"Let all the men who have flint-locks go aboard of her," answered the captain, "and let them stay around the wheel with Zeke. But first you must put all the unwounded prisoners in irons. Do you know where to find them?"

Zeb knew and dove down the hatchway out of sight. When he came back he had but six pairs of irons in his hand -- "not enough to go all the way round," as he said. The prisoners who were still in a group on the forecastle, were ordered aft, and obediently held out their hands for the irons. Enoch and Caleb were close by watching the operation, and when the latter came to run his eye over the men he found that there was one of whom he had promised himself that he would say a good word if chance ever threw it in his way. It was the man who had given him the only bite to eat while he was in the brig.

"There is one fellow that must not be put in irons if I can help it," said he, making his way toward the captain. "He belongs on our side of the house and I know it."

Captain O'Brien listened with an amused expression on his face while Caleb told his story, and presently beckoned to the man to come over to where he was.

"What business have you got to serve under the British flag?" said Captain O'Brien.

"I haven't got any business at all, sir," said the sailor. "I shipped on board of that schooner because I wanted something to do. I belong on the Hudson River a little ways from New York."

"You are sure your sympathies are not with her?"

"No, sir. When I saw that flag come down it was all I could do to keep from cheering."

"Well, you don't want any irons on you. Stand up here beside me and you will be safe."

Caleb and Enoch were overjoyed to hear this decision on the part of their captain. When the sailor drew up a little behind O'Brien the boys tipped him a wink to let him know that he was among friends. Giving Caleb that mouthful of food was the best thing he ever did.

When the prisoners had been ironed they were ordered aboard the sloop and into the captain's cabin, where it was known they would be safe. To make assurance doubly sure Enoch was stationed at the head of the companion-way with his flint-lock for company, and Caleb stayed with him. The wounded were then transferred on board the schooner, and her new crew, without waiting orders to that effect, seized buckets and brooms and went to work to clear the deck of the battle-stains. Of course Caleb was anxious to know what had passed in the village during his absence, and his friend took this opportunity to enlighten him.

"I knew in a minute as soon as I found that tin bucket of yours all jammed in, that you had been captured and taken aboard the schooner," said Enoch. "Zeke knew it too, for I went and got him as soon as I missed you."

"Did you know that I was going off to New York?" asked Caleb.

"Well, we suspected as much, but we was not sure of it until James Howard told me of it. I wonder if there is not some way by which we can get even with that fellow."

"We will keep an eye on him when we get back," said Caleb, who somehow grew angry every time James' name was mentioned in his hearing. "If he conducts himself as any other boy would, we can't do anything with him. They will think right away that we are down on him and anxious to be revenged; but if he goes to cutting up those shines of his, why, then, it will put a different look on the case."

"Are you all ready, Zeke?" shouted Captain O'Brien, as he cast off the rope with which the vessels were lashed together.

"All ready, Cap," replied Zeke, hurrying aft and placing his hand upon the wheel.

"Then fill away in my wake. Zeb, go to the wheel. I am going as straight into Machias as I can go."

"I won't be far behind you. Fill away as soon as you please."

The two little vessels were pushed apart, the wind gradually filled their sails and they got under way for the harbor. Things looked different to Enoch from what they did when he came out. Six of his men, whom he had shaken by the hand every day, were dead, and nine were so badly hurt that he did not know whether or not he was ever going to see them again. He always thought that war was terrible, but now he was sure of it. But there was one thing about it: He had helped save his friend and if he had got hurt himself he would not have said a word. Every once in a while he let go of his gun with one hand and placed his arm around Caleb's neck as if he never meant to let him go again.

"Say, Caleb, you don't seem to have much to do but just to stay here and keep Enoch company," said Wheaton, who had been appointed commander of the sloop. "I wish you would take a small rope with you and go up and see if there is a block in that topmast. I am going to hoist this flag there, and then our friends on shore can see how we come out."

"Where's the rope?" said Caleb.

The rope was passed to him and Caleb made it fast to one of his arms. Then he settled his hat firmly on his head, went to the ratlines and in a few moments more was at the cross-trees. From this upward he had no ropes to assist him in climbing -- nothing but twelve feet of a slippery topmast to which he had to cling in much the same manner that a boy would in climbing a tree. But this was no bar to Caleb; he had been sent on such expeditions before.

"On deck, there!" he shouted, when he had got up and placed his hand on the mast-head. "There is a block here but no rope."

"All right," shouted Wheaton in return. "Reeve that rope through that you have got with you and bring it down here."

To untie the rope from his arm, pass it through the block, twist it securely about his hand and go down to the deck with it was easily done. Then Wheaton began to fasten the flag to it, and presently it began to go aloft.

"I wish there was a union on it so that we could hoist it union down," said Wheaton. "But it is nothing but a union jack. Whichever way you hoist it, it is right side up."

"Some of the people have glasses ashore and they can soon see the flag, and they will notice that it is not on board the schooner but on board the sloop," said Enoch. "That will show them that the vessels have changed hands since we have been inside."

"But I cannot get over the sorrow that will be occasioned among some of the people when they come to hear how many men it took to make that change," said Wheaton, who acted very different from what he did when they went out. "I knew the Britishers would fight, but somehow I did not think they would fight so hard."

"I knew they would," said Caleb. "If you had been on board that schooner you would have fought till you dropped before you would have given up."

A loud cheer coming from the schooner's company interrupted their conversation, and the three turned to see what was the occasion of it. They were just entering the harbor. Captain O'Brien had taken his stand upon the windward rail so that he could have a fair view of the shore, and was waving his hat to the people on the wharf. The boys had no idea that there was so great a number of folks in Machias as they saw at that moment. They stood there, eager to find out which side had whipped, but they dared not make a demonstration for fear that they might be cheering the wrong persons. Even the schooner's flag at the mast-head of the sloop did not fully remove their suspicions. They had heard the firing, the sloop was badly cut up by the shells that had been rained upon her, and they thought they would let the vessels come a little nearer before they said anything.

"You need not tell me anything about it," said James Howard, who had come down there to hear all about the schooner's victory. "That sloop had no cannon, and how could she be supposed to go into a fight with an armed vessel? It is a great wonder to me that she did not sink the sloop when she was in pursuit of her."

"She may have run away from the sloop," said Emerson Miller. "The schooner did not want to fight, for she knows that war hasn't been declared yet. You let Captain Moore alone for keeping out of trouble."

"Say!" whispered James, as with a pale face he passed his glass over to his companion. "Just look at that man standing up there on the windward rail. If that was Captain Moore he would have his uniform on, would he not?"

Emerson took the glass, and as he looked the expectant expression went out of his face and it became as pale as death itself. The man standing up there was Captain O'Brien, and as he watched him he took off his hat and waved it over his head.

"James, we are whipped!" he whispered. "That man is not Captain Moore."

"That is just what I was afraid of. Let us go home."

Emerson did not need any urging, but when James left the wharf he kept him close company. They had made but a few steps when a cheer came from the schooner, and James, glancing toward the boat, saw that that man was still standing there and swinging his hat violently around his head. Not satisfied with this, a cheer arose from the sloop, and there was a man standing on her windward rail who, at that distance, looked exactly like Wheaton.

"We are whipped," repeated Emerson. "Now who in the world can account for that?" James did not say anything, for he was so nearly overwhelmed that he could not get his wits together. He hardly knew when he opened the gate and ascended the stairs to the porch.

Meanwhile the little vessels came gaily on. The people now were satisfied while heretofore they had been lost in doubt, and the cheers that went up were long and loud. The vessels were handled by sailormen, -- Zeke took command of the sloop when she approached the wharf -- and they rounded to and came up with a force that would not have broken an egg-shell. Parties on shore caught the lines for them, and shortly the gang-planks were pushed out so that the people could come on board. And such a rush as there was! Caleb and Enoch wanted to get ashore to see their mothers, but for a time there was no chance for them. Zeke came up in the meantime, smiling and good-natured as usual, and the boys were about to tell him to go ahead and they would follow in his wake, when they saw him reach out his arm and stop a man who was just coming aboard. It was the storekeeper who had acted so mean about giving Enoch his powder a few nights ago.


Chapter XVII.

Zeke's Exhibition Of Strength.


"Say, hold on, friend," said Zeke, reaching out his hand and laying a grip on the storekeeper's collar. "We don't want any men like you aboard here. That's the way ashore."

"Who made you master of this vessel?" answered the man, thrusting Zeke's arm aside. "The captain says the wounded men are on board this ship and I want to see who they are. Just keep your hands to yourself."

Zeke's whole appearance changed as if by magic. The good-natured smile gave place to a frown, and the hand which the storekeeper had thrown aside speedily caught its grip again, and this time it was there to stay. With the other hand he caught the man below the waist-band, and a moment afterward he gave a puff like a tired locomotive and the storekeeper was swung clear of the deck. Lifting his victim until he was at arm's length above his head he walked across the deck to the other side, and sent him headlong into the water. It was an exhibition of strength on Zeke's part that no one had ever seen before. He leaned over the rail until the man's face appeared at the surface and then shook his fist at him.

"Now don't you wish you had gone back my way?" said he. "Swim around the sloop and get somebody to help you out. You can't come aboard here."

"There," said Enoch. "Ledyard is a Tory sure enough. Zeke knew it all the time and took this way to wash some of his meanness out of him. I will have to go to his store to get some more powder," he added, holding up his horn so that he could see the inside of it. "I shot most of what I had away at the Britishers who manned this schooner. Come on, Caleb. I think we can get ashore now."

The boys made another attempt this time and were successful. Every one they saw on the wharf was a provincial and wanted to shake hands with them. Of course, too, everybody wanted to know what sort of treatment Caleb had met with at the hands of the Britishers, but the boys answered in as few words as possible and as soon as they were out of the crowd they broke into a run, headed for home.

"Come in and let mother thank you for rescuing me," said Caleb, as they stopped at his gate. "She can do it better than I can."

"I did not have more to do with your rescue than a dozen other men who were with me," replied Enoch. "Let me go home first and then I will come back."

Caleb reluctantly let his friend go, and Enoch kept on his way toward home. He was thinking over the incidents that had happened during the fight and which he wanted to tell for his mother's satisfaction, when he came opposite the house in which James Howard lived. He kept on without giving a thought to James except to wonder how he would feel to know that the schooner, in which he had so much confidence, had been beaten by an unarmed sloop, when he saw the boy at the gate waiting for him. His face was very pale, but it gave place to a flush of anger when he noticed the smile with which Enoch greeted him. He backed away from the gate as our hero approached, and this showed that he did not mean to let himself get within reach of a provincial's arm.

"You think you are smart, don't you?" was the way in which he opened the conversation.

"Well -- yes; almost anybody would think himself smart under the circumstances," said Enoch. "We whipped them in a fair fight."

"I do not believe it," returned James hotly.

"I do not ask you to take my word for it, but the wharf is not but a little way off, and you can go down and see for yourself," said Enoch.

"We heard the firing, and we came to the conclusion that your sloop had got sunk out of sight," said James. "But I see that the schooner brought her back with her."

Enoch made no reply. He wanted to see how much James knew about the fight.

"How many of the men were killed and wounded on your side?" continued James, after a moment's pause.

"About half."

"I tell you the regulars fought, did they not? How many of them were hit on their side?"

"About half."

"Do you mean to say that you killed as many of them as they did of you?" asked James, who was plainly astonished to hear it.

"That is what I mean to say. We boarded their vessel and pulled down her flag --  -- "

"I tell you I don't believe any such stuff," shouted James, who was more surprised the longer the story went on. "You will never get your hands on that flag."

"Go down and see. That is all you have got to do."

"I will wager that Captain Moore laid some of you fellows out. Was that he standing on the rail waving his hat to us?"

"No, it could not have been Captain Moore. He is dead."

"What!" James almost stammered. "Did one of you men dare to draw a weapon on him?"

"Yes, they did. He had weapons in his own hand --  -- "

"Of course he did. He was defending his vessel."

"And we wanted to take it and we were stronger than he was."

"If some of you don't get your necks stretched before long I shall miss my guess," said James, walking up and down the path like a boy who had been bereft of his senses. "You have committed piracy, every one of you."

"And you would be the first to grab a rope and haul us up, I suppose? Look here, James, Caleb has got back now --  -- "

"Oh! Did you find him and turn him loose? Then he will not have to go to New York to pay his fine?"

"Not by a long shot. I found him locked in the brig and let him out."

This news was more than James could stand. He pulled off his hat, dug his fingers into his head and acted altogether like a boy who was almost ready to go insane.

"And if you are wise you and Emerson Miller will stay close about the house," said Enoch, shifting his rifle to his other shoulder. "The first time he catches you on the street he will have his pay for that. So you want to watch out."

Enoch walked on toward his home and James went into the house so bewildered that he hardly knew which end he stood on. He found his father in the dining-room, pacing up and down the floor with his hands behind his back, but that terrible scowl that had come to his face when he first heard that James had been whipped by a rebel, was not there. His face was pale and his hands trembled.

"Father," whispered James, as though he hardly knew how to communicate to him the news he had just heard, "the dog is dead. Captain Moore has been killed and the rebels have taken the schooner."

His father fairly gasped for breath. He raised his hands above his head as if to say that he did not want to hear any more, and then groped his way to a lounge and sank down upon it.

"I have just seen Enoch out there and he told me all about it," continued James. "The firing that we heard did not hurt the sloop at all. And the worst of it is, Caleb has been turned loose and now I have got to stay about the house."

"Oh Lord! Oh Lord!" groaned Mr. Howard.

"Now have I got to stand that?" said James in a resolute tone. He was always brave enough when he was in his own house and a perfect coward when he got out of it. Perhaps his father could think of some other way to get rid of Caleb and of Enoch, too.

"Am I, a good, loyal friend of the King, and ready to go into a fight for him this minute, to be shut up in the house just because I say that those men, every one of them, had ought to have their necks stretched to pay them for what they have done?" continued James. "There must be some way in which we can get the start of those rebels."

"I don't really see what you can do," said Mr. Howard. "The rebels are stronger than we are, and I guess both of us will have to stay in the house from this time on. Such a thing was never heard of before. Thirteen little colonies getting up a rebellion in the face of the King!"

"But there must be some way out of it?"

"Of course there is. Let the King send over an army to whip the rebels into submission. But before that thing can happen they may work their sweet will of us. I don't know any better way that we can do but to pack up and go to New York."

"And leave this beautiful place to the rebels?" exclaimed James. "I tell you I should hate to do that."

"I don't know what else we can do. We shall be among friends there, and can say what we think without some paltry little rebel telling us that we had better keep our mouths shut. But go away and leave me alone for a while, James. The news you have brought to me almost drives me crazy. Do you know that Captain Moore has been killed?"

"All I know about it is what Enoch told me. He said that the captain had weapons in his hand, but that the attacking party was too strong for him. He was the best man that ever lived, too, and I tell you it would give me joy to have hold of one end of a rope while the other was fast around the necks of those people."

"Be careful that you don't say that where anybody can hear it," said his father. "The rebels are in high feather now that they have got a victory, and they would be right on hand for something desperate."

Mr. Howard settled himself into a comfortable position on the lounge and James, taking this as a hint that his presence was no longer desirable, picked up his cap and walked out on the porch.

"I wish I dared go down to the wharf," said he. "But if I do that Caleb Young will be out, and there's no telling what he will do to me. I wish somebody would come along and give me some news of that fight."

But James waited a long time before he got it. Enoch and Caleb were at home and holding their mothers spellbound with the various incidents that transpired before their sight, while James walked up and down the porch feeling as though he did not have a friend in the world. He looked in vain for Emerson Miller, but that worthy, who probably knew or suspected that Caleb Young had been found and released by this time, was not at all anxious to be seen in James's company and wisely kept his distance.

"Well, mother, I have got back and there is not a mark on me," shouted Enoch, as he burst open the kitchen door and sprang into the presence of her who told him that she did not want him to get his gun into any bad habits. "I shot away all my powder and lead, and I guess that some of the Tories that I aimed at have something to remember me by. Why don't you say that you are glad to see me?"

"How about Caleb?" said his mother. "Is he all right?"

"I did not ask him, but I don't think he heard a bullet while he was in the brig."

His mother had been knitting when he came in, and the Book lay in front of her, open, on her knee. She put the Book and her knitting away and got up, and folded Enoch to her breast. She made no remark, but the boy was satisfied from the strength of her embrace that she was glad to welcome him home. Enoch then sat down and told her everything connected with the fight, not forgetting how Zeke had ducked the storekeeper in the harbor.

"I never saw such an exhibition of strength in my life," said he, with enthusiasm. "He took the man this way" -- here he got up and elevated his arms straight above his head -- "walked across the boat with him and chucked him into the water. He would not let him come back aboard the sloop either, but told him to swim around and get somebody to help him out. I wish all the men we have were like Zeke."

Of course there were many questions to be asked and answered on both sides -- Mrs. Crosby was anxious to learn how the different men with whom she was acquainted had behaved during the fight, and Enoch was equally desirous to know how the Tories they had left behind them conducted themselves while they were at sea -- and it was almost dark before they had got through talking.

"I was particularly anxious to know what the Tories would do when they heard that firing," said Enoch. "I was afraid they would be excited and do something that we would have to settle with them for."

"Well, they did not," said Mrs. Crosby. "James and Emerson walked up and down in front of our house when they heard the shooting going on, and asked us to listen to it. 'Aha!' they said. 'The rebels are getting their fill now. After Captain Moore sinks that sloop he will have all he can do to pick up the dead and wounded ones.' It seems to me that they must be utterly confounded by the victory of the sloop over an armed vessel."

"Not only that, but they utterly refused to believe it," said Enoch.


Chapter XVIII.

What To Do With The Schooner.


Enoch might have gone further and said that the Tories not only refused to believe the evidence of their ears, but that they went to a greater distance and declined to believe the evidence of their eyes when they stood on the wharf and saw the dead and wounded taken off the two vessels and laid carefully away, the former with sheets spread over them. These were promptly taken care of by their friends, and in a short time there was no one around the wharf except the provincials and a few Tories who wanted to hear more about the fight.

"They did not pull down their flag, did they?" said one who made this inquiry of Zeke.

"No, sir. We pulled it down for them. The only man who had the power to strike it has just been carried away in that wagon," said Zeke. "There is the man who pulled it down," he added, pointing to Wheaton. "We are going to get a flag of our own to take its place when we haul the Cross of England down."

"Some of you will go up by the neck before that happens," said the man, turning away and whispering the words to a Tory who stood at his side. "And I will wager that Zeke will go up for one."

"I just wish I knew something about history," continued Zeke, who, of course, did not hear this whispered conversation on the part of the Tories. "They say that that flag has never been hauled down by any nation; but a 'flock of Yankees' was too much for them. Now, captain, what are we going to do with these vessels? We don't want to leave them alongside the wharf all night."

Captain O'Brien had been thinking about this, and had already made up his mind what to do. Of course the "rebels" had captured three boats -- the schooner and the two sloops that were engaged in taking lumber on board for the New York market. He did not want to leave them alongside the wharf for the simple reason that, if the Tories got up courage enough, it would be easy work for them to come down there with a party of men after it became dark, and recapture them. It would not be so easy a matter if they were moored a little way from shore. Of course Enoch and Caleb were there waiting to see what further work there was to be done, and this time Caleb had his flint-lock on his shoulder. They had remained at home until they had eaten a late dinner, and had then come down to their prize to do whatever else there was to be done. Enoch had kept a good lookout for James, but when he saw him coming he went into the house. He did not want to hear another story of that victory.

"Enoch," said the captain, after thinking a moment, "have you had anything to eat?"

"Yes, sir, and Caleb and I are out here for all night, if our services are needed that long," replied Enoch.

"All right. I will detail you two as guard to that schooner. You have your flint-locks with you, and, Enoch, I know that you can shoot tolerably straight," said the captain, patting the boy on the shoulder. "Don't you let anybody, even if they are 'rebels,' come aboard that boat. After the rest of us have had supper, I will appoint a commander for her, and then you can take some of these small boats and tow her out to her anchorage."

The boys waited for Captain O'Brien to go on and tell them what else he had to say, but he had evidently gotten through and turned on his heel; whereupon the newly-appointed guards went on board the schooner and took their place by the side of the gangplank which led up to it. They leaned their guns against the rail, rested their elbows on the bulkhead before them and proceeded to watch what was going on on the wharf as well as to wait until some Tory took it into his head that he would like to come aboard the boat. But no one came near them, and Caleb finally fell to examining the bullet holes made by the rifles during the fight. While he was walking about the vessel he happened to cast his eyes toward the shore and saw two persons whom he had wished to see for a long time. Enoch discovered them at the same moment, and when Caleb, after pushing back his sleeves and settling his hat firmly on his head, was about to step upon the gangplank, he found Enoch in his way.

"What's to do here?" demanded Enoch.

"Don't you see James Howard over there?" asked Caleb, in reply. "I have a fine chance to punish him now. I will give him two black eyes, but they will not make him suffer as I did while being shut up in that brig waiting to be carried to New York. Stand out of the way here."

"You have not been relieved yet," said Enoch. "You must get somebody to take your place before you go ashore."

"Well, I can easily do that. Oh, Captain!" he shouted to O'Brien, who was but a little distance off. "I want to go ashore for just about two minutes."

"Go on," said the captain. "I don't know as I am hindering you."

"Captain," said Enoch, pointing up the wharf toward the two persons who were coming along, entirely ignorant of what was transpiring on board the schooner. "He has not been relieved yet. I do not want to stay here alone."

The captain looked, and when he saw James coming toward the schooner he knew why Enoch was standing in the way of Caleb. He knew that those two boys must be kept apart or else there would be a fight; so he added hastily:

"That's so. You have not been relieved yet. You stay there until I can send some one to take your place."

"Yes; and that will never be," said Enoch, to himself.

"Enoch, I didn't think this of you," said Caleb, leaving the gangplank and settling back against the rail. "You are a friend of James Howard."

"No, I am not, and nobody knows it better than you," said Enoch. "Why do you not let him go until a proper time comes?"

"A proper time!" repeated Caleb. "The proper time is whenever I can catch him."

"I don't believe you could catch him any way," said Enoch, pointing to James and Emerson, who had stopped suddenly on discovering the boys, and did not seem inclined to come any closer. "They are going back again."

Once more Caleb rested his arms upon the rail and watched the two Tories, who had stopped and were regarding them with eyes of apprehension. They waited there for some minutes and not seeing any move on Caleb's part they mustered up courage enough to come a little closer, until they were talking with some of the provincials who were in the fight.

"Enoch, will you let me go ashore?" said Caleb. "I will never have a chance like this to get even with him."

"The captain has not sent anybody to relieve you yet," said Enoch.

"Don't I know that? He isn't looking for anybody. There they come," he added, when the two resumed their walk and came up to the shore end of the gangplank. "Well, what do you think of it? We sent the bullets around her pretty lively, did we not?"

The two boys did not say anything. They had probably come down there to use their eyes and not their tongues, and in that way escaped getting into argument with Enoch and Caleb which they were sure would end in something else. They looked all around the schooner and up at her sails, and finally having seen enough turned to go away; but Caleb who was watching them told them to wait a minute.

"James, I want you to remember that you put me in trouble through that tongue of yours, and that I shall bear it in mind," said he. "The only thing that saves you now is my being on guard on board this vessel."

James waited until he thought Caleb was through, and then hurried away without making any reply, and they blessed their lucky stars that they had got off so easily; but there was a threat contained under Caleb's last words which rankled uneasily in James's mind.

"I guess my father's way is the best," said the latter. "Will you come, too?"

"I hope so," replied Emerson. "It is a beautiful thing to give up to the rebels, that place of ours, but it won't be forever. They will soon be whipped and then we can come back."

The boys waited a long time for the rest of their friends to get through with their supper and come back to the wharf, and then they saw that Captain O'Brien had something on his mind, for he was going first to one man and then to another and having a talk with each. They were all in favor of it, too, for each one shook the captain's hand and patted him on the back as if they wanted to go at it right away. Zeke appeared at last, and he was wild over what the captain said to him. He pulled off his hat -- he had been home and got another one by this time -- and swung it around his head, but he did not hurrah until he was red in the face as he usually did. He seemed to take his enthusiasm out in the violence of his motions. Then he put his hat on his head and walked briskly toward the schooner.

"Now, boys," said he as he came up the gangplank.

"Say, Zeke, what was it that the captain had to say to you?" asked Caleb. "It must have been something patriotic, for you swung your hat and never hurrahed at all."

"Enoch, you jump down there and cast off the bow and stern lines," said Zeke, looking all around as if to see what else ought to be done. "Caleb, you go round on the wharf and find a small boat that you think will do to pull the boat out to her moorings. I will go to the wheel, and when all that is done I will tell you what the captain said to me."

Zeke never said a thing like this without meaning to be obeyed, and the boys knew that it was useless to argue the point with him. The sooner the work he had set for them to do was done, the sooner would they find out the captain's secret; so without hesitation they placed their guns where they would not be in anybody's way and went about their duties in earnest. Enoch speedily cast off the lines, Zeke staying on board to haul them in, Caleb made his appearance sculling a boat that was to pull the little vessel out to her anchorage, and a line was passed down to him.

"Now, Enoch, tumble in there and pull for all you are worth," said Zeke. "You see the schooner's buoy over there? Well, when you come up with it make this line fast to it and come aboard."

Of course these orders were quickly delivered, but it took longer to carry them out. The schooner moved but slowly in the water. The boys had to turn her around and pull her against the tide, which was coming in at about five miles an hour; but after a long siege they got the line fast and pulled back to the schooner pretty nearly exhausted.

"That's all right," said Zeke. "The next time the captain wants such work done he will have to send more men to do it."

"Go on now, and tell us what the captain had to say," said Caleb, backing up against the rail and using his hat as a fan. "It did not amount to much, any way."

"Didn't, hey? Then I guess you don't want to ship aboard this vessel."

"What is she going to do?" asked Enoch.

"We lucky fellows will be coming ashore every month or so, and when you see us spending more money than you ever heard of --  -- "

"Where are you going to get it?" interrupted Caleb.

"Prizes, my boy; prizes," replied Zeke, poking Caleb in the ribs with his long finger. "We are not going to let the Cross of St. George float out there alone, are we?"

"No; but when we take the prizes what will we do with them?"

"Sell them to the highest bidder. You see the captain was thinking about this thing while he was eating his supper, and he came to the conclusion that since we have a fine vessel with guns and small arms for a crew of thirty men, we ought to use them. There are plenty of ships going by that are loaded up with stores for the King, and what is there to hinder our going out and capturing some of them?"

"Whoop!" yelled Enoch.

"That is what I thought, although I did not say it out quite so loud," said Zeke, laughing all over. "We want to keep it as still as we can, for there are a good many Tories around, and we want to keep them in ignorance of it. Now you boys stay here and talk it over and I will go ashore and bring off the rest of our guard."

"Do you think your mother will let you go on this vessel?" said Caleb, as he and Enoch leaned upon the rail and watched Zeke as he sculled the boat ashore.

"Let me go to fight against tyranny? Of course she will."

"You will be a pirate if you do."

"No more than I am now."

"And if they catch you --  -- "

Here Caleb drew his head on one side and straightened his left arm above his head as if he were pulling on a rope.

"It is a good plan to catch your rabbit before you cook him," said Enoch.


Chapter XIX.

Conclusion.


Captain O'Brien and the rest of the leaders who took part in that fight with the schooner, had plenty to do that night. Among other things they were selecting the crew for their privateer, and they wanted to be sure that they got none but the best men. Zeke was ashore for an hour or two before he sent the cutter back, and then he did not come with it but sent Zeb Short to scull the boat. There were nine men in the party, and each one brought with him a large bundle which contained some changes of linen and his bedclothes.

"Where is the mate?" asked Enoch, as the men threw their bundles aboard and then proceeded to climb aboard themselves.

"The mate!" exclaimed Zeb Short, as if he did not catch the boy's meaning.

"Yes; Zeke told us to stay here until he came back."

"Oh. Well, Zeke is ashore helping the captain; and he told me to inform you boys that if you want to ship on board this vessel you had better go home and get some duds, for we are going to sail with the turn of the tide which takes place about four o'clock. Of course you boys are going?"

"You wager we are," said Caleb.

"Take your guns with you," continued Zeb. "We shall not want them any more. When we board the next Britisher you will have a cutlass or pike in your hands."

The boys clambered down into the boat with Zeb Short and were slowly sculled toward the shore. It looked to them as if they were in for fighting and nothing else. They did not stop to speak to the captain or any of the other men standing around but went straight for home as fast as they could go. There was one place where they were tempted to stop and exchange a few words with the inmates, and that was at James Howard's house. The boys were sitting on the porch and were talking about what they had seen at the wharf.

"There go a couple of those rebels now," said James, as Enoch and Caleb hurried by. "I hope I will be here to see them hung up."

"Enoch, I have the best notion to go back and whip him in his own dooryard," said Caleb, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. "If you will keep the other off me, I can punish James in two whacks."

"Come on, now, and don't mind them," said Enoch, taking Caleb by the arm. "You may have some other fellows to fight some day, some that have weapons in their hands, and you can take revenge upon James in that way. Come along."

Caleb reluctantly allowed himself to be led away, and presently he was dropped at his own gate. Enoch broke into a run and entered the kitchen where his mother was busy with her usual vocations. He seized a chair, moved it up under the hooks on which his flint-lock belonged, placed it there with his bullet-pouch and powder-horn, and Mrs. Crosby looked at him with surprise.

"What's to do, Enoch?" she said at length.

"Mother, I want my bedclothes and a change of underwear to go out to sea," said Enoch. "You see --  -- "

Here the boy began and told his story in as few words as possible, and to his joy his mother did not say one word to oppose him.

"There is one thing that does not look exactly right," he continued, "and that is I don't know what I am going to get for my trouble. I do not know that I am going to get a cent."

"That is all in the future," said his mother. "Do your duty faithfully and I will take care of myself."

Enoch said no more, but somehow he could not help wishing that he had some of his mother's pluck. When the things had been bundled up he kissed his mother good-by and went out of the house, wondering if he was ever going inside of it again. He found Caleb at his gate with his bundle on his shoulder, and in half an hour from that time they were safe on board the schooner.

"If no one has spoken for this bunk I guess I will put my things in here," said Enoch, looking around upon the men who were busy at work making up their own beds.

"There is a bunk for every man in the crew," said one. "Put your things in there and say nothing to nobody."

"All below, there!" shouted Zeke. "Come on deck, everybody."

"We are going to choose our officers the first thing we do," said Zeb Short, who proved that he was a good sailor by leaving his bunk half made up and hurrying to obey the order. "My captain is O'Brien, every time."

The men hastened aft, and there stood O'Brien with his hat off. The crew removed theirs out of respect, and the captain began a little speech to them. He repeated at greater length what he had told them ashore -- that they now took their lives in their own hands and were about to go out to sea to do battle with the flag they had that day hauled down, and that if captured they could not expect but one thing, death at the yard-arm. If any of the men had time to think the matter over and wanted to back out -- 

"We don't," shouted Zeke, in a voice that must have been heard on shore. "There is no one in this crew that thinks of backing out."

"Zeke speaks for all of us," said Zeb Short.

"Then we will proceed to elect officers," said Captain O'Brien. "You are, most of you, sailors, and I need not tell you that it is necessary that you select good men and those whose orders you are willing to obey."

It did not take over ten minutes for the crew to select the men who were to command them. They had evidently made up their minds just whom they wanted, and each one proposed was accepted by acclamation. O'Brien was chosen captain; no one could do better than he did in the fight with the schooner, and the men were sure that he could do equally well in a contest with another vessel. Zeke was chosen first mate, Zeb Short second, and Wheaton, who did not know the first thing about a ship, was appointed captain's steward.

"What will I have to do?" asked Wheaton; whereupon all the crew broke out into a hearty laugh.

"You will have to see that I get enough to eat," said the captain. "I will wager that I do not go hungry while you are in office."

"Well, if it is all the same to you, Captain, I won't take it," said Wheaton. "Let me be a foremast hand. I shipped to fight --  -- "

"You will have all the fighting you want to do as steward," said Captain O'Brien. "Everybody will be on deck then."

After a little more argument Wheaton was induced to take the position, and the election of officers went on. The last one that was chosen was the man who had fed Enoch while he was a prisoner in the brig; Ezra Norton was his name, and he was told to look out for the ammunition. He had served on board the schooner and knew pretty nearly where to go to find the charges for the guns. After that the crew were divided into watches, and in obedience to Zeke's order: "All you starbo'lins below!" went down to their bunks to sleep until twelve o'clock.

Just at daylight the next morning -- it was Enoch's watch on deck now -- there was great commotion on the schooner, for the lookout who was sitting on the cross-trees shouted down two words that sent a thrill to every heart. It did not create a hubbub or take the form of words, but it set them to scanning the horizon and exchanging whisperings with one another -- 

"Sail ho!"

"Where away?" shouted Zeke, who happened to be the only officer on deck.

"Straight ahead," was the answer.

"Can you make her out?"

"I can see nothing but her top-hamper, but I think she is a schooner bound for New York."

Presently the hail came down again -- another ship four points off the lee bow, and headed the same way that the other one was. The captain, on being summoned, came on deck and mounted to the cross-trees with a glass in his hand. He stayed there an hour, and when he came down again the vessels were in sight.

"I will wager my hat against yours that those are two of the boats that we want," said he to Zeke. "We will soon make them show their colors whatever they are."

"Wheaton, have you your flag here?" asked Zeb Short, turning to the steward who at that moment came on deck.

"No, no; don't try that," said the captain, hastily. "We will approach her without any flag. We will not attempt to make her think we are friendly when we are not."

The two vessels continued to approach each other, and finally the stranger, thinking that the schooner had some business with her, ran up the very flag they wanted to see -- the flag of England. In answer to the question, "What schooner is that?" she replied that she was the Spitfire, bound from Halifax for New York with a cargo of supplies for the British government.

"Now, Zeke, it all depends upon you," said the captain, jumping down from the rail on which he had stood while making his hail. "Crowd all the men you can into a boat and go off and take possession of that schooner. Send the officers to me and put the rest down below. Fill away in my wake when I start for Watertown. But first I must capture that other schooner."

"I will send a boat aboard of you," said the captain, seeing that the Spitfire was not decreasing her pace.

To man the boat did not take very long on the part of the schooner's crew, for every one knew just what he had to do. To seize cutlasses and pistols from the rack, buckle them on and tumble over the side was but the work of a minute, and in hardly more time than we have taken to describe it, they had boarded the Spitfire and a man was sent to her wheel. Zeke pulled down the flag and waved it over his head.

Of course her officers were full of questions when they were brought aboard the schooner, and could not understand the matter at all; but the captain did not stop to enlighten them until the other vessel was captured. He ordered them down into his cabin, and there they remained while the schooner speeded on to make a prize of the other vessel which was found to be the Storm King, bound to the same port and loaded with supplies. When the officers were all on board his vessel and prisoners in his cabin, the captain went down and explained matters to them. They did not know anything of the battle at Lexington, and when they heard it their surprise knew no bounds. They plainly saw that their cruise had ended, and with that they were obliged to be satisfied until they were turned over to the authorities at Watertown.

Captain O'Brien's bravery did not pass unrewarded. His appearance in Watertown with his prizes created a great commotion there, and he was appointed captain in the marine of the colony and sent to sea to capture some more vessels. His work in the Revolutionary War was just begun, and those who went with him from Machias stayed by him to the end. Zeke Lewis and Zeb Short were promoted to gunners, because it was necessary that they should have better educated men for first and second officers; at any rate they received thirteen dollars in their new position whereas in their old, they received only eight.

Enoch and Caleb were not forgotten. By strict attention to their duties they received promotion one after the other, one to assistant sailmaker at twelve dollars a month and the other to yeoman at nine dollars. They were on every voyage with their beloved captain. When he received command of a privateer and had the whole ocean in which to search for his prizes, the boys went with him and did their best to establish his name.

James and Emerson did not long remain in Machias. Things became too unpleasant for them, and one morning their houses were not open as usual. Of course their neighbors wanted to see what was the matter, and an investigation proved that the families had gone in the night-time to seek another haven of refuge. They brought up in New York and stayed there until the place was evacuated by the British. Then they went to England, and it is to be hoped that they could talk their sentiments there without being threatened with a beating by a Yankee.

During the course of the long and bloody struggle that followed there was much depression in the provincial ranks. Even the great heart of Washington was bowed down by sorrow, and when "famine was stalking through the camp" and his enemies were hard at work to have a "new and a better man" appointed in his place, the leader never lost sight of the "justice of her cause or the sincerity of his country." Read the following incident related by a man who was there and saw it all. It proves that General Washington, in the troubles with which he was surrounded, found that there was a stronger arm than man's to lean upon.[7]

[Footnote 7: Condensed from Lossing's Field Book.]

Isaac Potts, at whose house Washington was quartered, relates that one day while the Americans were encamped at Valley Forge, he strolled up a creek that was not far from his house and heard a solemn voice. He walked quietly in the direction of it and saw Washington's horse tied to a sapling. In a thicket near by he saw his beloved chief in prayer, and his cheeks suffused with tears. Like Moses at the Bush, Isaac Potts felt that he was treading upon holy ground and withdrew unobserved. He was much agitated upon entering the room where his wife was, and he burst into tears. On inquiring the cause he informed his wife of what he had seen, and added:

"If there is any one on this earth whom the Lord will listen to, it is George Washington; and I feel a presentment that under such a commander there can be no doubt of our eventually establishing our independence, and that God in His providence has willed it so."

"Oh, who shall know the might Of the words he uttered there? The fate of nations that was turn'd By the fervor of his prayer?

"But would'st thou know his name Who wandered there alone? Go, read in Heaven's archives The prayer of Washington."

<eob>

The Blue Rose Fairy Book

By

Maurice Baring



The Glass Mender


Once upon a time there lived a King and a Queen who had one daughter called Rainbow. When she was christened, the people of the city were gathered together outside the cathedral, and amongst them was an old gipsy woman. The gipsy wanted to go inside the cathedral, but the Beadle would not let her, because he said there was no room. When the ceremony was over, and the King and Queen walked out, followed by the Head Nurse who carried the baby, the gipsy called out to them:

"Your daughter will be very beautiful, and as happy as the day is long, until she sees the Spring!" And then she disappeared in the crowd.

The King and the Queen took counsel together and the King said: "That gipsy was evidently a fairy, and what she said bodes no good."

"Yes," said the Queen, "there is only one thing to be done: Rainbow must never see the Spring, nor even hear that there is such a thing."

So an order was issued to the whole city, that if any one should say the word "Spring" in the presence of Princess Rainbow he would have his head cut off. Moreover, it was settled that the Princess should never be allowed to go outside the palace, and during the springtime she should be kept entirely indoors.

The King and the Queen lived in a city which was on the top of a hill, and had a wall round it, and the King's palace was in the middle of it. In the springtime Rainbow was taken to a high tower which looked on to the little round city, and from her window you could see the spires of the churches, the ramparts, and the broad green plain beyond. But a curtain made of canvas was fastened outside Rainbow's window, so that she could see nothing, and she was not allowed to go outside her tower until the springtime was over.

Rainbow grew up into a most beautiful Princess, with grey eyes and fair hair, and until she was sixteen all went well, and nothing happened to interfere with her happiness.

It was on her sixteenth birthday, which was in April, and she was sitting alone in her room, looking at her birthday presents, when she began to wonder for the first time why she was shut up in her tower during three months of the year, and why a curtain was placed outside her window, so that she could see nothing outside. Her mother and her nurse had told her that this was done so that she might not fall ill, and she had always believed it; but on that day, for the first time, she began to wonder whether there might be any other reason as well. It was a lovely Spring day, and the sun shone through the canvas curtain which was stretched outside Rainbow's open window; a breeze came into her room from the outside world, and Rainbow felt a great longing to tear aside the curtain and to see what was happening out of doors.

At that very moment, a sound came into her room from the city: it was the sound of two or three notes played on some small reed or pipe, unlike those of any of the musical instruments she had heard in the palace, more tuneful and more artless and more gay. As she heard the few reedy notes of this little tune, she felt something which she had never known before. The whole room seemed to be full of a new sunshine, and she smelt the fragrance of the grass; she heard the blackbird whistling, and the lark singing; she saw the apple orchards in blossom, the violets peeping from under the leaves, the hedges covered with primroses, the daffodils fluttering in the wind, the fern uncrumpling her new leaves, the green slopes starred with crocuses; fields of buttercups and marigolds; forests paved with bluebells; lilac bushes; the trailing gold of the laburnums; and the sharp green of the awakening beech-trees; and she heard the cuckoo's note, and a thousand other unknown sounds of meadow, wood, and stream; and before her passed the whole pageant of the Spring, with its joyous music and its thousand and one sights.

The vision disappeared and she cried out: "Let me go into the world and let me taste and see this wonderful new thing!"

Rainbow said nothing about her vision, either to her parents or to her nurses, but she resolved to steal out of the palace as soon as she could, and to see in the world what her vision had shown her; but that very evening she fell ill, and she was obliged to go to bed. The next day she was no better, and a week passed and she was just as ill as ever. All the wisest physicians of the land examined her, but not one of them could say what was the matter with her; some of them prescribed medicines, and others strange things to eat and drink; but none of them did her the least good. The months went by, and Rainbow was still lying in bed, suffering from a strange malady which nobody could even find a name for. When the Spring was past, Rainbow was borne on a couch into the garden of the palace; but she got no better.

At last the Queen sent for a Wise Woman who lived in a wood near the city, and asked her advice. The Wise Woman was told Rainbow's history and what the gipsy had said, and after she had looked at Rainbow and spoken to her, she said to the Queen:

"I understand quite well what has happened. Your daughter has seen the Spring."

"But that's impossible," said the Queen, "for during the whole of the Spring months she has never left her room."

"Somehow or other the Spring has reached her," said the old woman, and then she asked Rainbow some more questions, and the end of this was that Rainbow told her about the tune she had heard on her birthday, and the vision she had seen.

"I knew it," said the old woman, "she heard somebody playing the Spring's own tune, and she won't get well until she hears it again, and even then her troubles will be far from ended." So saying the old woman went away.

The King at once sent for the court musicians and told them to play the Spring's Song. They fiddled, and they blew upon every kind of pipe and flute; they beat the cymbals and struck the harp; but none of these tunes kindled the slightest interest in Rainbow or roused her from her listlessness. The King then issued a proclamation saying that whoever should play the song that cured Rainbow would receive any reward he should ask for, and even, if he wished it, his daughter's hand.

The news was spread far and wide, and people came from the four corners of the world to play to the Princess.

First of all a lad came from the northern country, where he had slain a huge dragon in single combat, and he said that if any one knew the Song of Spring he did, for the birds themselves had taught it him; and when he was shown into the Princess's room he blew a blast on his horn, so strong that the rafters trembled, and so sweet that the palace seemed to be full of the scent of the northern forests. But Rainbow paid no heed, and the lad went his way.

Then an uncouth minstrel came from Greece; he had furry ears and a pointed beard, and he played on a double pipe and he said: "I know the Song of Spring if any one knows it, for the bees taught it me." He breathed on his pipe and the whole room seemed to be full of the smell of thyme, the murmur of reeds, and the drone of bees. But Rainbow paid no heed to him, and the uncouth minstrel went his way.

Then there came a man who carried a lyre. His face was beautiful and sad, and he said: "I know the Song of Spring if any one knows it, for I heard it played in the happy fields." And he struck his lyre and sang a song which was so lovely and so plaintive that the horses neighed in their stalls, the dogs came to listen, and the trees of the garden bent over the palace windows, and the King and the Queen and all the courtiers wept: but Rainbow paid no heed, and the man with the lyre went his way.

Then came a knight from over the sea, from the West Country; and he was the most splendid knight ever seen, and he carried neither harp nor pipe, and he said: "I know the Song of Spring if any one knows it, for I learnt it in the forests of Tintagel:" and he sang the song that only those who dwell in the forests of the West know, and it was a song of love. But Rainbow paid no heed, and the knight went his way.

Then Prince Charming came from the Golden Isles and said: "I know the Song of Spring if any one knows it, for my fairy-godmother gave me a flute, and when I play on it the elves dance round me in a ring": and he played a tune on his flute, and the lights and rainbows of the golden islands seemed to twinkle in the room. But Rainbow paid no heed, so Prince Charming went his way.

Then there came a Prince who was a changeling and who had been brought up in Fairyland itself, and he said: "I know the Song of Spring if any one knows it, for Proserpine, the Queen of the Fairies, herself taught me the song she heard in the Vales of Enna, when she was picking flowers in the Spring." And he sang of the Sicilian fields, a song of the swallow and the corn; and the song was like a vision, and the room seemed to be full of the sound of the southern seas; but Rainbow paid no heed, and the changeling went his way.

Then Prince Apollo himself came from Italy with his fiddle, and he said: "If I do not know the Song of Spring, who can know it? For my music excels that of all mortal men."

Prince Apollo struck up a tune on his fiddle and the room was filled with a glory; but Rainbow paid no heed, and Prince Apollo went away in a rage, saying that the Princess had no ear.

After this people gave up the quest, for they said: "If all these great people fail, how should we succeed?" Now it happened one day, when the springtime came round again, that two tumblers were playing at ball in the Princess's room to try and amuse her, and one of them in throwing, threw the ball and broke the pane of her casement; so a glass mender was sent for to mend the window, and there happened to be one that day just outside the palace.

The glass mender was a youth, and his eyes were blue and his cheeks fresh, and as he strode up the staircase to the Princess's room, he whistled on a small glass pipe the tune that glass menders have always whistled ever since the beginning of the world. Directly Rainbow heard this sound, she leaped from her bed and cried out:

"That is it! I hear it, the Song of Spring!" And as the glass mender came into the room with his basket and his tools, she said: "At last you've come! You've cured me, and I am now quite well again."

There was no doubt about it. Rainbow from that moment was cured, and the glass mender went to the King and claimed his reward.

At first the King was vexed that his daughter should have to wed a humble glass mender, but he did not dare play any tricks with his daughter's life after what had happened, for fear she should fall ill again; and besides, Rainbow was determined to marry him, and as he was so young, so handsome, and so well-spoken, the King told the Queen that he was very likely a Prince in disguise.

But the glass mender made two conditions about his marriage: the first was that he was to continue to be a wandering glass mender who earned his living by going from city to city, and from village to village, mending glass, and the second was that Rainbow was never to ask him where he came from nor who were his parents, and that she should call him Blue Eyes, nor ever ask him whether he had another name.

This convinced the King that Blue Eyes was a Prince in disguise, and the conditions were readily agreed to, and Rainbow and Blue Eyes were married without further delay. The King gave them each a white pony for a wedding present and they started off on their travels.

They rode through the fields and the woods, from village to village, sleeping now in a house and now out of doors, and for the first time in her life Rainbow tasted and saw the Spring; and no words can tell how happy they were: all day long Blue Eyes played a tune on his glass pipe, and he showed Rainbow the haunts of the birds and the beasts; and whenever they came to a village it was as though they brought the sunshine of the morning with them, for as soon as any one looked at Blue Eyes, they could not help being happy, and when he played on his pipe people danced for joy. They wandered over the wide world, and they saw every kind of country and city, and wherever they went smiling faces met them and they made sad people happy, and happy people happier still.

When they were in the woods or meadows the birds and beasts seemed to know Blue Eyes, and he talked with them just as if they were real people; and the most savage beasts -- wolves and bears and wild boars -- were as tame as lap-dogs when he spoke to them; and the nightingales used to perch on Blue Eyes' shoulder in the evening, and sing, as he rode with Rainbow through the forest; the bees and butterflies used to fly in front of them and show them the way.

The years went by and they had a little son who was called Blue Boy, who grew up just like his father, and talked with the birds and beasts directly he could speak, and they were all three of them together as happy as the day is long.

One Spring evening they arrived rather late in a wood, and after they had made a fire and cooked their supper, Rainbow and Blue Boy went to sleep, and Blue Eyes sat by the fire for he said he wasn't sleepy.

After Rainbow had been sleeping for a few hours she woke up with a start. The moon had risen and the camp-fire had not yet gone out, but the ashes were smouldering and there by the fire sat Blue Eyes. Rainbow could see him distinctly, but he seemed to her to look different from usual; strange, beautiful, and more like a fairy Prince than a glass mender. Sitting with him by the fire was a lovely maiden with roses in her hair and some ears of wheat in her hand, and a silver sickle hanging from her girdle. They were talking together. Rainbow was so surprised that she uttered a cry, and immediately the beautiful maiden vanished into the wood. Blue Eyes at once went to Rainbow, but she turned over on her side and pretended to be asleep.

The next day Blue Eyes said nothing about the strange maiden, and Rainbow began to be jealous and sad. She tried not to think of it, but she could not get rid of the thought that perhaps Blue Eyes loved somebody else. The next evening they again camped out in the wood, and Rainbow said she was tired and lay down to sleep early; but she only pretended to go to sleep, and she was really wide awake.

As soon as Blue Eyes thought that Rainbow was asleep, he blew a note on his glass pipe, and once more the strange maiden came out of the wood, and she and Blue Eyes talked together in a whisper, and once more Blue Eyes seemed to look quite different, and not at all like a glass mender, only, as it was dark that night, Rainbow could not see him distinctly.

The next morning Blue Eyes again said nothing about the strange maiden, and Rainbow was sadder than ever. If Blue Eyes would only explain, she said to herself, everything would be all right. So as they were riding through the wood, Rainbow said to him:

"I saw you in the wood last night talking to a strange maiden; and, Blue Eyes, you looked different. I am sure now that you are not a glass mender; and now that I have seen you talking to that strange maiden, I shall have no peace until you tell me who you are and who she is."

"Alas, alas, alas!" said Blue Eyes. "Oh; Rainbow, why could you not trust me? I must tell you now, whether I wish it or no, but you have destroyed our happiness, and I shall have to leave you. My name is Spring, and I was talking to my sister Summer; and now I shall have to leave you, for I can only take a mortal shape as long as nobody knows who I am."

Then Rainbow wept bitterly, and said:

"Do you mean you must leave me for ever, and that I shall never see you again?"

"There is one hope left," said Blue Eyes. "We shall meet again if you are able to find me. You will have to search all over the world, and you will not find me until you recognise my look and my voice in the speech or the look of a human being; and if you fail to recognise it, when it is there, you will never find me at all."

"And when I recognise you either in the speech or the look of a human being," said Rainbow, "what must I do then?"

"Then," said Blue Eyes, "you must say this:

'Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes, come back to me, Over the hills and over the sea; Brother of Summer, husband and friend, Come and stay till the world shall end.'"

"But what will happen," asked Rainbow, "if I make a mistake and say the rhyme to some one who seems to have your look and your speech, when really they are not there?"

"If you make a mistake," said Blue Eyes, "you will never see me again."

Rainbow again began to weep bitterly. She implored Blue Eyes to forgive her, but she no longer begged him to stay, for she knew it was useless; and Blue Eyes kissed her and Blue Boy, and when he had said good-bye, he leapt on to his pony and galloped off into the wood. As he galloped away his appearance changed; his glass mender's clothes fell away from him; instead of his blue cap, there was a crown of dew on his head, and he was clothed with the petals of snowdrops and cowslips; he wore a rainbow for a scarf, which fluttered in the wind; his pony changed into a white horse with silver wings; in his hand he carried a large wand of almond blossom, and a starling perched on his wrist. And as he galloped through the wood, the hoofs of his steed left behind them a trail of twinkling anemones. Thus he galloped on until he disappeared into the heart of the forest, and Rainbow was left alone with Blue Boy.

After she had had a long cry she dried her eyes and began at once to look for Blue Eyes. She wandered on through the wood with Blue Boy until they came to a hermit's cave. The hermit lived there all the year round, and his only companions were the birds and the beasts of the forest, and Rainbow thought if she talked to him she would perhaps hear the voice or see the look of Blue Eyes. But when she spoke to him she saw that he had forgotten what human beings were like, and he gave Rainbow and Blue Boy some bread and milk just as though they were birds. Then he opened his big book and began reading in it, and no longer noticed their presence.

The months went by, and Rainbow searched everywhere. She searched all through the summer, and although she met many kind faces, and saw many a happy smile, and heard many a young voice, nowhere did she meet any one who in the least reminded her of Blue Eyes.

When the winter came, they went to a city, and Blue Boy, who was growing up into a big boy, was apprenticed to a glass mender, and Rainbow and he lived together in a little room in the glass mender's house. The glass mender had a pretty daughter called Joan, and she had a tame blackbird which she kept in a wicker cage. All through the winter the city had been muffled in snow, and it had been bitterly cold; at last the snow melted; and March came with his boisterous wind and his cold showers of sleet and rain.

But one day the rain stopped; the sun shone in the blue sky, and Joan cried out:

"This is the first Spring day!" She ran out of doors with her bird cage and hung it up on the wall outside the house, and although there were as yet no green leaves anywhere, the blackbird knew that the spring had come, and he began to sing. While Joan was looking at the blackbird, Rainbow was watching her from her window, and was thinking to herself. "Surely now I shall hear the voice of Blue Eyes or see his look!" She was on the point of calling out:

"Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes, come back to me,"

when Joan looked up at her and met her gaze; and laughed, and blushed, and ran away. Rainbow knew that it was neither the voice nor the look of Blue Eyes; and she cried from disappointment.

By the time the spring was over, Blue Boy had learned his trade, and he was able to work on his own account and to support his mother, so they left the city together when the summer came, and they went from village to village and from city to city, mending broken window panes.

The years went by. Blue Boy was almost a man, and still Rainbow had not come across any one who had reminded her of Blue Eyes. She was sad, because she knew that in a year's time Blue Boy would be a man, and that it would be time for him to marry, and that she would then be left all alone. She knew that this was the last year that she and Blue Boy would be together.

One day they were walking through a grassy wood which was yellow with cowslips. It was a lovely April morning, and in the wood a lot of children were playing, and making chains and wreaths with the cowslips.

"Now, at last," thought Rainbow, "I shall hear the voice of Blue Eyes." She ran up to the children, but when the children saw her running towards them, they were frightened, and they ran away into the wood, and although she called and called they would not come back.

A little further on they came to a lovely village on a hill, overlooking a river which was a small arm of the sea. The hill was covered with orchards which were in full blossom, and in front of the little white straw-thatched cottages the neat flower-beds were full of sweet-smelling violets.

Rainbow and Blue Boy stayed in this village, and found plenty of work. One evening Rainbow was strolling in a lane on the top of the hill; the steep lane had on each side of it two grassy banks, on the top of which bushes and brambles and nut-trees grew so thickly that the ends of their boughs almost met across the lane, and the banks were covered with primroses. Walking along this lane, with their faces towards the sunset, Rainbow met a youth and a maiden; they were whispering to each other little broken words, with many sighs and smiles, and their talk was like the talk of two birds.

Rainbow's heart leapt as she heard them, and she was just going to cry out:

"Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes, come back to me,"

when they caught sight of her and stopped talking, and Rainbow knew that Blue Eyes was not there.

Then came the month of May, and the woods grew green and the lilac blossomed, and Rainbow grew sadder and sadder. One night she could not sleep, and she got up and walked through the moonlit village, right down to the quay by the river-side where the fishermen kept their boats and their nets. Many of the fishermen were out fishing on the sea, and one of them, a young lad, was setting the brown sail of his boat on the river, and as he did so, he sang a song which was like this:

"I have a cottage I love well, In the sweet west countree: And there my love and I shall dwell, When I come back from sea.

We'll stow the sail and stow the oar, And oh, how glad she'll be To mend the nets upon the shore, When I come back from sea.

I have a cottage on the hill, Just right for her and me, And she will say 'I love you still,' When I come back from sea."

The fisherman's voice was so glad and joyous as he sang this song, that Rainbow thought Blue Eyes must be there, and she ran to the shore. At that moment the moonlight fell full upon the fisherman, so that Rainbow could see his face, and she stopped herself calling out just in time, for she saw he was not at all like Blue Eyes.

During that same month Blue Boy fell in love with a Dairy Maid called Cherry-Ripe, and it was arranged that they should be married at Michaelmas. But as Michaelmas drew near, Rainbow grew sadder and sadder, because she could not bear to think what she would do without Blue Boy.

September came, and the corn was carried, and the leaves began to turn gold. On Michaelmas Eve, Rainbow was sitting in her garden watching the autumn sunset. Not far from her garden, which was on the side of a steep hill, there was a quarry in which there was an old seat, and this was a favourite spot for lovers, for from this place you could see the little river, all the village and the sea beyond, and the view was beautiful. Rainbow thought she would walk to the quarry, so as to get a better view of the sunset.

When she got there, she saw an old couple sitting on the seat. The man was a fisherman; his face was bronzed and wrinkled by the wind and the waves, and the woman's hair was grey and silvery. They did not notice Rainbow coming, and the old woman said to the man:

"Do you remember how we used to meet here in the days when you were courting me?"

And the old man said: "It was in the spring, and the apple-trees were out."

And the old woman said: "Ah! I was a comely lass then. There was no one like me in the village. Folks wouldn't believe it now, what with my white hair and my wrinkles."

And the old man said: "I see no difference in you, lassie. You've the same lovely blue eyes as you always had, and if your hair has turned silver, it's none the less fair for that."

And the old woman said: "And I see no difference in you, Sweetheart; you're just as strong and as brave as ever."

And the old man said: "Why, it's forty years ago, but it makes nought to us, for as long as I've got you, and you've got me, we shan't see any change in each other, for with us it has always been springtide and courting time, and it always will be."

And the old man looked at the old woman, and smiled and took her hand, and her eyes filled with tears. And when Rainbow saw this, before she knew what happened, she had called out:

"Blue Eyes, Blue Eyes, come back to me, Over the hills and over the sea. Brother of Summer, husband and friend, Come and stay till the world shall end."

As soon as she had said this, Blue Eyes stood before her just as he had been when he rode away, clothed in snowdrops and cowslips, wearing the rainbow for a scarf, and carrying a branch of blossom in his hand.

Rainbow was so glad to see Blue Eyes that she almost fainted. She led him to her cottage, and there she wept a long time for joy. Then Blue Eyes told her that he would never leave her again, but that he could not live on the earth a second time in the guise of a glass mender. During the spring they would ride through the world, scattering sunshine, laughter, and hope; mortals would see them, but they would not know who they were. During the summer and the autumn they would be invisible to mortals, and during the winter they would slumber in the Diamond Palace of his mother, the Snow Queen.

They waited to see Blue Boy and Cherry-Ripe married, and Blue Eyes gave them as a wedding present a little glass pipe, which, whenever he played it, brought the spring into the hearts of all who heard it. And Blue Eyes promised that whenever Blue Boy whistled on the pipe, he and Rainbow would immediately answer his call and come to him.

When the wedding was over, Blue Eyes gave Rainbow his scarf, and they mounted on two winged steeds and galloped off through the lanes. Now if you ever meet in a wood or by a river a man with blue eyes, on a winged horse, with a crown of dew, and a tunic of snowdrops and cowslips, and by his side, on a white pony, a beautiful woman wearing the rainbow for a scarf, and holding a branch of blossom in her hand, you will know it is Blue Eyes and Rainbow.

And if ever you hear on a spring morning, in a city or a village, three little notes played on a pipe which make your heart dance for joy, you will know that Blue Boy is calling for his father and his mother; for he does this very often.




The Blue Rose


Once upon a time there lived in China a wise Emperor, whose daughter was remarkable for her perfect beauty. Her feet were the smallest in the world; her eyes were long and slanting, and as bright as brown onyxes, and when you heard her laugh it was like listening to a tinkling stream, or to the chimes of a silver bell. Moreover, the Emperor's daughter was as wise as she was beautiful, and she chanted the verse of the great poets better than any one in the land. The Emperor was old in years; his son was married and had begotten a son; he was, therefore, quite happy about the succession to the throne, but he wished before he died to see his daughter wedded to some one who should be worthy of her.

Many suitors presented themselves at the palace, as soon as it became known that the Emperor desired a son-in-law, but when they reached the palace, they were met by the Lord Chamberlain, who told them the Emperor had decided that only the man who found and brought back the Blue Rose should marry his daughter. The suitors were much puzzled by this order. What was the Blue Rose, and where was it to be found? In all a hundred and fifty suitors had presented themselves, and out of these, fifty at once put away from them all thought of winning the hand of the Emperor's daughter, since they considered the condition imposed to be absurd.

The other hundred set about trying to find the Blue Rose. One of them -- his name was Ti-Fun-Ti, he was a merchant and immensely rich -- went at once to the largest shop in the town and said to the shopkeeper: "I want a blue rose, the best you have."

