch
away the cabinet, and while I am gone I want mother to try and get 'forty
winks,' so you must be very quiet."
"Yes, I will," answered Grace quickly. "I must go and say 'good-bye' to the
cabinet."
Saying this, the little girl ran to the corner of the room in which the cabinet
stood; and Mr. Goodman, bending down, kissed his wife's pale face very
tenderly, whispered a word of hope and comfort in her ear, and then left the
room; and a moment later the sound of the house-door told that he had gone
out.
Gradually the twilight grew dimmer and dimmer in the little room; and as
the dusky shadows, which had been lurking in the corners, began to creep
out across the floor and walls and ceiling, Mrs. Goodman fell into a
peaceful sleep.
But little Grace sat quite still on the floor, gazing at the Indian cabinet.
It was a large and handsome piece of furniture made of ebony, which
looked beautifully black and shiny; and the folding doors in front were
carved in a wonderful fashion, and inlaid with cunning silver tracery. The
carvings on these doors had always been Grace's special delight; they had
served as her picture books and toys since her earliest remembrance, and
she knew every line of them by heart. All the birds, and beasts, and curly

snakes were old friends; but Grace paid little attention to any of them just
now. All her thoughts were given to the central piece of carving, half of
which was on each of the doors of the cabinet.
This centre piece was carved into the form of an Indian temple, with
cupolas and towers of raised work; and in front of the temple door there sat
the figure of a solemn looking Indian priest.
Of all Grace's toy friends this priest was the oldest and dearest, and as she
looked at him now, the tears began to gather in her eyes at the thought of
parting with him. And no wonder. He was really a most delightful little old
man. His long beard was made of hair-like silver wire, the whites of his
eyes were little specks of inlaid ivory, and in his hand he balanced a small
bar of solid gold, which did duty as the latch of the cabinet doors.
Grace gazed at the priest long and lovingly, and at last, shuffling a little
nearer to the cabinet, she whispered: "I don't like saying 'good-bye' a bit. I
wish you needn't go away. Don't you think you might stay after all if you
liked, and help mother to get well in some other way? You belong to a
magic cabinet, so I suppose you are a magic priest, and can do all sorts of
wonderful things if you choose."
The priest nodded gravely.
Then, of course, Grace gave a sudden jump, and started away from the
cabinet with a rather frightened look on her face.
It was one thing to talk to this little carved wooden figure in play, and make
believe that he was a real live magic priest, but it was quite another to find
him nodding at her.
She felt very puzzled, but seeing that the figure was sitting quite still in
front of the temple, she drew close up to the cabinet again, and presently
she whispered: "Did you nod at me just now?"
The ebony priest bowed his head almost to the ground.
There could be no doubt about it this time. He was a magic priest after all.
Grace did not feel frightened any more. A joyful hope began to swell in her

heart, and she said, "Oh, I'm so glad! You won't go away and leave us, will
you?"
For a moment the figure sat motionless, and then the head gave a most
decided shake, wagging the silver beard from side to side.
"What a dear old darling you are," exclaimed Grace in delight. "But you
know how ill poor mother is, and how much she wants nice things to make
her strong. You will have to get them for her, if you stay, you know."
Again the priest nodded gravely.
"It isn't a very easy thing to do," said Grace, holding up a warning finger.
"My father is ever such a clever man, and he can't always manage it. Why,
he has written a great big book, all on long sheets of paper—piles, and
piles, and piles of them, and even that hasn't done it! I shouldn't think you
could write a book."
The figure of the priest sat perfectly still, and as she talked Grace thought
that the expression on his face grew more solemn than ever, and even a little
cross, so she hastened to say, "Don't be offended, please. I didn't mean to be
rude. I know you must be very magic indeed, or you couldn't nod your head
so beautifully. But do you really think you can get mother everything the
doctor has ordered?"
A fourth time the priest nodded, and this time he did it more emphatically
than ever.
Little Grace clapped her hands softly.
"Oh! do begin at once, there's a dear," she whispered coaxingly.
Very slowly, as if his joints were stiff, the priest raised his arms, and
allowed the golden bar in his hands to revolve in a half-circle; and then the
Indian temple split right down the middle, and the two doors of the Magic
Cabinet swung wide open.
Grace lost sight of the little priest, and the temple, and all the other
wonderful carvings as the folding doors rolled back on their hinges; and she
gazed into the cabinet, wondering what would happen next. She had often
seen the inside of the cabinet, so, beautiful as it was, it was not new to her,

and she felt a little disappointed. Half of the space was filled up by tiny
drawers and cupboards, all covered with thin sheets of mother-of-pearl,
glowing with soft and delicate tints of pink and blue; but the other half was
quite unoccupied, and so highly polished was the ebony, that the open space
looked to Grace like a square-cut cave of shiny black marble.
For some moments the little girl sat quite still, gazing into the depths of the
cabinet; but as nothing happened she got upon her feet, and, drawing a step
nearer, put her head and half her body inside the open space. Everything
looked very dark in there, and she felt more disappointed than ever; but, just
as she was about to draw out her head again, she noticed a shining speck in
one of the top corners at the back of the cabinet. This was not the first time
she had seen it, and she had always determined to look at it closer; but the
cabinet stood on carved feet, like the claws of an alligator, and Grace's
outstretched hand could not quite reach the back. But now the cabinet might
be going away she felt that she must delay no longer, so she quickly crossed
the floor and fetched the highest hassock from under the table, and planted
it in front of the dark opening. Getting upon this, she climbed right into the
open space, and a moment later she was sitting on the ebony floor of the
Magic Cabinet.
It was rather a tight squeeze; but Grace did not mind that in the least: she
drew her feet close in under her, and laughed with glee. Now she could see
the shining speck plainly. It was only a tiny bright spot in the centre of a
tarnished metal knob. The knob was an ugly, uninteresting-looking thing,
and it was fixed so high up in the dark corner that she would never have
noticed it if it had not been for the bright speck in the centre.
Wondering what the knob could be for, Grace gave it a sharp pull; but she
could not move it. Next she pushed it; and then——
Bang!
The folding doors fell to with a slam, everything became suddenly dark,
and Grace found herself shut inside the Magic Cabinet. Just for an instant
she felt too startled to move; but when she recovered from her surprise,
instead of trying to open the doors of the cabinet, she felt for the little metal
knob again, and then pushed at it with all her might.

First there was a sharp snap, like the turning of a lock; and then she heard a
harsh, grating sound, as the back of the cabinet slid slowly aside and
revealed—what do you think?
The wall of the room behind? A secret cupboard?
No, neither of these.
Directly the back of the cabinet moved aside a sudden and brilliant flash of
light dazzled Grace's eyes, and she was obliged to cover them with her
hands. But it was not long before she began to peep between her fingers,
and then she almost cried out for joy.
It seemed that a scene of fairyland had been spread out before her, but not
in a picture, for everything she saw looked as real as it was beautiful. Grace
found that she was no longer sitting in a dark and narrow cabinet, but on the
top step of a marble stairway, which led down to a lake of clear and shining
water. This lake, on which numbers of snowy swans swam in and out
among the lily beds, stretched out far and wide, and on its banks, among
flower-decked trees and shrubs, stately palaces and temples were built,
whose gilded domes and marble terraces glistened brightly in the sunshine.
All this Grace took in with one delighted glance, but it was as quickly
forgotten in a new and greater surprise that awaited her.
Gently but swiftly over the surface of the shining lake there glided a
wonderful boat which glimmered with a pearly lustre, and as the breeze,
filling its sails of purple silk, brought it closer to the steps, Grace gave a
glad cry and sprang to her feet. A tall, white-bearded man, who stood in the
prow of the boat, waved a long golden wand over his head, and Grace
clapped her hands in glee.
"It's my dear, dear Indian priest off the door of the cabinet," she cried. "But
how tall and beautiful he has grown!"
Before she could say another word the boat of pearl sailed up alongside the
bottom marble step, and the old man beckoned to her to come down. She
needed no second bidding, but ran lightly down the stairs and sprang into
his outstretched arms.

"What a dear, good magic priest you are to come," she said, as he put her
into a cosy place on some cushions at the bottom of the boat. "And what a
lovely place this is! Do you live here?"
"Sometimes," answered the old man, with a grave smile.
"Oh, of course; I forgot. You live on the door of the Magic Cabinet
sometimes. You have been there quite a long time. Ever since I can
remember anything you have sat in front of the little carved temple. Don't
you find it dull there sometimes?"
"How do you know I don't go away while you are asleep?"
"I never thought of that," said Grace. "But please tell me, where is the
Magic Cabinet now?"
The old priest was busy attending to the sails of the boat, which was now
shooting swiftly away from the shore; but at the question he looked up and
pointed towards the top of the steps with his golden wand.
Grace looked and saw a lovely little temple built of inlaid coloured marbles.
"Is that really the back of our dear old black cabinet?" she cried. "How
pretty it is! I wonder why we have never found it out."
"Everything has two sides," said the old man, "and one is always more
beautiful than the other; and, strange to say, the best side is generally
hidden. It can always be found if people wish for it; but as a rule they don't
care to take the trouble."
Grace looked very earnestly into the priest's face while he spoke; and after
he had finished she was so long silent that at last he asked, "What are you
thinking about?"
"I was thinking about your face," she answered. "You won't think me rude,
will you?"
"No, certainly not."
"Well, of course, you are just my dear old Indian priest, with the strange,
dark face and nice white beard, exactly like I have always known you, only

ever so much bigger and taller; and I'm sure that long wand is much finer
than the little gold bar you generally hold; but I can't help thinking you are
just a little like my mother's Uncle Jacob, who left us the Magic Cabinet. I
have often looked at him in the album, and your eyes have a look in them
like his. You don't mind, do you?"
"Not at all," answered the old man, smiling kindly; and then he went back
to the sails again, because the boat was nearing a little island.
"Are we going to get out here?" asked Grace.
"Yes; you want me to do something for you, don't you?" And then, without
waiting for an answer, he pulled some silken cords, which folded up the
purple sails like the wings of a resting-bird, and the boat grounded gently,
and without the slightest shock, on a mossy bank.
Taking the little girl in his arms, the old man sprang ashore. Bright flowers
and ripe fruits grew in abundance on this fairy-like island, and birds of
gorgeous plumage flew hither and thither, filling the sunny air with music.
But the old priest did not seem to notice any of these things. He led Grace
by the hand up the mossy bank, and through a thicket of flowering shrubs
into a glade, in the centre of which he halted and said, "Now, what is it to
be?"
"Oh, I can't choose," said Grace, looking eagerly up into his face. "You
know I want mother to be quite well; and I don't want you or the Magic
Cabinet to go away from us. But I don't know what you had better do.
Please, please, do whatever you like; I know it will be nice."
The old priest smiled, and struck the ground with his golden wand. Then
there was such a noise that Grace had to cover up both her ears; and at the
same time, out of the ground, at a little distance, there rose a great red-brick
house, with queer twisted chimneys and overhanging gable-ends.
Grace stared with astonishment from the house to the gravely-smiling
priest; and at last she cried, "Why, it is our dear old home where we used to
live before we got so poor! I must be asleep and dreaming."
"Well, and if you are, don't you like the dream?" asked her old friend.

"Yes, yes, it's a beautiful dream; it can't be true," said Grace; and then she
added quickly, "May we go into the house?"
"Yes, if you like," he answered; and he took her by the hand, and led her up
the steps and through the doorway.

II.
UNCLE JACOB'S GIFT.

When Grace passed through the doorway of the red-brick house, which the
old priest had raised in such a magical fashion out of the ground, she looked
eagerly round the hall, and then clapped her hands and cried, "Why, I do
believe everything is here just as it used to be. I don't remember all these
beautiful pictures and things; but mother and father have often told me
about them. Oh, I wish they could be here to see!"
Her guide did not answer, but still holding her by the hand, he led her into a
spacious room. It was so pretty that it almost took Grace's breath away. The
softness of the carpets, the colours of the curtains and other drapery, the
glittering mirrors on the walls, everything she saw was new and wonderful
to her, and seemed like nothing so much as a story out of the "Arabian
Nights."
But before she could do anything more than give one little gasp of delight,
the old Indian priest at her side waved his golden wand.
Then a curtain which hung before a doorway at a little distance was
suddenly looped up, and, with a light step, Grace's mother, looking rosy and
well, came into the room.
Grace gave the old man's hand a hard squeeze, but although she had a great
longing to run straight into her mother's arms, some strange feeling held her
back. After feasting her eyes for a moment on her mother's bright and happy
face, she whispered, "Where's father?"
Again the wonderful golden wand was raised, and then the curtain which
had fallen into its place before the doorway was pushed hastily aside, and
Grace saw her father.

All traces of sorrow and care had left his face; he held his head high, his
eyes shone with a glad light, and in his hands he carried a large book bound
in white and gold.
As he entered the room, Mrs. Goodman turned, and with a little cry of joy
went to meet him. Then an expression came into her father's face which
Grace could not understand, as silently, and with bowed head, he gave the
beautiful book into his wife's hands.
"At last!" cried Grace's mother, taking it from him, and her voice was
broken by a sob, while the tears gathered in her eyes; but still Grace could
see that she was very happy.
Grace was very happy, too, and she could scarcely take her eyes from her
father and mother when she heard the voice of the Indian priest speaking to
her.
"Is there anything more you would like?" the old man asked.
"Oh, how kind and good you are!" cried Grace, squeezing his hand harder
than ever; "and how ungrateful I am to forget all about you. You have
chosen the loveliest things."
"But don't you want anything for yourself?" asked her strange friend. "You
may choose anything you like."
Grace looked all round the big room, and it seemed so full of pretty things
that at first she could not think of anything to wish for; but suddenly she
gave a little jump and cried: "The Magic Cabinet! It isn't here; and I would
like to have it, please."
The old man looked grave; but he answered at once: "You have chosen, so
you must have it; for in this country a choice is too serious a thing to be
taken back. If you don't like it you must make the best of it. But you know
you can't be at both sides of the cabinet at one and the same time. Come
with me."
Grace felt a little uncomfortable as the old man led her quickly across the
room and through the curtained doorway by which her father and mother
had entered.

Directly the curtain fell behind them she found that they were in the dark;
and, although she still held her friend's hand, she began to be afraid.
"Oh, whatever is going to happen? I can't see anything at all!" she cried.
"I am going to wave my golden wand," answered the slow and solemn
voice of the Indian priest.
As he spoke there was a vivid flash of light. Little Grace gave a violent
start, and rubbed her eyes; and then—and then she burst into tears.
For what do you think that sudden flash of light had shown her?
It had shown her that she was back again in the shabby little home she had
known so long; that her mother, pale and ill as ever, was just awakening
from her sleep; that her father had returned and was lighting the lamp; that
the little carved figure of the Indian priest was sitting motionless before the
temple on the doors of the Magic Cabinet; and, showing her all this, it also
showed her that she had been fast asleep and dreaming.
It was too hard to bear. To think that the wonderful power of the magic
priest, the beautiful fairy-like country, the dear old home, her mother's
health and happiness, and her father's book,—to think that all these
delightful things were only parts of a strange dream was a terrible
disappointment to Grace, and she cried as if her heart would break.
"Why, darling," said her father, crossing the room and lifting up the little
girl in his strong arms, "is it as bad as all that? Can't you bear to part with
the old cabinet, even for mother's sake?"
"It's—it's not that," sobbed Grace, hiding her face on his shoulder. "I—I
wish we could keep the cabinet; but it's not that. It's my dream."
"Your dream, dear? Well, come and tell mother and me all about it."
Mr. Goodman sat down in a chair beside his wife, and when she could
control her sobs, Grace told them the whole story of her strange journey to
the other side of the Magic Cabinet.
When she had finished her father said: "Well, darling, it was a very pleasant
dream while it lasted; but beautiful things can't last for ever any more than

ugly ones. It is no wonder that you should have had such a dream after all
our talk about Uncle Jacob's fancies, and the Buddhist priest, and the good
fortune that was supposed to come to the owners of the Magic Cabinet."
"Yes, I'm not surprised about all that, especially as Grace has always made-
believe about that funny little priest," said Mrs. Goodman; "but I can't think
what set her dreaming about a knob inside the cabinet."
"Oh, that's not only a dream," cried Grace. "I have often seen the little knob,
and I have pushed it and pulled it, but I can never make it move."
"Why didn't you tell us about it? I'm sure I have never seen it," said her
mother.
"Come and show it to me now," said Mr. Goodman, putting Grace off his
knee, and taking the lamp from the table.
Grace, followed by her mother and father, crossed over to the corner in
which the Magic Cabinet stood. The lamp was placed on a chair just in
front of it; and then Grace, with rather a reproachful glance at the figure of
the Indian priest, twisted round the little gold bar, and opened the two
ebony doors.
"There!" cried Grace, stooping down, "I can just see the knob; but you can't
get low enough. You can feel it, though, if you put your hand into this
corner."
Guided by the direction in which her finger pointed, Mr. Goodman thrust
his hand right back into the darkest corner of the cabinet; and presently he
said, "Yes, I can certainly feel something hard and round like a little button.
But I can't move it."
As he spoke he pulled at the little knob with a force that shook the cabinet
in its place.
"Push it, father!" cried Grace eagerly. "That's what I did in my dream."
Mr. Goodman obeyed, and instantly there was a low musical "twang," like
that caused by the striking of a Jew's harp, or the quick vibration of a piece
of watch-spring; a sharp click followed, and something was heard to fall on
to the ebony floor of the cabinet.

Mrs. Goodman held the light closer, and in a moment her husband said,
"Here is a little secret door hinged down to the bottom of the cabinet. The
knob must have been fixed to a spring, and in pressing it I have released the
catch of the door, which has fallen flat, leaving a small square opening."
"Is there anything inside?" asked Grace, in a hurried, excited whisper.
"Let me see," said her father, thrusting in his hand again. "Ah, yes! A little
drawer!"
A moment later he stood upright, holding a tiny drawer of sweet-smelling
sandal-wood in his hand.
"Come along to the table," he said; "we will soon see if there is anything
nice inside."
Although it was evident that he was trying to speak carelessly, there was a
strange eagerness in his manner; and as Mrs. Goodman set the lamp on the
table, the light revealed a spot of bright colour on each of her pale cheeks;
and as for Grace, she was in raptures.
"I know—I know it's something beautiful," she cried; "and I believe my
priest is a magic priest after all."
They all three gathered round the light, and Mr. Goodman laid the little
secret drawer on the table.
The drawer seemed to be quite full, but its contents were completely
covered by a neatly-folded piece of Indian silk. This was quickly removed;
and under it there lay an ivory box of delicate workmanship. It fitted closely
into the drawer, and Mr. Goodman lifted it out with great care. On opening
the lid he revealed a second box; and this was so beautiful that it drew
exclamations of delight from both Grace and her mother. The inner box was
made of gold, and it was covered with fruit and flowers and birds, all
wrought in wonderful repoussé work.
There was some difficulty in finding how this golden box was to be opened;
but a little examination brought to light a secret spring, and at the first
pressure the lid of the box flew back and the central treasure of the Magic
Cabinet was exposed to view.

Grace gave a cry of disappointment, for, lying in a snug little nest of pink
cotton-wool, she saw only a dull, ugly-looking stone.
Mrs. Goodman did not speak, but looked earnestly at her husband as he
took the stone from its resting-place and held it close under the light. He
took a glass from his pocket and examined it carefully for a moment, and
then laid it back in the golden box again, and said, "It is a diamond, and, I
believe, a very valuable one."
"But it isn't a bit pretty and sparkly like the diamonds in the shop windows,"
said Grace. "What is the good of it?"
"It is a wonderful magic gift," answered her father. "All that money can do
for us, this dull-looking stone can do. It can buy all the things mother needs
to make her strong and well."
"And it can print father's book, and make us all as happy as we were in your
dream," said her mother.
Mr. Goodman now took the little sandal-wood drawer in his hand again,
and, under another piece of Indian silk, he found a letter.
"My dear, this is for you," he said; "and see—surely this must be your
Uncle Jacob's writing?"
Mrs. Goodman took the envelope from his hand, and read the inscription,
which was written in strange, angular characters:
"TO MY NIECE."
Her hand shook a little as she broke the seal and drew out a small sheet of
paper covered closely with the same writing, and her voice was unsteady as
she read the old man's letter aloud.
"My dear Niece,—When my will is read you may be surprised to find that I
have left you only one gift—my old Indian cabinet. But I value it very
highly, and I believe that for my sake you will never willingly part with it. I
am rich, and if you needed money I could leave you plenty; but you have
enough and to spare at present, and I hope you will never know the want of
it. But still, I mean to make one slight provision for you. Authors are not
always good men of business, and your husband may lose his money; and

however great and good his book may be, it may be rejected by the world,
and you may some day be poor. I shall place an uncut diamond of some
value in the secret drawer of the old cabinet, hoping that you may find it in
a time of need. You may wonder why I trust to such a chance; but some
wise man has said that all chance is direction which we cannot see, and I
believe he is right, so I shall follow my whim. If you should discover the
secret at a time when you are not in need of money, keep the gem uncut as a
wonderful work of nature; there are not many like it in the world. But if the
money it can bring you will be useful, do not hesitate to sell it; it will fetch
a high price. In any case, accept it as the last gift of your affectionate
"Uncle Jacob."
There was silence in the little room for a few moments after Uncle Jacob's
letter had been read. Mr. Goodman led his wife back to her chair, and Grace
stood solemnly waiting for somebody to speak.
At last her father looked at her with a bright smile.
"We must be very thankful to Uncle Jacob for his gift," he said; "but we
mustn't forget that it was your wonderful dream which led us to the
discovery."
"I can't help thinking that my dear Indian priest had something to do with it.
You know he is a magic one; and he did look something like Uncle Jacob in
my dream, you know."
Her mother and father smiled; and Mr. Goodman rose briskly and said, "I
must make haste and tell the man he needn't come to look at the cabinet."
"Oh, father," cried Grace, who was feeling a little puzzled, "won't it have to
go away, after all?"
"No, my child," he answered; "mother will be able to get well without
losing it now. We shall keep the Magic Cabinet."
"There, I thought my Indian priest wouldn't tell a story. I asked him to
promise not to go away and leave us, and he shook his hand most
beautifully."

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

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

GIRLHOOD AND YOUTH.

ONLY TIM.

BY SARAH DOUDNEY.

CHAPTER I.

"I say, Bee, are you coming?"
Claude Molyneux, in all the glory of fourteen summers and a suit of new
white flannels, stands looking up with a slight frown of impatience at an
open bay-window. It has been one of the hottest of August days; and now at
four o'clock in the afternoon the haze of heat hangs over the sea, and makes
a purple cloud of the distant coast. But, for all that, it is splendid weather;
just the kind of weather that a boy likes when he comes to spend his
holidays at the seaside; and Claude, who is an Indian-born boy, has no
objection to a good hot summer.
As he stands, hands in pockets, on the narrow pebbled path under the
window, you cannot help admiring the grace of his slim, well-knit figure,
and the delicate moulding of his features. The fair skin is sun-tanned, as a
boy's skin ought to be; the eyes, large and heavy-lidded, are of a dark grey,
not brilliant, but soft; the light, fine hair is cropped close to the shapely
head. He is a lad that one likes at the first glance; and although one sees, all
too plainly, that those chiselled lips can take a disdainful curl sometimes,
one knows instinctively that they may always be trusted to tell the simple
truth. Anything mean, anything sneaky, could not live in the steady light of
those dark-grey eyes.
"I say, Bee-e!" he sings out again, with a little drawl, which, however, does
not make the tone less imperative. Master Claude is not accustomed to be
kept waiting, and is beginning to think himself rather badly used.

"Coming," cries a sweet treble; and then a head and shoulders appear above
the row of scarlet geraniums on the window-sill.
She is worth waiting for, this loitering Bee, whose thirteen years have given
her none of the airs of premature womanhood. Her smooth round cheeks are
tinted with the tender pink of the shell; her great eyes, of speedwell blue,
are opened frankly and fearlessly on the whole world. Taken singly, not one
of her features is, perhaps, quite faultless; but it would be hard to find a
critic who could quarrel with the small face, framed in waves of ruddy
golden hair that go tumbling down below her waist. You can see a freckle or
two on the sides of her little nose, and notice that her slender hands are
browned by the sea-side sun; for Bee is one of those lucky girls who are
permitted to dabble freely in salt-water, and get all the benefit that briny
breezes can bestow.
"I couldn't come sooner," she says in a tone of apology. "We always have to
learn a hymn on Saturdays, and I've had such a bother with Dolly. She
would want to know where 'the scoffer's seat' was, and if it had a cushion?
And it does so worry me to try to explain."
"Oh, you poor thing—you must be quite worn out!" responds Claude, with
genuine sympathy. "But make haste; you haven't got your hat on yet."
Bee makes a little dive, and brings up a wide-brimmed sailor's hat with a
blue ribbon round it. She puts it on, fastens it securely under the silken
masses of her hair, and then declares herself to be quite ready.
In the next instant the girl and boy are walking side by side along the shore,
near enough to the sea to hear the soft rush of the tide. The blue eyes are
turned inquiringly on Claude's face, which is just a shade graver than it
ought to be on this delightful do-nothing day.
"Bee," he says after a silence, "I don't quite approve of your being great
friends with Crooke—Tim Crooke. What a name it is! He may be a good
sort of fellow, but he's not in our set at all, you know."
"He is a good sort of fellow," she answers. "There's no doubt about that.
Aunt Hetty likes him very much. And he's clever, Claude; he can do ever so
many things."

"I dare say he can," says Mr. Molyneux, throwing back his head and
quickening his pace. "But you needn't have got so very intimate. We could
have done very well without him to-day."
"He's Mr. Carey's pupil," remarks Bee quietly. "Aunt Hetty couldn't invite
Mr. Carey and leave out Tim."
"Well, we could have been jolly enough without Mr. Carey. It's a mistake, I
think, to see too much of this Tim Crooke; he isn't a gentleman, and he
oughtn't to expect us to notice him particularly."
"He doesn't expect anything; we like him; he's our friend." The soft pink
deepens on Bee's cheeks, and her ripe lips quiver a little. She loves Claude
with all her heart, and thinks him the king of boys; but, for all that, she
won't let him be unjust if she can help it.
Claude tramps on over sand, and pebbles, and seaweed, with lips firmly
compressed and eyes gazing steadily before him. Bee, as she glances at
him, knows quite well what Claude feels when he looks as if his features
had got frozen into marble. And she knows, too, that he will be painfully,
frigidly, exasperatingly polite to her all the evening.
Matters cannot go on like this, she says to herself in desperation. Claude
arrived only yesterday, and here they are beginning his holiday with a
dreadful disagreement. She has been counting the days that must pass
before she sees him; writing him little letters full of sweet child-love and
longing; wearing a pinafore over her newest frock, that it may be kept fresh
and pretty for his critical eyes. And now he is here, walking by her side; and
she has offended him.
Is it Heaven or the instincts of her own innocent little heart that teach this
girl tact and wisdom? She doesn't proceed to inspire Claude with a
maddening desire to punch Tim's head, by recounting a long catalogue of
Mr. Crooke's perfections, as a more experienced person would probably
have done. But she draws a shade closer to her companion, and presently he
finds a tiny brown hand upon his white flannel sleeve.
"You dear old Empey," she says lovingly, "I've been wanting you for, oh,
such a long time!"

The frozen face thaws; the dark grey eyes shine softly. "Empey" is her pet
name for him, an abbreviation of "Emperor;" and he likes to hear her say it.
"And I've wanted you, old chap," he answers, putting his arm round the
brown-holland waist.
"Empey, we always do get on well together, don't we?"
"Of course we do,"—with a squeeze.
"Then, just to please me, won't you be a little kind to poor Tim? He's not a
splendid fellow like you, and he knows he never will be. I do so want you
to forget that he's a nobody. We are all so much more comfortable when we
don't remember things of that sort. You're not angry, Empey?"
"Angry; no, you silly old thing!"
And then she knows, without any more words, that he will grant her
request.
The little boat that Claude has hired is waiting for them at the landing-
place, and Bee steps into it with the lightest of hearts. Aunt Hetty and the
rest will follow in a larger boat; but Mr. Molyneux has resolved to row Miss
Beatrice Jocelyn himself.
He rows as he does everything, easily and gracefully, and Bee watches him
with happy blue eyes as they go gliding over the warm sea. How still it is
to-day! Beyond the grey rocks and yellow sands they can see the golden
harvest fields full of standing sheaves, and still farther away there are low
hills faintly outlined through the hot mist. The little town, with its
irregularly-built terraces, looks dazzlingly white in the sunshine; but the
church, standing on high ground, lifts a red spire into the hazy blue.
"I could live on the sea!" says Bee ecstatically. "You don't know what it
costs me to come out of a boat; I always want this lovely gliding feeling to
go on for ever. Don't you?"
"I like it awfully," he replies; "but then there are other things that I want to
do by-and-by. I mean to try my hand at tiger-shooting when I go out to the
governor."

"But, oh, Empey, it'll be a long time before you have to go out to India!"
Her red mouth drops a little at the corners, and her dimples become
invisible. He looks at her with a gleam of mischief in his lazy eyes.
"What do you call a long time?" he asks. "Just a year or two, that's nothing.
Never mind, Bee, you'll get on very well without me."
"Oh, Empey!"
The great blue eyes glisten; and Claude is penitent in an instant.
"You ridiculous old chap!" he says gaily. "Haven't you been told thousands
of times that my dad is your guardian, and as good as a father to you? And
do you suppose that I'd go to India and leave you behind? You're coming
too, you know, and you'll sit perched up on the back of an elephant to see
me shoot tigers. What a time we'll have out there, Bee!"
"Do you really mean it?" she cries, with a rapturous face; blue eyes shining
like sapphires, cheeks aglow with the richest rose.
"Of course I do. It was all arranged, years ago, by our two governors; I
thought Aunt Hetty had told you. But I say, Bee, when the time does come,
I hope you won't make a fuss about leaving England!"
"Not a bit of it," she says sturdily. "I shall like to see the Ganges, and the
big water-lilies, and the alligators. But what's to become of Dolly?"
"I don't know; I suppose she'll have to stay with Aunt Hetty. You belong to
us, you see, old girl; so you and I shall never be parted."
"No, never be parted," she echoes, looking out across the calm waters with
eyes full of innocent joy.