The shopkeeper, with many apologies, explained that he did not stock blue roses. He had red roses in profusion, white, pink, and yellow roses, but no blue rose. There had hitherto been no demand for the article.

"Well," said Ti-Fun-Ti, "you must get one for me. I do not mind how much money it costs, but I must have a blue rose."

The shopkeeper said he would do his best, but he feared it would be an expensive article and difficult to procure.

Another of the suitors, whose name I have forgotten, was a warrior and extremely brave; he mounted his horse, and taking with him a hundred archers and a thousand horsemen he marched into the territory of the King of Five Rivers, whom he knew to be the richest king in the world and the possessor of the rarest treasures, and demanded of him the Blue Rose, threatening him with a terrible doom should he be reluctant to give it up.

The King of the Five Rivers, who disliked soldiers, and had a horror of noise, violence, and every kind of fuss (his bodyguard was armed solely with fans and sunshades), rose from the cushions on which he was lying when the demand was made, and, tinkling a small bell, said to the servant who straightway appeared, "Fetch me the Blue Rose."

The servant retired and returned presently bearing on a silken cushion a large sapphire which was carved so as to imitate a full-blown rose with all its petals.

"This," said the King of the Five Rivers, "is the Blue Rose. You are welcome to it."

The warrior took it, and after making brief, soldier-like thanks, he went straight back to the Emperor's palace, saying that he had lost no time in finding the Blue Rose. He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he heard the warrior's story and saw the Blue Rose which had been brought, sent for his daughter and said to her: "This intrepid warrior has brought you what he claims to be the Blue Rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the precious object in her hands, and after examining it for a moment, said: "This is not a rose at all. It is a sapphire; I have no need of precious stones." And she returned the stone to the warrior, with many elegantly-expressed thanks. And the warrior went away in discomfiture.

When Ti-Fun-Ti, the merchant, heard of the warrior's failure, he was all the more anxious to win the prize. He sought the shopkeeper and said to him: "Have you got me the Blue Rose? I trust you have; because if not, I shall most assuredly be the means of your death. My brother-in-law is chief magistrate, and I am allied by marriage to all the chief officials in the kingdom."

The shopkeeper turned pale and said: "Sir, give me three days, and I will procure you the Blue Rose without fail." The merchant granted him the three days and went away. Now the shopkeeper was at his wit's end as to what to do, for he knew well there was no such thing as a blue rose. For two days he did nothing but moan and wring his hands, and on the third day he went to his wife and said: "Wife, we are ruined!"

But his wife, who was a sensible woman, said: "Nonsense! If there is no such thing as a blue rose we must make one. Go to the apothecary and ask him for a strong dye which will change a white rose into a blue one."

So the shopkeeper went to the apothecary and asked him for a dye, and the chemist gave him a bottle of red liquid, telling him to pick a white rose and to dip its stalk into the liquid and the rose would turn blue. The shopkeeper did as he was told; the rose turned into a beautiful blue and the shopkeeper took it to the merchant, who at once went with it to the palace, saying that he had found the Blue Rose.

He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he saw the blue rose sent for his daughter and said to her: "This wealthy merchant has brought you what he claims to be the Blue Rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the flower in her hands, and after examining it for a moment said: "This is a white rose; its stalk has been dipped in a poisonous dye and it has turned blue. Were a butterfly to settle upon it, it would die of the potent fume. Take it back. I have no need of a dyed rose." And she returned it to the merchant with many elegantly-expressed thanks.

The other ninety-eight suitors all sought in various ways for the Blue Rose. Some of them travelled all over the world seeking it; some of them sought the aid of wizards and astrologers, and one did not hesitate to invoke the help of the dwarfs that live underground. But all of them, whether they travelled in far countries, or took counsel with wizards and demons, or sat pondering in lonely places, failed to find the Blue Rose.

At last they all abandoned the quest except the Lord Chief Justice, who was the most skilful lawyer and statesman in the country. After thinking over the matter for several months, he sent for the most skilful artist in the country and said to him: "Make me a china cup. Let it be milk-white in colour and perfect in shape, and paint on it a rose, a blue rose."

The artist made obeisance and withdrew, and worked for two months at the Lord Chief Justice's cup. In two months' time it was finished, and the world has never seen such a beautiful cup, so perfect in symmetry, so delicate in texture, and the rose on it, the blue rose, was a living flower, picked in fairyland and floating on the rare milky surface of the porcelain. When the Lord Chief Justice saw it he gasped with surprise and pleasure, for he was a great lover of porcelain, and never in his life had he seen such a piece. He said to himself: "Without doubt the Blue Rose is here on this cup, and nowhere else."

So, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he went to the Emperor's palace and said that he had brought the Blue Rose. He was ushered into the Emperor's presence, who as he saw the cup sent for his daughter and said to her: "This eminent lawyer has brought you what he claims to be the Blue Rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the bowl in her hands, and after examining it for a moment, said: "This bowl is the most beautiful piece of china I have ever seen. If you are kind enough to let me keep it I will put it aside until I receive the blue rose. For so beautiful is it that no other flower is worthy to be put in it except the Blue Rose."

The Lord Chief Justice thanked the Princess for accepting the bowl with many elegantly-turned phrases, and he went away in discomfiture.

After this there was no one in the whole country who ventured on the quest of the Blue Rose. It happened that not long after the Lord Chief Justice's attempt, a strolling minstrel visited the kingdom of the Emperor. One evening he was playing his one-stringed instrument outside a dark wall. It was a summer's evening, and the sun had sunk in a glory of dusty gold, and in the violet twilight one or two stars were twinkling like spear-heads. There was an incessant noise made by the croaking of frogs and the chatter of grasshoppers. The minstrel was singing a short song over and over again to a monotonous tune. The sense of it was something like this: -- 

"I watched beside the willow trees The river, as the evening fell; The twilight came and brought no breeze, No dew, no water for the well,

"When from the tangled banks of grass, A bird across the water flew, And in the river's hard grey glass I saw a flash of azure blue."

As he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and looking up he saw a slight figure, white against the twilight, beckoning to him. He walked along under the wall until he came to a gate, and there some one was waiting for him, and he was gently led into the shadow of a dark cedar tree. In the twilight he saw two bright eyes looking at him, and he understood their message. In the twilight a thousand meaningless nothings were whispered in the light of the stars, and the hours fled swiftly. When the East began to grow light, the Princess (for it was she) said it was time to go.

"But," said the minstrel, "to-morrow I shall come to the palace and ask for your hand."

"Alas!" said the Princess, "I would that were possible, but my father has made a foolish condition that only he may wed me who finds the Blue Rose."

"That is simple," said the minstrel, "I will find it!" And they said good-night to each other.

The next morning the minstrel went to the palace, and on his way he picked a common white rose from a wayside garden. He was ushered into the Emperor's presence, who sent for his daughter and said to her: "This penniless minstrel has brought you what he claims to be the Blue Rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the rose in her hands and said: "Yes, this is without doubt the Blue Rose."

But the Lord Chief Justice and all who were present respectfully pointed out that the rose was a common white rose and not a blue one, and the objection was with many forms and phrases conveyed to the Princess.

"I think the rose is blue," said the Princess. "It is, in fact, the Blue Rose. Perhaps you are all colour blind."

The Emperor, with whom the decision rested, decided that if the Princess thought the rose was blue, it was blue, for it was well known that her perception was more acute than that of any one else in the kingdom.

So the minstrel married the Princess, and they settled on the sea-coast in a little green house with a garden full of white roses, and they lived happily for ever afterwards. And the Emperor, knowing that his daughter had made a good match, died in peace.




The Story Of Vox Angelica And Lieblich Gedacht


Once upon a time there was a poor tanner called Hans who lived with his wife Martha in a town in which there were two hundred churches, a hundred chapels, and a huge cathedral.

Hans lived in a wooden house opposite the gates of the cathedral. They had only one son and he was so delicate that they did not know what trade he could learn when he grew bigger. In the meantime they taught him how to read and write. The boy was christened Johan; for he was born on St. John's Day. When Johan was quite a tiny little boy he liked listening to the sound of the organ in the big cathedral, and in the evenings he would sit for hours in the darkness, listening to the organist at his practice.

The organist was an old man called Doctor Sebastian, and he wore a powdered wig and large tortoise-shell spectacles. When he played the organ, which was an immense instrument and had five keyboards, the windows trembled in all the houses which nestled round the cathedral.

Doctor Sebastian soon noticed the little Johan and allowed him to come up into the organ-loft while he was playing, and Johan used to sit as still as a mouse, and watch him pull out the stops, and play with his feet as skilfully as he did with his hands. Doctor Sebastian had a pupil called Frantz, a lad with curly brown hair and large brown eyes. Frantz used to practise on the organ every day; but Doctor Sebastian was severe with him, and Frantz was not allowed to play the organ at High Mass on Sundays. One day Johan asked Doctor Sebastian whether this was because Frantz played badly, and Doctor Sebastian said:

"Frantz has much to learn and he must be trained, but one day, when he has learnt all that I can teach him, he will be able to teach me what I shall not be able to learn."

Johan did not understand what this meant, but he guessed that Doctor Sebastian thought well of Frantz, in spite of his being so severe with him. Johan thought that Frantz was the most wonderful player in the world, and whereas Doctor Sebastian only made the organ speak in deep single tones, and only used the open stops and the booming pedal bass-notes, Frantz -- when Doctor Sebastian was not there to listen -- used to make the organ sigh and speak like a castle full of spirits, and Johan thought this was wonderful.

One day, it was in winter just before Christmas, and Johan was eight years old, Doctor Sebastian was laid up in bed with a bad cold, and he sent for Frantz and said to him:

"I shall never rise from my bed again. I am going thither where I shall hear the music which we only guess at here on earth. You must play the organ on Christmas Day. I have taught you all I know. I have been severe and gruff with you; but being a musician, you know that if I had not thought you worthy of it, I should not have taken any trouble with you at all. I have been spared until you were ready to take my place, and now I can go in peace, for I know that I leave behind me a worthy successor. I have scolded you and pulled your ears, rapped your fingers and blamed your playing, but you have got that which I should never learn if I lived for two hundred years. You have the divine gift, and as a musician I am not worthy to unlatch the shoes of what you will be; for you will play on earth the music that I am now going to hear in Heaven!"

After that Doctor Sebastian squeezed Frantz's hand and said no more. The next day he died.

Frantz was very sad, and he spent the whole day that the Doctor died in the cathedral composing a requiem in memory of his dead master. Little Johan, in a corner of the aisle, listened to the music: he had never heard anything so beautiful; some new power seemed to have come to Frantz, and when he touched the keys the pipes spoke in a way they had never spoken before.

Frantz went on playing until late into the night, and Johan had been carried so far away into dreamland by the music that he did not notice when Frantz stopped, but all at once he became aware that he was alone in the cathedral and that the organ-loft was dark and no sound came from it.

Johan ran up the winding stair into the organ-loft, but Frantz had gone, and Johan knew that he was locked in the cathedral for the night. He made up his mind to sleep there where he was, and he was just taking one of Frantz's missals to use as a pillow when he became aware that he was no longer alone. Sitting on the bench in front of the keys was a strange figure. It was an old man with a grey beard, twinkling eyes, and a deep voice like the buzzing of a hornet. He wore a brown coat and grey stockings, and a black three-cornered hat.

"Who are you?" asked Johan.

"My name is Quint," said the little old man, "and I live in one of the big wooden pipes of the organ."

"Do you always live there?" asked Johan.

"No, not always," said Quint. "We don't live here as a rule, but some of them oblige us to come here and sing --  -- "

"I don't understand," said Johan.

"Well, I will explain it to you," answered Quint. "It's like this: Every one of the stops of the organ has some one who belongs to it and to whom it belongs -- but these people do not live in the stops; they live in their own country, which is called Musicland, and they only come to the organs when they are obliged to."

"But who obliges them?" asked Johan.

Quint thought for a moment, and then he said: "Those who have the gift."

"But what is the gift?" asked Johan.

"That I can't tell you," said Quint. "All I know is that some have it and others haven't."

"Did Doctor Sebastian have the gift?" asked Johan.

"No," said Quint, "he was a learned man and a very good man; but he hadn't got the gift. But young Frantz: he's got it. That's why I am here to-day."

"Are the people of the other stops here too?" asked Johan, who was deeply interested in what Quint told him.

"They've all gone home," said Quint. "You see, as long as the player plays, we can stay here and not come out except just when we're wanted; but if we don't get back into the pipes before the player has finished, we can't go home. Now just before Frantz finished I crept out of my pipe because I wasn't wanted, and I wished to look at the cathedral, and then suddenly he stopped playing, before I could get back into my pipe again, and if we are not in our pipes when the organist stops playing we can't get home."

"What will you do then?" asked Johan.

"I shall have to wait till he plays again to-morrow. I can get into a pipe of course, but I can't go home."

"To Musicland?" asked Johan.

"Yes," said Quint, "and it's annoying, because I shall miss the end of the wedding festivities."

"Whose wedding?" asked Johan.

"Vox Angelica's, of course," said Quint. "She was married yesterday."

"Vox Angelica is that lovely soft stop in the swell," said Johan. "I suppose she's going to marry 'Lieblich Gedacht'?"

"Of course she is," said Quint, "but it's a long business. If you like I will tell you all about it."

"Oh, please do!" said Johan.

"Well," began Quint, "Vox Angelica is the most beautiful person you have ever seen. Her eyes are just like blue waters, grave and still, and her hair is long and as bright as the gold on a harp. And as for her voice, well, you can hear that whenever Frantz plays the organ. She is as kind and gentle as she is beautiful, and everybody in our country loves her. She lives in that part of Musicland where the hills and white mountains are. In the winter it is covered with snow which gleams in the sunshine, whiter and brighter than any snow you have ever seen, but when the spring comes the snow disappears and the slopes of the mountains are covered with millions and millions of flowers which are soft and white and glisten like stars.

"Lieblich Gedacht was the son of a forester, and he lives in the Woods of Melody, right in the heart of our country where the old oak forests grow, which are carpeted with bluebells in the spring so that the enormous stems look as if they rose out of a blue sea, and in the spring and in the summer the woods are full of birds; but no bird there has so sweet a note as Lieblich Gedacht when he sings in the wood. The birds stop singing to listen to him. He sings all the year round: when the woods are green, and in the autumn too, when they are gold and crimson like the tattered banners of our King, and in the winter, when the oak trees spread their bare arms across the clear cold sky.

"One day Lieblich Gedacht put on a green jerkin, a green cap, and taking with him a sword and a pipe he set out on his travels. He wandered through Musicland until he came to a castle which was on the top of a mountain. This castle had a tower with one window in it, and from the window came the sound of a whisper which sounded so soft and wonderful that Lieblich Gedacht thought it must be the voice of a flower speaking to itself: the jessamine perhaps, or the briar rose. Then he looked up and he saw leaning out of the window a maid with gold hair which fell from the window far down the tower, and she was as frail and as lovely as a gentian on the mountains.

"Then Lieblich Gedacht sang a song. He sang of all the beautiful things he had ever dreamed of; he sang of the sun and the moon and the stars, of the spring, the grass, the great woods and their secret; he sang the song the leaves sing when they wake in the dawn, and the song the boughs sing in the evening when they lull the birds and the flowers to sleep. He sang of the love he felt for all the beautiful things in the world, and about how glad he was to be alive in a beautiful country like Musicland.

"Vox Angelica heard him, and answered his song, and they sang a duet together, and Lieblich Gedacht's part said, 'I love you,' and Vox Angelica's part said, 'I love you too.'

"Then Lieblich Gedacht asked Vox Angelica to marry him, and she said she would, and they settled they would start at once for the City of Pleasant Sounds and be married. They started at once. Lieblich Gedacht rode on a grey horse, and Vox Angelica rode on the saddle in front of him. Now their way lay through a perilous wood called the Forest of Discord, which was infested by imps called Chromatics, and by hundreds of gnomes who made a hideous noise, and in the middle of this wood lived Bourdon, who is a wizard.

"When they reached the wood it was already dark, and from every bush and tree came sharp sounds, ugly cries, moans, groans, squeaks, wheezes, and in the distance they could hear a deep buzzing boom.

"Vox Angelica and Lieblich Gedacht were rather frightened, since it was dark and neither of them knew the way, for neither of them had ever been near the Forest of Discord before, and they knew none of the people who belonged to it. So they made up their minds not to go any farther but to sleep under the shade of an oak-tree. It was summer, so it was warm. They made themselves a bed of leaves and lay down; but the Chromatics made such a noise that they could not go to sleep. At last they put moss into their ears so that they could not hear the ugly sounds, and they both fell asleep.

"In the middle of the night Lieblich Gedacht had a bad dream. He dreamed that the trees had come to life and had stretched out their arms and taken Vox Angelica away from him, and that when he tried to keep her they bound him down to the ground.

"When Lieblich Gedacht awoke, it was daylight and the sun was shining through the dark trees. But what was his grief and despair when he saw that Vox Angelica was no longer there! She had gone, disappeared, and left no trace. He looked for her everywhere; he called out her name in a thousand ways till the ugly wood re-echoed with the sweetness of his song, but no Vox Angelica answered. She was nowhere to be found. Lieblich Gedacht was in despair. He did not know what to do nor where to look. 'But,' he thought to himself, 'one thing is certain: it is no use wasting time in this forest, I must go and find some one who will be likely to help me.'

"So he rode out of the Forest of Discord as quickly as he could, and crossed the plains which lie beyond it, and he rode on until he reached the Wood of Dreams, which is on the other side of the plains.

"In this wood there lives a hermit called Sackbut, who is well known for his goodness and his wisdom, and Lieblich Gedacht made up his mind to go and ask him for his help and advice. Sackbut lives in a cave underground. He is very old, and has a long white beard six times as long as mine. Lieblich Gedacht, after searching for some time in the wood, found a clear space in the thickets, and in the middle of it a circle of built bricks which looked like the top of a well. But when he looked down into what he thought was the well he saw there were steps in it which went down underground. He went boldly down the steps and into the dark, and when he had counted thirty-two of them they stopped and he came to the door. He knocked at this door, and he heard a hoarse voice saying: 'Who is there?'

"'It is I, Lieblich Gedacht,' he answered. 'I have come for advice.'

"The door was opened at once, and Lieblich Gedacht found himself in a cell lit by a lantern, and in front of him, sitting at a table and reading a large book, which had nothing but notes in it, was Sackbut the Hermit.

"'Well, what do you want?' asked the hermit in a gruff voice. 'Be quick and tell me, because I am busy and I have got no time to waste. I am learning a fugue by one of those new-fangled German musicians, and I must know it by next Sunday, for there's a man in one of their cities who has the gift, and I shall have to go.'

"'I have plighted my troth to Vox Angelica,' said Lieblich Gedacht. 'We were travelling together to the City of Pleasant Sounds to be married, and we stopped on the way in the Forest of Discord.'

"'That was a silly thing to do,' said Sackbut.

"'We slept the night there, and when I woke up in the morning Vox Angelica had disappeared.'

"'Did you hear anything in the night?' asked Sackbut.

"'No,' said Lieblich Gedacht, 'but I had a bad nightmare. I dreamed the trees were taking her away and strangling me.'

"'I see,' said Sackbut, 'it's Bourdon the wizard; he's at his old tricks again. Vox Angelica has been carried away by Bourdon, and he has probably hidden her somewhere. He would not dare keep her in his castle, because the Chromatics are such gossips that the whole kingdom would know it at once. She is a prisoner somewhere; of that you can be sure. But where I cannot tell you. All I can advise you is to go and ask Echo: she hears everything.'

"'And where does Echo live?' asked Lieblich Gedacht.

"'Echo,' said Sackbut, 'lives in the Castle of the Winds, which is not very far away. You must go right through the Wood of Dreams, and across the plains, and then you will come to a valley; you must descend into this valley, which is steep, and climb up the other side of it; and there on a high rock you will see the Castle of the Winds. Good-bye.'

"And the Hermit bent over his music-book once more and hummed to himself in his deep bass voice. But just as Lieblich Gedacht was going away, Sackbut called him back and gave him a walnut, and said: 'Whenever you are in danger and want my help, crack this. Now go.'

"Lieblich Gedacht thanked Sackbut, and did as he had been told. He rode through the Wood of Dreams, which is a quiet wood, shady and dim. There are very few birds in it; but the nightingale sings there all day and the nightjar sings there all night. And on his way he passed a cottage where Waldhorn the hunter lives, and farther on he passed a castle which belongs to Waldflote the Lord of the Forest. But neither of them were at home; for Waldhorn was out hunting, and Waldflote was on a visit to his cousin Cor de Nuit, who lives in the Orchards of Twilight.

"Lieblich Gedacht soon reached the valley, which is deep and made of great rocks and quarries. It is so steep that he had to lead his horse down the whole way. But the other side was easier to climb because it was grassy, and he was able to ride up it. When he reached the top, he saw a castle with transparent walls which reflected the sunlight and which had hundreds of windows, all of them wide open so as to let in the winds from all the corners of the world. When he reached the door he sang a soft note, and he immediately heard it repeated hundreds and hundreds of times so that the whole world seemed to be full of calling sounds. The door opened of itself, and Lieblich walked into a hall, at the end of which was a winding staircase. He walked up this staircase and he went on and on until he thought it would never end. At last he came to the top, and there, in a little room which had eight sides, sitting on a crystal throne, was Echo.

"She was dressed in moonbeams and dewdrops and the fleece of a cloud, and she had wings made of gossamer like those of a dragon-fly, and on her head there trembled a star.

"'I have come,' said Lieblich Gedacht, 'to ask you to help me.' And he told his story.

"'Two nights ago,' said Echo when he had finished, 'I heard Bourdon start from his castle in his large rumbling coach. His horses were galloping. He left his castle and drove for some time through the Forest of Discord, and then he stopped. At that moment I heard a sigh which I am sure was Vox Angelica speaking. But the sigh was soon stifled, and Bourdon drove off again in his coach. He drove right through the Forest of Dreams, over the plains, till he came to the sea, and there he got out and disappeared under the sea. After that I do not know what happened, because the winds cannot bring me any news of what happens underneath the sea; but he probably crossed the sea and went to Muteland, which is beyond it. But I advise you to go and ask Unda Maris, who lives under the sea. She will tell you.'

"'But how shall I find Unda Maris?' asked Lieblich Gedacht.

"'All you have got to do is to go to the seashore,' said Echo; 'you must take this ring, and when you get there' -- and here she gave Lieblich Gedacht a silver ring with a strange blue stone in it -- 'you must throw it into the sea and sing -- 

"Ring, ring, go home, To the fishes and the foam; Say the word and open the sea, Come and show the way to me."

But remember this: if any one asks you to do them a service, however small, which might delay your journey, you must refuse, or evil will come of it. And you had better take this with you, and whenever you are in danger and want my help, open it.' And she gave Lieblich Gedacht a little green egg.

"Lieblich Gedacht thanked Echo and said good-bye, and then he rode as quickly as he could to the seashore. There he threw the ring into the sea and said -- 

'Ring, ring, go home, To the fishes and the foam; Say the word and open the sea, Come and show the way to me.'

No sooner had he said this than the sea opened wide, and he saw before him a stone staircase with a rope made of pearls for him to walk down by; and a silver fish with webbed feet and hands went in front of him and showed him the way.

"The fish led him a long walk right to the bottom of the sea, and when he got there, he found a place built of rocks and seaweeds. Inside it was green and dim like a summer night, and sounds echoed through its green corridors. The fish led Lieblich Gedacht through many halls to the central grotto, which was built of sapphires, where Unda Maris lived. She was lying on a bed of purple seaweed when he entered the grotto, and she was touching the strings of a golden harp. She was almost hidden by a veil, and her face shone behind it, pale like the moon behind a cloud. She asked Lieblich Gedacht what he wanted, and he told his story.

"'It is true,' she said when he had finished. 'Bourdon has carried away Vox Angelica out of Musicland. He passed through the sea three days ago -- passed through and took her to Muteland beyond the sea, to the Castle of Silence that stands in the middle of the Lake of Sighs. You must go there if you wish to find her. You must cross the sea to get there in a boat, and you must be sure on no account to stop anywhere on the way, or else evil will come of it. Take this with you, and whenever you are in danger, and want my help, open it.' So saying, she gave Lieblich Gedacht a pearly shell.

"So Lieblich Gedacht thanked Unda Maris and said good-bye, and walked back by the staircase to the seashore again. When he got there the first thing he did was to go to a fisherman's hut and ask him to lend him a boat to cross the sea in. While he was talking to the fisherman he saw three figures coming towards him. One was dressed in bright armour, and wore a gold cloak on his left shoulder, and a crimson cap with a crimson feather in it, and a sword. This was Prince Hautboy, and with him was his page, Piccolo, a mischievous little boy with beady brown eyes, clothed entirely in silver; and the second, who wore a scarlet tunic and who carried a broadsword and a bugle, was Cornet the soldier; and the third was a tall figure with a handsome, melancholy face, dressed in black velvet and wearing a large black cap from which a proud white plume waved. This was Viol d'Amore, the brave nobleman who was a swordsman and who made beautiful verses and sang them.

"Lieblich Gedacht walked up to them, and taking off his green cap made obeisance to them.

"Hautboy and Viol d'Amore asked him who he was.

"'I am Lieblich Gedacht,' he said, 'the son of the forester. I live in the Woods of Melody, and I am betrothed to Vox Angelica. But Bourdon has taken her away and locked her up in the Castle of Silence on the Lake of Sighs, and I am going to rescue her.'

"'Then you can come with us,' said Hautboy, 'for we are bound upon a like errand. I am betrothed to Clarabella, and Bourdon has taken her away; and Viol d'Amore is looking for Dolce his betrothed, and Cornet for Muzette, who is pledged to him, and Bourdon has taken them too.'

"So Viol d'Amore, Hautboy, Cornet, and Lieblich Gedacht, and Piccolo the page, got into the boat, hoisted the sail and set out to sea. They had a fair breeze, and for three days their voyage continued smoothly without any adventures; but on the fourth day they met a huge brass ship with a serpent at the prow which challenged them.

"'This is Bourdon's doing,' said Hautboy; 'he has had wind of our adventure and sent his allies against us.'

"In the brass ship there were two very fearsome warriors -- Tromba, who was a giant mailed in brazen armour, like the vessel, and Bassoon, who was as large as a barrel and who had a voice like thunder; and with them were fifty tin soldiers. As soon as the vessel approached, Tromba cried out in a ringing voice -- 

"'Surrender, you are my prisoners!'

"'In whose name?' cried out Hautboy.

"'In the name of Bourdon, our King,' answered Tromba.

"'We recognise no king save King Diapason, our lawful sovereign,' said Hautboy unabashed.

"'Then if you won't surrender we shall make you,' said Tromba; and he told his soldiers to ram the little boat.

"Hautboy thought that all was lost; and Lieblich Gedacht said, 'If only Unda Maris were here she could help us.' Then he remembered the shell which she had given to him, and he opened it. There was nothing inside it except a tiny seed-pearl, and as he opened the shell the vessel gave a lurch and the seed-pearl fell into the sea. Lieblich Gedacht cried out in despair, but as he did so, a wave rose between them and the brazen vessel, and from out this wave came a gigantic sea-serpent, which at once attacked the brazen vessel. Tromba and Bassoon were frightened out of their wits, and setting all sail they fled as fast as they could, and their ship was soon out of sight. Then the sea-serpent disappeared, and the sea at once became quite calm again. They journeyed on for two more days, and the weather grew warmer and finer every hour, and the sky turned to a softer azure, and the sea to a deeper blue; they were borne along by the lightest of breezes, and sometimes their sail flapped idly in the still air.

"On the third day, they descried a speck of land on the horizon, and towards the evening they could see that it was an island with misty hills and lights on it. All round it on the sea, which the sunset had turned fiery, little white sails seemed to be scudding towards it, and when the sun set and the stars came out there came to them from the island a faint thread of wonderful sound.

"Hautboy and Cornet said they thought it would be a good thing to land at this island for the night, and Lieblich Gedacht was so curious to hear more of the lovely music that he forgot all about the warning Unda Maris had given him not to stop anywhere on the way, and he consented.

"So they ran their boat into a sandy cove, hauled her up on to the beach, and landed. The island was overgrown with tall ferns; and shapes of trees, such as none of them had ever seen before, nodded to them from the hills. There appeared to be no birds, beasts, or any living creature on the island, but the thread of sound they had heard in the distance, was fuller now and more silvery, and they walked up along a grassy path towards the place where it seemed to come from. After they had climbed up the ground in front of them for some time, they reached a spot where the ground ceased to rise. Lieblich Gedacht turned round to have one last look at the sea before walking down into the valley which was before them. The stars twinkled in the sky and the sea mirrored them like quiet glass, and strange to say, all the little white sails which they had seen at sunset scudding round the island had disappeared.

"They went down into the valley, and the ferns became more dusky and taller, the path darker and darker, and the sound of music sweeter and more insistent; they crossed the valley, and the pathway led them uphill once more to a clear space, and before them rose pinnacles and domes all grey and shimmering like a mist which hides the sun, and in this frail dwelling-place a hundred little lights glistened like glowworms, and the whole place trembled with the magical silvery sound which they had followed.

"They walked on, and they came to a grey portal with colours in it like those of a fading rainbow, and a voice bade them enter. They did so, and found themselves beneath a cloudy dome, so high that they could not see the top of it, and although there were myriads of small lights twinkling everywhere, the air remained dim and mysterious: but the sound was louder and clearer. They could not but follow it, and it led them beyond the dome up a flight of steps to a terrace which was open to the sky. The terrace was long and broad, and as unreal and unsubstantial as though it were built of moonshine. They walked on, straight in front of them, until they came to a transparent wall. They looked over this, and beneath them was a steep slope covered with grasses and ferns, trees and plants; down this slope, which was interrupted at intervals by the outline of smaller terraces and ledges, in which were sheets of light, like pools of water, they seemed to hear a hundred waterfalls rushing whispering down the slope; and far away in the darkness they saw the ghosts of white fountains rising and sobbing. On their left, the terrace overlooked the sea, and went sheer down to the beach; and on their right, tall shadows hid from their view the fern-forests of the island. In the air there was scent of flowers, and the whole terrace was overgrown with some sweet jessamine-like flower which they could not see, for both the terrace and the sloping garden beneath them were shrouded in a mist in which millions and millions of fireflies swarmed and glistened. And all this time the sound grew softer, clearer, and stronger. Just as they were wondering where it could be coming from, there came to them from out and through the filmy walls of the dwelling, a beautiful lady. Her face was like a pale flower, and her hair, which fell to her feet, was dark as the night, and she was dressed in clinging folds of dewy silver, and she stretched out her white arms to them and said in a voice which seemed like that of the summer darkness -- 

"'Welcome!' Then she led them into the house, up into a high room, built in the clouds and from which they could see the circle of the island and the sea beyond.

"They at once fell into a deep sleep, and in their dreams winged shapes fanned them and soft voices whispered to them. The next morning when they awoke, although the sun was shining the mists did not rise from the island; everything remained filmy, grey, and dim, shimmering like a bell of foam; lights twinkled and fountains and waterfalls plashed, and the island echoed with hidden voices and the same magical sound.

"'I suppose,' said Lieblich Gedacht, 'we ought to go on with our journey?'

"'Yes,' said Hautboy, 'but where are we going to?'

"'Yes, where are we going to?' repeated Cornet.

"And Lieblich Gedacht thought and thought, and puzzled and puzzled; but neither he nor any of them could remember where they were going. Presently Hautboy said -- 

"'Why should we go anywhere? What place could be better than this island?'

"'This is better than fighting,' said Cornet.

"'And then making verses and singing them,' said Viol d'Amore.

"'And then piping all day,' said Piccolo.

"'Nobody asked your opinion,' said Hautboy.

"And so they wandered about in this magical island, listening to the delicious sound and smelling flowers which they could not see; they were steeped in the mist of the place, and they could not remember what it was they had set out to do. They were captives to the dream and the spell of the place, and however much they tried they could not drive the mist from their minds and remember what they had set out to do. At sunset the beautiful lady appeared again and gave them fruits to eat and water in a crystal cup, and she sang to them a song, and never had they heard anything so lovely. When she had done singing, Lieblich Gedacht asked her who she was and what the island was called.

"She said: 'I am the daughter of the moon, and this island is called the Island of Moon Dew. I am very lonely, but you shall keep me company now.'

"'But,' said Lieblich Gedacht, 'we must not stay here long. We are bound on a quest, only we can't remember just now exactly what it is.'

"'We will talk of that later,' said the lady, 'in the meantime I will sing you a song.' And she sang them to sleep with her wonderful voice.

"A whole year passed, and every day was spent in the same way, in dream and song and sleep. Cornet, Hautboy, and Viol d'Amore had quite stopped worrying about their journey, and about what they should do in the future. But Lieblich Gedacht was sad because he knew there was something he ought to do, but he could not remember what it was. One day when he was wandering by himself in the gardens of the island, he sat down to rest on the grass beside some misty bushes. He was trying hard to remember, and he happened to take out of his pocket the little egg which Echo had given him. He had quite forgotten what it was, and he played with it, throwing it up and catching it; and then growing tired of this game, he put the egg on the grass next to the misty bushes so that it touched one of them. Directly he did this a myrtle bush, which had not been there before, appeared out of the mist quite distinct, and it at once began to speak.

"'Who are you,' it said, 'who have made me visible and given me the power to speak?'

"'I am Lieblich Gedacht,' he answered. 'I have been here a year, and what I am doing I don't know, because I can't remember things.'

"'You are protected by some powerful spell,' said the myrtle, 'or else you would have suffered my fate already. Don't you know where you are?'

"'No,' said Lieblich Gedacht, 'we came here in a boat one evening after sunset; we have seen the Lady of the Island, but we do not know her name.'

"'Then I will tell you,' said the myrtle. 'You are in the island of Zauberflote the enchantress. All who come here lose their memory and forget their homes, their native country, and the faces that they love. And when they have been here a year, Zauberflote puts them to the test. She bids them listen to the Moon Song, and if they can listen to it without falling asleep, they are free, but if they fall asleep, then they are hers for ever, and she changes them into ghostly shapes: plants, fountains, streams, waterfalls, flowers, trees, ferns, or whatever she wishes.'

"'And who are you?' asked Lieblich Gedacht.

"'I,' said the myrtle, 'am the youngest son of the Sleeping Beauty in the wood. I was on my way to Musicland to seek adventure. I stopped at this island, although my fairy godmother had warned me not to, and after I had been here a year Zauberflote sang me the Moon Song and I fell asleep, and she changed me into a myrtle bush. There are many, many people on this island who have suffered the same fate. From my country there are the Marquis of Carrabas, who stayed here for a night to feed his cat: he is changed into a fuchsia and the cat into a tiger-lily; and Cinderella is here too: she was changed into a glass slipper; and there are many knights and maidens from all the corners of the world, sleeping here in the shape of ghostly ferns and trees and flowers.'

"'What must I do?' he asked, 'to resist the Moon Song?'

"'It is very difficult,' said the myrtle, 'no one has ever resisted it yet; but you must have some spell about you or else you could not have made me visible and given me speech. But look, what is that egg lying on the grass next to my stem?'

"'Oh, Echo gave me that,' said Lieblich Gedacht; 'I had forgotten, but I remember now; she told me to crush it if I was in danger!'

"'You must not crush it until the Moon Song has begun,' said the myrtle, 'and then the spell will be broken, and we shall all be free, for as soon as some one is found who can resist the Moon Song, the spell will cease to bind us; but if you don't break the egg in time, you will sleep here for ever. Now I must not talk any more or else we shall be discovered.'

"Lieblich Gedacht thanked the myrtle and went away. That night there was a full moon, and never had the island looked so beautiful. Zauberflote came on to the terrace, and called Hautboy, Cornet, Viol d'Amore, Lieblich Gedacht and Piccolo, and said she would sing to them.

"She began to sing the Moon Song, and never had her voice been so silvery and never had they listened to such a song; all the island was trembling with joy, and the moon and the stars seemed to be leaning out of the sky to listen. And just as Lieblich Gedacht was yielding to the spell and sinking into a delicious ocean of dreams he cracked the egg to pieces between his fingers.

"At that moment the song stopped, and Lieblich Gedacht heard the echo of Vox Angelica's voice, which came from the egg, sighing: 'Lieblich Gedacht, my betrothed, have you forgotten me?'

"'Of course I haven't,' said Lieblich Gedacht. 'Come, Hautboy, Viol d'Amore, and Cornet, we are bound for Bourdon's castle.' At that moment Viol d'Amore, Hautboy, and Cornet remembered everything they had forgotten and whither they were bound.

"As Lieblich Gedacht said this, Zauberflote disappeared at once into her mysterious palace. The mists lifted and vanished and the garden appeared in its true shape, just like an ordinary garden, with stone terraces overgrown with jessamine, and trees and bushes, and flowers and grass and weeds, just like anywhere else, and the shadows on one side of the terrace were cypress trees, and Zauberflote's palace was an ordinary palace built of marble. From the garden came Prince Myrtle, the Marquis of Carrabas, Cinderella, and a hundred other knights and maidens who had been spellbound there for years; and they all thanked Lieblich Gedacht for setting them free. They started at once in their boats, which they found in the cove where they had left them. The Marquis of Carrabas, Prince Myrtle, and Cinderella set out for Musicland, and Lieblich Gedacht and his comrades started once more on their quest of rescue.

"They sailed for three more days and for three more nights, and they arrived at Muteland. Muteland is a flat country with no woods in it and very few trees, and those have no leaves on them. Some people say this is so that they may not rustle. But they couldn't rustle even if they had leaves, because there is no wind in Muteland. There are no birds in Muteland, and the only beasts there are dormice and salamanders. There are no streams and no rivers, and the people who live there only speak to each other by signs. In the middle of the country there is a large lake called the Lake of Sighs, because some people say that the sound of sighs is sometimes heard coming from it, and that these are the only sounds which have ever been heard in the country.

"As soon as Hautboy, Viol d'Amore, Cornet, Piccolo, and Lieblich Gedacht landed on the coast of Muteland, the first thing they did was to sing a song. This frightened the people there so much that they all ran into their holes; for the inhabitants of Muteland live underground. They walked for some hours over the barren plains until they came to an avenue of leafless willows. Lieblich Gedacht was walking on ahead, and as he passed one of these trees he stopped, for he thought he heard a human moan coming from one of the trees. He paused and listened, and again the sound was repeated. This time he heard it quite plainly. It was the piteous and musical moan of a human creature in pain. It trembled through the silence, and shook and quivered and touched Lieblich Gedacht's kind heart.

"He walked up to the tree which was nearest to him to see if he could find out where the noise came from. Then from above, coming from the heart of the tree, he heard the plaintive voice crying to him: 'Release me. Set me free. I am imprisoned in the trunk of this tree.'

"'Who are you?' asked Lieblich Gedacht.

"'I am Vox Humana,' said the voice, 'I was imprisoned in this tree by a wizard a hundred years ago, and nobody will set me free.'

"'But how can I set you free?' asked Lieblich Gedacht.

"'All you have got to do is to touch the tree and say -- 

"Willow-tree, willow-tree, Hark to me, hark! Set the poor captive free, Open your bark."'

"Lieblich Gedacht in his distress quite forgot what Echo had told him about not delaying his journey to render any one a service, and he touched the tree and said the words.

"As soon as he had done this, the tree opened and Vox Humana came out of it, with tears of gratitude in her soft brown eyes; but the spell which the wizard had put on the tree was of such a kind that he who set free a prisoner from it became a prisoner himself, and Vox Humana did not know this. So directly she was set free, Lieblich Gedacht found himself in her place, a prisoner in the dark trunk of the willow-tree, and although Vox Humana, who was very unselfish, at once touched the tree, and said the magic rhyme, because she preferred to be imprisoned herself rather than to cause some one else to be a captive, the spell did not work a second time. Indeed, like most spells, it could only be used once.

"Presently Hautboy, Viol d'Amore and Cornet came up, and they found Vox Humana crying bitterly. She told them what had happened, and they did not know what to do, for they could not even hear Lieblich Gedacht's voice; because it is only after years and years that a person who is imprisoned in a tree can be heard by any one else. And that is the reason why Vox Humana has such a plaintive voice. They were all very sad, and they settled to go on to the Lake of Sighs and accomplish their quest, and then perhaps they would find some way of setting Lieblich Gedacht free again. They soon reached the Lake of Sighs, and in the middle of it, on a rocky island, stood the Castle of Silence. They found a boat on the shore of the lake, and it carried them across by itself, without oars or sail. They found the gates of the castle (which was all black) wide open. They entered the castle. It was quite empty and deserted. They went into room after room. They searched every nook and corner, but they found nothing. When they came to the banqueting-hall they found a meal ready for them, with fruits and bread and wine, which were served by invisible hands; so they sat down and ate, for they were hungry.

"When they had had enough they began to search the castle once more, but they soon felt sleepy, so they lay down in one of the rooms where they found beds all ready for them, and fell fast asleep.

"No sooner were they asleep than Bourdon's three cousins, Bass, Violone, and Ophicleide, who were looking after the castle for him, and who had been hiding in a secret room in the walls, came out and bound them and cast them into an oubliette which was at the bottom of the castle, right under the lake. And there they found Vox Angelica, Dolce, Muzette, and Clarabella.

"To go back to Lieblich Gedacht: he was of course miserable, and he spent a whole month in the willow-tree, waiting for Hautboy and the others to come to set him free. But they never came. At last one day he remembered the walnut which Sackbut had given him. He had quite forgotten it up to that moment. He took it out of his pocket and cracked it, and in it he found a tiny silver key and a hazel nut. He put the hazel nut in his pocket, and he looked everywhere in the tree for a keyhole, and at last he found a tiny crack; he put the key in the crack and it fitted exactly. The door of the tree opened and he was free once more. He set out for the lake at once, and reached it in a few hours. Exactly the same things happened to him as to the others. The boat took him across the lake. He entered the empty castle and explored every nook and corner of it, but he found nothing. When he came into the banqueting-hall he saw the table spread by invisible hands; but he said to himself: 'I will not eat and drink till I have found Vox Angelica.' So he did not touch the food; but he went on searching. As he was looking out of one of the windows of the castle he distinctly heard Vox Angelica's sigh coming from the lake, and he at once understood that she was imprisoned in some dungeon underneath the lake. He waited until it was dark, and then he took the boat and rowed round the castle, and low down by the water he came to a barred window, and from this window came the sound of many sighs. Lieblich Gedacht now understood why the lake was called the Lake of Sighs, for the sighs came from prisoners imprisoned in Bourdon's dungeon.

"'Is that you, Vox Angelica?' he whispered.

"'Yes,' she whispered back, 'we are all here in the dungeon. But you must be careful, because Bourdon's three brothers are hiding in the castle.'

"'How can I rescue you?' asked Lieblich Gedacht.

"'I don't know,' said Vox Angelica. 'We are all of us bound in fetters.'

"'I will try and find a file,' said Lieblich Gedacht, 'to file the bars of the window and set you free.'

"So he went back to the castle to look for a file, but as he entered the gate Bourdon's three brothers fell upon him, and bound him, and cast him into the dungeon.

"'Alas!' said Vox Humana, 'we are all lost now.'

"'Not at all!' said Lieblich Gedacht, 'we will soon be free. Piccolo is so small he ought to be able to wriggle out of his chains, which are much too big for him.'

"Piccolo needed no further telling, and he soon managed to set himself free.

"'Now we are no better off than before,' said Vox Humana, who was always inclined to take a gloomy view of things. But Piccolo was then told to look in Lieblich Gedacht's pocket for a hazel nut, and when he found it to crack it. Piccolo found the nut, cracked it, and inside the nut tightly rolled up was a silk cap.

"'Now,' said Lieblich Gedacht, 'you must put the cap on my head.' As soon as Piccolo did this, Lieblich Gedacht's chains fell from him and he was free. For the cap was of that kind which makes a man invisible, unchainable, and as strong as ten. The next thing he did was to break the fetters of the eight other prisoners; then he pulled the bars from the window. They could not get out, but in front of the window were the waters of the lake, and they had no boat.

"'Perhaps,' said Lieblich Gedacht, 'the hazel nut will help us again because it is faery,' and he took half the nutshell and threw it into the lake. It at once turned into a boat just big enough to hold Vox Humana, Vox Angelica, Clarabella, Dolce, Muzette, Hautboy, Cornet, Viol d'Amore, Piccolo, and himself. And they all got into it, and it took them across the lake without sail or oars.

"They reached the seashore without further adventures and sailed back to Musicland. On the way they passed the island of Zauberflote, which was still trembling with lovely sound: but this time they knew better than to stop there. They went straight back to the City of Pleasant Sounds, to the palace of King Diapason, and they told him the whole story.

"The King was angry with Bourdon, and he sent his army, under the command of Tuba Mirabilis, who, helped by Posaune, Clarion, and Cymbal, captured Bourdon and his three brothers, Bass, Violone, and Ophicleide, and put them in prison in the Lake of Sighs. They are there to this day. And they are never allowed to go free in their own country, but they have to come to your world when some one has the gift; and that is why their voices are so gruff. Bassoon and Tromba were let off with a severe reprimand because they were sorry for what they had done. Then King Diapason ordered a great wedding to be held. And Lieblich Gedacht and Vox Angelica were married yesterday. It was the most gorgeous wedding ever seen. We were all of us there, and Unda Maris came from her home in the sea in a chariot drawn by sea-lions, and Echo came from her high castle in a chariot drawn by zephyrs. Tuba Mirabilis, Clarion, and the soldiers all wore their best armour and their brightest helmets.

"Vox Angelica's bridesmaids were the seven daughters of Echo, and her page was Piccolo. Lieblich Gedacht's best man was Waldhorn. And Voix Celeste, who is a nun, came from her convent to sing in the choir. Many of the fairies came to the wedding: Prince Myrtle was there, Cinderella, and the Marquis of Carrabas and his cat."

"And did Zauberflote come?" asked Johan.

"No," said Quint, "she was not invited."

"And what happened to Hautboy, Cornet, and Viol d'Amore?" asked Johan.

"Well," said Quint, "they were all to have been married on the same day; but Muzette is very dainty and her wedding gown was not ready. It is being woven in Fairyland by the elves, and it is to be made of the petals of forget-me-nots and pinks, and her veil is to be spun out of dewdrops caught in the new moon. All this takes such a long time that the elves could not finish it by yesterday, so the King arranged that Hautboy and Clarabella, Viol d'Amore and Dolce, and Cornet and Muzette should be married in a month's time, all on the same day."

"At any rate," said Johan, "you will not miss that wedding. But where have Vox Angelica and Lieblich Gedacht gone to for their honeymoon?"

"They have gone to Lieblich Gedacht's cottage in the Woods of Melody, and they will live there for the rest of their lives; for all their lives will be one long honeymoon," said Quint. As he said this he climbed on to the manuals, and disappeared into the heart of the organ.

And Johan noticed that the sun had risen and that the sacristan was opening the cathedral for early Mass. A few minutes later Frantz walked up into the organ loft, and Johan asked him to draw the stops of Vox Angelica and Lieblich Gedacht together and alone. Frantz did this, and they blent their voices together in unison, and Johan understood that they were happier than they had ever been before.




The Vagabond


There was once upon a time a King and a Queen who had three daughters. The eldest was called Elsa, the second Elfrida, and the third Heartsease. All the fairies were invited to the christening of the two eldest daughters, and not one was left out. They came and showered gifts on the two babies, and promised them beauty, riches, prosperity, happiness, and long life. But when Heartsease was born, the King happened to be very busy drawing up a treaty with a neighbouring State, about the rights of preserving gold-fish in a certain pond which lay between the two kingdoms, so that when he invited the fairies to the christening he left out one of them: the Fairy of the Yellow Mines, who was wicked and powerful.

The other fairies came, and they said that Heartsease should be the kindest and the cleverest princess ever seen: her eyes should be as blue as forget-me-nots, her smile as bright as the morning, her hands as delicate as snowdrops, and her heart of pure gold. Moreover, she should sing like a lark, and ride wild horses, and do needlework better than all other princesses. Towards the end of the feast, the Fairy of the Yellow Mines arrived in a chariot drawn by two snorting dragons. She was all yellow, and her face was dry as a piece of parchment, and pinched and wrinkled with spite and envy.

"So it appears I am not worthy to be invited to this feast," she said. "I know I am old-fashioned, but in my time kings used to take the trouble to be civil to fairies. But since I have come unbidden I must not depart without bestowing a gift. Heartsease, in spite of her eyes the colour of forget-me-nots, in spite of her smile like the morning and her hands like snowdrops, shall not be pretty to look at, for her skin shall be marked with my special signature. And he who woos her will woo her for herself and for her heart, and not for her face."

So saying, the Fairy of the Yellow Mines chuckled, and flew away in her yellow chariot.

The King and the Queen were dreadfully vexed when this happened, and they at once asked Heartsease's godmother, who was none other than the Fairy of the Azure Lake, whether she could not do anything to help them.

"Alas! I cannot undo the mischief that has been done," she answered, "but nevertheless Heartsease shall be wooed and won, and her bridegroom shall be greater than that of her beautiful sisters." And when she had said this, the Fairy of the Azure Lake drove away in her chariot, which was made of honeysuckle, and driven by ten obedient bees.

Heartsease was the most beautiful little baby ever seen. Her hair was curly, her skin as soft as that of a rose-leaf, with many dimples in it, and her smile made those who looked at her happy the whole day long. Two years passed, and the King and the Queen began to think that the wicked fairy's words had only been a bad joke, when one day Heartsease began to cry, and it became clear that she was not well. She was put to bed, and the Court doctor was sent for. He looked at her, and said that the case was a very serious one. During a whole month little Heartsease was mortally sick, and she was given many nasty medicines which she drank without complaining. The King and the Queen never left her bedside day and night.

At last, at the end of the sixth week, the doctor said the turning-point had come, and that little Heartsease would get well. From that day onwards she began to recover, and in a month's time she was able to run about. But alas! her lovely soft skin had disappeared. It was pitted all over with deep marks, so that it appeared to be all shrivelled, and as yellow as the face of the Fairy of the Yellow Mines; and nobody could recognise in this dried-up, wizened face the lovely little child that had once been Heartsease. And in spite of her eyes, which were still as blue as forget-me-nots, and in spite of her smile, people could scarcely bear to look at her, poor little thing, such a fright had she become. And this, of course, was the doing of the Fairy of the Yellow Mines, who had cast a spell on Heartsease's face.

The King ordered all the looking-glasses in the house to be broken, lest Heartsease should catch sight of herself and be sad, and so she continued to play with her toys and ride on her white pony and be happy. But the King and the Queen were sad, because they loved Heartsease the best of all their daughters.

One day, when Heartsease was eight years old, she went out for a walk with her two sisters, and they met a vagabond in dark, tattered cloak who was playing a hurdy-gurdy, which is a thing like a big violin, with strings, and keys, and a handle at the end of it which you turn. The vagabond looked very poor and miserable, and he took off his cap and asked for a few pence, for he had not a penny to buy bread with.

Now Elsa and Elfrida, Heartsease's sisters, were very proud. They scowled at the vagabond, and told him to go about his business quickly, or else they would send for the soldiers and have him locked up in gaol. But Heartsease was sorry for him and said: "I cannot give you any money, because I have not got any, but take this: perhaps it will make you happy, because I love it very much, and talk to it when I am alone." And she took her favourite old doll which she always carried about with her, and gave it to him. It was not a pretty doll, and she had played with it so much that its clothes were frayed and torn; but it had a beautiful crown made of gold paper, and a necklace of large blue beads. And Heartsease loved it above all things, and it was her companion; because Elsa and Elfrida never let her play with them, for they said she was too small.

As soon as she had done this Elsa and Elfrida burst out laughing.

"Fancy giving a beggar a doll!" they said. "We should like to know what he can do with it!"

"Thank you kindly, little Princess," said the vagabond. "I shall never forget your kindness."

"A lot of good a beggar's kindness will do her," said Elsa.

"Perhaps he will bring her a bridegroom," said Elfrida.

"Perhaps he will wed her himself," said Elsa, and they both laughed.

"Nobody else will, for sure," said Elfrida.

The vagabond then turned to the two sisters and said -- 

"A day will come when you will envy your sister her bridegroom." And he hobbled away.

Elsa and Elfrida burst into a fit of laughter.

"Fancy," said Elsa, "our envying Heartsease!"

"Fancy," said Elfrida, "her ever having a bridegroom!"

Now Heartsease could not understand what they meant, for she did not know she was a fright; but their words made her thoughtful and sad, and she wondered what they were talking about. When she got home, she asked her father whether, when she grew up, she would find a bridegroom, and be married.

"Of course you will, dear little child," he said, and he took her on his knee, but she noticed that his eyes were filled with tears.

From that moment, Heartsease began to suspect that there was something wrong about herself, and that she was not quite the same as other children. One summer night, after she had been put to bed, her nurse and the nurserymaid were sitting by the nursery window darning some stockings. They thought Heartsease was asleep.

"Princess Elsa will be fifteen years old come Michaelmas," said the nurse.

"They'll be looking for a bridegroom for her soon," said the nurserymaid. "She's as tall as a grown-up lass already."

"I pity her husband," said the nurse; "she's a regular cross-patch she is, and as proud as a peacock."

"And as different from the little one as cloth from silk," said the nurserymaid.

"Ah!" sighed the nurse, "poor little lamb! they'll have a hard task to find her a suitor, although she deserves the best in the land."

Heartsease wondered what this could mean, and the more she pondered over it, the sadder she became.

The years passed by, and a great feast was held at Court to celebrate Princess Elsa's seventeenth birthday. All the princes of the land were invited, for the King and the Queen thought that the time had come for Elsa to be married. The three principal suitors were Prince Silvergilt, who possessed immense riches and countless jewels; King Sharpsword, who was a terrible fighter, and had slain two hundred knights in single combat; and Prince Simple Simon, who was the youngest son of a powerful king, and so simple that he was always laughed at by everybody. Besides these there were a number of less important knights and princes. As soon as the Prince Silvergilt set eyes on Princess Elsa, he made up his mind that she would make just the right wife for him, because she was beautiful and haughty, and he was determined that the queen of his country should be the proudest woman in the world, and should always be dressed in gold, and wear a heavy crown.

The King's feast was the most splendid that had ever been known, and it was followed by a display of fireworks and a ball. Prince Silvergilt danced with Princess Elsa, and King Sharpsword danced with Elfrida, and all the other princes and knights chose partners from among the crowd of beautiful princesses who were there; but nobody chose poor Heartsease, who sat lonely and very sad in a corner by herself.

At last, when the ball was nearly over, Prince Simple Simon noticed that Heartsease was all by herself, and he went up to her and asked her why she did not dance.

"Because," said Heartsease, "nobody has asked me to."

"Will you dance with me?" asked Simple Simon.

"Of course I will," said Heartsease, and he led her out. As he did this, Heartsease noticed that the courtiers looked at each other and hid a smile. They danced round the room; but Simple Simon was so awkward that although Heartsease, who danced like the wind, steered him beautifully, he kept on catching his sword in the trains of the princesses, and bumping up against them, so that all the courtiers tittered, although they tried to hide it, and Heartsease was obliged to ask him to go back to the quiet corner where she had been sitting.

"They are laughing because I dance so awkwardly," said Simple Simon. "Everybody laughs at me, except Lizbeth."

"Who is Lizbeth?" asked Heartsease.

"Lizbeth is the goose-girl in our village," he answered. "We are betrothed, and I am to wed her as soon as I have made my fortune."

"It was at me they were smiling," said Heartsease. "They always smile at me, and I do not know why. But perhaps you will tell me."

"I do not know," said Simple Simon.

"You see," said Heartsease, "the courtiers here pay me extravagant compliments. They tell me I am beautiful and clever; but I do not know whether it is true, because I have never seen my own face."

This was true, because there was no such thing as a looking-glass in the whole kingdom, and poor Heartsease had never been allowed to go near a river, a pond, a pool, or any place where she might have seen the reflection of her own face.

"I think," said Simple Simon, "your face is very beautiful. You have such nice, kind eyes. But then everybody says I am a bad judge. But haven't you ever looked at yourself in a mirror?"

"What is a mirror?" asked Heartsease.

"I will show you to-morrow morning," said Simple Simon.

At that moment a herald dressed in gold came into the ballroom, and blew a blast on his silver trumpet which meant that supper was ready. Heartsease would have liked to have gone in to supper with Simple Simon, but the Court etiquette did not allow it, and an old duke who was deaf came up, and gave her his arm.

The next morning Heartsease was feeding her tame birds in the garden when Simple Simon appeared before her.

"I have brought you a mirror," he said. And he gave her a piece of smooth polished steel which he had cut out of his own breastplate.

Heartsease looked at her face, and then two large tears ran down her cheeks.

"Oh!" she said, "it was unkind of you to mock me. I understand everything now. I see why nobody will speak to me. I am a hideous fright; my face is covered with spots and marks."

"But I wasn't mocking you," said Simple Simon. "I don't think those spots matter a bit. You have got such nice, kind eyes."

"No, no," said Heartsease, "I understand everything. Nobody will ever marry me."

"I am sure they will," said honest Simon; "why, I would have married you gladly myself if I had not been betrothed to Lizbeth." And so saying, Simple Simon said good-bye to Heartsease, for it was time for him to start once more on his travels.

Heartsease said good-bye to him and thanked him for his kindness, for she understood now that he had not meant to mock her, but that he spoke the truth, and she told him that she hoped he would make his fortune soon, and marry Lizbeth the goose-girl, and be happy ever afterwards.

When Simple Simon rode off on his old grey mare, Heartsease felt sad and lonely, for the only friend she had ever made was now leaving her for ever. The festivities went on all day long, because the Prince Silvergilt asked Elsa to be his wife, and it was settled that they should be married without any delay. So in the evening there was another great State ball, but Heartsease felt so sad at heart that she said she was not feeling well, and she went up to a little room where she kept her dolls, and all the treasures she had had when she was a child. This little room was in an attic in a side wing of the palace, and it looked over a narrow street, for the palace stood in the middle of the city. Heartsease had made this room a hiding-place for herself as soon as she was big enough to leave the nursery. Nobody knew it existed except her nurse, and she could go and play there when she wanted to be alone. She liked to look out on to the street and see the people coming and going, the horses and the carts clattering over the cobblestones, instead of on to the big empty gardens on which all the state-rooms looked out, and where you saw no one except the sentry walking up and down, and the courtiers, strutting about like peacocks in their wigs and hoops. The room had a little bed in it, and sometimes she slept there; but this evening she was not at all sleepy, and she leant out of her window and watched the evening star shining in the summer twilight, which was still tinged with yellow in the west.

Faintly in the distance she heard the sounds of harps, cymbals, and drums coming from the banqueting-hall, where the King was holding a feast. The little street beneath her was quite empty and silent, the curfew had sounded, and the watchman had blown his horn and told all good people to put out their lights and go to bed, and in the jutting-out casements of the pointed red-gabled houses opposite her, which seemed to lean over the street, there was not a light left.

Suddenly she heard the sound of footsteps tramping on the cobblestones, and round the corner of the street she saw a dark figure coming along, which seemed to her to be a man. It was dark now, and the sky was a deep and wonderful blue. The moon had not risen, and only a few stars twinkled, very large and bright.

The figure walked slowly along, keeping close to the walls of the houses opposite to her. When he was opposite the palace he stopped. She could not distinguish clearly who it was, but she saw at once it was a man. He was carrying something in his hand, and presently she became aware that it was a lute, or a musical instrument of some kind, for he began to play, and a thin thread of sound crept from the darkness and found a way straight into her heart.

Then it all at once came into her mind that she had seen this man before and heard these sounds already, and she remembered the vagabond who played a hurdy-gurdy, and to whom she had given her favourite doll, long ago when she was little. But now his music sounded different. "Perhaps," she thought, "it is because I am older and can understand it." However that may be, never in her life had she heard or imagined anything so melodious and so sweet. For while the vagabond played, he sang, and although the words of his song were in some tongue which was unknown to her, she seemed to understand every word of it. Although she had never heard the vagabond's voice before, it seemed familiar to her as if she had known it all her life. And there was something warm in it which gladdened you, and something soft and lovely like the tender colours of summer dawn. But more than all things Heartsease felt that the voice was the voice of a friend who would be kind to her and comfort her; and Heartsease felt she could listen to it for ever.

"Come away," it seemed to say, "from this palace and these unkind people, and I will give you freedom, and we will roam together over the wide world, and sleep beneath the stars, and drink of the clear brooks and bathe in the streams; in the summer the sky shall be our tent, and the stars shall be our candles, and in the winter we will make ourselves snug and warm in the heart of the woods; we will wander over hill and valley, and will float on a raft down the broad river till we come to the sea; and we will cross the great sea, and I will give you a little cottage of your own, all overgrown with honeysuckle, where the bees hum and boom, and there I will lull you to sleep with a song."