CHAPTER II.

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

"Is tea nearly ready, Bob?" she asks, addressing the elder lad, who grins
with delight from ear to ear.
"Yes, miss."
"And has your mother got an immense lobster, and a big crab, and heaps of
prawns?"
"Yes, miss; whoppers, all of 'em."
"That's right; the sea does give us such appetites, doesn't it, Empey? I hope
the others will be here soon."
"If they don't make haste they'll find only the shell of the lobster," he
answers, joining her on the shore. "I shall never be able to control myself if
I take one look at him!"
"Then don't look at him, greedy!" she cries, clapping her hands, and
dancing round and round him, while the fisherman's children stare at her
wonderful golden locks. "I didn't forget your weakness for lobster; Aunt
Hetty said I might arrange it all; and we shall have a splendid tea!"
He looks at her with his quiet smile, half amused, wholly loving.
"Don't be whirling like a Dervish, and making yourself too hot to eat
anything," he says, putting a stop to her evolutions. "Let's saunter along the
beach, and sit down a bit, my Queen Bee."
It is a bright, glistening beach, strewn with many-coloured pebbles and
stones, brown, yellow, purple, crimson, and snow-white; there are empty
shells in abundance, out of which charming pincushions can be constructed
by skilful fingers; and, best of all, there are little heaps of delicate sea-weed,
capable of being pressed out into tiny tree-like forms of coral-pink.
Altogether, this strip of shore is a very treasury for children, and Bee can
never come here without wanting to load her own pockets and everybody
else's with heavy spoils.
Claude, who has already been presented with seven shell pincushions, a
polished pebble, and three copy-books filled with gummed sea-weed, does
not care to add to this valuable collection of marine treasures. He arrests the
little hand that is making a grasp at a clam, and says persuasively, "Stop till

we come here again, Bee; don't pick up things this afternoon. It's so jolly to
loaf about and do nothing, you know."
She obeys, after casting one regretful glance at that fascinating scalloped
shell; and they stroll on in placid contentment. From this part of the coast
they get a wide ocean outlook, and can gaze far away to the faint sea-line
dissolving into the sky.
How calm it is! Beautiful, infinite sea, suggesting thoughts of voyages into
unknown climes; of delightful secrets, yet unfathomed; of that enchanting
"by-and-by" which is the children's Promised Land! The boy and girl are
quiet for a time, dreaming their tranquil little dreams in the silence of utter
satisfaction, while the waves wash the beach with the old lulling sound, and
the rock-shadows are slowly lengthening on the sand.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Drake, the fisherman's wife, is busy with her preparations
indoors. The cottage stands in a sheltered nook, a wooden dwelling, coated
with tar, with nets hanging outside its walls, and a doorstep as white as
snow. A few hardy geraniums in pots brighten the windows, but garden
there is and can be none; the pebbly shore must serve the children as a
playground. Rosy cheeks and sound lungs give proof that the little Drakes
are thriving in their seaside home; and the youngest, a baby of two, lies
placidly sucking its thumb on the sunny beach.
The boat containing Aunt Hetty and her party nears the landing, and just for
one second Claude's brow darkens again. A sturdy lad is pulling strong
strokes, with arms that seem almost as strong as Drake's; and the lad has a
merry brown face and black curly hair, and wears a scarlet cap set jauntily
on his head. It is Tim Crooke, looking provokingly at his ease among his
aristocratic friends, and quite prepared to enjoy himself.
Aunt Hetty, gentlest and kindest of elderly ladies, is assisted to land by the
clergyman; while Tim takes up Dolly in his strong arms and places her
safely on the shore. And then they all make for the cottage, Bee lingering in
the rear with Claude, and winning him back to good-humour with a
pleading look from the sunny blue eyes.
Surely this tea in the fisherman's kitchen is a banquet fit for the gods! It is a
happy, hungry group that gathers round the deal table; Bee, doing the

honours, pours out tea, and has a great deal of business on her hands; Aunt
Hetty, at the other end of the board, keeps anxious watch over Dolly, who
consumes prawns with frightful rapidity; Tim Crooke beams on everybody
and ministers to the wants of everybody, like the good-natured fellow that
he is. And Claude, true to his unuttered promise, is kind to Tim in a
pleasant, natural way.
At length the meal comes to an end; lobster, prawns, and crab are all
demolished! and the last drop is drained out of the teapot. The party stroll
out of doors, and revel in the cool of the evening air.
How is it that they begin to talk about heroes and heroism? Nobody can
remember afterwards who started the subject; but certain it is that all, save
Dolly, become interested in the conversation, and each has a word to say.
Mr. Carey, the clergyman, is the leading talker; and he talks well, not
priggishly, nor prosily, but speaks the right words in the right way, and wins
the attention of his companions.
"Charles Kingsley has told us," he says, "'that true heroism must involve
self-sacrifice;' it is the highest form of moral beauty. And it's a good thing
when girls and boys fall to thinking about heroes and heroines; the thinking
begets longing to do likewise. What was it that you were saying last night
about your favourite hero, Tim?"
Tim lifts his head, and a rush of colour comes suddenly into his brown face.
"Jim Bludso is the fellow I like," he says, speaking quickly. "Wasn't it grand
of him to hold the bow of the Prairie Belle against the bank, while she was
burning? The passengers all got off, you know, before the smoke-stacks fell;
only Bludso's life was lost. He let himself be burnt to save the rest."
"It was grand!" murmurs Bee, drawing a long breath.
"Yes," says Claude, bringing out his words slowly; "but I like Bert Harte's
'Flynn of Virginia' better still. You see, it was Jim Bludso's own fault that
the steamer caught fire. Nothing would stop him from running a race with
the Movestar; and so the Prairie Belle came tearing along the Mississippi—

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

Jolly fun it must have been, but anybody could have foretold the end. As to
Flynn, he was working on the Central Pacific Railway with his mate, a
married man, when they found the whole concern giving way. And Flynn
set his back against the wall in the dark drift, and held the timbers that were
ready to fall, and sang out to Jake to run for his wife's sake."
"Oh, that was beautiful!" Bee sighs, with her blue eyes full of tears. "Flynn
was only Flynn, wasn't he? But Jake had got somebody who couldn't live
without him."
"That was just what Flynn felt, he was only Flynn," Claude replies, pleased
that his hero is appreciated. "There was something splendidly deliberate in
his self-sacrifice, don't you think so, sir?" he adds, turning to Mr. Carey.
"You are quite right," Mr. Carey answers thoughtfully.
Dolly comes running up to the group with shrill cries showing a little live
crab in her small palm. A faint breeze is blowing off the sea, the west grows
golden, and Aunt Hetty rises from her seat on the beach.
"We must be going home now," she says. "Claude, dear boy, will you look
for my shawl?"
Claude obediently goes into the cottage to bring out the wraps; Mr. Carey
hastens off to summon Drake; and Tim finds himself, for a few seconds, by
Bee's side.
"Hasn't it been a lovely afternoon?" she says. "I've been so happy, haven't
you? Oh, Tim, Claude has told me something!"
"Is it a secret?" Tim asks.
"No, he didn't say so. He says it was arranged years ago that he is to take
me out to India, by-and-by. I'm so glad, Tim; I'd go anywhere with Claude."
The golden glow that shines on Tim's face seems to dazzle him, and he
turns his head away from the speaker.
"I'm glad that you are glad, Bee," he says quietly. And that is all.

CHAPTER III.

Sunday morning dawns, hot and still, but clearer than the day before. Aunt
Hetty and her nieces are sitting in the bay-windowed room, which has the
usual furniture of seaside lodgings. They have just gone through their
morning readings, and are ready to begin breakfast when Claude comes
downstairs.
"How is the wrist, dear boy?" Aunt Hetty asks tenderly.
In jumping out of the boat last night he has managed to get a sprain, but is
disposed to treat the matter lightly.
"Oh, it will soon be well, thanks," he says, taking his place, and giving a
smile to Bee.
A little later they all set out for church, and Bee and Claude attract many an
admiring glance as they walk together along the terraces. She wears her
new frock, of some soft creamy stuff, and a quaint "granny" bonnet of ivory
satin lined with pale blue; her short skirts display silk stockings and dainty
little shoes of patent leather. Aunt Hetty, her tall thin figure draped with
black lace, follows with Dolly, that little witch of eight years old, who is the
pet and plague of the good lady's life. Other seaside visitors look after the
party from Nelson Lodge, and discuss them freely among themselves; but
they do not speak from personal knowledge of Lady Henrietta Jocelyn and
her charges. All they know is that Lady Henrietta is the maiden aunt of the
two girls, and that they were committed to her care by her brother who died
in India.
The church is large, recently built, and smells strongly of mortar and
varnish. In winter Mr. Carey has to preach to a scanty congregation; but in
summer, when the lodging-houses are full, there is always a goodly number
of worshippers.
The Jocelyns, whose home is in town, are accustomed to attend St.
George's, Hanover Square, and never feel perfectly comfortable in this
seaside church, which is, as Bee says, "so dreadfully new, and so
unfurnished." She wishes they could all worship out of doors, among the
rocks, with the blue sea murmuring near them; and yet she likes to hear

Tim's voice, as he stands among the other surpliced boys and leads the
singing.
Not that Tim is by any means an ideal chorister. His surplice makes his
brown skin look browner, and his curly head blacker than ever; and there is
not a heavenly expression in his quick dark eyes. He is not in the least like
one of those saintly boys we read of sometimes, who sing and lift their
glances upward, and pass gently and speedily away from this wicked world.
Judging from Tim's robust appearance he has many a year of earthly life
before him, and many a hot battle to fight with the flesh and the devil.
But it is a marvellous voice that comes from the lad's massive throat; a
voice that goes up like a lark's song, carrying heavy hearts to higher regions
with its notes. In future days there are some who will remember that
morning's anthem, which Tim sings with all his triumphant power and
thrilling sweetness. A few fishermen, standing just within the doors, listen
entranced, and one rugged old fellow puts up a hard hand to hide his eyes.
"The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the
floods lift up their waves.
"The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the
mighty waves of the sea.
"Thy testimonies are very sure; holiness becometh Thine house, O Lord, for
ever."
The service comes to an end, and Aunt Hetty and her children walk
homeward along the terraces, under a glaring sun. The sea is still calm, but
a light breeze is stirring, creeping off the water and breathing across the hot
sand and shingle. Bee gives a deep sigh of satisfaction as the zephyr kisses
her rosy cheeks.
"It's going to be just a little cooler, Empey," she says, as they draw near
Nelson Lodge.
"Yes; it must be jolly on the sea to-day," he remarks, following a little cutter
with longing eyes.

When the midday meal is ended, Aunt Hetty repairs to the sofa to read
Jeremy Taylor; and Dolly, having discovered an illustrated copy of the
"Pilgrim's Progress," is silently gloating over a picture of Apollyon, dragon-
winged, with smoke coming out of his nostrils. For fifteen or twenty
minutes Claude and Bee whisper by the open window, and then a gentle
sound from the sofa tells them that good Jeremy has lulled Aunt Hetty to
repose.
Claude gives Bee an expressive glance which plainly says, "Come along."
Dolly's back is turned towards them; moreover, she has just lighted upon a
whole family of fiends, and cannot take her eyes off the book. So the pair
slip out of the room unheard and unseen, and gain the beach without let or
hindrance.
They shun the pier, and foot it briskly along the shore till they have left
most of the promenaders behind. On and on they go till they get to the low
rocks, and the smooth yellow sands strewn with mussel and cockle shells;
and then they sit down to rest, and listen to the music of the tide.
"You must take me to White Cove one day, Empey," says Bee, after a pause.
"There are the most lovely shells to be found there, and agates, and things.
Mr. Carey said that somebody once picked up a bit of amber there."
"I could row you there at once," returns Claude, "if it wasn't for this wrist of
mine."
"Oh, but it's Sunday; Aunt Hetty wouldn't like us to go."
"She wouldn't mind it if I reasoned with her," responds Mr. Molyneux with
perfect confidence in his own powers of argument. "All those little
prejudices of hers could soon be got rid of."
"Drake says it's rather dangerous near White Cove," observes Bee after
another silence; "because of all the sunken rocks, you know."
"No, I don't know: I've never been there. But you've set me longing to see
the place, old chap."
"Oh, it's lovely!" she cries, with enthusiasm. "Thousands and thousands of
sea-birds sit on the cliffs; and there are lots of little caves, all hung with

silky green sea-weeds, so quiet and cool."
Claude leans back against the low rock behind him, and looks out across the
sea with eyes half-closed. The horizon line is sharp and clear to-day; the
blue of the sky meets, but does not mingle with the deeper blue of the
ocean; a few white sails can be distinctly seen. Now and then a gull flashes
silvery wings in the sunshine, and its cry comes wailing across the water to
the shore.
"Why, there's Tim!" says Bee, pointing to a broad-shouldered figure moving
leisurely along the sand.
He hears the well-known voice, and turns instantly.
"Well, he may make himself useful to-day," remarks Claude, with a sudden
inspiration. "I daresay he'll be glad enough to row to the cove if we ask
him."
Tim is more than glad, he is delighted to be included in the plans of Claude
and Bee. To tell the truth, Sunday afternoon is generally rather a lonesome
time to Tim Crooke. He has no vocation for Sunday-school teaching, and
always feels intensely grateful to Mr. Carey for not bothering him to take a
class. The little vicarage is, however, a dreary house when master and
servants are out; and Tim is usually to be found wandering on the shore till
the hour for tea.
"Bill Drake is down yonder," says Tim, waving his hand towards a block of
stone some distance off. "And he's got a little boat, a battered old thing, but
——"
"Any old thing will do," interrupts Claude, rising eagerly. "We are not going
to show off in front of the pier, you know; we only want to get away to
White Cove and enjoy ourselves. Do you know the place, Crooke?"
"Yes, very well. I've been there several times with Mr. Carey; it's a
wonderful place for gulls. I suppose there are thousands of them."
"Well, come along," cries Claude; and Bee springs gladly to her feet. It
delights her to see the magnificent Empey growing so friendly with that
good old Tim, and as she trips on, leaving dainty footprints on the sands,

her mind is busy with plans for the coming days. "This is only the
beginning of pleasures," she says to herself; the holidays will last a long
time, and they can enjoy many excursions about the coast. It is all going to
be perfectly jolly, now that Claude has really consented to accept Tim; for
Tim is so good-natured and useful that she hardly knows what they would
do without him.
The little boat is a battered old thing indeed, but nobody is inclined to find
fault with it. Bill Drake is quite ready to let the young gentleman have his
way; Bee steps in lightly enough, and seats herself; the lads follow, and then
Tim pushes off, leaving Bill standing grinning on the shore.
A happy girl is Bee Jocelyn as the boat glides on, and the fresh air fans her
face. She has put on her broad-brimmed hat again; and the light breeze lifts
her bright silky tresses, and spreads them round her head like a golden veil.
She dips one little hand in the water—the beautiful sunny water that is as
green as an emerald when you look deep into its depths; and then she trails
her fingers in the sea and smiles at Claude.
"Oh, Empey," she says, "how nice it would be if one of Undine's sea-
relations were to put a coral necklace, all red and glittering, into my hand!"
"Or some strings of pearls," suggests Tim.
"She will have a set of pearls one day," remarks Claude, in that quiet tone of
his. "They were my mother's, and they are waiting in India for Bee."
There is an unwonted softness in Tim's black eyes. He is a stout-hearted,
matter-of-fact lad, people say, not given to dreaming; and yet he is seeing
visions this afternoon. He sees Bee, not in her sailor's hat and girlish frock,
but in white robes, with all her wealth of hair plaited up, and the pearls
glistening on her neck. He sees the merry face grown graver, yet lovelier
than ever; and then he tries to picture her home in that far-off land that he
will never behold; a land of dark faces, and temples, and palms, and
flowers.
And Claude will be with her always; what a beautiful poetical life these two
will live together! All the poetry is for them, and all the prose for Tim. His
thoughts don't shape themselves into these very words, perhaps; but he does
certainly feel that it is a dull path which lies before Tim Crooke.

While he dreams, he pulls as steadily as usual, and they are drawing nearer
and nearer to the little cove. Soon they gain a full view of those cliffs where
the sea-birds sit, tier upon tier, like spectators in a circus, and the calm air is
filled with strange cries. Bee claps her hands in delight; the sight is so
novel, and the birds that have taken wing sweep so gracefully around their
rocky haunts, that there is a charm, past explaining, in the whole scene.
Meanwhile the tide is rising fast and floats the boat onward to White Cove.
They are making for a landing-place just at the foot of the sea-birds' cliff,
and Tim pulls cautiously, telling Claude to keep a sharp look-out for the
rocks that lie treacherously hiding under the flood.
"There's the Chair!" cries Bee suddenly. "Look, Empey, we are quite close
to it! It was Mr. Carey who gave it that name, because you see it's exactly
like a chair, and it has a seat, and a little ledge where your feet may rest. Mr.
Carey got up there once; it's quite easy to climb."
"At high water the tide comes almost up to the footstool of the Chair," says
Tim. "I've noticed it standing up out of the sea with a bird or two perched
on its seat. It looks very funny then, when all the rocks near it are quite
covered."
"It really is curious," Claude is beginning to say, when there is a bump and
a terrible grating noise. The boat has struck against one of those traitorous
rocks, and her rotten planks have given way. Long before they can reach the
landing-place she will be full of water; there is already a stream flowing in
through the rent in her side, and Tim, quiet and cool, takes in every detail of
the case before Claude has begun fully to realise their condition. Without a
moment's hesitation he pulls straight towards the little strip of sand that is to
be seen at the base of the Chair.
"Quick, Claude," he says in decided tones, "the wind is rising, and the tide
is coming in fast. You must get Bee up into the Chair, and you'll have to
follow her; although there's hardly room for two."
"Do you mean that we shall have to stay up there till the tide goes out?"
asks Claude. "Why, it's absurd! Is there no other way to——"
"There is no other way to save your lives, so far as I can see. Now don't lose
time; the Chair isn't so easy to climb, after all. There are little dents in the

rock where your toes may go, but no projections anywhere. It's just a
smooth block of stone."
Poor Bee, who knows that Tim must have good reasons for being serious,
tries to obey him without delay. But how could she ever have fancied that
this dreadful rock was easy to climb! It is nearly as slippery as glass, and
affords so little hold for hands or feet that she is almost in despair. The boys
encourage her with their voices; Claude is scrambling up after her—not
without difficulty, however, for his sprained wrist gives him many a sharp
twinge. And then at last, after terrible efforts, the "footstool" ledge is
gained, and Bee drags herself up to the seat of the chair.
But what a seat it is! Merely a niche which looks as if it had been scooped
out of the solid stone and furnished with a narrow shelf. How will it be
possible for her to make herself very small, and leave space for Claude?
Even in these fearful moments she finds herself thinking of the eleven swan
princes in the fairy tale, and that little rock in mid ocean on which they
stood crowded together when the sun went down. Claude is here, squeezed
into the narrow niche by her side, and he is calling out to Tim, down below.
"Come up, Tim," he cries, and there is a ring of agony in his voice now.
But Tim's answer reaches them, clear and loud, above the roar of the
advancing tide.
"I shall not come; there isn't room for three. You know that well enough."
"But, Tim, what will you do? I'll come down, and give you my place."
"Stay where you are," Tim shouts sternly. "You've got Bee to take care of.
And there's a heavy sea rolling in, she'll have to sit fast."
As Tim speaks the flood is surging up to his knees, and the wind, too, is
rising higher and higher. All around him the waves are foaming over the
sunken rocks, and the sea-thunder grows louder and more terrible every
moment.
"I'll come down," cries Claude, making a desperate movement to descend.
"You sha'n't stop there and drown alone! Do you think I'll be such a hound
as to let you?"

But Bee with all her strength, holds him back. "Empey, dear Empey," she
moans, "stay for my sake!"
"I'll take my chance," Tim sings out cheerily. "I can swim; I mean to try for
the landing-place."
"You're mad; the tide will dash you on the rocks!" groans Claude, in
despair. And then, so slight is his foothold that he nearly loses his balance in
looking downward; and Bee, clinging to him, screams with terror.
"I can't bear it!" he says wildly.
How fast the waters rise! Great waves are breaking against the sides of the
Chair, and leaping up nearer and nearer to the ledge whereon the pair
support their feet. Once more Claude calls to Tim, passionately, almost
fiercely,—
"I'll never forgive myself if you are lost! Tim, Tim, where are you?"
And the clear voice comes up, somewhat faintly, from below. "It's all right.
God bless you and Bee."
A mighty billow flings its cloud of foam over the faces of Claude and the
shrinking girl by his side, and blinds them with salt spray. But high as the
tide is, the Chair is still above its reach, and although the wave may sprinkle
them, it cannot swallow them up. Only they are deafened as well as blinded,
and Bee feels that she is losing her senses. Surely her brain is wandering,
else she could never hear the notes of the anthem again, and Tim's voice
singing the words of the old psalm in such exulting tones,—
"The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the
mighty waves of the sea."

When night is closing over the little watering-place there are rejoicings and
lamentations in Nelson Lodge. Aunt Hetty's heart is full of gratitude;
Claude and Bee brought safely home by old Drake, have fallen asleep at
last in their rooms, while she steals from chamber to chamber to look first at

one tired young face and then at the other. But the tears hang on Claude's
lashes as he sleeps; and more than once Bee moves restlessly on her pillow
and murmurs Tim's name.
The wind, that has been blowing hard all through the night, subsides soon
after sunrise. Clouds clear away from the east, and the golden morning
shines upon the creamy cliffs of White Cove. Just at the foot of one of the
low rocks lies Tim; his brown face turned up to the sky, and his curly hair
matted with sea-weed. His life-work is done.
Only Tim;—yes, Master Claude; but what would the world be without such
souls as Tim's? Fine manners, fine speech, and fine clothes, of these he had
none, but he had what glorifies the earth's greatest sons, he had what the
angels rank highly and what God loves, a brave, true, unselfish heart.

SMITH'S SISTER
A STORY BY A BOY ABOUT A GIRL.

BY ROBERT OVERTON.

Before I tell you the story about Smith's sister in particular (said Stanislaus
Yarrow), I wish to make a few remarks about sisters in general.
Sisters are of two kinds—your own and other fellows'. There are boys—
especially older ones—who consider their own sisters worse than other
fellows' sisters.
("Hear, hear," cried Martin Abbott, who was strongly suspected of having
fallen in love with Dr. Audlem's maiden aunt, who was not much more than
forty).
But the general opinion amongst boys is that all sisters—all girls, in fact—
are muffs and nuisances.
("So they are," agreed a number of voices cordially).
I thought so myself once. But Smith's sister taught me to take a higher view
of girls. I admit that they have defects—they can't help 'em. There are times
when I doubt if even boys are perfect. I freely admit that there is a certain
amount of idiocy in the ways and manners of girls in general. Far be it from
me to deny that they squeak and squeal when there is no occasion for
squeaking and squealing. There is no use in denying that they are afraid of
mice. Even Smith's sister visibly shuddered when I offered to give her my
biggest piebald rat, to be her very own for ever. But we ought to be
charitable and try to overlook these things, for, as I said just now, they can't
help 'em.

What I insist upon is that there's real grit in girls all the same. This is how I
work it out: Smith's sister was a brick—Smith's sister is a girl—therefore,
as one girl can be a brick, so can other girls, other sisters, be bricks.
Now for my true yarn. To separate the circumstances of the story from the
story itself, I will first give you the circumstances.
Smith and I lived next door to each other, and were close chums, especially
at intervals. He was a very generous chap—he'd give a friend anything he'd
got. When he was laid low with illness last summer, I slipped into his
bedroom by way of the verandah, to have a look at him, and he gave me the
scarlet fever. He was such a very generous chap that he never wanted to
keep anything all to himself. The fever stayed with both of us as long as it
could, and left us a good deal weaker than it found us. Finding us both in
need of a long and thorough change, Smith's father and mine put their heads
together, and finally decided to send us to North Wales for the rest of the
summer and the autumn. The idea was promptly carried out.
They didn't, strictly speaking, "send" us, for they came with us. In fact, it
was quite a carriage-ful of us that steamed away north-west from
Paddington—namely, Smith, myself, Smith's father and mother, my father
and mother, a number of boxes, portmanteaux, and parcels, and Smith's
sister. I put her last because at the time she was last in my estimation.
We had a lovely journey, to a lovely little out-of-the-way and out-of-the-
world station, which was spelt with all consonants, and pronounced with
three sneezes, a cough and two gasps. From the station we had a long drive
to the remote farmhouse in which our fathers had taken apartments.
In this delicious old farmhouse we soon made ourselves—Smith and I—
quite at home. It was in a beautiful valley. Tremendous hills rose all round
it. On the very tops of some of the mountains there was snow almost all the
year round. Glens, and brooks, and streams, and waterfalls simply
abounded.
After a fortnight our two fathers had to return to London, leaving behind
them our mothers, us, and Smith's sister.
Oh, what a time we had then! Smith shot me by accident in the leg with the
farmer's gun—Smith himself got almost drowned in two different streams,

and was once carried over a waterfall, and dashed against the stones. On all
three occasions he was getting black in the face when pulled out. I fell
down a precipice in the mountains, and was rescued with the greatest
difficulty. On another occasion a neighbouring farmer caught us
trespassing, and thrashed us with a stick till he was too tired to hold it any
longer. Smith got bitten by a dog supposed to be mad, and a horse kicked
me in the stomach.
All was gaiety and excitement. Ah! when shall we have such times again?
We made inquiries as to whether we were likely to catch scarlet fever a
second time.
Now Smith's sister screamed at our accidents; she was afraid to join us in
any of our adventures. She was as old as myself, and only a year younger
than Smith, but as timid as a chicken—or so we thought her, for so she
seemed. We tried at first to encourage her, to bring her out a little; but it was
no good—we just had to leave her to herself.
"She hasn't pluck enough to come with us," Smith used to say as we set off
on our rambles—"let her stop at home and play with the fowls."
You must understand that we didn't dislike her—we simply despised her. I
think contempt is worse than dislike—at all events, it is harder to bear.
Week after week passed away, till at length the end of September
approached. In a few days we were to go home again.
Now high as all the hills were, there was one that towered above the others.
From the very first, Smith and I had been warned not to attempt to scale this
monarch of the mountains, whose crown was sometimes visible, sometimes
hidden in the clouds. Being warned not to do it, we naturally wanted to do
it. We had made, in fact, several tries, but had always been frustrated. Once
or twice Mr. Griffiths—the farmer at whose house we were staying—caught
us starting, and turned us back.
"Up towards the top of that mountain," he said, on the last occasion, "is a
place so difficult of access, except by one way, that it is called the 'Eagles'
Home.' Lives have been lost there. The hill is dangerous—the clefts are
steep and deep. Leave it alone. There are plenty of other hills to climb that
are not so dangerous."

That reference to the Eagles' Home was more than we could stand. We
could make out the very spot he meant. Fancy being up there with the
eagles near the sky—fancy birds-nesting in the clouds!
"Yarrow," said Smith firmly, "we must do it."
"Or perish in the attempt," I agreed recklessly, quoting from a book I'd read.
What we meant was, of course, that before our visit ended we must climb
that hill, at all events as high as the Eagles' Home.
Our approaching return to London left us with no time to lose. We had only
four clear days before us.
"We'll make the ascent immediately after dinner to-morrow," said Smith.
"Right you are," replied I.
The next day arrived. Dinner was always over soon after one at the
farmhouse, and by two o'clock, having slipped quietly and secretly off, we
were beginning our climb up the hillside. For more than an hour we made
slow but easy progress, taking a rest every now and then for a minute or
two. We must have got up a considerable distance, but neither the
mountain-top nor the Eagles' Home seemed much nearer. On and up we
trudged, walking faster and determined to take no more rests. We noticed
how much colder it was, and cast uneasy glances at the dipping sun.
We met a shepherd going down, and stopped him to ask some questions. He
told us that there was an easy way and a hard way to reach the Eagles'
Home. The easy way was to follow the path worn up the hill to the left.
That would take us above the spot. Still following the path as it curved
round to the right, we should find a comparatively easy way down to the
"home of the eagles," unless we lost the road, and tumbled down one of the
many steep declivities.
"Which was the hard way?" we asked.
With a smile, he pointed straight up the mountain-side. It wasn't far that
way, he said—only that way would take us farther than we wanted to go.
We looked up the frowning pathless mountain—and knew what he meant.
We must take the safer and longer way.

"Not that we're afraid of the other," said Smith.
"Of course not," I replied.
In vain the shepherd tried to dissuade us from going any further in the
failing light: in vain he told us of the dangers we should run. We thanked
him, put him off with some excuse about going "a little" further, and turned
resolutely on up the "path" he had pointed us to. It was by no means the sort
of path we were accustomed to.
On and on and on—I don't know how far we went. But the farther we went
the more silent we became. Each knew the other knew that he was getting
more and more uneasy at every step. Each knew the other wasn't going to
be the first to admit that he was funky.
It grew so awfully cold. It became so awfully dark.
"The moon will be up by-and-by," Smith said.
"Yes," said I; "we shall be all right then. What's this?"
It was too dark to see it, but we felt it in our faces. We put our hands on our
sleeves and felt it there.
Snow!
We both gave in then, and funked it without disguise. We turned to go
down, to get home. We tried at first to disbelieve it, but it wasn't long before
we both gave up the pretence.
"We're lost!" we cried together.
That was just our position. In the cold, dark night, in the midst of a rapidly-
rising storm and fast-falling snow, we were lost on the wild Welsh
mountains.
We stumbled about. For a long time—I don't know how long, but it was a
long time—we stumbled about. That is the only expression I can use, for
soon we didn't know whether we were moving up or down, left or right. We
were so numbed, so bewildered. It was so cold up there, though October

had not yet set in, that we had a vague idea that if we didn't keep on moving
we should be frozen still, meeting the fate of many other mountaineers.
You must bear in mind that we had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and
only our summer clothes on. Neither of us had a watch, so we could only
judge what the time was. Smith's hope that the moon would soon rise hadn't
been realised, for everything above was as dark and black as everything was
beneath.
At last a frightful thing happened. Our feet slipped at the same moment, and
the next moment we were both falling through space. My previous slip
down a precipice was nothing compared with that awful fall in the darkness.
Only one thing saved us. Before we struck the ground, we managed to
break the full force of our fall by grasping the roots and branches of some
low-growing shrubs and bushes which we felt without seeing. We slipped
then less rapidly from hold to hold, until, with a thud, we struck the earth. It
seemed more like the earth striking us.
Smith gave a loud scream of pain—then all was silent.
Smith fainted. I cried. Smith recovered and cried. I left off crying, and took
his turn at fainting. There's nothing like telling the truth. We both prayed. I
won't tell you about that, because praying is a thing to do, not to talk about.
We didn't move about any more. That fall proved that moving about was too
dangerous. Poor old Smith couldn't move. He couldn't even stand up. He
tried to once and sank down again with a yell. He had sprained his ankle.
Please imagine for a moment that this adventure is being played on the
stage, and let the curtain fall. Now imagine the curtain raised again.
In the meantime, the storm has died down. The winds are not howling now,
the snow is not falling. The heavens above us are not so black we can see
parts of the mountain that drops from our feet into the deep invisible valley
below. We can see enough to make out where we are. We are in the Eagles'
Home. Our ambition has been realised—but in what a way! We reached the
spot neither by the pathway nor up the rugged steep—we rolled from the
top; we came through the air with the snowflakes.