Then all at once the music ceased, and Heartsease wanted to call the minstrel, but he had vanished, and although he had sung quite loud, none of the people in the houses seemed to have noticed him.

All night long Heartsease dreamed of the vagabond and of his singing, and the next evening she waited at her window as soon as the sun set.

But the vagabond did not come that evening, nor the next evening either, and weeks and months went by but he did not come again.

A year after this Princess Elsa was married. The King and the Queen gave another great feast in honour of their second daughter, Elfrida, and this time King Sharpsword was betrothed to her, and the wedding was celebrated with pomp and ceremony. As usual there were feasting and dances every night, and although all the princes of the land were there, nobody took any notice of poor Heartsease except the old duke, who was obliged to lead her in to supper according to the etiquette of the Court. And this time Heartsease had no friend to talk to, for Simple Simon was not there, although she had news of him. He had made his fortune, much to everybody's surprise, by capturing a cruel ogre, and he had married Lizbeth the goose-girl, and they were as happy as the day is long. But although Heartsease was lonely and despised, she did not feel lonely any longer, for somewhere she felt she had a friend who would not forget her, and she remembered the marvellous song of the vagabond.

The night Elfrida was married, Heartsease again said she did not feel well, and she went to the little room in the attic, and waited by the window while the light faded from the twilight sky. And as soon as it grew dark, she heard the footsteps on the cobblestones, and soon the piercing notes of the sweet familiar voice echoed in the street, sighing, soothing, and binding her with a spell, healing her heartache and taking away her homesickness, and calling her away to the valleys and the hills. For hours she seemed to listen to the deep, deep tones, and then, as the year before, the sound suddenly ceased and the vagabond had vanished.

The next year Heartsease herself was seventeen years old, the age at which it was the custom for the royal princesses to be married. But although the King and the Queen made a great feast and invited all the princes of the land, not one of them asked the King for the hand of his daughter Heartsease, because they all thought it was impossible to marry a wife who was such a fright.

The King and the Queen were miserable, and they settled to wait another year, in case some kind prince might come who would be willing to marry Heartsease.

As for Heartsease, she begged her father and mother not to worry about her. She told them she did not want to marry any one, and that she was quite happy living at home and taking care of them. And they did not know that she had looked at herself in a mirror and had seen her face. But although she said this, and pretended to be happy and cheerful, she was really sad at heart because she was such a fright, and she was sure nobody could love her, and the only thing which consoled her was the mysterious vagabond who came once a year and sang beneath her window.

Soon after Heartsease's seventeenth birthday, her mother, the Queen, went one day for a ride in the forest by herself, and the wicked Fairy of the Yellow Mines carried her off in her chariot and locked her up in a castle. The people of the city searched for the Queen everywhere, but no trace of her was to be found, so that everybody thought she must have been eaten by wild beasts; but Heartsease knew this was not true, because she saw her mother in her dreams every night. Another year passed, and just before Heartsease's birthday came round, the old King married again. The new Queen was the godchild of the Fairy of the Yellow Mines. She was wicked, and owing to the spells which her godmother had taught her, she could make the King do anything she wished, and she made him believe the Queen had been eaten by wild beasts. No sooner were they married than her wickedness and her cruelty, which she had hidden up to that moment, became plain to everybody. She hated Heartsease, because Heartsease was good and unhappy, and she tormented her in every possible way; and to crown all, on the day before Heartsease's birthday, she said she could not have a lazy, good-for-nothing slut about the house, but that Heartsease must marry at once, and that since nobody would marry her of their own accord, she would find some one who should do so whether he liked it or not.

That very day the new Queen sent a message by a rat to her godmother, and the Fairy of the Yellow Mines arrived in her chariot drawn by two snorting dragons.

"It's about that child," said the Queen, when her godmother had arrived and settled herself comfortably in an arm-chair. "She bothers me. I want you to find her a husband -- some one who will keep her in order and not stand any nonsense; at the same time I should like it to be a suitable and proper alliance -- suitable for me too, that is to say."

"I quite understand," said the Fairy.

"You see," said the Queen, "the King won't live long, and when he dies I shall be Queen of the country, and I shall not want any of the King's sons-in-law to come bothering or interfering, disputing my right to the kingdom, or any nonsense of that kind. I am quite at my ease about Prince Silvergilt and King Sharpsword; they are so busy beating their wives that they will not bother me."

Now this was quite true, and Elfrida and Elsa were both of them unhappy; because their husbands were unkind, and they were obliged to wear stiff robes all day, and heavy crowns, and they were beaten if they did not look happy and cheerful.

"I have got the very thing," said the Fairy; "my dear nephew Crookedshanks is just what you want. He has been looking for a wife for a long time, but so far nobody has consented to marry him. He's so beautiful, you know" -- and here the Fairy chuckled -- "he's a dwarf and a hunchback, and he's got such a sweet, sweet temper. He'll keep the minx in order."

"But," said the Queen, "I hope he won't interfere with me."

"Never fear," said the Fairy, "he lives inside the copper mountain, deep down underground, like a mole among the gnomes, and he would not leave the treasures he hoards there for all the kingdoms of the earth."

Thus it was settled that Heartsease should marry Crookedshanks, and the Fairy of the Yellow Mines brought him to the palace the next day, which was Heartsease's birthday.

Crookedshanks was hideous to look at, and he was as spiteful as he was ugly. And when Heartsease was brought to him, and told that this was to be her husband, she could not believe her eyes. She begged her father to save her; but her father was now so completely spellbound by the wicked Queen that he could not do anything, and so all preparations were made for Heartsease's wedding, which was to take place on the morrow.

But in the evening, just before the feast began, Heartsease escaped from the banqueting-hall when no one was looking, and ran up to the little room in the attic. Then she opened the windows wide and leaned out into the street.

It was a lovely evening. There was a smell of sun-dried hay in the air, and the dust of the town made a golden cloud in the west which faded presently, and when the evening star lit its lamp the sky was soft and blue. In the palace everybody was looking for Heartsease. They were searching the halls and the gardens, but nobody thought of looking for her in that out-of-the-way attic, except her nurse, but she did not tell anybody. Presently Heartsease heard the well-known footstep of the vagabond, and her heart gave a great leap for joy.

He walked right up to the house opposite her window, and began to sing. And this time his beautiful voice was louder and stronger than it had ever been. And Heartsease leant out of the window and cried out -- 

"Come, for I have heard and I am ready!"

The song ceased, but this time the vagabond did not vanish. He crossed the narrow street, and entered at one of the side doors of the palace which was just beneath Heartsease's window. Heartsease heard him walking up the winding wooden stairway, and soon the vagabond entered her room and stood before her in his rags and tatters, poor, pale, ill-kempt, limping and miserable. And Heartsease ran to him and cried out -- 

"At last you have come, my lover, my lord and my bridegroom!"

"Do you really wish to come with me?" he asked. "My kingdom is the open field, and my palaces are the dark wood and the highway; my brothers and sisters are the cold winds, the rain, the snow, and the hail; my jewels are tears, and my wealth is sorrow."

And Heartsease said: "I will come with you to your kingdom and dwell in your palaces; and your brothers and sisters shall be my brothers and sisters, and I will wear your jewels and share your wealth as long as I live!"

The vagabond gave Heartsease a silver penny, which was all his wealth, and they climbed down the narrow staircase and went out into the night.

*       *       *       *       *

In the King's palace on the night of the banquet there was great commotion because Heartsease could not be found anywhere. The courtiers searched high and low, in the palace and in the gardens, but all in vain, until at last they gave it up and the banquet was begun without her.

The Queen was angry, and the old King was sad, and Crookedshanks gnashed his teeth and pinched everything he met, out of spite. The next morning the nurse came to the King and told him Heartsease could not be found anywhere. So the King issued a proclamation which was sent far and wide over the whole kingdom, saying that whoever should find his daughter Heartsease would receive half of his kingdom. But although a great number of people set out to try and find Heartsease, they none of them succeeded, and most of them gave up the quest after a time.

Now Heartsease and the vagabond wandered far over hill and dale, north and south, east and west, earning their bread by songs, until they came to the grim castle in which Heartsease's mother had been imprisoned by the wicked fairy.

The vagabond sang a song outside the castle, so that Heartsease's mother could hear him, and he told her that Heartsease was alive and had not forgotten her, and that one day the wicked fairy's spell would be broken. And Heartsease saw her mother's hand waving through the thick bars of the narrow window of the castle. Then they wandered on till they came to the kingdom of King Silvergilt, and there, in a castle, were Prince Silvergilt and his wife Elsa; and King Sharpsword and his wife Elfrida were staying with him. Elsa and Elfrida were both of them unhappy because their husbands were so unkind.

The vagabond and Heartsease went under Elfrida's window, and the vagabond sang a song, but no sooner had he begun than Prince Silvergilt sent out his soldiers, and told them to drive the vagabonds away. Now Elsa and Elfrida were sad and sorry because the vagabond's song had made them feel happier, but they dared not say a word. Only when it grew dark they crept out of the castle, into the wood, which was next to it, to see if they could find the two vagabonds and give them alms. They wandered about in the forest, and they soon came to a little hut where the vagabond and Heartsease were lying fast asleep on a heap of leaves.

"Here they are, poor, poor people!" said Elsa; "they have got nothing to eat."

"They must be very cold," said Elfrida, and she took off her cloak and laid it over them.

"Do you remember a vagabond telling us we should one day envy Heartsease her husband?" said Elsa.

"Poor Heartsease, she'll never have a husband; but I'm sure we envy her now, wherever she is," said Elfrida.

"I would give worlds to see her again," said Elsa. "Poor, poor Heartsease, to think how unkind we were to her!" And Elsa and Elfrida began to cry bitterly, and their tears fell upon Heartease's face.

Then leaving behind them some bread and wine which they had brought with them, and a purse full of gold, and their cloaks, they went back to the castle; neither of them had recognised Heartsease.

The next morning when the vagabond and Heartsease rose, they found the gifts that the sisters had brought, and the vagabond told Heartsease to go and look at herself in a pool which was hard by. When Heartsease looked into the pool she gave a cry of surprise, because the ugly marks had gone from her face, and she looked like what she had been when she was a little girl -- lovely, and fresh as a rose in the morning dew, and the loveliest princess in the world.

"Now," said the vagabond, "we will go to your father's castle."

So they started for the King's castle, but it was far off, and they had to pass through many cities and villages; and when the people in the cities and the villages heard the vagabond singing in the street, and saw Heartsease, they wondered at her great beauty, and when the vagabond sang they were afraid, and they thought he must be a wizard and that Heartsease was a witch, and they often drove them away from their doors; so that Heartsease and the vagabond with difficulty earned enough bread to keep them alive.

At last they reached the city of the King, and there they read the King's proclamation, which said that whoever should find Heartsease would receive half the kingdom. The vagabond went straight to the King's palace, and asked to see the King; but the soldiers stopped him at the gate and said that beggars were not allowed to go into the palace. But when the vagabond said he had found Princess Heartsease they durst not forbid him to enter. So the vagabond was led to the King, and he told him that he had found his daughter.

The King was overjoyed, but Heartsease's stepmother said it was not true, and the King told the vagabond to bring Heartsease to the palace. He went to fetch her, and when he brought her to the palace everybody was dazzled by her beauty, but nobody recognised her, not even the King, for he could not understand how the Heartsease whom he remembered could have turned into such a vision of beauty. But there were two people in the castle who said that they recognised her: one was her old nurse, and the other was Simple Simon, who happened to be there. Simple Simon said he saw no difference in her at all: that she was now just as she had always been, with the same kind eyes and lovely smile. And when he said this, the whole Court laughed, and they said that Simple Simon would never cease to be a ninny. And as for the nurse, the Queen said she must be locked up in the dungeon at once for telling lies. Then the wicked Queen said that the vagabond was a wizard, and that Heartsease was a witch, and that they had killed the real Heartsease, and that they must both be burnt alive in the public square. And owing to her magic everybody believed this, and the vagabond and Heartsease were thrown into prison.

But the King, who did not want them to be burnt, sent for his daughters Elsa and Elfrida, to see if they recognised Heartsease. Elfrida and Elsa arrived with their husbands, and Heartsease was brought before them, but she was not allowed to speak; and owing to the wicked Queen's spells, neither Elfrida nor Elsa recognised their sister. After this it was settled that the vagabond and Heartsease should be burnt in the public square.

On the day this was to happen the whole town gathered together to see the wizard; and the vagabond and Heartsease were driven from the prison to the square, where a large pile of fagots had been prepared, in a cart. And when the people saw Heartsease, a wave of pity went through the crowd, so lovely and so innocent was her face. The King and the Queen, his daughters, and all the Court were there, and when the vagabond got out of the cart he asked the King to grant him one last favour: and this was to allow him to sing a song before he died. And the King granted it him.

The vagabond began to sing, and he sang the sweetest and most wonderful song that had ever been heard; he sang of the love that never dies, and the love which is stronger than death; and as he sang, the evil spells of the wicked Queen died in the King's heart, and he remembered his true wife, and the great love he bore her; and Elsa and Elfrida recognised the voice, and they cried out -- 

"It is the vagabond we heard when we were children, and it is Heartsease after all!"

And the King cried out: "Yes, it is Heartsease after all!" And he ran to her, and took her in his arms, and covered her with kisses. Then he said to the vagabond: "You have brought me back my daughter. You shall be my son and you shall have half my kingdom."

But the wicked Queen said: "That is impossible! How can you give half your kingdom to a vagabond in rags and tatters?"

But the King said: "I do not care if he is a vagabond or not. He shall wed my daughter and have half my kingdom."

And as he said this the vagabond threw off his dark, tattered cloak, and there stood before the throng a wonderful shining figure with wings, and golden hair, and across his shoulder there was slung a silver bow with a quiver full of silver arrows, and he held a lyre in his hand, and all round him was a cloud of golden light like the fire of sunrise. And his face shone, and his eyes were like stars. But when the wicked Queen saw this, she was so angry that she burst with rage, and all her spells were undone.

At the very same moment the Fairy of the Azure Lake arrived in her chariot of honeysuckle drawn by ten bees, and she brought Heartsease's mother with her, and Heartsease's old nurse, whom she had released from prison. You can imagine their surprise, and how they all cried for joy! and how happy they all were!

Then the King said to the vagabond: "You shall wed Heartsease and receive half my kingdom; but who are you, noble prince, and what is your name?"

And the vagabond answered: "I will wed Heartsease, but I have a kingdom of my own, and we must live there and nowhere else; and as for my name, it is Love, the Vagabond, but now I shall wander no more."

Then Crookedshanks was banished from the Court, and the Fairy of the Azure Lake changed Prince Silvergilt into a candlestick, and King Sharpsword into a grindstone, and she found two kind new husbands for Elsa and Elfrida. And a great wedding was held, and the day after it Love the Vagabond put Heartsease on a snow-white steed, and they started for the kingdom of Love the Vagabond, and they galloped across the plains, down the valleys, and over the hills until they came to the sea, which is at the end of the world, and they rode over the sea as easily as if it had been a grassy meadow.

And on the other side of the sea they came to a country of blue hills and green woods and golden cornfields, and there in a garden full of roses was a little cottage covered with honeysuckle, round which the bees hummed and boomed.

"This," said the Vagabond, "is my kingdom. Here is our home where we shall live happily together."

And Heartsease and the Vagabond lived happily in this little cottage for ever afterwards; and the King and Queen, and their sisters, and Simple Simon and Lizbeth his wife, often paid them long visits.




The Minstrel


Once upon a time, in a small village in the mountains, there lived a blacksmith and his wife. They were poor but they were happy; the blacksmith had always plenty of work, and their only sorrow was that they had no children.

One day the blacksmith's wife walked from the village down into the valley to a farmhouse to buy some eggs from the farmer, whom she knew. On her way back, as it was a fine spring day and the snows had melted, she loitered on the mountain so as to gather some wild-flowers.

As she was picking the flowers she heard some one muttering behind her, and turning round, she saw an old woman, bent and worn, who was muttering a supplication.

"What can I do for you?" asked the blacksmith's wife.

"Give me the eggs you have in that basket," said the old woman.

The blacksmith's wife, although she was afraid she would be scolded at home, durst not refuse, and gave the eggs to the old woman.

"Thank you kindly," said the old woman; "in return for your kindness I will grant you a wish."

The blacksmith's wife at once answered: "I wish to have a daughter who shall be more beautiful than the Queen's daughter."

"Your wish shall be granted," said the old woman. "But take this charm, hang it up over your hearth, and never give it away, for if you do, you will give your daughter with it."

So saying the old woman gave the blacksmith's wife a small copper coin made in the shape of a heart, and as soon as she had done this she hobbled off into the wood.

The blacksmith's wife went home and told her husband about her adventure, and they hung the copper coin over their hearth and they laughed for joy.

As the fairy had predicted, a daughter was born to them, and she grew to be such a lovely little child that the blacksmith and his wife were almost frightened. She was more like a fairy than a mortal. It seemed as if she had invisible wings; her skin was more delicate than a pearly sea-shell, and one expected to see little elves dancing round her when she played in the fields.

They had christened her Snowflower, because she was like the flowers that grew on the great mountains. And the name was a proper one, for she loved the snow-fields and the spaces of the great hills. Everybody who saw her was amazed -- some said that she would wed the King's son; others that she would one day be the Empress of the West; but one old crone, who was spiteful, said that she was much too beautiful to live long.

One day when Snowflower was nine years old, her father and her mother had gone up into the hills to visit some friends. It was Saturday afternoon, and they had left Snowflower in charge of the shop, and had said that they would not be back till late. Snowflower was sitting outside in the street, watching the sunset -- it was a warm summer's eve -- when she heard some one singing a strange song.

Never had she heard anything so strange and so beautiful before: the voice was a man's voice, deep and hoarse, and it seemed to come from very far away; the song he sang was soft and sad, but it had a piercing note in it, something that made you listen whether you wished to or no; it was a voice which you felt must be obeyed.

Snowflower was lost in dreams, and when the singing stopped, she would have given worlds and worlds for it to begin again. While she was wondering who the singer could be, she suddenly became aware of a shadow across the street, and she saw before her a tall minstrel carrying a lute. His face was half muffled in a black cloak; and all that she could see distinctly were two dark eyes, very sad, but bright as stars. The sun had set, the stars were coming out, and Snowflower was afraid. Nevertheless she at once asked him whether it was he who had been singing. He said -- 

"Yes, it was I."

"Shall I ever hear you again?" asked Snowflower.

"Yes, if you will give me a reward," said the minstrel.

"What can I give you?" asked Snowflower. "I have no money, and my father and my mother have gone to the farm and they won't be back till late."

"All I want," said the minstrel, "is the little copper coin in the shape of a heart that hangs over your hearth."

"Oh! you may have that with pleasure," said Snowflower, "it is only a brass farthing." And she ran indoors, and fetched it, and gave it to him. "Only now you must sing to me again," she said.

"I promise to sing to you again, but not now," said the minstrel, and he walked away into the darkness.

When Snowflower's father and mother came home, they noticed at once that the little copper coin had gone, and Snowflower told them that she had given it to a wandering minstrel.

Her mother was vexed and cried; but her father said -- 

"Never mind, never mind, no harm ever came yet of giving alms to the poor."

The years passed by, and Snowflower never once saw the mysterious minstrel again, and she soon forgot all about him. She grew up into a most beautiful maiden; and when she was seventeen, there was no one to compare with her in the whole country. She was dazzling like the snow on the mountains, and soft as the blush that steals over them in the dawn, and her eyes were like the pools that reflect the sky in the hidden places of the hills. So beautiful was she that the fame of her spread far and wide, and the King thought that she would make an excellent wife for his only son, who was just old enough to marry.

So he sent one of his courtiers in disguise to the village in the mountains; he was to find out whether what the people said about Snowflower was true or not.

He came to the village and saw Snowflower, and when he returned to the palace once more, he told the king that Snowflower was far more beautiful than what men told of her, and that it was indeed impossible to describe her, for she was more beautiful than all mortals, but like a fairy or a dream-child. When the King heard this, he set out with many of his courtiers for the village in the hills, and they found Snowflower sitting and spinning at the door of the blacksmith's shop.

The blacksmith and his wife were astonished and frightened when they saw all these grand folk coming to their home, and when the King said that he wished his son to marry their daughter they could hardly speak for surprise. The King's son was as fine and as brave a lad as any in the land, but it was settled that he was not to marry till he was twenty-one, and now he was only twenty. So the King said he would come back in a year's time and fetch Snowflower.

The blacksmith was of course delighted at his good fortune; but Snowflower said that she did not wish to leave her native village, and her father's home, and that she was quite happy where she was. And her mother, remembering what the fairy had said, and how Snowflower had given away the copper coin, was frightened, and she and Snowflower cried bitterly together. But the blacksmith said this was nonsense, and laughed at the two women for being so silly.

After a year had gone by, the King sent a whole train of courtiers to fetch Snowflower, and they put her on a pony and they brought her to the city and the palace of the King.

It was arranged that the wedding should be held a few days after her arrival.

Snowflower was given a gorgeous room in the palace looking out on to a wide courtyard, round which there were statues and colonnades; and splendid preparations were made for her wedding ceremony.

She was introduced to the Prince directly, and he fell in love with her at first sight. As for Snowflower, she knew not whether she loved the Prince or not, but she thought she had never seen so charming and handsome a person before, and she would have been quite happy but for a home-sickness which never left her, for she longed for the sight of the snowy mountains, the green valleys, and the little village where she was born; and she felt that she could not live for ever far away from the snows, and the streams, and the flowers of the great white hills.

She had gone to bed early and fallen asleep at once, but towards midnight she was awakened by a sound which seemed to be familiar to her; she ran to the window and looked out into the courtyard, whose pillars were gleaming in the moonlight. Again she heard a sound, and then on the midnight wind there were borne into the room the notes of a song which she thought she had heard once before, long ago, in her home in the hills. It was a hoarse voice, which seemed to come from far away; a mournful voice and sweet, but in spite of its sweetness there was a strange spell in it and something which called for and demanded submission. She listened, and now, although she knew she had heard it before, she could not tell when or where; it was different from anything she remembered, and more beautiful; and yet, as she listened, her heart beat fast, and she knew not whether it was the voice of a friend or an avenging foe who was singing that hoarse serenade.

She withdrew from the window in fright, but the song grew louder; it called her with sound like that of bugles on a field of battle in the evening when the fight is ended -- silvery, manful, and triumphant.

And then her heart beat faster than ever, for she knew that the voice was that of a lover; and she knew that she could not resist his song.

And she looked once more out of the window, and there in the courtyard, dark against one of the gleaming pillars, she saw a tall man muffled in a black cloak, a man whom she recognised. She ran back from the casement and called out in a great terror, but nobody answered her call.

Then across the cobblestones of the yard she heard the tramp of loud footsteps, as though a knight in armour were walking across it; and presently she heard the same heavy tramp on the wide marble steps that led up to her room. Nearer and nearer they came, till she heard a rap like that of a great sword against her door. He knocked so loudly that the noise was like thunder, and yet no one in the palace seemed to be disturbed. She tried to call out once more, but her voice died away in her throat; she tried to run, but she remained motionless.

Then the door was opened wide. And there entered, muffled in a dark cloak so that you could only see his eyes, the minstrel to whom she had given the heart-shaped copper coin that used to hang over her father's hearth. And then all at once she knew that the minstrel was not a foe but a friend, and she stretched out her hand and grasped his hand.

As soon as she did this he threw aside his cloak, and there stood before her a wonderful knight in armour, whose face was bright as snow and whose eyes were like stars. And he took her in his arms and carried her down the broad steps into the courtyard, and there a horse was waiting, and he mounted it and set Snowflower in front of him, and they galloped away through the gates, through the city, and over the plains beyond.

The next day Snowflower could not be found anywhere, and although the whole kingdom was searched far and wide, no trace of her was discovered.

When Snowflower went away from her village, the blacksmith's wife was very sad, although Snowflower had promised to visit her often. But when she woke up on the morning that Snowflower should have wedded the Prince, she was astonished to see that the little copper coin was hanging once more over their hearth, and she felt quite happy once more; for she knew now, although she could not tell why, that all was well with Snowflower.




The Hunchback, The Pool And The Magic Ring


There was once upon a time a King and a Queen who had three sons. The two eldest were big and strong, but the third was a cripple and a hunchback, because a wicked fairy, whom the Queen had forgotten to invite to his christening, had cast a spell over him in his cradle. Yet the King and the Queen loved their third son best of all, and this made his brothers jealous. When the three brothers were grown up, the King fell sick, and he knew that he was going to die. And so he called his three sons to him on his deathbed.

"Now that you are big and strong," he said to the two eldest, "it is time you went out into the world to seek your fortune. I will give to each of you a good horse, a suit of armour, a bag of gold, and a sharp sword; and to you," he said to the youngest, "I will give this castle, because you are not strong enough to go and seek your fortune for yourself. So you shall stay at home and look after your mother."

And soon after he had said this he died.

Now the two eldest brothers were very angry because the hunchback had been given the castle, and they said to each other: "Our father was old and feeble and did not know what he was doing: we will not give our brother the castle. Indeed, it would be of no use to him, but we will keep it for ourselves, and we will get rid of him, because it is a disgrace to have a hunchback in the family."

So they told their mother that they were going to take their brother with them, to show him the world, and they promised to look after him carefully. They started the next day, early in the morning, and when they had reached a large forest, they told the hunchback that he must seek his fortune by himself, and they took away his horse from him and his sword and his cloak. And the next day they rode home to the castle and said that their brother had been eaten by a bear in the night, entirely owing to his own fault.

When the young prince was left to himself, he was very sad, and did not know what to do, and he sat down by the side of a pool and cried bitterly. As he was crying, he heard a voice coming out of the pool and asking him what was the matter.

"I am crying," he said, "because I am a hunchback and I have been deserted by my two brothers," and he told all his story. Then he heard the voice laugh softly and say that everything could be put to rights. "Look into the pool," said the voice, "and tell me what you see at the bottom of it."

The hunchback looked, and said that he saw a gold ring.

"You must pull out the gold ring and put it on your finger," said the voice.

The hunchback thrust his arm into the pool and pulled out a gold ring, and no sooner had he put it on his finger than a beautiful woman stood in front of him. She had golden hair which fell to her feet, and large, soft eyes, and he thought she must be a fairy. And so she was: but she had been imprisoned in the pool by the same wicked fairy who had not been invited to the christening of the young Prince.

"You have done me a great service," said the fairy, "and I will not be ungrateful. Look into the pool."

The hunchback looked into the pool and saw his own reflection. But something wonderful had happened, for he was no longer hunchbacked, but far taller and stronger than his brothers, and the handsomest and most gallant-looking young Prince that the world had ever seen.

"Now," said the fairy, "all will be well with you. You have only to go into the world and you will make your fortune; but you must remember carefully what I tell you now. You must not lose the ring which I have given you, and never take it off your finger; and above all things you must never put it back into the pool. For whenever you take it off your finger, you will become a hunchback once more, and if you put it back into the pool, you will remain a hunchback for ever." And so saying the fairy disappeared.

Then the hunchback walked through the forest, whistling for joy; and at sunset he reached a large town. As soon as he reached the town, a large coach drawn by six cream-coloured horses passed him, and in the coach was a beautiful Princess, driving with her father, who was King of the country. Directly she caught sight of the Prince she stopped the coach and begged him to get in, and they drove to the palace. "At last," she said to her father, "I have found a man whom I will consent to marry."

And when the King, her father, learnt who the stranger was, he was very pleased, and offered him the hand of his daughter. And the Prince learned that from far and wide suitors had come to seek the hand of the Princess, but she had never been willing to look at any of them. And as the King was anxious that his daughter should marry, because she had a bad temper, he was very pleased at what had happened.

The Prince consented readily enough to marry so beautiful a Princess; but when they were left alone he told her all his story. The Princess did not believe it, and so as to prove the truth of his words he took off his ring, and he stood before her in his true shape, a cripple and a hunchback.

The Princess screamed and burst into a flood of tears, and abused the poor Prince, and although he had put the ring on again and resumed his splendid shape, she bade him begone out of her sight for ever. "For how could I marry a man," she said, "who might turn into a monster if he happened to lose a ring?"

So the Prince went away with a heavy heart, and started on his travels once more. He travelled far, and visited many cities, and wherever he went he was received with the greatest favour; for no one had ever seen so handsome a Prince, and many kings offered him their daughters in marriage. But the Prince turned a deaf ear now to their offers, and he was sad at heart, for he felt that the magic gift which he had received brought him no happiness, and he knew that he was wearing a mask and deceiving himself and the whole world.

Now it happened that one day during his travels he reached the seashore, and as darkness was falling he asked for shelter from a fisherman who had a hut on the beach. The fisherman bade him welcome, and told his wife to bring him some porridge. And as he sat eating his supper the fisherman's daughter worked at her spinning-wheel in the corner of the room, and sang a song which was like this: -- 

"He brought me silver, he brought me gold, I bade him go his way; My heart was bought and my heart was sold Upon a summer's day.

He brought me horses and banners bold, I bade him go his way; My heart was bought and my heart was sold Upon a summer's day.

For a sigh, a song, and a tale half-told, And for a wisp of hay, My heart was bought and my heart was sold Upon a summer's day."

He looked at the fisherman's daughter. Her eyes were blue as the sky, and her cheeks were fresh as the salt sea. He looked at her and he fell in love with her at first sight. And she blushed and looked down, and although neither of them had spoken a word, they both knew that they would love each other for ever and ever.

The next day the Prince said good-bye to the fisherman's daughter, and when he said good-bye her eyes filled with tears so that it hurt him to go away. The sun was shining on the sea and a fresh breeze was blowing, and many white sails were scudding in the distance through the foam, and something stirred and leapt in the Prince's heart, and before he knew what he had done, he said: "I love you, and I shall always love you, and I am going away."

"Take me with you," said the fisherman's daughter, and the Prince smiled and lifted the fisherman's daughter on to his saddle, and they galloped away into the morning. They rode on and on, but the Prince guided his horse to a dark forest. The thick grass underneath them was wet with dew, and the bushes and the undergrowth glistened in the sunlight. The blackbird was whistling, and the finches answered him from the oak-trees, and far away the cuckoo called over and over again.

Soon they reached a dark pool. Up to now the Prince had not spoken a word. He got off his horse and lifted the fisherman's daughter, who was as light as a feather, on to the ground.

"Now," he said, "I have got a sad tale to tell you. I am not really what you think I am. I am not a handsome Prince, but only a poor crippled hunchback, so ugly that people hate to look at me."

"What does it matter?" said the fisherman's daughter. "I would love you whether you were a hunchback or not. Perhaps I should love you even more."

"We will see," he said; "at any rate I have made up my mind to be what I am for ever and not to deceive people any more." And he threw his ring into the pool.

Then a soft moan was heard in the forest, and the birds flew away from their nests. The Prince stood before the fisherman's daughter in his true shape: a hunchback and a cripple. He was so sad that he cried bitterly, just as he had done on the day when his brothers had deserted him.

The fisherman's daughter cried too, to see that he was sad; but she kissed away his tears, and she told him that she loved him more than ever, and he knew by the sound of her voice that it was true.

Then he heard a voice coming from the pool, which said: "Look into the pool."

And they both looked and saw the reflection of the Prince. The hunchback had gone, and he was big, handsome, and strong, and just as he had been when the fisherman's daughter had first seen him. And then they both laughed, and kissed each other over and over again. The Prince had regained his splendid shape, which he was never to lose again; and he put the fisherman's daughter on his horse, and they rode home to the castle where he had been born, and they found his mother looking out of the window in case he should come back that day; and they were married the next morning in great pomp, and his two brothers came back -- everything had fared ill with them, and they were poor and miserable -- and he forgave them, and the Prince and the fisherman's daughter lived happily for ever afterwards.




The Silver Mountain


There was once upon a time a King who lived in a golden palace on the top of a high hill. He was powerful, wise, and good; his reign had been a scroll of glory, and he had scattered happiness and plenty on the people of his kingdom. The King had three sons, and when he felt that his death was approaching, he grew troubled in his mind as to which of them should inherit his kingdom. In his country it had been the everlasting custom for the King to leave his kingdom not to his eldest son, but to that one of his family whom he considered to be fittest to rule.

Now the King's eldest son was a soldier, a fine lad and a brave man; indeed, he was said to be the strongest and bravest youth in the land. The second son was a scholar; from his earliest youth he had pored over books, and he remembered what was in them even after he had finished reading them; he knew all about the habits of animals, and he looked at the stars through a long telescope of his own invention. The third son was a fool.

The King was perplexed as to which of these three should inherit his kingdom, for he reasoned thus: "My eldest son is too wild, my second son is too clever, and my third son is too foolish." So the King thought the best thing he could do would be to consult his Fairy Godmother, and he wrote her a long letter explaining the difficulty.

His Fairy Godmother answered his letter directly. She said she was sorry she could not come and see him, but that she was kept indoors by a bad cold. She quite understood the difficulty of the choice, but she advised the King to send his sons to look for the Silver Mountain, and to leave his kingdom to him who should find it.

The King said to himself, as soon as he had read this letter: "Of course; how extremely stupid of me not to have thought of this before!" So he sent for his sons, and he said: "To-morrow morning I wish all three of you to start and to look for the Silver Mountain, and I will leave my kingdom to him who finds it."

Early the next morning the three youths -- they were all grown up -- started on their search. The eldest son took his swiftest horse and went off at a gallop. He had not gone very far before he met a man who was also riding on a swift horse in the same direction. He asked him where he was going, and the second man said he was looking for the Silver Mountain, as he had heard that the man who found it should inherit a rich kingdom.

"That is true," said the King's son, "nevertheless the quest is not for you; it is only the sons of the King who are entitled to take part in this quest."

"But," said the stranger, "I intend to fight the King's sons and to kill them; then I shall find the mountain and inherit the kingdom."

"We shall see about that," said the King's son; and he proposed that they should fight then and there, which they did, and the King's son was victorious. He overcame the stranger and killed him, and leaving the body to be picked by the crows, he went on his way.

After many days, he came to a large town where the palace and chief buildings were all draped in black, and the people of the place were walking about with sad faces, talking in whispers. He asked some one what was the cause of all this grief, and he was told that the chief man of the country, who some time ago had set out upon some fantastic quest, had been killed by a robber in the woods, and that it was only now his bones had been brought home.

"It is for this reason we are sad," said the man, "for we are without a king."

On hearing this the King's son said: "There is no cause for grief. I will be your king." And he rode straight to the palace, and dismounting from his horse walked up the steps of the throne and placed the crown upon his head, and nobody durst say him nay.

Then the King's son thought to himself: "I have now solved the whole matter. It is needless for me to search all over the world for a Silver Mountain which I possibly may never find at all, or which my brothers may find sooner than I do, in order to inherit a kingdom, when I can thus gain almost as good a kingdom without any trouble at all."

So he thought no more about the Silver Mountain, or of his father, or of his ancient home, but he remained in this foreign country and married a wife, and ruled over it, and he lived in splendour and plenty.

The first thing which the second son did when he started on his quest was to consult an old scholar who lived in a hermitage, and who was famous for being the most learned man in the whole world. The King's second son went to him and said: "I want to find the Silver Mountain in order that I may inherit my father's kingdom."

The scholar said to him: "It is a good thing that you came to me for advice. Nobody in the world can help you as well as I can. There is no such thing as the Silver Mountain, and I daresay you know that already; nevertheless your father was a wise man to have made this quest the condition of the inheritance."

"But," said the King's son, "if there is no such thing as the Silver Mountain, there remains nothing for me to do but to go home and claim my inheritance."

"Not at all," said the old man. "It is of no avail to say that there is no such thing as the Silver Mountain, especially when almost everybody in the world is quite certain that the thing exists. Where your task lies is to find out what people think is the Silver Mountain, and to prove to them that it is not silver at all, but an ordinary mountain just like any other. That is what you must do." And so saying the old man refused to discuss the matter any further.

So the King's son set out on his quest once more, and on the way he met many people who were all seeking for the Silver Mountain. They were all anxious to find it, because they said that the man who found it would be a great king; and the King's son asked them to guide him to the place where it was likely to be. This they were willing to do, and after they had journeyed for many days, through forests and swamps, across large rivers, down steep valleys, and over wooded hills, they reached a wide plain; and beyond this plain rose a great chain of mountains, and in the centre of this chain there towered one mountain higher than the rest, and it was covered with clouds.

The people pointed to this mountain and said: "Without doubt, that is the Silver Mountain."

The King's son said he would climb this mountain, and he took the people with him. The ascent was steep and perilous, and many a time those who were with him would have turned back, had he not encouraged them and led them on by his fiery words, and after many days of toil and hardship, they reached the summit of the mountain, whence they obtained a view over the whole country.

Then the King's son said to them: "This is the highest mountain in the whole of the land -- the whole of the land is now revealed to us. We know all there is to be known about this country, and it is quite plain that this mountain is a mountain just like any other, and that in the whole world there is no such thing as a Silver Mountain; therefore we will now go back and tell this to the whole world, and save our friends and our brothers from wasting their time and exhausting themselves in fruitless labour over an insane quest."

So they went back to the country, and announced the news far and wide that there was no such thing as a Silver Mountain, and that those who had set out on the quest of it had better return to their homes.

Now when the people heard this they were angry, and they threw stones at the King's son, and he was compelled to flee from their city and to seek shelter in the old scholar's home. But from that time forward many people in the country ceased to think of the Silver Mountain any more, or to search for it, and even among those who were angry with the King's son there were many who felt that his words were true nevertheless.

The third son started also on the quest. He sought out all the highest mountains of the country, and convinced himself that none of them could be the Silver Mountain, and yet he was sure there was such a thing somewhere, and he persisted in believing this, and in saying it. He spent many years of fruitless search, but he never gave up the quest, nor did he ever lose hope that one day he should accomplish it.

One evening, after he had been searching all day, he lay down, footsore and weary, and he said to himself aloud: "If only the fairies would help me, I should find the mountain soon enough."

No sooner had he said this than a beautiful fairy stood before him and said: "I will help you to find the Silver Mountain," and she gave him a small mirror made of polished steel, whereupon she immediately vanished.

The King's youngest son took the mirror and looked into it, and there he saw very distinctly the image of his father lying ill, propped up by pillows, dying and lonely, without any of his children about him. And the King's youngest son said to himself -- 

"What does it matter to me whether I inherit the kingdom or not? Before I think of that I must go back and see my father before he dies. I would much rather my brothers found the mountain before me, and inherited the kingdom, than that my father should die without my saying 'Good-bye' to him."

And he turned back, and made for his home as quickly as possible.

Now the King's palace was on the top of a high hill, and the King's youngest son approached it from the back, where he had never been before in his life, and towards evening he emerged from the forest and saw this hill before him, shining in the sunset, with the King's golden palace at the summit of it; and in the clear glory of the sunset the hill shone like silver, and the King's youngest son, as he looked at it, said -- 

"Why, this is the Silver Mountain!" And as he ran up the hill as fast as he could he saw that it was of silver after all. So he rushed into his father's bedroom, crying: "Father, I have found the Silver Mountain -- it was here the whole time -- at home -- and we have all lived on the top of it without knowing it!"

The King was very pleased to see his son, and he said: "My son, what you say is quite true, and you shall inherit my kingdom." And the King kissed him, and soon after this he died, and the King's son reigned in his stead, and reigned happily ever after as the King of this country.




The Ring


Once upon a time there was a King and a Queen who had only one daughter, called Windflower. Just before Windflower's ninth birthday, the Queen, her mother, when she was walking in the garden of the palace, found a silver horseshoe lying on one of the paths. Now a silver horseshoe was always found in the garden just before the death of a Queen, so the Queen went to bed at once and sent for her daughter.

"My child," she said, "I have found a silver horseshoe in the garden, and that means I have not long to stay in this world. So listen carefully to what I have to say. You will be the most beautiful Princess the world has ever seen, and I hope you will find a husband who is worthy of you. Take this ring; it is was given to me by my mother, who in her turn received it from my grandmother. The ring is faery, and you must keep it and wear it always, for as long as you keep it you will be sure of true love; but if you give it away you will give your heart and all its power away with it, and evil will come of this. And if you are blessed with a daughter you must give it to her before you die; but if you have no daughter then you must cast the ring into the sea, for its work will be done."

When the Queen had said this she kissed Windflower and put the ring on her finger. Then she sent for the King and bade him be a good father to their child, and after she had said farewell she fell asleep and never woke up again.

Two years after the Queen died, the King married again. This second wife had already been married before, and she had a daughter of her own who was called Emerald, and who was just the same age as Windflower. As the years rolled on the new Queen became jealous of her step-daughter, because Windflower grew up into the most lovely creature that had ever been seen. She was tall and slender, and her eyes were like dew and her face like the petal of a flower. She danced like the surf of the sea, and she sang like a bird.

But Emerald, although she was handsome, had a proud face, with envious green eyes that glittered balefully. And as, of course, everybody liked Windflower much better than Emerald, this made the Queen angry, and she determined, when the children were grown up and it was time that they should marry, that none of the princes of the land should set eyes on Windflower until Emerald was married. So she sent Windflower to a lonely tower which was in a forest outside the city, and she told the King and the Court that Windflower was not well, and had been ordered by the physicians to live in a quiet place. So Windflower lived by herself in the forest and saw nobody but her old nurse; but she was not sorry to get away from her step-sister, who teased and pinched her dreadfully.

When Emerald's seventeenth birthday came, the King and the Queen prepared a grand banquet to celebrate it, and they invited all the princes of the land, and of these the youngest and the handsomest was Prince Sweetbriar. As he was heir to a large kingdom, the Queen was anxious that he should marry Emerald.

Now it happened that as Prince Sweetbriar was riding to the palace in company with several other Princes, he dropped behind his companions and lost his way, and presently he found himself in the forest where Windflower lived, and he rode past just under the tower. Just then Windflower was leaning out of the window. Her hair, which was like a golden mist, was hanging about her shoulders, and her face blushed like the dawn. Sweetbriar looked up, and he fell in love with her at first sight, and Windflower looked at him and smiled and fell in love with him too. Then he rode on till he found the city and the palace.

The Queen paid every attention to him, and gave him the most gorgeous room in the palace. The banquet was held in the evening, and after it was over there was a State ball. Sweetbriar looked everywhere for Windflower, but in vain. He asked one of the courtiers whether the King had not got another daughter, and he was told that there was another called Windflower, but nobody ever saw her because she was ill. But Sweetbriar could think of nothing else but Windflower's face, and, in spite of all the Queen did, he took no notice of Emerald.

When the ball was over he found out from his page, who had been gossiping in the kitchen, that Windflower was none other than the beautiful maiden he had seen in the forest. So early next morning he set out for the forest, and he found the tower without difficulty. Windflower looked even more beautiful than before, and Sweetbriar declared his love and asked her to be his wife, and she answered "Yes," and they spent the whole morning together, talking about how happy they would be.

Then Sweetbriar rode back to the palace and asked the King for the hand of his daughter Windflower, whom he had met in the forest. The Queen, of course, tried to make objections, but Sweetbriar would not hear of them; so the King gave his consent, and the Queen could do nothing more, and Sweetbriar and Windflower were married.

For a year they were as happy as the day is long, and a little daughter was born to them whom they christened Sundew; but after a year had gone by the Queen took counsel with her daughter Emerald, and said -- 

"All is not yet lost, and if you are skilful we may defeat the minx yet. You have only to persuade Sweetbriar to make Windflower give him the ring which her mother gave to her, and all will be well."

"I will do it," said Emerald.

So one day Emerald said to Sweetbriar: "You have a very beautiful wife. I hope she is as devoted as she is beautiful."

"Of course she is!" said Sweetbriar.

"Do you think she would do anything you wished?" asked Emerald.

"Of course," answered Sweetbriar.

Then Emerald laughed, and said: "I am sure she would not even give you the ring she wears on her finger."

Sweetbriar laughed, but Emerald only said: "Try."

So that very same day Sweetbriar said to Windflower: "Emerald is so jealous of you that she says you would not even give me the ring which you wear on your finger, if I ask it of you."

Windflower was distressed when she heard this, and she told Sweetbriar of her mother's warning, and Sweetbriar said that she had much better not give him the ring, since he needed no ring to tell him that she loved him.

But when he next saw Emerald she mocked him, and said: "What did I tell you? She doesn't even love you enough to give you a ring!" And every day Emerald taunted him like this, and she said: "I've no doubt she finds excellent excuses, but she will never give you the ring!"

At last one day Sweetbriar could bear it no longer, and he said to Windflower: "What does it matter if you give your heart away to me? Your heart belongs to me already, so there can be no harm in giving me the ring. Give it to me, for I can no longer bear Emerald's taunts."

So Windflower gave him the ring. Now the ring, as I said, was faery; as long as she kept it her heart was her own and had the power to bind her husband's heart, but as soon as she gave the ring away, she gave away her heart and with it all its power; so that, although her heart still belonged to Sweetbriar, Sweetbriar's love no more belonged to her -- and he soon forgot all about Windflower.

As soon as the Queen and Emerald saw this, they drove Windflower and her child from the palace, and left them in a wood to perish, and they said they had been devoured by wild beasts, and Sweetbriar was wedded to Emerald.

But Windflower and Sundew did not perish. A woodcutter showed them the way out of the wood, and they wandered for several years from city to city begging their bread. One day, when they were both very hungry, and Windflower had just earned a crust of bread, an old woman came up to her and asked for alms.

"I have got no money," said Windflower, "but take this; you need it more than we do." And she gave her the crust of bread.

"You are a good child," said the old woman; "keep your bread and ask for a gift and I will give it you."

"The only gift I crave is what nobody can give," said Windflower. "It is my husband's love, which has been taken from me." And she told the old woman her story.

And the old woman said: "There is only one way of winning back your husband's love. You must earn the ring which you gave him, and he must give it you back and your heart with it in return for his life." So saying the old woman disappeared.

Windflower at once set out for the King's city, and when she got there she found every one in woe and trouble because Prince Sweetbriar was lying mortally sick and nobody could cure him. The King had offered half his kingdom to any one who should cure the Prince, but nobody had even tried.

Windflower, who was in rags and quite unrecognisable, crept into the kitchen and begged a little bread for herself and her little daughter Sundew. She was allowed to warm herself at the fire, and she heard that the Prince had been wounded by a poisoned arrow, and that if some one would suck the poison from his wound he would recover; but nobody would do this, for they knew that they would die themselves, and what was the use of half a kingdom to a dead man?

So Windflower went to the King, and offered to cure the Prince on the condition that he should give her as a gift anything she should ask for.

The King agreed, and Windflower went to the Prince and sucked the poison from his arm. Sweetbriar at once began to get well, and he asked Windflower what she craved as a reward.

"The ring upon your finger," said Windflower.

Sweetbriar gave her the ring, and immediately her heart came back to her, and with it Sweetbriar's love, and he remembered everything and recognised Windflower, and with a great cry he took her in his arms.

And Windflower's heart overflowed with joy. She slipped the ring on her little daughter's finger, then she looked at her husband and smiled, and fell asleep in his arms. She never woke up again, because the poison she had sucked from Sweetbriar's wound was deadly.

And Sweetbriar drove Emerald and her mother from the house, and although his heart was broken, he said no word and he shed no tear, for he knew that it had all come about through his own fault, and that Windflower was very happy and glad to be asleep, because she was so tired.

But his little daughter Sundew laughed, and played with him every day, and she mended his broken heart for him very well, although it was never quite the same as it had been before. And she grew up to be as beautiful and as good as Windflower, and she never gave away her mother's ring.




The Merchant's Daughter

(A Greek Story)


Once upon a time, long ago in Greece, there was a merchant, who used to earn his living by trafficking with goods among the Greek Islands and along the coast of Asia. Sometimes he used to go as far as Persia and India. He possessed many argosies, and he used to take with him large bales of embroideries, silks and other stuffs, spikenard, and all kinds of rare scents and ointments, and these he used to sell for as much money as he could get for them.

But although he was wealthy, he was a kind merchant; and although he considered trade to be important, and struck as good a bargain as he could, when the time for bargaining came, yet there was something that he considered more important than merchandise and than bargaining, and that was his daughters. He had three daughters. The eldest was called Heliodore, the second Hermione, and the third Daphne. They were all three of them extremely beautiful. The eldest, Heliodore, was tall like a lily; the second, Hermione, was dark like a rose; and the third, Daphne, was like a flower that grows in the springtime.

One day, when his daughters were grown up, it was necessary for the merchant to make a long journey to the East -- a longer journey than he had ever made before. He was obliged to go to India in order to sell some vases cunningly worked, which Indian princes were especially fond of. Before he started he called his daughters to him and said good-bye to them. They each of them kissed him on both cheeks, and begged him to bring them back something from India. They knew that India was a marvellous country, full of rich and strange things. He promised to bring back something for each of them, and he asked them what they would like. Heliodore said she would like a scarf woven of moonbeams, such as is only to be found in the mountains which are in the north of India. Hermione said she would like a necklace made of rubies, such as are only found in the mines of India, where little gnomes work all day and all night underground and never see the sky. But when he asked Daphne what she would like, she answered: "The only thing that I want is the Golden Ring." And Heliodore and Hermione laughed at her, and said: "Silly child! she could buy a golden ring in any shop in Athens. What a foolish thing to ask for."

Before the merchant started, Heliodore, Hermione, and Daphne burnt a sacrifice on the altar of Hermes, and they prayed that the winds and the waves might be favourable to their father, and they entreated him that he should remember his promise to them, and should not forget the gifts which they desired; and they said at the end of their prayer: "If our father forgets to bring back these gifts which he has promised us, then grant us that his ship, swift Hermes, may not stir from the shore." And the merchant confirmed their prayer, and burnt incense on the altar himself. Then he started for India.

He arrived in India without difficulty, and during several months he carried on his trade and did excellent business. He sold cunningly wrought cups to the Indian princes, and statues, and garments, and sandals, and lamps, and many other things besides. He travelled all over India, trafficking and striking bargains; and during his travels he went up to the northern mountains, and bought from an old woman a veil made of moonbeams, for his eldest daughter Heliodore. This veil was expensive, and he was obliged to give in exchange for it some of the grass of Parnassus, gathered while Apollo was playing upon his fiddle, and some water from the spring of Helicon, taken in a crystal flask on the night when the Muses cease from quarrelling and sing in unison to the new moon.

After he had bought this veil at such a high price, he went to the plains in the centre of India, and walked into the heart of a mountain, and reached the caves which are under the earth, where the gnomes work all day and all night, and there he asked the King of the Gnomes to sell him the necklace of rubies. The King of the Gnomes said: "What will you give me for it?" And the merchant said: "I will give you whatever you ask." And the King of the Gnomes said to him: "I will have in exchange for a necklace of rubies the nightingale that sings in the thickets of Daulis." So the merchant gave him this nightingale, although he was sorry to part with it, and received the necklace of rubies in exchange.

The merchant remembered these gifts, which were so difficult to get, but he quite forgot what he had promised to his third daughter, which was only a golden ring, and he started home without the golden ring. When he reached the coast, and embarked on his argosy, there was a fair breeze, and he was pleased because he thought his journey would be swift. But what was his surprise to find that the ship would not stir from the shore. Many other ships belonging to other sailors were scudding fast through the waves, leaving behind them a trail of foam, and yet his ship, although she was an excellent seaboat, refused to stir. And this lasted all day and all night.

At last he disembarked and sat down on the shore, and thought, saying to himself, "What spell has been put on my ship? What have I done? In what way have I displeased the gods that they prevent me from going home?"

As he was pondering over this, a peasant walked along the coast. He was carrying a basket of eggs home from the market, and he stopped and asked the merchant what he was thinking of.

The merchant hardly liked to tell him about his private family affairs, but the peasant said to him: "I am sure there is something on your mind, otherwise it is impossible that your ship should not be scudding over the sea. Perhaps you promised something to somebody before you started."

The merchant thought about this, and then at last he remembered what he had promised to Daphne, and he said to the peasant: "I promised my daughter to bring her back the Golden Ring from India, and I have forgotten to do so."

The peasant said: "That accounts for it all. If you have promised to bring back something to somebody who is dear to you and have forgotten it, it is quite impossible that you should sail back home."

"That is all very well," said the merchant, "but can you tell me where I can find the Golden Ring? You see, there are many golden rings everywhere, but my daughter Daphne, who is my youngest daughter, asked me to bring her back the Golden Ring."

The peasant nodded and turned round, and then he said: "You see this road running in front of you into the distance? Walk along it, without looking to the right or to the left, and when you have walked for three hours you will reach a spot, and in that spot is the Golden Ring."

The merchant did what the peasant had told him, and he walked for three hours without looking to the right or to the left. When the three hours were over he reached a milestone, on which was written: "To the Coast, three hours; to the Palace, one minute." Near the milestone an old man with a long grey beard was sitting, so the merchant spoke to the old man, and said to him: "Sir, can you tell me where I can find the Golden Ring?"

The old man answered him: "The Golden Ring is in the palace of the King. The palace of the King is a minute's walk from here. You turn to the right, and before you you will find two golden gates. You must open these gates, walk through them, and you will find the palace of the King in front of you. In this palace there is a Prince, who is the King's son, and that Prince is the Golden Ring."

The merchant did as he was told. He walked for a minute, and found in front of him two golden gates. Here he stopped a moment, because he was afraid to walk into the house of somebody whom he did not know. Nevertheless he took heart and opened the gates, and walked straight along a broad road until he reached the steps which led to the front door of the King's palace. Now the King's palace was made entirely of red marble, and when the merchant saw it he was frightened. However, he walked up the steps, and knocked loudly on the door, and immediately a slave appeared and asked him what he wanted.

"I wish to see the King," said the merchant, "and to ask him if I may enter into his palace."

The slave went away, and presently he came back again and said to the merchant: "The King will be very glad if you will do him the honour of entering his palace. Moreover, the King would like to talk to you himself. He is at this moment in the Throne Room, sitting on the throne."

So the merchant was ushered into the Throne Room, and there was the King sitting on a throne made of ivory and studded with emeralds. As he entered this room, the King walked down the steps of the throne, and asked him politely what was his business.

The merchant said: "Your Majesty, I want to speak to the Prince."

The King said that nothing was easier, and he led the merchant through a long corridor into another room, which belonged to the Prince.

The Prince was a young man, scarcely twenty-one years old. His hair was as bright as the rice-fields in winter, and his eyes were as blue as the sea. He was strong and nimble, and his voice was as tuneful as a bell.

The Prince said to the merchant: "I am very glad to see you. I am always glad to see people who come from a far country; but what do you want of me?"

So the merchant told him all his story -- how he had three daughters; how he had remembered to bring back the gifts which the two eldest had asked of him; and how he had forgotten the Golden Ring which he had promised to his youngest daughter, Daphne.

Then the Prince said: "I quite understand. Is your daughter Daphne very beautiful?"

And the merchant said: "All my daughters are beautiful. My eldest daughter, Heliodore, is as beautiful as the day; and my second daughter, Hermione, is as glorious as the night; but my third daughter, Daphne, is like the first day of spring. She is more beautiful than any woman in the world."

Then the Prince led him along a long corridor into a room in which there were many beautiful pictures of beautiful women; and he said to the merchant: "Is your daughter Daphne as beautiful as any of the people who are pictured here?"

And the merchant said: "My daughter Daphne is a thousand times more beautiful than any of these pictures."

And the Prince knew by the tone of voice in which he said it, that what he said was true. He then led him into another room, in which there was only one picture, and this was a picture of a woman he had once seen long ago, in a dream, when he had dreamt of her who should be his wife; and this picture was the most beautiful picture in the world; and the woman who was painted in this picture was like a dream or a vision, so that those people who looked at it could not believe that such a beautiful thing could possibly be true. When the Prince had drawn the curtain from this picture he said to the merchant, "Is your daughter as beautiful as that?" and the merchant answered, "That is my daughter Daphne." Then the Prince said to him: "I thought so. I will give you something to take back to her."

He took the merchant into another room, and gave him a letter written on parchment, a cup made of crystal, and a small golden ring of plain gold, and he said to the merchant: "Please do not forget to take these three gifts to your youngest daughter, Daphne. Farewell."

The Prince said good-bye to the merchant, and the King said good-bye to him also, and a slave was sent with him to show him the way out of the palace, and the nearest road to the coast; and there he found his ship waiting for him, and directly he got on board and set sail, the ship answered to the breeze, and swiftly and surely he arrived in his native country.

Now no sooner had he got home than his daughters asked him: "Father, have you brought us back the presents which you promised us?"

"Yes," said the merchant, "I have. I have brought Heliodore a veil woven of moonbeams, which I found in the northern hills of India, and it was very expensive. And I have brought Hermione a necklace of rubies, in exchange for which I had to part with a precious nightingale. And I have brought Daphne the gifts which she asked for." So saying, he gave his daughters their various presents, and to Daphne the letter, the cup, and the ring which the Prince had given him.

When Heliodore and Hermione saw what their father had brought Daphne, they were very pleased, because they thought a piece of paper, a cup such as was to be seen in almost any shop in Athens, and a golden ring worth at the most a few pieces of silver, were indeed shabby presents compared with the treasures which they had received, and they laughed at their sister.

But Daphne paid no heed to this. She took her gifts to her room, and locked herself in, and there she unrolled the scroll of paper which her father had given her, and read what was written in it. It was written on the parchment that she was to pour water into the crystal cup, throw the Golden Ring into it, and call three times aloud: "Come hither, come hither, come hither, my Golden Ring!" No sooner had she read this than she filled the crystal cup with water, threw the Golden Ring into it, and called out to the ring as she had been told to do; and as she called, lo and behold! a wood-pigeon flew into her room and alighted on the crystal cup, and dived and swam in the water; and as soon as its body was completely immersed in the water, it changed into the very Prince whom the merchant had seen in India.

"I am Prince Fortunate," said the Prince, "and I live in India. I have seen you many times in my dreams, and the first time I saw you I made up my mind that you should be my wife, for you are the most beautiful woman in the world, and I love you with all my heart." And Daphne told the Prince that she loved him too, although she had never seen him before, except in her dreams, and they talked happily together for more than an hour.

Then the Prince dipped his fingers into the crystal cup, and instantly changed into a wood-pigeon, and flew away through the window. But before he flew away, the bird gave Daphne a nut, and told her to crack it and to put on what she should find inside it.

As soon as Daphne was left alone, she cracked the nut, and she found inside it a beautiful dress, as dark as a summer night, but on the folds of which were painted the sun, the moon, and all the stars of heaven. She put it on, and went for a walk in the garden, and her dress shone like a starry night, and it was a wonderful sight to behold; and her sisters, who were leaning out of a window which overlooked the garden, were dazzled by the sight of the shining garment, and they wondered greatly, and they were filled with envy and jealousy.

The next day all this happened again. The pigeon flew in at Daphne's window, changed into the Prince, and talked to her for an hour, and when the hour was over changed back into a pigeon again and flew away, leaving her a fig, which he told her to cut open, and to wear what she should find inside it. She cut open the fig, and inside it she found a dress on which the azure sea and all its white waves were painted. This dress was like the sea at dawn, when the wind ruffles it, and little waves of crested foam dance for joy in the morning air.

Daphne put it on, and went for a walk in her garden, and her sisters, who were leaning out of the window, were amazed at the lovely sight, and cried out in surprise -- for at first they thought it was Queen Aphrodite just fresh from the sea; and they envied Daphne sorely.

The next day the same thing happened again. Daphne threw the ring into the cup, and all happened as before; and when the pigeon flew away, he left her a hazel-nut, and told her to crack it and wear what she should find inside it.

Daphne cracked the hazel-nut, and inside it she found a garment on which the month of May with all its flowers was painted. She put it on, and she again went for a walk in the garden, and her sisters, who were leaning out of the window, gave a great cry when they saw her -- for beautiful as had been the dress on which the sun, the moon, and the stars were painted, and beautiful the dress on which were pictured the sea and all its waves, this one was far lovelier still, for it was as frail as blossom, and as soft, and fragrant exceedingly; and as Daphne walked across the grass in it, her sisters thought that Queen Proserpine had left her dismal home and had come back to visit the earth once more, arrayed in the glory of May -- and then they saw that it was only their sister Daphne, whom they had always despised. This made Heliodore and Hermione so jealous that they took counsel one with the other how they might do Daphne harm, and at last they settled on a plan.