Pretty snowflakes! Smith is hopelessly crippled, and I—the other snowflake
—am simply a living collection of bumps and bruises. We must spend the
rest of the bleak night strung up on this dizzy height. We must wait till the
morning—if we can live through the night.
What's that, down there—far away down there?
A light! a number of lights. They're moving—moving up. They've reached
the spot where we met the shepherd who told us of the two ways.
They've stopped. Hark! What's that?
A shout—a hail—loud and long continued, as though a lot of people are
calling together.
Hurrah! We're saved. The farmer has turned out a rescue party to find and
save us. Hurrah!
Gathering all my strength—all I have left—I answer the hail. Smith joins
me as well as he can. Once, twice, thrice we shout. We catch the distant cry
that tells us we have been heard.
For a minute the lights are stationary. Then—their bearers sending up
another great hail as though to tell us they know where we are and are
coming—we see the lanterns flashing forward up the track which leads
above our heads, and then round to the Eagles' Home. Mr. Griffiths, who
knows the hills as well as he knows his own farm lands, has told them
where we are from the direction of our frantic voices.
So cheer up, Smith—they're coming.
But they'll be such a long time coming—and we're so cold and numbed.
Smith is fainting again. So am I, I'm afraid—you must remember I am
knocked about. It will be such a long time before the coming help reaches
us.
Will it? Then what's that solitary light stealing up the jagged steep below
us? Who is it coming to us by the "hard" way, straight up the precipitous
mountain-side? It must be Griffiths—he's crawling up the rough boulders—
he's clinging hold of roots and branches, swinging himself over the clefts.

The shepherd said it couldn't be done—but Griffiths is doing it. How torn
his hands must be!
I can't be quite fainting, because I can see that Griffiths' lantern is coming
nearer and nearer.
Listen! I can hear his voice—only it sounds such a weak voice. That is
because I am getting so weak now myself, though I manage to call back,
that Griffiths may know just where we are....
Griffiths has reached us. Griffiths is attending to poor old Smith. Now he's
got his arm round me. Griffiths is pouring a cordial down my throat that
brings life back into me. I can feel my heart beating again. I'm better now.
I'll shake Griffiths by the hand. I dare say I shall by-and-by. But this is the
hand of Smith's Sister!

The strain of this theatrical style, and of the present tense, is more than I can
stand any longer, so I hope it is quite clear to you what had happened. Just a
few words to sum up.
When the rescue party formed by Mr. Griffiths—as soon as it was obvious
that Smith and I had lost ourselves—set out, Smith's sister set out with
them. Griffiths ordered her back. She went back, collared a lantern and a
flask all to herself (in view of the party separating—what a thoughtful
girl!), followed and rejoined them. When they stopped and halloaed to find
whereabouts we were, he ordered her back again, but not until she had
heard the hasty consultation which resulted in the party sticking to the safer
way to us. She heard about the "two ways," and she dared the one that
everybody else was afraid of. The ascent up the mountain's face was
suggested, but only Smith's sister had the pluck to make it. This was the girl
we had scorned and laughed at. This was the girl whom we had told to stop
at home and play with the chickens!
About an hour after she reached us with the "first help" that may have saved
our lives, we saw the lights of Griffith's party on the crest above us. We
exchanged shouts, and they let down a rope at once, and hauled us up. Long

before this, Smith's sister had bound up his injured ankle neatly and lightly
with her own handkerchief and our handkerchiefs.
You should have seen the farmer's face—and, indeed, the faces of all the
others too—when they realised how she had reached us.
It is all very well for her to say that she didn't know what she was doing—
that she couldn't have done in the light what she did in the dark. All I am
concerned with is the fact that she did do what I have told you she did.
Referring to the proposition I laid down soon after I started—about there
being real grit in girls after all—you will understand what I meant when I
wind up my yarn with the familiar quotation, Q. E. D.

THE COLONEL'S BOY.

BY H. HERVEY.

Marjorie had never got on well with her brother's guardian. He was a
bachelor, stern and autocratic, and with no admiration for woman's ways,
and she instinctively felt that he did not understand her.
His love for Miles Weyburne, the son of a brother officer who had fallen in
a skirmish with an Indian frontier tribe thirteen years ago, was a thing
recognised and beyond question.
Even at the age of ten the boy's likeness to his father had been remarkable.
He had the same dark, earnest eyes, the same frank, winning manner, the
same eager enthusiasm; he was soon to develop, to the secret pride of his
guardian, the same keen interest in his profession, with a soundness of
judgment and a fearless self-reliance peculiarly his own.
He had gained his star after scarcely a year's service, and had then got an
exchange into his guardian's regiment.
Colonel Alleson held the command of a midland regimental district. He had
the reputation of being somewhat of a martinet, and was not altogether
popular with his men.
Marjorie generally spent her holidays with her aunt in the town, and the
Colonel occasionally went to see her; but he was nervous and constrained,
with little to say for himself, and Marjorie always did her best to show to a
disadvantage when he was there. "He's such a crabby old thing," she would
say, when Miles grew enthusiastic over the grave, taciturn officer,
—"besides, he hates girls, you know he does, and I'm not going to knuckle
under to him." Her brother had explained that the Colonel's ideas were old-
fashioned, so she sometimes talked slang on purpose to shock him. She

listened to his abrupt, awkward sentences with a half listless, half criticising
air. She was a typical school-girl at the most characteristic age,—quick to
resent, impatient of control, straightforward almost to rudeness. The
Colonel might be a father to her brother—he never could be to her. She
often thought about her father and mentally contrasted the two: she thought,
too, though less often, of the mother who had died the very day that that
father had fallen in action, when she herself was little more than a year old.
Miles had been spending his leave with his aunt, and the day before his
return to Ireland to rejoin the battalion, he biked over to the barracks in
company with his sister to say good-bye to his guardian.
"I suppose this is another of the Colonel's fads," Marjorie remarked,
glancing at the notice board as she got off her bicycle outside the gates.
"What an old fuss he is, Miles."
"Has he been giving you a lesson in manners?"
"Not he." She tossed back her wavy, golden-brown hair as she spoke. "I
should like to see him try it on."
Miles gave a short little laugh.
"He got into an awful rage the other day because somebody came through
here on a bicycle. How are you to read the notice all that way off?"
Miles was not listening to her. Hearing the sound of wheels, he had turned
round and caught sight of the Colonel's dog-cart. Marjorie glanced
mischievously at him, and just as the Colonel entered the gateway, she
deliberately mounted her bicycle and rode through before his eyes. There
was just room for her to pass. The Colonel reined in, and looked sternly
round. "Stop!" he said. Marjorie obeyed. Wheeling her bicycle forward, she
said in her politest manner:
"I beg your pardon. Did you want me?"
"This is quite contrary to regulations."
"Yes, I know," she answered, looking straight at him. "I read the notice, but
I don't see the sense of it."

There were one or two soldiers standing near, and they exchanged glances
and smiled. Miles coloured up with shame and vexation. The Colonel gave
the reins to his groom and got down without another word. He held out his
hand to Miles as the dog-cart passed on.
"I want to speak to you," he said shortly, and he walked on in front of them.
"I hope I shall see you again, Miles," he began, as they ascended the steps
leading to his quarters. "I have only a few minutes to spare now. Come up
this evening, will you?"
"Yes, Colonel."
Marjorie moved towards the door. The colour mounted to her cheeks as the
Colonel stepped forward to open it for her. Miles, feeling that he ought to
say something, waited behind a minute.
"I'm sorry about—about this," he said. "I don't understand it."
"I do, perfectly—well, good-bye, my boy."
His grave, stern face softened wonderfully as he grasped Miles' hand.
"What an old crosspatch he is," began Marjorie as her brother came up with
her. "I daren't for the life of me ride through there again. Did you see,
Miles, he was quite white with rage when I cheeked him? Those Tommies
thought it awful sport."
"What a little ass you are," said Miles crossly, "to make all that row before
the men."
Marjorie looked away. "It served him jolly well right," she said, pedalling
faster.
They rode home the rest of the way in silence.

Miles was away with his battalion at the front, and Marjorie was spending a
fortnight of the Christmas holidays with a school friend at Eastbourne. The

two girls were hurrying down the esplanade together one bright, frosty
morning in January when Marjorie suddenly found herself face to face with
the Colonel. His eyes were bent down, and he passed without recognising
her. With a few hurried words to her chum, she ran after him.
"How do you do, Colonel? I didn't know you were here."
He started as she addressed him. "I only came yesterday," he said; "I have
got a few days' leave."
"Did you hear from Miles last mail? I did."
"Yes. He has been very regular so far."
"You must miss him awfully. Are you going this way?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll come a little way with you, if I may; I wanted to say something."
Putting her hands into her jacket pockets, she looked very gravely at him.
"I am sorry I was rude that day I came into the Barracks," she said
hurriedly. "I have been thinking about it. It was horrid of me, when the
soldiers were there. Will you forgive me?"
"Certainly," he said nervously, putting his hands behind him, and walking
faster.
"You see, I want to be friends with you," she added frankly, "because of
Miles. He thinks such a lot of you—the dear boy; good-bye."
Her dark eyes, generally so mocking and mischievous, had grown suddenly
earnest, and his heart warmed towards her, as he held out his hand.
"Good-bye, Marjorie," he said, "you are very much alike, you and Miles."
"Are we?" she said simply, flushing a little. "I didn't know. I am glad."
She walked back to her chum with a beating heart. "He's not so bad," she
said to herself. "I wish he liked girls."

Spion Kop had been abandoned, and the British Army was in orderly
retreat, when Miles found himself cut off with the remnant of his company,
by the enemy. The death of his captain had left him in command, and
realising his responsibility, he made up his mind to act promptly. "We are
cut off, men," he explained briefly to his soldiers; "will you hoist the white
flag, or trust to me to bring you through?"
"No surrender, and we stand by you, sir," answered the serjeant major
gruffly. "Is it agreed, boys?"
There was a general assent.
It was a gallant deed, that desperate dash to rejoin the division, though
accomplished at a terrible cost. Miles, leading the forlorn hope, was soon to
pay the price of his daring. They were all but through when he fell, shot by
a chance bullet.
An hour later his battered troops came up with the British forces. Three or
four stragglers dropped into camp as the serjeant major was making his
report.
"Ah!" said the colonel, expressively—"you got through?"
"Yes, sir, beastly hard work, too."
"Who brought you?"
"Lieutenant Weyburne, sir."
"I thought so. He's the kind of fellow for that sort of thing. Is he in?"
"He was shot, sir."
"Shot, poor boy. What will Alleson say?"

It was Wednesday morning, and the entire strength of the Depôt had turned
out on parade. The Colonel, tall and dignified in the faultless neatness of
undress uniform, was standing in his characteristic attitude, with his hands
behind him and his head thrown slightly back. His blue eyes looked out,
grave and watchful, from under the peak of his fatigue cap, and the tense
interlocking of his gloved fingers was the only sign of his mental unrest.
Yet the vision of Miles was before him—Miles bold, earnest, high-spirited,
Miles in the full joy of life and strength, with the light of affection in his
eyes; Miles again with his boyish face white and drawn and his active
young form still in death.
He had loved the boy, his boy as he always called him, more even than he
had realised, and life seemed very blank without the hope of seeing him
again.
It was two days since his name had appeared in the lists of killed and
wounded, and that afternoon the Colonel went down to see Marjorie, who
had returned from Eastbourne a few days before. She looked unusually pale
when she came into the room, and though she ran forward eagerly enough
to greet him, her eyes were tearful and her lips quivering, as she put her
hand into his.
"I thought of writing to you"—began the Colonel nervously, "but——"
"I'm glad you came," said Marjorie, "very glad. I shouldn't mind so much if
we knew just how he died," she added sorrowfully.
"We know how he would face death, Marjorie!"
She put her arms on the table, and hid her face with a stifled sob.
"He was your boy, and you'll miss him so," she went on. "There's no one
like him, no one half so dear or half so brave. If I were only a boy I might
try to be like him and make you happy—but I can't, it's no use."
She was looking up at him with those dark eyes of hers, just as his boy had
looked at him when he said good-bye three months ago, and he could not
trust himself to speak.
"I suppose you get used to things," she said with a sigh.

The Colonel put his hand on her head. "Poor child," he said in a husky
voice, "don't think about me."
"Miles loved you," she answered softly, going up close to him. "I'm his
sister. Let me love you, too."
He drew her to him in a tender fatherly manner, that brought instant comfort
to her aching, wilful little heart.
"Your father was my friend, Marjorie," he said,—"the staunchest friend man
ever had. I have often wondered why we failed to understand each other."
"You don't like girls," said Marjorie, "that's why."
The Colonel smiled grimly.
"I didn't," he said. "Perhaps I have changed my mind."

Lord Roberts had entered Pretoria, and the Colonel sat in his quarters
looking through the list of released prisoners. All at once he gave a start,
glanced hastily around, and then looked back again. About half way down
the list of officers, he read:
"Lieut. M. Weyburne (reported killed at Spion Kop)."
Miles was alive: there had been some mistake. The bugle sounded. It was a
quarter past nine. He walked out on to the parade-ground with his usual
firm step, smiling as he went. Miles was alive. He could have dashed down
the barrack-square like a bugler-boy in the lightness of his heart.
People who met him that day hastened to congratulate him. He said very
little, but looked years younger.
Three weeks later there came a letter from Miles, explaining how he had
been left upon the ground for dead, and on coming to himself, had fallen
unarmed into the hands of the Boers. He had never fully recovered from his
wounds, and by the doctor's orders had been invalided home, so that his
guardian might expect him about ten days after receiving his letter.

It was a happy home-coming. The Colonel went down to Southampton to
meet him, and when he reached his aunt's house he found a letter from
Marjorie awaiting him. "The Colonel's a dear," she wrote; "I understand
now why you think such a lot of him."
Miles turned with a smile to his guardian.
"You and Marjorie are friends at last, Colonel," he said.
"Yes, my boy," he returned gravely; "we know each other better now."

'TWIXT LIFE AND DEATH.
A MANX STORY.

BY CLUCAS JOUGHIN.

PART I.

Deborah Shimmin was neither tall nor fair, and yet Nature had been kind to
her in many ways. She had wonderful eyes—large, dark, and full of mute
eloquence—and if her mouth was too large, her nose too irregular, and her
cheeks too much tanned by rude health, and by exposure to the sun as the
village gossips said, I, Henry Kinnish, poetic dreamer, and amateur
sculptor, thought she had a symmetry of form and a grace of movement
which wrought her whole being into harmony and made her a perfect
example of beauty with a plain face; and every one knew that Andrew, the
young village blacksmith and rural postman, loved her with all the might of
his big, brawny soul.
These two ideas of Deborah's beauty and Andrew's love for her, were
revealed to me one day when, with Deborah's master, his lumbering sons
and comely daughters, and my chum Fred Harcourt, an artist from "across
the water," we were cutting some early grass in May, just before the full
bloom of the gorse had begun to fade from the hillsides and from the tops of
the hedges where it had made borders of gold for the green of the fields all
the spring.
A soft west wind, which blew in from the sea, made waves along the uncut
grass to windward of the mowers, and played around the skirts of Deborah,
making them flutter about her, while the exertion of the haymaking
occasionally let loose her long, strong black hair.

But the face of Deborah was sad; for the village policeman had laid a
charge against her before his chief to make her account for her possession
of a large number of seagulls' eggs, to take which the law of the Island had
made a punishable offence, by an act of Tynwald passed to protect the sea
fowl from extinction.
The eggs, all fresh, and newly taken from the nests, had been found on
Deborah's dressing-table; but Deborah indignantly denied all knowledge of
the means by which they had got there. There was a mystery about it to
every one, for fresh clutches were seen there every morning, and the
innocent Deborah made no attempt to conceal them. Where, then, could
they come from but from some nests of the colony of seagulls which lived
in the haughs that dropped down into the sea from Rhaby Hills? But no
woman, young or old, could climb the craigs where the gulls had their
nests. It was a feat of daring only performed by reckless boys and young
men who were reared on the littoral, and who were strong and spirited
craigsmen by inheritance and by familiarity with the dangerous sport of
egg-collecting among the giddy heights of precipices on which, if they took
but one false step, they might be hurled to certain destruction below.
When the mowers had made all but the last swath, and there were only a
few more rucks of the early hay to be made in the field, Cubbin, the rural
constable, came in from the highroad with Andrew, the smith. The hot and
sweated mowers did not stop the swing of their scythes, but they talked
loudly amongst themselves in imprecations against the new law which
made it a criminal offence for a lad to take a few gull's eggs, which they,
and their fathers before them, had gone sporting after in the good old times
when men did what they thought right.
The bronzed face of Deborah Shimmin paled, her lips set into a resolve of
courage when she saw Andrew in the hands of the police; and I learnt for
the first time that Andrew was looked upon as the robber and Deborah as
the receiver of the stolen eggs. I saw more than this, I saw, by one look, that
the heart of Deborah and the heart of the tall, lithe lad, who now stood
before me, were as one heart in love and in determination to stand by each
other in the coming trial.

The big hands of the young smith were thrust into his pockets, and a smile
played over his honest face; but Deborah looked at the constable with a
hard, defiant look, and then bent over her work again as if waiting to hear
him say something dreadful which she was resolved to throw back into his
face, though her hand trembled as she held the fork, which moved now
faster and stronger than before.
But Cubbin was a man of the gospel of peace though he was an officer of
the law, and he only looked sadly on the face of Deborah as he asked her
whether it would not be better for her to say where she got her supply of
eggs from than allow him to get a summons against Andrew.
"I have told you before that Andrew never gave me the eggs!" cried the girl,
her face flushed with the crimson setting of the sun, "and I don't know
where they came from. I can't say anything different, and I wish you would
not trouble me, Mr. Cubbin!"
Fred and I called Cubbin, the constable, to one side, and asked him to allow
us a day or two to solve the mystery of the eggs—a little arrangement
which may seem strange to dwellers in towns, but which was quite
practicable at this time in this far-off place, and which he soon agreed to
allow.
I had been out shooting corncrakes that day, and Fred Harcourt had come
with me for a day in the meadows, as his brush and palette had wearied him
of late, and he longed to stretch his limbs and to see my spaniels work in the
weedy hedges and in the meadows, where the grass had stood the test of the
dry spring. We had taken off our coats to help our neighbour with his
sunburnt grass, and our guns were laid across them. The spaniels had fallen
asleep—using the coats as beds. While conversing with Cubbin we had
walked quietly to get our coats, and I saw that one of the sleeping dogs was
still hunting in his dreams. There was nothing uncommon about this, for
dogs will hunt in their sleep; but some inner voice said to me that Deborah
Shimmin, being a highly strung, nervous girl, might hunt in her sleep also,
and that such things as somnambulists walking the roofs of high houses had
been heard of, and I remembered a lad in my own boyhood's days who was
awakened early one morning by the riverside with his rod in his hand and

his basket slung over his nightshirt. But I did not communicate my theory
of the solution of the mystery of the eggs to Cubbin, the constable.
When the policeman left the field I entered into a kindly talk with Deborah
Shimmin, and was not long in learning what the girl herself had probably
never thought of, that on the public reading of the Act for the protection of
sea-fowl, on the Tynwald day of the previous year, she had been impressed
by the thought that Andrew would now be forbidden to employ his agility
and his courage in a form of sport she often tried to dissuade him from.
I knew before this that she had recently lost her mother, and had suffered a
bereavement through a favourite brother being lost at sea one stormy night
at the back-end herring fishing off Howth Head.
"Poor Deborah," I said to Fred, "she is all nerves, and the hand of life's
troubles is holding her; surely she must be innocent of encouraging her
lover in risking his life—the only precious life left to her now!"
"And the jolly Andrew," said Fred, "certainly looked the most amusing
picture of innocence, as Cubbin trotted him along the grass! But your theory
of the somnambulant business is a bit fanciful, all the same."

PART II.

At ten o'clock that night Fred Harcourt and I were bivouaced within sight of
the only door of the house where Deborah Shimmin worked as a domestic
help in the family of her uncle. The night was not dark, it seldom is dark in
these northern islands so late in May, but there was a light of the moon at its
first quarter, and a glint of some stars shone down upon us as we hearkened
to the stillness of the air and to a frequent movement of a tired horse in the
stable.
Our bivouac was a clump of trammon trees (elders) at the corner of the
orchard which adjoined the farm buildings. Between us and the dwelling
house there was a disused pigsty. At about a quarter to eleven o'clock a
man, with a red setter dog at his heels and a fowling piece on his arm, came
sneaking up, and crept into the sty.

Then there was another long spell of silence, not broken, but rather
intensified, by the words which I whispered to Fred Harcourt that the fellow
who crept into the sty was Kit Kermode, and that he could be after no good.
At midnight a cock crew at the far end of the village, and a dog barked.
Then there was silence again, save that every now and again a sedge
warbler, far away by the stream near Shenvarla, sang a faintly audible song.
Our position on the slope of the foot-hill at Gordon House was between the
village and the hills which girt the sea coast. This made my theory of the
sleep-walking to the cliffs more plausible. But while we lay low in the
clump of trammon trees the appearance of Kit Kermode, with his cat-like
walk and his eyes that could wink slander faster than any old woman's
tongue could wag it, gave me a theory, or at least a speculation, in another
direction.
In soft whispers to Fred Harcourt, who was new to the village, I told him
how the rascal Kermode hated Andrew the blacksmith. "He hates him," I
said, "I do verily believe, for his good honest face, his manly outspoken
tongue, his courage, and his power of arm, but most of all he hates him
since Andrew, years ago as an innocent and unthinking lad, ran after him in
the village street and handed him a reminder of some money which he owed
his master."
"But what can that have to do with Deborah Shimmin's gulls' eggs?" asked
Fred, whose mind never seemed to see anything but pictures of divers
colours and inspiring outlines in the happy dreamland he lived in, all
unconscious of the world's cruelty, and hate, and love of evil.
I had just finished telling him that a man like Kermode might bribe a boy to
get him gulls' eggs, and sneak up to Deborah's window and quietly reach in
and place the eggs on her dressing-table, as a means of getting Deborah and
Andrew into trouble. I had just finished giving this outline of the thought in
my mind, I say, when the door of the farmhouse opened and Deborah
Shimmin, clad only in her nightdress, stepped lightly forth and started up
the hillside.
The next moment the man, his gun in the hollow of his arm and the red
setter dog at his heels, crawled forth from the pigsty, looked round as if to
make certain he was not watched, and followed the white figure of the girl

as she glided up the zig-zag path in the direction of the haughs which
formed the wild sea coast.
It did not take Fred and me very long to take off our boots and noiselessly
follow, guided by the figure in white, rather than by the man who went
before us, for the dim light of the moon and the northern night made his
dark dress difficult to see in the shadows of the hedges and trees.
I knew that Deborah would take the usual path to the rocks, and bade Fred
follow close behind me while I took a shorter route. In ten minutes we were
again under cover when the girl passed close by us, her long hair knotted
roughly into a mass of rolls about her large and well-formed head. Her eyes
were open, and fixed in a glassy stare straight ahead. She seemed to move
along, rather than walk, and had no appearance of either hesitation or haste;
and Kermode, with his dog and his gun, stealthily followed in her wake not
twenty yards behind.
While we were crossing the field bordering the Gordon haughs, keeping
under the shadow of a gorse-clad hedge, Deborah disappeared over the cliff,
and the man, watched by Fred and myself, crept up to the edge of the cliffs
down which the poor girl had descended.
Before another minute had elapsed, Kermode had stretched himself out his
full length on a craig which overlooked the precipitous rocks down which
Deborah had disappeared. We then secured the cover of a mound not thirty
feet away from him.
The dog gave a low whine when he saw the head of his master craned out to
watch the movements of the white figure descending the rocks, and then all
was quiet as before.
Fred's suspense and anxiety for the safety of the girl was apparent in his
hard breathing; but my own were inconsiderable, for I knew that if
undisturbed by any noise unusual to the night, or any interference by the
fellow who now held the future happiness of Andrew, the smith, in his
hands she would safely climb up the haugh and make her way home to bed,
all unconscious of the awful position she had placed herself in.
Wicked as I knew the man to be, I did not now imagine that he had any
other intention in watching around the house than to try to discover Andrew

paying a nocturnal visit, with some gulls' eggs for his sweetheart. This
would have been a mean enough act, but it seems a small thing beside the
cruel and murderous deed he would have committed but for the providential
presence and prompt action of Fred Harcourt and myself.
Fred and I lay low, with our chins resting on our hands, not daring even to
whisper. The dog whined a little now and again, and we heard the subdued
cries of seagulls as they flew off, alarmed in the darkness, over the sea. Still
Deborah did not make her appearance on the top of the cliff. It seemed a
long time that we lay and watched thus, but it could not have been so long
as it seemed.
Then Kermode, without raising himself from watching the climbing girl,
reached back for the gun which he had placed on the ground by his side. He
raised it to the level of his face, resting his left elbow on the ground, and I
heard the click of the hammer as he cocked it. Then I saw his thumb and
finger go into his waistcoat pocket.
"Good God!" I said in a loud whisper, as I sprang to my feet, for I knew in
one awful moment that the villain was feeling for a cap to discharge a shot
in the air above the head of Deborah, who would wake up at the shock, and
fall to the base of the craig in her terrible fright. So intent was Kermode in
his fell design of frightening the girl to her destruction that he did not hear
me, or notice the growl of his dog, or feel the vibration of our tread as we
both bore down upon him. We should have been too late if it had not been
for the life-long habit of the wretch to secure himself from danger or
suspicion. With his finger on the trigger, all ready to pull, he paused one
moment to raise himself and look about. That moment saved the life of
Deborah Shimmin, for the would-be murderer was the next instant under
the knee of Fred Harcourt and his throat in his grip, while my hand was
over the nipples of the gun. While we were all on the ground together, and
the setter dog had a hold of Harcourt's leg, the tall form of Cubbin, the
policeman, bent over us. I had lowered the hammers of the gun and thrown
it to one side to grasp the dog, for Harcourt would not let go his hold of
Kermode's throat lest he should shout and wake the girl.
"Gag Kermode," I said to Cubbin, as I hit the dog just above the snout with
a stone, killing him by one blow.

Then Deborah Shimmin, holding something in a fold of her nightdress with
one hand, and climbing with the other, came up over the edge of the cliff a
few yards away from us.
She looked very beautiful as she stepped up on the sloping sward above the
haugh, with the pale moonlight just lighting her airy dress, and her face all
sad and careworn.
Leaving Kermode to the care of the constable, Fred and I noiselessly
followed the girl home, and saw her step over the obstacles in her path as
by instinct, turning her face neither to the right nor left.
We decided to awaken her before she reached the door of the farmhouse, so
that, according to the popular notion, she might never again become
somnambulent.
With this view I stepped before her as she approached the door, but was
astonished to find that she paused as if my presence blocked the way before
she yet saw me or touched me. But there was no misunderstanding the
blank stare in her wonderful eyes.
I gently put out my hand and took hers, as she put it out before her to feel
the influence of a presence she could not see.
She did not scream or faint. She awoke with a start, and let the eggs fall on
the ground.
At first she could not understand where she was, and just thought she was
dreaming; but by degrees it came to her that she was standing before me in
the pale moonlight when she thought she ought to be in bed.
Then I softly told her where she had been in her sleep, keeping back all
knowledge of Kermode's attempted revenge on Andrew, and how we had
decided to awake her. Then, with a little pleasant laugh, we both told her
that the mystery of the seagulls' eggs was solved, and that neither Andrew
nor she would be troubled again.
She fell to sobbing a little, and for the first time seemed to shiver with the
cold; then she lifted the latch and we bade her good night.

Nothing was done to Kermode, for the fellow swore he had no intention of
discharging the gun, and we could not prove he had, though the case was
clear enough in our eyes, and the deed would have been done had we not, in
God's providence, been there to prevent it.
Cubbin, the constable, it transpired afterwards, had overheard me giving my
theory of the sleep-walking to Fred in the hayfield, and he, too, had been in
hiding at the farm, and had watched and followed us all.
So there was a wonderful story for him to tell of how Deborah had made
good her defence against the charge he had laid against Andrew and her.
And the beautiful Deborah with the plain face became the bride of the jolly
Andrew, who was neither an artist nor an amateur sculptor, but only a
village blacksmith who had an eye for beauty of form and character.

ROSE'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT.
A TRUE STORY.

BY MARIE E. C. DELBRASSINE.

"Where is Rose?"
"Busy, as usual, with her mice and beetles, I suppose, father," answered
Ethel; "we have not seen her all this afternoon."
"She will probably be with you at teatime," said Dr. Sinclair, "after which I
should like you to ask her to come to me for a little while in the surgery."
"Very well, father, I won't forget."
Dr. Sinclair retreated again to his surgery, which was arranged also as his
library, knowing that his willing helper would not fail to join him there.
"I cannot think," said Maud, Ethel's sister, "what that girl finds to interest
her in all those horrid creatures—beetles and toads, and even snakes, when
she can get one; the other day I saw her handling a slowworm as if it were a
charming domestic pet. It was enough to make one feel cold all over."
"Well, there is no accounting for taste; Rose never seems to care if she is
asked to a party or not," continued Ethel, "and she does not mind helping
father with his work, which I always find so tiresome, for he is so
dreadfully particular about it. Perhaps biologists are different from other
folks; I sometimes think there is something uncannny and queer about
them."
"I'm sure Rose is neither uncanny nor queer, she's just a brick," said Jack, a
schoolboy of fourteen, who was enjoying a Saturday half-holiday at home

with a new book, it being too wet to play cricket. "She is always willing to
do anything to help a fellow."
"Which means," said Ethel, "that you always expect girls to be your slaves,
when you are at home."
At this moment the door opened and Rose herself appeared.
"Well, Rose," said Maud, "have you pinned out a beetle, or taught your pet
ants to perform tricks?"
"Not this afternoon," said Rose; "I have had a delightful time with my
microscope, studying spiders and drawing slides for the magic lantern to be
used at my next little lecture to the G.F.S. girls."
"That sounds dry and uninteresting," yawned Maud. "Ah, here comes tea.
By the way, father would like you to go to his study afterwards. Poor Rose,
I expect he has some more tiresome work for you."
"Oh, don't call it tiresome, Maud dear; I quite enjoy it."
"It's a good thing you do. I hate being shut up there; it's such a bore."
A quarter of an hour later a middle-aged man, whose snow-white hair made
him appear at first sight much older than he was in reality, might have been
seen busy over a manuscript, whilst a fair girl sat beside him, reading out to
him the notes he had made, and which he was working into the book he was
writing. The two seemed to work in perfect harmony.
Rose's father had been the rector of a remote country parish in Cornwall.
Most of his friends said that he was lost in such a neighbourhood, and that it
was a shame to have sent so able a man to such a parish; but Mr. Sinclair
never complained himself; he may sometimes have thought it strange that
other men were chosen before him to occupy positions which he felt
conscious he might well have filled, but as his lot was cast in that Cornish
nook, he had thrown himself heart and soul into whatever work he found to
do. The affection he won from the rough fisherfolk, who regarded him as
the father of the parish, whose joys and sorrows, cares and anxieties, were
all well known to him, was as much to him as any brilliant worldly success.
His means were small, too small for his generous heart. He wished to give

as good an education as possible to his two children, Henry and Rose, and
devoted much time and trouble to that end. For several years he taught the
boy and girl together himself, Rose learning much the same lessons as her
brother; this laid the foundation of the accuracy which characterised her in
any task she undertook—a quality often lacking in feminine work.
Mr. Sinclair had been a good student of natural history, and had written
books and magazine articles which had been well thought of. Rose tried to
follow her father's pursuit; she would spend hours in reading about birds
and butterflies, and in making little researches herself. One of her greatest
pleasures had been to help her father, either by taking notes for him or by
writing at his dictation. She hoped herself some day to add to her pecuniary
resources by writing for biological papers or even by giving lectures.
But the happy home life in the Cornish rectory was to end all too quickly.
Rose lost both her parents within a short time of each other; her brother was
at Oxford, working hard; and Rose was left alone, and had to leave the
home which was so dear to her.
It was then that her uncle, Dr. Sinclair, without a moment's hesitation,
offered her a home in his house. He did not listen to warning voices,
cautioning him against burdening himself with the charge of another girl,
for his own means were not large, and his family made many demands upon
his purse. He was a physician whose career might have been a brilliant one
had his practice been in London; but a fanciful and invalid wife had
rendered this impossible, as she declared she could only exist in the pure air
of the country.
So he had reluctantly abandoned his cherished hope of working as a
London doctor, and had settled near a small country town in
Gloucestershire, where he soon obtained most of the practice round; but his
scope was narrow. He nevertheless managed to keep in touch with his
profession, a profession in which he had entered heart and soul, making
various scientific researches in his laboratory, and sending the fruit of them
in clearly-written articles to medical papers. Now for this work, either in
writing short articles from his notes, or from his dictation, a patient helper
was of great assistance to him. His own daughters, as already seen, disliked
the work, and showed their father no sympathy in it, whereas to Rose it was

real enjoyment, filling, in a measure, the void she felt in no longer helping
her father. Between uncle and niece a tacit sympathy had grown up. He
encouraged her in her natural history pursuits, and helped her to start the
lectures she gave to the G.F.S. girls in the neighbourhood. The suggestion
had seemed little likely to interest them, but Rose had been so clear and
explicit that the girls soon became eager for them.
Time went on in this way, when something happened which was again to
change Rose's circumstances. Truly it is that often trifles light as air have an
unknown weight of importance in them. One morning the letter-bag brought
a circular announcing that some "University Extension Lectures" were to be
given at C——, their nearest town, by a professor from Oxford, the subject
chosen being "Spiders," with notes from the microscope.
When Dr. Sinclair had read it, he passed it, smiling kindly, to Rose.
"This is not for me," he said, "but I think I know some one whom it may
interest."
"Oh, uncle! how delightful," said Rose, when she had looked at it; "the very
thing I should enjoy!"
So it came to pass that Rose attended the lectures, entering very fully into
them, and taking careful notes.
At the close of the course, the lecturer said he would like any of the
students who felt sufficiently interested in the subject to write a paper, and
send it in to him, giving a summary of the lectures, and asking any
questions they might care to ask, at the end.
Rose and several others responded to the invitation, and wrote their papers.
For some time Rose heard no more about it, but one morning she was
surprised to receive the following note:—

"Dear Madam,—I have felt much satisfaction in reading your paper, which
I return, with a few notes and answers to your questions. It shows me with
what intelligent interest you have followed my lectures.
"It may interest you to know that an examination for a scholarship at St.
Margaret's Hall, the new college for women, is shortly to be held at Oxford;
and if you care to pursue a subject for which you show much
understanding, I would suggest your trying for it. I don't promise you
success, but I think it is worth the venture. A friend of mine, a lady living in
Oxford, receives lady students recommended by me, and would, I am sure,
make you comfortable on very moderate terms. Yours truly,
"B. Fielding."
Rose read the letter two or three times and then passed it to her uncle. Had
she the means to go there—if, oh, if she could only get the scholarship, how
delightful it would be!
"Come to my study," said Dr. Sinclair.
And as soon as the door was shut he said kindly,—
"I don't like you to lose this opportunity, dear child, so write and tell Mr.
Fielding you will go up to Oxford, if he will introduce you to the lady he
mentions."
"Oh, but, uncle," she said, "what Mr. Fielding may call moderate terms may
really mean a great deal more than should be paid for me."
"Never mind, little Rose," said Dr. Sinclair, "I meant to give my kind little
helper a birthday present, and this shall be it."
"Dear uncle, how kind of you. But remember, that whatever help, as you
term it, I may have given you, has always been a pleasure to me."
"And so, dear, is anything that I may do for you to me."
Thus it was settled, and a few days later, Dr. Sinclair himself started for his
own beloved Oxford with his niece. Jack and Maud went to the station to
see them off.

"Keep up your courage, Rose," said Jack, "you're pretty sure to pass, for if
any girl in England knows about creepy, crawley things, you do!"
When Rose returned some days later, she looked rather overstrained and
pale, and, to the surprise of Ethel and Maud, never looked at her
microscope, or at any of her treasures in the way of beetles and tadpoles,
but spent her time in complete idleness, except when she helped them to do
up some of their evening clothes for some forthcoming dances; and they
were surprised to see how deftly a biologist could sew.
One Saturday, as the three girls were sitting working together, Jack, who
was spending his half-holiday at home again, said, "Why, here comes the
telegraph boy!"
"Run and see who it is for," said Ethel, who had lately shown much more
sympathetic interest in Rose, and who began to realise that if Rose obtained
what she was so keenly set on, she, as well as others, might miss the cousin
who had been so kind and so unselfish an inmate of their home. "Run and
see, Jack; and if it is for any of us, bring it here."
Rose looked very white, but did not look up from her work.
"Addressed to Miss Rose Sinclair," said Jack, who soon returned.
Rose took the telegram with trembling fingers, and then tore it open.
It announced the following:—
"Rose Sinclair passed first. Awarded scholarship St. Margaret's for three
years."
"Oh, Ethel!" said Rose, "it is too good to be true."
"I knew you would pass," said Jack, "I always said you would, didn't I,
now?"
"Well," said Ethel, "we ought to be very glad for your sake."
"Yes," said Maud, "I congratulate you, Rose—but, I am very, very sorry you
are going away."

"Are you, dear?" said Rose; "I also shall feel lonely without all of you, in
this my second home. But let us go and tell uncle, for I consider this his
special birthday gift to me."
"So it is," said Dr. Sinclair, who appeared at that moment.
"Then your old uncle is much gratified in sending his niece to Oxford; but
he will miss his little girl very much."
Rose distinguished herself even far above Jack's expectation. After she had
concluded her college course, she devoted her time and knowledge to
giving lectures, for which she received remuneration, also to writing articles
for magazines, and subsequent events led to her settling in Oxford.
Whenever Dr. Sinclair wants an especially enjoyable holiday, he goes to
spend a few days with Rose, and the two compare notes on their work.
When he expresses his pleasure at her success, Rose loves to remind him
that she owes it greatly to his kindness that she was placed in the way of
obtaining it, through the birthday gift, which was to be so helpful to her.

DOLLY HARDCASTLE'S ROSEBUDS.
A CITY IDYLL

BY CHARLES E. PEARCE.

Jack Cameron's office was a handsome apartment. It was approached by a
broad staircase, the balusters of which were impressive from their solidity
and design. The office door had a species of ornamental pediment over it,
and the room itself had panelled walls of a pale green, a chimneypiece of
portentous size, and a highly ornamental ceiling.
Up the staircase tripped a little lady—a pleasant vision of a silk blouse,
butter-coloured lace, golden hair, fawn gloves, and tan bottines, leaving
behind her an atmosphere redolent of the latest fashionable perfume
mingled with the more delicate scent of the Marechal Niel roses in her
corsage.
She knocked at the door, and, as there was no response from within, turned
the handle.
"May I come in, please?" she said laughingly.
A young man was standing in a corner of the room opposite the telegraphic
machine, from which the "tape" was issuing with a monotonous click. On
this "tape"—a narrow strip of paper seemingly endless, which fell on the
floor in serpentine coils—were inscribed at regular intervals some cabalistic
characters unintelligible to the general public, but full of meaning to the
initiated.
He turned at the sound of the voice. "What! Dolly?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, Jack; didn't you expect me?"

"Of course—of course," answered Jack Cameron, rather confusedly.
The girl crossed the room, and, taking both the hands of the young man,
looked into his eyes.
"You are worried," said she softly.
"Oh, only a little. One is bound to have worries in business, especially when
the market's feverish. But I'm awfully glad you've come. I shall forget all
my bothers now you are here."
His tone brightened, and the shadow that was beginning to steal over the
girl's face disappeared.
They were engaged. The wedding-day was fixed for the following week;
naturally there was much to do in the way of house furnishing, and the bride
elect was happy. Shopping before marriage has a distinct charm of its own.
The feminine mind attaches to each purchase an ideal pleasure. Then there
is the special joy of being entrusted by her future husband with money, and
the pride of showing him how well she can bargain.
Jack Cameron was a stockbroker, and had done fairly well in South
Africans. But like a good many others he had kept his "Narbatos" too long,
and he saw his way to lose some money; not enough to seriously damage
his stability, but enough to inconvenience him at this especial time when he
was thinking of taking a wife.
Dolly Hardcastle knew nothing at all about this. Indeed, she knew nothing
about stockbroking. It seemed to her simply a pleasant, light, gentlemanly
profession, consisting principally in standing in Throgmorton Street, with
one's hat tilted backwards, smoking cigarettes, eating oranges or
strawberries according to the season, and talking about cricket or football.
This was the first time she had been to Jack's office, and she was prettily
curious about everything—especially the telephone. She was not satisfied
until Jack had shown her how to work the apparatus.
The "ticker" was also an all-absorbing object of attention The continuous
"click, click," and the issuing of the tape without any apparent motive

power, had something of the supernatural about it. Dolly looked at the white
strips with wonder.
"What does this say, Jack? N-a-r-Narbatos, 2½. What does it mean?"
Alas! Jack Cameron knew too well what it meant. Narbatos had gone down
with a "slump." When Miss Hardcastle called he was debating whether he
should sell. This quotation decided him.
"Dolly," said he hurriedly, "do you mind me leaving you for five minutes
alone while I run into the 'House'?"
No, Dolly did not mind. Business, of course, must be attended to. Jack
seized his hat, snatched a kiss, and vanished.
"Dear old Jack," said Dolly, seating herself at the office table and staring at
the ticker. "I wonder whether he has many callers? Whatever shall I do if
anybody comes?"
She was considering this matter, with the assistance of the paper-knife,
pressed against her pretty lips, when the sharp ting, ting, ting, of the
telephone startled her.
Somebody wanted to speak to Jack. It might be important. Hadn't she better
go to the telephone? It was so nice to be able to help her future husband.
"I wonder whether I could imitate Jack's voice?"
She went to the telephone and did exactly as Jack had instructed her to do.
She heard a sepulchral voice say, "Are you there?"
"Yes," said Dolly boldly.
"I have an offer of 5,000 Rosebuds. Will you take the lot, as you said you
would when we were talking about them the other day? Wire just come."
"Five thousand rosebuds!" cried Dolly, with flashing eyes and cheeks like
the flowers just mentioned. "Then Jack is going to have the church
decorated after all. Darling fellow; he hasn't even forgotten the wire for
fastening them."

The man at the other end was evidently impatient, for he shouted that Jack
must decide at once. As the matter was one which concerned Dolly, she had
no hesitation what answer to give.
"Yes," she declared, in as bass a tone as she could assume.
She felt half inclined to waltz round the room, but she was afraid of
disturbing the occupant of the office below. Gradually she sobered down,
and by the time Jack Cameron returned she was quite sedate.
Jack had sold his Narbatos, and had lost £500 over the deal. But it was no
use crying over spilt milk. The immediate effect was that he would have to
be very economical over his honeymoon expenses. However, he wouldn't
say anything about the matter to Dolly that day. He would carry out his
promise—give her a nice luncheon at Birch's.
And so, putting on a mask of gaiety to conceal his real feelings, he piloted
his fiancée across Broad Street and Cornhill.
That luncheon took a long time. Basking in the smiles of his Dolly, he
gradually forgot stocks, shares, backwardations, and contangoes. Then,
when they came from Birch's, Dolly wanted to see the new frescoes at the
Royal Exchange, and she had to be obeyed.
It was quite three o'clock when he bethought himself that, though wooing
was very pleasant, he had several important letters to write, and must return
to his office.
"Thank you, Jack, dear, for being so nice to me to-day," whispered Dolly, as
they strolled towards the entrance of the Exchange; "and thank you
especially for letting me have the church decorated. The roses will make the
dear old place look sweetly pretty."
Jack stared. Had his Dolly taken leave of her senses?
"Decorations—roses!" he exclaimed, mechanically. "I don't understand."
"Ah, that's very clever of you," laughed Dolly, "pretending you know
nothing about it. You wanted to surprise me."

"Upon my word I had no intention of having the church decorated. I should
like to please you, of course, but——"
Well, he had already decided that the church decoration was one of the
expenses he would do without.
"Come now, confess. Haven't you ordered a quantity of rosebuds? You must
have forgotten. Anyway, it's all right, for while you were away from your
office there came a message through the telephone asking whether you'd
take 5,000 rosebuds you were talking to somebody about the other day and
of course I said yes. Gracious! Jack, dear, what is the matter?"
"Rosebuds—telephone. Of course, I see what has happened," faltered the
young stockbroker. "Oh, Dolly—Dolly."
"What have I done? Nothing very serious, I hope. If you don't want to have
the church decorated, why, I—I—shan't mind very—very much."
"It isn't that at all," said Jack, looking very queer. "Of course you didn't
know. Unluckily the message didn't mean flowers, but shares in the
'Rosebud Gold Mining Company.'"
"Oh!"
It was quite true that Jack had contemplated speculating in "Rosebud"
shares, but he had heard some disquieting rumours about the mine, and had
decided not to touch them. And here he was the prospective owner of 5,000!
Only two days before the quotation was 10s., with a tendency to drop. To
take them up was impossible, to sell would mean a loss.
"Dolly," said he hurriedly, "let me see you into an omnibus." And, after a
hasty farewell, he packed the young lady into a Kensington 'bus, and rushed
to the Mining door of the Stock Exchange in Broad Street.
"What are Rosebuds?" he inquired excitedly of a well-known stockbroker.
"15s. 6d., buyers, 14s. 6d., sellers."
And they were 7s. 6d., 7s., when the market opened that morning. What did
it mean, and at what price had he, or rather, had Dolly, bought them?

He knew from whom the telephonic message had come. He dashed into his
office and rang up the man, a member of a West End firm of brokers.
"Eight shillings," was the reply. "Congratulate you. Your profit already will
pay for your honeymoon and a little more besides. Of course you'll sell. It's
a market rig, and I happen to be in the know."
Sell? Of course he would. A profit of over £1,800 would recoup him for his
loss of that morning, and leave him a handsome balance in the bargain.
"Dolly, dearest," he whispered that night, "the rosebuds are all right. The
old church shall be smothered in them from end to end."
And so it was, but like a prudent man he never explained that but for
Dolly's unconscious assistance there might have been no roses and perhaps
very little honeymoon. He was afraid Dolly might want to help him again!

A TALE OF SIMLA.

BY DR. HELEN BOURCHIER.

There was a dinner-party that night at the lieutenant-governor's, and those
of the governed who had followed him from his territory of Lahore up to
Simla were bidden to the feast. In one of the pretty private sitting-rooms of
the Bellevue Hotel three ladies were discussing chiffons in connection with
that function.
"Elma doesn't care for dinner-parties," Mrs. Macdonald said regretfully.
Elma was her daughter, and this was her first season in Simla.
"Oh, mother, I like the parties well enough!" said Elma. "What I hate is the
horrid way you have of getting to parties."
"What do you mean?" the third lady asked.
"Elma means that she doesn't like the jampans," Mrs. Macdonald explained.
"I am always frightened," said Elma in a low voice, and a little of the
delicate colour she had brought out from England with her faded from her
lovely face. "It seems so dreadful to go rushing down those steep, narrow
lanes, on the edge of a precipice, in little rickety two-wheeled chairs that
would turn over in a minute if one of the men were to stumble and fall; and
then one would roll all down I don't know how many feet, down those steep
precipices: some of them have no railings or protection of any kind, and in
the evening the roads are quite dark under the overhanging trees. And
people have fallen over them and been killed—every one knows that."
"Elma cannot speak Hindustani," the mother further explained, "and the
first time she went out she called 'Jeldi, jeldi!' to the men, and of course

they ran faster and faster. I was really rather alarmed myself when they
came tearing past me round a corner."
"I thought jeldi meant 'slowly,'" said Elma.
"Well, at any rate you have learnt one word of the language," said Mrs.
Thompson, laughing.
"I should not mind so much if mother was with me," said the girl; "but
those horrid little jampans only hold one person—and mother's jampannis
always run on so fast in front, and my men have to keep up with them. I
wish I wasn't going this evening."
"She has the sweetest frock you ever saw," said Mrs. Macdonald, turning to
a pleasanter aspect of the subject. "I must say my sister-in-law took great
pains with her outfit, and she certainly has excellent taste."
"Didn't you ever feel nervous at first," Elma asked, "when you went out in a
jampan on a dark night down a very steep road?"
Mrs. Thompson laughed. "I can't say I remember it," she said. "I never
fancied myself going over the kudd—the 'precipice' as you call it. I suppose
I should have made my husband walk by the side of the jampan if I had
been afraid."
Then she got up to go, and Mrs. Macdonald went out with her and stood
talking for a minute in the long corridor outside her rooms.
"She is a very lovely creature," said Mrs. Thompson pleasantly. "I should
think she is quite the prettiest girl in Simla this year."
"I think she is," the mother agreed; "but I am afraid she will be very
difficult to manage. She is only just out of the schoolroom, you know, and
girls are so unpractical. She doesn't care to talk to any one but the subalterns
and boys of her own age—and it is so important she should settle this year.
You know we retire next year."
"It is early days yet," said the other cheerfully.
She had come out to India herself as the bride of a very rising young
civilian, and she knew nothing of the campaign of the mothers at Simla.

Elma indeed looked a lovely creature when she came out of her room an
hour or two later to show herself to her mother before she stepped into the
hated jampan. Her dress was a delicate creation of white lace and chiffon,
with illusive shimmerings of silver in its folds that came and went with
every one of her graceful movements. She was a tall and slender girl, with a
beautiful long white throat, smooth and round, that took on entrancing
curves of pride and gentleness, of humility and nobleness. She had splendid
rippling hair of a deep bronze, that had been red a few years earlier; and
dark blue dreamy eyes under broad dark eyebrows; a long sweep of cool
fair cheek, and a rather wide mouth with a little tender, pathetic droop at the
corners.
"That frock certainly becomes you to perfection," said the mother. "I hope
you will enjoy yourself; and do try not to let the boys monopolise you this
evening. It is not like a dance, you know, and really, it is not good form to
snub all the older men who try to talk to you."
Elma lifted her long lashes with a glance of unfeigned surprise. "Oh,
mother," she said humbly, "how could I snub any one? I am afraid of the
clever men. I like to talk to the boys because they are as silly as I am
myself, and they would not laugh at me for saying stupid things."
"No one is going to laugh at you, goosey," said her mother.
"I wish I was not going," said Elma.
The ayah came out of the bedroom, and wrapped the tall young figure in a
long white opera-cloak; and then they all went down together to the front
verandah, where the jampans waited with the brown, bare-legged runners in
their smart grey and blue liveries.
Mrs. Macdonald started first. "Don't call out jeldi too often, Elma," she
called back, laughing: "I don't want to be run over."
And the ayah, hearing the word jeldi, explained to the jampannis that the
Miss Sahib desired, above all things, fleetness, and that she had no mind to
sit behind a team of slugs.
Elma got in very gingerly, and the ayah settled her draperies with
affectionate care. The dark little woman loved her, because she was gentle

and fair and never scolded or hurried.
The night was very dark. The road was by narrow backways, rough, heavily
shadowed, and unprotected in many places. The jampannis started off at a
run down the steep path as soon as they had passed through the gate, and
Elma sat trembling and quaking behind them, gripping both sides of the
little narrow carriage as she was whirled along. Once or twice it bumped
heavily over large stones in the road; and when they had gone some little
distance a dispute seemed to arise between the runners. They stopped the
jampan and appealed to her, but she could not understand a word they said.
She could only shake her head and point forward. Several minutes were lost
in this discussion, and when at length it was decided one way or the other,
the men started again at a greater speed than ever, to make up for the lost
time.
They bumped and flew along the dark road, and whirled round a corner too
short. One of the men on the inner side of the road stumbled up the bank,
and, losing his balance, let go the pole, and the jampan heeled over. Elma's
startled scream unnerved the other runners, who swerved and stumbled, and
in a moment the jampan was overturned down the side of the kudd. The
white figure in it was shot out and went rolling down the rough hillside
among the scrub and thorny bushes and broken stakes that covered it.
The jampannis ran away; and after that one scream of Elma's there was
silence on the dark road.
It seemed to her that she was years rolling and buffeting down that steep
hillside, which happily at that point was not precipitous. Then something
struck her sharply on the side and stopped her farther progress. She did not
faint, though the pain in her side gripped her breath for a moment. For all
her delicate ethereal appearance, she was a strong girl, and, like many timid
people, found courage when a disaster had really happened. She could not
move. She was pinned down among the short, stiff branches of a thorny
shrub; but she screamed again as loud as she could—not a scream of terror,
but a call for help. Then she lay and listened. All about her there was no
sound but the rustling murmur of the leaves and the tiny, mysterious noises
of the little creatures of the night whose realm she had invaded. Now and
again she tried to move and disentangle herself from the strong branches

that held her; but they pressed her down, the thorns pinned her clothes, and
her bruised side ached with every movement—and she was forced to lie
still again and listen for some sound of the jampannis, who must surely be
looking for her.
Presently, on the road above, there sounded, very faint and far off, the tramp
of shod feet. She called again, and the tramp quickened to a run, and a
man's voice shouted in the distance: "Hullo! Hullo!"
As the steps came nearer above her, she cried again: "Help! I am here—
down the kudd."
In the leafy stillness her shrill young voice rang far and clear.
"Where are you?" came the answering voice.
"Down the kudd."
The steps stopped on the road above.
"Are you there?" the voice called. "I see something white glimmering."
"I am here," she answered; then, as the bushes crackled above her, she
called a warning: "It is very steep. Be careful."
Very slowly and cautiously the steps came down the steep side of the kudd
to an accompaniment of rolling stones and crashing and tearing branches,
and now and then a muttered exclamation. Then she was aware of a white
face glimmering out of the darkness.
"Are you there?" said the voice again, quite close to her.
"Yes, I am here, but I cannot move; the branches hold me down."
"Wait a moment. I will get a light."
She was lying on her back, and, turning her head a little, she could see a
match struck and the face it illuminated—a strong, dark, clean-shaven face;
a close-cropped, dark, uncovered head. The match was held over her for a
moment, then it went out.

"I see where you are," said the rescuer, "we must try to get you out. Are you
hurt?"
"I have hurt my side, I think," she said.
Without more words he knelt down beside her and began to tear away and
loosen the short, sturdy branches; then he took her under the shoulders, and
drew her slowly along the ground. There was a great rending and tearing in
every direction of her delicate garments; but at last she was free of the
clinging thorns and branches.
"I am afraid the thorns have scratched you a good deal," he said in a very
matter-of-fact voice. "Will you try if you can stand up now? Lean on me."
Elma scrambled to her feet, and stood leaning against him—a glimmering,
ghostly figure, whose tattered garments were happily hidden by the
darkness.
"Do you think you can manage to climb back to the road now?" he asked;
"there may be snakes about here, you know."
"I will try," said Elma.
"I will go first," he said. "You had better hold on to my coat, I think. That
will leave my hands free to pull us up."
Very slowly and laboriously they clambered back again to the road above;
there was no sign of the jampannis, and the jampan itself had gone over the
kudd and was no more to be seen.
They sat down exhausted on the rising bank on the other side of the road.
"How did you get here?" he asked.
"My jampan went over the side, down the precipice," said Elma, "and I am
afraid those poor jampannis must have been killed."
The stranger laughed long and loud, and Elma, in the reaction of her relief,
laughed too.
"I have not the slightest idea what you are laughing at," she said.

"You have not been long in this country?" he asked.
"Why?"
"You do not know the jampanni. As soon as the jampan tilted they let go,
and directly they saw you had gone over they ran away. Killed! Well, that is
likely! I daresay they will come back here presently to pick up the pieces,
when they have got over their panic: they are not really bad-hearted, you
know. We will wait a little while and see."
There was silence between them for a few peaceful moments; then Elma
said gently, "I thank you with all my heart."
"Oh, not at all!" said the stranger politely.
They both laughed again, young, heart-whole, clear laughter, that echoed
strangely on those world-old hills.
"Words are very inadequate," said Elma presently.
"Oh, one understands all right without words," said he; "but where is the
rest of your party, I wonder? I suppose you were not alone?"
"Mother has gone to a dinner-party," she answered. "Oh dear, what ought I
to do? She will be so frightened! She is waiting for me. I must get some one
to go and tell her I am all right. How could I sit here and forget how
frightened she will be when I don't come!"
"We had better wait a little longer, I think," he said. "You cannot walk just
yet, can you?"
"My shoes are all cut to pieces," she owned ruefully. "I suppose we must
wait. It was very lucky for me you were passing just then."
"Yes, I had just cut the shop for an hour or two, and I came round here to
have a quiet smoke. Lost my way, as a matter of fact."
"They must keep open very late at your shop," she remarked.
He hesitated a moment before he answered, "Very late."

"And I suppose you haven't dined?" she went on. "You must come back
with me, and dine at the hotel. I cannot go on to the party now, at any rate;
my clothes are in rags, and, besides, it must be quite late."
"Do you know your way back to the hotel?" he asked, as the time went on
and the jampannis remained, to all appearance, as dead as ever.
"No, I have never walked down this way, and it is far too dark to attempt it
now," said Elma very decidedly.
The time passed pleasantly enough while they waited, and more than once
their light-hearted laughter rang out into the night.
At last they heard a pattering of bare feet coming down the road. The
stranger hailed in Hindustani, and the natives stopped and began an excited
jabbering all together, which the stranger answered in their own language.
"These are the jampannis who were killed," he announced to Elma. "If you
wish it, I will send one of them with a message to your mother, and the
others can fetch a couple of jampans to take us to the hotel."
"You seem to know Hindustani very well," she remarked, when the men
had been sent on their various errands.
"Yes, I have been some little time in India," he answered, "though I have
only been a few days at Simla. Will you allow me to introduce myself? My
name is Angus McIvor."
"And I am Elma Macdonald. I hope we shall not meet any one at the hotel
before I can get to my room. Oh! and will you let me go on in front, and get
out before you come?—I am so dreadfully tattered and torn."
"I promise not to look at you at all until you give me leave," he answered
gravely. "And what about me? I have lost my hat, and as yet I have no idea
of the extent of the damage my garments have sustained."
"Then I won't look at you either," said Elma, and they laughed together
again in the gayest camaraderie.
Dinner was over at the Bellevue when they got back there; but they neither
of them felt the want of other company. They had a very merry little dinner-

party all to themselves, and Angus was able to look at the damsel errant he
had rescued. Her beauty came upon him with a shock of surprise. He had
seen many beautiful women in his time, but never anything so enchanting
as the droop of her mouth, or the lovely curves of her throat, or the
transparent candour of her sweet blue eyes.
What Elma saw was a tall, well-knit young fellow, with a dark, plain face, a
hawk nose, and grey eyes. He was clean-shaven; no moustache or beard
concealed the masterful squareness of his jaw or the rather satirical curve of
his thin lips.
Directly dinner was over he left her, though she begged him to stay till her
mother came home.
"Mother would like to thank you for what you did for me," she said.
"I will come and be thanked to-morrow morning, then," he said, laughing.
"I shall want to know how you are after your accident, you know—that is, if
I can get away from the shop."
Mrs. Macdonald came home rather early, and not in the best of tempers.
She had been a good deal alarmed and upset when Elma failed to arrive at
Government House; and even after the jampanni had brought the message
that her daughter was safe at the hotel she was extremely annoyed at Elma's
absence from the party. There were several bachelor guests whom she
would have been glad to introduce to her; and when she thought of the
radiant figure in the shimmering white robe that she had last seen on the
hotel verandah, she was ready to cry with vexation and disappointment.
She listened with ill-concealed impatience to Elma's account of her
accident. "And pray who is this Mr. McIvor who roams about rescuing
distressed damsels?" she asked. "I never heard his name before."
"He said he came out of a shop," said Elma simply.
"A shop!" cried Mrs. Macdonald. "Really, Elma, you are no better than an
idiot! The idea of asking a man who comes out of a shop to dine with you
here! What will people say? You must be mad."