Every morning, as soon as the sun rose, the three sisters used to go to the baths and bathe. So the morning after Daphne had walked about in the garden, in the dress, on which the month of May and all its flowers were painted, as they were walking together to the baths, Heliodore took with her a bag full of seed-pearls, and all at once she pretended to slip, and in slipping scattered the pearls on to the path. Then she said to Hermione and Daphne, "You go on in front, whilst I pick up my pearls." As soon as Hermione and Daphne were out of sight, she swept up the pearls with a small broom and put them all back into the bag, and then she returned to the house. There she took the key of Daphne's room -- for she had noticed that Daphne always hid this key in a crevice on the hearth -- and she opened Daphne's door, went into her room, and searched in every corner to see what she might find; and there, at the back of the cupboard, she found the Prince's letter, the crystal cup, and the Golden Ring. She read the Prince's letter, filled the crystal cup with water, threw the Golden Ring into it, and called out the magic words. But it so happened that Daphne had that day left her knife in the cup; so when Heliodore cried out, "Come hither, come hither, come hither, my Golden Ring!" the wood-pigeon flew in at the window, and dived into the crystal cup, but just as he was going to change into the Prince he fell upon the knife, and he flew away with a wound in his breast.

Now when Heliodore saw that there was a drop of blood in the crystal cup, she was afraid, and she ran away from Daphne's room, and rejoined her sisters at the baths.

When they came back from the baths, Daphne went to her room and took the cup from the cupboard. But when she saw that there was a drop of blood in it, she cried bitterly, for she saw what had happened, and she understood what her sister had done; and when she had cried for a long time by herself, she went out of doors, and she found her father and said to him: "Oh sir, buy me a man's dress, such as will prevent those who see me from recognising me, when I wear it; and buy me a swift ship, so that I may travel."

Her father gave her the dress and the ship, and she embarked on it and started for India, disguised as a pedlar, in order to find the Prince.

She sailed to India, but when she disembarked, she was at a loss as to what to do, for she did not know where the Prince lived, nor the way to his palace. As she was brooding in her perplexity, she caught sight of two pigeons who were quarrelling with each other, and one of them was threatening to kill the other. Daphne listened to their conversation, for she understood the language of birds because of the Golden Ring which she wore on her finger. And one of the birds was saying to the other: "Prince Fortunate is sick, and the physicians do not know how to cure him." And the other bird said: "Will he be cured?" And the first pigeon answered: "If some one were to kill us and to dip our bodies in the spring which is hard by, and then make an ointment of the water of the spring, and rub the Prince with that ointment, he would surely get well."

Directly Daphne heard this she took a stone and killed the pigeons, and dipped them into the water of the spring, and made an ointment, as they had said. No sooner had she done this than a wandering minstrel passed her, and asked her whither she was going.

"I am looking," said Daphne, "for the King's palace, where Prince Fortunate lives, but I do not know where it is."

The minstrel said: "Come with me, for I know the way. But what is your trade?"

"I am a physician," said Daphne, "and I have good medicine to sell."

So presently she reached the King's palace, and called outside the windows: "Good medicine to sell. Good medicine to sell."

When the King heard that there was a physician there, he sent for him and said: "Can you cure my son?"

Daphne answered: "In eight days I will make him so well that he will ride on his horse, and shoot with his bow and arrow."

The King was pleased; but when the other doctors heard of this, they said that if this new physician cured the King's son in a week, the King would be at liberty to cut off their heads.

So Daphne, in the disguise of a doctor, was taken to the Prince, and she rubbed him with the ointment she had made, and instantly he grew a little better, and in two or three days' time he grew much better, and in a week's time he was quite well and able to ride on his horse and to shoot with his bow and arrow.

Now, when the King saw this, he was greatly pleased, and he said to the physician: "You have cured my son; what can I do for you in return?"

And the physician answered, "All I desire is that your Majesty should give a great banquet, and invite to it all the kings and princes of India."

The King said: "That is but a trifling favour to ask." And he gave orders at once that a great feast should be prepared, and he invited to it all the kings and princes of India, Persia, and Arabia, and they ate and drank and made merry.

When the banquet was over, Daphne, in the disguise of the doctor, said to the King: "Let there be silence, for I have a story to tell the company." The King gave orders, and every one was silent. Then Daphne told the whole of her story, as I have told it now, and she told everything except one thing -- she did not say who she was, for she was keeping this to the end. But when she reached the end of the story and told how the merchant's daughter had disguised herself as a doctor in order to cure the Prince, she said -- 

"I am the merchant's daughter. My name is Daphne, and in the disguise of a doctor I cured the Prince. I did it because I am betrothed to him, and because he will make me his wife; and I never did the Prince any harm, but my sister did that evil thing from envy, because she was jealous of our happiness."

As soon as the Prince heard this, he recognised Daphne, and he embraced her and said: "It is true. This is Daphne, my betrothed, and my bride that is to be."

And the King prepared a splendid wedding-feast, which lasted three days, and they were married in a temple of gold, and on the first day of the feast Daphne wore the dress on which the sun, the moon, and the stars were painted; and on the second day she wore the dress on which were pictured the sea and all its waves; but on the third day she wore the dress which was adorned with the month of May and all its flowers, and on that day she was more beautiful than ever she had been before, for it was her wedding-day. And she lived with the Prince happily for ever afterwards.




The Cunning Apprentice

(A Russian Story)


Once upon a time there was an old man and an old woman who had one son. The old man was poor, and he wished his son to acquire knowledge, so that he should be able to comfort his parents in his youth, to support them when he grew up, and to pray for them after their death. But what is to be done when one has no money? He took him to the village. "Perhaps," he thought, "somebody will give him lessons for nothing." But nobody wished to teach his son for nothing. The old man returned home, and he and his wife cried bitterly, lamenting their poverty.

Once more he took his son to the town. As soon as he reached the town a stranger met them, and asked what was the matter. "Why, old man," he said, "are you so sad?"

"How can I not be sad?" answered the old man. "Look, I have taken my son everywhere, and nobody will teach him for nothing, and I have no money."

"Well, give him to me," said the stranger, "and in three years I will teach him all the knowledge there is. And in three years' time, on this same day and at the same hour, come and fetch your son. But take care that you are not late, for if you come in time and recognise him you shall receive your son back again, but if you are late he shall remain with me."

The old man was so pleased that he did not ask who the stranger was, where he lived, or how and what he would teach the lad. He left his son with him, and went home. He reached home in great joy, and told his wife all about it. Now the stranger was a wizard.

Three years passed. The old man had long ago forgotten on what day and at what hour he had left his son with the stranger, and he did not know what to do. But the son, on the day before the appointed space of time came to an end, flew to him in the shape of a bird, and entered the cottage in his true shape. He greeted his parents, and said: "Father, to-morrow my apprenticeship, which has lasted three years, comes to an end. Do not forget to come and fetch me." And he told him where to come and how to recognise him.

"I am not the only apprentice at my master's: there are eleven more lads like myself, who remain with him for ever, and all because their parents did not know how to recognise them. And if you do not recognise me, I shall also stay with him for ever, and be the twelfth. To-morrow, when you come for me, my master will change us into twelve white pigeons, all alike, feather for feather, tail for tail, and head for head. Now listen: All of us will fly high in the air, but I will fly higher than the rest. My master will ask, 'Have you recognised your son?' And you must then point to the pigeon which is flying higher than the others. After this he will bring to you twelve ponies, all of the same colour, and all with their manes on the same side, and just alike. When he takes you to these ponies they will all be standing still, but I shall give a kick with my right leg. My master will ask you, 'Have you recognised your son?' And you must then point me out. After this he will bring to you twelve lads, all of the same height, all alike, hair for hair and voice for voice, and all dressed alike. As soon as you see them look carefully; on my right cheek there will be a little fly, so that you may recognise me."

He said good-bye to his parents, and went out of the house, changed into a bird and flew away to his master.

The next morning his father got up, made ready and went to fetch his son. He arrived at the wizard's. "Now, old man," said the wizard, "I have taught your son everything that is to be known, but if you don't recognise him, he must stay with me for ever and ever." He then let fly into the air twelve white pigeons, all alike, feather for feather, tail for tail, and head for head; and he said: "Old man, do you recognise your son?"

The old man looked and looked, and when one pigeon flew higher than the rest, he pointed to it and said: "I think that is my son."

"You have recognised him, old man," said the wizard. He then brought twelve ponies, all of the same colour, and their manes all on the same side. The old man walked round the ponies and looked, and the wizard asked: "Now, old man, have you recognised your son?" "Not yet, wait a little." And when he said that, one of the ponies gave a kick with his right leg. He pointed to him immediately and said: "I think that is my son."

"You have recognised him, old man," said the wizard. He then brought him to twelve lads, all of the same height, all alike, hair for hair, and voice for voice, as if they were the children of one mother. The old man walked round the lads and noticed nothing. He did so a second time, and again noticed nothing. He walked round them a third time, and then he saw that on the right cheek of one of the lads there was a fly, and he said: "I think that is my son."

"You have recognised him, old man. Yes, and it is not you who are cunning and wise, but it is your son."

The old man took his son and went home. They walked along the road, and whether it was long or whether it was short, and whether it was far or whether it was near, it takes but little time to tell, but it took a long time to do. On their way they met some huntsmen who were hunting a red beast. In front of them a fox was running as though it would escape.

"Father," said the son, "I will turn myself into a hound and catch the fox. When the huntsmen come up to take the animal, say to them, 'O! huntsmen, that is my dog; I make my living by him.' The huntsmen will say, 'Sell him to us,' and they will count out to you much money. Sell the dog, but do not give them the collar and the chain." He immediately changed himself into a hound, ran after the fox and caught it. The huntsmen rode up. "Old man," they cried, "why have you come here to spoil our hunt?"

"O! huntsmen," answered the old man, "that is my dog; I make my living by him."

"Sell him to us."

"Buy it."

"Is it dear?"

"A hundred roubles."

The huntsmen did not bargain, but paid him the money and took the dog, and the old man took off its collar and its chain. "Why do you take off the collar and the chain?"

"I am a traveller," said the old man, "and the chain is necessary to me to bind up my cloth leggings."

"All right, take it," said the huntsmen, and they whipped their horses and rode off at a gallop. But the fox got away again; they started their hounds after it; the hounds ran but could not catch the fox. One of the huntsmen said: "Let us try the new hound." They let it loose, and what did they see? The fox ran off in one direction, and the hound in another, and he caught up the old man and changed into a lad just as he had been before.

The old man went on further with his son. They came to a lake where huntsmen were shooting geese, swans, and wild ducks. A flock of geese was flying, and the son said to his father: "Father, I will change myself into a hawk, and I will pursue the geese. The huntsmen will come to you and begin to make a fuss. You say to them, 'That is my hawk; I make my living by him.' They will bargain with you for the hawk. You sell the hawk, but do not give up its jesses on any account." He changed himself into a hawk, flew higher than the flock of geese, and began pursuing them and driving them to the earth. As soon as the huntsmen saw this, they came to the old man and said: "Old man, why are you spoiling our sport?"

"O! huntsmen," he answered, "the hawk is mine, and I earn my living by him."

"Will you sell your hawk?"

"Why should I not sell him? Buy him."

"And is it dear?"

"Two hundred roubles."

The huntsmen paid the money, took the hawk, and the old man took off its jesses. "Why are you taking off the jesses?"

"I am a traveller," answered the old man, "and if something comes off my leggings, they serve to tie them up with." The huntsmen did not dispute the matter, but went after their game. The flock of geese flew away. "Let us loose the hawk," they said, and they loosed him, but what did they see? The hawk flew higher than the geese, and flew right away to the old man, and caught him up, touched the green ground, and changed himself back into a lad as he had been before. And the father and son went home and lived in clover.

Sunday came, and the son said to his father: "Father, to-day I will change myself into a horse. You shall sell the horse, but on no account sell the bridle, for if you do I shall not come home again." He rolled on the earth and changed into a magnificent horse, and his father led him off to sell him. The merchants surrounded him, horse-dealers all of them; one of them offered a large sum of money, another offered a still larger sum of money. But the wizard, who appeared there, offered more than all of them. The old man sold him his son, but did not give him the bridle.

"And how shall I be able to lead the horse without a bridle?" said the wizard. "Give me the bridle to lead him as far as my house, and then take it back, for I do not want it."

Then the horse-dealers fell upon the old man and said: "That is only fair; if you sell the horse you must sell the bridle." What could he do? The old man gave up the bridle. The wizard led the horse to his house, put it in the stables, tied it fast to the ring, and pulled his head up high so that the horse stood on his hind legs, and his fore legs did not touch the ground. The wizard called his daughter and said: "I have bought the cunning fellow." "Where is he?" asked his daughter. "He is in the stables." His daughter went to see, and she was sorry for the young lad. She loosened the bridle and made it longer, and the horse shook his head so that at last he freed himself from the bridle, and galloped away for several miles. The daughter ran to her father and said: "Father, forgive me, I have done a wicked thing. The horse has escaped."

The wizard struck the green earth, changed himself into a grey wolf, and pursued the horse. As soon as he got near him the horse galloped to a river, struck the earth and changed himself into a minnow, and the wizard changed himself into a pike. The minnow scudded through the water and reached a pond, where beautiful maidens were washing linen and wringing it out. He changed himself into a golden ring and lay close by the hand of the merchant's daughter. The merchant's daughter saw the ring and put it on her finger. The wizard changed himself into a man once more, and said: "Give me your golden ring."

"Take it," said the beautiful maiden, and threw the ring on to the ground. As soon as it struck the ground, in that moment it changed into a seed-pearl. The wizard changed himself into a cock and ran to pick up the seed-pearl. But before he had picked it up, the pearl changed into a hawk, and the hawk immediately flew at the cock, and killed him. After that he changed once more into a fine lad, and fell in love with the beautiful maiden, the daughter of the merchant, and married her. And they lived happily and merrily together.

That is the end of the story.




Orestes And The Dragon

(A Greek Story)


There was once upon a time a King who had three sons and one daughter. Not far from the King's palace there was a large garden, and in this garden lived a dragon. The King told his children never to go into the garden lest they should be caught by the dragon, which had wings. But one evening the youngest of the King's sons, whose name was Orestes, went with his sister into the garden and began to play. No sooner had they begun to play than the dragon appeared, and seizing the little Princess with its tail, flew away into the air and took her to a high mountain which no one could climb.

When Orestes went home and told of the misfortune, the King was very sad, and a black flag was hoisted on the top of the palace, and the whole Court went into mourning.

Now Orestes, since it had been through his fault that his sister had been lost, wished to be allowed to seek her; but his father would not let him do this, for Orestes was his favourite son. But one day when his father was busy, Orestes stole out of the house and walked to the foot of the high mountain, whither the dragon had taken his little sister. He wondered how he could climb it, and the task seemed difficult, indeed almost impossible, since the mountain was as smooth as glass.

While he was thus wondering he noticed two snakes which were fighting. One was black, and the other was white, and the black snake was getting the best of the fight and on the verge of killing the white one. Orestes at once killed the black snake, upon which the white snake said to him -- 

"You have saved my life! What can I do for you in return?"

"I wish for nothing," said Orestes, "save to be able to climb to the top of this mountain."

"Catch hold of my tail," said the snake, "and I will take you to the top of the mountain."

And the snake wriggled up the mountain, pulling the Prince after him, and as soon as they reached the top it disappeared.

Upon the top of the mountain, Orestes found a shepherd looking after the sheep of the dragon, and he entered into the service of this shepherd as a herdsman. One day when he was looking after the sheep he met his sister, and said to her: "I am your brother Orestes, and I have come to set you free."

His sister was surprised to see him, and frightened, and she said: "We must be very careful and cunning, lest the dragon should find us out, for it is impossible to escape from this place, nor can we save ourselves from the dragon. His rooms are all full of princesses whom he has taken captive, and who cannot climb down the mountain."

And she asked her brother how he had been able to climb it. He told her about the snake, and then he said -- 

"This evening, when the dragon comes back to his house, ask him where his strength lies, and I will come to-morrow and you shall tell me."

In the evening the dragon came home, and the Princess asked him where his strength lay, and the dragon told her that he had three golden hairs on the top of his head, and with these hairs one could open a room in which there were three doves; and were any one to kill the first dove, he would grow sick; and were any one to kill the second dove, he would grow worse; and if any one were to kill the third dove, he would die.

The next day, when the dragon had gone out on his daily business, which was to look for disobedient children in the country round and to catch them, the Princess went to her brother and told him what the dragon had said.

Orestes told her that when the dragon came back in the evening and fell asleep, she was to take a pair of scissors and cut off the three golden hairs, and open the secret room and kill the doves which were in it.

In the evening when the dragon came back and fell asleep, which he did at once, for he was tired, the Princess took a pair of scissors, cut off his three golden hairs, opened the secret room and killed the doves; and immediately the dragon gave a great groan and died.

As soon as he was dead, all the doors of all the rooms in the house, which had been carefully locked, flew open, and hundreds and hundreds of prisoners were set free. Among these there were three princesses. Orestes and his sister walked with these three princesses to the edge of the mountain top, and when they reached it Orestes saw his brothers, who were waiting at the foot of the hill.

Orestes took a rope, and first he let down his sister; then he let down the eldest of the princesses and said: "She shall be the wife of my eldest brother." Afterwards he let down the second of the princesses, and said: "She shall be the wife of my second brother." And, lastly, he let down the youngest princess, and he said: "This shall be my wife."

But when his brothers saw that the youngest princess was the most beautiful of the three, they were angry, and they jerked the rope out of Orestes' hands and left him on the top of the mountain.

Orestes was most sorrowful, and he went into the castle of the dragon and looked into all the rooms.

Now in one room, which was carpeted with green grass, he found a silken greyhound which was hunting a silken hare; and in another room he found a golden beaker and a golden jug; and in another he found a golden hen with golden chickens. Then he went to the stables, and there in a stall he found three horses with golden wings, and one was white, and one was red, and one was green.

"By opening the doors of our stable," said the horses, "you have done us a great favour. What can we do for you in return?"

"I do not wish for anything," said Orestes, "save to be taken to the foot of this mountain!"

"Get on my back," said the green horse; and Orestes got on his back, and the horse flew in a moment to the bottom of the mountain. Then each of the horses gave him two golden hairs, and said: "When you have need of us, burn one of these hairs and we will come."

After some days had passed, Orestes went into the city where the King, his father, lived, and putting an old blanket over his head he pretended to be a beggar, and entered into the service of a goldsmith.

Now when the little Princess and her two brothers reached their father's house, with the three princesses who had been set free, the King asked them what had become of Orestes, and they said that Orestes had died; and the eldest of the brothers wished to marry the eldest of the princesses, but she refused to wed him unless he could find her the silken greyhound which hunted the silken hare. It was in the house of the dragon.

The King's herald proclaimed this everywhere. Then the beggar said to the goldsmith that he could accomplish the quest. "You need only give me a jug of wine and a basketful of chestnuts, and leave me alone in my room."

The goldsmith did this and shut the beggar up in his room, and he looked through the keyhole to see what he was doing. But the beggar did nothing at all; he merely ate the chestnuts and drank the wine, so the goldsmith went to his bedroom and went to sleep. Then the beggar took one of the hairs which the white horse had given him and burned it, and immediately the white horse appeared and said: "What do you wish?"

"I wish," said the beggar, "that you should bring me the silken greyhound and the silken hare."

The horse brought them immediately, and the beggar gave them to the goldsmith. The goldsmith went to the palace and sold them for much money to the eldest prince.

On Sunday the eldest brother married the eldest princess, and everybody went to a field and played quoits. And the beggar burned another golden hair, and immediately the green horse appeared and brought him a green garment. The beggar put it on, and went into the field and played quoits with the company. After he had played for a whole hour everybody had lost; he alone had won much money, and scattering on the grass the money he had won, he went back to the goldsmith's shop and put the blanket on his head once more.

The next Sunday it was arranged that his second brother should marry the second princess; she said she would not wed him unless he could bring her the golden beaker and the golden jug which were in the house of the dragon.

The King sent for all the goldsmiths in the country, and asked them to get him the golden beaker. And once more the beggar told his master that he could get it, and that all he needed were two basketsful of chestnuts and two jars of wine. And being left alone in a room he ate the nuts and drank the wine. Then he burned one of the hairs, and immediately the red horse appeared, and he said to him: "Bring me the golden beaker and the golden jug."

And the horse brought them, and the beggar went to the King, and the King bought them for a large sum of money. Again they went to play quoits in order to celebrate the second wedding, and the beggar burned another of the hairs, and immediately the red horse came to him and brought him a red garment, and when he put it on he went and played quoits. After he had played for a long time, all had lost save himself, and he went away, leaving the ground strewn with gold coins.

On the following Sunday the youngest princess was to be married to a brother of the King, but she did not wish to wed him, and she said that she would not, unless he brought her the golden hen and the golden chickens.

Once more the beggar obtained these, and on Sunday, when the wedding was to be held, they went and played quoits, and the beggar went riding on a white horse and wearing a white garment; and as he was playing he threw the quoit at his uncle who was to wed the youngest princess, and killed him. And they took him to the palace, and the King said to him: "Why have you killed my brother?"

And the Prince told him everything that had happened, and as soon as the King heard the story he gave orders that the two eldest brothers should be put to death, and he gave the youngest princess to Orestes for a wife.

And they were married, and they lived happily for ever afterwards.




The Wise Princess

(A Russian Story)


Once upon a time in a certain kingdom there lived a King and a Queen. They had three sons, who were all young, unmarried, and so brave that no fairy tale could tell, no pen could write down, how brave they were. The youngest was called Ivan-the-King's-Son. The King spoke to his children thus: "My dear children, take each of you an arrow, draw your bow at a venture, and shoot in various directions. And there, where the arrow shall fall, go take a wife."

The eldest brother drew his bow at a venture, and the arrow fell on a nobleman's house, right opposite the women's attic. The second arrow fell in the yard of a merchant's house, on a flight of steps; and on the steps stood a beautiful girl, the merchant's daughter. The youngest brother drew his bow at a venture, and the arrow fell into a dirty marsh, and a frog caught it.

Ivan-the-King's-Son said: "How can I marry a frog? She is not my size."

"Marry her," said the King. "It means that such is your fate."

So the sons of the King were married. The eldest married the nobleman's daughter; the second one, the merchant's daughter; and Ivan-the-King's-Son married a frog. And the King called them to him and gave the following command: -- 

"Each of your wives must bake me a soft white loaf of bread for breakfast to-morrow."

Ivan-the-King's-Son went to his room with a heavy heart and hung his head.

"Ivan-the-King's-Son, why are you so sad?" the frog asked. "Has your father spoken an angry or an unkind word to you?"

"How can I not be sad? The King, my father, has ordered you to get ready a loaf of soft white bread for his breakfast to-morrow."

"Do not worry, Ivan-the-King's-Son, go to bed and sleep. In the morning you will be wiser than in the evening."

She sent him to bed, and no sooner had she done so than she threw off her frog's skin and turned into a most beautiful girl, for she was none other than the Wise Princess. She went out on to the steps and called out in a loud voice: "Oh you, my nurses, get ready, get ready! Provide yourselves with what is necessary, and make me a white loaf such as I used to eat in my father's house."

In the morning, when Ivan-the-King's-Son got up, the frog's loaf had been ready for some time, and it was so excellent that the like of it had never been seen. The loaf of bread was ornamented with various devices: on the sides of it were kings' palaces, and stately towers with their gardens and their walls. The King thanked Ivan-the-King's-Son for the loaf, and at the same time he gave the following order to his three sons: -- 

"Your wives shall each of them weave me a carpet by to-night."

Ivan-the-King's-Son came home with a heavy heart and hung his head.

"Croak, croak," said the frog, "why are you so sad? Has your father spoken a cruel or an unkind word to you?"

"How can I not be sad?" answered Ivan-the-King's-Son. "The King, my father, has ordered a silken carpet to be woven for him by to-night."

"Do not worry, Ivan-the-King's-Son, lie down and sleep. In the morning you will be wiser."

She put him to bed, and threw off her frog's skin, and turned into a beautiful maiden. She went out on to the steps and called out in a loud voice: "Oh, you boisterous winds, bring hither that same carpet on which I used to sit in the house of my father."

No sooner said than done. In the morning, when Ivan-the-King's-Son awoke, the carpet had been ready for some time, and it was so beautiful that the like of it had never been seen before. It was adorned with gold, silver, and cunning devices. The King thanked his son for the carpet, and at the same time he issued a new command, namely, that his sons were to be present, each with his wife, at the grand review.

Ivan-the-King's-Son returned home with a heavy heart and hung his head.

"Croak, croak, Ivan-the-King's-Son," said the frog, "why are you so sad? Have you heard from your father anything cruel or unpleasant?"

"How can I not be sad? The King, my father, has ordered that I should be present at the review with you. And how can I show you to the people?"

"Do not worry, Ivan-the-King's-Son! Go by yourself, and pay your respects to the King. I will follow; and as soon as you hear a noise like thunder, say, 'My little frog is coming hither in a basket.'"

The two elder brothers appeared at the review with their wives, all in beautiful clothes; they stood there and laughed at Ivan-the-King's-Son, and said: "Why have you come here, brother, without your wife? You might have brought her in your pocket. And where did you find such a beautiful lady?"

Suddenly a loud noise like thunder was heard, and the whole palace shook. The guests were frightened to death, and jumped up from their places and did not know what to do. But Ivan-the-King's-Son said: "Do not be afraid, gentlemen, this is my little frog who has come here in a basket."

A golden coach drove up to the palace, drawn by six horses, and out of it came the Wise Princess, so beautiful that it is impossible to describe her. She took Ivan-the-King's-Son by the hand, and led him to the oaken chairs and the spread tables. The guests began to eat and drink, and to make merry. The Wise Princess, as she drank from a glass, let a drop fall on to her left sleeve; and as she ate a piece of roast swan, she hid one of the bones in her right sleeve. The wives of the elder sons noticed this, and did the same. Afterwards, when the Wise Princess was dancing with Ivan-the-King's-Son, she shook her left sleeve, and at once a lake appeared. She shook her right sleeve, and white swans swam about on the lake.

The King and his guests were astonished, and when the elder sons' wives began to dance they shook their left sleeves, but the only result of it was to splash the guests. Then they shook their right sleeves, and in so doing a swan's bone hit the King in the face. The King was angry, and drove them away in disgrace. During that time Ivan-the-King's-Son took the opportunity of going home. He found the frog's skin, and threw it into a big fire.

The Wise Princess arrived and asked where her frog's skin was. Then not finding it, she grew sad and said: "Oh, Ivan-the-King's-Son, Ivan-the-King's-Son, what have you done? If you had waited a moment I would have been yours for ever. But now good-bye. Seek me at the end of the world, in the Kingdom of Nowhere. Wear out three pairs of iron boots."

So saying, she turned herself into a white swan, and flew away out of the window.

Ivan-the-King's-Son wept bitterly, and prayed to God with all his might. He put on iron boots, and walked on straight in front of him. He walked and walked, and after a time he met an old man.

"Good morrow, young man," said the old man; "what are you looking for and where are you going to?"

Ivan-the-King's-Son told him all his misfortunes.

"Ah, Ivan-the-King's-Son, why did you burn the frog's skin? You did not put it on, and it was not for you to take it off. The Wise Princess was so far more cunning and wise than her father, that he clothed her in a frog's skin and bade her be a frog for three years. Here is a ball for you. Wherever it rolls, you must boldly follow."

Ivan-the-King's-Son thanked the old man, and followed where the ball rolled. Whether it rolled far or near, for a short time or a long time, the story does not say; but it stopped at a cottage. This cottage stood on chicken's legs and wobbled about. Ivan-the-King's-Son said -- 

"Cottage, cottage, stand as you used to stand -- still, as your mother placed you, back to the wood and front to me."

The cottage turned round, with its back to the wood and its front to him. Ivan-the-King's-Son went into the cottage, and there lay an old woman, all bony, with a nose which grew to the ceiling. She said to him in an angry voice: "Fie, fie, fie! Why have you come here, Ivan-the-King's-Son?"

"Oh, you old woman," he answered, "before asking me questions you should give me something to eat and to drink, and you should prepare me a hot steam bath; and then you can ask me questions."

The old woman gave him food and drink, and a steam bath, and then the King's son told her he was looking for his wife, the Wise Princess.

"My child," said the old woman, "it is a pity you did not come before. In the first years, after her flight, she remembered you, but now she has ceased thinking of you. Go at once to my second sister; she knows more than I do."

Ivan-the-King's-Son set out on his journey, and followed the ball. He walked and walked, and again there stood before him a cottage with chickens' legs.

"Cottage, cottage, stand still, as your mother placed you, with your back to the wood and your front to me."

The cottage turned round. Ivan-the-King's-Son went into it, and there stood an old woman with bony legs. She saw the Prince and she said: "Fie, fie! Ivan-the-King's Son, have you come here of your own accord or because you were obliged to?"

Ivan-the-King's-Son answered: "I have come here of my own accord, and also because I can't help it. I am looking for the Wise Princess."

"I am sorry for you, Ivan-the-King's-Son. You should have come before. The Wise Princess has quite forgotten you. She wants to marry another husband. At this moment she is living with my eldest sister. Go thither quickly, but remember one thing, that as soon as you have entered the cottage, the Wise Princess will turn into a spindle and my sister will begin to spin golden threads, and to turn her wheel. Mind that you lose no time in taking away the spindle from her and breaking it in two; throw half of it behind you and the other half in front of you. Then the Wise Princess will appear."

Ivan-the-King's-Son set out on his journey. He walked and walked, but whether the way was long, or whether it was short, whether it was near or far, the story doesn't say. He wore out three pairs of iron boots, and at last he reached a cottage with chickens' legs.

"Cottage, cottage, stand still, as your mother placed you, with your front to me, and your back to the wood."

The cottage turned round, the King's Son went into it, and there an old woman all bony was sitting and spinning gold. She took her spindle, shut it up in a cupboard, and locked the door with a key. But Ivan-the-King's-Son managed to snatch the key and to open the cupboard. He took the spindle and broke it in two pieces; he threw one piece behind him and one piece in front of him. At the same moment the Wise Princess appeared before him.

"Ah, Ivan-the-King's-Son, what a long time you have been coming! I had nearly married some one else." Then she took him by the hand, and they sat down on a magic carpet, and flew back to Ivan-the-King's-Son's house.

On the fourth day the carpet stopped at the royal palace. The King met his son with great joy and gave a large feast. When it was over, he appointed Ivan-the-King's-Son to be his heir.

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Nuova

Or

The New Bee

By

Vernon Kellogg



Chapter I

Nuova Appears


Nuova seemed to be gradually awakening. It would have seemed that way to any one who could have seen her just at this moment, and it seemed that way to Nuova herself. It was just as if one were in a comfortable, warm bed, and began to be conscious of a faint light outside and of soft voices and of other subdued sounds. The light and sounds grow stronger and louder, until, with a start, one is really awake, and sees that the light is the sunlight of a beautiful morning coming in at the curtained window, and recognizes the sounds to be those of the household already busy with a new day's work.

It was, indeed, an awakening for Nuova; but it was more. It was the beginning of a new life for her. Until now she had been in a sort of pollywog stage for a bee -- a stage in which she had no legs nor wings, and in which she could do nothing for herself at all, not even as much as a pollywog can -- and had lain all the time in a long, narrow, six-walled, waxen cell that was bed and room all in one. That is, we might say, she had always so far in her life been in bed.

For when she was born in her cell, she was just a tiny white thing, without wings or legs, blind, and quite helpless. Really about all she could do was to squirm a little in her horizontal cell, and keep opening her mouth when she was hungry to let somebody know she must be fed. She was immediately taken care of, however, by the nurse bees who kept near the nursery cells all the time except when they had to go to the pantry cells for more food for the babies. This food was flower nectar and pollen that had been brought into the hive by the active forager bees and stored in the pantry cells. The nurses made a sort of very good and nutritious jelly out of it which made Nuova grow very fast.

After she had been fed in this way for five days, she was many times larger than she had been at first. At the end of this time, however, the nurse bees did what might seem, at first thought, a rather heartless thing. They made a thin cap or cover of wax over the open mouth of Nuova's cell, thus shutting her up tight in her bedroom. She was so large that she almost filled her cell, but there was still a little room left, and this the nurses filled, just before putting the waxen cap on the cell, with pollen and nectar mixed. For a few days Nuova lay quietly in her dark, sealed-up cell, eating, when hungry, from the lump of pollen and nectar which lay by her side. And then she stopped eating and simply lay there in a sort of trance for several days more.

To Nuova herself all her life in the cell, from first day to last, must have seemed little more than a sort of dream; a confused dream of not being able to walk or fly, or see or hear, but only to squirm a little, and be hungry and then be fed, and to feel dimly strange growing pains from the rapidly growing legs and wings when they began to come, and of always being rather comfortably warm and sleepy.

But this sleeping time had come to an end now; this helpless pollywog stage was finished for Nuova. And the light she saw through the big eyes that had grown out on her head, during the last few days in the shut-up cell, was the faint but real light of a new day filtering its way through the crowded hive. And the sounds she heard by means of the many tiny little hearing organs on the long, delicate, sensitive feelers, or antennae, that had also grown out near her eyes and were connected by fine nerves with her brain, were the humming and murmuring of the thousands of industrious bees of the hive who were already at work at their various duties all around her.

Nuova's awaking, then, was much more than the mere waking-up after a night's sleeping. It was the waking from a life of doing nothing but lying in bed and sleeping and eating and growing, to a life of taking care of one's self and helping to take care of others; it was the waking from a baby life to real bee life. For Nuova was now a full-grown bee, with all the wonderful body and all the wonderful instincts and the high intelligence that we know bees to have. But she was still shut up in her nursery cell.

However, to escape from it was not difficult. She could see that the faint light came in strongest through the capped end of the cell. The waxen cap was the thinnest part of the walls of her room, and as Nuova's head was already lying close to the cap, it was a simple and easy matter for her to begin biting it away with her two strong, little, trowel-like teeth. In a few moments she had made a little hole in the cap, and the light and sounds came in suddenly much brighter and louder than before, although the light was really not bright at all nor the sounds loud, as we reckon such things. For the inside of a honeybee's house, the hive, is always pretty dark, and the sounds the bees make are not all loud, except occasionally when things are especially exciting and all the bees are buzzing together at once, or when a princess is about to come from her nursery cell and both she and the old queen do a lot of extraordinary trumpeting.

But to Nuova, biting her way out through the thin wax cap of her cell, having never heard nor seen anything at all through all of her baby life, things seemed very bright and noisy indeed. This, however, instead of frightening her, made her only the more anxious to get out and be a part of this exciting world around her, and so she worked away as fast as she could, until suddenly the hole was large enough for her to crawl out. This she did, feeling, we may imagine, rather strange at using her new legs for the first time, and finding her new wings all folded up and rather damp and heavy. But out she came and, with a long breath or two, she started to walk over the uneven surface of the waxen comb in which her nursery cell was situated. But after only a few steps she felt tired and limp. Indeed she was limp, for all the outer part of her body, that was later to be firm and strong, was still rather soft and damp and weak; her legs could not hold her up well yet, and her unexercised muscles needed a little practice to work together just right. So she soon stopped, trembling all over from her unwonted exertion, and let her big eyes gradually take in the strange sight about her.


Chapter II

Nuova's First Experiences


It was truly a remarkable sight. She found that she was part way up a vertical wall or comb of waxen cells, each of six sides and all lying horizontally in the wall. This wall of cells towered far above her even to the very roof of the hive, and below her it stretched away down to the floor. Facing it towered another similar wall of cells, and there was but little more space between the two than was needed for the free movement of the scores, aye, even hundreds of bees that were clambering about over the opposite faces of the walls.

In each wall some of the cells were open and some capped over. In the open ones were either baby bees lying on their stomachs with their heads near the opening of the cells, and their mouths opening and shutting in a most comical way, or there was some pollen or honey; or there was nothing at all. The cells with babies in them were those in the middle part of the wall, while around these were the food cells. Near the open nursery cells were many capped ones, and Nuova saw that some of these caps were being gnawed through from the inside. She knew what that meant; she had just been doing that herself. But also near the open and half-filled pollen and honey cells were other capped ones, and Nuova guessed, and quite rightly, that these were filled and sealed-up honey cells. The open pollen cells were pretty to look at because the pollen in them was of different colors, yellow, orange, red, etc., and they made a sort of uneven but attractive color-pattern on the face of the great vertical wall.

Nuova was a little dizzy at first, with looking up and down the towering wall, and she had to hang on tightly to keep from falling. But she soon grew accustomed to the great heights above and below her, and even began to feel quite at home in her peculiar situation. A pang of hunger came to her as she saw a bee walk up to an open honey cell and take a long drink. She started to walk toward the same cell, when she felt a tug at one of her wings, and heard an impatient voice, evidently addressing her.

"Here, wait a minute; we haven't got you clean yet; and your wings aren't half dry. Don't be in a hurry!"

Nuova was startled; remember, it was the first bee-talking, or any kind of talking, she had ever heard. Yet she understood it perfectly, and understood at once, too, just what was going on. For as she turned her head to see who was speaking, she saw that two nurse bees were most industriously cleaning her body all over, and unfolding and smoothing out her wings, so that they would dry rapidly, and dry all properly spread out. Sometimes young bees do not get their wings properly spread before they dry, and then their wings are crumpled up and useless all through their lives.

Nuova had, indeed, for some time rather vaguely felt this gentle cleaning and wing-spreading operation going on, but at first she had felt so dizzy and faint, and then when she felt better had become so intent on looking up and down the two great walls of wax, with their various cells and the many active bees moving about over them, that she had paid no attention to the gentle rubbing and pulling and stretching. Indeed, it was done so gently that unless she had started to walk away, or had accidentally looked around, she might not have known that it was going on at all. It was a performance much like that a just-born kitten goes through at the hands, or rather tongue, of its mother. The pollen and honey, put into her cell when it was capped, had, of course, rather soiled Nuova's body and much of her hair was stuck together by it. So like every young bee, just come from its nursery cell, she needed a good cleaning. And she was getting it.

Without thinking twice about it Nuova did a very surprising thing. Or rather it was not surprising for a bee to do, but it would have been if one of us, just born, as it were, and without any teaching or practice or chance of hearing any one else first, should do it. For we always call surprising, in bees or other creatures, what would be surprising in us, which is a rather silly way of judging things, but one we are all very much given to. As we think we are the most important kind of creatures on earth -- as certainly we are, to ourselves -- we think our ways of doing things are the usual or normal or even best ways, and all other ways "surprising." But we shall find, the more we learn about Nuova, that bees have their own manner of life and ways of doing things, and one of the most important many differences between their ways and our ways is that they know so many things right off without any learning or practice or imitating of others. They are born knowing how; they do not have to be taught.

For example, the surprising thing that Nuova did right away, without thinking twice about it, was to begin talking to the two nurse bees who were cleaning her. What Nuova said, and what was said to her in return, is of no particular interest to us. It was simply commonplace talk, for Nuova's coming out of her cell, her first dizziness, the high walls of cells, the many bees moving about, the spreading-out of Nuova's wings and cleaning her body, and even Nuova's ability to understand things about her and to begin talking right away -- all these were taken for granted in the hive as the most usual things in the world, which therefore needed no special exclaiming or talking about. In fact Nuova felt already that, as soon as she was properly clean and dry, she must join the other active bees, who were all busy with the different kinds of work they were doing, and begin work herself. And she felt that she knew just what this first work for her should be. It should be the work of a nurse. And the nurse bees cleaning her seemed to take this for granted too. For one of them soon said:

"I think you had better begin on the other side of the comb; there are enough of us on this side already."

Nuova looked up and down the great comb and then to right and left. The nurse noted this, and added:

"You can get around by going either to the top or the bottom, or to either end."

Nuova thanked her, and decided to crawl down to the bottom, for she could see, far down there, a number of bees moving about industriously cleaning the floor and some others that stood still, apparently on their heads, and kept their wings buzzing like mad. She was not quite sure what this performance meant; and the floor-cleaning, too, seemed a little curious. The fact is that, although bees do seem to know right off about things, they know these things one at a time, as it were; that is, when it is time for them to do a thing, they know pretty well, without any telling, how to do it, but they do not seem to know about other things at the same time. They seem to know things only as the time comes for each special thing to be done. Nuova seemed to know that she should begin working as a nurse, and to know how to do the work, for as soon as she started she did just about as well as any of the nurses, but floor-cleaning, and standing on one's head and fanning one's wings like mad, were not things she knew about yet.

She worked her way carefully down to the bottom of the comb and found herself in a very busy place indeed. There was a free place under this comb and under the one opposite to it as well. When she looked under the comb which she had just walked down, she saw a great, low-ceilinged place stretching away in all directions, rather dim and getting darker the farther away it extended, except in one direction. In this direction, however, it was lighter, and the farther the distance the lighter it was. From this lightest part many bees were hurrying toward her with great loads of vari-colored pollen in their pollen baskets, or with their honey sacs filled to overflowing with fresh nectar. They hurried on, paying no attention to any one, and disappeared one by one by climbing up and out of sight, except the few that climbed up the face of either of the combs that towered just over her. These bees she could still watch, and she could see that they carried their loads far up to the open food cells into which they emptied the food they had brought. Also she saw other bees, without loads, hurrying along the floor toward the light, and she had a wonderful thrill as she saw them, and something within her urged her to run with them toward the distant light; something inside her that sang of sunshine, blue sky, green grass and bushes, and many-hued fragrant flowers. But something else, even stronger, within her, told her not to go; that her work awaited her close at hand; that she must nurse bee-babies here in the dimly lighted hive.

So she turned away from the alluring light with only a glance at the floor-cleaners and the silly bees on their heads with their wings going like mad. So strong within her had grown the feeling that there was just one thing for her now, that she walked under the broad, lower edge of the comb from whose high wall she had descended and came into the bottom of another high space between two other towering walls of waxen cells.


Chapter III

Nuova as Nurse


When Nuova had come into this new high space, she looked up and realized that one of its side walls was simply the other side of the comb in which her nursery cell had been, while the other was that of another comb opposite it, just as she had seen that there was another comb opposite its other side. Nuova, seeing this, easily understood that probably this was the arrangement all through the hive, and that the broad and long, low, free space running through the whole hive just above the floor was a space just underneath the lower edges of many great vertical combs standing side by side. Which, of course, was true.

Right away, however, Nuova saw that one of the walls above her was incomplete; it did not reach, along its whole length, from the ceiling clear to the floor, but at one end, the end toward the lighter end of the hive, it came down but a little way from the ceiling. Clinging to this unfinished part of the wall was a great mass of bees, the upper ones hanging to the free edge of the wall, but the ones below clinging to them and to each other, thus forming a festoon or curtain of bees hanging down from the lower edge of the incomplete wall. Many bees in this living curtain were buzzing their wings violently, while others were quiet, with thin sheets or plates of some shining, silver-yellowish substance forming on the under side of their bodies.

Beneath the lower edge of the bee-curtain there was a broad, free space beyond which the vertical wall of another more distant comb appeared. On the floor in this open space were gathered many bees, most of which appeared to be picking up little pieces of the shining, silver-yellowish substance that had broken off from the bees in the festoon above, and fallen to the floor.

As this open space was lighter than the space she had come from, Nuova could see everything quite clearly here, and the activity of all the bees and their concentration on whatever they were doing impressed her very much. No one so much as spoke to her; no one spoke to any one else; but every one worked away for dear life. It made her feel that she must get at her own work just as soon as possible.

She glanced up the part of the wall that was all finished, and saw toward its middle a group of nurse bees, and a lot of open and capped nursery cells. She could even see, sticking out of some of the open ones, the comical heads of the babies, each with its mouth regularly opening and shutting. And then she heard a song, a gentle lullaby sort of song. It was the nurse bees singing as they worked. This is the song they sang:

We watch beside the cradles When the bee-babies sleep; We guard the shining pantries Where the bee-milk we keep.

And when the countless tiny Bee-mouths open wide, We rush with drink and bee-bread And drop them inside.

Our bread's the daintiest morsel A wee babe could eat; We knead it of soft pollen And flower nectar sweet.

When ends our busy bee-day The nurseries we right, Then wash our countless bee-mites And tuck them in tight.

Just try to feed our family, And swiftly you'll see That never were there nurses So busy as we.

So she started to climb up to them. Just as she had gone a little way up, however, her attention was called to a very active and apparently excited group of bees crowding about a very different sort of cell from the ones that made up all the rest of the comb. This was five or six times as large as any of the others, and not six-sided, but shaped something like a pear with its small end down. It did not lie horizontal in the comb, but vertical, or nearly so, and had a rough, thick wall, and was open at its smaller, lower end. Nuova could not see what was in it, for she was already as high or higher than it was, as it was near the lower edge of the comb, its lower end, indeed, being but a little way above the floor.

As she hesitated a moment, attracted by the sight of the strange cell and the many excited bees about it, most of whom were nurses, she heard a bee, hurrying away from the cell, say to another hurrying toward it:

"How fast the princess is growing!"

This did not enlighten Nuova much, but the feeling inside of her was now so strong that she must begin work at once that she hurried on up to the nursery cells lying a little way above the curious large cell without trying to find out anything about it. Which shows again, of course, how different bees are from us.

When Nuova got to the nursery cells with their hungry babies she went right to work. She seemed to know just what to do; to go to the pollen and honey cells and drink honey and eat pollen and swallow them, but not too far, and then wait a few minutes, and then give this food up again, all properly mixed, through her mouth right into the open mouths of the hungry babies. And she knew just what babies were ready to have their cells capped with wax -- with a nice little lump of food stored inside first, of course -- and how to call some bee with a pellet of wax in its mouth to do the capping. She understood at once that the shining, silver-yellowish plates on the bodies of the bees in the festoon at the end of the comb were wax, and that the pieces being picked up by other bees from the floor underneath the festoon were to be used for capping cells, and for making new cells where the vertical wall of comb was still incomplete.

All these things, and whatever other new ones came up in the next few days in connection with taking care of the babies, she seemed to understand right away, and indeed she seemed to know how to do all her work without having to reason about it, or to observe and draw conclusions; in fact, without even once really having to think about it at all. And because it was all so simple, and so easy to understand, an extraordinary thing came to pass with Nuova; that is, an extraordinary thing for a bee. The thing was that Nuova got tired of her work!

Yes, she got tired of it; tired physically, which is not perhaps so extraordinary, for bees sometimes fall dead from being over-tired physically; but she also got tired and impatient of the simplicity and monotony of what she was doing. She got, I suppose we may fairly say, mentally and spiritually tired of it. Which happening marks Nuova as a bee of a strange and rare kind: a bee that is -- is -- well, all I can say is, a bee that is different. Other bees, if they had known of it, would have called her a "funny" bee, or a "peculiar" bee; or perhaps something worse. Indeed, this something worse is just what she was soon called. For Nuova, after a few days of this steady care of babies, one hot afternoon -- the hive was so set in the garden that it was quite exposed to the sun -- Nuova, I say, one hot afternoon stopped working, and crawled slowly down past the great pear-shaped cell clear to the lower edge of the comb and there she sat and simply did nothing!

Pretty soon Uno, one of the nurse bees in Nuova's group, who had already shown herself to have a rather spiteful nature, noticed that Nuova was not working, was not, indeed, to be seen anywhere about the nurse cells. So she touched another nurse bee near her, named Due, with her antennae so as to call her attention, and said in a low voice: "Where is Nuova?"

Due looked around, and not seeing Nuova, said: "Why, where is she?" Then both bees touched a third nurse bee, named Tre, with their antennae. She turned around and joined them.

"What's the matter?" she said. Then looking at the group of nurses, she added: "Where is Nuova?"

"That's it," said Uno and Due together. "Where is Nuova? She isn't here -- she has stopped working."

"Exactly," said Tre. "I thought she would come to that -- I've been noticing her lately. She doesn't seem to like to work."

"Whoever heard of such a bee!" exclaimed Uno and Due together.

"Let us find her," said Tre.

So all three started to move around over the comb looking for Nuova. They made wider and wider journeys from the nursery cells, until Uno, who had got down almost to the very bottom of the comb and was quite close to Nuova but had not yet seen her, heard a low voice murmuring, "I am so tired."

Uno turned quickly and saw Nuova. She was sitting with her head hanging down on her breast, and she looked very tired and dejected. But that aroused no sympathy in Uno, who, together with Due and Tre, had taken a strong dislike to Nuova, feeling in her, some way, a rather different, even a rather superior sort of bee. Nuova was so unusually pretty, for one thing. And she had such a lively interest in everything around her. Uno, Due, and Tre, who were bees almost exactly like each other, and like most other bees, felt an instinctive malice toward her, probably based on a certain envy which they did not, however, even admit to themselves.

Uno quickly called Due and Tre, and the three stared malevolently at Nuova for a moment and then said together, speaking loudly so that the other bees near by could hear: "Well, what a bee! To stop work! Just think of it!"

Then Uno leaned over her and called to her: "Lazy!"

And Due stepped up to her and said: "Loafer!"

And Tre came up on the other side of her and hissed: "Shirk!"

Then all three, lifting their wings to strike poor Nuova, who had sat very still through all this, shrinking from the vicious bees, called out: "We'll teach her!" And then they began to strike her all over with their strong wings.

It was going pretty badly with Nuova, when an old floor-cleaner named Saggia stepping up to the group shouldered off the three angry nurse bees. Saggia had noticed at other times that Nuova went rather slowly back and forth between the nursery cells and the food cells, but she had a good heart and thought it was because Nuova was sick, perhaps, for bees often get ill just as we do. She spoke to Nuova rather sharply, but still in a kindly way.

"Nuova! what are you doing here? You mustn't stop."

"But I am so tired," replied poor Nuova. "Thank you for driving them away," she added.

"Tired, nonsense," said Saggia. "That's nothing. Of course you are tired. We all are. But what difference does that make? Go back to the babies, and keep on with your work."

"That is what they all say," cried Nuova, bitterly and half angrily. "Here am I a full week out of my nursery cell, and I haven't had a bit of rest or fun yet. It is time I began to have some. Doesn't any one ever rest or have a good time?"

Saggia was painfully surprised to hear Nuova talk in this manner. She began to fear that Nuova's tiredness was not just physical tiredness. She answered her therefore in a strongly reproving manner. "Of course nobody rests, and of course every one has a good time. Look at them all," and she waved an antenna toward the workers at the nursery cells, "don't you see what a good time they are having? It is having a good time to be always working; always working for each other and for our children."

"But they aren't our children," Nuova broke in, "yours and mine, that is, nor anybody's but the Queen's children. She is the mother of them all. And she keeps on having more. And we have to take care of them all, and all the time."

"They are our children," Saggia interrupted, speaking very positively and still more reprovingly. "They are the children of the community; the children of the race. It is our race we are working for; the children of the race. Think of it!"

Nuova made a little face. "Well, I am tired of the race and the race's children," she said. "I want some children of my own."

Old Saggia was dreadfully shocked by this. And she was terrified on Nuova's account for fear some other bees might have heard her. It was, indeed, about as rebellious a thing as a bee can say.

"Hush, child," said Saggia in a whisper. "You mustn't say such things. You mustn't even think them. Other bees don't. And you must hurry back to your work before the others miss you." She helped Nuova up, and urged her to begin climbing back up to the nurse cells. "If you are tired of taking care of the babies you can do something else next week. You will be old enough then to make wax and build cells or help clean the hive. And then in another week you can go out and gather pollen and nectar from the flowers. But go back now to the babies; the other nurses are looking for you." She urged Nuova along again, and this time Nuova started up, but she went very reluctantly and slowly.

"No," she said, "they pay no attention to me. Nobody but you pays any attention to me, except when I stop working. They never notice me when I am hard at work."

"Why, of course not," replied Saggia gently. "Why should you be noticed then? That is what we all do all the time; just keep everlastingly at it. That is what makes the bees such a great people. There is something wrong about a bee that doesn't want to work all the time; you mustn't be different from the others. I am afraid you are sick."

All the time she was saying this Saggia was urging Nuova along up the comb toward the nursery cells, and now they had quite reached the group of nurses. As Uno, Due, and Tre saw Nuova again they closed in around her so as to strike or pinch her. But Saggia kept them off. And Nuova slipped into her place again in front of a hungry baby.


Chapter IV

Nuova sees Some Other Things Done


Just as Nuova took her place again, however, she heard in the distance a joyful singing. It came from the lightest place in the hive, and looking in this direction Nuova saw a whole group of nectar gatherers coming along together, half-dancing and turning about, and all singing together in the happiest way possible. This is what they sang:

Take a peep into the pail, Nectar to the brim, Carried over down and dale Till the ways were dim.

On a dawn-ray forth we sped, A thousand wings in tune, By a new-born wind were led Down the paths of June.

Silvery world of buzz and whirr, Fragrance on the wing, Sod and root and blade astir, Sped our garnering.

Long in Nature's honey-room We dipped and drank at will; Brushed the purple lilac plume, Sipped from thyme and dill.

Till when evening softly bore Over dune and dell, Hastened we with golden store Home to Queen and cell.

And then she heard another song, and saw a group of pollen gatherers following the nectar gatherers. And this is what they sang:

Here's saffron dust and crimson dust, And dust of rarest blue; In lavish Nature's pollen mines Each mines his favorite hue.

Some buzzed and burrowed all the morn Within a clover hold, Till fuzzy backs were powdered fine And thigh-bags bulged with gold.

And some delved deep in lily cups, Or hung from blossomy bells --  The story of their mazy flight The rainbow treasure tells.

There's pollen sweet for roof and wall, And more for soft bee-bread; For all, from wondrous Mother-Queen To bee-mite, must be fed.

Here's palest pink and lilac dust, And green and brown and blue; In lavish Nature's pollen fields Each finds his favorite hue.

They liked their work, these foragers, that was sure, and Nuova felt that she would like that kind of work too. Just then Mela, one of the pollen gatherers, climbing up the comb where Nuova was, with her pollen baskets filled by two great masses of golden yellow pollen, stopped for a moment for breath. Nuova stretched her antenna toward Mela and touched her, attracting her attention.

"Oh, Mela, tell me about it," she said to her eagerly. "Do you hear the birds sing and see the butterflies dance out there? Mela, take me with you when you go back."

Mela was very much astonished to hear a pretty young nurse bee talk to her this way, and she looked first sharply and then rather contemptuously at Nuova.

"You upstart young thing," she said, "take you out with us? Well, I rather think not until you have finished your nursing work. And you are loafing now! Well, you will do your work better in the hive or you can never go out at all, that's sure."

And Uno, Due, and Tre, who had overheard this conversation, buzzed at her one after another: "Lazy! Loafer! Shirk!" and they tried to strike her once more, but Saggia, who had not yet gone down to the floor, again kept them off and whispered rapidly to Nuova:

"Yes, you shall go out some time. But you must be a good bee and do your work in the hive first, nurse the babies, then help make wax and build cells. So go on with your work now. Hurry, the soldiers are coming, and they have their stings all ready for loafing bees as well as for wasps and black bees that come to rob us. Hurry, hurry!"

Saggia pushed Nuova back into her place, and Uno, Due, and Tre also hurried to their own places as the marching song of the Amazons was heard. Into the hive and down the long aisles between the great vertical walls of comb they came marching rapidly and brandishing their long, sharp lances all ready for use. This was their song:

Now fierce black bee and yellow wasp With cunning seek to rush the hive; Up warriors, aim the poisoned dart, Let no bold hornet pass alive!

Defenders of the golden stores, Swoop down upon the robber band, No foe escapes the Amazon spears, For Hive and Queen we make our stand!

As they finished their song the files of the Amazons broke up and the soldiers scattered themselves through the hive, although most of them kept in the lighter part near the entrance.

In the special quiet that followed the cessation of the song Nuova heard a voice calling loudly from a group of bees near the wax-making festoon at the unfinished end of the comb. This group was busily engaged in moulding new cells, using the wax which was being made by the bees in the living festoon.

"Look here," called the voice, which was that of Cera, chief of the cell-builders and wax-makers, "we must have more wax-makers." She waved an antenna toward the festoon. "They can't furnish us wax fast enough. Some of you older nurses come here."

Nuova who had stopped working and stepped a little out from the group of nurses at Cera's first words, now started quickly to go over to her. Uno, Due, and Tre all called angrily to her and tried to stop her but Nuova easily evaded them and hurried over, with several other nurses following, to Cera.

"Let me make wax," she said eagerly to Cera.

Cera looked at her, then away and to the others. "You! No, you are too young," she said. Then more loudly to the others: "More wax-makers, I say, and right away."

But Nuova insisted. "Take me," she urged. "Teach me to make wax."

Cera stared at her. "What a funny bee! Teach you! That shows you are not old enough. If you were you would know without any teaching. Bees don't have to be taught. They simply know how to do everything they need to when the right time comes for doing it. And if they don't know it is because the right time hasn't come."

But Nuova still stood squarely in front of her. Cera stared at her more and more surprised and more and more angry. "Here," she said finally, and very roughly, "keep out of the way. Go back to your babies."

Nuova fluttered her wings angrily and her sensitive antennae trembled. "I won't," she said. "I won't be nurse any more; I'll make wax or go out for pollen. Yes, I'll go out into the garden."

Then she actually started to run toward the hive entrance, but was promptly stopped by Saggia, who had noticed her altercation with Cera and had hurried over.

Cera who had only half heard Nuova's angry outburst was nevertheless greatly astonished, and was about to make an indignant reply and to call the attention of the other bees to the audacious little rebel, but the candidates to make wax crowded about her so closely and chattered so distractingly to her that all thought of Nuova was, fortunately, immediately driven out of her mind.

In the meantime Nuova was tugging away from Saggia, and had even dragged her a little along toward the entrance. But Saggia held fast to one wing, and at the same time talked to her rapidly.

"Nuova, stop!" she said in a low voice, at the same time glancing back to see if the crowd around Cera was noticing them. "You mustn't say such things. Bees never do. Listen, you can make wax. Listen to me, I'll tell you what to do."

Nuova stopped tugging at the poor old bee, who was getting rather breathless and could hardly go on with her speaking. What she had last said, however, made Nuova want to hear more.

So as Nuova stopped pulling away Saggia went on talking. "The first thing the wax-makers do is to go to the pantry cells and eat all the honey and pollen they can. Then they all crowd together in close rows like that," pointing to the festoon of wax-makers, "so as to get very warm, and pretty soon the wax begins to come. It comes out in little drops on your wax-plates" -- touching one of the ten curious little five-sided plates on the under side of Nuova's body -- "and hardens right away into a thin sheet of wax on each one of the plates. Now all you have to do is to keep quiet and just mix with the others when they go to the food cells to eat and drink. Say nothing to any one, and nobody will pay any attention to you, not even Cera, as long as you are busy. There, see, they are going," she added, as the group around Cera began to break up, some of the bees going back to the babies while others, who had been accepted by Cera, moved to the open food cells and began eating pollen greedily and taking long drinks of honey.

"Slip over among them," said Saggia in a whisper, "and stuff yourself. Then go when they do to the festoon and hang on to it."

Nuova was so eager to try this new experience that she hardly paused to thank Saggia, although she did let a grateful smile flit over her pretty fresh face as she hurried away.

Just as she reached the food cells she heard a gentle, rather monotonous singing, and glancing in the direction of the group of cell-builders and wax-makers from which it came she saw that under the direction of Cera who had already rejoined her workers, the cell-builders were going through a sort of dance or rhythmic gymnastics, moving their bodies and waving their wings and legs in a sort of exaggerated imitation of moulding and building, and that the wax-makers in the festoon were buzzing their wings to make their bodies warmer and swinging back and forth, and that all of them together were singing a pretty song about their work. This is the song they sang:

Cling close in living curtain, One thousand swing as one, Now ooze the amber jellies --  The work has just begun.

Haste, mould the dainty wax flakes And ply the trowels swift; Pat, pat -- the floors spread wider; Tap, tap -- the light walls lift.

Through all the long hive-twilight, The patterned cell draw true; --  Tap, tap, with tiny trowel, We've neither nail nor screw.

Ten thousand honey pantries And rooms for pollen store; --  Build high the whole bee-city, And still there's need of more.

As the song and motion dance ceased, Cera called loudly again. This time she wanted cleaners to come. "Here," she cried. "Cleaners! Let a cleaner come. We are getting too much dust on the floor. Cleaners! Cleaners!"

But no one came. Cera, looking impatiently about, saw Nuova glancing up from the food cell over which she was standing, and motioned to her. "Here, you," she said, without seeming to remember that it was with Nuova that she had just had a dispute, "you don't seem to be doing much. You run down to those cleaners," pointing to several cleaners on the floor near the great pear-shaped cell, "and tell one to come here right away. Look lively, now."

Nuova, who seemed always ready for a new thing, gladly ran down the comb to the floor and danced happily across it to a bee that was busily cleaning and touched her with her antennae. As the cleaner looked up Nuova said: "Cera wants you; they are making too much dust over there."