"But he was very kind to me, mother," said Elma, "and he missed his own
dinner by helping me. And, you know, I might have lain in that horrible
place all night if he had not helped me out. I don't see that any one here can
complain about his shop; they were not asked to meet him: we dined quite
by ourselves, he and I."
Mrs. Macdonald stamped her foot. "You are hopeless, Elma—quite
hopeless!" she cried. "What was your aunt dreaming of to bring you up to
have no more sense than a child of three years old?"
"He is very gentlemanly," said Elma, still gently expostulating. "You will
see for yourself: he is coming to call on you to-morrow, and to ask how I
am."
"Elma, I forbid you to see him again!" said the mother, now tragically
impressive. "If he calls to-morrow, I shall see him alone. You are not to
come into the room."
"I am afraid he will think it very unkind and rude," said Elma regretfully;
"and I can never forget how kind he was and how glad I was to see him
when he came down the kudd after me."
But she made no further resistance to her mother's orders, having privately
decided in her own mind to find out what shop in Simla had the advantage
of his services, and to see him there herself and thank him again.
Angus McIvor duly called next morning, and was received by Mrs.
Macdonald alone; but what passed between them at that interview remains a
secret between him and that lady.
After lunch Elma strolled out for her usual solitary walk while her mother
was enjoying her siesta. She wandered idly along under the trees down the
road along which the jampannis had whirled her the evening before, and so
to the broken edge of the kudd where she had rolled over.
There, sitting on the bank, smoking serenely, was Angus McIvor. He threw
away his cigar, and got up as soon as she saw him.
Her lovely face flushed, her blue eyes darkened with pleasure, as she held
out her hand in greeting.

"I thought you would be sure to come here," he said, smiling down upon
her.
"Oh, you expected me, then?" she said, and her eyes fell before his.
"Why weren't you there this morning when I came to be thanked?" he
asked.
She turned her head away uneasily. "Mother did not wish me to come in,"
she said.
"Why not?"
No answer.
"Well, never mind that now," he said. "I will ask you again some other time.
Now let us go up towards the top of Jacko; there are some pretty views I
should like to show you."
And, nothing loth, Elma went with him.
"Why did your mother not wish you to see me this morning?"
"I cannot tell," said Elma lamely.
"Was it because of the shop?" he persisted. "Tell me. I promise you I will
not mind. Was it?"
The fair head drooped a little, and the answer came in a whisper he could
hardly hear: "Yes."
"And do you mind about the shop?"
She raised indignant blue eyes to his. "Of course not!" she said. "You ought
to know that without asking me."
"Then will you meet me again to-morrow outside here?" he asked.
"No, I cannot do that."
"Then you are ashamed of the shop?"
"Indeed, I am not!"

"But I cannot meet you any other way," he urged. "I cannot come to see
you, and you have not been to my shop yet since I came to Simla. So where
can I see you? Will you meet me again?"
"Indeed, I cannot!"
"Then it is the shop?"
The blue eyes were full of distress, the tender mouth grew more pathetic. "I
will come just once," she said, "to show you I care nothing about the shop.
But you must not ask me again to do what I know my mother would not
like. I cannot deceive her."
And on the next day they met again and walked together.
He did not ask her to meet him again, but on the third day he joined her at
the gate.
"This is quite accidental, you know," he said, laughing down into her happy
eyes.
And as they walked in the tender green shadows upon wooded Jacko, his
eyes said, "I love you," and hers faltered and looked down.
And on the homeward way he took her hand. "I will not ask you to meet me
again in secret, my sweetest," he said, "because I love you. I am ashamed
that for one moment I doubted your innocent, unworldly heart. I will woo
and win you openly as you should be wooed."
And without waiting for an answer, he kissed her hand and left her.
That evening there was a great reception at Government House, and the
Viceroy's new aide-de-camp, Lord Angus McIvor Stuart, helped to receive
the guests.
"This is my 'shop,' Mrs. Macdonald," he said. "It was a silly and slangy way
to speak of it; but, upon my honour, I never meant to deceive any one when
I said it first."
Then was Elma Macdonald openly wooed and won by the man who loved
her.

THE TREVERN TREASURE.

BY LUCY HARDY.

A garden in the west of England some two and a half centuries ago; an old-
world garden, with prim yew hedges and a sundial, and, in one shady and
sequestered nook, two persons standing; one, a man some forty years of
age, tall and handsome, the other a lady of grace and beauty some fifteen
years his junior. Both were cloaked and muffled and spoke in low and
anxious tones.
"An anxious task well done, sweetheart," the husband said at length, in
tones of satisfaction; "and now, my darling, remember that this secret lies
betwixt thou and I. Be heedful in keeping it—for thine own sake and that of
our little babe. Should evil times arise, this hidden treasure may yet prove
provision for our boy and for thee." So saying, he drew her arm within his
own and led her into the house.
Sir Ralph Trevern had strongly espoused the Royal cause from the
commencement of the Civil troubles, and was now paying a hurried visit to
his home, to conceal his chief valuables, and to arrange for the departure of
his wife Sybil and his baby heir to Exeter; a town still loyal to the king, and
where he hoped his wife and babe would be safer than in their remote
Devonshire Manor House amid neighbours of Parliamentary sympathies.
At Exeter Sybil Trevern remained until the city was forced to capitulate in
the spring of 1646; and then, widowed and landless (for Sir Ralph had
fallen at Marston Moor and his estate had been confiscated), she was
thankful to accept the invitation of some Royalist friends, who had
accompanied the queen, Henrietta Maria, in her secret flight to France some
while before, and journeyed, with her babe, to join them in Paris.

There was no opportunity for Sybil Trevern to return to her old home, now
in the possession of enemies; and, remembering her husband's strict charge
of secrecy, she was reluctant to mention the hidden treasure, even to her
friends.
"I will reveal it to our boy when he is of an age to understand it," thought
Lady Trevern; but she never lived to see her son grow into manhood, or
even into youth.
The trials and sorrows which had befallen her had told upon the gentle
woman; and while the little Ralph was still a child, his mother passed into
the Silent Land.
The concealment of valuables in secret places frequently results in
misadventure. Sybil had often described to her little son the concealed
valuables, which, if the exiled Royalists were ever able to re-visit England,
she hoped to recover for herself and for him; and, in later years, Sir Ralph
could still recall the enigmatical words in which his mother had (possibly
with the idea that the rhyme might, as it did, cling to his childish memory)
spoken to him of the hidden treasure.

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

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

In his childhood, the present Sir Ralph had heard (from old servants as well
as from his mother) descriptions of these treasured jewels; but the secret of
their hiding-place now rested with the dead.
Sir Ralph grew to manhood, returned to England at the Restoration, and
finally, after much suing and delay, succeeded in obtaining repossession of
his small paternal estate. Then, for many months, did he devote himself to a
careful, but utterly unavailing, search about his property, vainly seeking
along the lake-side and all round the big pond for the concealed valuables—
but never finding aught but disappointment. The neighbours said that the
silent, morose man, who spent his days walking about the estate with bent
head and anxious, searching eyes, had become a trifle crazed; and indeed
his fruitless search after his hidden wealth had grown into a monomania.
As the years rolled by, Sir Ralph became a soured and misanthropic man;
for his estate had returned to him in a ruinous and burthened condition, and
the acquisition of his hidden treasure was really necessary to clear off
incumbrances and to repair the family fortunes.
Lady Trevern often assured her husband that it was more than probable that
the late Cromwellian proprietor had discovered the jewels during his
occupancy, and that, like a prudent man, he kept his own counsel in the
matter. But Sir Ralph still clung to the belief that somewhere in his grounds,
"near the water and by the fern," the wealth he now so sorely needed lay
concealed. That in this faith Sir Ralph lived and died was proved by his
will, in which he bequeathed to the younger of his two sons, "and to his
heirs," the jewels and other specified valuables which the testator firmly
believed were still concealed somewhere about the Trevern property. The
widowed Lady Trevern, however, was a capable and practically-minded
woman, little inclined to set much value upon this visionary idea of
"treasure trove." She was most reluctant to see her sons waste their lives in
a hopeless search after the missing property, and succeeded in impressing
both her children with her own views regarding the utter hopelessness of
their father's quest. And, as the years passed away, the story of the "Trevern
Treasure" became merely a kind of "family legend." The ferns said nothing,
and the water kept its secret.

Fortune was not more kindly to the Treverns in the eighteenth century than
she had been in the seventeenth. Roger Trevern, the elder son and inheritor
of the estate, found it a hard struggle to maintain himself and his large
family upon the impoverished property, while the younger son Richard, the
designated heir of the missing treasure, became implicated in the Jacobite
rising of 1715, was forced to fly to Holland after Mar's defeat, and died in
exile, a few years after the disaster of Sherrifmuir, bequeathing a destitute
orphan girl to his brother's charge.
Roger Trevern, a most kindly man, welcomed this addition to his already
large family without a murmur; and little Mary Trevern grew up with her
cousins, beloved and kindly treated by all in the household. It was only as
the child grew into womanhood that a change came over Madam Trevern's
feelings towards her young niece; for Madam Trevern was a shrewd and
sensible woman, a devoted, but also an ambitious, mother. Much as she
liked sweet Mary Trevern, she had no desire to see her eldest son, the
youthful heir of the sadly encumbered estate, wedded to a portionless bride,
however comely and amiable. And Dick Trevern had lately been exhibiting
a marked preference for his pretty cousin, a fact which greatly disturbed his
mother's peace of mind.
Mary herself knew this, and did not resent her aunt's feelings in the matter.
The girl, as one of the elders among the children, had long been familiar
with the story of the family straits and struggles, and could only acquiesce
(though with a stifled sigh) in Madam Trevern's oft repeated axiom that
"whenever Dick wedded, his bride must bring with her sufficient dowry to
free the estate" from some of the mortgages which were crushing and
crippling it. Mary knew that a marriage between herself and Dick could
only result in bringing troubles upon both—and yet—and yet—love and
prudence do not often go hand-in-hand—and although no word of actual
wooing had ever passed between the young folk, both had, unfortunately,
learned to love each other but too well. Wistfully did she think of that
hidden treasure, now but a forlorn hope, yet all the hope she had.
"And had the poor child but a dowry there is none to whom I would sooner
see our Dick wedded," Madam Trevern once remarked to her husband; "for
Molly is a good girl, and like a daughter to us already. But, Roger, 'tis but
sheer midsummer madness to dream of such a marriage now; truly 'twould

be but 'hunger marrying thirst.' Dick must seek for a bride who at least
brings some small fortune with her; and is there not Mistress Cynthia at the
Hall, young and comely, and well dowered, casting eyes of favour upon him
already?"
Roger Trevern sighed a little; he honestly liked Mary, and would have
welcomed her heartily as a daughter-in-law, though prudent considerations
told him that his wife spoke truly regarding the hopelessness of such a
marriage for his son.
And then Madam Trevern went on to discuss with her husband the scheme
she had now much at heart, viz., the separation of the young folks by the
transference of Mary to the family of a distant kinsman in London.
"You do but lose your youth buried here with us, child," said Madam
Trevern to Mary, with kindly hypocrisy one day, "while with our cousin
Martin, who would be glad enough to take a bright young maid like thee to
be companion to his ailing wife, thou mayst see the world, and perchance
make a great marriage, which will cause thee to look down upon us poor
Devon rustics." But Mary wept silently, though she was ready, even willing,
to go to London as desired.
It was the girl's last day in the old home; her modest outfit had been
prepared and packed, and the old waggoner was to call on the morrow to
convey Mary and her uncle (who was to be her escort to the wonderful, far-
off "London town") to Exeter; whence, by slow and tedious stages, the
travellers would reach the metropolis at last.
Dick, who had been astutely sent away from home for a few weeks, knew
nothing of his cousin's intended departure—Madam Trevern had purposely
schemed thus to escape any "farewells" between the young people,
arranging Mary's London visit very suddenly; and "perhaps 'twas the
wisest," the girl sighed to herself as she wandered for the last time round
the old, familiar garden, and seated herself, alone! on the mossy well curb,
where she and Dick had so often sat and talked together on sweet summer
evenings in the past.
Mary's heart was indeed sad within her, and visions of what "might have
been" would keep welling up before her. Oh! if only some good fairy had

been keeping back the secret of the hidden treasure to reveal it now, how
happy it would be.
Her solitary musings were, however, put to flight by the appearance of the
younger children, with whom she was a great favourite, and who had
gained an hour's respite from their usual "bed-time" upon this, their cousin's
last night at home. Tom, and Will, and Sally, and Ben, had indeed received
the tidings of their beloved "Molly's" impending departure with great
dismay; and their vociferous lamentations were hardly to be checked by
their mother's assurances that one day "Cousin Molly" might come back to
see them, when she was "a great lady, riding in her coach and six," and
would bring them picture-books and gilt gingerbread.
It was with a strange pang at her heart that Mary now submitted to the
loving, if rather boisterous, caresses of the urchins who climbed her lap and
clung around her neck.
But Mary had not chosen her quiet seat with a view to childhood's romps or
she had chosen a safer one. As it was the shout of merriment was quickly
followed by a sudden cry, a splash, and a simultaneous exclamation of
dismay from Mary and the children. Will, the youngest, most troublesome,
and therefore best beloved of the family, the four-years-old "baby," had
slipped on the curb of the well, overbalanced himself, and fallen in;
dropping a toy into the water as he did so. In a moment Mary was on her
feet. Seizing the bucket, she called the elder boys to work the windlass, and,
with firm, but quiet instructions and a face as white as death, consigned
herself to the unknown deep.
Near the bottom of the well, which was not very deep, she came upon her
little cousin suspended by his clothes to a hook fastened in the well side.
She was not long in disengaging the little fellow's clothes from the friendly
hook, and was about to signal to be drawn up, when beneath the hook, and
explanatory of it—"near the water, by the fern"—what was it? A large hole
in the side of the well, and in it—the Trevern treasure, found at last!
Though the lapse of many years had rotted some of the leather covering of
the jewel casket, the gems themselves, when lifted out, flashed forth in
undimmed beauty; the silver cups and flagons, if discoloured, were still
intact, and the papers in the metal case were well preserved.

These last proved of great importance to Roger Trevern, enabling him to
substantiate his claim to some disputed property, which was quite sufficient
to relieve his estate of all its embarrassments.
And as for Mary, she restored her youngest cousin to his mother's arms, and
took the eldest to her own.

A MEMORABLE DAY.

BY SARAH DOUDNEY.

Miss Tillotson's grey parrot had called "Clarissa" a dozen times at least, and
was listening with his cunning head on one side for footsteps on the stairs.
Breakfast was ready; an urn, shaped something like a sepulchral monument,
was steaming on the table, and near it stood an old china jar filled with
monthly roses. It was a warm, bright morning—that twenty-ninth of August
in the year 1782. The windows at each end of the room were wide open, but
scarcely a breath of air wandered in, or stirred the lilac bushes in the
garden. For the Tillotsons' house could boast of a respectable strip of
ground, although it stood in a street in Portsea.
At a quarter past eight Clarissa Tillotson came downstairs, and entered the
room with a quick, firm step, taking no notice of the parrot's salutation. She
was a tall, fair girl of nineteen; her hair, worn according to the fashion of
that period, in short curls, was almost flaxen; her eyes were clear blue, her
features regular, and, but for a certain hardness and sternness about the
mouth, she might have been pronounced beautiful. She was dressed in a
short-waisted gown of white muslin, with a blue girdle; her bodice was cut
square, leaving her neck uncovered; her tight sleeves reached to the wrists.
The gown was so scanty, and the skirt clung so closely to her figure, that it
made her appear even taller than she really was. And at this day, on the wall
of a modern London mansion, Clarissa's grandchildren and great-
grandchildren behold her in a tarnished gilt frame, habited in the very
costume which she wore on that memorable morning.
"Good-morning, Anthony," she said stiffly, as a young man, two years older
than herself, made his appearance.

"Good-morning, sister," he answered in a cheery tone, drawing a step nearer
as if he meant to give her a kiss. But Clarissa drew up her stately figure to
its full height, and turned quickly to the table.
Her brother coloured with annoyance. There had been a quarrel between
them on the preceding day, and Anthony was willing to make the first
advance towards reconciliation. But he saw that Clarissa intended to keep
him at a distance, and he knew the obstinacy of her nature too well to renew
his attempt. He took his seat with a sigh, thinking how bright the home-life
would be if the cloud of her unyielding temper did not too frequently
darken the domestic sunshine.
"I find that father is not well enough to come down yet," he said at last,
breaking an awkward silence. "He means to leave his room this afternoon."
"Dr. Vale charged him to be very cautious," rejoined Clarissa.
These young people were motherless; the daughter reigned as mistress of
her father's house, acknowledging no control save his, and that was of the
mildest kind. Captain Tillotson was the most indulgent of parents; his wife
had died while Clarissa was still too young to realize her loss, and the child
had been entirely left to the care of an old servant, who allowed her to have
her own way in all things. At school she had been forced to submit to
discipline; but her strong will was never conquered, and she generally
contrived to gain an ascendency over her companions. Having retired from
long and honourable service in the Royal Navy, the captain settled himself
at home, to pass his old age in peace; and Clarissa proved herself an
affectionate daughter. But Anthony was scarcely so easy to manage as her
father; to him, his sister's word was not always law, and she sometimes
found herself good-humouredly contradicted.
"If I give in," thought she, going over the before-mentioned quarrel, "he
will think that he has got the mastery. No; I will treat him with marked
coldness until he makes an apology."
Thoroughly chilled by her frigid tone and manner, Anthony made few
efforts to sustain the conversation. Breakfast was finished in silence, and he
rose rather hastily from his seat at the table.

"I am going on board the Royal George this morning," he said, moving
towards the door. "If my father asks for me, Clarissa, please tell him that I
wanted to say a few words to Lieutenant Holloway. He will have to sail
again shortly."
"Very well," replied Clarissa, indifferently.
The hall-door closed behind him, and she rung the bell to have the
breakfast-table cleared. Then the sunshine tempted her to saunter into the
garden, and gather a bunch of sweet lavender, but from some unexplained
cause her mind was ill at ease. She could take no pleasure in her flowers; no
interest in the vine which had been her especial care; and she returned to the
house, determined to spend the morning at her worsted-work. Seating
herself near the open window, she drew her frame towards her, and
arranged her crewels. The shining needle darted in and out, and she was
soon deeply absorbed in her occupation.
Every piece of work has a history of its own; and this quaint representation
of the woman of Samaria was fated to be of great interest to succeeding
generations. But the busy worker little guessed what memories would
hereafter cling to that morning's labour, nor dreamed that some day those
very stitches would remind her of the darkest hours in her life.
She worked on until the old clock in the hall struck ten; and at the same
moment a sudden gust of wind swept through the room, strewing the table
with petals from the over-blown roses in the jar, and blowing Clarissa's
curls about her head. It was a welcome breeze, coming as it did after the
sultry stillness, and she stood up between the two windows to enjoy the
draught. Then, after pacing the long room to and fro for awhile, she sat
down to her frame again, and began to think about her brother Anthony.
Had she been quite right after all? Would it not have been well to have
received that kiss of peace? Was it such a very meritorious thing to hold out
until her adversary had humbled himself before her? Even if the apology
were made, would it not be rather a poor victory—one of those conquests
which degrade instead of exalting the conqueror? Anthony was a noble
fellow, a brother of whom most girls would be proud. His only fault was
that determination to maintain his own opinion; but was that indeed a fault?
She worked faster, and almost decided that it was not.

So busy was her brain that time flew by unheeded, and she started to hear
the clock striking one. Scarcely had the stroke died away, when a shrill cry
came ringing through the quiet street, driving the colour out of her face in
an instant. Springing up from her chair, she hurried to the window that
overlooked the pavement, and saw that people had come to their doors with
dismayed faces, for a woman was standing on the causeway, raising that
terrible wail.
"It's all true—it's all true!" she shrieked. "The Royal George has gone down
at Spithead."
The two maid-servants rushed upstairs in affright, for the cry had reached
their ears. The captain heard it in his room overhead, and came down in his
dressing-gown and slippers; but his daughter scarcely stayed to exchange a
word with him. Mechanically seizing the garden-hat and shawl that hung in
the hall, she put them on, and ran out into the street, setting off at full speed
for the dockyard gates. Could it be true? Alas! the news was confirmed
before she reached her destination, and the first wail was but the herald of
many others. Even in that hour of universal distress and consternation
people took note of the tall, fair young lady whose face and lips were as
white as the dress she wore.
The Royal George had lately arrived at Spithead after a cruise, and on that
fatal morning she was undergoing the operation known as a "parliament
heel." The sea was smooth and the weather still, and the business was begun
early in the morning, a number of men from Portsmouth dockyard going on
board to assist the ship's carpenters. It was found necessary, it is said, to
strip off more of the sheathing than had been intended; and the men, eager
to reach the defect in the ship's bottom, were induced to heel her too much.
Then indeed "the land-breeze shook her shrouds," throwing her wholly on
one side; the cannon rolled over to the side depressed; the water rushed in;
and the gallant ship met her doom. Such was the story, told in hurried and
broken words, that Clarissa heard from the pale lips of an old seaman; but
he could give no other tidings. The boats of the fleet had put off to the
rescue; that was all he could tell.
There was no hope in Clarissa's heart as she turned her steps homewards.
Anthony had gone down—gone down with Admiral Kempenfeldt and his

eight hundred. The same breeze that had scattered the rose-petals and
played with her curls had a deadlier mission to perform. She remembered
how she had stood rejoicing in that sudden gust of cool wind, and the
thought turned her faint and sick as she reached her father's house.
"Clarissa," cried the captain, meeting her at the door, "what is all this?
Surely it can't be true. Where's Anthony?"
Ay, where was Anthony? She threw her arms round the old man's neck, and
hid her eyes upon his shoulder that she might not see his face.
"Father—dear father! He said he was going to see Lieutenant Holloway on
board——"
She could not finish her sentence, and there was no need of more words.
Captain Tillotson was a brave man; he had faced death many a time without
flinching, but this was a blow which he was wholly unprepared to meet.
Putting his daughter gently aside, he sat down on a sofa, and looked straight
before him with that terrible blank look that tells its own tale of a stroke that
has crushed out all strength. The servants, glancing from the father to the
daughter, saw that on both faces this sudden sorrow had done the work of
years. What was time? Was it months or minutes ago that the first cry had
sounded through the street?
"If I had only kissed him!" Clarissa did not know that she was saying the
words aloud. To her, indeed, this cup was doubly bitter, for it was mingled
with the gall of remorse. But for that hard nature of hers, she might have
had the sweetness of a kind parting to think upon. Had he forgiven her, in
his loving heart, while the great ship was going down, and the water was
taking away his life? Ah, she might never know that, until the cruel sea
gave up its dead.
There was a noise of wheels in the street; but what were noises to her? The
sound drew nearer; the wheels stopped at the door, but it could be only
some friend, who had come in haste to tell them the bad news which they
knew already.
Battered, and bruised, and dripping with water, a man descended from the
hackney coach, and Clarissa started up.

The face was so pale, the whole aspect so strange, that she could not receive
the great truth all at once. It was not until he entered the room, and knelt
down, wet and trembling as he was, at his father's feet, that she realized her
brother's safety.
Anthony had been on the upper deck when the ship sank, and was among
that small number who escaped death. All those who were between decks
shared the fate of the great Admiral who went down with his sword in its
sheath, and ended his threescore years and ten of hard service, in sight of
shore. The many were taken, the few left; but although hundreds of homes
were made desolate that day, there were some from whence the strain of
thanksgiving ascended, tempered by the national woe.
People were wont to say afterwards that Clarissa never again looked so
young and fair as she did before the blow fell. But if that day's agony
robbed her of her bloom, it left with her the "meek and quiet spirit" which
never comes to some of us until it is gained through a great sorrow.

DORA.
AN OSTLER'S STORY.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Tell you a story, Master 'Arry? Ah! there's only one story as ought to be told
in this yer stable, and that's the old un as allus hupsets me to tell. But I don't
mind a-goin' over the old ground once ag'in, Master 'Arry, as you know
werry well, if these yer gents 'as a mind to listen to a hold man's yarn. It
beats all the printed stories as ever I see, but then, as I ain't no scholar, and
can't see werry well neither, p'raps that ain't no much wonder arter all.
Reading ain't much in my line, yer see, sir, and, as the old master used to
say, "Bring up yer boys to the prerfishuns yer means 'em to foller." 'Osses is
my prerfishun, sir, and 'osses I was brought up to.
Excuse me just a minute, sir, if yer don't mind a-settin' on this yer stool. I
don't like to see nobody a-leanin' ag'in that there post. That were
"Snowflake's" stall, sir, in the old time, and "Snowflake" were little Dora's
pony.
My father were os'ler here, sir, afore I were born, and I growed up to the
stable, Master 'Arry, just as your ole father growed up to the 'All. It were in
ole Sir Markham's time, this were—ole Sir Markham, whose picture hangs
above the mantel in the dinin'-'all, as fine a hold English gen'leman as ever
crossed a 'unter and follered the 'ounds. The first time as ever I see Sir
Markham were when I were about four year old. O' course, we lived on the
estate, but I don't know as I'd ever been up to the 'All till that partickler
mornin', when I came wi' a message for my father, and meets ole Sir
Markham in the park. Now, yer know, Sir Markham were a queer ole chap
when he liked. He didn't take no nonsens from nobody, he didn't. I've seen
him thrash the keeper afore now with his own ridin' whip, and he wouldn't

'a' stood partickler about a boy or two, and as there'd been a deal of fruit
stole out o' the orchard about that time, he thought he'd jist up and frighten
me a bit. So he hollers out—"Hi! there, you boy, what right 'a' you got in
my park?" but I see a sort o' twinkle in his eye, so I knowed he weren't real
cross, and so I up and says, "Ain't boys got a right to go where their fathers
is?" He didn't say nothing more to me then, but when he sees my father he
says, "That's a smart boy o' yours, Jim," he says, "and when he's a bit older
yer must 'ave 'im up 'ere to 'elp."
Well, sir, I got a bit older in time, and I come up 'ere to 'elp, and, 'ceptin' for
a very little while, I've been 'ere ever since.
I were a boy of fourteen when the things 'appened as make up the rest o' my
story. Sir Markham he were a matter o' sixty year old, I should say, and
Miss Dora, as I see it said in a book, once, "sweet, wery sweet, wery, wery
sweet seventeen."
I allus 'ad a hadmiration for Miss Dora. "Darling Dora" they called 'er at the
'All, and so did I, when nobody wasn't listenin'. Nobody couldn't know 'er
without admirin' 'er, but I 'ad a special sort of hadmiration for 'er as 'ad
made me do any mortal thing she asked me, whatever it might 'ave costed.
Yer see, when I were quite a little chap, and she were no much bigger, she
ses to me one day, when I were a bit scolded, she ses, "Never mind, Jim,"
she ses, "cheer up; you'll be a man o' some sort some day;" and I tell you,
though I allus 'ad a hidea that way myself, when she said it I grow'd a hinch
straight off. If yer believes in yourself, Master 'Arry, yer can do a lot, but if
somebody else believes in yer there ain't nothink in the whole world what
yer can't do.
My particler business in the stable were Miss Dora's pony, Snowflake,
darling Dora's darling, as it got called o' times. She rode out a great deal,
did Miss Dora, and she rode well, and I generally 'ad to foller 'er on the bay
cob. She'd spend a lot o' time about this yer stable, one way and another,
and we got to be werry partickler friends. Not as I presum'd, mind yer, nor
as she forgot 'er station; she were just a hangel, she were, what couldn't be
spoilt by nobody's company, and what couldn't 'elp a-makin' o' other people
wish as they were summut in the hangel line, too.

But yer a-gettin' impatient I see, gents, and I ax yer pardon for a-ramblin' a
bit.
Well, it were Chris'mas time, as it might be now, and young Markham (that
were your father, Master 'Arry) he were 'ome from Oxford for 'is 'olidays,
with as nice a young fellow as ever stepped, as 'ad come with him to spend
Chris'mas at the 'All. They called 'im the "Captain," not that he were a
harmy captain, or anythink of that, he were a captain of summut at the
college—maybe football or summut else. Somehow he often came 'ome
with young Markham at 'oliday times, and 'im and Miss Dora was partickler
friendly like.
It were not a werry snowy Chris'mas that year, though there were plenty of
frost, and the lake in the park would 'a' borne the London coach and four
without a crack. Young Markham and the Captain and Miss Dora did a deal
o' skatin', and ole Sir Markham invited a lot o' friends to come and stay
Chris'mas for the sake o' the sport. They did say as Aunt Dorothy as Miss
Dora were called arter 'ad been a-preachin' at 'im for a-neglectin' o' Miss
Dora and a-keepin 'er at the 'All without no society, and I s'pose that's why
Sir Markham were a-aggitatin' himself a bit cos' we never 'ad no fuss at
Chris'mas as a rule.
Well, we was werry busy at that time, I can tell yer; several of the wisitors
brought their own 'osses with them, and me and my father had plenty to do
a-lookin' arter 'em.
Among the wisitors as come from London were a real military hofficer, a
reg'lar scaff'ld pole he were, for length and breadth, with mustaches as 'ud
'a' done for reins, if 'e'd only been a 'oss. He weren't no favourite o' mine,
not from the fust. He were a bit too harbitry for me. He were a-thinkin' he
were a-goin' to hintroduce 'is harmy regerlations into our stables; but he
allus 'ad to wait the longest, for all 'is hinterferin'. But what used to rile me
the most with him were 'is nasty, sneerin' ways at young Markham's friend,
the Captain. Yer see, sir, he were a real harmy captain, and so I s'pose he
were a bit jealous o' our young Captain, as was a lot better than 'im, arter
all. O' course I didn't see it at the time, but I've said to myself lots o' times
since, it were a reg'lar plant, that's what it were, that Aunt Dorothy 'ad

brought the big soldier down o' purpose for Miss Dora to fall in love with;
but 'e were just a little bit too late.
Well, yer know, gents, I told yer as I were quite a youngster at the time, and
though ole Sir Markham said as I were werry sharp, I must confess as I
didn't quite understand 'ow things were a-goin' on. I noticed that the two
captains kept pretty clear of each other, and that Miss Dora never came near
the stables for three days together, which were a werry unusual thing for 'er;
and one of the ole servants at the 'All told me as the hofficer 'ad been
hasking Sir Markham if he might pay his addresses to Miss Dora, and that
Sir Markham 'ad said he might.
My ole father were a-hactin' a bit queer about that time, too; he kept a-
hasken' me if I'd like to be a postboy, or drive the London coach, or
anything o' that, cos', he ses, "Yer know, Jim, Miss Dora 'll be marryin'
somebody one o' these days, and maybe you'll 'ave to find summut else to
do when Snowflake's gone." "Well," I ses, "if Miss Dora got married and
go'd away, I reckon she'd take me with 'er to look arter 'er 'osses, so I sha'n't
want no postboy's place, nor coachun's neither, as I sees." And father he
seemed pretty satisfied, he did, only 'e says, "If ever you should want to
drive to Scotland, Jim," he ses, "you go across the moor to the Burnley
Beeches, and then yer bears off to yer right by the Ambly Arms, three mile
along you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are."
Well, I didn't take no notice of this, though father he kept on sayin' o'
summut o' the sort all day long, and when it came to evenin', bein'
Chris'mas Eve, we went up to the 'All to 'ave supper in the kitchen, and
drink ole Sir Markham's 'elth. Sir Markham come down in the servants' 'all
and made a speech, and some o' the gents come down too; but while things
were a-goin' at their 'ighest, my father he says to me, "Jim," 'e says, "if ever
you want to go to Scotland you go across the moor to the Burnley Beeches,
and then yer bears off to yer right by the Ambly Arms, three mile along
you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are." "All right," I says,
angry like, "I don't want no Scotland; what d'yer want to bother me for with
yer Burnley Beeches, and yer Ambly Arms?" "Jim," 'e ses solemn, "yer
never know how useful a bit of hinformation may come in sometimes;
now," he says, "you'd better run over to the stables, and see if all is a-goin'
on right." Well, I see it was no use argifyin', so off I starts. I sees as I comes

near the stables as there were a light there, as ought not to be, and o' course,
I run back'ard to tell my father, but lor, I thought he were off 'is 'ed, for all
he ses was, "If ever you wants to go to Scotland, Jim, it's across the moor to
the Burnley Beeches, off to yer right, by the Ambly Arms, three mile along
you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are."
They'd been a-drinkin' a bit 'ard some of 'em, and I ses to myself father's
been a'elpin' of 'em, and I tears off to the stables to see what was up.
Well, when I gets here, I comes in at that there door behind yer, sir, and
what should I see, but Miss Dora in Snowflake's stall, a-kissin' and a-cryin'
over 'im like mad. She didn't take no notice o' me no more'n if I hadn't been
there at all, and I came and stood ag'in that there post as you were a-leanin'
ag'in just now, sir. Little Dora were a-sobbin' as if 'er 'art would break, and
she were a-tryin' to say "Good-bye." They're only little words, sir, at the
most, but werry often they're the 'ardest words in all the world to say.
Well, sir, to make a long story short, it were just this: Sir Markham had told
'er as she mustn't think nothink of young Markham's college friend, 'cos 'e
were poor and 'adn't nothink but 'is wits and 'is learnin' to live on, and that
the tall soldier 'ad been a-haskin' for 'er, and he'd promised 'er to 'im; and it
'ad clean broke 'er 'art, and so she 'ad come down to this yer stable where
everythink loved 'er to tell 'er sorrows to her old pet Snowflake, to bury her
face in his snowy neck, and wipe 'er eyes on his flowin' mane.
But, afore I 'ad time to say anythink, who should foller me in at the door but
the young Captain hisself, and 'e come and stood by me a moment without
sayin' a word. He were werry pale, and 'is eyes shone like fire, and at last he
ses, in a hoarse sort of a whisper, "Jim," 'e ses, "they wants to marry darling
Dora to the big swaggerin' soldier, and I want yer to 'elp me prewent 'em."
"'Elp yer prewent 'em," I ses; "why, I'll prewent 'em myself. I ain't werry
big, p'r'aps, and maybe I couldn't reach 'is bloated face, but a stone 'ud find
'is head as quickly as it did the big Bible chap as David killed; and maybe I
can shie." I hadn't practised on ole Sir Markham's apples for nothink.
Well, sir, I needn't say as it didn't come to that. The fact is, everythink were
arranged. It were a matter o' seventy miles to Scotland by the road, and
they'd made up their minds to start for Gretna Green as soon as the wisitors
'ad gone to bed. Father were in the swim, and that's why he'd been a-'intin'

to me all day and 'ad sent me to see what the light meant. My father 'e were
a artful ole man, 'e were; he knowed better nor to 'ave anythink to do with it
hisself. Why, I b'leave Sir Markham 'ud a murdered 'im if he 'ad, but me, o'
course,—I was only a boy, and did as I were told.
Well, sir, a-hactin' under horders, I were a-waitin' with the post-chaise at
them Burnley Beeches at eleven o'clock. I'd been a-waitin' some time, and I
begun to be afraid as they weren't a-comin'. At last I see a white somethink
comin' along, and in another minute they was alongside. I shall never forget
that night. Miss Dora fainted directly she were inside the carriage, and to
me she looked as if she were dead. "For God's sake, and for Dora's sake,
drive for your life, Jim!" said the young Captain, and I just did drive for my
werry life. It was werry dark and I couldn't see much, and it must a bin a-
rainin' or summut else,—anyhow there were a preshus lot o' water got in my
eyes, till I couldn't see nothink. Father had taken care to git the 'osses in
good condition, and they went away as though they knew as they were a-
carryin' their darlin' Dora from death to life.
From the Burnley Beeches I drove as I 'ad been directed, past the Ambly
Arms, and three mile further I found the great North Road, and there I wore.
You never know how useful a bit o' information may come in sometimes. It
were pretty straight work now, and the only thing I 'ad to fear was a-wearin'
out me 'osses afore we reached the Border. At two o'clock we stopped and
baited, and the young Captain he give me the tip. He says, "Don't go too
fast," he ses; "they won't be arter us for an hour or two yet, if they come at
all. I've given 'em summut else to look for fust," 'e ses, "and it'll take 'em all
their time."
Weil, there ain't no need to make a long story out o' our run to Scotland; we
got there safe enough arter imaginin' as we was follered by highwaymen,
and goblins, and soldiers, and hall sorts o' other hevil sperits, which were
nothink but fancy arter all.
Why, bless yer, we 'adn't no real need to fear; the young Captain he were
one too many for 'em, he were, in more ways nor one. Afore he came away
he smashed a big hole in the ice, in the middle of the lake, and put 'is 'at and
Miss Dora's muff on the edge of the hole; and they were a-breaking up the
ice and dragging the lake all Chris'mas Day instead of a-follerin' us.

Next thing came the weddin' in the blacksmith's shop, where the young
Captain took our darling Dora all to hisself, with ne'er a bridesmaid but me
to give 'er away and everythink else. Poor little Dora, she fainted right off
ag'in directly it were all over; and the young Captain he flushed up regular,
like one o' them hero chaps as they put in books. I never see such a change
in any one afore or since. 'E seemed as if 'e could do anything now Miss
Dora were hall 'is own. I tell yer, sir, you can't fight nothing like 'arf so 'ard
for yourself as yer can if you've got some one else to fight for.
After the weddin', the Captain put up at the "Blacksmith's Arms," where 'e
writes a long letter to ole Sir Markham, and one to your father, Master
'Arry, which he give me to deliver, and with which I started 'ome ag'in.
Ole Sir Markham never forgave the young Captain for a-runnin' off wi'
Miss Dora, and if it 'adn't 'a' bin for your father, Master 'Arry, I shouldn't
never 'a' come back to the 'All. Arter that they went abroad to some foreign
place as I never heerd of, and they lost track of 'em up at the 'All too arter a
bit; though I know as your father, Master 'Arry, used to send 'em lots o'
things without Sir Markham a-knowin' anythink about it. And then came the
letter with the black edge as said as our Dora 'ad died o' one of them furren
fevers as I didn't even know the name of, and arter that we never heard no
more. Poor ole Sir Markham began to break up werry soon arter that. He
were not like the same man arter Miss Dora went, and werry soon 'e kept to
the 'ouse altogether, and we never saw nothink of 'im out o' doors.
Next thing we 'eard as he were ill, and everybody were a-wishin' as Miss
Dora 'ud come back and comfort 'im. At last, when he were really a-dyin', 'e
kep' on a-callin' her, "Dora, Dora," in 'is wanderin's like, and nobody
couldn't answer 'im, their 'arts was that full as there weren't no room for
words. I remember that night, sir, as if it were yesterday, and yet it were
forty year ago, Master 'Arry, ten year afore you were born. It were
Chris'mas Eve, and ole Sir Markham he were keepin' on a-haskin' for Miss
Dora, and I couldn't stand it no longer, so I come over 'ere to smoke my
pipe and be to myself, yer see, and bide my feelin's like. Well, I were a-
sittin' on a stool in that there corner, a-thinkin' about ole Sir Markham and
our darlin' Dora, when I looks up, and as true as I ever see anythin' in my
life I see her a-standin' there afore me. She didn't take no notice of me,
though, but she run into Snowflake's stall there, sir, and buried her pretty

face in 'is neck and stroked his mane and patted his sides, then she laughed
one o' her silv'ry laughs and clapped 'er 'ands and calls out, "'Ome again,
'ome again at last; happy, happy 'ome. Jim, Jim, where's that lazy Jim?" But
lor', sir, she were gone ag'in afore I could get up off the stool. I rushed up to
the 'All like lightnin', I can tell yer, and I see a bright light a-shinin' in ole
Sir Markham's bedroom. I never knowed 'ow I got up them stairs, but I
heerd ole Sir Markham cry out as loud as ever I heerd 'im in my life, "Dora,
Dora, come at last; darling Dora, darling!" 'E never said no more, did ole
Sir Markham, she had taken 'im away.

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

LITTLE PEACE.

BY NORA RYEMAN.

In the heart of England stands a sleepy hollow called "Green Corner," and
in this same sleepy hollow stands a fine old English manor house styled
"Green Corner Manor." It belongs to the Medlicott family, who have owned
it for generations. In their picture gallery hangs a most singular picture,
which is known far and wide as "The Portrait of Little Peace." It depicts a
beautiful child in the quaint and picturesque costume of the age of King
Charles II. A lamb stands by her side, and a tame ringdove is perched on her
wrist. Her eyes are deeply, darkly blue, the curls which "fall adown her
back are yellow, like ripe corn." Beneath this portrait in tarnished golden
letters are these words of Holy Writ, "Blessed are the peacemakers," and if
you read the chronicles of the Medlicott family you will read the history of
this child. It was written by Dame Ursula, the wife of Godfrey Medlicott,
and runs as under:—
"It was New Year's Eve, and my heart was heavy, so also was my husband's.
For 'Verily our house had been left unto us desolate.' Our son Hilary had
died in France, and our daughter, Grace, slept in the chancel of the parish
church with dusty banners once borne by heroic Medlicotts waving over her
marble tomb. 'Would God, that I had died for thee, my boy,' said dead
Hilary's father when he looked at the empty chair in the chimney corner;
'and, my darling, life is savourless without thee,' I cried in bitterness of
spirit, as I looked at the little plot of garden ground which had been known
as Mistress Gracie's garden when my sweet one lived. Scarcely had this cry
escaped my lips when a most strange thing befel. Seated on the last of the
terrace steps was a little child, who as I passed her stretched out her hand
and caught fast hold of my gown. I looked down, and there, beside me, was
a most singular and beautiful child. The moonlight fell on her small, pale

face and long, yellow hair, and I saw that she was both poorly and plainly
clad. 'What do you want, my little maid?' I asked. 'You, madam,' she said
serenely. 'From whence have you come?' was my next query. 'From a prison
in London town,' was the strange reply. Doubtless this child (so I reasoned)
was the daughter of some poor man who had suffered for conscience' sake;
and, mayhap, some person who pitied his sad plight had taken the girl and
thrown her on our charity, or, rather, mercy. 'Child,' said I, 'wilt come into
the Manor with me, and have some chocolate and cake?' 'That will I,
madam,' she answered softly. 'I came on purpose to stay with you.' The little
one has partly lost her wits, I thought, but I said nothing, and the stranger
trotted after me into my own parlour, just as a tame lamb or a little dog
might have done. She took her seat on a tabouret at my knee, and ate her
spiced cake and sipped her chocolate with a pretty, modest air. Just so was
my Gracie wont to sit, and even as I thought of her my dim eyes grew
dimmer still with tears. At last they fell, and some of them dropped on the
strange guest's golden head, which she had confidingly placed on my knee.
'Don't, sweet madam,' she said, 'don't grieve overmuch! You will find balm
in giving balm! You will find comfort in giving comfort! For I am Peace,
and I have come to tarry with you for a little space!' I perceived that the
child's wits were astray, but, somehow, I felt strangely drawn to her, and as
she had nowhere else to go I kept her with me, and that New Year's Eve she
slept in my Grace's bed, and on the succeeding day she was clothed in one
of my lost ewe lamb's gowns, and all in the household styled her Little
Peace, because she gave no other name at all.

"Time passed on—and the strange child still abode with us, and every day
we loved her more, for she 'went about doing good,' and, what is more,
became my schoolmistress, and instructed me in the holy art of charity. For
my own great woe had made me forgetful of the woes and afflictions of
others. This is how she went about her work. One winter day, when the
fountain in the park was frozen, the child, who had been a-walking, came
up to me and said, 'Dear madam, are apples good?' 'Of a surety they are—
excellent for dessert, and also baked, with spiced ale. Wherefore dost ask?'
'Because old Gaffer Cressidge, and the dame his wife, are sitting eating

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

THE STORY OF WASSILI AND DARIA.

A RUSSIAN STORY.

BY ROBERT GUILLEMARD.

Whilst staying in Siberia, on one occasion, when returning from an evening
walk in the woods I was surprised at seeing a young Russian girl crying
beside a clump of trees; she seemed pretty, and I approached; she saw me
not, but continued to give vent to her tears.
I stopped to examine her appearance; her black hair, arranged in the fashion
of the country, flowed from under the diadem usually worn by the Siberian
girls, and formed a striking contrast, by its jet black colour, with the fairness
of her skin. Whilst I was looking at her, she turned her head, and,
perceiving me, rose in great haste, wiped off her tears, and said to me:
"Pardon me, father—but I am very unfortunate."
"I wish," said I, "that it were in my power to give you any consolation."
"I expect no consolation," she replied; "it is out of your power to give me
any."
"But why are you crying?"
She was silent, and her sobs alone intimated that she was deeply afflicted.
"Can you have committed any fault," said I, "that has roused your father's
anger against you?"
"He is angry with me, it is true; but is it my fault if I cannot love his
Aphanassi?"

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

and Daria, probably thinking that I would come back to the spot, had come
to ask me what she ought to reply to him, as well as to her father. I gave her
my advice with a strong feeling of interest, and convinced that pity would
henceforward open to me the road to her heart, I tried to become acquainted
with her family. The same evening I bought some things from old Michael,
and flattering him on his judgment and experience, endeavoured to lay the
foundation of intimacy.
During several days I went regularly to the same spot, and almost always
found Daria, as if we had appointed a meeting. Her melancholy increased;
every time she saw me she asked for further advice, and although she
showed me nothing but confidence, yet the habit of seeing her, of deploring
her situation, of having near me a young and beautiful woman, after hearing
for many, many months no other voices than the rough ones of officers,
soldiers, and smiths—all these circumstances affected my heart with
unusual emotion.
The sight of Daria reminded me of the circumstances of my first love; and
these recollections, in their turn, embellished Daria with all their charms.
One day she said to me:
"You have seen Aphanassi this morning at my father's; don't you think he is
very rough, and has an ugly, ill-natured countenance?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Well, I will show you whom I prefer to him." She smiled in saying this,
and I was powerfully affected, as if she had been about to say, "You are the
man!" She then threw back the gauze veil that flowed from her head-dress,
and instantly, at a certain signal, a young man sprung from behind the trees
and cried out to me:
"Thank you, Frenchman, for your good advice! I am Wassili, the friend of
Daria!"
This sight perfectly confounded me. So close to love, and to be nothing but
a confidant after all! I blushed for shame, but Daria soon dispelled this
impulse of ill-humour. She said to me:

"Wassili, whom I have never mentioned to you, is my friend; I was desirous
of making you acquainted with him. But he was jealous because you gave
me consolation and I wished him to remain concealed from you, that he
might be convinced by your language of the worthiness of your sentiments.
Wassili will love you as I do; stranger, still give us your advice!"
The words of Daria calmed my trouble; and I felt happy that, at a thousand
leagues from my native land, in the bosom of an enemy's country, I was
bound by no tie to a foreign soil, but could still afford consolation to two
beings in misfortune.
Wassili was handsome and amiable; he was also wealthy; but Aphanassi
was much more so, and old Michael, though formerly flattered with the
attentions of Wassili to his daughter, now rejected them with disdain. We
agreed upon a plan of attack against the Baskir. I talked to Michael several
times on the subject, and tried to arrange their differences; but it was of no
avail.
Meanwhile took place the feast of St. John, the patron saint of Tchornaïa,
which assembled all the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages.
Early in the morning of the holiday, the whole of the inhabitants, dressed in
their finest clothes, get into a number of little narrow boats, made of a
single tree, like the canoes of the South Sea savages. A man is placed in the
middle with one oar in his hands, and strikes the water first on one side and
then on the other, and makes the boat move forward with great velocity.
These frail skiffs are all in a line, race against each other, and perform a
variety of evolutions on the lake. The women are placed at the bow and
stern, and sing national songs, while the men are engaged in a variety of
exercises and amusements on the shore. A large barge, carrying the heads of
the village and the most distinguished inhabitants, contains a band of music,
whose harmony contrasts with the songs that are heard from the other boats.
Beautiful weather usually prevails at this season, and the day closes with
dances and suppers in the open air; and the lake of Tchornaïa, naturally of a
solitary aspect, becomes all at once full of life and animation, and presents
an enchanting prospect.

Wassili had got several boats ready, which were filled with musicians, who
attracted general attention, and were soon followed by almost all the skiffs
in the same way as the gondolas in the Venetian lagoons follow the musical
amateurs who sing during the night. Wassili knew that Michael would be
flattered to hear an account of the success he had obtained: but Aphanassi
had also come to the festival. As soon as he learned that the musicians of
Wassili were followed by the crowd, and that his rival's name was in every
one's mouth, he collected twenty of his finest horses, covered them with
rich stuffs, and, as soon as the sports on the lake were over, began, by the
sound of Tartar music, a series of races on the shore, which was a novel
sight in the summer season, and was generally admired. His triumph was
complete, and at Tchornaïa nothing was talked of for several days but the
races on the shore of the lake, and the Baskir's influence with Michael
increased considerably.
The grief of Daria made her father suspect that she met Wassili out of the
house, and he confined her at home. I saw none but the young man, whose
communications were far from being so pleasing to me as those of Daria.
Towards the end of July he informed me that Aphanassi had made another
attempt to get her from her father; but that the old man was so overcome
with her despair that he had only agreed that the marriage should take place
the ensuing summer, delaying the matter under the pretext of getting her
portion ready, but, in truth, to give her time to make up her mind to follow
the Baskir.
About this period Wassili was sent by M. Demidoff's agent, at the head of a
body of workmen, to the centre of the Ural Mountains to cut down trees and
burn them into charcoal. He was not to return till the middle of September.
During his absence I saw Daria almost daily; she had lost the brilliancy of
her look, but it seemed to me that her beauty was increased, her
countenance had assumed such an expression of melancholy. I had
gradually obtained the goodwill of Michael, and dispelled, as far as lay in
my power, the sorrows of his daughter. I was a foreigner, a prisoner, little to
be feared, and pretty well off in regard to money, so that Michael felt no
alarm at seeing me, and neglected no opportunity of showing me his
goodwill.

I received a strong proof of this about the middle of August. He brought me
to a family festival that takes place at the gathering of the cabbage, and to
which women only are usually admitted; it is, in fact, their vintage season.
On the day that a family is to gather in their cabbage, which they salt and
lay up for the winter season, the women invite their female friends and
neighbours to come and assist them. On the evening before, they cut the
cabbages from the stem, and pull off the outside leaves and earth that may
be adhering to them. On the grand day, at the house where the cabbages are
collected, the women assemble, dressed in their most brilliant manner, and
armed with a sort of cleaver, with a handle in the centre, more or less
ornamented, according to the person's rank. They place themselves round a
kind of trough containing the cabbages. The old women give the signal for
action; two of the youngest girls take their places in the middle of the room,
and begin to dance a kind of allemande, while the rest of the women sing
national songs, and keep time in driving their knives into the trough. When
the girls are tired with dancing, two more take their place, always eager to
surpass the former by the grace with which they make their movements.
The songs continue without intermission, and the cabbages are thus cut up
in the midst of a ball, which lasts from morning till night. Meanwhile, the
married women carry on the work, salt the cabbages, and carefully pack
them in barrels. In the evening the whole party sit down to supper, after
which only the men are admitted, but even then they remain apart from the
women. Glasses of wine and punch go round, dancing begins in a more
general manner, and they withdraw at a late hour, to begin the same
amusement at another neighbour's till all the harvest is finished.
Amidst all these young girls Daria always seemed to me the most amiable!
she danced when called upon by her mother; her motions expressed
satisfaction, and her eyes, scarcely refraining from tears, turned towards the
stranger, who alone knew her real situation, though amidst so many
indifferent people who called themselves her friends.
Towards the end of September, Wassili returned from the woods. Daria had
a prospect of several months before her before the return of Aphanassi, if
ever he should return at all; and she gave herself up to her love with
pleasing improvidence.

At this period there came to Tchornaïa two Russian officers, with several
sergeants, who were much more like Cossacks than regular soldiers. Their
appearance was the signal of universal mourning—they came to recruit.
They proclaimed, in the Emperor's name, that on a certain day all the men
in the district, whatever their age might be, were to assemble in the public
square, there to be inspected.
At the appointed day every one was on the spot; but it was easy to see by
their looks that it was with the utmost repugnance that they had obeyed. All
the women were placed on the other side, and anxiously waited for the
result of the inspection, and some of them were crying bitterly. I was
present at this scene. The officers placed the men in two rows, and passed
along the ranks very slowly. Now and then they touched a man, and he was
immediately taken to a little group that was formed in the centre of the
square. When they had run over the two rows, they again inspected the men
that had been set apart, made them walk and strip, verified them, in a word,
such as our recruiting councils did in our departments for many years.
When a man was examined he was allowed to go, when the crowd raised a
shout of joy; or he was immediately put in irons, in presence of his family,
who raised cries of despair—this man was fit for service.
These unfortunate beings, thus chained up, were kept out of view till the
very moment of their departure. No claims were valid against the recruiting
officer; age, marriage, the duties required to be paid to an infirm parent,
were all of no avail; sometimes, indeed, it happened, and that but rarely,
that a secret arrangement with the officer, for a sum of money, saved a
young man, a husband, or a father from his caprice, for he was bound by no
rule; it often happened, also, that he marked out for the army a young man
whose wife or mistress was coveted by the neighbouring lord, or whom
injustice had irritated and rendered suspected.
To finish this description, which has made me leave my friends out of view,
at a very melancholy period, I shall add a few more particulars.
Wassili, as I said before, was at the review; the recruiting officer thought he
would make a handsome dragoon, or a soldier of the guard, and, having
looked at him from top to toe, he declared him fit for the army.

Whilst his family were deploring his fate, and preparing to make every
sacrifice to obtain his discharge, some one cried out that the officer would
allow him to get off because he was wealthy, but that the poor must march.
The Russian heard this, and perhaps on the point of making a bargain, felt
irritated, and would listen to no sort of arrangement, as a scoundrel always
does when you have been on the point of buying. Wassili was put in irons,
and destined to unlimited service—that is, to an eternal exile, for the
Russian soldier is never allowed to return to his home.[1] Daria nearly fell a
victim to her grief, and only recovered some portion of vigour when the
recruits were to set out.
[1] He is enrolled for twenty years—that is, for a whole life.

On that day the recruiting party gorge them with meat and brandy till they
are nearly dead drunk. They are then thrown into the sledges and carried
off, still loaded with irons. A most heart-rending scene now takes place;
every family follows them with their cries, and chants the prayers for the
dead and the dying, while the unfortunate conscripts themselves, besotted
with liquor, remain stupid and indifferent, burst into roars of laughter, or
answer their friends with oaths and imprecations.
Notwithstanding the force that had been shown to him, Wassili had drunk
nothing, and preserved his judgment unclouded; he stretched out his arms
towards Daria, towards his friends, and towards me, and bade us adieu with
many tears. Amidst the mournful sounds that struck upon her ears, the
young girl followed him rapidly, and had time to throw herself into his arms
before the sledge set out; but the moment he was beyond her reach, she fell
backward with violence on the ice. No one paid the least attention to her;
they all rushed forward and followed the sledges of the recruiting party,
which soon galloped out of sight. I lifted Daria up; I did not attempt to
restrain her grief, but took her back to her father's, where she was paid
every attention her situation required. In about a month's time she was able
to resume her usual occupations, but she recovered only a portion of her
former self.
Winter again set in. I often saw Daria, either at her father's house, or when
she walked out on purpose to meet me, which her father allowed, in the
hope of dissipating her sorrows. How the poor girl was altered since the

departure of Wassili! How many sad things the young Siberian told me
when our sledges glided together along the surface of the lake! What
melancholy there was in her language, and superstition in her belief!
I attempted to dissipate her sombre thoughts; but I soon perceived that
everything brought them back to her mind, and that the sight of this savage
nature, whose solitude affected my own thoughts with sorrow, contributed
to increase her melancholy. Within her own dwelling she was less agitated,
but more depressed; her fever was then languid, and her beautiful face
despoiled of that expression, full of agreeable recollections, that animated
her in our private conversation. These walks could only make her worse,
and I endeavoured to avoid them. She understood my meaning. "Go," said
she, "kind Frenchman, you are taking fruitless care; Wassili has taken my
life away with him; it cannot return any more than he can."
I still continued to see her frequently. Old Michael was unhappy because
she wept on hearing even the name of Aphanassi; he foresaw that it would
be out of his power to have this wealthy man for his son-in-law, for his
promises had gained his heart long ago. However this may be, he made his
preparations in secret, bought fine silks, and ordered a magnificent diadem
to be made for his daughter. She guessed his object, and once said to me,
"My father is preparing a handsome ornament for me; it is intended for the
last time I shall be at church; let him make haste, for Daria won't keep him
waiting."
About the middle of June Aphanassi returned, more in love and more eager
than ever, and, as soon as he appeared, the daughter of Michael was
attacked by a burning fever that never left her. In a few days she was at the
gates of death. All the care bestowed upon her was of no avail, and she died
pronouncing the name of Wassili.
Full of profound grief, I followed her body to the church of the Stareobratzi,
at Nishnei-Taguil. It had been dressed in her finest clothing, and she was
placed in the coffin with her face uncovered. The relations, friends, and
members of the same church were present. The men were ranged on one
side, and the women on the other. After a funeral hymn, in the language of
the country, the priest, who was bare-headed, pronounced the eulogium of
the defunct. His grey hair, long beard, Asiatic gown, and loud sobs, gave his

discourse a peculiar solemnity. When it was finished, every one came
forward silently to bid farewell to Daria, and kiss her hand. I went like the
rest; like them I went alone towards the coffin, took hold of the hand I had
so often pressed, and gave it the last farewell kiss.

PLUCK, PERIL & ADVENTURE.

MARJORIE MAY: A WILFUL YOUNG
WOMAN.

BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN.