The cleaner straightened up a little and without a word shuffled slowly across to a place just under the festoon and began to clean the floor there. Nuova started to follow her, rather dawdling along, for the prospect of hanging motionless in a wax-making festoon was not especially attractive to her, when she was startled by the falling at her feet of a lump of something soft and sticky-looking. She looked up and saw far up on the vertical wall of the comb rising above her a bee peering down at her and the lump. This bee was indeed right up by the roof of the hive. As the bee saw Nuova look up she called to her loudly and rather gruffly, "I say, pretty young bee, bring me up that lump of propolis, won't you?"

Nuova picked up the soft brownish ball in her mouth and climbed quickly up to the top of the comb with it. As she offered it to the waiting bee on the ceiling, she found it sticking to her teeth in a very uncomfortable way.

"Oh, the sticky stuff," she said in disgust, "and how it tastes and smells!"

The bee to whom she was awkwardly trying to give it, whose name was Fessa, and who was a crack-filler, replied disgustedly and wonderingly: "Oh, the stupid bee. And it smells like what it is. And that's propolis. And when you've worked with it day and night for a week, as you will sometime, you will learn how to handle it, and not be sickened by its smell. It has really a good healthy smell, for it comes from beautiful great pine trees and balsam firs."

"Oh," cried Nuova, "from outdoors? From the garden where the flowers and butterflies are? Shan't I go out and get you some?" And she turned as if to start right away.

Fessa was much astonished, and as she was an irritable bee, she was angry too. "What?" she cried. "Well, you really are a stupid bee. Go out? You -- you silly young thing. Don't you know you can't go out until it is time for you to go? And then you'll have to go whether you want to or not. Don't you know that bees do things according to custom? You don't do what you like: you like what you do. That's the bee way, you stupid. What kind of bee are you, anyway? Here now, hand over that stuff, and go back to your work." And Fessa took the last of the propolis from her very roughly.

Nuova, who did not like to be handled so roughly, and talked to so sharply, was almost in tears. She seemed to be always getting reproved. However, she said rather maliciously to Fessa: "Well, do you like to work with that sticky stuff? What do you do with it, anyway?"

But Fessa had already turned back to her work and paid no attention to her. In fact she had already begun, with her two or three other crack-filling companions, to sing a slow, "sticky" sort of song, as they kept stuffing propolis into a crack in the roof. Although I cannot give you the strange, monotonous melody of the song, I can give you the words. They were these:

We're the soft putty crew, Dripping the oozy glue, Squeezing our resins through Cranny and crack.

Stuffing with pure cement Crevice and chink and rent, Where creeping airs have sent Warning of Bee Moth bent On sly attack.

Yes, we are the safety crew, Spreading with trowel true Fragrant and golden glue, Gumming each crack.


Chapter V

Nuova sees Bee Moth and gets acquainted with Beffa


As the crack-fillers kept on singing their monotonous song over and over while they worked, and as they paid no attention whatever to Nuova, she turned away after a few minutes of listening to them, and stared around her.

It was the first time she had been clear up to the roof of the hive and she saw that here, as at the bottom, there was a low, free space for the whole length and breadth of the hive. It was rather dark up here, and very warm and stuffy, for the warm air rising from the body of the hive could not escape, as the propolis workers had filled all of the crevices and cracks in the roof and where the great flat roof-board rested on the vertical sides of the hive.

Nuova felt glad she was not a crack-filler, and turned to go down to the wax-making group where she belonged, when she saw a curious, dusky-gray creature, not a bee, although with big eyes and long antennae and wings, which are all things that bees have also. But this creature's body was much slenderer than a bee's, its antennae very much longer and slenderer, and its wings not only longer, but covered over, as was the body, with myriads of small scales and hairs. These wings were so folded that they covered all the back and most of the sides of the body and trailed out beyond the tip of the body. The creature was walking rapidly and nervously along the broad, upper edge of the comb on which Nuova stood, and seemed to be quite at home in the dim light of this space just under the roof.

Nuova stared at the creature a moment, and then began to approach her. But the creature had stepped quickly over the edge and was now running rapidly down the face of the comb. In this lighter place Nuova could see that she was engaged in hiding every here and there small, white eggs that she seemed to carry somewhere in her body. She would dart nervously in one direction and then another, hesitating a moment after each swift movement long enough to drop an egg in an open cell or squeeze it into a crack in the comb.

Nuova, not being able to catch up with the creature, called loudly to her a couple of times. "Who are you? What are you doing?" she cried; but the creature did not reply, but only worked at her egg-hiding the more rapidly. Nuova called to her again, this time so loudly that the attention of several bees in the group of nurses was attracted.

The minute they saw the creature, they set up a great shouting and began racing after her.

"Bee Moth! Bee Moth! After her!" they cried. "Call the soldiers! Amazons! here! here!"

Nuova was amazed at the uproar, and then she was shocked to see how the Amazons and all the bees in fact dashed at the poor Bee Moth and began to tear her literally to pieces. First her long antennae and then her wings were torn off and brandished in the air victoriously, and then her delicate body was stung and hacked into bits, and the fragments tossed down to the floor to be picked up and thrown out of the hive by the cleaners. And during all this violent scene, which horrified Nuova because, strange as it may seem, she really did not understand the reason for it, all the bees kept up the most excited buzzing and exclaiming.

"The villain!" they cried; "when did she get in? Has she laid any eggs? How did she get in? Who saw her first? Where did she lay her eggs?"

Some began now to peer about for the eggs, while others continued to talk and gesticulate.

Uno, who had been standing silent for a moment as if in thought, suddenly spoke up loudly, while she looked significantly at Nuova.

"Nuova saw her first," she said; "she called to us."

At that several of the bees turned to Nuova.

"Nuova, Nuova, saw her first!" they cried. "Did she lay any eggs? Why didn't you call us sooner? Did she lay any eggs, we say?"

"Why, yes," Nuova answered innocently, "a good many; all the way from up there" -- indicating the top of the comb -- "clear down to -- to -- " and Nuova shuddered so she could not finish.

With this the bees burst out into a new, violent excitement, and they seemed to be very angry with poor Nuova. "Bee Moth laid a lot of eggs!" they shouted. "Nuova saw her! Nuova let her! The stupid one! The faithless one! Kill her! Kill her!" And they crowded around Nuova in a most threatening manner, some trying to strike her, and two or three Amazons trying to reach her with their lances. Nuova thought her fate was to be that of Bee Moth's, and it really seemed so for a moment. And then Saggia was heard calling loudly.

"A crack! There must be a crack! She must have come in through a crack! She couldn't have come in past the guards at the door."

This distracted the attention of the bees from Nuova, for at once they all turned toward Saggia and began shouting all together: "A crack! There's a crack somewhere! Why haven't the crack-fillers found it?"

Then they all began to crowd toward and clamor at the propolis-workers, who, up on their scaffolding, scowled down on the mob, seemingly unafraid and unexcited.

"Well," said Fessa roughly, "find the crack and we'll fill it. That's all we've got to say. Find the crack."

"Yes, that's right," spoke up Saggia loudly. "Some of us hunt for the crack, and some hunt for the eggs and break them or throw them out. Every one that isn't found and hatches in the hive means danger for us. Find them all."

At this the bees all began hunting about for the crack and the eggs. Every now and then an egg would be found and with a loud shout it would be seized and thrown down to the floor of the hive. Nuova, disheveled and still trembling from the fright caused by the attack of the bees on her, crept down to the floor at the side of the hive just under the wax-makers, who had paid no attention to all the hubbub. From here she was looking on at the search for the eggs with astonishment, when Saggia, who had been looking anxiously about for her, saw her and came over close to her.

"Go up and get back into your place in the wax-curtain, and they'll forget all about you," she whispered. "But why didn't you shout out about the Bee Moth when you first saw her?"

"But why should I?" answered Nuova blankly and rather bitterly. "She was such a pretty and such an interesting creature."

Saggia raised her antennae in astonishment and despair. "Nuova, you are a funny bee. You are so different. What is the matter with you anyway? Don't you know -- but, of course, for some extraordinary reason you don't -- that your 'pretty and interesting creature' is one of the most dangerous enemies we have? From any of her eggs that we don't find and break, there will hatch a horrible little grub that will keep hidden in the cracks or dark places in the hive, feeding on the wax of the cells and on the pollen and honey, too, and spinning wherever it goes a terrible, sticky, silken web that catches our feet and wings and interferes with our getting around easily. And if there are enough of the Bee Moth's grubs they spin so much web that finally we can't carry on our work in the hive at all, and all our babies starve and the Queen starves, and the whole community goes to ruin. 'Pretty and interesting,' indeed; she is sneaky and despicable, that's what she is. And if you ever see another, rush for her at once and call everybody. Being pretty doesn't necessarily mean being good."

"Yes; but, Saggia," said Nuova slowly, "if her grubs have to have wax and pollen and honey for food, and if there is nobody but Bee Moth to get them for them, and she can't, of course, doesn't she rather have to lay her eggs in a bee-hive where, when her grubby babies hatch out, there will be enough food for them? And don't they have to spin the web to keep us bees from killing them as soon as we see them?"

Saggia stared at her; and then, strange as it may seem, even this old bee began to understand a little that Nuova's mind was a bit different from that of the other bees in the hive, and that she had a heart that could be hurt even by the killing of a dangerous enemy of the hive. However, Saggia contented herself with repeating, "Well, you are a funny bee!" and then she urged Nuova again to start up the comb to the group of wax-makers, and went back to see how the search for Bee Moth's eggs was getting on.

Just as Nuova was about to begin climbing up, she heard a strong, buzzing sound near her and found that she was almost stumbling over a bee that was standing in a most odd position, with its head down and almost touching the floor, and its body lifted up at an angle of forty or fifty degrees, and all of its wings going like mad, although it was not, of course, beating its wings to fly, for it remained constantly in the same position. There were two or three other bees near this one doing the same thing, and farther away, nearer the hive entrance, were two or three more.

The wing-buzzing bee nearest Nuova, whose name was Aria, seemed to be quite vexed with Nuova, for she said to her sharply: "Look out where you are going, you stupid! Are you blind and deaf?"

Nuova was startled, and rather frightened, too, by the sharp speech, but her curiosity was even stronger than her fear. "Good gracious!" she said; "what are you doing?"

"What matter to you what I am doing?" said Aria, in a thick, "buzzy" voice. "I am doing my work -- which is more than you seem to be doing. Aren't you bee enough yet to know that each of us has her own appointed work and does it without worrying about what others are doing? If we all do our work, then the whole community gets on all right. So if you will look out for your work, I'll look out for mine."

Here Aria buzzed more energetically than ever for a moment without saying anything. Then she began speaking again, "Still if you have to be told, you pretty little stupid bee, I'll tell you that I and my companions are ventilating the hive, and if we should stop to loaf and moon about like you, you and all the rest of us would suffocate, that's what you'd do." And she stopped talking. But in a moment she began to sing a curious little song which was partly made up of just buzzing and humming, and partly of words. These were the words of her song, in which all the other ventilating bees joined:

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz; Back and forth, back and forth, Fanning and stirring and driving and churning; Old air we're forcing forth, new air's returning. On our heads all the day; This is the only way We can keep sweet the hive And our dear bees alive.

Whirr, whirr, whirr, whirr; Roundabout, roundabout, Living fans ceaselessly driving and churning; Foul air we're forcing forth, fresh air's returning. Upside down all the day; Beating our wings away; So we keep sweet the hive And our dear bees alive.

While the ventilating bees were singing and Nuova stood idly watching and listening to them, a small, old drone bee with crumpled-up, that is, deformed wings, came, half walking and half comically hopping, down the long aisle between the vertical combs from the back and darker part of the hive. He was humming a song to himself as he came along. Beffa was the name of the deformed bee, and he was the jester of the hive, as could be guessed by his hopping way of walking, and by the words of his song.

When Nuova heard Beffa singing, she turned toward him, but did not interrupt him. She was ever so much interested in his appearance, and by his sort of hopping dance which he kept up all the time he was singing, and by the song itself, which told her something about him, but not enough. As he stopped singing, Nuova spoke, speaking to herself at first, and then to him.

"Oh, what a funny bee," she said. "You are a bee, aren't you?"

Beffa stared at her a moment, then made her a deep, mocking bow and gave a hop or two. "Yes, pretty one, which is, of course, to say, stupid one, I be a bee -- just as you be, only not just so, for I be doing my work, which I don't see that you be." Then he hopped comically about, humming to himself the refrain of his song.

No one, however, paid any attention to him except Nuova, who exclaimed rather petulantly: "Oh, work, work, work; always that word!"

"Yes," said Beffa, mockingly bowing and hopping about her, "but not always that work"; imitating grotesquely for a moment Nuova's idle attitude.

"Do you call that hopping and singing work?" indignantly exclaimed Nuova. "Why don't you go and nurse babies?"

Beffa, who was again at his hopping and humming, stopped a moment to stare at her in surprise; then replied, in a sing-song: "I can't, oh, I can't nurse babies."

"Then make wax," said Nuova.

"I can't, oh, I can't make wax," hummed Beffa.

"Then build a comb, or fill cracks, or clean the floor, or" -- and she pointed to the ventilating bees near them -- "ventilate," persisted Nuova.

"I can't," sang again Beffa, "oh, I can't build cells, or fill cracks, or scrub floors, or -- " and he broke off suddenly with a sort of catch in his voice.

But Nuova blindly persisted. "Well, then, why don't you go out and gather pollen and bring nectar; out into the sunshine, out into the garden."

The poor, deformed bee, now angry, indeed, began jumping up and down violently right in front of Nuova, and then suddenly whirled around, bringing his back and crumpled wings fairly in her face. "Oh, silly little pretty, pretty little silly!" he cried; "which is to say, blind one, stupid one, heartless one, would I like to go out, out into the warm sunshine, out into the fragrant garden! Would I like to go! Blind, stupid, brutal one!"

When Nuova saw the poor, crumpled-up, useless wings, she suddenly understood, and she felt like striking herself in the face as she realized all the stupid, brutal things she had said. "Oh, you poor, poor bee!" she cried as she touched Beffa caressingly again and again with her antennae. "I didn't see; I didn't understand; I am so sorry! Won't you forgive me? Please?"

Beffa, though partly appeased, was still half angry, and still spoke bitterly. "Oh, you do understand now! You do understand why I hop and sing; why I dance for the Queen; and why I do anything I can do when I can't do other things; can't do what a drone ought to do, fly wide and high in the Great Courting Chase after the Princess. I am glad you understand now. But hush, listen!" He whirled around, facing toward the great pear-shaped cell in the lower center of the comb. "Hark! Principessa, the new Princess, calls. Hark!"

Beffa and Nuova stood silent and expectant, facing toward the Princess's cell as did all the other bees. There was a tense excitement everywhere. Nuova felt that something very important was happening. And then came a strange sound, first faint and low, then louder and shriller. It was the piping of the young Princess shut up in her great cell, but ready now to come out. It sent a shiver of excitement through all the bees. Ventilators stopped buzzing and wax-makers and comb-builders turned their faces intently toward the sound, and even the crack-fillers, far up at the roof, stopped their work and peered down excitedly.

There had come, indeed, one of the most exciting and tense moments that ever come to a bee community. It was the moment that precedes the birth of a new royal bee, a Princess who is destined to be the new Queen of the hive, or to go out from the hive with many of the workers to establish a new community of her own.

Again came the shrill piping of the Princess in the royal cell. Another wave of excitement ran over the hive. And again and again the weird sound came. Suddenly the royal nurses began excitedly to plaster wax on the outside of the great cell, especially over its mouth.

Beffa whispered to Nuova: "She is trying to work her way out, but they don't want to let her out yet. See, the drones are coming."

And even as he spoke a gay song was heard, in voices very different from any that Nuova had yet heard in the hive; and suddenly, as the song grew louder, there came a half-dancing, half-marching file of splendid-looking, robust bees, moving spiritedly directly toward the royal cell. They were a fine-looking lot, these drones, these dandy drones, and Nuova had a thrill she had never felt before. She gazed at them entranced.

The drones made a half-circle about the cell of the Princess and lined up there, strutting and dancing and singing loudly. This is the song they sang:

We are the courtiers, the beaux of the hive; Of the dandy drones surely you've heard! Our wings are a rainbow, our bodies are gold, To soil them would be most absurd.

No, we never mix up with the common hive stuff, Neither garner, nor plaster, nor clean; 'Tis superior far to be just what we are, And do naught but make love to the Queen.


Chapter VI

Nuova and Hero, and the Birth of the Princess


All through their song Nuova had given the drones her absorbed attention. She admired them greatly for their fine appearance, and when she learned from their song that they did no work, but had all day only to follow their own sweet will, she became especially interested in them. She was a little puzzled, too, for, from what she had heard from Saggia and the others, and from all she had seen, she had come to believe that all bees worked all the time. And here were all these stout-bodied, vigorous bees proudly singing that they loafed all the days through. She was so much interested in this that she approached one end of the line of drones and spoke to the one nearest her.

"What a fine time you drones must have," she said. "Don't you ever have to do any work?"

The drone did not hear her at first and paid no attention to her, but as she repeated her question louder and more insistently, he turned and stared at her amazed.

"Well, well, bless my eyes!" he said, stammering in his amazement at being addressed by a common worker bee. "Bless my eyes! I say, work? Work? Me work? Who ever heard such a question? What sort of a bee are you? Who are you, anyway?" He touched the drone next to him to call his attention. "Look here, who is this bee?"

Nuova was nettled by his manner and by what he said. She answered, rather sharply, "Well, I'll tell you who I am. I am a bee that works; anyway, I am the kind of a bee that works, like all the others except you, and you" (looking defiantly at the second drone, who was staring insolently at her) "and I want to know why you do not work -- you and you others that loaf around all the time and eat what we bring in, and do nothing but sing and dance in the hive, or fly around doing nothing in the garden, and keep all dressed up and just look handsome."

The drone was more and more astonished, but he was also a little flattered by her reference to his clothes and appearance.

"Well, you are a silly little bee," he said; "that's what we are here for. Drones work? It isn't done, you know. Our business is to love. And singing and dancing and looking handsome, and not getting all dusty with pollen and sticky with wax and dirty with cleaning, is part of it. That's our work; not working, but loving."

Nuova was so astonished by hearing this, and so excited to learn that some bees did not have to work, and also so angry to think that these bees were allowed to live without working, while she was always being told to work, and scolded for resting for even the shortest time, that when she answered him she spoke so loudly as to attract the attention of other bees near her, including Saggia, who was moving around near by, cleaning the floor.

"So that is what you call your work, is it?" she burst out. "Well, I am glad to know there is some kind of bee work besides feeding babies and sweating out wax and filling up cracks and scrubbing up floors. Loving, you call it; well, I want to do some of that; show me how."

The two drones were stupefied with astonishment by Nuova's words, but the one nearest her, to whom she was speaking directly, was rather taken by the audacity of the pretty little bee's demand, and he involuntarily strutted and swaggered a little and eyed her with special attention. He even smiled down at her rather pleasantly, and seemed to be about to speak to her again when Saggia and three or four other bees, who had heard her last words and were scandalized to see and hear her talking with the drone, especially in such a manner, bustled up to her.

This last unheard-of behavior of Nuova was too much for Saggia. Her patience and sympathy with her were exhausted, and she broke out in a tirade of scolding.

"Well, I never in my life!" she exclaimed, grasping Nuova and jerking her around; "what in the world are you doing and saying? Talking to a drone about love! You don't know anything about love. You can't know anything about it. Only drones and princesses know what love is, or can know. You are worse than a silly bee; you are a bad bee!" She jerked her again and again; at the same time she went on with her scolding. "Well, I wash my hands of you! If you can't be a sensible bee we don't want you! Our thinking has all been done for us long, long ago. All we have to do is what custom tells us to. And if you can't behave as the rest of us do, you are useless. Here, take her, throw her out of the hive!"

Again Saggia jerked her vigorously, and other bees, especially Uno, Due, and Tre, hustled her and struck at her. A couple of soldiers even came up and began jabbing at her with their lances. Poor Nuova seemed about to be torn piecemeal, like the Bee Moth, and turned out of the hive, when one of the drones, who was in the line some little distance from Nuova and Saggia, was attracted by the uproar. He came over to the group in a lordly and leisurely manner, shouldering his way through the crowd and carelessly driving off the jostling bees. They left Nuova reluctantly, casting dark looks and making malevolent gestures toward her as they turned their attention again to the excitement still raging about the cell of the Princess. Poor Nuova, half dead from her ill-treatment, could hardly utter her thanks to her rescuer. In a weak voice she attempted to say something, but finding it too much of an effort she contented herself with looking up gratefully into the face of the newcomer. He looked down at her curiously.

"What is the matter with you?" he said, not unkindly. "Can you not do as other bees do? What are you -- a nurse, a wax-maker, or what? Why don't you stick to your work? Why don't you do what you are expected to do? Are you one of those dreadful creatures they call 'new bees'?"

Nuova, although still weak and faint from her jostling and fright, was made angry again by these questions. "I do not know what I am," she said, "but I'd rather die than be just a puppet in this hive. Is all my life cut out for me, and not according to what I want to do and can do, but just according to rules made by somebody I don't know anything about and who doesn't know anything about me?"

She tried to say more, but a faintness came over her, and she staggered a little and would have fallen if the drone had not unconsciously put a wing behind her and supported her. She looked up at him, unable to thank him in words, but expressing her gratitude in her eyes.

As she rested this way, leaning heavily against him, she closed her eyes, happy to be protected, and even feeling strange little thrills running over her body that were mysteriously enjoyable. Without opening her eyes she murmured: "I am very grateful to you. You are very good." He said nothing, but looked with more and more interest at the sweet-faced little bee beside him.

Soon she opened her eyes again, and this time a pathetic little smile ran over her face. Indeed, it grew to be a roguish smile as an interesting idea formed more and more clearly in her brain.

"But you," she said -- "aren't you rather breaking bee tradition by helping me? If I am a useless bee, and only in the way, and a trouble to the community, shouldn't you let them sting me and throw me out of the hive? Are you" (she smiled again) -- "are you, a -- new bee, too?"

The drone, whose name was Hero, and who was truly the handsomest and finest drone in the hive, was first surprised and then a little embarrassed by what Nuova was saying. He looked rather fearfully around to see if other bees were observing them and tried gently to take his wing from behind Nuova, who, however, on realizing his intention, gave new signs of weakness and leaned more heavily than ever on it. In fact, it must be confessed, she nestled as closely against him, enclosed by his protecting wings, as she could.

"No, I am not a new bee," he said, rather stiffly. "I know my duty, and I try to do it." He looked again into his companion's pretty face, and then spoke more gently.

"Still, I admit that some of our ways are old-fashioned, rather absurd in fact," he said, with a manner and voice growing more and more confidential. "I have often had a curious feeling as if I should like to work." He smiled down at her. "Terrible, isn't it? And sometimes it is pretty hard to work up a violent love for a Princess you never see until you are just about to dash after her in the Great Courting Chase. Still, that's something worth while. One such flight is excitement and exertion enough for a whole life."

"Have you ever done it?" asked Nuova, curiously and even a little enviously. "And did you win?"

"Yes," said Hero, "I have been in one chase. But I was so young my wings were hardly dry and, of course, I didn't win, or I shouldn't be here now. Don't you know that the winner always dies in the winning?"

"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Nuova, shocked. "And how silly! To die just as you become King. How is it worth it?"

"What!" said Hero, surprised, and in a reproving and even stern voice. "Not worth while to win in the Great Courting Chase? To prove yourself the fastest and strongest and boldest of all the drones, and to be the consort of the Queen, the father of all the Queen's children? Not worth while dying for? What do I live for but that?"

"Ah, yes," cried Nuova, carried away for the moment by his enthusiasm, "that is something to live for!"

Suddenly, however, she realized that if Hero won in the Great Chase that was soon to occur -- that is, would take place when the Princess, already trying to get out of her cell, was really out and ready for her wedding flight -- he would really have to die for a bee, so far unseen and unknown, and who had done nothing to deserve such a sacrifice, and who would give her love as well to any other drone as to Hero, this handsome and kind new friend.

This made her angry and bitter again, and very sad, too, for she was beginning to realize that she liked this beautiful, strong bee much more than she liked Saggia or Beffa. He was different from all the other bees she knew, and her liking for him was different. She wanted to be with him all the time, and to have him talk to her or even just to look at her. This must be loving, she thought, or part of it, anyway. She began to dislike this Princess that was soon to come out of her cell. Probably she would be very beautiful. When she thought of that she disliked her more than ever. She could not bear to think of Hero's loving her or of her loving Hero.

She looked keenly at Hero, and then spoke to him slowly and cautiously, growing suddenly wise because of her new feeling for him.

"But how do you know you will love the new Princess?" she said. "Is she certain to be beautiful and sweet? And will she certainly love you?"

Hero looked at her curiously. It was strange how this pretty little bee attracted him. And it was strange that she seemed to have very clearly certain thoughts that were already rather hazily in his own mind.

"Oh, well," he said musingly, "I shall not see much of her. It is not, in a sense, love for her, but the response to the call of the race, the fulfilling of my duty to our community, that will drive me to my best effort to win her. But, of course, it is love for her, too; that is, so far as there is love at all among bees. We can love only Princesses, you know, we drones; that is honey-bee tradition."

Hero had seen no betrayal of Nuova's real feeling in her questions. He only saw in them the expression of her odd, independent way of looking at things and thinking about them. Nuova realized this and so became bolder by his blindness. And she was made bitter, too, by hearing this hero of hers repeat that always irritating phrase of "honey-bee tradition."

"Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "you can only do what your grandfathers and your great-grandfathers did! You must keep your eyes closed and your heart cold and loll and loaf through all your life until they tell you to go and love -- love a Princess -- love her, sight unseen -- love her so hard that if you win her you kill yourself! You are not you; you are not a bee with a heart and brain and strong body of your own, to live and strive and suffer and succeed after your own way and your own desires, but you are a machine, an automaton, to do what custom has fashioned you to do! You are not a bee; you are a clock-work; big and strong and handsome -- and hollow!"

Hero, amazed at her vehemence and her breaking of all bee tradition, looked at her more and more interestedly. He found a responsive feeling in himself, not only to the ideas expressed by her words, but to her own attractiveness and boldness.

"Well," he said amazedly, but also sympathetically -- "well, you are a silly little bee!"

But now the excitement around the Princess's cell broke out afresh. She was evidently about to come forth. From inside her cell she piped more loudly and more often than ever. Suddenly a loud, answering trumpeting was heard, and Beffa came hopping and humming to announce the approach of the old Queen. It was the Queen who was making the answering trumpeting. She came majestically along toward the cell of the Princess with a group of attendant bees about her. These attendants always kept circling slowly, but animatedly, about her, facing toward her, and although constantly shifting and changing places, always maintaining a complete circle around her. Every now and then she gave a loud trumpeting, and each time she was answered by a shrill piping from the cell. Or perhaps it was the old Queen who was defiantly answering the challenges of the Princess.

All the bees were enormously excited. They moved about constantly, buzzing and grouping in dense masses, now here, now there, but mostly close to the great cell. They were, however, plainly divided in their feeling, for some of the groups were intent on keeping near the Queen.

All the drones, however, clustered around the Princess's cell. Only Hero, who still stood by the side of Nuova a little to one side, had not joined the group of drones which was giving all its attention to the awaited appearance of the Princess. None of them paid the slightest attention to the Queen.

The excitement steadily increased. It was evident that the climax was at hand. Suddenly a breathless silence succeeded the buzzing whir. All the bees stood still with eyes fastened on the royal cell, and there came slowly forth from it, with beautiful but cold, set face and slow automatic movement, the new Princess.

As she stepped clear of her cell, with long, slender body erect, and shining delicate wings already nearly dry and straight, the whole mass of the bees quivered with renewed excitement. She carried a long, shining silver lance which she held point upward and used to support her first rather uncertain steps.

The old Queen, staring defiantly at the shining Princess, seemed to realize that the end of her reign had come. But she lifted her own long lance threateningly in the air and gave out a challenging trumpet call that sounded loud through all the hive.

The Princess, though obviously not yet in full control of her movements because of her long confinement in the cell, nevertheless faced the threatening old Queen with full defiance, and piped back a vigorous answer.

The Queen seemed to lose all her self-control at this, and stooping a little, and putting her lance in place so that it pointed directly at the Princess, started to rush at her. But a mass of bees threw themselves in front of her, blocking her way and pushing her lance up.

Thwarted in her intention of killing the Princess or putting her to flight, the old Queen hesitated a moment, and then with a loud cry of "Who loves me, follow me to make a new home," she rushed for the opening of the hive followed by a great swarm of worker bees.

Nuova turned anxiously to Hero to see if he were going to follow the old Queen from the hive. Her own inclination was to go with her, for she detested the haughty, cold-faced new Princess, both because of her appearance and insolent manner and because she felt that Hero would surely win in the Great Courting Chase and hence become the Royal Consort of the Princess and have to die for her sake. So she timidly touched him with one of her antennae to attract his attention, which was all being given to the stirring scene before them.

"Are you going to follow the old Queen?" she asked, "or stay with the Princess?"

Hero started, as she spoke, as if awakened from a daze. He looked down at her curiously, as if only half recognizing her. Then he turned again to look intently at the Princess and the group of drones about her. With a quick turn back to Nuova he answered her as if astonished by her question:

"I shall stay with the Princess of course." Then he straightened up proudly and added: "Indeed, I think she will be my Princess; my Queen."

He looked toward the Princess again, this time eagerly and bending rather toward her as if impatient to go to her. And even as he looked toward her, her eyes, moving slowly and proudly over the whole group of bees who had elected to remain in the hive with her, rested on him, and stopped there. As she saw the handsome drone bending toward her with his eager eyes fixed on her, a slow smile came over her face. It was the first appearance of anything but defiance or cold insolence to which she had yet given expression. Both Hero and Nuova saw it. Poor Nuova! It was too much for her. She could hardly stand. Hero felt her trembling at his side. He turned his face to look down at her, and was astonished and then suddenly touched and even moved to see in her wet eyes the revealed love of this pretty little worker bee for him.

He spoke to her half curiously, half tenderly. "And are you going with the old Queen, or will you stay here with the Princess?" he asked.

"Stay, stay," whispered Nuova, almost sobbing. "I think -- she will be -- my -- Queen, also."

As she said this she turned away. Just then the old Queen and the swarm of bees about her rushed from the hive. All the bees remaining began to sing a loud song of gladness and welcome to the Princess who was to be their new Queen. And they all joined in a mad dance of joy -- except Nuova, who hid her tear-stained face and limp body behind the nearest great honeycomb.


Chapter VII

Nuova goes Outside


When Nuova felt that she could face again the scene near the cell, she left her hiding-place and came slowly out into the open space where she had left Hero. He was gone. She knew, without looking, that he was now with the other drones pressing about the cold, proud Princess. She looked rather for her old friends Saggia and Beffa. Though Saggia had lost all patience with her because she had spoken to the drones, and had punished her, and even given her over to Uno, Due, Tre, and the other bees who disliked her, she still liked Saggia and believed that Saggia liked her.

So she looked around for them. But they were not in the mass about the Princess nor in any of the groups which were beginning to take up again the different kinds of work of the hive.

Nuova noticed some bees going in and out the entrance hole of the hive, and although she knew, by instinct, that she was still too young to leave the hive, yet that strange driving spirit in her, which was always impelling her to do things against bee traditions and custom, urged her to the bright opening. Once there she hesitated. The brilliant sunshine outside was blinding to her eyes, accustomed so far only to the half-light of the hive. She had a curious sensation too, half of fear of this unknown world outside, half of fascination to plunge recklessly into it to see and learn the new things there must be in it, and to escape from the automatic, heartless life of the hive, and the latest and bitterest unhappiness this life had just brought to her.

As she stood, uncertain, at the edge of the opening, she heard a familiar humming just outside the opening, and at once stepped out. She found herself on a broad platform as wide as the hive and extending forward for what seemed to her a long distance, but which was in reality only a few inches. On either side of the platform and beyond it were grass and flowers and bushes, and still farther away some great trees, all new and wonderful things to her. Above was the blue sky, and she heard birds twittering, and far away the song of a woman working in the garden. And it was all very light and fresh and fragrant. Nuova liked it.

She heard the familiar humming again. She turned her attention to the entrance platform. There were only a few bees on it. A few guards moved easily and half-lazily around, and a few foraging bees were coming and going with loads of pollen and honey or with pollen baskets and honey sacs empty. But suddenly she saw Beffa. It was he who was making the familiar humming. With tired, drawn face and with only grimaces for smiles, he was slowly hopping and humming near the front edge of the platform. He often came to a standstill to look with fixed gaze out into the distance. Beffa was a sad bee, for his Queen had gone and he could not follow her. Poor Beffa! It made Nuova sad, too, to see him.

And then she saw Saggia, too. She was at one side of the platform with dustpan and brush, and occasionally stooping over to brush up something. She, too, seemed sad and tired. She looked older than Nuova had seen her look before. Saggia, like Beffa, every now and then stood quite still and gazed far away into the garden or sky as if hoping to see again the old Queen whom they had lost. Saggia and Beffa had come close together without noticing each other or Nuova, so occupied with their own thoughts were they. But soon Saggia noticed Beffa and moved up close to him.

"Beffa, you are sad," said Saggia, in a low voice so that only Beffa should hear.

Even Beffa did not hear her at first, or, at least, he did not heed her. But when Saggia repeated what she had said, Beffa came out of his reverie with a jerk, and awkwardly made a little hop and grimace.

"Sad," said he. "Great Apis forfend. Haven't we a shining new Princess to our hive; a virgin new Princess to wed and be a new Queen to us all? Why should we mourn for an old Queen that's gone? Why be sad with a new Queen to come? Ha-ha," he laughed sardonically and bitterly.

"Yes, sad," repeated Saggia again, still speaking low and significantly, "when we have just lost our old Queen who liked her jester, Beffa, and even her old floor-cleaner, Saggia, who neither of them know whether the new Queen will like them or not. Oh, sad, sad! Ha-ha!" And she half-imitated Beffa's sardonic laugh and his hop and grimace.

Beffa turned and faced Saggia squarely, surprised to find wise old Saggia troubled and depressed just as he was. After a long, keen look at her, he made a solemn gesture to the distance, and then a mocking bow toward the hive entrance.

"The Queen has passed: long live the Queen!" he exclaimed.

Several of the guard and forager bees near him heard his cry and called out after him -- 

"The Queen has passed: long live the Queen!"

But one old guard of testy temper added, speaking rather roughly to Beffa: "What are you doing here? Doesn't the Princess laugh at your old tricks? Can't you find some new ones?"

Beffa turned angrily toward the guard, as if to answer sharply, but suddenly checked himself and began capering and humming. Then he sang in a bitter voice:

"Let the guards guard, and the jester jest, Let Saggia clean, and the new queen wed, Let all the bees do all they did, For life is doing what we're bid. Oh, life is doing what we're bid. Ha-ha!"

Saggia felt a little anxious on Beffa's account, for his song seemed bitter, and she saw that the guard was looking both puzzled and sour as she listened to it. So Saggia spoke to her hurriedly.

"The odor from our full pantries comes strong from the hives this morning," she said. "I hope it won't attract the Black Bees."

"Oh, the Black Bees," said the guard, superiorly. "Let them come. We'll show them how robbers are treated."

Just as the guard finished speaking, a commotion began on the other side of the platform, and Nuova saw a large black-and-yellow-striped creature with a long spear lunging fiercely toward the entrance of the hive. It was a Yellow Jacket. She knew it at once, because she had heard some of the nurse bees one day talking about these fierce black-and-yellow-banded robbers that sometimes fought their way into the hive to steal honey.

The guard near Saggia and Beffa hurried across the platform brandishing her lance. But already three or four other guards had thrown themselves on the intruder and were beating it back, striking it viciously with their lances. The Yellow Jacket made a good fight, but the bee Amazons were too many for it. It was wounded, began to weaken, and soon was hustled back off the platform and on through the grass behind a near-by bush.

The guard who had been talking with Saggia came back proudly to her, still brandishing her long lance.

"That's the way we do it," she said. "And a Yellow Jacket is stronger than a Black Bee."

"Yes," replied Saggia, wagging her old head wisely, "but not stronger than ten Black Bees, or a hundred, and that is the way they come."

As Saggia finished speaking, the guards who had driven the Yellow Jacket away returned boisterously, and joining all the other guards on the platform, formed in a line, and half-marching, half-dancing, went through some military maneuvers. While they were doing this, another lot of guards came out of the hive, and forming in a line opposite them, also went through the martial dance. At the end of it all the guards who had been outside marched into the hive, while the new ones remained outside on the platform. It was the "relief of the guard."

All during the guards' dancing and marching, Nuova had stood still watching them intently. Neither Saggia nor Beffa had seen her yet. And she was afraid to speak to them for fear of being made to go back into the hive again. She had made up her mind to stay outside. It was all so much more beautiful and exciting out here. She had decided that she would not be a nurse or wax-maker or anything else inside the hive any longer. She wanted to be a forager and be free to go in and out as she liked, and to fly far out into the garden and spend long, sunshiny hours there.

Just then, however, Saggia caught sight of her. It was, indeed, Beffa who saw her first. He quietly touched Saggia with one of his antennae and waved the other in Nuova's direction. Saggia hurried over to her, looking anxiously around her to see if any other bees had noticed Nuova.

"What are you doing out here?" whispered Saggia to her as she reached her side. "Who sent you out? It isn't time for a week yet for you to come outside."

Saggia wanted to be angry with her, but the sight of Nuova, so sad and forlorn-looking, and with tear-marks still on her face, was too much for her kind heart. And she really loved Nuova very much. Indeed, all that Nuova had done, and what she had said, had made a strange appeal to the wise old bee. She was almost frightened sometimes to feel that down deep in her heart she not only sympathized with much of Nuova's revolt against the rigid traditions and automatic life of the bees, but that she realized that this stifling of all independent action and all personal emotions was not always the way to the highest happiness nor even the wisest conduct for the bees. She shuddered to think that perhaps she, too, was a "new bee."

Nuova was half-frightened by Saggia's discovery of her and by her hard words. But she answered her willfully and defiantly, although with a touch of attractive mischievousness.

"Nobody sent me out," she said. "I have just decided to be a forager; that's all. While I was in the hive a little while ago a forager came in with two great loads of pollen in her pollen baskets. She was very tired and seemed sick. While she was looking around for an empty cell in which to put her pollen, she suddenly sank down -- and -- and died."

Nuova shivered as she said this, and dropped her antennae down over her eyes for a moment.

"Ah, yes," said Saggia sadly but proudly; "worked herself to death. That is the noble death we have. We die in the harness -- working for others, working for the hive. The bees know that death well and honor it."

"They may know it well," broke in Nuova sharply, "but they do not honor it well. Anyway, not by their actions. Nobody paid any attention to the poor forager when she was staggering along with her load, and none when she sank down on the floor and died. Except pretty soon a couple of cleaners came along and dragged her body away. I suppose they brought it out here and flung it off the platform somewhere. A noble death, well honored, indeed! Well, I don't want that kind. I am going to die out in the garden, under a flower."

While Nuova was speaking, Beffa had hopped and hummed his way over to them, and now he broke in with a song, which he sang as he hopped and danced about them. This is what he sang:

"Work, no play; work all day; A useful life; a usual life; The good bee's way, All day, all day. Then die and lie Till Saggia spy The carrion stuff --  A tug; a shove, And the friend you love Is gone to grass: Ha, ha, alas, is gone to grass. A noble life; a halted breath: The epitaph: 'She worked to death.'"

Both Saggia and Nuova listened to Beffa and watched him till he had finished singing. They both saw clearly his own unhappiness and his own revolt against the rigor of the bee tradition that demands always the full sacrifice of the individual for the community. Saggia realized that Beffa, too, was a "new bee."

Nuova, in the meanwhile, was looking off again into the beautiful garden; at the green grass and bushes; the many-colored flowers; the blue sky and warm, bright sunshine over all. She was enchanted. She drew a long breath of relief and happiness. She turned to Saggia.

"Will they keep me in," she whispered, "if I go back into the hive? If they will, I shan't go," she added positively.

Saggia looked about again to see if other bees were paying attention to them. None was.

"No," she said, speaking in a low voice, "they won't keep you. They won't pay any attention to you as long as you keep busy, coming and going. You can be a honey-gatherer. The honey-flowers are only a little way off, there in the garden. But first you must get acquainted with the outside of the hive and the entrance. Look around. See, we are just by the side of this big bush, with that long branch hanging over. You can go out a little way from the platform, then turn around and see how the hive looks from there. Then go a little farther and look back again. Then go a little way to one side, and then to the other, and notice everything that will help you to find your way back. If you get lost, see if you can't see other honey-gatherers or pollen-foragers flying with full loads; they are returning to the hive; follow them. As to collecting the honey, you will learn that easily; in fact, you will be surprised when you get to the flowers, to find that you already know how. Be careful and not get into the poppies that shut up on you, and watch always for the great-crested bee-bird that swoops down on you, and, peck" -- Saggia exaggeratedly imitated a bird's pecking -- "and that is the end. Now, be off for your first flight. But not too far -- not for the first time."

Nuova's face shone with eagerness. "Oh, thank you, Saggia, thank you. You are good to me. You are different from the others. Thank you, dearest Saggia."

Nuova started quickly forward toward the edge of the platform. Just then Beffa, who had been hopping gently about Nuova and Saggia while they were talking, now hopped and danced along in front of Nuova, singing:

"The new bee and the old world; Flowers are there and butterflies; But ugly toads and big bee-birds, If the old bee thinks she knows, The new bee knows she doesn't. Ah, new bee knows the world-old truth, That the old world's ever new."

Nuova had slowed her steps so that she could hear all of Beffa's little song, and as he finished she came up to him and touched him caressingly with one of her antennae. But Beffa shrank from her caress. It meant so much to him, and yet he knew it meant so little to her. He knew Nuova liked him; yes, but he knew that he more than liked Nuova: he loved her. Poor Beffa! Love! A pitiful, deformed drone that could not fly; that could never be in the Great Courting Chase! And it was only then that the drones loved; and then only a Princess that could be loved. What he felt was impossible for a bee to feel; bee tradition told him that; and yet, he knew that he did feel this impossible thing.

"Beffa, you are good to me too," said Nuova to him; "you and Saggia are both good to me. And you two are the wisest bees in the hive, for you know that I am not the same as the other bees. No bees are exactly the same, I believe. We can't be all exactly alike, and we can't all like the same things, or think the same way, can we? I wish I could be a Queen so that I could have you always for my jester; always by to say funny things and wise things."

Beffa made a grimace -- to hide a sob. And he hopped more grotesquely than ever, while he sang:

"Ah, well, who knows? New things unheard of may be true, For every day the world is new. Ah, well, who knows? Ah, well, who knows?"

"Good-bye, Beffa," said Nuova. And she stepped to the edge of the platform, and spread her wings for her first flight, her first plunge into the outside world of grass and flowers and butterflies and bee-birds. And just then something happened that postponed this flight.


Chapter VIII

Nuova and Hero again, and a Battle


Just as Nuova was about to launch herself into the air, a sudden commotion at the hive opening made her look back. After this look she had no further thought of the garden. What she saw was the group of drones coming out of the hive, with another group of worker bees attendant upon them. These attendants were cleaning the drones' bodies and wings and evidently preparing them for some great event. It was plain to Nuova that this was the preparation for the Great Courting Chase. Her heart gave a leap, her eyes became misty; she stumbled and almost fell. She was so dizzy that she thought sudden death had struck her. It was only, however, the blow of her heart and mind in realizing that Hero -- her Hero -- must be in the group and preparing to leave her forever. He had, in a sense, already left her forever she knew, for he had made his decision -- or rather she felt that the cruel bee tradition had made the decision for him -- to follow the Princess. And if he followed her he could but win. Her wonderful, handsome, powerful Hero would be easily the successful one in the Great Courting Chase.

She ran her eyes anxiously over the group of drones now well out of the entrance and spreading out on the platform. At first she did not see Hero. But in a moment she did. He was a little apart from the others, and showed none of the excitement of the other drones. Indeed, he seemed to be rather depressed, and was evidently keeping quite by himself. He had not even an attendant with him. Nuova saw in this her chance.

She turned back from the edge of the platform, merged into the excited crowd, none of the bees paying any attention to her at all, and began to work her way through the press toward Hero.

Just then, however, Uno appeared by his side and began to brush his wings. He turned on her with an impatient gesture. Surprised and angry, Uno made a grimace and left him. A moment later, Due, noticing that he had no helper, hurried over to him, but she, also, much to her surprise and chagrin, was treated as Uno had been.

Hero seemed to be in an irritable mood. As the drones and their attendants came farther out, he moved away toward the front of the platform. This brought him rather near Nuova, who was able to reach him before any other bee could offer him her services.

Nuova, unperceived by Hero, slipped behind him and began nervously and awkwardly, glancing at the attendants on the other drones for guidance, to clean his wings. Soon an awkward tug apprised Hero that some one was again trying to attend him, and he turned with an angry movement to drive her off, when he recognized Nuova, and arrested his gesture. He stood still, looking at her keenly, and, without a word, let her go on caring for him. She grew even more nervous and awkward. Then he smiled gently, and spoke to her in a low voice.

"How do you come to be out here?" he asked. "You weren't sent as an attendant to us. Only the older and more experienced bees are given that -- honor." He smiled again. "You didn't come out just now?"

"No," said Nuova almost in a whisper -- "no, I was going out for honey."

"Oh, fine!" said Hero. "Out into the world already! You must have done your work in the hive very well."

"Yes," murmured Nuova demurely.

Just then two or three Black Bees slipped out from behind a bush near the platform, but no one noticed them.

"But why don't you go, then?" asked Hero. "It is beautiful over there among the flowers." He waved an antenna toward the garden. "And fragrant, and exciting. Other kinds of creatures; beetles and grasshoppers and big buzzing flies. Some bad ones, too; spiders and giant bee-birds always watching, watching to catch you." Nuova shuddered. "But you are not afraid, are you?" Hero looked at her keenly. "Or are you? Do you prefer to stay here in safety and just wait on the drones?"

"Yes," said Nuova slowly, "I prefer to wait on a drone."

"I am surprised," said Hero sternly and even half-contemptuously.

Just then Nuova made an awkward tug at his wing. He winced. "Ouch!" he said; then half-laughed. "Your champion will never win Principessa if you pull his wings out."

As he said this, Nuova involuntarily, in response to her feelings, gave an even harder tug at his wings.

Hero exclaimed again, and half-pulled away from her. He spoke almost angrily.

"Here, what are you doing?" he cried. Then, as he looked into the eager, excited, pretty face of his little attendant, he felt his heart give a curious throb. And when he spoke again it was almost tenderly.

"Well, you are good to try and help me, anyway. But" -- and now he spoke rather moodily -- "I don't need much preparing. I can beat any of them" -- and he waved contemptuously toward the other drones -- "easily, just as I am."

Poor Nuova! He could hardly have said a more discouraging thing to her, or one to hurt her more. She drew back a little and had hard work not to cry. She half-sobbed as she said: "That -- is -- fine. I am sure -- you can." She paused. Then she said slowly: "And if you do beat them, are you sure to get -- her? Are you sure to be able to catch -- her?"

The excitement on the platform was growing. The drones seemed to be getting impatient, and the attendants worked feverishly at the cleaning and making ready for the wonderful event about to happen. The infection of all this excitement began to seize Hero. He had turned his face away from Nuova to stare intently at the opening of the hive. It was there, of course, that the Princess would soon appear.

At Nuova's last question he started a little. "Eh?" he said rather brusquely. "Oh, yes, of course, I can catch her. She will fly faster than we at first, but she can't keep it up as long as we can. She will try to go higher and higher in the air, but that is hard work. That is when we shall catch up with her." He paused, then added, musingly: "It is odd; she is trying her best to get away from us and yet she wants to get caught all the time. She must get caught, you know, or we shouldn't have any Queen, and the hive would go all to pieces. The old Queen never comes back, of course. The Princess is our one chance to have a Queen at all."

Nuova seemed to be thinking hard. Something was puzzling her. "But," she asked insistently, "what really does happen if a Princess doesn't get caught, or something happens to her. There must be some way to save the community, isn't there?"

Hero seemed to have lost interest again in Nuova and her questionings. He was gazing fixedly at the hive entrance.

"Oh," he said carelessly, "I don't know. I've heard sometimes that a worker bee can -- "

He was suddenly interrupted. There was a new and very violent commotion on that side of the platform which the few Black Bees had approached, unnoticed, a few minutes before. Now there was a whole group of them plainly in sight and many others were coming quickly out from behind the bush. A great and angry buzzing was heard from the guards on the platform and cries of "Lotta, Lotta! The Amazons! Call Lotta! Call the Amazons! Hurry! The Black Bees! The Black Bees!"

The guards, few as they were in comparison with the oncoming horde of Black Bees, threw themselves bravely at them, and a moment after Lotta and her Amazons began issuing pell-mell from the hive entrance. They were met almost immediately by the foremost Black Bees, who had easily killed or were driving back the few guards, and were making rapid headway over the platform toward the entrance. A few even had passed in through the entrance, but they were driven out again at once by the issuing Amazons. In fact, most of the first Black Bees to gain a foothold on the platform and to push forward to the entrance or into it were killed. But that brought no terror to the others. They pressed on over the dead bodies of their comrades, lunging and striking viciously with their long lances.

But Lotta and the Amazons were fighting fiercely, too. They were making a heroic defense of the hive and its stores. The battle raged with great fury, but for a little while with no apparent advantage to either side. The Black Bees seemed, on the whole, the more expert and the more furious fighters -- they are, indeed, a race of bees famous for their fighting -- but Lotta's wonderful personal courage and deeds of prowess were a great inspiration to the defenders. She appeared to be everywhere at once, and her shouts of defiance to the enemy and of encouragement to her followers made up in some measure for the feebler strength and less experience of her band.

This was so obvious to the Black Bees that she was soon singled out for special attack by groups of her adversaries. Two or three Black Bees would combine to assail her from different sides, but her lightning movements and dashing bravery had so far saved her even from being touched by an enemy's lance. But just at the moment when Nuova had recovered a little from her amazement and terror at this sudden invasion, Lotta received her first wound. The fierce Black Bees were closing around her too closely. Nuova felt a violent rage rising within her as she realized that at any cost the Black Bees were going to kill the leader of the Amazons. Lotta was staggering, and a half-dozen lances were lunging at her. She stumbled, gave one final shout of defiance -- and fell.

It was a terrible blow to the Amber Amazons. They were seized with dismay. They had no one to lead them. They hesitated, gave way here and there, and the Black Bees with triumphant shouts pressed forward. Some of them had even reached the entrance, when a new, shrill battle-cry and call of encouragement to the Amber fighters rose above all the noise of the battle.

The cry came from Nuova. She had watched the whole terrible struggle in a sort of daze; half of terror, half of utter amazement. But when Lotta was struck down, the rage rising within her seized her completely, and when the Black Bees had pressed on over the fallen leader's body with shouts of triumph, she sprang forward, grasped Lotta's own lance from her sinking hand, and threw herself with such fury on the rear of the marauders that they had to turn to defend themselves. Then it was that she had uttered her first battle-cry. As the Amber bees heard it and saw at the same time that some of the black fighters had turned to defend themselves against an attack in the rear, they checked their retreat and began answering back this new shrill call. In the next moment they saw something that filled them all with rejoicing and gave them at once a new courage.

Nuova, taking a lesson from the method of the attackers, had looked about, even as she leaped into the fight, for the leader of the Blacks, and had fought her way fiercely directly toward her. In a moment they were face to face, and in another moment thrusting and parrying in deadly personal combat.

But nothing could withstand the vigor and audacity of this rage-maddened new warrior's assault, and the black leader, first contemptuous, then amazed, then terrified, found herself fighting vainly for her life. She managed to strike Nuova one or two glancing blows with her lance, but for answer received a thrust fairly through the body, and fell with a great cry of defeat and pain.

This it was that filled the despairing Amber bees with a new courage and reanimated them to fresh resistance. Turning on their attackers, they renewed the battle with an irresistible surge toward Nuova, and reaching her and following her lead in but few moments more they had rushed the disheartened Black Bees off of the platform. They even followed them into the grass, where they killed many of them one by one. Then they hurried back with shouts of victory, and ranged themselves in lines for marching and dancing. While the foragers busied themselves with carrying the bodies of the fallen off of the platform, all the Amazons marched and danced and sang loud songs of triumph.

But Nuova was not among them. She was among the fallen. Not far from the body of the dead leader of the Black Bees whom she had so brilliantly overcome, Nuova lay huddled. Saggia, who had been hustled out of the press and into the entrance of the hive while the battle was going on, now hurried to her fallen friend. Beffa, also, came hopping anxiously to her, and Hero, who knew now that Nuova was no coward, and had, indeed, been seized with a great admiration and at the same time a great solicitude for his extraordinary little worker-bee friend, also hastened to her side and bent over her. Other bees, too, came crowding around, and Nuova's body would almost have been trampled under foot by the surging crowd if Hero had not angrily cleared a little space about her. Saggia, who had found already to her great joy that Nuova showed no lance wound, but had only been stunned by a glancing blow, was lifting her gently to her feet. And just as Hero came to her side, Nuova, dazed and faint, first opened her eyes.


Chapter IX

Hero and Nuova once more, and the Great Courting Chase


"My brave little Nuova," said Saggia, joyfully and tenderly. And Beffa hopped happily about, singing softly to her:

"For a new bee A new way; From nurse to warrior All in a day. What's for to-morrow? Who can say? For the newest bee, The newest way."

The other bees about her were all talking confusedly together. "She saved our stores! Who is she?" they cried. "She is Nuova, the nurse! Nuova, the wax-maker! She is Nuova, the honey-gatherer! She was not even an Amazon! Is she hurt? She is killed! She is wounded! What a brave bee!"

Hero had said nothing yet, but now, as he leaned over her with his face close to hers and her eyes opened slowly, he murmured tenderly, "Little Nuova!"

Nuova looked languidly up at him and around at Saggia and Beffa; then closed her eyes again with a weak but happy smile, and spoke in a low, trembling voice: "She struck me, but I hit her back; I hit her harder."

"You killed her, Nuova," broke in Hero, proudly. "You were wonderful."

Nuova shuddered. "Killed her!" she said sadly. "Dreadful! I am sorry."

"Sorry?" cried Saggia. "You silly! You saved us! You won the victory by killing her!"

"Who was she?" asked Nuova, still sadly.

"Why, the Chief of the Black Bees," said Hero, proudly and tenderly. "Their greatest fighter! And you, little Nuova, alone, killed her."

Nuova looked up at him thoughtfully. "Are you glad?" she asked.

Hero turned with stupefaction to Saggia. She could only lift her hands in amazement. Nuova's mental processes were too much for them, although Beffa, hopping near, nodded his head wisely to himself.

"Glad? I glad? Of course, you absurd warrior!" said Hero. "We are all glad, aren't we?" he asked of the others about.

"Glad? Of course, we are glad! You saved us!" said they all.

"Well," said Nuova, smiling gently, and looking up at Hero, "if you are glad, I am glad." And then she let her head sink down again and closed her eyes.

While Saggia and Beffa and Hero had been caring for Nuova and talking to her, most of the other bees had gradually resumed their normal occupations, the guards moving watchfully about over the platform, the foragers coming and going, and two or three cleaners scrubbing the floor here and there to remove all stains of the battle.

But Uno, Due, and Tre had not yet gone back into the hive to resume their nursing work, but with a few other bees had formed a group standing a little way off from the group about Nuova. They were whispering and looking and pointing toward Nuova. Uno finally left her group and came over and joined the bees about Nuova. She whispered to a few of them, and finally spoke out loud enough to be generally heard.

"Nuova was not an Amazon," she said. "Why should she fight? Is this the way of bees?"

Due and Tre shook their heads vigorously and murmured, "No, no."

And several other bees of their group shook their heads dubiously.

"No," spoke up Due, "this is not the bee custom. A good bee does the thing she is set to do. For a nurse to use a lance! No, that is unheard of."

"No, no, it isn't done, you know," said a drone near by, wagging his head wisely.

"If it hadn't been done, you loafer," cried Saggia angrily, "you would have starved to death before we could have refilled our pantries again after the Black Bees had taken all our food!"

"But it is not the bee way," interjected Tre; then adding boldly and tauntingly to Saggia, "Are you a new bee, too?"

"No," replied Saggia vigorously, "I am an old bee -- old enough to have learned a little more than I knew when I was a nurse bee -- a loafing nurse bee," she added, looking significantly and hard at Uno, Due, and Tre in turn.

They all started guiltily and began to move slowly toward the entrance, but all the time looking back malevolently at Saggia and Nuova.

"It's not the right bee way," they muttered. "It isn't the usual way."

Several other bees joined them in their muttering and head-shaking.

Just then, however, a new excitement became manifest at the hive entrance. Those drones who had gone back into the hive were issuing now post-haste, while those still outside joined those coming out. To them hastened their attendants, and in a moment all was busy preparation and expectation again.

Beffa, who had moved over to the entrance as the drones began to come out, now came hopping and humming across the platform toward Saggia, Nuova, and Hero. As he came near he was singing:

"She comes; she comes; Principessa now would wed; She seeks the sky for marriage-bed. Let drones aside their languor fling; Bethink the prize; to be a King."

Hero started up, infected by the excitement and driven by the still potent bee tradition. "She is coming," he murmured, "the Princess."

All the bees were growing more and more excited. The drones began to form in a line. Their attendants worked feverishly at cleaning and preparing them. The other bees cleared a space near the entrance, in front of the drones, whose eagerness was betrayed by their bending forward like runners on the starting-line. Hero started forward to take his place at the nearest end of the line. Nuova tried to stand, Saggia helping her. She tottered as if to fall, but regained her balance. Her face was drawn and tears welled from her eyes. She pushed Saggia to one side and totteringly followed Hero. As he moved to his place, as if in a sort of daze and hypnotized and driven by another will than his, Nuova staggered into place behind him, as attendant, and made feeble attempts to brush his wings. He did not seem to see her nor even to realize her presence, but kept his eyes fixed on the entrance.

The commotion among the bees increased. All watched incessantly the opening of the hive. Suddenly the Princess was seen to be coming slowly and proudly out, still cold and set of face, but beautiful in figure and carriage, truly queenly in all her seeming.

Three or four attendants were busy behind her, brushing her long, slender wings, and removing every speck or stain from her body. The drones all leaned farther forward, their eagerness infecting her. For she became more animated and began spreading out and fluttering her wings. The drones did the same.

Beffa was hopping about with ridiculous activity and awkwardness, humming inaudible words. Suddenly, with a jerk, Hero turned his eyes from the Princess and let them wander about as if seeking something. They rested on Beffa, who in response made motions in his dancing that unmistakably directed Hero to look behind him. He did so and saw Nuova. He stared fixedly at her a moment. Then he leaned toward her and said in a curious, tense, but almost appealing tone, as if he were asking her for advice or help:

"The Great Courting Chase is on! A Queen is to be won! The prize is to be a King!"

Nuova called on all her strength, physical and spiritual.

"Yes, yes," she gasped. "Be ready! Lean forward! They are starting! You will win!" Her voice broke a little. "You can't lose, Hero -- wonderful Hero. You will be King -- our King -- my King. Good-bye!" She stifled a sob. "Good luck! Good-bye!"

She could say no more. She turned her face away from his, sobbing unrestrainedly. Saggia, who had come to her side, caught her and supported her just as the Princess, with wings outspread and eyes fixed outward and upward, ran quickly to the outer edge of the platform, followed a little way behind by the drones in a group. As the Princess reached the platform's edge, she launched herself beautifully into the air and flew swiftly, first straight out and up and then curving gently away to the left. One after another the drones flew after her.

Nuova gazed fixedly after the following drones. Hero's delay with Nuova made him the last to spring into the air. But he flew so strongly that it seemed certain that he would quickly make up for this handicap in the great race. Indeed, some of the onlooking bees began to call out, "See how Hero is gaining! He will surely win! Hero will be King!"

Nuova had strained her gaze after Hero until he with all the others had passed from sight far out and up in the bright sky. As she gazed she had lifted on tiptoe and had even spread out her wings as if she would fly after him, but now as he disappeared she collapsed and fell back heavily with closed eyes and a pitiful sob into Saggia's supporting embrace.

Just then Beffa came hopping and humming over to them and sang, as if mockingly, but really with sympathetic and comforting meaning:

"Ha, ha, the sad attendant! Her champion is too slow. He'll never win the Princess, Her kiss he'll never know."


Chapter X

Nuova in the Beautiful Garden


When Nuova had recovered enough to face squarely the situation in her life and in the life of the hive, she found herself very weak and very sad. Above all, she found the thought of going again into the dark hive to work extremely repugnant to her. And almost the first thing she said to Saggia, who had remained faithfully by her, supporting and caring for her, was that she would not go back into the hive to nurse or make wax or do anything else that meant staying inside.

Saggia comforted her by saying that she would not have to work inside. The kindly old bee whispered to her that there was always so much confusion and such change in the hive arrangements whenever a new Princess was born, and either she or the old Queen went out with many of the workers, that she could easily change her kind of work now without any notice being taken of it. And to confirm this Saggia pointed to several of the nurses, among them Uno, Due, and Tre, making one after another the little trial flights that Saggia had told Nuova to make preparatory to going into the garden out of sight of the hive. These nurses were plainly intending to become foragers. Even as Saggia and Nuova watched them, one after another flew out higher and farther and disappeared into the garden.

It was a beautiful garden on the edge of which the hive was set. The owner of the garden was a great lover and student of flowers. He liked bees and beetles and birds, too; all kinds of live things, plant or animal. And no one was ever allowed to kill any creature, little or big, in his garden, so it was full to overflowing with life and animation. Birds made their nests in it; squirrels barked in the trees; even moles and gophers made their underground runways unmolested. There were open, sunny grass-plots for playing, and close little copses and coverts for hiding, and great trees for climbing to see out into the still wider world beyond the garden walls. But the garden itself was world enough for most of the creatures that lived in it. There were flowers enough for the bees; seeds and worms enough for the birds; nuts enough for the squirrels. And if some of the happy family in the garden had to live by eating some of the others, still that was the way of life, and the only thing was to hope and try to make sure that the end would not come too soon.

Nuova already loved the garden, although so far she had not been in it; at least not been any more in it than standing on the entrance platform of the hive and looking into it from this vantage-ground. But now she was really to go out into it, and sad and tired though she was, she felt a little thrill of happiness as she thought of what she might see over there beyond the near-by bushes, out there among the brilliant flowers and the lush grasses. She turned to Saggia gratefully.

"Good-bye, dear Saggia," she said gently. "I am going to go into the garden now. I will make the little flights first as you told me, so as to be able to find my way back to the hive -- but, I don't know, Saggia, I don't feel like ever coming back to the hive." Her eyes filled with tears. "He -- he will never come back. He will win, and he will -- will die." She shuddered and nearly collapsed again.

Saggia could say nothing. She believed, too, that Hero would win in the Great Courting Chase. And if he won, he would die. It was really, she thought with some anger, a very stupid sort of arrangement; very unfair to the King; to be crowned because he was the finest, strongest, and swiftest drone in the hive, or in any of the other near-by hives whose drones also joined in any Courting Chase they noticed going on, only to die at once. It was simply not only stupid; it was brutal.

She did not like to think of Nuova's going off alone into the garden so soon. And she could not put out of her mind the uneasy feeling that Nuova would never come back to the hive at all; not even as a forager who might go out and in as she pleased. Nuova had too plainly shown that her interest in living was gone, and her surrender to her impulses of the moment was likely at any time to be complete even though it might lead to death itself. Saggia decided that she and Beffa were needed in the garden. As Nuova left her to go to the edge of the platform for her first flights, Saggia scurried off in search of Beffa.

*       *       *       *       *

A number of bees were busy at a little group of flowers in the garden when one of them, Uno, who had just turned around facing the general direction of the hive, suddenly uttered an exclamation.

"Well, of all things!" she said. "Beffa in the garden!" The other bees turned and stared.

"And Saggia!" exclaimed one of them. "Beffa and Saggia! Beffa in the garden! What can he do here?"

Beffa, hearing them, released himself from Saggia's support, and began to make weak little hoppings and to sing. Poor Beffa; he was sadly tired, for because of his deformed wings he had had to walk all the way from the hive. And Saggia was tired, too, because she had walked with him, and not only that, but had helped him over some of the rougher places.

Beffa sang:

"Beffa in the garden; The prisoner in the sun; No Queen in the palace; No jesting to be done."

He stopped to rest, and Saggia went slowly to a flower, where she busied herself putting a little pollen into her pollen baskets.

Due turned to Beffa. "Hi, Beffa, you can sing and dance for us while we gather pollen and honey. And you can watch for Bee-Bird to see that he doesn't surprise us. Oh, you can be useful. Hop, hop, hop-la!" And she made a little hop or two, in mimicry of Beffa.

Tre had been looking sharply at Saggia. "And Saggia doesn't seem to be doing much," she said, with asperity. "Foraging again, is she? That is rather a dangerous business for such an old bee, isn't it?" she said malevolently. "The two-legged man giant that owns this garden likes the two-legged bird giants. He is a brute! He protects the birds! And they eat the insects! He might protect us, rather. Brute!"

"Brute!" cried the other bees. "Protect the horrid birds, indeed! Sting him if you see him."

Just then a big blue-bottle fly that had been buzzing about the flowers ventured too near a dark corner lower down in the bush, and was lunged at by a big black spider, which barely missed it. The blue-bottle dashed excitedly away with a tremendous buzzing, and all the bees jumped about nervously a little.

Beffa began to sing without rising from the ground, just moving his feet as if dancing:

"Bee-birds in the tree-tops, Spiders in the grass; Death rides down the sunbeam, Death leaps as you pass."

"Ugh!" said Uno. "Can't you sing something more cheerful? Be funny, can't you?"

Beffa got up and hopped about a little. Then he sang:

"Out among the flower-cups, Dancing in the sun; Now a drink of nectar, Then another one. Brushing up the pollen, Hurry 'gainst the gloam, Pail and basket over-full, Off to hive and home!"

All the bees skipped and danced and sang after him:

"Pail and baskets over-full, Off to hive and home!"

After singing this refrain several times and dancing happily about a few moments, the bees set at their work again industriously. It was so beautiful and so bright and so warm in the garden that one could not help being happy in it.

And yet just then Nuova stepped out from behind a flowering bush looking very weary and very sad. Saggia, who had been glancing around for her all the time, slipped quickly and quietly over to her without attracting the attention of any of the bees, and before any other one had seen her.

Saggia led Nuova around to the side of the bush where they would be out of sight of the other bees, and then spoke to her in a low tone.

"Are you all right, Nuova?" she asked anxiously.

Nuova smiled wearily and sadly. "Of course, I am all right," she said gently; "who would not be out here in this wonderful world, this golden sunshine, this fragrant air? It's a place to be all right in all the time. I am going to stay here."

"Stay here? What do you mean?" asked Saggia.

"Simply that, dear Saggia," she replied gently, smiling; "stay right here in the warm sun, near the beautiful flowers. Do you think I am going back into the dark hive to die like that poor forager and be dragged off and tossed out like a piece of dirty wax?" She shuddered. "No, no; I am going to die out here, and lie in the soft grass under that heliotrope there."

Saggia spoke anxiously but sternly. "Die? Die? Why do you talk of dying? Have you a right to die yet? Have you done all you should do for the hive? Are you going to shirk your duty? Anyway" -- and her voice grew more kindly -- "do you really want to die? Don't you want to do first all the things a bee can do, to nurse -- "

"I have nursed," Nuova interrupted.

"And make wax -- " Saggia went on.

"I have made wax," Nuova broke in.

Saggia persisted, "And build cells -- "

"I have built cells," interrupted Nuova again.

"And gather honey -- " Saggia continued.

Nuova touched a near-by flower. "I am gathering honey," she said.

Saggia hesitated a moment, then began again. "And -- and -- " she stammered; then exclaimed suddenly and triumphantly -- "and clean floors!"

Nuova smiled at Saggia's anticlimax. "No, I haven't scrubbed the floor yet. I suppose I ought to enjoy that a little before I die. But you see I am not really old enough to have had time for everything."

"That's it," broke in Saggia warmly. "You are not old enough yet. It is nonsense to talk of dying so young. You must live a long time yet. Look at me! Think how old I am!"

Nuova smiled again, but grew earnest as she spoke. "It is not how long you live, Saggia; it is how much you live. I have not done everything, but I have done most things. You, you dear wise, old, sensible bee, you have done the things calmly one after another as it came time for you to do them. But I have tried everything that was interesting and for only as long as it was. You have lived a long and useful life with much in it. I have lived a short and useless one; but also with much in it. You have lived mostly for others, and have been mostly happy. I have lived mostly for myself, and been mostly unhappy. But that is the way I am, Saggia. That is my way of living and really I suppose, my way of being happy; happily unhappy. And, Saggia" -- and Nuova bent close over to her, as if to tell her a secret -- "you know, don't you, that if I have missed cleaning floors, I have done something else in place of it; something you haven't done. I have loved! And that is the happiest unhappiness I have had."

Saggia was truly shocked. "Nuova," she exclaimed, "haven't I told you before not to say such things! You have not loved," she added, firmly, "because you cannot love. Poor little Nuova, you have much to learn yet about bee life."

"There is much about it I don't want to learn," muttered Nuova.

"There is much you must learn," replied Saggia sternly, but kindly. "And some of it you must learn now. When I say you cannot love, I mean exactly that; not that you ought not or must not, because other bees do not, but simply that you cannot. Bee loving is not just liking and sighing and laughing and dancing and crying, and being always happy and unhappy at once, but it is becoming the mother of babies, many babies, and that only Princesses can become. And when they are the mothers of babies, they are Queens. In bee land to be a mother is to be a Queen, and to be a Queen is only to be a mother."

Nuova was silent. She felt compelled to believe Saggia, who surely knew about the life of bees if any one did, and who had always spoken truthfully to her. And yet she had a feeling within her that seemed some way to contradict Saggia's knowledge.

"Well, then, Saggia," she said slowly, "I haven't loved, but I have wished to love." And she added in a whisper, "I want to love!"

"You cannot love," repeated Saggia firmly. "Only Princesses can love. You should not think of it any more."

Nuova looked up into the sky. And when she spoke it was as if she were speaking in a dream. "I want to love and I cannot love! Only a Princess can love. And I am not a Princess. What can I do? Clean floors?" She turned to Saggia and smiled sadly. "No, I cannot clean floors, either," she said softly. "I am an unfortunate sort of bee, Saggia, a worthless sort. A new bee, but not new enough to love, and too new to clean floors. Just a bee to lie under the heliotrope bush."

Just then Beffa, who had come hopping and gently humming up to them unperceived by either, and who had overheard Nuova's last words, began to sing:

"A heliotrope or a rose-bush, A pale-blue flower or pink, But a dead bee sees no colors Nor smells sweet smells, I think. An old world for old bees, A new world for the new, And, ah, who knows the real truth? The untrue may be true."

Nuova was delighted, in her sadness, to see Beffa again. "Beffa, you dear, funny Beffa!" she cried. "But how did you get out here in the garden?"

"He couldn't come, And so he came. Can or cannot, All's a name,"

sang Beffa in reply, hopping about more vigorously than ever.

As Beffa finished, Saggia saw some of the other bees looking scowlingly toward them. She touched Nuova with an antenna.

"Nuova," she said in a low voice, "we must get to work. The other bees are noticing us. We are idling. We must go to work. Beffa can sit here in the sunshine and watch us." She moved off toward a flower.

Nuova looked after her a moment, and then she turned to Beffa.

"Good old Saggia," she said. "She is an example of industry, isn't she? But I don't like her to work just because others are noticing us. That makes me want not to work." She stood loitering by him.

Beffa deliberately stretched himself, with a yawn, and settling down comfortably near a dandelion, he hummed, as if half-asleep already:

"Some work because others talk; Some talk because others work; The wisest bee keeps wisest way, He -- goes -- to -- sleep!"

And as he finished he closed his eyes.

Nuova saw through Beffa's transparent means of sending her off to work, and was as much amused as vexed. "Oh," she said, "I much prefer working to talking with bees whose wisdom might put me to sleep, too. Good-bye." She made a mocking curtsy and went off slowly to a small group of flowers which was hidden by a large bush from the rest of the bees.

As soon as she had started, Beffa opened one eye to spy on her, and as she disappeared behind the bush he slowly straightened up, very much awake and evidently strongly possessed by some idea. He let his eyes roam over all of the garden he could see, and he even scanned the air in all directions. Apparently not finding what he sought, he remained quiet, but alert, on the flat dandelion leaf. The bees at the flowers worked industriously. The garden was fragrant and quiet in the sun.


Chapter XI

Hero finds Nuova in the Garden


Saggia had joined a group of foragers at work, among whom were Uno and Tre. These two bees at first moved away a little as Saggia came over, but in their foraging work they gradually came close to her again. Pretty soon Uno, after glancing toward Beffa sitting quietly by the dandelion, spoke to Saggia.

"The garden is not a place for jesting," she said sharply; "nor for listening to jesting. Beffa is not a good example for bees who work." As she said this she looked significantly at Saggia, and several of the other bees, overhearing her, smiled maliciously.

Saggia said nothing at first, but busied herself at her flowers. As she changed, however, from one flower to another one near by, she said quietly: "Beffa works harder than most of us."

"Do you call jesting work?" asked Tre indignantly.

"I call Beffa's work hard work -- for Beffa; and useful work," Saggia replied.

"What other hive has a jester, a bee that does no work, that just hops and sings?" demanded Uno angrily.

"We are more fortunate than other hives," said Saggia evenly. "We have a bee who has time to think, and a clever tongue to say what he thinks."

No one spoke for a moment, then Tre said mechanically, as if repeating by rote: "Bees ought not to think; and if they do they ought to keep their thoughts to themselves." Then she added maliciously: "I think I learned that from you, Saggia."

The other bees turned and smiled.

"One lives and learns," said Saggia, a little confused.

"Oh, worse yet!" exclaimed Uno. "'Bees do not learn: they know.' That also is from Saggia," she said, turning to the other bees.

They all smiled again enjoying Saggia's discomfiture.

"Well," said Saggia desperately, "bees do know most things, but -- not -- everything."

Just then Beffa came hopping toward them hurriedly. He was singing loudly, too, and was evidently much excited about something. As he reached the group of foraging bees he did not stop, but kept hopping right on by them singing loudly as he passed:

"Hoptoad squats beneath the flower; Waits that pleasant fateful hour When honey-bee on food intent Comes within his leafy tent; Open! Shut! Poor bee, good-bye; An ugly, horrid way to die!"

As the bees heard this, they all became much frightened and excited, skipping about and peering in all directions.

"The Toad!" they cried. "Where? There! I don't see him! Where, Beffa? Beffa, where?"

Beffa's movements plainly indicated the direction of danger to be toward where he had come from, and the way of safety correspondingly in the direction of his hopping. All the bees, therefore, with much buzzing and jumping about, moved along with the hopping and singing Beffa. Only Saggia seemed a little slow to take alarm or to follow him closely. She watched him curiously, and kept turning to look in the direction from which he had come. She remembered that Nuova was back there somewhere, and she could not believe that Beffa would leave her in danger in order to warn ever so many other bees. Saggia knew well poor Beffa's hopeless love for Nuova.

As a matter of fact, Beffa had seen not a toad, but something else, which, under the circumstances of bee life and tradition, was much more extraordinary, and he had come hopping over to lead off the other bees that they might not also see it.

What he had seen was something that his keen wits had told him all along he might see: in fact, he had been looking for it all the time since he had been in the garden; it was something that made him happy and unhappy at the same time. It was something that would make Nuova the happiest bee in the world, for a little while at least, though it might mean something very dreadful to her in the end. And what could make Nuova happy made him happy -- even though her happiness should come from seeing somebody else who would almost make her forget that Beffa ever lived. What Beffa had seen was Hero flying slowly down into the garden near where Nuova was. It was certain that they would see each other in a moment.

In fact, Nuova, turning away from the flower which she had been slowly and listlessly rifling of nectar, saw Hero just a moment after he alighted. Her heart gave a great jump, and her first impulse was to slip away before he could see her; but when she saw how dejected and sad he seemed, she felt a great pity for him and wanted to comfort him. Just then he lifted his eyes and saw her. He started, then controlled himself and came to her. "Nuova," he said quietly but earnestly; "Nuova, I am glad you are here."

Nuova could hardly speak. She was so tense with excitement, with wonder, with happiness that they were together again. But what had happened? How could this be?

"You did not win?" she stammered. "You are not dead?" She stared at him with painful intentness.

"I did not go on," said Hero slowly and somberly.

Nuova did not understand. "An accident?" she cried. "You could not fly? Your wings were not -- " she stopped, alarmed and almost in tears at her thought. "Surely I did not hurt them when I -- I -- pulled them?"

Hero did not understand clearly what she meant. In fact, he was too intent on the overwhelming fact of what he had just done, of the absolute break he had just made with bee tradition, to think, for the moment, of anything else.

"No, no," he said; "I just decided not to go on. I -- wanted to come to you."

Nuova could not realize at once all he meant by these words. The thing clearest in her mind just now was what Saggia and all the others had told her so often. She began to speak slowly and almost mechanically as her memory guided her.

"But you can't do that," she said. "It -- it -- isn't done, you know. You must chase the Princess; you must win her; and you -- you" -- she sobbed -- "you must die."

She stepped toward him, excitedly, with her hands outstretched to urge him on. "Go on!" she exclaimed. "Go on! Start again! You are so much swifter and stronger than the others! You can beat them yet! Hurry! Fly!"

In her excitement and half-crazed exaltation she pressed against him to push him into starting. He held her closely to him for a moment, caressing her gently. But soon she drew violently away, and spoke again with choking voice. "Fly!" she said. "Go on! Go on!"

Hero shook his head doggedly. "No, I will not go. I cannot go. I never wanted to go. I wanted to come to you. I didn't know you were in the garden. But here you are." In his joy at being with her, he began to dismiss the dark thoughts of his break with bee custom. He looked intently and eagerly at her.

"Yes, here you are, I have come to you. I have come to tell you that I" -- he stumbled a little in his speech, and smiled slightly -- "I -- am a new bee, too!"

Nuova laughed happily. Then she grew serious and puzzled. "And Saggia and Beffa," she said. "Are we all new bees in this hive?"

Hero smiled. "Uno, Due, and Tre -- " he said.

"Ugh! horrid bees," said Nuova with a grimace. "They would like to kill me."

"Beasts!" broke in Hero, "I'll kill them!" But then he remembered the fact that he had no lance nor by bee tradition could have any. "Absurd," he said in disgust. "What a world, where only the women may carry lances and fight and work, and the men are only loafers and lovers, and can only love by tradition, at that. Bah! I'd rather be even a human being. They are silly enough, those awkward giants, and can't fly and eat other animals as spiders and snakes do, but their men can work and fight; and they can love whom they like. At least they can if they don't try to be too much like us, as some of them seem to want to be. It's a terrible thing to be a man bee. We have no rights at all!"

Nuova looked up at him wonderingly. "Why, the other drones seem to like to loaf," she said. "Anyway, they don't object."

"Don't object!" exclaimed Hero contemptuously. "They don't think; they don't feel! Each just does what the others do and all just do what drones have always done."

"But how else are we to know what to do," persisted Nuova, who had learned her lesson well from Saggia, "except by seeing what others do, and being told what the bees before us did?"

Hero was amazed and disconcerted to hear Nuova talk in this way.

"Why, you talk like Saggia!" he said. "What do you mean? Haven't you always objected to doing what the others do? Haven't you always tried to do what you most wanted to? And haven't you wanted to talk with me? I thought you -- liked me."

Nuova was disconcertingly calm. "Oh, yes, I have objected to some things, and I do like to talk with you. And I like you. But all that must not interfere with the work and life of the community. And I am afraid it is interfering. I ought to be getting more honey, and you ought to be flying after the Princess." She paused; then she added, determinedly and even severely: "You must go right away. You can catch up with them yet, and beat them, and -- and -- win her." Nuova had grown more excited and earnest as she continued urging him, but her voice broke a little as she uttered the last words.

Hero, paying too little attention to her manner and reading nothing in it, so seized was he by surprise at Nuova's new attitude, was yet doggedly intent on speaking out his own feelings. "No, I am not going after the Princess," he declared, speaking almost roughly in his vehemence. "I stopped flying because I wished to, and I came here because I wished to, and I shall talk to you because I wish to. You must hear me! Nuova, it is not the Princess that I love; it is you." Nuova started. "Yes, you; just you; all you. I love you, Nuova."

Nuova had stood rigidly at first, but then unconsciously swayed a little toward him. Then she caught herself and stepped back, all the time staring at him fixedly. He leaned toward her as he finished speaking, but made no other motion.

Nuova began to speak, still holding herself rigid and staring at him. She spoke in an even, monotonous voice, even mechanically, and as if directed by some foreign influence.

"You cannot love me," she said. "You can only love a Princess. I cannot love you. I cannot love anybody. There are other things for me to do. I have not cleaned floors; I must clean floors. And you, you must chase Princesses, chase Princesses, chase -- Princesses -- all -- the -- time." Her voice trailed away into tense silence, and she swayed as if about to fall, but recovered herself, and half-turned as if to move away.

Hero stepped forward, caught hold of her roughly, and spoke harshly. "You shall not clean floors," he said, "and I will not court the Princess." Then suddenly he spoke tenderly, "Nuova, I love you. Saggia says I can't; all of them say I can't; you say I can't. Well, I do. That is all. That is the answer. I have never loved a Princess and I do love you; I have loved you from the moment I saw you." He spoke more impetuously. "I didn't know what it was at first; now I do. I found out when I started to fly after Principessa. I can fly faster than any other drone; yet every one was beating me. I can fly higher than any other bee; but I couldn't rise at all. Why? Because of you, Nuova; because I loved you, Nuova, and could not love Principessa. And they say that you cannot love me. Saggia says so, does she? -- and all of them say so, do they? -- and you say so, do you? Well, they are all mistaken. Just as they are all mistaken about me. I can love you, because I do. You can love me, because you are going to. You were not an Amazon, yet you fought. You are not a Princess, but you are going to love. I can teach you; I will teach you."

Nuova was almost carried away by Hero's speech -- and her own inclinations. But she still fought blindly and feebly against what she wanted most. "No, no," she stammered; "I must work; I must go; I am only a worker bee; I cannot love; it is all fixed; it has been that way for a long time; I know; Saggia knows; Beffa -- "

She stopped short, remembering some of Beffa's cryptic words.

Just then Beffa's voice was heard. He was coming toward them hopping and singing.


Chapter XII

The Happy Ending


Beffa had not been able to hold the foragers any longer away from that part of the garden where Nuova and Hero were. The flowers here were more abundant and sweeter with honey, and the bees soon forgot their fright of the toad they had not seen -- and that Beffa had not, either.

Hero and Nuova were still concealed by the bush, behind which they stood, from the returning bees, but it was only a matter of a short time before they would certainly be seen. Beffa, therefore, came hopping toward them and singing. He could at least warn them of the approach of the others. So he sang loudly:

"Ah, well, who knows? Ah, well, who knows? The old world for the old bee; The new world for the new; For who may know the real truth? The untrue may be true. Ah, well, who knows? Ah, well, who knows?"

Hero turned triumphantly to Nuova. "Yes, yes, you hear?" he said. "Beffa knows. Say it; say it. Beffa knows: not Saggia; not the others; but Beffa. They are all blind. They only see what has been, but Beffa sees what may be. And you see it, Nuova, and I see it. You are a new bee, Nuova, and so is Beffa, and so am I. And we shall do new things; live a new life. Ah, Nuova, my little Nuova! I love you, and you love me. My little Nuova!"

Nuova could say nothing, do nothing. It was too much. She could only look up through a mist of tears into Hero's face and smile happily at him; it was half-smiling, half-crying, but unmistakable to Hero for what it truly was; the full revelation of Nuova's consent to all he had said. They stood together, silent in their great happiness. And thus Uno saw them. Uno was the first of the returned foragers to come, in seeking new flowers, around the bush and in sight of them. She stared at them amazed. Then, angry and malevolent, she beckoned, without calling out, to her companions to come to her. They crowded up and looked where Uno pointed. They were astounded and outraged. Uno first spoke up.

"They call themselves bees!" she said with scorn and malice.

"Beasts, rather!" said Due similarly.

"No, human beings," said Tre. "Like the daughter of the owner of the garden and her lover. In secret, and against all the customs. Shame and scandal!"

"Drive them out! Kill them!" burst out all the other bees, who had come crowding up at the words of Uno, Due, and Tre. "Call the Amazons! Sting them to death! Hero, the faithless one! Nuova, the silly new bee! Hero, our finest drone! Nuova, the pretty little nurse! Traitors! Kill them!"

It was a terrible moment for Nuova and Hero, for death looked them in the face. But they stood quietly side by side realizing their impending fate, yet fearless in their exaltation. Neither one spoke. They looked at each other with great eyes shining with love and happiness. Death -- together -- was such a little thing. It was even a thing, under the circumstances, to be courted. There seemed, indeed, nothing else that could be a "happy ending" for Nuova and Hero's romance. And as the Amazons pressed forward with lances set and already almost touching the devoted pair, it seemed to be the inevitable and immediate end. Yet, just at the moment when Nuova, with one last look of love and joy to Hero, turned full toward the shining lance points as if to say, "Welcome, sweet Death!" something happened.

A cry from the air just above them was heard. A messenger bee, greatly excited and almost breathless, was dropping down to them and gasping: "The Princess! The Princess! The Princess is lost! The Bee-Bird has caught the Princess!"

The mob about Hero and Nuova stopped in its attack and stood still, thunderstruck by the news. The messenger dropped to the grass just between the foremost Amazons and the pair of lovers, and there collapsed with fatigue and grief. She was caught and supported by Saggia and Beffa, who had pushed forward out of the crowd at the first cry from the messenger.

The horror-stricken bees were dumb for a moment, overwhelmed by the catastrophe. Then they began to call out, all speaking confusedly together: "The Princess is lost! The Bee-Bird has killed Principessa! Our only Princess! The old Queen gone, the new Queen killed! Our hive is doomed! We are queenless! No more children in our hive! It is our end!"

All the while they were speaking they surged back and forth, turning to each other. They seemed utterly at a loss what to do. None any longer paid any attention to Nuova and Hero standing there, still silent and motionless together, as if with no more thought of their present momentary escape from the death that was so close to them than they had had for their apparent certain destruction a moment before.

Saggia had not called out with the other bees. Nor had she moved away from her position near Hero and Nuova, where she was still supporting the messenger. But she had been looking keenly first at the shouting bees and then at Nuova and Hero. Her face was alight with a new thought and strong purpose. As the cries of the bees died down from exhaustion for a moment, she lifted her head and began to speak in a loud, clear voice.

"Bees," she said, "a terrible thing has happened to us!" Some of the bees cried out again in lamentation. Saggia paused a moment till there was silence again. Then she went on.

"But we stand before a wonderful happening that may be our saving." As she said this, she half-turned toward Hero and Nuova so as to call the attention of the bees to them. As she did this a few bees, notably Uno, Due, and Tre, began to gesture angrily again toward the couple, and to mutter against them. But Saggia paid no attention to this, except perhaps to lift her voice a little higher and to speak more rapidly.

"I am an old bee," she said, "and know the lore of bees better than any others of you. And I tell you plainly that the death of the Princess does not mean that all is lost. I tell you that we have a means of saving our hive. Sometimes a bee is born, who is not a Princess, but who is of a different sort from the rest of us workers; a bee who can not only work, but love; who can love and be loved and be the mother of bees."

She turned now swiftly to Nuova, stretched out her antennae and wings dramatically, and spoke as with the voice of an oracle.

"Nuova is such a bee!" she exclaimed solemnly. "Nuova can be a Queen for us! She loves Hero. Do you, Nuova?" Nuova turned a rapt face up to Hero's.

"And Hero loves Nuova. Do you, Hero?" Hero leaned down to Nuova and kissed her.

Saggia turned again to the bees. "That Hero loves Nuova proves that she can be loved; that Nuova loves Hero proves that she can be our Queen. Let Nuova, the new bee, be our new Queen!"

The bees were already buzzing and fluttering about in great excitement again. They were not able to comprehend immediately all that Saggia's words implied, but they saw in them a hope for their hive, and some of the bees already began to call out joyously. Just then Beffa began dancing vigorously and waving his wings and antennae in triumph and singing loudly and clearly:

"Bee-Bird may yet be beaten; We yet may peal the wedding bell, Although our Queen is eaten!"

Then he made a grand whirl which brought him squarely in front of Nuova, and with a deep curtsy and elaborate gesture he called out to all the bees, like a herald:

"The Queen has passed. Long live the Queen!"

And Saggia immediately echoed him, also bowing low before Nuova: "The Queen has passed. Long live the Queen!"

Other bees took up the shout, which soon spread to all. Beffa beckoned all to follow him in a triumphal march and dance around the amazed and happy pair, and altogether they set up a great song of joy and triumph. Nuova and Hero were not only saved, but they were become in a second King and Queen of the hive. It was breath-taking. They could only look at each other in utter thanksgiving and love. But as Beffa, tiring of the exertion of the dance, stopped by the side of Nuova, she put out an antenna caressingly to him and then turned to Hero.

"Hero, my King," she said proudly.

"Hero, our King!" proudly shouted all the bees.

And then she turned to Beffa.

"Beffa, my jester," she said lovingly.

"Beffa, our jester!" shouted all the bees.

Beffa gave a little hop; then looking up at Nuova, he sang:

"Ah, well, who knows? Ah, well, who knows?"

<eob>

Wild Kitty

By

L. T. Meade



Chapter I.

Bessie, Alice, Gwin, Elma.


Bessie! Bessie!

"Yes, mother," replied Bessie Challoner. "You'll be late for school, child, if you are not quick."

"Bessie!" shouted her father at the top of his voice from below stairs. "Bessie; late as usual."

"I am really going, father; I am just ready," was the eager reply. Bessie caught up her sailor hat, shoved it carelessly over her mass of thick hair, and searched frantically round her untidy bedroom for the string bag which contained her schoolbooks.

"Oh, Bessie, you'll get into a scrape," said Judy, one of her younger sisters, dancing into the room. "Why, you are late. I hear the schoolbell ringing; it will stop in a moment."

"Don't worry me, Judy," cried Bessie. "Do you know where my bag is?"

Judy ran into the middle of the room, turned round, and began to laugh ecstatically. "Do you know where it is, you little good-for-nothing? Have you put it hiding?"

"Yes, yes, yes," screamed the child, jumping up and down in her joy.

"Then, if you don't give it to me at once, I'll -- "

But Judy had dodged her and was out of the room. Up to the attic flew the child, and after her dashed Bessie. The bag was found in the corner of the linen-cupboard. Bessie aimed a frenzied blow at Judy, who once again dodged her, then the schoolgirl ran downstairs and was out of the house.

"Bessie, for shame!" said her brother, who was standing smoking his cigarette in a very lazy manner in the garden. "Why, you'll never get full marks."

"Don't," said Bessie. "I feel quite hunted between you all."

She had got on the highroad now, and could walk away in peace. She was a tall girl, somewhat bony-looking at present, with a face which showed abundance of intellect, large dreamy eyes, a wide mouth, a flat nose, a long chin. Bessie was certainly not at all a pretty girl; but, notwithstanding this fact, there were few of all the pupils at Middleton School who approached her in popularity. She was clever without being a scrap conceited, and was extremely good-natured, doing her work for the pleasure of doing it and not because she wanted to outstrip a schoolfellow. She was conscientious too, and would have scorned to do a mean or shabby thing; but she was hopelessly untidy, careless to a fault, late for school half her days, getting into countless scrapes and getting out of them as best she could -- the butt of her class as well as the favorite, always true to herself and indifferent to the censures or the praise of her fellow-creatures.

"Well, Bess, is that you? Do wait for me," called out a panting voice in the distance.

Late as she was, Bessie stopped. It was never her way to leave a fellow-creature in the lurch.

A girl with dancing eyes and rosy cheeks came panting and puffing round the corner.

"I just caught a sight of the red ribbon with which you tie your hair," she said. "I am so glad you are late; I am too, and I am quite ashamed of myself."

"Why in the world should you be ashamed of yourself, Alice?" asked Bessie. "I don't suppose you meant to be late."

"Of course not; but I shall lose my mark for punctuality; and you know, Bessie, I am feverishly anxious to get a move, and to -- to win the scholarship at the midsummer break-up."

Bessie yawned slightly.

"Come on, Alice," she said; "I am disgracefully late as usual, and we need not make matters worse. I suppose we must wait in the hall now until prayers are over."

"It's too bad," said Alice. "I'll tell you afterward how it happened, Bessie. I am glad you waited for me. They always scold you so much for being late that they will not take so much notice of me. May I slip into my place in form behind you?"

"If you like," said, Bessie.

They entered the great schoolhouse, turned down a long corridor, deposited their hats and jackets on the pegs provided for the purpose, and went into the schoolroom just when the pupils were filing into their different classes.

Both girls had marks against their names for unpunctuality. Alice frowned and fidgeted, turned scarlet, glanced nervously at her fellow-pupils, but Bessie took the matter with her wonted calm. Soon she forgot all about it. She became absorbed in her different studies, each one of which she had prepared with extreme attention. As she answered question after question her great, full, dreamy eyes seemed to lighten with hidden fire, her face lost its plainness, the intellect in it transformed it. One or two other girls in the class watched her with a slight degree of envy.

Bessie was very high up in the school. As usual she quickly rose to the head of the form; this position she kept without the slightest difficulty during lesson after lesson.

Alice, muddled already by that mark for unpunctuality, got through her work badly; as Bessie rose in the class Alice went down. At the end of the morning's work the two girls were far as the poles asunder.

"I can't think how you do it," said Alice, coming up to Bessie during recess, and linking her hand through her arm. "You never seem to mind disgrace at all."

"Of course I mind disgrace," answered Bessie. "Come out into the playground, won't you Alice? We can't talk in here."

They went out and began pacing up and down the wide quadrangle devoted to the purpose. Other girls passed them two and two, each girl talking to her special companion.

"How very handsome Gwin Harley looks this morning," said Alice, pausing in her grumbling to gaze at a slender and lovely girl who passed them, walking with another dark-eyed, somewhat plain girl of the name of Elma Lewis.

"I wish she was not such friends with Elma," said Bessie. "I like Gwin very much indeed; I suppose every one in the school does."

"Catch Elma not making up to her," said Alice. "Why, you know Gwin is as rich as ever she can be; she has a pony-carriage of her own. I cannot make out why she comes to Middleton School."

"Because it is the best school in the neighborhood," said Bessie somewhat proudly. "It is not a question of money, nor of anything but simply of learning; we learn better at Middleton School than anywhere else; there are better teachers and -- "

"But such a rum lot of girls," said Alice. "Of course we all go in sets, and our set is quite the nicest in the school; but all the same, I wonder a rich man like Mr. Harley allows Gwin to come here."

Gwin and Elma drew up at that moment in front of the other two.

"Bessie," said Gwin, "I saw you carrying everything before you this morning. But," she added hastily, "that is neither here nor there. I shall never be a great learned genius like you, but I shall admire geniuses all the same. Now, I want to say that Elma is coming to tea with me this afternoon, and will you both come as well? We have a good deal to talk over."

Bessie's face lightened.

"I should like it very much indeed," she said; "but you know I must get through my studies first."

"Oh, you won't take long over them."

"Yes, but I shall," answered Bessie; "there is a very stiff piece of German to translate this afternoon. I can manage French and mathematics of course, and -- "

"Oh, don't begin to rehearse your different studies," said Gwin, holding up her hand in a warning attitude. "I don't care in the least what you learn, Bessie; I want you to come. Because," she added, "you are such an honest creature."

"Why should not I be honest?" said Bessie, opening her eyes wide. "I have never had any temptation to be anything else."

"My dear Bessie, you are too painfully matter-of-fact," said Elma. "Gwin meant that your nature is transparent -- it is a beautiful trait in any character."

"Well, Bessie, will you come or will you not?" interrupted Gwin.

"Yes, I'll come. I'll manage it somehow," said Bessie. I can't resist the temptation."

"And you too, Alice?" said Gwin, turning to Alice Denvers, who was watching Bessie with envious eyes.

"I don't suppose mother will let me. I am ever so vexed," said Alice.

"But why not, dear; you have nothing special to do to-day?"

"Well, I had a bad mark for unpunctuality, and -- "

"What does that signify?"

"But listen; I have gone down several places in class. Father and mother are so particular; they seem to think my whole future life depends upon my position in school. Of course I know we are not very rich, like you -- " Here she flushed and hesitated.

Gwin Harley flushed also.

"When you talk like that," she said, "I feel quite ashamed of being well off. I often long to be poor like -- like dear little Elma here." As she spoke she patted her somewhat squat little companion on her arm. "But never mind, girls; I am not one of those who intend to throw away all my money; that is one reason why I want to have a good talk this afternoon. You must come, Alice; you simply must."

"But there is another reason," said Alice. "Kitty Malone is coming to-day."

"Kitty Malone! Who in the name of fortune is she?"

"Oh, a wild Irish girl."

"Truly wild, I should think, with that name. 'Kitty Malone, ohone!' I seem to hear the refrain somewhere now. Isn't there a song called 'Kitty Malone'?"

"There is a song called 'The Widow Malone,'" said Bessie; "don't you know it? You read all about it in 'Harry Lorrequer.'"

"But who is Kitty Malone, Alice?"

"I say a wild Irish girl."

"And what has she got to do with you?"

"She is coming to board with us. She is going to join the school, and mother is to have the charge of her. A precious bore I shall find it."

"When did you say she was coming?" asked Gwin eagerly.

"I expect she is at home by now; she was to arrive this morning."

"Delightful!" said Gwin, clapping her hands, "she shall come too. I want beyond anything to become acquainted with a real aborigine, and of course any girl called Kitty Malone hailing from the sister-isle must belong to that species. Bring the wild Irish girl with you by all means, Alice; and now, as you have no manner of excuse, I'll say ta-ta for the present." She kissed her pretty hand lightly to the two girls, and went on her way, once more accompanied by her faithful satellite, Elma.

"Isn't she fascinating?" said Alice; "aren't you quite in love with her, Bessie?"

"Dear me, no," answered Bessie Challoner. "I never fall in love in that sort of headlong fashion; but all the same," she added, "I admire Gwin very much, only I do wish she would not take up with Elma."

"So do I," said Alice.

"It was very kind of her to ask us," continued Bessie, "and I for one shall be delighted to go. I have not the least doubt that in a big house of that sort they have 'Household Encyclopedia,' and I want to look up the article on magnetic iron ore."

"Oh, what in the world for?" cried Alice.

"I am interested in magnets, and -- but there, Alice why should I worry you with the sort of things that delight me. I am going, and that is all right. You will be sure to come too; won't you Alice?"

"Yes, I must manage it somehow; and as Gwin has asked Kitty Malone it won't make it quite so difficult. I know mother would not let me leave Kitty this afternoon, for it is, from the money point of view, a great thing for us her coming. Her people are quite well off, although they are Irish. They live in an old castle on the coast of Donegal, and Kitty has never been out of the country in which she was born. They are paying mother very well to receive her, and mother is ever so pleased. Of course it's horrid for me for she will be my companion morning, noon, and night; we are even to sleep in the same room. It was that that made me late for school this morning, and got me that horrid, horrid mark for unpunctuality."

"But why? I don't understand," said Bessie.

"Well, you see, I put it off until the last minute. I know it was all my fault; but I would not empty the cupboard in the corner of the room, although mother told me to do so at intervals for the past week. Well, mother came in this morning and found it choke full -- you know the sort of thing, full to bursting, so that the door wouldn't shut -- and she said that I should empty it before I went to school. I told her I should be late, and mother said it was a just punishment for me. Didn't I bless Kitty Malone! But of course I set to work, and I scrambled out the things somehow. Of course I am in hot water, and father is so terribly particular; but I will try and come. Yes, I'll try and come, and I'll bring Kitty."

"Very well; if you are going we may as well go together," said Bessie. "Gwin never mentioned the hour she had tea; but I suppose if we are at Harley Grove by five o'clock it will do."

"Yes, I should think so," said Alice in a dubious voice. "It is a pity she did not mention the hour. There she is still hobnobbing with Elma. I'll just run across the quadrangle and ask her."

Alice left her companion, obtained the necessary information from Gwin, and came back again. "She says if we are with her sharp at five it will do quite well, and we are to stay until nine o'clock, then we can all go home together."

"Delicious!" said Bessie. "I love being out late. I hope there will be a moon, and that there won't be many clouds in the sky, for I want to examine the position of some of the planets. Did I tell you, Alice, that Uncle John has a telescope through which I can see the asteroids?"

"What on earth are they?" cried Alice, yawning as she spoke.

"Oh, the very small planets."

"Then, my dear, I hope you will see them. But really, Bessie, I can't run round nature as you do -- your intellect is quite overpowering; one moment you want to get up information with regard to magnetic iron ore, and the next you confound me with some awful observation about asteroids. Good-by, Bessie; good-by. I shall be late for dinner, and then no chance of going to the fair Gwin's this afternoon."

"Well, if you do go, call for me," shouted Bessie after her; "I'll wait for you until half-past four, then I'll start off by myself."

"Yes, yes, I'll come if I can, and bring Kitty also if I can."

"Be sure you don't fail. I'll look out for you."

Alice put wings to her feet and set off running down the dusty road, and Bessie more soberly returned home.



Chapter II.

The Blarney Stone.


Alice's home was nearly half a mile from the school. It was a big, commonplace suburban house standing at a corner. It had a small garden in front and a larger one at the back; but neither at front nor back were the gardens tidily kept. They were downtrodden by the constant pressure of many feet, and were further ornamented at intervals by sheds and kennels, for Fred and Philip Denvers were devoted to all sorts of pets; there was also a rabbit-run at one end, and a little railed-off place where Mrs. Denvers tried to keep fowls.

Alice at intervals had sighed for a tennis lawn; but whenever she dared to mention the idea she was hooted by her big brothers, who did not want the garden to be made in the least bit, as they expressed it, ornamental.

"But tennis isn't ornamental!" said Alice.

"Beastly game," remarked Fred. "Only meant for girls; just to give them an opportunity of hobnobbing together, and talking gossip, and making up mischief."

"You talk in the most ridiculous, unfair way," said Alice in indignation; but she did not dare to mention the subject of the tennis court again, and the boys still continued to build fresh sheds and introduce new animals.

On this occasion, as Alice walked up to the house, she was met by Fred, who ran out to meet her in some excitement.

"I say, Alice," he cried, "she's come, and she is a rum 'un!"

"Who has come?" asked Alice; "not -- not Kitty Malone?"

"No one else, at your service, Kitty Malone, ohone!" cried Fred. "And oh! isn't she Irish! You come along and see her. I never saw anything like her before."

"Why, Fred, I didn't think you cared for girls."

"Nor do I as a rule, but this one -- oh! I say she is a jolly sort. Why she's been down in the kitchen and up in the attics -- she knows every one in the house already; and do you know what she is doing now -- sitting in the drawing-room with the window wide open, grinning down at you, and she has got Pointer in her arms. You know Pointer, dirty old fellow! -- well, she caught him up the moment she came in, and insisted on bringing him upstairs, and he has taken to her as if he had known her ever since he was a puppy. Mean of him, isn't it; but I declare I don't blame him. Oh! there you are, Kitty Malone." Fred raised his laughing face to encounter another as laughing, a face at that moment grinning from ear to ear.

"Are you Alice?" called a voice. "Are you the one I am to sleep with? Just say, call out loud; don't mind if you shout, because I'm accustomed to that sort of thing."

"Is this Kitty Malone?" thought Alice. She liked frank, jolly girls; but she was not quite prepared for Kitty.

She entered the house, flung down her bag of books, and ran upstairs to the drawing-room. The next moment she found herself in the firm embrace of a girl a little taller than herself, a slim, very pretty, very untidy, very overdressed girl.

"Here I am and welcome to yourself," said Kitty. "I was so vexed you were not here to greet me; but bless you, my dear, I'm quite comfortable. No, I'm not a bit tired -- you haven't asked me, by the way, but I suppose you mean to. I had a spiffin' journey. Sick! not I. I'm never seasick, and I enjoyed the train. I made friends with such a dear old gentleman and with two boys. I nearly kissed the boys when I was leaving them, but I didn't quite. Is that you, Fred? Come along in now and let us be jolly together. Why, Alice, how stiff you are; you have not opened your lips yet."

"I have not had an opportunity," answered Alice. "You do talk such a lot, Kitty."

"Do I? I expect we all do in Old Ireland. Bless her! she's a dear old country, and I'm as sorry as anybody to say good-by to her. But, all the same, I am glad to see England (poky, stiff sort of place it seems). Say now, Alice, do you like my dress? It was made in Dublin; it's the height of the fashion I am told."

"It's very showy," said Alice.

"Do you think so? Well, you are plainly dressed; nothing but that brown merino. And -- my dear, I thought they were always dressed up to the nines near London. This place is near London, isn't it?"

"Yes, a few miles off. Oh, of course your dress is very nice; but now I must get ready for dinner."

"Oh! and ain't I peckish?" said Kitty, clapping her hands and winking broadly at Fred.

Alice turned to leave the room.

"We may as well go together," said Kitty, following her and slipping her hand through her arm. "Do you know," she said, "when I first came to the house I could scarcely breathe. Why, it's nothing but a nutshell. I never saw such a deeny dawn of a place in the whole course of my life. How many of you live here?"

"Father and mother, and the two boys and I," answered Alice.

"And you are the only girl?"

"Yes."

"Now come to the window and let me have a good squint at you." As Kitty spoke she dragged Alice forward, put her facing the light, and stood herself with her back to it. She began to make a careful scrutiny, calling out her remarks aloud: "Eyes passable, forehead so-so, mouth pretty well, complexion not bad for England, hair -- "

"Oh, I say, Kitty, I can't quite stand this," said Alice. "Are those your manners in Ireland? What a wild country it must be!"

"Dear, darling, jolly old place!" said Kitty, dancing up and down.

"And you really give me to understand that people make remarks on one another in that sort of fashion?" said Alice, darting away from her companion and pouring some water into a basin to wash her hands.

"Well, yes, love, they do when they like, and they don't when they don't like. We are free and easy folk, I can tell you, and we have a gay time. I'll tell you all about father and the old castle, and the dogs, and the cows, and the cats, and the rabbits, and the mice when we have a spare moment. That brother of yours, Fred, is not half a bad old chap; and I saw a nice, curly-headed little gossoon coming in just now with his books under his arm. What's his name?"

"Oh, you mean Philip. Yes, he's the youngest; he's well enough if you don't spoil him, Kitty."

"I won't spoil him, bless his heart," said Kitty; "but of course I'll make friends with him. I couldn't live without boys. There are two at home, Pat and Laurence; and, oh! I shall miss Laurie, dear old chap! I must not think of him." Kitty's face underwent a swift change, the brightness went out of it just as if a heavy cloud had swept away the sun; the big, very handsome dark-blue eyes, so dark as to be almost black, grew full of sudden tears; the exquisitely curved lips trembled; she turned her head aside and looked out of the window.

At that moment it seemed to Alice that she saw beneath Kitty's wild, eccentric manners a heart of gold. She only caught a glimpse of it, for the next moment the girl was chatting away in the most light, frivolous, extraordinary style. The dinner-bell sounded through the house, and the pair went down to dinner.

"I'd like to sit near you, please, Mr. Denvers," said Kitty.

Philip's place was always near his father; this had been a custom ever since he had been a baby. Kitty now ensconced herself in the little boy's chair.

"Am I taking anybody's seat?" she asked, looking up.

"Only mine," said Phil.

"Never mind, little gossoon; you shall have it to-morrow. I want to sit near Mr. Denvers because I expect he can tell me a good many things I don't understand."

"You must allow me to eat my dinner, Miss Malone. You see I have a good deal of carving to do, and besides I am a busy man," said Mr. Denvers in a good-humored voice, for it was difficult to resist the roguish glances of Kitty's eyes, and the sort of affectionate way in which she cuddled up to her host's side.

"Oh, I won't talk over much," she said, glancing with her flashing eyes round at the entire party. "But you see I am quite a stranger; and, oh my! the place does seem lonely. You are all so stiff, I cannot quite understand it. Is it the English fashion, please, Mr. Denvers?"

"Well, you see," answered Mrs. Denvers from the other end of the table, "we don't know you yet."

"But I am sure all the same we shall be very good friends," said Mr. Denvers. "May I give you a glass of wine?"

"Wine! Bless you, I'm a teetotaller," said Kitty. "Why, it isn't habits of intoxication you'll be putting into me. I never take anything but water, or milk when I can get it; and it isn't Miss Malone you're going to call me is it, for if it is I tell you frankly that I'll die entirely. I must be Kitty from this moment, or Kitty Malone, or anything of that sort, but Kitty something it must be. Now, is it settled fair and square, Kitty shall I be? Here's my hand on my heart; I'll die if I'm called Miss Malone!"

Fred burst into roars of laughter.

"I say," he cried, "what an extraordinary girl you are!"

"Well, and so are you an extraordinary boy," said Kitty. "Oh, dear me, I am hungry! Do you mind handing me over the potatoes? Why, you don't mean to say you peel 'em. I never heard of such a thing! Why don't you have them in their jackets?"

"Potatoes are generally mashed or peeled or something of that sort in England," said Mr. Denvers. "I see, Kitty -- " he added.

"Ah! bless you now for calling me that! What is it you want to say, dear Mr. Denvers?"

"I see we shall have a good deal to teach you," he said, and then he too burst into a fit of laughter, and so the merry, somewhat rollicking meal proceeded.

Alice alone would not succumb to the fascinations of the Irish maiden. She sat holding herself somewhat stiff, feeling a good deal disgusted, wondering what Bessie Challoner would say, what Gwin Harley would think, anticipating in advance Elma's sneers.

Kitty, however, subjugated Mr. and Mrs. Denvers and the two boys completely. As to Pointer, he would not leave her side; as her long, white, taper fingers touched the top of his grizzled head, he looked at her with eyes of unutterable love.

"What have you done to the dog?" said Fred at last. He felt almost afraid, in his great admiration of the bewitching stranger.

"Only given him a taste of blarney," was the reply. "Tell me now, Fred, were you ever in Ireland?"

"No," answered Fred.

"Ah! I thought as much. If you had been, and if you had kissed the Blarney Stone, why then, it's nothing could withstand you."

"What is the Blarney Stone?" asked Fred.

"Don't you know that much? Why you are an ignoramus out and out. Well, I'll tell you. It's a stone on Blarney Castle, set low down in the wall, five or six feet from the top; and to kiss it, why that is no easy matter, for you have to be held by your heels and let hang over the wall; and if you can get some one to hold you tight -- very tight, mind -- you slide down and you reach the stone and you kiss it, and from that moment -- oh glory! but you carry everything before you. There's not a man, a woman, nor a child, no, nor a beastie either, that can resist you. You bewitch 'em."

"I have no doubt, Kitty, you kissed the stone," said Mr. Denvers.

"Why then, it's yes, sir," she answered raising her big eyes and then dropping them again with an inimitable expression.

"What a queer little girl you are!" he said. "You are very amusing; but I think we must tame you a bit."

"You won't do that, sir. They call me the wild Irish girl at home, and the wild Irish girl I'll be to the end of the chapter. If it's schooling I want, why, I'll have it, but taming, no thank you."

Kitty jumped from her seat and began to dance a sort of improvised Irish jig about the room.

"Do you know the jig?" she said, dancing up to Fred as she spoke.

"No," he answered; "are you trying it on now?"

"Yes; jump up, my hearty, and I'll teach you in a twinkling. Here, watch me; point your toes so, turn round -- pirouette as we call it. Now, then, put your hand on your hip, courtesy to me, and come back again. That's how it's done. Oh, Fred, I'll soon have you as beautiful a broth of a boy as if you were born in Old Ireland."

"Fred, my son, it is time for you to go back to college," said his father. "Kitty, we are very pleased to have you here, and you are a very amusing girl; but you know life is not all play."

Kitty pulled a long face. Fred darted a laughing glance at her, and ran off. Kitty and Alice at last found themselves alone.

"You're disapproving of me a good bit, aren't you, Alice?" said Kitty, going up to the other girl and taking both her hands in hers.

"Well, I think you are very odd," said Alice.

"And do you want me to be quite sober and tame, and to have all the spirit knocked out me, alanna?"

"No; but we don't do exactly as you do in this country."

"And you think you'll tame me into your cut-and-dry pattern?"

"I don't know about that. I don't understand you, Kitty."

"You will after a bit, Alice. It's here I am for sure, and a gray sort of land it is! Why, the sun doesn't even shine!"

"Oh, doesn't it," said Alice angrily. "It's ridiculous to talk in that strain about this country. We have much finer weather than you have in Ireland."

"Don't be cross, darling; I mean it metaphorically. You see we live a gay life over there, we have a joke about everything, and the wit that runs out of our mouths -- why, it's like flashes of lightning. Oh, we have a good time in the old country, and when you come and stay with me at Castle Malone you'll say so for yourself. Now, then, what do you want to do this afternoon?"

"I must look over my lessons first."

"Lessons -- how many?"

"A good few. You see of course I want to get on."

"By the way, Alice," said Mrs. Denvers, who came into the room at that moment, "I am afraid you had a bad mark for unpunctuality this morning."

"Yes, mother, that is so."

"And what is your place in form?"

"I went down two or three places, mother."

"I am sorry to hear it; your father will be very much annoyed."

"I'll try and make up for it to-morrow, mother. And, mother, Gwin Harley has asked me to go to tea with her this afternoon -- may I?"

"I don't see how you can. There is Kitty Malone."

"But she has asked Kitty too."

"What's that?" asked Kitty, bounding forward. "A tea party, bless you?"

"You have been asked to tea at Harley Grove. Mother, may we go? I think Kitty would enjoy it."

"If you are sure you are not too tired, Kitty; you have had a long journey," said Mrs. Denvers.

"I'm not a scrap tired," said Kitty. "I'm as gay as a lark and as fresh as a daisy. I hope it's rather a big swell party, for I have got some awfully pretty dresses. I want to make myself look smart. You can tell me how they manage these sort of things in England. I'm all agog to go."

"Yes, Alice, you may go," said Mrs. Denvers. "But Kitty, my dear, if I were you I would let them down lightly."

"What do you mean, dear Mrs. Denvers?"

"Don't startle them too much. They are not accustomed to such -- such frankness as you are disposed to give."

"I'll bewitch 'em," said Kitty, beginning again to dance with light fantastic measure up and down the room. "I'll bewitch 'em one and all. I have made up my mind. I didn't kiss the Blarney Stone for nothing!"



Chapter III.

Is That The Girl?


Kitty and Alice went up to their bedroom, where Kitty began to unpack her trunks and toss her dresses about -- they were all new and most of them were gay. She had scarcely a quiet-looking dress in the entire collection.

"What will you do with those?" said Alice, who saw nothing to admire in the fantastic clothes, and much to condemn. Alice had not the smallest love for dress, and at this period of her life she considered any pains taken over clothes a sheer waste of time.

"But don't you like them?" said Kitty. "I thought girls loved pretty dress. Aunt Honora says so, and so did Aunt Bridget when she came to see us at Castle Malone a month ago. When she heard I was going to England she said: 'Why, then, my dear Kitty, you must titivate up. It will never do for them to see you not looking as bright as a sunbeam and as gay as a cricket. It's colors you'll want, Kitty, and rich materials, and spangles, and jewels, and beads, and all the other fal-lals.' And father said to Aunt Bridget:

"'Why then, now, Biddy,' said he, 'you just get what's right for the child, for she hasn't a notion, and no more have I, what's worn in that foreign place England.'

"So Aunt Bridget said: 'A wink's as good as a word,' and I'll dress her up in dashing style!' So she took the measure of my chest, and the round of my waist, and the length of my skirt, and she saw how many inches I wanted in the sleeve, and she said: 'You leave the rest to me, Kitty.' And of course I did, and in three weeks' time down came a trunk that would make your eyes shine even to look within it. Oh! wasn't it just the darling entirely! Here's one of the dresses. Now, what do you think of that?"

As Kitty spoke she pulled out a pink nun's-veiling, made up with innumerable ruffles and frills and laces and embroidery, a really very pretty dress for quite a gay party, but totally unsuitable for a schoolgirl of Kitty Malone's age.

"Why, it's a long dress?" said Alice. "How old are you, Kitty?"

"It's fifteen I'll be my next birthday, darling. Well, and is there anything wrong about fifteen? I always thought it was a jewel of an age."

"Yes, but this dress is long; why, there's a train to it!"

"Oh, mercy me! so there is," said Kitty. "To tell you the truth, I never even tried on the skirt, I was so bamboozled and overexcited with the others. A train to be sure! Oh, won't I bewitch 'em entirely. Let me try it on, darling. Have you got a long looking-glass anywhere?"

"Not in this room," answered Alice; "it is not necessary."

"Not necessary? Well, now, I should say it's the one thing you ought to have in every room, a long looking-glass that you can see yourself in from top to toe. Why, half your elegance is lost if you cannot see how you look your own self. Is there one in any other room?"

"In mother's dressing-room, I think."

"And where's that room situated, my jewel?" asked Kitty.

"Oh, at the other end of the passage; but really, Kitty -- "

Kitty, however, was off. Alice stayed in her room, too disgusted to follow her.

"Something must be done to put a stop to this," she thought. "Of course, mother won't keep a girl of that sort. Why, she's a regular wild Indian; I shall be ashamed to take her out this afternoon."

But at that moment a high voice, accompanied by peals of laughter, was heard shouting for Alice.

"Alice, mavourneen, come along this minute! Alice, come quick! quick! Why, it's enthralling I am! You never saw anything like me before, did you? Oh, the Blarney Stone, what it has done for me. Come, Alice, come, come quick!"

"What can be the matter?" called Mrs. Denvers from downstairs. "Has anything happened?"

"Oh, it's only me, dear Mrs. Denvers. Do come up this minute, my dear ducky woman, and see me. I found a dress with a train to it in my trunk, a new dress from Dublin, and I'm in it, and beautiful I look. Come up and see me. I'm gazing at myself in your glass. I never saw anything so lovely in the whole course of my life."

Mrs. Denvers and Alice now both appeared upon the scene. Kitty in her new dress, with a train nearly a foot on the ground, was stepping backward and forward before the long glass in Mrs. Denvers' wardrobe. Her eyes were flashing with merriment and delight. Her small arched feet were dancing a pas de seul in and out of the many flounces which befrilled the end of the pink dress.

"Well, do you like it?" called Kitty. "How do you think I look? Did you ever see anybody more elegant in all your born days? Oh, if only the dear old dad could see me! I feel as if I must kiss myself." Here she commenced blowing kisses vigorously at the gay figure reflected in the glass.

"Come, Kitty," said Mrs. Denvers, "you are not going out in that dress."

"And why not, my dear Mrs. Denvers? Why shouldn't I go out and captivate the natives? That's what a pretty girl is made for."

"Not in this country," said Mrs. Denvers in a somewhat severe voice. "It cannot be done; Kitty, you are much too young to wear a dress of that sort. While you are with me you must expect to be guided by my taste and wishes."

"But, dear Mrs. Denvers, Aunt Bridget ordered it."

"Well, of course, dear, you can wear it at Castle Malone, but not here -- at least, not out of doors. Yes, my child, it is a very pretty dress; but I do understand what is right for girls to appear in. You must have something quieter, Kitty."

"Then come along and choose for me," said Kitty, who was as good-natured as she was high-spirited and volatile. "Come straight and choose, for Alice, poor child, is troubled with the sulks."

"What do you mean?" said Alice indignantly.

"But isn't it true, darling; you have such a frown between your brows, and it doesn't improve you. There, cheer up, Alice, honey! Why, it's the best of friends I want to be with you; but you don't like me, not a bit. I'll win you yet, Alice, aroon! But at the present moment you're saying in your heart: 'What a nasty, forward, ill-bred girl that is, and I am ashamed, that I am, that my schoolfellows should see me with the likes of her.'"

"Come, come, Kitty, no more of this," said Mrs. Denvers. "If you are going out you have no time to lose. Yes, let me see your wardrobe. I think this dark-blue dress is the best."

"But you are not expecting me to go out in the open air without a body!" said Kitty, "and there's nothing but a skirt to this. I suppose I may wear one of my pretty blouses?"

"Yes; that skirt and a nice blouse will do. Now then, get ready, both of you, as quickly as you can. Kitty, remember I expect your things to be put away tidily."

"To be sure, ma'am. Why, then, it would be a shame to spoil all these pretty garments. I'll put them away in a jiffy, and come down looking as neat as a new pin."

Alice, who had brushed out her hair, put on a clean collar and a pair of cuffs, was now standing waiting for her friend.