"How perfectly delightful! Just fancy riding along those lovely sands, and
seeing real live Bedouins on their horses or camels! I declare I see camels
padding along now! I wish it wouldn't get dark so fast. But the city will
look lovely when the moon is up."
"Is it quite safe?" asked a lady passenger, eager for the proposed excursion,
but a little timid in such strange surroundings. For Mogador seemed like the
ends of the earth to her. She had never been for a sea voyage before.
"Oh, yes; safe enough, or Captain Taylor would never have arranged it. Of
course, it might not be safe to go quite alone; but a party together—why, it's
as safe as Regent Street."
"What is this excursion they are all talking about?" asked Marjorie May,
who had been standing apart in the bow of the boat, trying to dash in the
effect of the sunset lights upon the solemn, lonely African mountains, with
the white city sleeping on the edge of the sea, surrounded by its stretch of
desert. It was too dark for further sketching, and the first bell had sounded
for dinner. She joined the group of passengers, eagerly discussing the
proposed jaunt for the morrow. Several voices answered her.
"Oh, the captain is going to arrange a sort of picnic for us to-morrow. We
have all day in harbour, you know, and part of the next. So to-morrow we
are to go ashore and take donkeys, and ride out along the shore there for
several miles, to some queer place or other, where they will arrange lunch
for us; and we can wander about and see the place, and get back on board in

time for dinner; and next day we can see the town. That only takes an hour
or so. We leave after lunch, but it will give plenty of time."
"I think the town sounds more interesting than the donkey-rides," said
Marjorie. "I had not time to sketch in Tangiers, except just a few figures
dashed off anyhow. I must make some studies of the Arabs and Nubians and
Bedouins here. I shan't get another chance. This is the last African port we
stop at."
"Oh, I daresay you'll have plenty of time for sketching," answered her cabin
companion to whom she had spoken; "but I wouldn't miss the ride if I were
you. It'll be quite a unique experience."
The dinner-bell rang, and the company on board the Oratava took their
seats in the pleasant upper deck saloon, where there was fresh air to be had,
and glimpses through the windows of the darkening sky, the rising moon
and brightening stars.
Marjorie's next-door neighbours were, on one side, the lady whose cabin
she shared, on the other a Mr. Stuart, with whom she waged a frequent
warfare. He was an experienced traveller, whilst she was quite
inexperienced; and sometimes he had spoken to her with an air of authority
which she resented, had nipped in the bud some pet project of hers, or had
overthrown some cherished theory by the weight of his knowledge of stern
facts.
But he had been to Mogador before, and Marjorie condescended to-night to
be gracious and ask questions. She was keenly interested in what she heard.
There was a Jewish quarter in the city as well as the Arab one. There was a
curious market. The whole town was very curious, being all built in arcades
and squares. It was not the least like Tangiers, he told her, which was the
only African town Marjorie had yet visited. This cruise of the Oratava had
been a little unfortunate. The surf had been so heavy along the coast, that
the passengers had not been able to land at any port of call since leaving
Tangiers. They had had perforce to remain upon the vessel whilst cargo was
being taken on and shipped off. But the sea had now calmed down. The
restless Atlantic was quieting itself. The vessel at anchor in the little
harbour scarcely moved. The conditions were all favourable for good

weather, and the passengers were confident of their pleasure trip on the
morrow.
As Marjorie heard Mr. Stuart's description of the old town—one of the most
ancient in Africa—she was more and more resolved not to waste precious
moments in a stupid donkey-ride across the desert. Of course it would be
interesting in its way; but she had had excellent views of the desert at
several ports, whereas the interior of the old city was a thing altogether new.
"I suppose it's quite a safe place?" she asked carelessly; and Mr. Stuart
answered at once:
"Oh, yes, perfectly safe. There are several English families living in it. I
lived there a year once. Of course, a stranger lady would not walk about
there alone; she might get lost in the perplexing arcades, and Arab towns
are never too sweet or too suitable for a lady to go about in by herself. But I
shall go and look up my friends there. It's safe enough in that sense."
Marjorie's eyes began to sparkle under their long lashes. A plan was
fermenting in her brain.
"I think I shall spend my day there sketching," she said.
"All right; only you mustn't be alone," answered Mr. Stuart in his rather
imperious way. "You'd better take Colquhoun and his sister along with you.
They're artists, and he knows something of the language and the ways of the
Arabs."
A mutinous look came over Marjorie's face. She was not going to join
company with Mr. and Miss Colquhoun any more. She had struck up a
rather impulsive friendship with them at the outset of the voyage, but now
she could not bear them. It was not an exceptional experience with her. She
was eager to be friends with all the world; but again and again she
discovered that too promiscuous friendship was not always wise. It had
been so in this case, and Mr. Colquhoun had gone too far in some of his
expressions of admiration. Marjorie had discovered that his views were
much too lax to please her. She had resolved to have very little more to do
with them for the future. To ask to join them on the morrow, even if they
were going sketching, was a thing she could not and would not condescend
to.

No, her mind was quickly made up. It was all nonsense about its not being
safe. Why, there were English families and agents living in the place, and
she would never be silly and lose herself or her head. She would land with
the rest. There were about five-and-twenty passengers, and all of them
would go ashore, and most would probably go for the donkey-ride into the
desert. But she would quietly slip away, and nobody would be anxious.
Some would think she had gone with the Colquhouns, who always
sketched, or perhaps with Mr. Stuart, who had taken care of her in Tangiers.
She was an independent member of society—nobody's especial charge. In
the crowded streets of an Arab town nothing would be easier than to slip
away from the party soon after landing; and then she would have a glorious
day of liberty, wandering about, and making her own studies and sketches,
and joining the rest at the appointed time, when they would be going back
to the ship.
So Marjorie put her paints and sketching pad up, provided herself with
everything needful, and slept happily in her narrow berth, eagerly waiting
for the morrow, when so many new wonders would be revealed.
The morning dawned clear and fair, and Marjorie was early on deck,
watching with delight the beautiful effects of light as the sun rose over the
solemn mountains and lighted up the wide, lonely desert wastes. She could
see the caravans of camels coming citywards, could watch the sunbeams
falling upon the white walls, domes, and flat roofs of the ancient town. She
watched the cargo boats coming out with their loads, and the familiar rattle
of the steam crane and the shouts of the men were in her ears. The deck was
alive with curious forms of Arabs come to display their wares. A turbaned
man in one of the boats below was eagerly offering a splendid-looking,
sable-black Nubian for sale, and Mr. Colquhoun was amusing himself by
chaffering as though he meant to buy, which he could have done for the
sum of eight pounds; for there is a slave market yet in Mogador, where men
and women are driven in like cattle to be bought and sold.
A duck had escaped from the steward's stores and was triumphantly
disporting himself in the green water. The steward had offered a reward of
half a dozen empty soda-water bottles to the person who would recapture
the bird, and two boats were in hot pursuit, whilst little brown Arab boys
kept diving in to try to swim down the agile duck, who, however, succeeded

in dodging them all with a neatness and sense of humour that evoked much
applause from the on-lookers. Marjorie heard afterwards that it took three
hours to effect the capture, and that at least a dozen men or boys had taken
part in it, but the reward offered had amply contented them for their time
and trouble.
Breakfast was quickly despatched that morning. Marjorie was almost too
excited to eat. She was full of delightful anticipations of a romantic,
independent day. Mr. Stuart's voice interrupted the pleasant current of her
thoughts.
"Would you like to come with me, Miss May? My friends would be very
pleased, I am sure. We could show you the town, and you would be sure of
a good lunch." He added the last words a little mischievously, because
Marjorie was often annoyed at the persistent way in which people made
everything subservient to meals. A bit of bread and a few dates or an orange
seemed to her quite sufficient sustenance between a ship's breakfast and
dinner.
But such a commonplace way of spending a day was not in the least in
accord with Marjorie's views. She thought she knew exactly what it would
be like to go with Mr. Stuart—a hurried walk through the town, an
introduction to a family of strangers, who would wish her anywhere else,
the obligation to sit still in a drawing-room or on a verandah whilst Mr.
Stuart told all the news from England, and then the inevitable lunch, with
only time for a perfunctory examination of the city. She would not have
minded seeing one of the houses where the English families lived, but she
could not sacrifice her day just for that.
"Oh, thank you, but I have made my plans," she answered quickly; "I must
do some sketching. I've not done half as much as I intended when I started.
I am a professional woman, you know, Mr. Stuart; I can't amuse myself all
day like you."
This was Marjorie's little bit of revenge for some of Mr. Stuart's remarks to
her at different times, when she had chosen to think that he was making
game of her professional work.

Marjorie was not exactly dependent upon her pencil and brush. She had a
small income of her own; but she would not have been able to live as she
did, or to enjoy the occasional jaunts abroad in which her soul delighted,
had it not been that she had won for herself a place as illustrator upon one
or two magazines. This trip was taken partly with a view to getting new
subjects for the illustration of a story, a good deal of which was laid abroad
and in the East. An Eastern tour was beyond Marjorie's reach; but she had
heard of these itinerary trips by which for the modest sum of twenty
guineas, she could travel as a first-class passenger and see Gibraltar,
Tangiers, several African ports, including Mogador, the Canary Islands, and
Madeira, and be back again in London within the month. She was a good
sailor, and even the Bay had no terrors for her; so she had enjoyed herself to
the full the whole time. But she had not done as much work upon Arab
subjects as she had hoped, and she was resolved not to let this day be
wasted.
Mr. Stuart would have offered advice; but Marjorie was in one of her
contrary moods, and was afraid of his ending by joining her, and sacrificing
his own day for her sake. She had a vaguely uneasy feeling that what she
intended to do would not be thought quite "proper," and that Mr. Stuart
would disapprove rather vehemently. She was quite resolved not to allow
Mr. Stuart's prejudices to influence her. What was he to her that she should
care for his approval or good opinion? After the conclusion of the voyage
she would never see him again. She never wanted to, she said sometimes to
herself, rather angrily; he was an interfering kind of autocratic man, for
whom she felt a considerable dislike—and yet, somehow, Marjorie was
occasionally conscious that she thought more about Mr. Stuart than about
all the rest of the passengers put together.
It was very interesting getting off in the boats, and being rowed to the city
by the shouting, gesticulating Arabs. Marjorie liked the masterful way of
the captain and ship's officers with these dusky denizens of the desert. They
seemed to be so completely the lords of creation, yet were immensely
popular with the swarms of natives, who hung about the ship the whole
time she was in harbour. The quay was alive with picturesque figures as
they approached; but they did not land there. They passed under an archway
into a smaller basin, and were rowed across this to another landing-place,
where the same swarms of curious spectators awaited them.

Marjorie's fingers were itching after brush and pencil. Everything about her
seemed a living picture, but for the moment she was forced to remain with
her fellow-passengers; and Mr. Stuart walked beside her, vainly offering to
carry her impedimenta.
"No, thank you," answered Marjorie briskly; "I like to have my own things
myself. I am not used to being waited on. Besides, you are going to your
friends. Oh, what a curious place! what big squares! And it's so beautifully
clean too! Call Arab towns dirty? Why, there's no dirt anywhere; and oh,
look at those people over yonder! What are they doing?"
"Washing their clothes by treading on them. They always chant that sort of
sing-song whilst they are trampling them in the water. That is the custom-
house yonder, where they are taking the cargo we have just sent off. Now
we must go through the gate, and so into the town; but you will find it all
like this—one square or arcade leading into another by gateways at the end.
That's the distinguishing feature of Mogador, and you will find some of
them pretty dirty, though it's more dust than mud this time of year."
Marjorie was enchanted by everything she saw. She only wished Mr. Stuart
would take himself off, for she saw no chance of slipping away unobserved
if he were at her side. Luckily for her, a young man came hurriedly to meet
them from somewhere in the opposite direction, and, greeting Mr. Stuart
with great effusion, carried him off forthwith, whilst Marjorie hurried along
after the rest of the party.
But they had no intention of exploring the wonderful old town that day.
They turned into a little side street, where there was nothing particular to
see, but where, outside the agent's office, a number of donkeys were
waiting. Marjorie caught hold of Miss Craven, her cabin companion, and
said hastily:
"I'm not going this ride; I don't care for being jolted on a donkey, with only
a pack of straw for a saddle and a rope for a bridle. I must get some
sketches done. The Colquhouns are going to sketch. I can find them if I
want. Don't let anybody bother about me. I'll join you in time to go back to
the boat at five."

"Well, take care of yourself," said Miss Craven, "and don't wander about
alone, for it's a most heathenish-looking place. But you will be all right with
the Colquhouns."
"Oh, yes," answered Marjorie, turning away with a burning face. She felt
rather guilty, as though she had gone near to speaking an untruth, although
no actual falsehood had passed her lips. Nobody heeded her as she slipped
through the crowd of donkey boys and onlookers. Some offered her their
beasts, but she smiled and shook her head, and hurried back to the main
route through the larger arcades. Once there, she went leisurely, eagerly
looking into shop doors, watching the brass-beating, the hand-loom
weaving, and dashing off little pencil sketches of the children squatting at
their tasks, or walking to or fro as they performed some winding operations
for an older person seated upon the floor.
Nobody molested her in any way or seemed to notice her much. Sometimes
a shopkeeper would offer her his wares in dumb show; but Marjorie had
very little money with her, and, knowing nothing of the value of these
things, was not to be tempted.
The sun poured down hot and strong, but there was shade to be had in these
arcaded streets; and though some of them were anything but clean or sweet,
Marjorie forgave everything for the sake of the beauty and picturesqueness
of the scene. She wandered here, there, and all over; she found herself in the
long, straggling market, and made hasty sketches of the men and women
chaffering at their stalls; of camels, with their strange, sleepy, or vicious
faces, padding softly along, turning their heads this way and that. She
watched the lading of the beasts, and heard their curious grunts of anger or
remonstrance when the load exceeded their approval. Everything was full of
attraction for her, and she only waited till she had explored the place to set
herself down and make some coloured sketches.
She soon had a following of small boys and loiterers, all interested in the
doings of the strange lady with her sketchbook, but Marjorie did not mind
that. She made some of the children stand to her, and got several rather
effective groups.
Then she set herself to work in greater earnest. She obtained a seat in one or
two places, and dashed in rapid coloured studies which she could work

upon afterwards. Her forte was for bold effects rather than for detail, and
the strange old city gave her endless subjects. She did not heed the flight of
time. She passed from spot to spot, with her following growing larger and
larger, more and more curious: and so engrossed was she in her task, that
the lengthening of the shadows and the dipping of the sun behind the walls
did not attract her attention. It was only when she suddenly found herself
enveloped in the quick-coming, semi-tropical shades of darkness that she
realised the necessity to beat a retreat.
She rose quickly and put up her things. There was a ring many deep about
her of curious natives, Arabs, Moors, Jews, Turks—she knew not how many
nationalities were gathered together in that circle. In the broad light of day
she had felt no qualm of uneasiness at the strange dusky faces. Nobody had
molested her, and Marjorie, partly through temperament, partly through
ignorance, had been perfectly fearless in this strange old city. But with the
dimness of evening gathering, she began to wish herself safe on board the
Oratava again; and though she retained her air of serene composure, she
felt a little inward tremor as she moved away.
The crowd did not attempt to hold her back, but walked with her in a sort of
compact bodyguard; and amongst themselves there was a great deal of
talking and gesticulating, which sounded very heathenish and a little
threatening to Marjorie.
She had realised before that Mogador was a larger place than she had
thought, and now she began to discover that she had no notion of the right
way to the quay. The arcades hemmed her in. She could see nothing but
walls about her and the ever-increasing crowd dogging her steps. Her heart
was beating thick and fast. She was tired and faint from want of food, and
this sudden and unfamiliar sense of fear robbed her of her customary self-
command and courage. She felt more like bursting into tears than she ever
remembered to have done before.
It was no good going on like this, wandering helplessly about in the
darkening town; she must do something and that quickly. Surely some of
these people knew a few words of English.
She stopped and faced them, and asked if nobody could take her to the ship.
Instantly they crowded round her, pointing and gesticulating; but whether

they understood, and what they meant, Marjorie could not imagine. She
remembered the name of the ship's agents, and spoke that aloud several
times, and there were more cries and more crowding and gesticulation.
Each man seemed struggling to get possession of her, and Marjorie grew so
frightened at the strange sounds, and the fierce faces—as they seemed to
her—and the gathering darkness, that she completely lost her head. She
looked wildly round her, gave a little shrill cry of terror, and seeing the ring
thinner in one place than another, she made a dart through it, and began to
run as if for her very life. It was the maddest thing to do. Hitherto there had
been no real danger. Nobody had any thought of molesting the English lady,
though her behaviour had excited much curiosity. Anybody would have
taken her down to the quay, as they all knew where she came from. But this
head-long flight first startled them, and then roused that latent demon of
savagery which lies dormant in every son of the desert. Instantly, with yells
which sounded terrific in Marjorie's ears, they gave chase. Fear lent her
wings, but she heard the pursuit coming nearer and nearer. She knew not
where she was flying, whether towards safety or into the heart of danger.
Her breath came in sobbing gasps, her feet slipped and seemed as though
they would carry her no farther. The cries behind and on all sides grew
louder and fiercer. She was making blindly for the entrance to the arcade.
Each moment she expected to feel a hand grasping her from the rear. There
was no getting away from her pursuers in these terrible arcades. Oh, why
had she ever trusted herself alone in this awful old city!
She darted through the archway, and then, uttering a faint cry, gave herself
up for lost, for she felt herself grasped tightly in a pair of powerful arms,
and all the terrible stories she had heard from fellow-passengers about
Europeans taken captive in Morocco, and put up for ransom recurred to her
excited fancy. She had nobody to ransom her. She would be left to languish
and die in some awful Moorish prison. Perhaps nobody would ever know of
her fate. That was what came of always doing as one chose, and making
one's friends believe a falsehood.
Like a lightning flash all this passed through Marjorie's mind. The next
instant she felt herself thrust against the wall. Some tall, dark figure was
standing in front of her, and a masterful English voice speaking fluent
Arabic was haranguing her pursuers in stern and menacing accents.

A sob of wonder and relief escaped Marjorie's white lips. She had not fallen
into the hands of the Moors. Mr. Stuart had caught her, was protecting her,
and when the mists cleared away from her eyes she saw that the crowd was
quickly melting away, and she knew that she was safe.
"Take my arm, Miss May," said Mr. Stuart; "they have sent back a boat for
you from the ship. Captain Taylor is making inquiries for you too. Had you
not been warned that a lady was not safe alone in Mogador—at least, not
after nightfall?"
Marjorie hung her head; tears were dropping silently. She felt more
humiliated than she had ever done in her life before. Suppose Mr. Stuart had
not come? It was a thought she could not bear to pursue.
They reached the boat. The captain listened to the story, and he spoke with
some grave severity to Marjorie, as he had a right to do; for he had done
everything to provide for the safety of his passengers, and it was not right to
him, or the company, for a wilful girl to run into needless peril out of the
waywardness of her heart.
Marjorie accepted the reproof with unwonted humility, and Mr. Stuart
suddenly spoke up for her:
"She will not do it again, captain; I will answer for her."
"All right, Mr. Stuart; I don't want to say any more. All's well that's ends
well; but——"
He checked further words, but Marjorie's cheeks whitened. She seemed to
see again those strange, fierce faces, and hear the cries of her pursuers. In
the gathering darkness Mr. Stuart put out his hand and took firm hold of
hers. She started for a moment, and then let it lie in his clasp. Indeed, she
felt her own fingers clinging to that strong hand, and a thrill went through
her as she felt his clasp tighten upon them.
They reached the side of the vessel; officers and passengers were craning
over to get news of the missing passenger.
"Here she is, all safe!" cried the captain rather gruffly, and a little cry of
relief went up, followed by a cheer.

Mr. Stuart leant forward in the darkness and whispered:
"You see what a commotion you have made, Marjorie, I think you will have
to let me answer for you, and take care of you in the future."
"I think I shall," she answered, with a little tremulous laugh that was half a
sob, and in the confusion of getting the boat brought up alongside Marjorie
felt a lover's kiss upon her cheek.

FOURTH COUSINS.

BY GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.

In the early summer of 1860 I went upon a visit to a distant relative of mine,
who lived in one of the Shetland Islands. It was early summer with myself
then: I was a medical student with life all before me—life and hope, and joy
and sorrow as well. I went north with the intention of working hard, and
took quite a small library with me; there was nothing in the shape of study I
did not mean to do, and to drive at: botany, the flora of the Ultima Thule, its
fauna and geology, too, to say nothing of chemistry and therapeutics. So
much for good intentions, but—I may as well confess it as not—I never
once opened my huge box of books during the five months I lived at R——,
and if I studied at all it was from the book of Nature, which is open to every
one who cares to con its pages.
The steamboat landed me at Lerwick, and I completed my journey—with
my boxes—next day in an open boat.
It was a very cold morning, with a grey, cold, choppy sea on, the spray from
which dashed over the boat, wetting me thoroughly, and making me feel
pinched, blear-eyed, and miserable. I even envied the seals I saw cosily
asleep in dry, sandy caves, at the foot of the black and beetling rocks.
How very fantastic those rocks were, but cheerless—so cheerless! Even the
sea birds that circled around them seemed screaming a dirge. An opening in
a wall of rock took us at length into a long, winding fiord, or arm of the sea,
with green bare fields on every side, and wild, weird-like sheep that gazed
on us for a moment, then bleated and fled. Right at the end of this rock
stood my friend's house, comfortable and solid-looking, but unsheltered by
a single tree.

"I sha'n't stay long here," I said to myself, as I landed.
An hour or two afterwards I had changed my mind entirely. I was seated in
a charmingly and cosily-furnished drawing-room upstairs. The windows
looked out to and away across the broad Atlantic. How strange it was; for
the loch that had led me to the front of the house, and the waters of which
rippled up to the very lawn, was part of the German Ocean, and here at the
back, and not a stone's throw distant, was the Atlantic! Its great, green, dark
billows rolled up and broke into foam against the black breastwork of cliffs
beneath us; the immense depth of its waves could be judged of by keeping
the eye fixed upon the tall, steeple-like rocks which shot up here and there
through the water a little way out to sea: at one moment these would appear
like lofty spires, and next they would be almost entirely swallowed up.
Beside the fire, in an easy chair, sat my grey-haired old relation and host,
and, not far off, his wife. Hospitable, warm-hearted, and genial both of
them were. If marriages really are made in heaven, I could not help thinking
theirs must have been, so much did they seem each other's counterpart.
Presently Cousin Maggie entered, smiling to me as she did so; her left hand
lingered fondly for a moment on her father's grey locks, then she sat down
unbidden to the piano. My own face was partially shaded by the window
curtain, so that I could study that of my fair cousin as she played without
appearing rude. Was she beautiful? that was the question I asked myself,
and was trying hard to answer. Every feature of her face was faultless, her
mouth and ears were small, she had a wealth of rich, deep auburn hair, and
eyes that seemed to have borrowed the noonday tints of a summer sea, so
bright, so blue were they. But was she beautiful? I could not answer the
question then.
On the strength of my blood relationship, distant though it was, for we were
really only third or fourth cousins, I was made a member of this family
from the first, and Maggie treated me as a brother. I was not entirely
pleased with the latter arrangement, because many days had not passed ere I
concluded it would be a pleasant pastime for me to make love to Cousin
Maggie. But weeks went by, and my love-making was still postponed; it
became a sine die kind of a probability. Maggie was constantly with me
when out of doors—my companion in all my fishing and shooting trips. But

she carried not only a rod but even a rifle herself, she could give me lessons
in casting the fly—and did; she often shot dead the seals that I had merely
wounded, and her prowess in rowing astonished me, and her daring in
venturing so far to sea in our broad, open boat often made me tremble for
our safety.
A frequent visitor for the first two months of my stay at R—— was a young
and well-to-do farmer and fisher, who came in his boat from a neighbouring
island, always accompanied by his sister, and they usually stayed a day or
two. I was not long in perceiving that this Mr. Thorforth was very fond of
my cousin; the state of her feelings towards him it was some time before I
could fathom, but the revelation came at last, and quite unexpectedly.
There was an old ruin some distance from the house, where, one lovely
moonlight night, I happened to be seated alone. I was not long alone,
however; from a window I could see my cousin and Thorforth coming
towards the place, and, thinking to surprise them, I drew back under the
shadow of a portion of the wall. But I was not to be an actor in that scene,
though it was one I shall never forget. I could not see his face, but hers, on
which the moonbeams fell, was pained, half-frightened, impatient. He was
telling her he loved her and asking her to love him in return. She stopped
him at last.
What she said need not be told. In a few moments he was gone, and she was
standing where he left her, following him with pitying eyes as he walked
hurriedly away.
Next day Magnus Thorforth said goodbye and left: even his sister looked
sad. She must have known it all. I never saw them again.
One day, about a month after this, Maggie and I were together in a cave
close by the ocean—a favourite haunt of ours on hot forenoons. Our boat
was drawn up close by, the day was bright, and the sea calm, its tiny
wavelets making drowsy, dreamy music on the yellow sands.
She had been reading aloud, and I was gazing at her face.
"I begin to think you are beautiful," I said.

She looked down at me where I lay with those innocent eyes of hers, that
always looked into mine as frankly as a child's would.
"I'm not sure," I continued, "that I sha'n't commence making love to you,
and perhaps I might marry you. What would you think of that?"
"Love!" she laughed, as musically as a sea-nymph—"love? Love betwixt a
cousin and a cousin? Preposterous!"
"I daresay," I said, pretending to pout, "you wouldn't marry me because I'm
poor."
"Poor!" she repeated, looking very firm and earnest now; "if the man I
loved were poor, I'd carry a creel for him—I'd gather shells for his sake; but
I don't love anybody and don't mean to. Come."
So that was the beginning and end of my love-making for Cousin Maggie.
And Maggie had said she never meant to love any one. Well, we never can
tell what may be in our immediate future.
Hardly had we left the cave that day, and put off from the shore, ere cat's-
paws began to ruffle the water. They came in from the west, and before we
had got half-way to the distant headland a steady breeze was blowing. We
had hoisted our sail, and were running before it with the speed of a gull on
the wing.
Once round the point, we had a beam wind till we entered the fiord, then we
had to beat to windward all the way home, by which time it was blowing
quite a gale.
It went round more to the north about sunset, and then, for the first time, we
noticed a yacht of small dimensions on the distant horizon. Her intention
appeared to be that of rounding the island, and probably anchoring on the
lee side of it. She was in an ugly position, however, and we all watched her
anxiously till nightfall hid her from our view.
I retired early, but sleep was out of the question, for the wind raged and
howled around the house like wild wolves. About twelve o'clock the sound
of a gun fell on my ears. I could not be mistaken, for the window rattled in
sharp response.

I sprang from my couch and began to dress, and immediately after my aged
relative entered the room. He looked younger and taller than I had seen him,
but very serious.

"The yacht is on the Ba,"[2] he said, solemnly.

[2] Ba means a sunken rock.

They were words to me of fearful significance. The yacht, I knew, must
soon break up, and nothing could save the crew.
I quickly followed my relative into the back drawing-room, where Maggie
was with her mother. We gazed out into the night, out and across the sea. At
the same moment, out there on the terrible Ba, a blue light sprang up,
revealing the yacht and even its people on board. She was leaning well over
to one side, her masts gone, and the spray dashing over her.
"Come!" cried Maggie, "there is no time to lose. We can guide their boat to
the cave. Come, cousin!"
I felt dazed, thunderstruck. Was I to take active part in a forlorn hope? Was
Maggie—how beautiful and daring she looked now!—to assume the rôle of
a modern Grace Darling? So it appeared.
The events of that night come back to my memory now as if they had
happened but yesterday. It is a page in my past life that can never be
obliterated.
We pulled out of the fiord, Maggie and I, and up under lee of the island;
then, on rounding the point, we encountered the whole force of the sea and
wind. There was a glimmering light on the wrecked yacht, and for that we
rowed, or rather were borne along on the gale. No boat, save a Shetland
skiff, could have been trusted in such a sea.
As we neared the Ba, steadying herself by leaning on my shoulder, Maggie
stood half up and waved the lantern, and it was answered from the wreck.
Next moment it seemed to me we were on the lee side, and Maggie herself
hailed the shipwrecked people.
"We cannot come nearer!" she cried; "lower your boat and follow our light
closely."
"Take the tiller now," she continued, addressing me, "and steer for the light
you see on the cliff. Keep her well up, though, or all will be lost."

We waited—and that with difficulty—for a few minutes, till we saw by the
starlight that the yacht's boat was lowered, then away we went.
The light on the cliff-top moved slowly down the wind. I kept the boat's
head a point or two above it, and on she dashed. The rocks loomed black
and high as we neared them, the waves breaking in terrible turmoil beneath.
Suddenly the light was lowered over the cliff down to the very water's edge.
"Steady, now!" cried my brave cousin, and next moment we were round a
point and into smooth water, with the yacht's boat close beside us. The place
was partly cave, partly "noss." We beached our boats, and here we remained
all night, and were all rescued next morning by a fisherman's yawl.
The yacht's people were the captain, his wife, and one boy—the whole crew
Norwegians, Brinster by name.
My story is nearly done. What need to tell of the gratitude of those Maggie's
heroism had saved from a watery grave!
But it came to pass that when, a few months afterwards, a beautiful new
yacht came round to the fiord to take those shipwrecked mariners away,
Cousin Maggie went with them on a visit.
It came to pass also that when I paid my very next visit to R—— in the
following summer, I found living at my relative's house a Major Brinster
and a Mrs. Brinster.
And Mrs. Brinster was my Cousin Maggie, and Major Brinster was my
Cousin Maggie's fate.

THE PEDLAR'S PACK.

BY LUCIE E. JACKSON.

Colonel Bingham was seated in his library facing the window that looked
out on to the green sloping lawn, the smiling meadow, and the dark belt of
firs which skirted the wood. There was a frown on his brow, and his eyes
wore a perplexed look. On the opposite side of the room stood a young girl
of seventeen balancing herself adroitly on the ridge of a chair, and smiling
with evident satisfaction at her own achievement.
The colonel was speaking irritably.
"You see, you can't even now sit still while I speak to you, but you must
poise yourself on your chair like a schoolboy. Is it a necessary part of your
existence that you must behave like a boy rather than a girl?"
Patty hung her head shamefacedly, and the smile left her lips.
"And then, what is this that I hear about a rifle? Is it true that Captain
Palmer has lent you one?"
"Only just to practise with for a few weeks. Dad, don't be angry. He has a
new one, so he doesn't miss it. Why"—warming to her subject and
forgetting for the moment that she was in great danger of still further
disgracing herself in her father's eyes by her confession—"I can hit even a
small object at a very considerable distance five times out of six."
The perplexed look deepened in her father's eyes, but the irritability had
cleared away. He toyed with the open letter that he held in his hand. "I
suppose it is for this as well as for your other schoolboy pranks that your
aunt has invited only Rose. But I don't like it—it is not right. If it were not
for the unfairness to Rose, I should have refused outright. As it is, the

invitation has been accepted by me, and it must stand, for Rose must not be
deprived of her pleasures because you like——"
"Invitation! What invitation?" interrupted Patty.
"Your aunt is giving a big ball on the 13th, and she is insistent that Rose
should be present. It will be the child's first ball, and I cannot gainsay her.
But, Patty, I should like you both to go. You are seventeen, are you not?"
"Seventeen and a half," returned Patty with a little choke in her voice.
It was the first she had heard of the invitation, and it stung her to think that
Lady Glendower thought her too much of a hoyden to invite her with the
sister who was but one year older. Patty was girl enough to love dancing
even above her other amusements, and the unbidden tears came into her
eyes as she stood looking forlornly at her father.
Colonel Bingham coughed, and tapped his writing-desk with the letter.
"Seventeen and a half," he repeated, "quite old enough to go to a ball. Never
mind, Patty, I've a good mind to give a ball myself and leave out her
younger daughter, only that it would be too much like tu quoque, and your
aunt has a reason for not extending her invitation here which I should not
have in relation to your cousin Fanny, eh, Patty?"
But Patty's eyes were still humid, and she could only gaze dumbly at her
father with such a pathetic look on her pretty face that Colonel Bingham
could not stand it.
"Look here, child," he said, "why aren't you more like your sister Rose?
Then her pleasures would be always yours——"
"Who's talking about me?" asked a gay voice, and into the room walked
Patty's sister Rose.
"I am. I have been telling Patty about the invitation."
"Poor Patty!" said Rose, and she put her arm sympathetically round Patty's
neck. "Aunt Glendower is most unkind, I think."