"Look here," she said suddenly, "will you be long putting away your things and dressing?"

"Not very long, darling; but I must curl my fringe over again."

"I wish you wouldn't wear a fringe, Kitty; none of the nice girls do at the school."

"Is it give up my fringe I would?" answered Kitty.

"What a show I'd be! Why, look at my forehead, it's too high for the lines of pure beauty. Now, when the fringe comes down just to here, why, it's perfect. Aunt Bridget said it was, and she's a rare judge, I can tell you. She was a beauty in her youth, one of the Dublin beauties; and you can't go to any city for fairer women than are to be found in Dublin. I tell you what it is, Alice, I see you are in a flurry to be off. Can I overtake you?"

"You can," said Alice suddenly. "You can come to me at Bessie Challoner's house."

"Bessie Challoner! -- what a pretty name! -- Challoner! I like that!" answered Kitty, looking thoughtful. "And where's her house, aroon? What part of the neighborhood is it situated in?"

"Come here to the window and I'll show you. When you leave this house you turn to the right and walk straight on until you come to Cherry Lodge -- that's the name of the house. Bessie and I will be waiting for you."

"Well, then, off you go, and I won't keep you many minutes."

Alice ran out of the room. She found her mother waiting for her downstairs.

"Oh, mother," said Alice, "she's too dreadful."

"Come now, no whispering about me behind my back," called a gay voice over the stairs. "I thought it would be something of that sort. That's not fair -- out with your remarks in front of me, and nothing behind."

"Kitty, Kitty, go back and dress, you incorrigible child!" called Mrs. Denvers.

"Mother!" said Alice.

"My dear Alice," said her mother, "you will soon learn to like that poor child. She has a great deal that is good in her, and then she is so pretty."

"Pretty?" muttered Alice. "Oh, I see you're bewitched like the rest of them."

She left the house, feeling more uncomfortable, depressed, and angry than she had done for several years.

Mr. Denvers was a lawyer, and made a fairly good income; but his large family and the education of his boys had strained his resources to such an extent that he was very glad to accept the liberal sum which Kitty's father was paying for her. Alice knew all about this, and at first was more than willing to help her family in every way in her power. She did not murmur at all when she was asked to give up half of her room to the Irish girl. She was quite willing to take her under her patronage, to show her round, to try to get friends for her among her own schoolfellows -- in short, to make her happy. But then Alice had never pictured any one in the least like Kitty Malone. She had imagined a somewhat plain, shy, awkward girl, who would lean upon her, who would give her unbounded affection, and follow her lead in everything. Now, this sparkling, racy, daring Kitty was by no means to her mind. There was not the least doubt that Kitty would not be guided by anybody, that she would never play second fiddle, and there was also a dreadful fear down deep in poor Alice's heart that she would fascinate her school fellows instead of disgusting them, and that Alice's own dearest friends would leave her in favor of the stranger.

She walked very slowly, therefore, a frown between her brows, discontent and jealousy in her heart.

Bessie was waiting for her at the gate.

"Why, Alice," called out Bessie, "how late you are. We shan't get to Harley Grove by five o'clock."

"I can't help being late; it is a blessing you see me now," answered Alice. "I wonder you waited for me, Bessie."

"Well, my dear," answered Bessie, "I would much rather walk with you than take a solitary ramble by myself. I thought," she added, "you were going to bring that new Irish girl with you. Has she come?"

"Has she not come?" answered Alice. "Oh, Bessie, Bessie, it is because of her I am late. Oh, Bessie, she is quite too dreadful."

"How so?" asked Bessie.

"She is the most extraordinary, wild, reckless, absolutely unladylike, vulgar person I ever came across in the whole course of my life."

"What a lot of adjectives!" laughed Bessie. "I shall be quite curious to see her; from your description she must be a monster."

"She is a monster, a human monster," answered Alice; "and the worst of it is, Bessie, that in some extraordinary way she has fascinated both father and mother, and even Fred -- Fred, who hates girls as a rule; they are all so taken up with this blessed Kitty Malone that they don't mind her perfectly savage manners. I can tell you I am quite miserable about it."

"Poor Alice," answered Bessie in a sympathetic tone. "I suppose then, dear, she is not coming with us?"

"Oh, yes, she is; she is following us. She could not find anything quiet enough to put on."

"Quiet enough to put on! What do you mean?"

"Oh, my dear, her wardrobe is beyond description. She absolutely wanted to come to poor Gwin's quiet little tea party in a dress fit for a ball, flounced and frilled and laced and ribboned, and with a train to it, absolutely a train, although she is not fifteen yet."

Bessie could not help laughing. "I am sorry she is fond of dress," she answered; "I can't bear that sort of girl."

"Oh, you'll positively loathe her, Bessie. I quite pity you at the thought of having to walk with her this afternoon."

"My dear Alice, we must make the best of it," answered Bessie, "and I don't suppose she will quite kill me; she will be amusing at any rate."

"Amusing enough to those who have not got to live with her day and night," answered Alice in a very discontented voice. "Oh, and here she comes," she added; "and, look, she is running and racing down the road and waving her hands to us. Oh, Bessie, it is intolerable! Don't you pity me?"

"What! is that the girl?" cried Bessie. "How very -- "

"How very what?" asked Alice.

"How very pretty she is!"

"Pretty," said Alice in a tone of such withering scorn that Bessie could not help gazing at her friend in astonishment.



Chapter IV.

Tiffs All Around.


Kitty's dark-blue skirt was all that was correct and proper; it reached just to her ankles, and her remarkably small and beautifully-shaped feet were encased in the neatest possible tan boots. But the blouse of light pink silk, all bedizened with bunches of ribbons and lappets of lace, was in Alice's eyes almost as painfully unsuitable as the trained skirt. Kitty wore a little close-fitting cap of dark-blue velvet on her head. Her hair, of the softest, cloudiest black, true Irish hair, was piled up in a thick mass behind; in front it waved and curled round her white forehead. Kitty was very tall, and, child as she still was in years, had a more formed figure than most girls of her age. She was drawing on her tan gloves now, and unfurling a parasol of tussore silk with a heavy lace fall.

"I do hope I'm smart enough," she said, panting slightly as she spoke. "Is this one of your schoolfellows?"

"Yes; my friend, Miss Challoner."

"Haven't you got a Christian name?" asked Kitty, staring frankly with her wide-open eyes at Alice's friend.

"Bessie is my name," answered Bessie Challoner.

"Do you mind my calling it to you? I like Challoner awfully, and if I were to say Challoner without the Miss it might do, but Miss is so stiff. I hope I may be Kitty to you, and then you won't object to being Bessie to me."

"Not a bit," answered Bessie heartily; "but we are a little late, and had better walk on as fast as we can."

Gwin Harley lived in a beautiful house about two miles away, and the girls turned down a path which led across some fields in the direction of Harley Grove. The time of year was toward the end of May, and the weather was perfect.

Kitty, who had been silent for a time, now stood in the middle of the field, threw both her hands to her sides, let her parasol drop on the ground, and opened her mouth wide.

"Have you gone quite mad?" asked Alice in a severe tone.

"Mad is it?" said Kitty; "not I. I am taking in some of the air." Here she began to breathe very deeply and with considerable noise. "Why, my ducky girls, the pair of you, I was fairly suffocated in that bandbox of a house; now the breeze here is fine and fresh, and I want to fill my lungs. Is there any objection?"

"Oh, none I am sure," answered Bessie; "but you really did look most extraordinary."

"I am glad no one was passing at the moment," said Alice. "What would they have thought?"

"Does it matter what they think?" asked Kitty. "We never mind what anyone thinks of us in Ireland. Ah, the dear old place; how I pine for it! There now, my lungs are full, and we can go on again."

She picked up her parasol and began to stride forward.

"Isn't she a horror?" whispered Alice to Bessie.

"Hush!" answered Bessie; "she only does it to amuse us. The thing is to take very little notice; we'll soon tame her down."

"Is it taming me you're after?" called back Kitty. "Well, then, you'll never do that, for I come of a wild lot, and I have always been called Wild Kitty from the moment I could speak. But there's no harm in me, not a bit. Now, then, I'll walk as sober as you please. What shall we talk about?"

"Is there anything you would like to ask us?" said Bessie.

"I am sure then, darling, I don't think there is. Wouldn't you like to ask me some questions? I'm as open as day. I'll lay bare all the thoughts of my secret soul to the pair of you, if you care to hear them."

"I don't know that we do," said Bessie. "You see we have got to make your acquaintance yet, Kitty."

"Ah, now it's nice of you to call me Kitty, and that's a very pretty little voice you have; soft and winning. How is it you say some of those words? I can't get my tongue round them; but I dare say I will after a bit."

"Would you like to know what kind of place we are going to?" asked Bessie.

"Oh, I'll wait until I get there," answered Kitty. "I suppose it's like all other places; there's a house and some girls; and if we are asked to tea, why we'll get tea, and they'll think me no end of an oddity, and I'll think them a lot of muffs; but that don't matter. Oh, my dears, if you only saw Old Ireland, and if you only knew the free life we have there, and the beautiful air that comes blowing in from the broad Atlantic. Why, it's smothered I'll be in this queer place. I doubt if I'll stay long. I'll write to father, and ask him to take me back again."

"I would if I were you," said Alice stoutly.

"Now, what do you mean by that, 'Alice, aroon?'"

"I mean," said Alice, who had now almost lost control over her temper, "that if you go on as you have done since you came here, we shall none of us like you, and I for one shall be delighted when you return to Ireland."

As Alice spoke Kitty's charming face suddenly lost its brilliant color; it became white, and her dark eyes flashed with an angry fire. She stood perfectly still for a moment, then began to walk on a little faster than before.

"You have hurt her, Alice," said Bessie; "you should not have said that."

"I don't care; she made me do it; she is intolerable."

"Still, you had no right to speak as you did; remember she is a stranger."

Here Bessie ran after Kitty, and tried to slip her hand through her arm; but the Irish girl made an impatient movement, and, shrugging her shoulders, walked on quicker than before.

"Oh, leave her alone," whispered Alice; "let us talk about things that interest us. Why should all lives be upset by her? There, she is going on in front; let us fall back and talk about interesting things. Have you finished your work yet?"

"Oh, yes; I had a great deal to do this afternoon. I do hope, Alice, that Gwin won't mind if I ask her to let me go into the library. I must take a peep into 'Household Encyclopedia;' it is such a chance."

"Oh, I am sure she won't mind," replied Alice. "Gwin is the soul of good nature. I only dread what she will think."

"Oh, you need not dread anything," said Kitty, suddenly turning round and coming back to the girls. "I shan't be here long; don't be afraid."

"Please, Kitty," said Bessie; "don't mind what Alice said just now, she was vexed, because we are not quite accustomed to manners like yours. You will soon get into our ways, you know."

"Never, never!" cried Kitty.

"Well, at any rate, don't mind about it now. Do you think you will like your school life?"

"No; I shall just hate it."

"What a pity that will be; but I'm sure you don't know what you are saying. You are vexed with Alice, and I don't wonder -- Alice, you were very hard on her."

"Oh, never mind," answered Kitty; "don't ask her to apologize. I can go home again. I don't want to be with people who have made up their minds to dislike me. All the folks at home love me, and -- " Here tears dropped from her eyes, splashing down her cheeks in bright round pearls.

"I didn't mean to vex you," said Alice, who was disconcerted at this evident grief. "I dare say I shall get accustomed to you after a bit. I mean I do not really want you to go home."

Kitty's face underwent a change, rapid as a flash of lightning.

"If you want to make friends, Alice, it's as right as rain," she cried. "I know I was vexed, but it is over now; yes it is over. I am willing to be friends if you are willing."

"Of course," said Alice; "and I know I ought not to have spoken as I did; but you do manage to fret me dreadfully. I never saw a girl exactly like you before."

"It is all right now you really want to be friends," answered Kitty; "and I will try to be as dull as you please." Here she paused and seemed to consider. "There's no use," she continued after a moment; "I mean I must be myself whatever happens. I must be genuine. Please, Alice, let me be genuine for a week; if at the end of that time you find me intolerable, why I'll be off."

"Don't say anything about that," said Bessie; "everything is quite new to you, and Alice did speak unkindly; but please, Kitty, don't be angry if I say something."

"Oh, no, I won't be angry with you; you're a real duck," cried Kitty.

"Well, we English girls are not quite accustomed to your sort of way; we are quieter here and more reserved. Perhaps you had better -- "

"Oh, I know exactly what the end of that pretty little speech is going to be," said Kitty; "but I cannot. I must be Kitty Malone or nothing. I was born that way. Why, bless you, it is in our race. Aunt Bridget was just the same when she was young, and so was Aunt Honora, and even father; oh, and -- and Laurie. If you only saw Laurie and Pat! Oh, I wish you knew Laurie; if you saw him you would say, 'If there is a broth of a boy in the world he is one.'"

The girls had now reached the avenue gates at Harley Lodge, and the lodge-keeper ran out to open them. A few moments later they found themselves in sight of the pretty, modern mansion which Mr. Harley had lately purchased. The door was opened by a butler in very correct livery, and the young folk were shown into a handsome drawing-room at the other side of a broad hall. There was no one in the room when they entered, and Kitty walked straight up to a glass let into the wall, and began to survey herself with intense satisfaction. She had by this time forgotten the rebuff which Alice had given her, tears had only added to the brightness of her eyes, and her momentary fit of vexation and temper had deepened the color in her blooming cheeks. She nodded to herself with smiles of intense satisfaction, pushed her velvet cap in a slightly more coquettish way over her mass of black curls, and began once again to dance a very graceful pas de seul in front of the glass.

"I do think I have nice feet," she said; and just at that moment the door was opened, and Gwin Harley and Elma Lewis entered the room.

Gwin, statuesque, graceful, dressed in the most suitable manner, made a perfect contrast to poor, excitable Kitty. Kitty's words had been plainly audible, and Alice flushed deeply with vexation.

"Why, then, I had better introduce myself," said Kitty, who was by no means abashed. "Are you Miss Harley? You have got a very nice looking glass, let me tell you; it shows off the figure to perfection."

Gwin could not help coloring in surprise and astonishment.

"I am Kitty Malone, at your service," continued Kitty. "Shall I drop you a courtesy in the true Irish way? Some of us bob like this -- so, and some of us step back like this," here Kitty performed a very elaborate and very graceful courtesy, then stood upright, and laughing heartily, showed rows of pearly teeth. Gwin held out her hand.

"May I introduce my friend, Elma Lewis? Elma, this is Miss Malone."

"Kitty Malone. I won't be called Miss Malone," said the incorrigible Kitty.

"Won't you all come upstairs now, girls?" said Gwin, who perceived that both Alice and Bessie were annoyed by Kitty's manners.

"If we take off our things we can go into the library and have a good game before tea, or would you prefer a walk?"

"Well, I for one am tired," said Kitty. "The fact is," she continued, these boots are somewhat tight. They're awfully becoming, you know, aren't they? but they do squeeze a little just across the toes; how ever, as Aunt Honora says, 'Pride feels no pain,' and I am desperate proud of my feet. Shall we all look at our feet, and see which has got the prettiest pair?"

"I don't think we will just at present," said Gwin. "If you are tired you must take your boots off. Have you not just come from Ireland?"

"Bless you, yes," answered Kitty; "I only arrived to-day. The place is as new to me as it can be. Up to the present I don't think much of it, although you have got a lovely house, Miss Harley -- fine and airy with plenty of big rooms. I suppose you have got money galore; have you?"

"I believe we have," said Gwin in some astonishment, and a haughty note coming into her voice.

"Ah, now, don't begin to be proud and stiff!" exclaimed Kitty. "It is quite wonderful; every one I speak to here seems to take me the wrong way. What in the world do you all mean? I thought when I came to England that people would say, 'Well, now, that's a remarkably pretty girl. I am sure she's Irish by the twinkle in her eye and the roll of the brogue in her voice; but we'll like her all the better for that.' But, bless my heart! that's not the way you're taking me. Every time I open my lips somebody seems to think I have said something wrong. Upon my word it's a nice state of things, and I, the darling of my old father. If Aunt Honora and Aunt Bridget were here they would soon put matters straight; and Laurie, dear, darling, old Laurie, if he saw his Kitty put upon, wouldn't he give it to you all?"

"We none of us want to put upon you, Miss Malone," said Gwin Harley.

"Miss Malone!"

"Yes," said Gwin firmly, "it is the custom here to call girls by their surnames for a little until we get to know them; but I am sure," she added kindly, "you will soon be Kitty with us all, for I see you are very nice, although you have not quite our ways."

"Ah, there, that is all I want you to say," answered Kitty with a profound sigh, "and now I'll go upstairs and slip off my bits of boots, for they are a trifle tight. Can you lend me a pair of your shoes, Miss Harley?"

"Yes, with pleasure," replied Gwin, and turning, she led the way out of the room. The rest of the evening passed off better. Kitty became a little subdued, and satisfied herself with talking less, and casting ravishing glances of delight and roguish entreaty first at one girl and then at the other. It was extremely difficult to withstand her, for her voice was low and singularly sweet, her eyes were beautiful, she could not do an ungraceful thing, she was altogether like a bright, flashing meteor, and soon she began to exercise an extraordinary fascination both over Bessie Challoner and Gwin Harley. Having got over her first astonishment, Gwin began to take a sincere interest in the pretty stranger. The lovely expression of her coral lips made her long to kiss them, and to assure the Irish girl that she for one would be her friend; but the next instant Kitty said something so very much against the grain that Gwin felt as much repulsed as a moment before she was delighted.

Immediately after tea Bessie went off to the library to hunt up her darling "Encyclopedia."

"Now that she has gone," exclaimed Gwin, "we are not likely to get her back for some time. What a remarkably earnest student she is!"

"The Earnest Student?" interrupted Kitty. "I thought that was the name of a religious book. I think father has got it at home."

"Perhaps so," replied Gwin, "but we always call it to Bessie. She is wonderfully clever. She gets on splendidly at school, taking everything before her. I am certain she is the kind of girl who will make her mark by and by."

"I hate studies!" said Kitty in her low, humorous voice.

"I am sorry for that," answered Gwin, "for if you come to school you won't be at all popular if you do not care for your books."

"Popular? How do you mean? Is it with the teachers or with the girls?"

"Well, with both I fancy."

"Then, I tell you what," exclaimed Kitty, "I'd like to bet with you that you are wrong -- that I'll be the most popular girl in the whole of the school with the teachers -- yes, with the teachers -- and the scholars as well."

"You must be very conceited," exclaimed Elma, who had sat silent during the greater part of the evening, taking Kitty in, however, all the same.

"Conceited? No more than you are," cried Kitty, "but I know my powers, and I have not kissed the Blarney Stone for nothing."

"Oh, you need not tell us that ridiculous story over again," said Alice.

"But I should like to hear it," cried Gwin.

"You really would not Gwin; it is too absurd. We must show Kitty, now she has come to live among us, what is real wit and what is not. Her way of talking is only silly."

Gwin knit her brows, and looked pained.

"I would rather not correct her now," she said in a gentle voice. Then she added, her eyes sparkling with sudden eagerness, "Would it not be a good opportunity for talking over the rules of our society, girls?"

"Oh yes," cried Elma, "yes; but is it well to --  -- "

Here she bent forward, and began to whisper vigorously in Gwin's ear.

"Yes, I think so," answered Gwin.

"I wouldn't, I really wouldn't," said Elma. "I am certain Alice agrees with me."

"I can guess what you are saying," cried Alice, "and I do agree most heartily."

"And I can guess what you are saying," exclaimed Kitty, starting to her feet with flashing eyes. "You don't want to talk about your society or whatever it is because I am present. Well, discuss it without me. I'll find my way to the library. Poor dear Bessie is the only decent one among you, and I shall go and sit with her. How do you know I won't take up with literature just to spite you all? I can do anything I have a mind to, and that you will soon find to your cost."

She ran out of the room as she spoke, slamming the door behind her.

"There, that's a comfort," cried Alice, breathing freely for the first time. "Did you ever, girls, in all your lives, see a more terrible creature? What is to be done? Why, she will disgrace us all at school. You know what a very nice set we are in at present."

"Oh, an excellent set," said Elma, in a sarcastic voice.

"You know, Elma, that we do belong to the nicest set in the school, and I am sure, Gwin, your father -- "

"You need not drag father in," cried Gwin. Father likes all the people I like."

"But, surely -- " began Alice.

Gwin looked at her gravely, then she nodded.

"I am not quite certain yet," she said; "but I think it highly probable that I shall take up that poor, wild, little Kitty. At least she is fresh; she speaks out her mind plainly, and there is a great deal to admire about her."

"Then, listen, Gwin," cried Alice; "if she is taken into our special society I will resign."

"Will you really, Alice? What, if I ask you to stay?"

"It is hard to refuse you, dear; but you scarcely know what all this means to me. I am rubbed the wrong way; I don't understand myself. But frankly, Gwin, you are not going to ask Kitty Malone to join our society?"

"What if it does her good?"

"But ought we not to think of the others? She is a perfect stranger to us all at present."

"But she won't be long. Bless the child, she has no reserve in her, and I do want to help her, poor little girl! Well, we need not decide that point at present."

"Do let us vote to leave her out," cried Alice.

"No, Alice, we will leave the point undecided. Now let us set to work, and begin to form our rules, for really we have no time to lose."

"But what are we to do without Bessie?" exclaimed Alice. "Whatever happens, we cannot do without Bessie Challoner; she will be the life and soul of the whole society. Shall we send for her, Gwin?"

"No, Kitty is with her, and they had better not be disturbed."

"What a difference Kitty makes," cried Alice. "I did think we should have had a delightful and heavenly evening, and it has been all ruction from first to last."

"Because you dislike her so much, Alice," said Gwin.

"Well, I do," said Alice; "I can't abide her. But do I show my dislike so plainly?" she added.

"Rather! Any one can see it in the curl of your lip and the expression in your eyes; and then you say such terribly withering things to the poor girl. You try to crush her."

"Well, if I may say what I think," cried Elma, "Kitty Malone seems to me to be a very unpleasant, vulgar girl, and I cannot imagine why she has been sent here."

"Oh, as to her vulgarity," said Alice, who suddenly felt forced to defend herself against Elma's spiteful speeches, "Kitty comes of a very old family, and her father is as rich as ever he can be. They live in a wonderful castle in County Donegal, just overhanging the sea; and from what I learn are considered county people. Father was very pleased to have her, and whatever she is, she is a lady by birth."

"So she is rich?" remarked Elma in a low voice. "Well, at any rate," she continued after a pause, "she is very pretty."

"Pretty!" cried Gwin; "I should just think she is. She has the most lovely face I ever saw. Girls, it is quite true what she says; she will fascinate any number of people. That dashing, daring way of hers will go down with numbers. Yes, she will make a revolution in Middleton School, I am certain."



Chapter V

Incorrigible Kitty


Mr. Harley's library was a beautiful room. It was lined with books from floor to ceiling, and these books had been selected with the greatest care. Standard works of all sorts and in three languages were to be found on certain bookshelves, also modern works, both poetry and prose, with some of the best novels of the day.

Bessie Challoner never envied rich people. She cared nothing whatever for fine dresses, nor for carriages and horses, nor for the luxurious life of the wealthy, but she did envy Gwin Harley the use of her father's library; and when she entered the room now, with that delicious faint smell of leather which all libraries possess, she sniffed first with ecstasy, and then climbing on the ladder secured the volume of the "Encyclopedia" which she required, and seating herself at one of the center tables, was soon lost in the fascinations of her subject. After a time a little cough, very gentle, however, caused her to raise her head, and there standing before her was Kitty Malone.

Kitty's long arms had dropped to her sides, and she had pushed back her masses of dark hair. There was a pathetic expression about her rosy lips, and tears trembled on her long eyelashes.

"Why, what is it, Kitty; what do you want?" asked Bessie.

"Ah, then it's good to hear you say that word, aroon," said Kitty. "I want to sit near you. I won't speak, no, not a syllable. Hush will be the only word with me, hush! hush! hush! You can go on with your beloved reading and I'll stay near you; that's all I require. Why, then, it's just a shelter I need, and nothing more. Read away, Bessie, my honey, and I'll do nothing to interrupt you."

"But why have you left the others?" asked Bessie.

"Never mind, dear, now. I'll just sit quietly here, and contemplate you while you are studying."

Bessie sighed impatiently. She then bent again over her book, and began to devour the pages. Kitty watched her with marked interest.

"I wonder if it will be my fate to have to take up with literature in sober earnest," she said to herself, "I, who can never abide a book. Oh, to be back again in the dear old place! I should not be a bit surprised if Laurie is out fishing now, and Pat with him. And oh, suppose they are bringing in the trout, and the creatures are leaping and struggling as they come to shore, and father is going round to feed the dogs -- why, the thought is enough to madden me. Oh, then, why did I ever leave home? I don't care that for books, nor for being clever nor for -- How she works to be sure! How earnest she looks. She has got a very fine forehead, although it is miles too high. She ought to wear a fringe; it would improve her wonderfully. I will cut her hair some day if she will let me. I will cut it and curl it. I have got the dearest little jewel of a pair of curling tongs that ever was seen! Aunt Honora sent it to me in a box with a spirit lamp all complete when I got the rest of my things. I'll just exercise those little tongs on dear, nice Bessie. I do wish she would not be so devoted to that book, she might talk. Oh, I am lonely. I think I'll fidget a bit."

Kitty moved her chair, creaking it ominously; but Bessie had got to a most thrilling part of her subject, and Kitty might have creaked the library down before she would have roused her companion's attention.

"Now, if I sigh, perhaps that will do it," thought Kitty. She opened her mouth and let some profound sighs come up from the depths of her heart; but they only depressed her still more, and had no effect whatever on Bessie.

"I think I hate intellectual people," muttered the Irish girl. She jumped to her feet.

"I must do something to rouse her or I shall go mad. She is the nicest of them all, much. I wish she would speak to me. Why should I break my heart, and why should she simply go on devouring that stupid book? Here, I know what I'll do. I'll just toss down one of the big volumes; it will make a clatter and she will have to look up. Perhaps I'll let it drop just the tiniest bit in the world on the corner of her toe; that will finish her." Here Kitty laughed excitedly, pushed out her arm and knocked over a huge volume which certainly fell a good deal more than a tiny bit on poor Bessie's foot.

"Oh, Kitty, what have you done?" cried Bessie. "You have quite hurt me. I wish you would not drop the books about."

"There, darling, I had to do it. Pray forgive me," said Kitty.

"You had to do it!" answered Bessie. "Do you mean that you did it on purpose?"

"Why, then, yes, love -- that's what I do mean exactly. I did it because I wanted you to talk to me, and you would think of nothing but that book."

"It is such a chance," answered Bessie, "and I wanted to find out for myself all about that wonderful magnetic iron ore. You know it never loses its power, it is potent for hundreds and hundreds of years, and -- "

"Oh, don't tell me any more, or I'll lose my senses. Dear Bessie, what does magnetic iron ore matter. Bessie, I'm awfully unhappy. Every one is so unkind to me. Promise you'll be my friend, won't you?"

Bessie looked up, and then she saw something so touching in Kitty's face that she closed her book with a reluctant sigh, to devote herself the next moment with all the sympathy she possessed to her companion.

"I am sure you are suffering, Kitty, and I am sorry for you," she said. "I'll fetch my hat and we'll go out for a little."

"Oh, what a darling you are!" answered Kitty.

A moment or two later the girls were walking across the beautifully-kept garden; they soon reached a shady path at the further end.

"And now, Kitty," said Bessie, "I mean to lecture you a little."

"Anything in the world you like, darling. I'm quite agreeable. Aunt Honora and Aunt Bridget lecture me, and so does the dear old dad sometimes; but I always say when they have finished that it is like water on a duck's back -- it rolls off without making the least bit of impression, and then they laugh and say that I am the queerest mixture they ever came across, and that they had best leave me to nature. But perhaps I'll listen to you, Bessie."

"I wish you would," said Bessie. "I am sure," she added, speaking with great earnestness, "that you are a very nice girl, Kitty; but at the same time you are wild."

"Oh, I pride myself on that," said Kitty in her frankest of voices.

"But I wish you would not, Kitty, for it really isn't nice."

"Not nice! Now what may you be meaning by that, aroon?"

"Well, there is a sort of dignity which I think a really well brought-up girl ought to possess."

"Oh, my! dignity is it?" said Kitty. She stepped away from her companion, drew down her face to a ridiculous length, nearly closed her eyes, and folded her hands demurely across her breast.

"Is that pleasing you, mavourneen?" she said. "Is it dignified and sober enough poor Kitty Malone looks now?"

"Oh, Kitty, you will joke about everything."

Kitty immediately changed her mood.

"No, I won't," she said. "I am really awfully obliged to you. You don't know what all this has been to me. Father said I was growing too wild -- yes, the darling dad did; he agrees with you down to the core of his heart, and he said I must go to England and be taught manners. But, bless you, they'll have a job. I told him so when I was going. I said, 'Dad, it's the hearts of the teachers I'll be breaking;' and dad said, 'Oh, no, you won't, Kitty, aroon. You'll be a good girl, and you'll try to please your old dad and you'll come back a beautiful, perfect lady!' He said it with tears in his eyes, he did, the darling; and I promised, and down on my knees I went and asked God to help me. But, dear, it's like the froth of the sea-foam inside me, the fun and the mischief and the nonsense and the ways that you think queer; but, all the same, those ways delight the good folk at home. Must I really give them up, Bessie -- must I?"

"To a certain extent," said Bessie, "or you will have a lot of enemies here, Kitty, and you won't be at all happy."

"How I wish I lived with you, Bessie Challoner. You're a broth of a girl, that you are. You have not taken a dislike to me just because of the fun bubbling up in my heart?"

"No, dear; on the contrary, I like you extremely."

"Ah, you precious duck of a darling! It is a good squeeze you would like, if I gave it to you?"

"Well, I am not very fond of being kissed; but if you must, Kitty."

"I must, dear, I must, for the heart in me is full to the brim. Now then, stand still, and I'll catch you up close to my heart. There! isn't that better?"

Poor Bessie gave some long-drawn breaths, for the firmness, in fact the ferocity, of Kitty's embrace quite hurt her for a moment.

"There," said Kitty, "that's the way we hug in Old Ireland. Now I'm a sight better, and I'll let go. So you do like me, Bessie?"

"Yes, very much indeed, Kitty, only -- please don't do it again."

"I won't to-night, I won't really, but it's wonderful that you don't like it. I wish you could see Aunt Honora and Aunt Bridget hug one another. Why, it's the noise they make when they get together, and the way they kiss! Oh, dear, I hope some day you'll come to Ireland."

"You don't tempt me by these descriptions," replied Bessie. "But now, Kitty, will you promise just to be a little quieter, to keep in all those irrepressible and -- really I must say it, dear, at the risk of hurting you -- those silly words."

"But then I'm silly myself," said Kitty. "Can you expect wisdom out of nonsense? I am pure and simple nonsense from first to last."

"But you do want to be something better? You do want to lead a good life?"

"A good life! I never thought there was anything bad in me."

"You want to learn for instance?"

"No; that I don't, darling."

"You don't want to learn, Kitty? Then what is the good of coming to Middleton School?"

"Listen," said Kitty. "I'll do anything for father. Father said I was to learn, and that I was to get manners. Now I think your manners are perfect. I'll model myself on you, dear; that I will. Will you teach me your manners, Bessie Challoner?"

"I'll do all I can to help you, Kitty."

"And you'll be my real faithful friend?"

"Yes, only please not -- "

"I won't, dear, I won't to-night; but when I meet you to-morrow you'll allow me just once?"

"Well, if it will break you in."

"It will, it will. It will enable me to bear Alice. I am not the sort to hate people; but I'll soon get to hate her. It's an awful affliction that I have got to live with the Denvers; not that Mrs. Denvers is bad, nor Mr. Denvers, poor dear, nor Fred, but Alice! I'd like to get Alice over to Ireland, to Castle Malone. I could punish her a bit if I put her into Laurie's hands. But there!"

"Well, Kitty, time is going," said Bessie. "It is a bargain that I help you to learn some of our English ways, and that you, in order to pay me, try to be gentle yourself, and to restrain some of your wild words."

"I'll try. I'll do my very, very best. You'll see when I get to Middleton School what a proper, respectable sort of girl I'll become."

"And you'll work hard too, won't you, Kitty? For I know it will do you a great deal of good, and I am sure you are very intelligent."

"Well, I can take in most things; only it's no end of a bother."

"I am certain you will succeed if you try," said Bessie. "Then it's a bargain, isn't it? You'll try to learn a great deal, and you will do your best to get better mannered?"

"Why, of course I will. I hate learning, and I don't want to be bothered with lessons: but there's nothing under the sun I wouldn't do for those I love; and I love father and I love you too, Bessie Challoner."

"They are calling us. We must go into the house," said Bessie.

"Do yield to me on one point," cried Kitty.

"What is that?"

"Let us go back to the house with our arms round each other's waists. It will show Alice that we have come to an understanding. I don't care twopence about Miss Harley nor about that other girl -- I don't remember her name; but I want Alice to see us. Why, it's mad with jealousy she'll be. Come along, aroon. Here's my arm firm round your waist; now let us dance up to the house."

"Oh Kitty, Kitty, you are incorrigible!" cried poor Bessie, and a feeling of despair certainly visited her at that moment.



Chapter VI.

The Tug-Of-War.


A few days after the events related in the last chapter Alice Denvers, Bessie Challoner, Elma Lewis, and Gwin Harley met once more at Gwin's pretty home, to discuss the rules of a little society which they were drawing up among themselves. The nicest girls in their set were to be invited to join; but the important subject of the rules was first to be discussed. Gwin had drawn up a plan which she now submitted to her eager companions.

"The most important thing of all is the name," she said. "I thought of calling it 'The Early Rising, Devoted to Study Society.'"

"Oh, twice too long," said Bessie. "Who could be bothered saying all these words? You know when we are in the rush of school-life we cannot be bothered talking of the 'Early Rising, Devoted to Study;' it would never, never do. We must express what we mean in a single word if necessary."

"Then let us get one," said Gwin. "You have not the least idea what a headache I had last night searching in the dictionary and cudgelling my brains; but a sensible word which would express all our meaning I could not get."

"Let us think what our meaning clearly is," said Elma.

"Don't you know that yet?" exclaimed Bessie. "The society is to be formed as an incentive to make us work extra hard. You know," she added "I always think the motives of school-life are quite wrong."

"Oh, do listen to the words of Miss Wisdom," said Elma, in a very mocking tone.

Bessie's big gray eyes flashed for a moment with indignation; but she soon recovered her usual calm.

"I think the motives of school are wrong," she repeated; "there are prizes offered, and there is a lot of emulation -- "

"And how could we live without emulation?" cried Alice. "Why, it is the very breath of life."

"But the desire of each to excel the other is not surely why we are sent to school," continued Bessie. "We are sent to school because our parents want us to learn something. They don't want us specially to get prizes, although they are glad when we do, because they suppose that we have accomplished some of the objects of our school life; but their real wish is that we should know English history, and history generally, that we should be well acquainted with geography, that we should speak French fluently, and understand German so as to be able to converse in that tongue, and to read the literature."

"Oh, do listen to the bookworm," cried Elma.

"In short," continued Bessie; "that we should become accomplished women -- that is undoubtedly the real object of school."

"Well, we are not gainsaying it," said Gwin. "We all know, dear Bessie, what you feel about learning; it is the breath of life to you."

"It is, I rejoice in it," said Bessie. "A good vigorous tussle with a tough subject is the keenest pleasure which I can possibly have."

"But the rest of us are not made the same way," continued Gwin. "Now I like my studies very much -- that is, in moderation. When I am learning and mastering French, and getting through my music creditably, and, in short, going through the usual curriculum of work, I feel interested; but I also have a delightful sense that if I work for so many hours I am entitled to play for so many hours."

"Oh, bother the play," interrupted Bessie.

"You see, Bessie Challoner, that is the difference between us. I like work just to form part of my life, but not the whole; you want work to form the whole of your life."

"Yes; that I do," said Bessie.

"But now to return to the society," interrupted Elma. "We all know that it won't be the slightest effort to Bessie to join; but she will be a good incentive to the rest of us. She will always be at the top of the tree, at the head of her class, and all that sort of thing. She won't require to be told to get up early, because she always does."

"I tell you what," interrupted Bessie; "let us put things into our rules which will be a tug-of-war for me too. For instance, now, I am untidy."

"Well, yes; just a little bit," said Gwin, her eyes dancing.

"It's more than a little bit," said Bessie. "Oh, Gwin, you don't know what a nuisance it is to keep my room in order, and sometimes I forget the things dear mother tells me, and I am impatient with poor little Judy, who takes, I must say, a fiendish delight in putting my things in hiding. Now, our rules might include tidiness of person and order generally. It's no trouble to me to keep my books in order, nor my mind in order; but I do hate washing my hands before every meal, and brushing my hair and doing it up in a fashionable roll at the back of my head."

"Oh, my dear child," said Elma, "do you imagine for a moment that that excrescence at the back of your head is fashionable? I never saw anything more dowdy."

"Dowdy? Is it?" said Bessie. "I spent five minutes over it this morning, and twisted it up three times in order to give it that horrid little handle of a jug look which you all aspire to. Well, well, I don't suppose we need add to our rules that the girls who belong to the society are to be fashionable."

"It would be a really good idea if we did," said Elma. "I cannot see why schoolgirls should be a lot of frumps. Our society is to effect a certain object which can never be acquired unaided in a great school like Middleton. We want to be as ladylike, as refined, as nice as if we belonged to a very small and select school. We get the best teaching at Middleton, but I don't suppose we get the best manners."

"Well, let us add all these things to the rules," said Gwin, "and let us begin to put them down at once. First, as to the name. Until we can think of a better we must call it the 'Mutual Improvement Society.'"

"A hateful word," said Bessie. "The M.I.S.!"

"Yes, it does sound priggish," said Elma.

"Well, I dare say some one will have genius enough to think of a more flashy and brilliant name," said Gwin, "but for the present we will call it the 'Mutual Improvement,' for that is exactly what it means. Now then for the rules."

As Gwin spoke she drew in front of her a sheet of foolscap paper; and, dipping her pen in ink, looked eagerly at her three young companions.

"Rule I.," she said.

"For goodness' sake," cried Bessie, "let Rule I. apply to study. Do let down lightly with regard to tidiness and fashionable hair, and all that sort of thing."

"Yes, we will begin about the most important matters first," said Gwin. Here she began to write rapidly in pencil. "I must copy this out in my best and most copperplate hand presently," she continued; "but while we are correcting matters and getting down our rules somehow pencil will do. Well, Rule I. Shall it be something like this, girls? 'The members of this society are expected to aim for the top of the class in each branch of their study at Middleton School. They are expected to gain at least one prize at the midsummer examination.'"

"That sounds rather like emulation coming in," interrupted Bessie.

"It must come in, Bessie -- it must," said Elma. "We must have something to work for."

"I thought the love of the thing -- " began poor Bessie.

"Oh, Bessie Challoner, do shut up. Yes, Gwin, that first rule goes very well," said Elma. "We are to aim for the top of the class, and we are to secure at least one prize each. Hurrah! for the Mutual Improvement Society! Now, then let us get to Rule II."

"That applies to deportment," said Gwin. "'The members of the Mutual Improvement Society are to aim at ladylike manners, they are to refrain from slang in conversation, and they are to refuse to make friends with girls who indulge too largely in that special form of vulgarity.' Poor Kitty Malone!"

"But she does not talk slang," said Bessie. "She talks Ireland, and Ireland and England are as far apart as the poles."

"Rule III.," continued Gwin, "relates to tidiness; and now, Bessie, comes your tug of war. 'The members of the society must engage to keep their home things in perfect order, as well as their school desks. They must be neat in their persons, exquisitely clean with regard to hands and teeth, and tidy with regard to hair.'"

"I don't think I'll join," said Bessie.

"Nonsense, Bessie; it was you who told us to put all this in. I, as a matter of course, always do these things," said Gwin, looking very sweet and the essence of young ladyhood as she spoke.

"Oh, yes, you dear old thing, you are perfect; but you don't live in the sort of ramshackle house we do," said Bessie. "However, never mind. I am quite agreeable to go in for the tug-of-war. And, now, is there anything else?"

"Oh yes, there is," said Elma, "and I think it is a most important thing. 'The members of the Society, as far as they possibly can, are to adhere to fashionable dress, to hair done in a stylish manner, and in short to that distinction of appearance which ought to characterize the lady of the present day.'"

"Well done, Elma," said Gwin, "that is a capital rule."

"It is a hateful rule," said Bessie. "I really don't think I can join. I don't know what fashionable clothes are. I never study the fashions. I have not the slightest idea whether sleeves are worn stuck out to the size of a balloon or skin-tight to the arm. All I ask for in a sleeve is that it should be comfortable; all I ask for in a dress is that I should not know I have it on. I like to be warm in winter and cool in summer. More I do not ask for."

"Then the rule will do you a wonderful lot of good," said Gwin. "And now is it decided? If so we will draw up the rules in proper form, and --  -- "

"I tell you what," said Bessie. "I have thought of a name and a good one too. Let us call the society the 'Tug-of-war Society.'"

"Well done," said Gwin; "that will be capital. And now is there to be a subscription or is there not?"

"Oh, certainly," said Alice. "It would make it much more distinguished, and prevent too many girls asking to join. We want to have the Tug-of-War Society rather select, don't we?"

"I suppose so," said Gwin; "but I don't think that really depends upon the amount of the subscription. What do you say to half a guinea, girls?"

Alice looked thoughtful, and Elma's face turned rather pale; but she was the first to say she thought Gwin's suggestion an admirable one.

"Then that is all right," said Gwin, "and I will set to work to write out the rules as neatly as I can. After they are all set out in due form, we can see if there are any improvements to be suggested."

Gwin set to work, bending low over her foolscap paper, and Alice offered to help her. Elma and Bessie wandered out of the room, and soon their conversation turned to the much-discussed subject of Kitty.

Bessie stood up warmly for the harum-scarum Irish girl, as Elma called her.

"She has a lot of good in her," said Bessie warmly. "She would be a splendid girl if she were tamed down a little. I really don't think we want to take much of the fire out of her; but if she would only restrain some of her wild speeches it would be all the better; for if she remains as frank as she is at present to the end of the chapter she cannot help making enemies."

"I want to ask you a question, Bessie," said Elma, dropping her voice to a low tone; "is it true that Kitty Malone is rich?"

"Rich?" echoed Bessie. "I really cannot tell you."

"I thought you might happen to know, as you have made such chums with her. She is your greatest friend now at Middle ton School, is she not?"

"Certainly not," replied Bessie. "What do you mean by asking me such a strange question, Elma? Alice is far and away my greatest friend, and after Alice I like Gwin best."

"Oh, everybody likes Gwin Harley," said Elma; "who could help it? She is so beautiful to look at, and she has such a delightful, lovely home."

"I cannot see that her having a lovely, delightful home has anything to do with our liking her," said honest Bessie.

"Not to you perhaps," answered Elma, and a queer look, half-wistful, half-defiant, came into her eyes.

"I thought you would be sure to be able to tell me if Kitty were rich," she said again after a pause.

"I cannot. You must ask Alice -- she lives with Alice. She has plenty of pretty dresses, and all that sort of thing; but I don't know anything about her having money."

"I will run into the house this minute and ask Alice," said Elma.

"Do, of course, if you are anxious; but I cannot imagine what difference it makes to you."

"No, it doesn't, but I am just curious on the subject. I won't keep you long."

Elma dashed into the house. She presently came back.

"I have found out all about it," she said.

"All about what?" asked Bessie.

"What I went into the house for. How forgetful you are, Bessie!"

"I was wondering if I might steal into the library," said Bessie. "I did not get all the information I wanted about magnetic iron ore, but -- Well, what is it, Elma?"

"Kitty Malone is rich, very rich, and --  -- "

"I can't see that it matters," said Bessie -- "I mean to us."

"Oh, but it matters a good deal. You don't understand. I shall certainly vote that we ask her to join the Tug-of-War Society."

"You will?" cried Bessie -- a look of great pleasure came into her eyes. "Then I am really glad, for to join such a society would do Kitty more good than anything else in the world. Only the nicest girls will belong, and she will get at once into the best set. She is as wild as she can be, but she has got plenty of honor; and if she once gave her word that she would do a certain thing no one would do it better."

"Let us have her by all means. Let us put it to the vote as soon as we go back to the house," said Elma. "Come Bessie, no slinking away in the direction of that fascinating library. They have nearly copied the rules, and we are to read them over and make comments."

"I think it will be a delightful society," said Bessie. "I am sure it will do me good."

"It is meant to do us all good," said Elma. "Tug-of-war! I should rather think it will be! How I shall hate that terrible effort to get to the head of my class; not that I am stupid or dislike my lessons."

"That would be the nice part as far as I am concerned," said Bessie; "but oh! the fashionable sleeves and the stylish hair. Oh dear! I often feel inclined to have my hair cut short."

"Well, Bessie, you would be a fool if you did," said Elma. "Your splendid hair; why, it's nearly down to your knees."

"Yes, and that's the bother," said Bessie, "for mother insists on my brushing it out every night for at least ten minutes, and all that time is taken from my books. I tell you, Elma, I would gladly change with you."

Elma's locks were very thin and straggly, and she could not help coloring at this left-handed compliment; but at that moment Alice appeared on the balcony to tell the other two girls that the rules were ready, and that they might return to the house. They did so, and the rules were then read carefully over (by Elma on this occasion), criticized by Gwin, Alice, and Bessie, and finally carried as far as the original members of the society were concerned. The next important thing was to put to the vote who was to be asked to join and who was to be excluded. Several girls were named, and among them Elma suddenly introduced the name of Kitty Malone.

"Now what do you mean by that?" said Alice, her eyes flashing angrily. "If Kitty joins the society, I, for one, will resign."

"But you cannot, dear," said Gwin in her placid voice. "Remember you are one of the founders; you are bound to uphold the society now for at least one term of its natural life. At the end of that time you are permitted to resign, but certainly not before."

"Then, as I presume I have a vote with regard to the election of members, I certainly do not wish for Kitty Malone," said Alice.

"I think the votes must go by the wishes of the majority," replied Gwin; "does any one else want her?"

"I do." said Elma, holding up her hand.

"And I think it would be good for her," said Bessie.

"Dear me, Bessie, how spiteful of you to say that," cried Alice.

"But I do think it, Alice; I do truly."

"Why, Bessie?" asked Gwin.

"Well, you know there are the sort of things mentioned in our rules which would just give Kitty the sort of restraint she wants," began Bessie.

"Yes, I think I begin to understand you, Bessie. I too will vote that she is asked to join," said Gwin.

Alice looked very sulky, but did not say anything further, and soon afterward the girls broke up their conference.



Chapter VII.

Elma.


Kitty Malone was admitted to a low form at Middleton School, her acquirements being the reverse of distinguished. This fact did not give her the smallest sense of discomfort. On the contrary, she was pleased; and although her fellow-scholars were all younger and smaller than herself, she soon became a sort of queen among them, laughing and joking with them, and flying round the playground with half a dozen small girls at her heels, feasting them with unlimited chocolate and telling them stories. She soon got through her somewhat easy lessons, and was wilder and more incorrigible than ever. The only sober moments she seemed to enjoy were when she was with Bessie; for Bessie Challoner took a sincere interest in her, and was very anxious to get her into a higher form, where she would be with girls nearer her own age, and would thus be forced to submit to more discipline than she could enjoy with the younger girls. Bessie also hoped great things from the Tug-of-war Society, and soon told Kitty that she was to be asked to become a member.

"I will certainly join when I am asked," answered Kitty. "I have not the least idea what you are all driving at, but I'll become a member if it's to be in the same society with you, my darling duck of a girl!"

Bessie then read her a copy of the rules.

"Why, then, you can't expect me to adhere to the first of them," was Kitty's answer. "It's no, it's no to that, Bessie. I wouldn't tell a lie for any earthly thing, and I could not drive myself to the head of that class. Why, I wouldn't take the place from sweet little Agnes Moore for all the world. Why it's tears I'd bring to the pretty eyes of the creature. Oh, I couldn't get ahead of her. I'd just as lief be at the tail -- just as lief."

"But, Kitty, have you no ambition?"

"Well, no, dear, I don't think I have. I never could see the fun of taking a prize from another; it's no use I'll be in the society, not the least bit."

"Well, all the same it would do you good," said Bessie, "for you know you love your father, and you said you would try to acquire knowledge to please him."

"Oh, where's the good of reminding me of that," said Kitty, looking very thoughtful and somewhat pensive. "Why did you come out with it, Bessie, aroon; it's fretting the heart out of me you are. Dear old dad! there's nothing I wouldn't do for him."

"I am glad I did remind you, Kitty, for you know you have come here to learn."

"Ah, dear, I'll shut my ears if you talk any more in that sort of way," said Kitty. "If I must learn, I must; but don't be reminding me of it, there's a good creature -- it's play out of school if it's work in."

"Much work you do, Kitty! Why, I always see you laughing and winking and twinkling your eyes, and pushing your feet about."

"Pushing my feet about! And is it to keep them in a corner I would, pretty feet like mine! Why, they are meant to be seen. That's the only reason why I object to a long dress, because it does not show so much of the feet and ankles. Ah, sure it's dear little ankles I have, as neat and trim as you please."

"Kitty, you are getting wilder than ever."

"Well, darling, I'll cool down if you'll just let me give you one of my big hugs."

"I really can't; my ribs are quite sore. You must not do it to-day. I told you, you might once a week, but no oftener."

Kitty sank down on the nearest chair and looked comically miserable.

"Go on with the next rule, Bessie," she said, after a moment. "I want to belong to the Tug-of-war because it's close to you I'll be, darling. What's the next rule?"

Bessie read it out to her.

"Why, now, it's the pink of a lady I am myself," said Kitty. "I was always told I was; I don't mind that rule in the least. There won't be much of a tug-of-war there; if Kitty Malone is to be a lady, why, a lady she is. I wish you could hear Aunt Honora and Aunt Bridget talking about our ancient family and our long and royal descent. Go on, Bessie; that's not so bad as taking the prize from poor little Agnes. What's Rule III.?"

Rule III. was read aloud to Kitty, who shook her head solemnly several times.

"Now, to be frank with you," she said, "there's only one bond between Alice and me, and that is we do make a froth of the things in our drawers; and if we are both to struggle against our besetting infirmity, it will go hard with us; but there, it will be fun to see her struggling to be tidy and all to no purpose. I think I'll join on that account. I shall like to see her fighting her drawers. I know if I'm put to it I can keep mine twenty times tidier."

"I am now coming to Rule IV.," said Bessie; this she read aloud with some qualms, for she disliked it so very much herself. Kitty's eyes flashed with pleasure.

"Now, that is after my own heart," she cried, "fashionable dresses are they, and hair done up in style. Mavourneen! mavourneen! you will have to wear a fringe!"

Kitty burst into peals of laughter.

"Oh, Bessie," she said, "I have just been longing to attack that head of yours. I'll bring my little tongs along, and I'll curl up such a lovely fringe on your great intellectual forehead."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Bessie, clasping her hands over her head to protect her thick, long hair.

"But you must, mavourneen, you must if you join the Tug-of-war Society. Oh, it's beautiful you'll look! And I tell you what it is, Bessie, I'll lend you the patterns of my new sleeves -- those that are all crinkled from above the elbow down to the wrist, and puffed ever so much at the top, with little tucks, and little insertions, and little -- "

"Kitty, I won't listen to you for another moment. I shall try to dress as neatly as I can, and perhaps I must twist my hair into a more stylish coil at the back of my head, but beyond that I absolutely refuse to go."

"Well, it's a delicious rule," said Kitty Malone, "and I hope I'll work you round after a bit, Bessie. It seems but fair that if I yield to you with regard to the other rules you ought to yield to me about Rule IV. I am sure if I do take the prize from poor little Agnes Moore, and if I never speak a word of slang, and if I keep my abominable drawers as neat as a new pin, and all my clothes in perfect order, that you on your part ought to wear a good thick, heavy fringe, and have your hair pointed out ever so far at the back in the way it is worn in the present day. I'd love to do it; and you have magnificent hair, Bessie, aroon! so you have."

"I must ask you to leave me now, Kitty," was Bessie's answer. "You are a very funny girl, and there is a great deal that I like in you; but I cannot neglect my studies even for you."

"Oh, bother your studies!" answered Kitty.

Bessie, however, was quite in earnest, and Kitty had to leave her.

The next day there was another meeting at Gwin Harley's house, and the members of the Tug-of-war Society were formally initiated into the mysteries of what they had undertaken. About ten girls joined in all, and it was decided to limit the number to these until the end of the present term. In addition to the four chief rules it was also clearly understood that the members were all to be absolutely faithful the one to the other, that no member of the Tug-of-war Society was to speak against another member; on the contrary, she was to uphold her through thick and thin, to help her if possible, to aid her in moments of difficulty, and to rejoice with her in moments of triumph. Once a week the members were to meet at each other's houses. There they were to have tea together, to discuss the rules if necessary, but at any rate to have a pleasant time. As the summer advanced picnics were to be inaugurated on Saturdays, and fun of some sort or another was to be the vogue.

Kitty, who had dressed herself for this auspicious occasion in a dress of the palest blue, with a silver sheen running in zigzag lines all over it, whose black hair was curled up on her forehead and coiled fantastically round the back of her head, whose eyes were shining and wreathing themselves in all sorts of smiles, could scarcely restrain her spirits while the rest of the girls were debating on the rules.

Finally Gwin laid a little box on the table, and asked the new members to subscribe their half-guinea each. Each girl dropped her half-sovereign and sixpence into the box with the exception of Elma, who, coloring a little, said she would bring it to Gwin the next day. No one made any remark, as it was well known in the school that Elma was anything but well off, and Gwin privately resolved to subscribe for her without saying anything about it.

Then the girls had tea in Gwin's own private sitting-room, and afterward they wandered about the lawns, and returned home in the cool of the evening. On this occasion Elma found herself side by side with Kitty Malone. Kitty was walking quietly; she had exhausted some of her emotions during the hours that she had played tennis, and laughed and chatted with the other members of the Tug-of-war Society, and when Elma put her hand on her arm, and looked up at her half-timidly and half-beseechingly, Kitty stopped short, and said in her hearty, frank voice:

"And what may you be wanting with me, Elma? Is it a favor I can do you; because if it is I am sure you are welcome to it with all the pleasure in life."

"You are a good-natured girl, Kitty," said Elma; "I always felt that from the very first. Shall we drop a little behind the others? The fact is I don't want every one to hear what I am going to say to you."

"If it is a secret, darling, don't tell it to me," said Kitty, "for I cannot keep it. I always say so quite frankly. I say to each person who comes to me with a private confidence, 'Confide nothing in Kitty Malone, for Kitty Malone is a sieve.'"

"Oh, but it would never do for you to be that," said Elma, who was somewhat alarmed and secretly greatly disgusted. "A girl is not worth her salt if she tells what is confided to her by another girl; and of course, now that you have become a member of the Tug-of-war Society, if you are found blabbing any of our secrets at Middleton School I don't know what will happen!"

"I wonder what would happen!" cried Kitty; "it would be quite nice to find out. Do tell me, Elma."

"How can I when you don't understand," said Elma. "You would be wanting in all honor; none of us ten girls would speak to you again."

"Wouldn't Bessie Challoner, the darling?"

"Certainly not. She could not; none of us could."

"I shouldn't like that," said Kitty thoughtfully. "I did not know, when I joined the Tug-of-war, that I was to be burdened with secrets. And am I not to explain to any of the other girls why I am moving heaven and earth to get to the very head of the class? Am I not to breathe the real reason, when I am taking poor little Agnes Moore's place, and breaking her heart, the pretty lamb? Is that so?"

"You certainly are not," said Elma. "Dear me, Kitty, what a very extraordinary specimen you are!"

"Well, don't scold me, for pity's sake," said Kitty. "I am so sick of every one telling me that I am an extraordinary specimen. In Ireland they think I am a very fine specimen; but here! oh, it's nothing but holding up of hands and rolling up of eyes, and 'Oh, dear, let us get out of her way!' and 'Oh, dear, how queer she looks in her grand clothes!' and -- and --  -- "

"Do stop talking, Kitty. You are the most awful rattlepate --  -- "

"There, now, on you go," said poor Kitty. "I'm a rattlepate, am I? It seems that I can never speak but I get into somebody's black books."

"You don't get into mine, I am sure," said Elma. "But I think you ought to be greatly obliged to me for telling you what is your plain duty with regard to the Tug-of-war Society. It is just like a secret society; our rules are our own, and not a soul who is not a member must know anything about them."

"Well, I won't tell," said Kitty. "When I say a thing I stick to it. I won't split -- there I that's flat and I suppose I am obliged to you, Elma."

"Yon ought to be," answered Elma. "Why, what a terrible scrape you would have got into. And now, then, Kitty, I have something else to tell you."

"Well, and what is it?" asked Kitty.

"First, are you not pleased that you are a member of the Tug-of-war Society?"

"To be sure I am. I think it is awfully nice of all you girls to ask me to join."

"It is a great distinction," continued Elma; "a new girl like you, one who is not known a bit in the school! Out of the whole school we have only selected ten, including the founders, and you are one. You ought to think yourself in rare luck."

"So I do."

"And you ought to be very grateful."

"So I am."

"But do you know whom you ought to be grateful to?"

"Well, I suppose to Bessie."

"Not a bit of it; it is to me you ought to be grateful. But for me you would not be a member of the Tug-of-war Society."

"But for you, Elma?"

"No."

"Was it you who got me asked to join?"

"I was the one who insisted on your being asked to join us. I put it plainly to Bessie and to Gwin, and they quite agreed with me. Alice was the only one who voted against you."

"Oh, just like her, spiteful thing!" said Kitty, coloring with annoyance. "Well, I am sure, Elma, I am obliged to you, and if there's anything I can do -- "

"I am coming to that," said Elma; "it's not much, but if you could -- "

"Could what? Why, I'll do anything. Is it one of my gowns you want to borrow?"

"No, no. What extraordinary ideas you hare!"

"Oh, there you begin again," said Kitty. "I never can speak right. Well, what can I do for you, Elma?"

"If you could -- just until next Monday -- if you could lend me some -- some money," said Elma, coloring as she spoke, her voice faltering, and her eyes seeking the ground.



Chapter VIII.

The Little House In Constantine Road.


Kitty stared at her companion for a moment, then she put her hand into her pocket and took out a very fat sealskin purse. She opened it and held it out to Elma.

"Help yourself," she said.

Elma looked into the purse -- golden sovereigns lay there in delicious rows. There must have been at least fifteen sovereigns in the purse.

"Take as many as you like," said Kitty; "you are heartily welcome."

"You don't mean it; you can't," replied Elma, turning very pale.

"Why, what are you hesitating about? You said you wanted some money. Dear heart alive! everybody wants money in Ireland, we are always borrowing one from the other. Take as many of those yellow boys as you fancy, and say no more about it."

"I am obliged to you, Kitty," said Elma. "I think you are quite splendid; but can I -- do you really mean it -- can I take five?"

"Five, bless you! Take them all if you want them. I have only to write to the dear old man at home, and ask him to send me a fiver or a tenner, and he'll do it. You need have no qualms, and --  -- "

"But when must I give them back?"

"Whenever you like."

"You don't really require them on Monday, do you?"

"I don't require them at any special date. Pay me when it is convenient. Here, you may as well have ten."

"I could not; it is too much," said Elma. She put her hands behind her back, her teeth were chattering, and she was trembling all over. She was afraid that Kitty must read her through and through.

"Oh, what is the use of bothering?" cried Kitty Malone. "If you won't take ten, take eight. Let me see, that leaves me seven over. Seven sovereigns. I don't ever want to spend any money here. Of course I may require a new dress when the fashions change. I must keep strictly up to date now that I have joined the Tug-of-war; but in case I do, I'll just send a wire to Aunt Bridget in Dublin and she'll send me over a beauty. Ah, she's a dear old soul, Aunt Bridget is. There, Elma, do take the money and be quick about it."

Elma -- feeling sick and low, hating herself as she had never hated herself before -- dipped her greedy fingers into Kitty's sealskin purse, and soon extracted eight of the golden sovereigns. These she slipped into her pocket.

"I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you," she said.

"Not another word!" cried Kitty. "I have forgotten all about it already. Now shall we have a run? I want to catch up to Bessie; I have not had a word with her for the whole of the day."