"It can't be helped," murmured Patty, choking back the rising sob. "If I had
been born a sweet maiden who did nothing but stitch at fancy-work all day
long perhaps she would have invited me, but I can't give up my cricket, my
riding my horse bare-backed, my shooting, just for the sake of a ball or two
that Aunt Glendower feels inclined to give once a year. Much as I love
dancing, I can't give up all these pleasures for an occasional dance."
"Rose has pleasures too," said her father quietly, "but they are of the
womanly kind—music, painting, reading, tending flowers."
Rose laughed gaily as Patty turned up her pretty nose scornfully.
"Let Patty alone, dad. You know very well that you would grow tired of too
much sameness if Patty showed the same tastes that I have."
Colonel Bingham glanced fondly at her and then at Patty, whose face, in
spite of her brave words, was still very tearful-looking. He knew that in his
heart he loved his two daughters equally—his "two motherless girls," as he
was wont to call them—and although he belonged to the old school of those
who abhor masculine pursuits for women, yet he felt that Rose's words were
true, and for that very dissimilarity did he love them.
"Heigho," said Patty, jumping off her chair, "I am not going to grieve any
more. Let's talk of Rose's dress, and when she is going."
"We both start to-morrow."
"To-morrow? And do you go too, dad?"
"Yes, Patty. I have business in town with my lawyer, which I have been
putting off from day to day, but now I feel I shall take the opportunity of
transacting it with him on the occasion of taking Rose up with me. Besides,
I can't let her go to her first ball without being there to see how she looks."
"And what about the dress?"
"Aunt says she will see to that, so we have to start a few days before the
ball takes place for Céline to get a dress ready for me," said Rose, looking
tenderly at Patty as she spoke, for the two girls loved each other, and it hurt
her to think that Patty must be left behind.

"You won't be nervous, child?" asked her father.
"Nervous, father! dear me, no, a tomboy nervous? Why, I have Mrs. Tucker,
cook, and Fanny to bear me company, and if you take the groom we shall
still have the stable boy," returned Patty triumphantly.
"I am glad you sent away that new coachman, dad," said Rose earnestly. "I
never liked his face, it always looked so sly and sneaking."
"Yes, I am glad too, and we must endeavour to find one when we are in
town, and perhaps bring him back with us, Rose—the place is a lonely one
without a man when I am away." He spoke the last words to himself, but the
girls heard him and laughed. They knew no fear. Why should they? Nothing
had ever come near to harm them during the short years of their existence in
their country home.
Colonel Bingham had of late questioned the wisdom of continuing to live
with his daughters in his beautiful, isolated house. It was three miles from
the nearest village, post-office, and church, and there was not another
habitation within that distance; it was five miles from the nearest market
town. But his heart clung to it. Hadn't he and his bride, twenty years before,
chosen this beautiful spot of all others to build their house upon and make it
their home? Had not his wife loved every nook and cranny, every stick and
stone of the home they had beautified within and without? And therein lay
the colonel's two chief objections to leaving the place—it was beautiful—
and—his wife had loved it.
So did his daughters too, for that matter; but they were growing up, and
newer scenes and livelier surroundings were now needed for them. The
colonel often caught himself pondering over the matter, and one of the
reasons for his wishing to visit his sister was that of laying the matter open
before her, and hearing her opinion from her own lips.
At an early hour the next morning Colonel Bingham, Rose, and the groom,
with two of the horses, had left the house.
There was nothing to alarm Patty. The beautiful home with its peaceful
surroundings was perfectly quiet for the two days that followed, and if
Patty, in spite of her brave heart, had felt any qualms of fear, they had
vanished on the morning of the third day, which dawned so brilliantly bright

that she was eager to take her rifle and begin practising at the target she
herself had set up at the end of the short wood to the left of the house.
Meanwhile, the housekeeper had set both maids to work in turning out
several unused rooms, and a great amount of brisk work was going on. The
trim housemaid, Fanny, who was the housekeeper's niece, had come down
the back stairs with an armful of carpets, and had brushed into the flagged
yard before she noticed a pedlar-like-looking man standing before the back
door with a pack upon his back.
"What do you do here?" she called out sharply.
The man appeared weighted down with his bundle, which looked to Fanny's
eyes a good deal bigger than most of the pedlars' packs that she had seen.
"I am on my way through the country-side selling what maids most love—a
bit of ribbon, a tie, a good serviceable apron, a feather for the hat, and many
a pretty gown; but on my way from the village I met a friend from my own
part of the country, which is not in this county, but two counties up north,
who tells me that my wife is lying dangerously ill. If I wish to see her alive
I must needs travel fast, and a man can scarce do that with as heavy a pack
on his back as I bear. What I venture to ask most respectfully is that I may
place my pack in one corner of this house, and I will return to fetch it as
soon as ever I can."
He gave a furtive dab to his eyes with the corner of a blue-checked
handkerchief he held in one hand, and hoisted his bundle up higher with
apparent difficulty.
Fanny looked gravely at him "Why didn't you leave your pack at the village
inn?" was all she said.
"I would have done so had I met my friend before leaving the village, but I
met him just at the entrance to the wood, and it seemed hopeless to trudge
all that way back with not only a heavy burden to bear, but a still heavier
heart."
He sighed miserably as he spoke, and Fanny's soft heart was touched.

The man spoke well—better than many pedlars that Fanny had met with,
and his tone was respectful, albeit very pleading. Fanny's heart was growing
softer and softer. He looked faint and weary himself, she thought, and oh!
so very sad——
"Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? Ain't those carpets finished yet?" The
housekeeper's voice sounded sharply at the top of the back staircase.
The pedlar looked scared. Fanny beckoned him with one finger to follow
her.
"Coming, aunt," she called back. And, still silently beckoning, she
conducted the pedlar into the small breakfast-room.
"Put it down in this corner," she said, "and come for it as soon as you can."
"May I beg that it will remain untouched," said the pedlar humbly. "It
contains many valuables—at least to me—for it comprises nearly all that I
possess in the world."
"No one will touch it in here, for this room is never used."
"I cannot thank you enough for your compassion——" began the pedlar,
when the sharp voice was heard again.
"Fanny, cook's waitin' for you to help her move some things. Are you
comin' or not?"
"Coming now," was Fanny's answer, and, shutting the breakfast-room door,
she hustled the pedlar out into the flagged yard without ceremony.
With a deferential lifting of his cap the pedlar again murmured his grateful
thanks, and made his way out the way he had come in. Fanny waited to lock
the yard gate after him, murmuring to herself: "That gate didn't ought to
have been left open—it's just like that lazy boy Sam to think that now
Britton's gone off with the horses he can do as he likes."
It was not until the furniture in the room had been moved about to her
satisfaction that the housekeeper demanded to know the reason for Fanny's
delay downstairs.

"It isn't cook's business to be waitin' about for you," she said sharply, "she's
got her other duties to perform. What kept you?"
Then Fanny told what had caused the delay, and was aghast at the effect it
produced upon her aunt.
"I wouldn't have had it happen just now for all my year's wages," the
housekeeper exclaimed hotly. "What do we know about the man and his
pack?"
"He looked so white and quiet-like, and so sad," pleaded her niece half
tearfully.
"That's nothin' to us. I promised the master before he went away that I
wouldn't let a strange foot pass over the doorway while he was away. And
here you—a mere chit of a housemaid—go, without sayin', 'With your
leave,' or, 'By your leave,' and let a dirty pedlar with his pack straight into
the breakfast-room. He's sure to have scented the silver lyin' on the
sideboard for cleanin' this afternoon. If I didn't think he'd gone a long way
from here by this I would send you after him to tell him to take it away
again."
Having delivered herself of this long, explosive speech, the housekeeper
proceeded in the direction of the breakfast-room to review the pack, and
Fanny and the cook followed in her wake.
"As I thought," she ejaculated, eyeing the pack from the doorway, "a dirty
pedlar's smellin' pack." But the tone of her voice was mollified, for the pack
looked innocent enough, although it was somewhat bulky and unwieldy in
appearance.
Her niece took heart of grace from her tone, and murmured apologetically:
"He's got the loveliest things in that bundle that ever you'd see, aunt.
Feathers, ribbons, dresses, aprons, and he'll unpack them all when he comes
back to let us see them."
"A pack o' tawdry rubbish, I have no doubt," was her aunt's reply; "only fit
for flighty young girls, not for gentlemen's servants."

Thus silenced, Fanny said no more, and the three women betook themselves
to their different occupations.
After half an hour's work her girlish glee was still unabated, and on passing
the door of the breakfast-room mere curious elation impelled her to open it
softly and to look in. A perplexed look stole into her eyes as they rested on
the black object in the corner. It was there sure enough, safe and sound, but
had it not been shifted from the corner in which the pedlar had placed it,
and in which her aunt had seen it in company with herself and the cook?
No, that was impossible. She had only fancied that it was right in the
corner, and Fanny softly shut the door again without making a sound, and
went on with her daily duties.
This time her aunt employed her, and she was not free again till another two
hours had passed. It was now close on the luncheon hour, and Fanny
thought she would just take one little peep before setting the luncheon-table
for the young mistress who would come home as usual as hungry as a
hunter.
Gently she turned the handle, and stood upon the threshold. Her eyes grew
fixed and staring, her cheek blanched to a chalky white. Without all doubt
—the pack had moved!
Fanny stood rooted to the spot. Wild, strange ideas flitted through her brain.
There was something uncanny in this pack. Was it bewitched? She dared
not call her aunt or the cook: she was in disgrace with both, and no wonder,
the poor girl thought miserably, for the very sight now of that uncouth-
looking object in the corner was beginning to assume hideous proportions
in the girl's mind. She must watch and wait, and wait and watch for every
sign that the pack made, but oh! the agony of bearing that uncanny secret
alone! Oh for some one to share it with her!
A figure darkened the window of the breakfast-room, and Fanny caught
sight of her young mistress's form as it passed with the rifle over her
shoulder.
With a soft step she left the room, and intercepted her on the other side of
the verandah. "Miss Patty," she whispered miserably.

Patty turned, her pretty face lighting up with a good-humoured smile as she
nodded and said, "Luncheon ready, Fanny? I am simply ravenous."
"Ye-es, I think so, miss. But oh! miss, I want to speak to you badly."
Fatty came forward with the smile still on her lips. "Has Mrs. Tucker been
scolding you dreadfully, you poor Fanny?"
"Then she's told you?" gasped the girl.
"She's told me nothing. I haven't seen her, but you look so woebegone that I
thought she had been having a pitch battle with you for neglecting
something or other, and you wanted me to get you out of the scrape."
Fanny groaned inwardly. No, her aunt had said nothing, and she must brace
herself up, and tell the whole story from beginning to end. The beginning,
she began to think, was not so dreadful as the end. Oh that she could dare to
disbelieve her eyes, and declare that there was no end—no awful, uncanny
end!
At length, in the quiet of the verandah, the story was told, and Fanny's heart
misgave her more and more as she observed the exceeding gravity of her
young mistress's bright face as the story neared its finish. When the finish
did come, Patty's face was more than grave; the weight of responsibility
was on her, and to young, unused shoulders that weight is particularly
difficult to bear.
"Come and show me where it is," was the only remark she made, but Fanny
noticed that the red lips had lost some of their bright colour, and the pink in
the soft cheeks was of a fainter tinge than when she had first seen her.
Without making the slightest sound, without one click of the handle, Fanny
opened the door, and Patty looked in. Her courage came back with a bound.
Fanny was a goose, there was nothing to be alarmed about.
She looked up to smile encouragingly at Fanny, when the smile froze on her
lips, for Fanny's face was livid. Without a word she beckoned her young
mistress out of the room, and as softly as before closed the door. Then,
turning to her, she whispered through her set teeth:
"It has moved again!"

A cold shiver ran down through Patty's spine, but she was no girl to be
frightened by the superstitious fancies of an ignorant serving maid.
"Nonsense, Fanny!" she said sharply, "you are growing quite crazed over
that stupid pack. I saw nothing unusual in it, it looked innocent enough in
all conscience."
"You never saw it move," was the answer, given in such a lifeless tone that
Patty was chilled again.
"I'll tell you what, Fanny. I'll go in after luncheon, and see if it has moved
from the place I saw it in."
"Did you notice the place well where it stood?" asked Fanny.
"Yes," replied Patty, "I'd know if it moved again. Don't tell Mrs. Tucker or
cook anything about it. You and I will try to checkmate that pack if there is
anything uncanny in it. Now tell cook I am ready for luncheon if she is."
But when the luncheon came on the table Patty had lost all hunger. She
merely nibbled at trifles till Fanny came to clear away.
"I'm going to that room," she whispered. "If Mrs. Tucker should want me,
or perhaps Sam might, for I told him I was going to see how well he had
cleaned the harness that I found in the loft, then you must come in quietly
and beckon me out. Don't let any one know I am watching that pack."
"Yes, miss," was Fanny's answer, given so hopelessly that Patty put a kind
hand on her shoulder with the words:
"Cheer up, Fanny. I don't believe it's so bad as you make out. It is my belief
you have imagined that the pack moved."
"It isn't my fancy, it isn't," cried the girl, the tears starting to her eyes. "If
anything dreadful happens, then it is me that has injured the master—the
best master that a poor girl could have." And with her apron to her eyes
Fanny left the room.
She came back a minute later to see Patty examining the priming of her
rifle. "Miss Patty," she whispered aghast, "you ain't never going to shoot at
it!"

"I am going to sit in that room all the afternoon," said Patty calmly, "and if
that pack moves while my eyes are on it I'll fire into that pack even if by so
doing I riddle every garment in it." And without another word Patty stalked
out of the room with her rifle on her shoulder.
At the door of the breakfast-room she set her teeth hard, and opened the
door.
The pack had moved since she saw it.
It was with a face destitute of all colour that Patty seated herself upon the
table to mount guard over that black object now lying several yards away
from the corner. Her eyes were glued to the bundle; they grew large and
glassy, and a film seemed to come over them as she gazed, without daring
even to wink. How the minutes passed—if they revolved themselves into
half hours—she did not know. No one called her, no one approached the
door, she sat on with one fixed stare at the pedlar's pack.
Was she dreaming? Was it fancy? No, the pack was moving! Slowly, very
slowly it crept—it could hardly be called moving, and Patty watched it
fascinated. Then it stopped, and Patty, creeping nearer, stood over it, and
watched more closely. Something was breathing inside! Something inside
that pack was alive! Patty could now clearly see the movement that each
respiration made. She had made up her mind, and now she took her courage
in both hands.
She retreated softly to the opposite side of the room, and raising the rifle to
her shoulder fired.
There was a loud, a deafening report, a shrill scream, and a stream of blood
trickled forth from the pack. Fanny was in the room crying hysterically,
Mrs. Tucker and cook were looking over her shoulder with blanched faces.
Patty, with her face not one whit less white than any of the others, laid the
smoking rifle on the table, and spoke with a tremulousness not usual to her.
"Mrs. Tucker, some vile plot has been hatched to rob this house while your
master is away. That pack doesn't hold finery as Fanny was at first led to
believe, but it holds a man, and I have shot him."

With trembling hands and colourless lips Mrs. Tucker, with the help of her
maids, cut away the oilcloth that bound the pack together, and disclosed the
face of a short sturdy man, it was the face of the late coachman, Timothy
Smith! With one voice they cried aloud as they saw it.
"Dead! Is he dead?" cried Patty, shuddering and covering her face with her
hands. "Oh, Mrs. Tucker, and it is I who have killed him!"
A groan from the prostrate figure reassured the party as to the fatality of the
adventure, and aroused in them a sense of the necessity of doing what they
could to relieve the sufferings of their prostrate enemy.
The huddled-up position occupied by the man when in the pack made him,
of course, a good target, and made it possible for a single shot to do much
more mischief than it might have done in passing once through any single
part of his body. It was, of course, a random shot, and entering the pack
vertically as the man was crouching with his hands upon his knees, it
passed through his right arm and left hand and lodged in his left knee, thus
completely disabling him without touching a vital part.
With some difficulty they managed to get the wounded man on to a chair
bedstead which they brought from the housekeeper's room for the purpose,
and such "first aid" as Patty was able to render was quickly given.
"And now," said Patty, "the question is, who will ride Black Bess to the
village and procure help, for we must have help for the wounded as well as
aid against the ruffians who no doubt intend to raid the house to-night."
"Sam, miss?" questioned the housekeeper timidly. All her nerve seemed to
have departed from her since the report of that shot had rung through the
house, and there was Timothy Smith's face staring up at her. Usually a
stout-hearted woman, all her courage had deserted her now.
"Yes," said Patty gravely, "I think we shall have to take Sam into our
confidence, unless I go myself. Perhaps, Mrs. Tucker, I had better go
myself. Sam is only a boy, and he might be tempted to tell the story to
everybody he met, and if the thieves themselves get wind of what has
happened we shall have small chance of ever catching them. Would you be
afraid if I rode off at once?"

Without any false pride the young girl saw how much depended on her, and
saw too the blanched faces of the two women as they looked in turn at each
other at the thought of their sole protector vanishing.
But it was only for a minute. Mrs. Tucker shook off with a courageous
firmness the last remnant of nervousness that possessed her.
"Go, and the Lord go with you, Miss Patty," she said.

As she rode along through the quiet country lanes smelling sweet of the
honeysuckle in the hedge and the wild dog-rose bursting into bloom, Patty's
thoughts travelled fast and furiously, every whit as fast as Black Bess's
hasty steps. Should she draw bridle at the village? No. She made up her
mind quickly at that. In all probability the would-be thieves had made the
village inn their headquarters for that day and night, and the pedlar—the
man she wished most to avoid—would be the very person she would
encounter. The village was small. Only one policeman patrolled the narrow-
street, and that only occasionally, and how quickly would the news fly from
mouth to mouth that a would-be robbery had been detected in time to save
Colonel Bingham's valuable silver!
No, the pedlar would not be allowed to escape in that way if she could help
it. Every step of the five miles to the town of Frampton would she ride, and
draw help from there.
As she neared the village she walked her horse at a quiet pace, albeit her
brain was throbbing, and her nerves all in a quiver to go faster. She nodded
smilingly to the familiar faces as she met them in the street, although she
felt very far from smiling, and everywhere she seemed to see the face of
Timothy Smith. Then her heart gave a bound as she saw, leaning against the
wicket-gate of the village inn, three men—two with the most villainous
faces she had ever seen, and the third bore the face of the man that Fanny
had described as the pedlar. She was not mistaken, then, when she thought
they would make this their headquarters.

She drew bridle as she neared the inn. Her quick brain saw the necessity of
it, if but to explain her presence there.
"Will you be so good as to ask the landlady to come out to me?" she asked,
with a gracious smile—the smile that the villagers always said was "Miss
Patty's own."
The pedlar lifted his cap with the same air that Fanny had so accurately
described, and himself undertook to go upon the mission.
"Bless you, Miss Patty," exclaimed the buxom landlady as she came out,
curtseying and smiling, followed in a leisurely manner by the pedlar,
"where be you a-ridin' that Black Bess be so hot and foam-like about the
mouth?"
Patty stooped forward and patted her horse's neck, fully aware that three
pairs of ears at the wicket-gate were being strained to catch her answer.
"It is too bad of me to ride her so fast, Mrs. Clark. The fact of the matter is I
ought to be at Miss Price's this moment for tennis and tea, but I am late, and
have been trying to make up for lost time. However, I must not breathe
Black Bess too much, must I, or else I shall not be allowed to ride her
again?" and Patty smiled her bewitching smile, which always captivated the
heart of the landlady of the Roaring Lion.
An order for supplies for the servants' cellar, given in a firm voice, justified
her appearance in the village and satisfied the eager listeners as to the object
of her visit, after which, with a nod and a smile, Patty rode onwards.
Not till she was out of sight and hearing of the village did she urge Black
Bess to the top of her bent, and they flew onwards like the wind.
Thud, thud, thud went the horse's hoofs, keeping time to the beating of
Patty's heart as she recalled again and again the villainous faces leaning
over the wicket-gate.
Even Black Bess seemed to realise the importance of her mission and it was
not long before Patty's heart grew lighter as she caught sight not very far off
of the spire of Trinity Church, and the turreted roof of the Town Hall of
Frampton. Reaching the town she drew rein at Major Price's house, where,

with bated breath, her story was received by the major and his two grown-
up sons. A message was sent to the police station, and in a short while two
burly sergeants of police presented themselves, to whom Patty repeated her
tale.
Arrangements were soon made. A surgeon was sent for and engaged to
drive over with the police.
"They rascals won't break in till darkness falls, miss," said one of the men.
"But we'll start at once in a trap. Better be too early than too late."
The Prices would not hear of Patty riding Black Bess back. They
themselves would drive her home in the high dog-cart, and Black Bess
would be left behind to forget her fatigue in Major Price's comfortable
stables.
Of course they didn't go the way that Patty had come. It would never have
done to go through the village and meet those same ruffians, who would
have understood the position in the twinkling of an eye. Instead, they took a
roundabout way, which, although it took an extra half hour, brought them
through the wood on the other side of Colonel Bingham's house.
"It is lonely—too lonely a place," muttered Major Price, as the two
conveyances swung round to the front of the house.
"But it's lovely, and we love it," answered Patty softly.
Then the door was opened cautiously by Sam, and behind him were the
huddled figures of Mrs. Tucker, cook, and Fanny. What a sigh of relief ran
through the assembly when the burly forms of the two policeman made
their appearance in the hall! And tears of real thankfulness sprang to poor
Fanny's eyes, whose red rims told their own tale.
Poor Patty's heart beat painfully as she conducted the six men to the
breakfast-room where the wounded coachman lay. She stood with averted
face and eyes as they bent over him, twining and re-twining her fingers with
nervous terror as she thought that it was her hand that had perhaps killed
him.

"Ah! this tells something," exclaimed one of the officers in uniform,
detaching as he spoke a small whistle fastened round the neck of the man
who lay all unconscious of that official attention. "This was to give the
alarm when all in the house were asleep. We shall use this when the time
comes to attract the men here."
Beyond the discovery of the whistle, and a revolver, nothing more of
importance was found, and all caught themselves wishing for the time for
action to arrive.
The surgeon dressed the man's wounds and declared him to be in no
immediate danger, after which they carried him upstairs to a remote room,
where it would be quite impossible for him to give any warning to his
confederates, even if he should have the strength.
The hour came at last when poor Patty felt worn out with suspense and
fearful anxiety; came, when Mrs. Tucker and her two maids were strung up
to an almost hysterical pitch of excitement; came, when Sam was beginning
to look absolutely hollow-eyed with watching every movement of the
police with admiring yet fearful glances.
It was twelve o'clock. The grandfather's clock on the stairs had struck the
hour in company with several silvery chimes about the house, making
music when all else was still as death.
Up to that time the sky had been dark and lowering, causing darkness to
reign supreme, till the full moon, suddenly emerging from the heavy flying
clouds, lighted up the house and its surroundings with its refulgent beams.
Then suddenly throughout the silent night there rang forth a low, soft,
piercing whistle. Only once it sounded, and then dead silence fell again.
The wounded man started in his bed, but he could not raise his hand, and
the whistle was gone.
The eyes of the women watchers looked at each other with faces weary and
worn with anxiety and fear.
Then another sound broke the stillness. Another whistle—an answering call
to the one that had rung forth before! It had the effect of startling every one
in the house, for it came from under the very window of the room in which
they were gathered.

With an upraised finger, cautioning silence, the sergeant stepped to the
window and raised it softly.
"Hist!" he said in a thrilling whisper, without showing himself, "the lib'ry
winder."
He softly closed the casement again, having discerned in that brief moment
the moonlit shadows of three men lying athwart the lawn.
In stockinged feet the five men slid noiselessly into the library where the
Venetians had been so lowered as to prevent the silvery moonrays from
penetrating into the room. Placing the three gentlemen in convenient places
should their assistance be needed, one of the men in uniform pushed aside
the French window which he had previously unfastened to be in readiness.
"Hist! softly there," he growled; "the swag is ours."
With a barely concealed grunt of satisfaction the window was pushed
farther open, and the forms of three men made their way into the room.
With lightning-like celerity the arms of the first man were pinioned, and
when the others turned to fly they found their egress cut off by the three
Prices, who stood pointing menacing revolvers at them.
"The game's up!" growled the sham pedlar. "Who blabbed?"
"Not Timothy Smith," said the elder sergeant lightly, as he adroitly fastened
the handcuffs on his man.
"What's come of him?"
"He's in bed, as all decent people ought to be at this time o'night," and the
sergeant laughed at his own wit.
The police carried their men off in triumph in the trap, and the wiry little
pony, rejoiced to find his head turned homewards, trotted on right merrily,
requiring neither whip nor word to urge him on to express speed, in total
ignorance of the vindictive feelings that animated the breasts of three at
least of the men seated behind him.

Major Price and his two sons remained till the morning, for Patty had
broken down when all was over, and then a telegram summoned Colonel
Bingham to return.
"I am not exactly surprised," he said at length, when he had heard the story;
"something like this was bound to occur one day or other, and I cannot be
too thankful that nothing has happened to injure my dear brave girl, or any
of the household. Patty, I have felt so convinced of something dreadful
happening during one of my unavoidable absences from home that I have
made arrangements with an old friend of mine in town to lease this place to
him for three years."
"And when does he come?" asked Patty breathlessly.
"Next month. He is going to make it a fishing- and shooting-box, and have
bachelor friends to stay with him. So, my dear, we all clear out in a month's
time."
Patty gave a long-drawn sigh. Her father did not know whether it was one
of pleasure or regret.
"We can come back if we like after the three years," he whispered.
"I am glad we are going just now," she whispered back. "That pedlar's eyes
haunt me, and they are all desperate men."
These words were sufficient to make Colonel Bingham hurry on his
arrangements, so that before three weeks were over he and his whole
household were on their way to their new home.
As they got out of the train Colonel Bingham turned to Patty. "You and I
will drive to Lady Glendower's, where we shall stay the night."
"Oh, dad, darling dad, don't take me there. Aunt Glendower won't like a
hoyden to visit her."
"She will like to welcome a brave girl," answered her father quietly.
But as Patty still shrank away from the thought he added:

"I have told her all that has happened, and she herself wrote asking me to
bring you, and I promised I would."
Rose met her with soft, clinging kisses, and then Lady Glendower folded
her in an embrace such as Patty had not thought her capable of giving.
"I am proud of my brave niece," she whispered. "Patty, go upstairs with
Rose, and get Céline to measure you for your ball-dress. I am going to give
another ball next month, and you are to be the heroine."
Under skilful treatment Timothy Smith recovered his usual health, though
the injury to his hand and knee made him a cripple for the rest of his life.
The trial was another terrible experience for Patty, and Fanny thought she
would have died when she saw the prisoners stand forward in the dock to
receive sentence. "Five years' penal servitude," said the judge, and Patty
sometimes shudders to think that the five years are nearly up.

THE UNBIDDEN GUEST.

BY F. B. FORESTER.

"No, sir," the old keeper said reflectively. "I don't know no ghost stories;
none as you'd care to hear, that is. But I could tell you of something that
happened in these parts once, and it was as strange a thing as any ghost
story I ever heard tell on."
I had spent the morning on the moor, grouse shooting, and mid-day had
brought me for an hour's welcome rest to the lonely cottage, where the old
superannuated keeper, father to the stalwart velvet-jacketed Hercules who
had acted as my guide throughout the forenoon, lived from year's end to
year's end with his son and half-a-dozen dogs for company. The level beams
of the glowing August sun bathed in a golden glow the miles of purple
moorland lying round us; air and scenery were good to breathe and to look
on; and now, as the three of us sat on a turf seat outside the cottage door
enjoying the soft sleepy inaction of the afternoon, a question of mine
concerning the folk-lore of the district, after which, hardened materialist
though I called myself, I was conscious of a secret hankering, had drawn
the foregoing remark from the patriarchal lips.
"Let's hear it, by all means," said I, lighting my pipe and settling myself
preparatory to listening. A slight grunt, resembling a stifled laugh, came
from Ben the keeper.
"You'll have to mind, sir," he put in, a twinkle in his eye. "Dad believes
what he's agoing to tell you, every word of it. It's gospel truth to him."
"Ay, that I do," responded the old man warmly. "And why shouldn't I?
Didn't I see it with my own eyes? And seein's believin', ain't it?"

"You arouse my curiosity," I said. "Let us have the story by all means, and
if it is a personal experience, so much the better."
"Well, sir," began the old man, evidently gratified by these signs of interest,
and casting a triumphant glance at his son, "what I've got to tell you don't
belong to this time of day, of course. When I says I was a little chap of six
years old or thereabouts, and that I'll be eighty-five come Michaelmas,
you'll understand that it must have been a tidy sight of years ago.
"Father, he was keeper on these moors here, same as his son's been after
him, and as his son"—with a glance of fatherly pride at the stalwart young
fellow beside him—"is now, and will be for many years to come, please
God. Him and mother and me, the three of us, lived together in just such
another cottage as this one, across t'other side of the moor, out Farnington
way. The railway runs past there now, over the very place the cottage stood
on, I believe; but no one so much as dreamt o' railways, time I talk on. Not
a road was near, and all around there was nothin' but the moors stretching
away for miles, all purple ling and heather, with not a living soul nearer
than Wharton, and that was a good twelve miles away. It was pretty lonely
for mother, o' course, during the day; but she was a brave woman, and when
dad come home at night, never a word would she let on to tell him how
right down scared she got at times and how mortally sick she felt of hearing
the sound of her own voice.
"'Been pretty quiet for you, Polly?' dad would say at night sometimes, when
the three of us would be sitting round the fire, with the flame dancing and
shining on the wall and making black shadows in all the corners.
"'Ye-es, so, so,' mother would answer, kind of grudging like, and then she'd
start telling him what she'd been about all day, or something as I'd said or
done, so as to turn his attention, you see, sir. And as a woman can gen'rally
lead a man off on whatever trail she likes to get his nose on dad would
never think no more about it; and as for mother and me being that lonely,
when he and the dogs were all away, why, I don't suppose the thought of it
ever entered his head. So, what with her never complaining, and that, dad
grew easier in his mind, and once or twice, when he'd be away at the Castle
late in the afternoon, he'd even stay there overnight.