Elma no longer required to keep Kitty Malone in the background. She had now gained her object. Hoping against hope to extract from half a sovereign to fifteen shillings from the generous-hearted Irish girl, she suddenly found herself the lucky possessor of eight whole sovereigns. Never in the whole course of her life had Elma possessed anything approaching such a sum. Her mother was very poor. She had only one sister, a daily governess. All Elma's people were hard up, as the expression goes, and Elma herself only attended Middleton School because an aunt paid her school fees. Hardly ever could the girl secure even half a crown for her own pleasure. She hated poverty, she detested the small privations which slender means involved. She was in no sense of the word a high, refined character; on the contrary, there was something small in her nature, something little about her. She had ever cringed to the wealthy. She had made friends with Gwin Harley, who was rich, high-spirited, and generous, but also very conscientious, and with abundance of common sense. A glance had told Elma that she could never ask Gwin to lend her money; but Kitty -- innocent, frank, generous Kitty -- had proved an all too easy prey.

At that moment Elma despised Kitty as much as she was grateful to her. The eight pounds, which she might return whenever she liked, lay lightly in her pocket; she almost danced in her excitement and sense of triumph. Of course Kitty would never tell -- that went without saying; and in the meantime she was rich beyond her wildest dreams. The girls had joined forces when they came up to the stream which led across a wide field called the Willow Meadow. Kitty linked her hand inside Bessie's arm, and Elma and Alice walked side by side.

"Well," exclaimed Alice, "how did you get on with her, Elma?"

"With whom?" asked Elma.

"Oh, need you ask? That detestable Kitty Malone. I saw you sucking up to her, and wondered why."

"I wish you would not use such horrid, vulgar words, Alice," said Elma. "You know you are really breaking the rules of the Tug-of-war. We are requested not to make use of slang."

"I forgot," said Alice. "But if it comes to that," she continued, "I believe I shall have to leave the society if I can never express my feelings with regard to Kitty Malone."

"But do you really dislike her as much as ever?" asked Elma, who, shabby and mean as she was, in her poor little soul could scarcely bring herself to run down generous Kitty just then.

"Dislike her!" cried Alice. "I hate her -- there! I suppose that's flat and plain enough."

"It certainly is."

"But you don't mean to say -- it is impossible, Elma -- that you see anything to like in her?"

"Well, of course," answered Elma -- who wished to propitiate Alice, for her nature was to be all things to all men -- "I can see at a glance that she is not your style; she has not got your cleverness and refinement, dear Alice."

"Oh, bother!" cried Alice. But all the same she was pleased, and when Elma tucked her small hand inside of her arm Alice did not shake her off.

"Any one can see that," continued Elma Lewis; "but I don't think she is quite so bad as you paint her, Alice."

Alice's private opinion of Elma was that she was a little toad, and she now managed to extricate herself from the smaller girl's clasp.

"I shall never like her," she said. "There is no good in your praising her to me. If you mean to be her friend you must do so from a double motive."

"How uncharitable of you!" cried Elma, coloring crimson as she spoke.

"Oh, I can guess it very well, my dear," pursued Alice. "But for you she would not be a member of the Tug-of-war. What would have been a delightful society, a pleasure to the best girls at Middleton School, will be nothing whatever but a ridiculous farce, a scene of high comedy, something contemptible, now that Kitty Malone has joined it. But for you she would never have been asked to join. Why did you do it, Elma?"

"For no reason in particular," answered Elma.

"That is certainly not true, and you know it."

"I cannot think why you speak to me in that tone," said Elma. "What have I done to you that you should think so badly of me?"

"Oh, I don't think badly of you, Elma, not specially; but I have always seen that whatever you did, you did with a reason. In your own way you are clever, you are extremely worldly wise. There are certain people who would commend you; but you are not like the rest of us. You are not like Gwin for instance, nor like Bessie, nor like me. Yes, I will frankly say so, I am better than you, Elma. I have not got your double motives for everything. You are only a girl now; I don't know what you will be when you are a woman!"

The thought of the eight sovereigns so comfortably reposing in her pocket made Elma able to bear this very direct attack. She determined to take it good-humoredly; there was no use whatever in quarreling with Alice. Accordingly she said cheerfully:

"You may think what you like of me, Ally, but I hope in the course of years that you will find I am not so bad as you paint me."

Shortly afterward the girls parted, and each went on her way to her special home. Bessie ran briskly up the short avenue which led to her house, waving farewells to her companions as she did so. Alice and Kitty were obliged to content themselves one with the other; and Elma, in the highest good-humor, her heart bubbling over with bliss, departed in the direction of her own humbler residence. She had to walk quite a mile and a half, and at the end of that time she found herself in a much poorer part of the large suburb where Middleton School was situated. The houses here were of a humble description -- not even semidetached, but standing in long, dismal rows, a good many of them backing on to a railway-cutting. These houses boasted of no small gardens, but ran flush with the road. They were built of the universal yellow brick, and were about as ugly as they could well be.

Elma paused at No. 124 Constantine Road. As she did so, a high, rasping, and fretful voice screamed to her from an upper window:

"You are later than ever to-day, Elma, and mother has been fretting herself into hysterics. Do come in at once and be quick about it."

Elma mounted the two or three steps which led to the hall door, and pulled the bell with considerably more energy than was her wont. The sovereigns were in her pocket; they made all the difference to her between misery and happiness. She entered the house in high good-humor.

"What is it, Carrie?" she called to the fretful voice, which was now approaching nearer.

The next moment a slatternly-looking girl appeared at the head of the stairs.

"It's very easy for you to ask what is it," cried its owner, speaking in high dudgeon. "You promised to be in between five and six, and it is now between seven and eight. Here is all my chance of an evening's fun knocked on the head. It's just like you, Elma; that it is."

"Oh, never mind now; please don't scold me," said Elma. "What is it -- about mother; has she been bad again?"

"Oh, it's the usual thing; she has had one of those dismal letters from father. I can't imagine why she thinks anything about them. It came just when we were all sitting down to dinner, and she began to cry in that feeble sort of fashion."

"Oh, don't, Carrie; she will hear you," said Elma. "Pray go back to your room, and I'll be with you in a minute. I have something to tell you. You won't be quite so miserable when you hear my news."

Carrie stared at Elma, and then slowly backed until she reached a very minute bedroom which she and Elma shared together.

Elma ran briskly upstairs. Turning to her right, she knocked at a certain door; waited for an answer, but none came; then turned the handle and went in. The Venetian blinds were down here, and the form of a woman was seen lying in the center of a big bed.

"Is that you, Elma?" said a voice; and then the head was buried once more in the pillows, and no further notice whatever was taken.

"Yes, mother, I am here," answered Elma. "I was thinking you might like something nice for your supper -- a crab or a lobster, or something of that sort. Which would be your preference, mother?"

"A crab or a lobster!" muttered Mrs. Lewis. "You might as well ask me if I should like a bottle of champagne, or some caviare. One is about as likely to be forthcoming as the other."

"I tell you you may choose," said Elma. "I have my hat still on, and I'll go as far as the fishmonger's, and bring in either a lobster or a crab."

Mrs. Lewis raised herself on her elbow as Elma spoke.

"What are you dreaming about?" she said. "Where have you got the money?"

"Never mind. I have got the money. Which Would be your preference?"

"Oh, crab, dear; crab. I like it when it's well dressed; but then Maggie never can do anything properly."

"I'll dress it on this occasion," said Elma. "You shall have a good supper -- crab and salad, and -- There mother, do keep up heart again; you give way too much."

"Ah, child," said poor Mrs. Lewis, "I have had another terrible letter. He says he is starving; he cannot get work. I made the greatest possible mistake in allowing him to leave the country."

"You could do nothing else," said Elma, with a little stamp of her foot. "You know he would not help you in any way; he had to leave. But there, mother, you shall tell me the dismal news after tea. You will feel ever so much better when you have partaken of the dainty meal I mean to get for you."

Mrs. Lewis did not say anything further. Elma bent down, touched her parent on her brow with the lightest possible caress, and then stepped on tiptoe out of the room.

"Poor mother!" she muttered. "It is surprising the kind of things that comfort one; she is soothed at the thought of crab for supper with salad. Well, that is all right; she will be as amiable and petting to me as possible for the rest of the day. Now, then, for Carrie. A loose, untidy, badly, hung together girl like Carrie is a trial to any sister. However, I know the sort of thing that pleases her. I must be very careful of my treasure-trove. I shall not spend it lightly; but in giving my family small unexpected surprises it will be doing me an immensely good turn."

Elma now entered the room where Carrie was fuming up and down.

"Well, what have you to say for yourself, miss?" she cried, when her younger sister put in an appearance.

"Only that I am very sorry, Carrie; but to be honest with you, I quite forgot that you wanted to go out this afternoon. Did I not tell you that I was engaged to tea at Gwin Harley's?"

"You are forever with that odious girl," said Carrie.

"Gwin Harley an odious girl! What in the world do you mean?"

"What I say. Oh, of course I have seen her, and I know she's pretty, or some people would think her so; in my opinion she's vastly too stuck up; and so Sam Raynes says. Sam saw her last Sunday in church, and he said she wasn't a bit his style."

"Oh, pray, don't quote Sam Raynes to me," said Elma. "Well, Carrie, of course I had tea with Gwin, and of course she's about the nicest girl in the world; and Kitty Malone was there, that scamp of an Irish girl. Oh, she's not so bad when you get to know her better. And Alice Denvers was there, and Bessie Challoner. We had quite a nice time. Of course I told you about that society that I have joined. Well, there are about ten girls members now, quite the elite of the school. I believe we shall do a vast lot of good."

"What does it matter to me," said Carrie, stamping her foot. "I have lost my pleasant afternoon with Sam. He and his sister promised to meet me. I was to go with them to the Crystal Palace. Oh, it's too provoking."

Carrie still fumed up and down the room.

"And I have such a dull time," she continued; "those children are quite past bearing. They wear the very life out of me. See what that little imp of a Claude did to my dress this afternoon."

As Carrie spoke she held up a decidedly shabby dress, which bore a huge rent at one side.

"He caught it in his nasty little boot," said the girl. "He was scrambling up on my knee, and made such a fuss, and there happened to be a tiny hole, and then he wriggled and wriggled, and made it worse and worse. The skirt is not fit to wear. I don't know what I shall do. I really have not a blessed farthing to buy myself another new thing."

Elma made a careful calculation.

"How much was that stuff a yard?" she asked suddenly.

"What does it matter, Elma? It's worn out now, and there's an end of it. You cannot buy me another gown; so where's the good of talking."

"But perhaps I can," said Elma dubiously.

"My dear Elma what do you mean?"

"Well, I am not quite certain, of course," said Elma; "and it would have to be very cheap -- very cheap indeed. But what color would you like, Carrie?"

"Oh, blue," said Carrie, "rather light in shade. I love blue; and Sam says I look sweet in it."

"If you begin to quote Sam again I don't think I'll give you sixpence for anything. You know perfectly well that I loathe and detest him."

"Oh, that's your way," said Carrie. "You think it is very fine to detest all the young men in our set; but I tell you Sam is a right good fellow, and he has his ideas as much as anybody. He is going to get a raise, too, at Christmas, and -- "

"Are you engaged to him, Carrie?" asked Elma suddenly.

"Not yet. Oh, we don't think of any such thing; but I like to go with him. He is great fun, and so is Florrie. Florrie doesn't mind a bit how often she acts gooseberry."

Elma went and stood by the window. She looked gloomily out. How shabby and sordid her home was; how miserable everything seemed! Carrie was really a trial to any sister. Elma wondered if in the future she would have to tolerate Sam Raynes as her brother-in-law. A sick feeling crept over her. She was not a particularly refined girl; but in her school life she associated with girls of a totally different caliber from poor Carrie, and a shudder ran through her frame as she thought over her sister.

"If you mean anything by that talk about a new frock, you had better speak out plainly," said Carrie. "If you can really give me money to get the stuff, something pretty and cheap, I could buy it to-night; there is still plenty of time."

"Put on your hat and we'll go out at once," said Elma.

Carrie rushed to her wardrobe, took down her frowzy, over-trimmed hat, stuck it on her towzled head, drew a pair of gloves up her arms, and announced herself ready. The two girls ran briskly downstairs. Mrs. Lewis called from her bedroom after them:

"Where are you two going?" she said. "Am I to be left alone in the house?"

"No, Maggie is in the kitchen," called out Carrie.

"Oh, I am sick of being by myself, and I want my supper."

"I must go out to choose the crab, mother," said Elma.

"Oh, the crab," replied Mrs. Lewis in a mollified tone. "If you are going really to get one, Elma, be sure you see that it has plenty of coral in it, and choose nice, crisp lettuce. I care nothing for crab without lettuce."

"All right mother; I'll manage," said Elma.

The girls found themselves in the street.

"So you are going to get mother crab and lettuce for supper," cried Carrie. "Then I suppose after all you don't mean to give me money to buy stuff for a new dress?"

"Yes, I do, Carrie, if you'll only have patience. I said I would, and there's an end of it."

"But how have you got the money?"

"Never you mind; I have got it."

Carrie walked on, her spirits rose, and she began to talk in her high staccato voice, allowing each person who passed to hear what she was saying.

"This is Thursday," she said. "I shall get up at daylight to-morrow morning, and I shall cut out the dress and put it in hand. I am always home between four and five in the afternoon, so I can work at it again until late at night. Then on Saturday, thank goodness! there's a whole holiday. Oh, I shall manage to get it done by the evening, and Sam and I can have a jolly time together in the park on Sunday."

"We will buy the crab first," said Elma, "and then we can call at Macpherson's on our way home."

"They have sweet things at Macpherson's," said Carrie. "You really are a very good-natured old thing, Elma."

"I am glad you think so," said Elma, her lips parted in a slightly satirical smile.

Carrie, now beaming all over with good-humor, assisted in the choosing of the crab; she further volunteered to carry this luxury home, and suggested that radishes would be a great addition to the lettuce.

"Is there anything else you think mother would like?" asked Elma.

"Oh, a bottle of really good Guinness' stout," said Carrie.

"Capital, Carrie! Why, you are getting quite a head for housekeeping. We'll give mother such a good supper, and it will do her a world of good."

"Poor old dear, so it will," said jubilant Carrie.

Having purchased the materials for an appetizing meal, the girls now entered a large establishment which, being supported by people of extremely slender means, could only afford to indulge in the cheapest articles. Carrie desired the shopman to exhibit cheap materials in different shades of blue. She finally selected one, turquoise in color, and wonderfully pretty, which cost the large sum of sevenpence three-farthings per yard. She ordered the required length to be cut, and Elma took out her purse to pay for it.

She did not at all want her sister to see how many sovereigns that purse contained, and turned her back slightly as she laid one on the counter.

"Well, how you got it baffles me!" cried Carrie.

"Pray, don't speak so loud," said Elma; "they really will think that I stole it if you go on giving me those sort of staccato rises of your eyebrows. It's all the better for you; that sovereign has got you a new dress."

"So it has, and you are an old darling," said Carrie. "I'll tell Sam all about you on Sunday, Elma. By the way, what a good idea; wouldn't you like to come with us? There's Sam's cousin, Maurice, a capital fellow -- Maurice Jones."

"Oh, no; don't speak of him," said Elma. She gave a shudder, and turned her head aside.

The materials for the dress were purchased, even down to the linings and buttons; and Carrie, holding her parcel tucked comfortably under her arm, started home, Elma accompanying her. Carrie was so excited and delighted with her dress that she had no time even to think of the wonderful problem as to how Elma had got the money.

When they reached the house Elma ran into the kitchen and prepared to dress the crab. She did so well, and when the dainty little meal was upon the table, ran upstairs to bring her mother down.

"Now, mother, get up at once," she said.

"Get up. Oh. I can't," said Mrs. Lewis; "I have got such a splitting headache."

"But the crab is downstairs, and I have dressed it myself, just in the way you like best. I have brought in a little cayenne pepper, too, for I know you don't care for crab without it; and the lettuce is wonderfully crisp and fresh, and there are some radishes. Oh, and Carrie reminded me that you would not care for crab without your stout."

"I know," said Mrs. Lewis in a plaintive voice; "your father would never allow me to touch crab or lobster without stout. Ah, but those good old days are gone!"

"Not quite mother, for there is a bottle of Guinness's waiting at your disposal."

"Oh, is there?" said Mrs. Lewis. She raised herself on her elbow. "Then I think I'll go down," she said.

"Well, make yourself smart, mother. I shall be waiting for you, and so will Carrie."



Chapter IX.

The Head-Mistress And The Cabbage-Rose.


Middleton School, which consisted of from six to seven hundred girls, was kept in a state of discipline not so much by punishments as by a very strict code of honor. There were certain things which no Middleton girl who respected herself would ever dream of doing. There were other things which she would do as a matter of course. For instance, she would uphold her school through thick and thin, allowing no outsider to run it down. To be a member of Middleton School insured her friendship with all the other girls in the school. The esprit de corps of this celebrated day school was exceptionally strong. Even in after-life its members met as friends, never forgetting that they were at one time schoolfellows in one of the best and most thorough colleges of learning in the whole of England.

As the fees for instruction were necessarily low, and as the school was therefore open to all classes of girls, from the very rich to those who had but limited means, a rule, and a very strong one, was that all money and class distinctions were to be absolutely abolished. The girls, so long as they belonged to the school, were absolutely on the same footing, notwithstanding the fact that their home-lives might be very far removed the one from the other. Among the most emphatic rules of the school -- a rule which, if it were disobeyed, would cause ostracism on the part of the girls and the gravest reprimand, not to say a chance of expulsion, on the part of the teachers -- was the borrowing of money. Money was supposed not to be mentioned between the girls; and as to a poor girl borrowing from a rich, it was considered about the blackest crime which could take place in Middleton School. Now, Elma, knew this fact perfectly well, and when she took the eight pounds from Kitty Malone she was aware of the grave risk which she ran. More depended on her keeping up a good character in the school than her companions were at all aware of. She was sent to Middleton School by an aunt who to a certain extent had adopted her -- her mother could not possibly afford to pay the fees, small as they were.

Elma knew well as she lay down to sleep that night that if the little transaction between herself and Kitty were known she would be practically ruined for life. No other girl belonging to the school would lend money even if it were asked for, so strong was the feeling on this head; but Kitty knew nothing about it; she had not been long at Middleton, and the subject had not been mentioned to her. Elma sincerely trusted to Kitty's never alluding to it. Kitty had promised not to tell; and Elma believed, wild and erratic as she was, that when her word was once given, she would respect it. When she had asked Kitty to lend her money she had intended only to take half a sovereign; she wanted this in order to pay her subscription to the Tug-of-war Society; but when Kitty generously opened her purse and told her to help herself, the temptation had proved far too strong. Before she quite knew what she was doing she had taken eight sovereigns; had put herself absolutely into Kitty's power, and had run the chance of being ruined for life. Still, that first night she slept soundly, and awoke in the morning with a sense of bliss. She had still a little over seven sovereigns; not her own, and yet in one sense quite her own, for Kitty had said there was no hurry about the replacing of the money. Oh, yes, she was quite certain that no one would find out. She opened her sleepy eyes, yawned, and saw Carrie sitting at the window, busily employed cutting out her dress. Elma remarked crossly at the blaze of light.

"Oh, don't say you mind it, you old dear," cried Carrie. "I can't see unless I have plenty of light, and it's most important how I cut this sleeve. I mean it to be puffy and yet not too puffy, and the elbows must fit exactly in the right place. What a pity it is, Elma, that you and I are not the same sort of figure. I am nearly double as big as you. It would be so convenient if you could be my model; then I might fit my things like a glove. Ah, well, I suppose there's nothing perfect in the world."

Elma turned on her other side.

"If you talk to me any more," she said, "I shall become so cross as to be unbearable. Go on with your dress if you must, but don't speak."

Elma returned to the land of dreams, and Carrie cut and snipped, and basted and pinned, until it was time for her to go downstairs to breakfast. Elma got up at her usual hour, ate her breakfast with scarcely a remark, and started for school. When she got there the different members of the Tug-of-war Society were hanging about the doors. The school was not yet opened and the girls who belonged to the society nodded to one another and whispered and smiled. Among the party waiting at the door were Alice Denvers, Kitty Malone, and Bessie Challoner. Gwin Harley had not yet arrived. It was never Gwin's stately way to be either too early or too late for school; she generally appeared on the scene, driving up in her pretty little phaeton, just as the clock struck nine. The other girls always made way for this dainty little turnout, and Gwin would spring carelessly to the ground, give a direction to the smart tiger who sat behind, and who immediately took the reins, and then, turning with a gay nod to her companions, would enter the school with them.

Gwin was certainly the pride of the school. The girls who were not her absolute friends looked at her with awe, wonder, and admiration. The girls who were her friends bragged of the fact to their companions. It was a pleasure even to look at Gwin, for, although she never overdressed herself, she was always so wonderfully dainty -- her neat little shoes, her lovely stockings, the fine quality of her cambric handkerchiefs, the delicate scent which clung to them, the glossy braids of her ever exquisitely arranged hair, and the very set of that perfectly plain sailor hat with its band of white ribbon, were all the acme of perfection. Oh, they all betokened wealth and taste, taste and wealth. No wonder the girls worshiped Gwin. She never boasted of her wealth, she never brought it prominently forward; but for all that it pervaded her from the top of her head to the point of her pretty bronze shoes.

Kitty now gave Gwin an earnest and longing look. There was a peculiar expression about Kitty's face: a sort of new, thoughtful look, as though something was worrying her and causing her to cudgel her brains to quite a remarkable extent. Kitty Malone had never yet been affected with shyness, nor was she shy now. Just as Gwin's carriage appeared and the other girls made way for it as was their wont, and Elma approached quite close to Alice, meaning to make some remark to her, what she never afterward remembered, Kitty ran straight up to Gwin and clasped her by the hand.

"I want to say something to you very badly," she began.

"How do you do, Kitty?" answered Gwin in her pleasant high-bred voice. "You want to say something to me? But the bell has just rung; we must go into school."

"I mean after school," continued Kitty. "Can I walk with you during recess?"

"Oh, but please, Gwin," cried Elma at that point, "you promised to walk with me to-day; don't you remember?"

"Yes, and you promised to walk with me, Miss Harley," exclaimed a girl of the name of Marcia Tyndal.

"But it is so important, Gwin," pleaded Kitty, bringing that peculiar Irish quality into her voice which it was difficult to resist.

"Ah, now do, Gwin," she continued; "do let me walk with you just during this recess. The others may have you for every other recess until Christmas; but do let me be with you just for to-day."

"I think you must, Kitty," said Gwin. "Elma, you won't mind, will you? Marcia, you and I can have to-morrow instead of to-day; is it a bargain?"

"Oh, I don't mind," said Marcia Tyndal in a good natured voice, shrugging her fat shoulders as she spoke.

Then the girls trooped into school, prayers began, and immediately afterward they all assembled at their different classes.

Kitty was restless and nervous, she could not settle to her work. She was more distrait and inattentive even than usual. The younger girls, who delighted in her, and quite prided themselves on having her in their class, nudged her in vain.

"Kitty," whispered one little girl quite three years Kitty Malone's junior, "if you don't open your history book you won't have your lesson ready when Miss Worrick comes."

"Oh, I know all that stupid history," cried Kitty in a low voice. "Don't bother me, Annie, asthore. I can't be teased. I have got something in the back of my head."

"Something in the back of your head?" whispered Annie.

"Yes, yes; but hush, alanna! I can't let it out; it's bothering me entirely. There, if I must look at the stupid history, I must. What part are we doing, Mary Davies?"

"Oh, it's about Charles the First."

"Poor martyr! Shame to England to cut off his head!" Kitty bent over her book, but soon her erratic fancy had started off in another direction. She was sent to the bottom of the class when the history lesson came on, and was looked at with growing disfavor by Miss Worrick, a particularly painstaking and earnest young teacher.

"Really, Miss Malone, if this sort of thing goes on I must report you," she said. "It is pure inattention. If you wish to take any position in the school you must make up your mind that while in school you must work."

"And while out of school I must play," retorted Kitty. "Ah, then, it's little of the play I get. If I had my share of the play I could do my share of work."

"Come, you must not answer me," said Miss Worrick. "Now, sit down and read up that chapter in your history. You will not be allowed to go out during recess this morning."

"Not go out during recess?" cried Kitty in horror; "but it's most important. Ah, now, do let me out; just excuse me to-day, won't you? I'll be as good as gold to-morrow, and better; but excuse me to-day; please, please. Say you will; for I really must go. I was to meet Gwin Harley, the darling; and it's put out she would be awfully if I wasn't with her. You'll let me out to-day, won't you? Please say yes."

"I do not understand you, Miss Malone. When I say a thing I mean it. You are not to go out during recess."

Kitty's bright face fell; the cloud which had more or less hovered round her during the entire morning deepened. She sank into her seat with a heavy sigh.

"Never mind, Kitty; we all of us have to stay in sometimes," whispered little Mary Davies.

"Take a chocolate out of my pocket, darlin', and don't talk to me any more," was Kitty's answer. "I am sad past bearing. Not to see Gwin when I had arranged it all; but I will, I must! There, take a second chocolate if you want it; they are full of cream. But just leave me to my own thoughts for a bit. I am so worried I don't know whether I am on my head or my heels."

"Silence, girls -- no whispering!" called the mathematical teacher, who now came on the scene.

Poor Kitty's morning began badly, and it certainly was destined to go on badly. None of her lessons were prepared with the slightest care; she went down lower and lower in class, and each teacher gave her an imposition or some other punishment. When recess came she alone in the whole class was required to remain in the room.

The rest of the girls looked at her with pity.

"She's such an old dear, although quite the idlest and most ignorant person I ever came across," said Mary Davies to her companions.

"Yes," whispered another little girl with fat rosy cheeks and round eyes; "but did you ever taste such chocolate creams? Why, they must cost a halfpenny apiece. I do love to sit next to her; she says I may dive my hand into her pocket as often as I like."

"Oh, she's an old love!" echoed all the girls: "but what a pity it is that she won't learn."

"She does not want to learn," said Mary Davies. "Learning would spoil her; she is a pet."

Meanwhile in the playground Gwin Harley waited in vain for Kitty to join her.

"Does any one know where Kitty Malone is?" she said, addressing one of the girls in Kitty's class.

"She is kept in for an imposition; she did not know her history, and Miss Worrick said she was to stay in," answered Mary Davies.

"Oh, well, I suppose I can see her another time," said Gwin. At that moment she met Elma's anxious eyes.

Elma was just about to dart to the side of her friend, when, to the amazement of all the girls, Kitty walked calmly across the playground.

"Oh Gwin, I must speak to you; it is about Alice. You know, you and Alice are great friends. Things get worse and worse, and they are almost past bearing. Last night I heard her sobbing in bed. She sobbed and sobbed, and at last I could stand no more of it, and sprang out of bed, and bent over her and said: 'Alice, is it about me you are crying?' and she said: 'Oh, yes, Kitty, it is;' and I said, 'And why 'Oh, yes, Kitty?' What has poor Kitty done to you?"

"'I am not happy,' answered Alice. 'Since you came everything has changed; you have made my home miserable to me. I don't like your ways.'

"'Have you made up your mind never to be friends with me?' I asked.

"'Yes,' said Alice. 'I wish you would go away.' She sat up in bed then with her tear-stained face, and looked at me ever so earnestly. 'Tell mother that you would rather go to some other house -- that you won't stay here. I never could stand vulgar girls, and you are one.'

"Oh Gwin, I felt so mad. You don't think me a vulgar girl, do you?"

"Tell me the whole," said Gwin in a low voice.

"Oh, there is not much more. Alice was in a regular temper. She buried her face in the clothes, and though I tried pinching her, and pulling her, and petting her even, not another word would she utter. Now, you must see for yourself, Gwin, that if this sort of thing goes on I shall have to return home, and then the old dad will be fretted, and he will think that I don't want to learn manners nor to get learning into me. Oh dear, I don't want to fret him, although I hate England. I have just been wondering if you would speak to Alice."

"Yes, certainly," answered Gwin. "I -- " Her words were interrupted.

"Miss Malone, do I see you in the playground?" said a stern voice. Miss Worrick had appeared on the scene.

"Why, then, yes, Miss Worrick, you do. It's a fine day, isn't it; and the air is most refreshing," said Kitty in her most impertinent tones.

"Do you know that you have distinctly disobeyed me? I forbade you to leave the schoolroom during recess. How dared you do so?"

"There wasn't much daring about it. I walked to the door, opened it, and came out. I had made a previous engagement, and it was not at all convenient to break it. I told you so at the time, did I not?"

For answer Miss Worrick took Kitty by the arm and led her across the playground.

"I must take you to Miss Sherrard," she said. "I cannot manage a disobedient girl like you."

She opened a side door, and, still holding Kitty by the arm, led her down a long passage and into a small room, where she desired her to wait while she fetched the head-mistress.

Miss Sherrard was a little woman, but she had a native dignity which is beyond and above all mere personal appearance. She had a keen and commanding eye, a somewhat pale face, an upright little figure. She was not only short in stature, but slight; nevertheless, there was not a mistress in the great school who did not hold her in awe as well as admiration, and not a girl, with the exception, perhaps, of Kitty Malone, who did not do her reverence.

When the door was shut behind Kitty, she drummed impatiently on the bare mahogany table near which she had been placed, then walked to the window and looked out. From her position she could catch a glimpse of Gwin Harley pacing up and down the playground with Elma Lewis. She saw Alice come up and talk to Gwin; she noticed that Gwin and Elma paused, then that Alice slipped to the other side of Gwin, and the three walked slowly up and down. As they walked they talked. Alice nodded her head once or twice; Elma made emphatic grimaces; Gwin alone looked quiet, calm, and stately.

"They are talking about me," thought the Irish girl, and an angry feeling rose in her heart. "Is it for this I have left the dear old dad, and the beautiful home, and the animals, and Aunt Bridget, and Aunt Honora? Oh, is it for this I have left dear Old Ireland, may her heart be blessed! to come here to be slighted, to be made little of, to be joked at! Am I Kitty Malone, or am I somebody else? Oh! my heart will break, my heart will break!"

"Miss Malone, I am sorry to hear this of you," said a very calm, very distinct, and withal very kind voice, just at Kitty's back. Kitty turned abruptly, and said aloud:

"Oh, and did you overhear me?" She then involuntarily dropped a courtesy to the head-mistress.

Miss Sherrard shut the door behind her.

"I am sorry," she began, "to learn from Miss Worrick that you are showing insubordination and disobedience."

"Why, then, now, and won't you let me tell my own story in my own way?" said Kitty.

In spite of herself, Miss Sherrard gave an involuntary smile. It soon vanished, but Kitty had caught the glint in the eye and the tremble round the lips. "Why, then I see at a glance that you have the kind heart," she said; "you thought to keep it in, but I saw it breaking out just then. You'll let me tell my own story, won't you?"

"That seems fair enough," said Miss Sherrard. She seated herself as she spoke on one of the bare, comfortless chairs, and looked full up at Kitty.

Kitty was dressed according to Rule IV. of the Tug-of-war Society. She wore a decidedly fashionable dress, the sleeves well puffed out at the shoulders, fitting nicely at the elbows, and with ruffles of lace, real lace, round the wrists. Round Kitty's throat also there were ruffles of lace; the neck of her dress was cut a little low, showing the soft, full contour of her exquisitely-curved throat. Her waist was clasped with a belt of solid silver, and in front she wore a great bunch of cabbage-roses. The cabbage-rose has a scent which, when once it assails the nostrils, can never afterward be forgotten. Miss Sherrard, in spite of herself, gave a little sniff.

Quick as lightning Kitty saw it, and detached the bunch of roses from her belt.

"Now, will you have them?" she said. "Ah, do now, just to please me, Kitty Malone; they came all the way from Old Ireland this morning. Stay, I'll pin them into the front of your dress. Hold easy a moment dear woman, and you'll have as neat a little bunch as ever you clapped your two eyes on."

Miss Sherrard could not help once again letting that ghost of a smile play round her lips, and then vanish.

"But really," she said -- "oh, thank you for the roses; yes, they are very sweet; yes, delicious! She bent her head and sniffed quite audibly.

"Ah, then, aren't they refreshing, and aren't they melting the anger down in your heart? Say they are now -- say they are. You see you never had an out-and-out wild Irish girl to manage before. Well, and what is it you want with me? I'll be as civil as you please, and as willing to listen to the words of wisdom, if only you'll let me first tell my own story."

"It is only fair that you should be allowed to tell your own tale," said Miss Sherrard; "but please understand that I am very angry. Miss Worrick's story has amazed me. Do you know. Kitty Malone, of what you are accused?"

"Well, I do, and I don't; but I should like to hear the crime spoken of by your pretty lips. What is it? Something black of course; black things are always laid to the door of Kitty Malone."

"The crime, Miss Malone, is the very grave sin of disobedience. You must know that in a great school of this kind, if there were not perfect obedience there would be no order at all."

"True for you, it looks like it; but then, as far as I can see -- and I have watched all the girls pretty closely of late -- I am the only black sheep. Now, I should think that one black sheep in a great big orderly place of this kind would make a sort of diversion. You would all be after her, and joking at her, and thinking which of you could get her under control. Well, I am the black sheep, and I suppose I am sorry."

"Don't talk any more, Kitty; listen to me."

"Yes; what is it?"

"You have been disobedient; you were very inattentive over your history lesson, not knowing it at all. Miss Worrick says, as a matter of fact, you did not even trouble to open your book, and when the time came for you to go through your lesson you were not able to answer a single question. For this extreme carelessness she desired you to stay in the schoolroom during morning recess. She said you pleaded hard that she would excuse you, not liking to take the punishment which you richly deserved; but Miss Worrick, very justly insisted on her word being obeyed. What then, was her astonishment to see you in the playground walking calmly up and down with Gwin Harley."

"Yes, dear; and what else could you expect?" answered Kitty.

"What else could I expect? I don't understand."

"Well, was it likely now that I would stay in that close, stifling schoolroom when the sun was shining and there was a bird on a tree outside singing to me as loud as ever it could? And I had made an arrangement with Gwin Harley to walk up and down with her during recess, and the darling girl had put off two others for me, and was waiting for me. Don't you think it was about natural that I should disobey Miss Worrick, whom I never cared twopence for, and go out to Gwin Harley, whom I love? Of course I knew I was disobedient, and I supposed she would punish me; but I didn't think she would have me up for you to lecture me."

"You behaved very badly indeed," said Miss Sherrard; "and you are now talking in an extremely silly way."

Kitty bowed her head; the light went out of her eyes, her face turned pale.

"What punishment will you invent to torture me with?" she said at last in a low voice. "I suppose I have done wrong, and I am willing to take the punishment. What is it?"

"Of course you must be punished," said the head-mistress; "it would never do to allow disobedience is the school. You see, Kitty -- "

"Oh, bless you, bless you, for calling me by my Christian name," muttered Kitty Malone.

"Kitty, I am inclined to take you into my confidence."

"Are you, indeed? I declare you're an old dear!"

"You have come to school to learn, have you not?"

"Not a bit of it," answered Kitty; "I came to school to please the old dad."

"Your father?"

"Yes, the dear old dad, the dearest, the best in the world."

"But what did he send you here for?"

"Well, I suppose to get knowledge and manners. Ah, bad luck to them! and I suppose also to tame me down a bit. He said he never could manage that at Castle Malone."

Miss Sherrard once more gave that faint involuntary smile.

"Your father sent you here," she said, "to put you under discipline. While you are in this school, my dear girl, you must obey me, and also the other teachers. If you are disobedient the other girls will be disobedient, and then where should we all be?"

"It would be a lark!" muttered Kitty, with sparkling eyes.

"Don't interrupt, and please listen. I should be very sorry to send you back to Castle Malone in disgrace. I should be sorry to have to write to your father in order to tell him that his Kitty, whom he loves -- his bright, pretty, lovable daughter -- can never learn manners nor accomplishments, nor be tamed in the very least. There are from six to seven hundred girls in this school, who all now know about your very daring act of disobedience. Were I not to punish you they would be astonished, and some of them might even go to the length of copying your behavior. You see this for yourself, don't you?"

"Oh, I see it plain enough," answered Kitty; "plain as a pikestaff. What's the punishment to be?"

Miss Sherrard hesitated. Once more she looked at Kitty; Kitty's eyes were as bright as stars.

"You need not be afraid," said the pupil in an encouraging voice. "I am nothing of a coward; I'll take anything in reason. Is it a flogging you are thinking of ordering for me?"

"Oh, no; we never flog in this school," said Miss Sherrard in a shocked voice.

"Why, then, if it is something in the shape of learning a lesson it will go cruel with me. I don't care for learning, and --  -- "

"I am afraid, Kitty, that I must give you the kind of punishment which all the school may know about. All the school now knows of your disobedience, and it must also be well aware of your punishment."

"Good gracious! this sounds exciting," answered Kitty. "I am to have a punishment that all the school will know about."

"Yes, it is this. To-morrow morning, just before recess, you are to go up to Miss Worrick, and tell her before the entire school that you are sorry you disobeyed her; you are then to offer to stay in during the play hour."

"If that's all," said Kitty, "it is not much of a bother. I am to say I am sorry, and I am to stay in to-morrow. You won't object to my bringing -- "

"I'll hear of no conditions," answered Miss Sherrard, starting to her feet. "Go away now, my dear girl, and please remember that your father sent you here to learn, that I trust you will learn, and that you will also endeavor to be good to -- to please me, Kitty."

Kitty's eyes filled with sudden tears.

"You are very kind," she murmured. "I know I should soon learn to love you. You wouldn't mind letting me give you a hug, would you?"

"I will certainly kiss you, dear, but no demonstration, please. Kitty, I know you have a warm heart; but don't let it lead you into mischief. There is much for you to learn in England, as I doubt not there would be much for an English girl to learn in your country."

"Ah, but it is the dearest land in all the world," said Kitty.

"I am sure it is to you; but say no more now. I will speak to Miss Worrick; she will expect you to do what I have desired to-morrow."



Chapter X.

Paddy Wheel-About.


The next day there was a whisper through the school that Kitty Malone was about to do public penance. She had already made more or less sensation in that part of the school where she worked. In her own class the girls, as has already been stated, adored her; but the other girls also looked at her with interest. They admired her dress, her free, careless gait, her upright, erect figure, and the bright, happy glance in her eyes. They all thought her charming, and the expression of her face was often so comical, the shrug of her shoulders so ludicrous, that at a glance she set the girls tittering.

On this special occasion she sat down between her favorite Mary Davies and Agnes Moore, and whispered to the former:

"Ah, then, darling, it is not your place I'll be taking to-day; sure my head is bothered entirely. But I have got all kinds of nice things about me. Do you know that I sat up late last night putting a pocket in the left side of my dress as well as the right, so now the girl on each side of me can have as many chocolates as she has a fancy for? You dive in your hand whenever you feel the least bit inclined for a sweetie, Agnes; and you do the same, Mary Davies; and, Mary, you might pass one on now and then to that poor, little, thin Katie Trafford at the other end of the class."

It was certainly impossible for a girl like Kitty Malone not to be popular; and the other girls valued her, and thought themselves highly privileged to be in the same class with her, dunce as she was.

Kitty had learned her lessons a little better, but the thought of the public confessions which she was about to make rested heavy on her soul. It made her restless; and her lessons, although they had been better prepared, gained her no more marks than on the previous day.

"I wonder how I ought to do it," she whispered more than once to Agnes Moore.

"To do what?" asked Agnes, who was a very earnest little student, and whose dream was that she might get a remove at the end of the term. "About what, Kitty? I wish you would not interrupt me."

"Oh, bother it, dear. Have a chocolate, won't you? What are your lessons compared to my perplexities? What ought I to say? Ought I to drop a courtesy or go on my knees? There was an old romance which I found in the garret at home; and when the heroine did wrong she always dropped upon her knees and folded her hands, and raised her eyes toward heaven -- is that the way I ought to do it?"

"Don't, don't, Kitty; you'll make me laugh, and then I'll be sent down. Please, don't talk to me any more."

Kitty turned her attention to Mary Davies.

"Would you, Mary, go on one knee or on two? If you dip your hand down to the very bottom of my pocket, you'll find some caramels -- some people like them better than chocolate creams."

"You must not talk to me any more or I'll get into disgrace," whispered Mary in a low, frightened voice. "Look, Miss Worrick has come into the room. Now do open your history book, there's a dear girl."

Kitty bent her curly head over her book. She was really interested in the cruel fate of the martyr-king, but at that moment she saw nothing but the picture she was conjuring up each moment before her excited imagination -- the tall girl asking pardon of the little teacher. Was the girl to go on her knees?

"It really would be better," thought Kitty. "I'd be lower than her then. It does seem ridiculous that the big should ask pardon of the little, and -- Oh, Miss Worrick, I beg your pardon; were you speaking to me?"

"I was, Kitty. Stand up; I am just going to lecture."

The history lesson began. Kitty did no better than yesterday. It came to an end. The mathematical teacher took her class, and then the great bell was rung for recess. Just at the moment when its last note echoed through the vast school Miss Worrick came a step forward into the room, and held up her hand to arrest the movement of the classes. She looked at Kitty with an expectant expression. Kitty returned her gaze, and said nothing. Kitty Malone felt glued to her seat. For a moment every nerve seemed paralyzed, her face became crimson, her eyes filled with ready tears, she looked down, the great tears splashed upon the desk before her. At that instant she encountered the vindictive and delighted glance of Alice Denvers.

Kitty had confided all her trouble to Alice on the previous night, and Alice at the time had pretended to give a little sympathy; but where was her sympathy now?

"I hate her," thought the Irish girl. "No one else would be glad to see me so miserable."

"You have something to say to me, have you not, Miss Malone?" said Miss Worrick in her stiff, precise voice.

Kitty staggered to her feet.

"I don't want to say it a bit," she grumbled.

"Come forward, my dear; come forward."

Kitty left the protection of her desk, and staggered across the room. Miss Worrick had mounted a little platform, all the other teachers stood waiting, and the girls waited also. Kitty looked round, the eyes in each face seemed multiplied fourfold -- the room seemed to be all eyes. She longed for the mountains, for her father, for Laurie, for the old home. She hated the school, she hated England. Why was she to be publicly disgraced?

"Oh, it is very wrong indeed to ask me to do it," she cried. Then the following words rushed out: "Miss Worrick, I am sorry I disobeyed you yesterday, and I'll stay in class to-day. Yes, I will stay; but I hate every one of you, and I hate England, and I wish I was back again in dear Old Ireland. Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! Why was I ever sent into this horrid, cold, freezing land? Oh, my heart is broken! my heart is broken!"

Kitty's sobs were distinctly heard across the great schoolroom. She returned to her seat. Miss Worrick with a wave of her hand dismissed the rest of the girls. Kitty bent her head low down upon the desk before her, and sobbed louder and louder. At last she felt a hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

"I know I did it dreadfully, Miss Worrick," she said; "but it was so bad. Why did you make me, why did you make me?"

"There, Kitty, it is over now, and you will never disobey your teacher again as long as you live," said a kind voice, and Kitty raised her eyes to see, not the face of Miss Worrick, but that of the head-mistress.

"Oh, Miss Sherrard, how could you make me do it?" she sobbed. "It wasn't in me. None of the Malones could beg anybody's pardon, and I couldn't go on my knees when the moment came because they felt stiff, they had no joints in them. I could not do it properly; no, I could not."

"You did it, dear, but not very well. You did it, however, and you have learned your lesson. Now come with me into my private sitting-room. You and I will have lunch together, and I will excuse you from any more lessons to-day."

Kitty Malone never forgot that next hour. Miss Sherrard was an ideal head-mistress. She had the keenest sympathy with girls. In her long experience she had met girls of every shade of character, the bold, the ambitious, the timorous, the idle, the frivolous, the noble, the earnest. She knew all about the Christian girl as well as the pagan girl; all about the girl who had a terrible battle with her own evil pro pensities, and the girl whose nature was so amiable, so gentle, so sweet, that life would be comparatively easy for her. But although she had been head-mistress of the great Middleton School now for several years, she had never before met quite such an extraordinary specimen as Kitty Malone. Where, however, others would see nothing but a spirit of frivolity, a love of admiration, dress, pleasure, in Kitty, Miss Sherrard peeped below the surface and discovered some really noble qualities. She determined to be very gentle to this wild, willful girl -- to take her, in short, as she was.

"Oh, I wonder you care to speak to me," said Kitty, when her sobs having ceased, she stood looking half-repentant, half-rebellious in Miss Sherrard's private room.

"You are not to be the subject of our conversation at all for the present, Kitty," said Miss Sherrard. "Lunch is ready, and you must be hungry. Would you like to go into my room -- it is just next to this -- and wash your hands and brush out your hair?"

Kitty looked at Miss Sherrard's small and beautifully-kept hands. She was fastidious to a remarkable degree about her personal appearance.

"I dare say my hair is somewhat untidy," she said. "I might as well take a squint at myself in the glass. I never like to look ugly. Is my nose very red, Miss Sherrard?"

"Never mind about your appearance," said Miss Sherrard, who could not help feeling slightly annoyed at what she considered such a very irrelevant remark.

"I expect I am a fright," said Kitty standing up and talking half to herself and half for the benefit of the head-mistress. "Crying always spoils me. Now, I knew a girl at home, and the more she cried the prettier she got. She used to let her tears roil down her cheeks in great drops, and never attempted to wipe them away, and her nose never got red, and her eyes only got bigger and quite dewy. Now, as to me when I cry, my nose --  -- "

"Kitty, will you please remember that I am waiting for lunch," interrupted Miss Sherrard.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, ma'am," answered Kitty. She ran into the next room, examined herself critically in the glass, arranged her hair, dipped her hands into hot water, and came back looking spruce, bright, pretty, and once more restored to the highest good-humor.

"I said yesterday that I would love you, ma'am," she said, as she seated herself at the other side of the appetizing board. "Oh! what a dear little pie! I wonder is it pigeon pie"

"No, it is lamb pie," answered Miss Sherrard. "Will you help yourself?"

Kitty cut herself a generous slice.

"I like all sorts of good things," she said. "I am sure I was meant to do nothing in life but dress well, and look pretty, and have the nicest food to eat, and --  -- "

"How dare you?" interrupted Miss Sherrard. Her words coming firm and strong, the expression on her kind face arrested the idle girl's silly remarks.

"What do you mean?" asked Kitty.

"I mean this, Miss Malone, that you are a girl with a considerable amount of ability --  -- "

"Oh, now that I have not got."

"With a considerable amount of ability," continued Miss Sherrard, "and with a great many talents."

"Talents! I thought talents meant genius. Now, I have always and always been told that I was a dunce of the dunces. It's not joking me you are, is it, Miss Sherrard?"

"No, Kitty; I am in very sober earnest. You have been sent to me to make something of you."

"Well, my dear woman, I am afraid you won't make much. The fact is, I am wild through and through. I come of a wild stock. I wish you could see us at home, and Laurie, and --  -- "

"You must tell me about your home afterward," said Miss Sherrard. "But now I have something to say about yourself."

As she spoke, Miss Sherrard drew her cup of coffee to the side of the table, leaned back, and looked fixedly into the bright and lovely face of the girl who sat opposite her.

"You have read your Bible, have you not?" she said.

"My Bible!" cried Kitty. "Yes; I read it every day."

"I am glad to hear that."

"Why, you don't suppose we are a lot of heathens at Castle Malone, do you, Miss Sherrard? Father has prayers every morning, and we all troop in, every one of us, into the big hall. Oh, I wish you could see the hall, and the pictures of my ancestors, and --  -- "

"Afterward you shall tell me about them," interrupted Miss Sherrard. "So you do read your Bible every day. Then I dare say you happen to know the beautiful story, or rather parable, spoken by Christ himself about the talents?"

"Yes, I love that story; only I don't think it applies specially to me, for I have not got any."

"Have not you? Perhaps I can find that you have."

Kitty gazed at her mistress very earnestly.

"What is it I am good in?" she asked after a pause. "Is it my English? Bless you, they tell me it's awfully Irish."

"It certainly is, Kitty."

"Then, I don't know any music, although I can sing and whistle. Oh, I can whistle anything. There's not an air that Laurie plays (it's he that has the genius for music, bless the boy) -- but there's not an air he plays that I can't whistle it right up and down, and with variations too."

"Yes, my dear, yes; but I was not thinking of this special talent. Now, let me tell you something that you have got."

"What? Please speak."

"You have plenty of money."

"I never thought that was a talent," cried Kitty.

"I should think it a very great and responsible talent. You have been given that money to do something for God. He wants you to use it for Him. Then, also, you have a very bright, attractive, loving manner."

"Oh, I feel every word I say. It's not manner," said Kitty. "You don't suppose I'm a hypocrite, do you?"

"No, I think on the contrary you are very sincere. We will now admit that you have got two talents; you have got money and you have got a pleasant manner. I think also that you have got a third, and I may be able to prove to you that you have got a fourth."

"Dear me, this is most entertaining!" exclaimed Kitty. "So I have really got two talents, and you think I have more. What is the third?"

"I don't wish to make you vain; but you have -- yes, I must tell you -- a remarkably pretty face."

"Ah, now, what a darling you are! I always thought you were sweet. What part of me do you admire most, the eyes or the mouth? I have the real Irish eyes I know -- gentian-blue, yes, that's the color -- and my eyelashes -- aren't they long?"

"We need not discuss your beauty piece by piece," said Miss Sherrard. "You are pretty, and I am willing to admit it. Now, a bright face like yours, with an attractive manner, is a gift. Then, besides, you have -- you will be astonished when I say this -- lots of becoming dress, which adds to the charm of your appearance. Kitty, if you were all you might be -- if you would use that money which God has given you, that beauty which God has given you, that attractive manner which God has given you, all for His service -- why, you could do a great deal in the world. You could make it a better place, a brighter place, a happier place. Now, my dear child, your father has trusted you to me. He wrote to me a great deal about you before you came to Middleton School --  -- "

"Dear old dad!" cried Kitty.

"He loves you with all his heart."

"I should think so, the darling blessed man -- may the saints preserve him!"

"As your father feels so strongly about you, and as I promised him to do what I could for his child, will you help me, Kitty? Will you remember that you are equipped for the battle of life much more bravely, much more strongly than most of the other girls in Middleton School? Use your beauty for Him, dear; use your attractive manner for Him."

"You make me feel very solemn," said Kitty. She rose. "I will try and think about it," she said. "I wish I was not quite such a giddypate; but I'll try and think about it."

Miss Sherrard kissed her.

"And now I want you to do something more," she said. "You won't be able to be a better girl than you were in the past if you don't pray to God to help you; and when you pray, Kitty, ask Him to teach you to restrain your feelings a little, not to let them all rush to the surface, to keep a little back. Thus you will gain strength of character, and -- and be all the better for it, my child."

"You are very good to me," said Kitty. "I don't mind what I do for those I love. I suppose now you would wish me to learn my lessons perfectly every day?"

"I certainly should."

"And to -- to turn poor little Agnes Moore from the head of her class?"

"Well, Kitty, I cannot say anything about that. II you do better work than Agnes Moore you will get to the head of the class and she will go down; but I doubt your being able to do so, for Agnes is a very clever and a very diligent little pupil. But I want you, dear, soon to get out of that class, for it is a great deal too young for you. I want you to be with girls of your own age. We are yet one month to the end of the term. By the end of term I want to be able to tell you that you have got a remove. And now, dear, good-by. Remember, I shall watch you, and -- yes, I shall pray for you."

"You are very good to me," repeated Kitty; and she walked out of Miss Sherrard's presence with her head lowered, and a mist before her eyes.

For the next few days Kitty was strangely thoughtful. She did not speak nearly so much as usual, she felt inclined to go away by herself, and she was much puzzled about her talents. Miss Sherrard's words had made quite a deep impression. She learned her lessons with care, and had every chance, so her teachers told her, of a remove at the end of term. Even Alice found less to say against her. Kitty began to look on her school life as something roseate and delightful; but all these things were to come to a speedy end.

On a certain afternoon she got home to find Alice out and Mrs. Denvers seated in the drawing-room with a great basket of mending before her.

"Oh, what a lot of work! Would you like me to help you?" said Kitty.

"Very much, dear; but what kept you so late? Oh, here is a letter for you."

"A letter!" cried Kitty eagerly. "Oh, it is from Laurie. Hurrah! hurrah!"

She forgot all about her offer to help Mrs. Denvers with her darning, tossed the letter in the air two or three times, and then sank down on the nearest ottoman to read it. These were the words on which her eyes rested:

"DEAR OLD KITTERKINS: I have got into the greatest bother of a mess that ever assailed a poor gossoon, and if you can't help me, old girleen, well, I shall be done brown, as the saying is. The whole matter concerns Paddy Wheel-about. The poor creature has been getting queerer and queerer lately, and father has been ever so much worried about him. I didn't know a word of this, mind you, at the time, but learnt it afterwards; and it makes my bit of a frolic all the blacker, I can tell you. Father got Dr. Milligan to go and see Paddy in his cabin at the top of Sleeve Nohr, and the doctor said that the poor old boy was going off his head as fast as he could, and we must be careful not to give him any shock. Well, but to come to my part of it. You know that coat of his, and what diversion we have had out of it from time to time? You made one of the patches yourself, don't you remember, Kitty? We always told him that in each patch he had concealed a sovereign. Well, hot as the days are, he has been wearing that coat, and a figure of fun he did look. The Mahoney boys and Pat and I thought we would take a rise out of him; so one night when he was asleep we stole up to his lair and got hold of the precious coat. We bundled it up and were off with it. We had to cross the lake, in the old boat with a hole in the bottom, in order to get home in time, and what do you think happened? Up came a squall, the boat was upset, and Paddy's coat sank to the bottom of the lake. We swam to the shore and thought it would be an easy matter to fish up the old coat on the following morning; but although we dragged and dragged, and Pat and I both dived down to the bottom a good dozen of times, the coat had sunk in the deep mud and we could not find it, no nor a sign of it. Well, of course, our one hope was that no one should know; but what was our horror to be confronted by no less a person than Wheel-about himself. You know that craze he has about never speaking. Well, he spoke to us and pretty sharp too, and told us he knew we had taken the coat, and didn't he look thunders and daggers at us, and we funked it so awfully -- yes, I will confess it, Kits, your brave Laurie funked it like anything -- for Wheel-about did really look like a roadman; at last there was no help for it -- we had to out with the truth. Oh, didn't he raise a yell louder than anything you ever heard, and then I told him that if I could not get back the coat I would give him ten pounds for certain by Saturday next. He said if I did he would lie quiet for a bit and not tell the governor, so I want you like a blessed girleen to lend me the money. Send it off the very instant you read this; for if you don't the saints alone know what will happen. We are certain to be sent to a school in England, at least I am. From what you tell me, Kitterkins, of that place, I should think it would break our hearts to smithereens. Now look sharp and send the money. Your loving brother,

"Laurie."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Kitty starting to her feet. "Do you mind my going out at once, Mrs. Denvers?"

"Certainly not, my love. Tea will be ready at five o'clock. Are you going far?"

"Only to Elma Lewis' house. I want to see her; it is awfully important."

"But Elma lives quite two miles from here."

"Oh, that does not matter. I am sure to find my way. It is most urgent," said Kitty.

She rushed out of the room, pinned on her hat, and a moment later was walking down the street as fast as she could go. She crossed a field and a common, and after a time got into that part of the town where Elma lived. By dint of asking half a dozen children and three or four policemen she at last reached Constantine Road, and presently found the right house. She ran up the steps and sounded a rattling rat-tat on the knocker. The moment she did so a girl with a mop of untidy red hair peeped up at her from the area below.

"Come and open the door at once," called Kitty. "Why do you keep a lady waiting?"

The girl soon appeared, tying on her cap and apron as she did so.

"I thought as they was all out for the day," she began, " -- Oh, miss, I beg your pardon."

Kitty, notwithstanding her rather rude words, presented a very charming spectacle as she stood on the steps. She was dressed not only in the height of the fashion, but wore such a perfectly captivating little toque at the back of her head as to fire the fancy and take the little wit which she possessed out of Mrs. Lewis' maid-of-all-work.

Maggie had never seen anything so captivating nor so ravishing. A wild desire to make a toque like it to put on her own towzled locks on the following Sunday caused her to stare so hard at Kitty with her mouth wide open that she did not hear a word that young lady was saying.

"Are you in a dream?" asked Kitty Malone. "I want to see Miss Elma Lewis. Is she at home?"

"Miss Helma? No, miss, that she ain't," replied Maggie. "Oh, I beg your pardon, miss; but it's it's the bonnet at the top of your head."

"My bonnet?" said Kitty.

"Yes, miss. Oh, I do beg your pardon, miss -- I was took all of a heap. Yes, miss, I'm attending now. But oh, if you would just turn your head a little."

"You must be mad," said Kitty. But her eyes began to sparkle.

"Do listen to me," she continued; "it's most important. Is Miss Elma not at home?"

"No, miss; she's out for the day, and so is the missus and Miss Carrie. They're all out a-pleasuring in their different ways, and they has left me at home to drudge. I'm the household drudge, miss, and no wonder I'm took with anything so pretty. Do you mind telling me, miss, if them wiolets is real?"

"Oh, the violets in my toque -- are those what you are staring at?" said Kitty. "Well, now, I'll tell you what I'll do -- I'll give you the whole bunch if you'll let me come into the house and write a letter to Elma, and if you'll further faithfully promise that you will give it to her the instant she comes home."

"To be sure I will, miss. Come right along in. Oh, what a beautiful young lady you is!"

"Every one tells me I am beautiful," thought Kitty. "It really is very pleasant. I am more flattered here than I was in Ireland. People told me there I had a face like cream and roses, or cream and strawberries, and father used to say that I had washed it in the fairies' dew, and Laurie would tell me that I was a bouncing girl and no mistake; but then Aunt Honora was always saying: 'Kitty dear, beauty is only skin deep, and don't be set up by it, child. Handsome is that handsome does, Kitty.' Oh, how she would deave me with that old proverb. But here they seem to think beauty is a talent, and I ought to be desperately proud of it. Oh, faith, but why do I think of these things when my precious duck of a Laurie is in the mess he has got into. He go to England to break his heart, the darling! Not a bit of it; not while his Kitty has her wits about her."

Meanwhile Maggie conducted this ravishing and welcome visitor into the tiny sitting-room, furnished her with pen, ink, and paper, and then began to hover about near the door in order to get another view of the lovely cap.

Kitty bent her head over the sheet of paper and indited a letter in hot and furious haste:

"DEAR ELMA: I am so sorry, but I must ask you to return that eight pounds to me immediately. I want it for Laurie. He has got into trouble and requires it; so don't keep me waiting a single minute if you can help it. I am so sorry you are out; but will you bring it to me the instant you return home? It is of the most vital importance. I am in dreadful trouble, and nothing else will save Laurie. Yours in great haste, KITTY MALONE."

Having written the letter, Kitty looked round for an envelope; Maggie also searched to right and left, but could not find one.

"But it will be all right, miss," she said. "I'll lay it just as it is flat out on the table, and Miss Helma will see it the moment she comes in."

"Thank you," answered Kitty. "And now I must go. Be sure you give it to her her the instant she returns, and tell her to come straight to me with the money, for I must send it off to-night whatever happens. It is a money transaction; and you understand, don't you? What is your name?"

"Maggie, miss."

"Well, you understand, Maggie, that any transaction connected with money is very important."

"Like the Bank of England, miss?"

"Yes, to be sure, and -- "

"Oh, miss, forgive me; but you promised me them wiolets."

"To be sure I did."

Kitty snatched them from her toque, flung them to Maggie, who caught them in an ecstacy, and a moment later was running home as fast as she could.



Chapter XI.

In Carrie's Bedroom.


Of the Lewis family the first who came home that special evening was Carrie. She walked straight into the little sitting-room, where Kitty Malone's letter lying on top of the blotter immediately attracted her attention. It need not be said that she instantly read it, and not only once but twice.

"Ha! ha! Elma, I have got you into my power at last," she said to herself. "So that accounts for the money. Now, what did you borrow it from that queer Irish girl for? But now that I know a thing or two. I may be able to draw on you to a considerable extent. Return it! not you -- you are not likely to; but I think I'll be able to frighten you. I shall certainly do my utmost."

It will be seen from these remarks that Carrie was by no means an amiable girl. She ran up to her room, took off her hat, and surveyed herself in the pale blue dress which had been purchased with some of poor Kitty's money. She then returned to the sitting-room, and folding up the letter, deliberately put it into her pocket. As she was doing so Maggie came in to lay the tea.

"Oh lor! Miss Carrie," cried the maid-of-all-work as she spread the not-too-clean cloth upon the table, "whatever 'as become of that bit of writin' that was lyin' atop of the blotter here?"

"What bit of writing?" asked Carrie, turning calmly round and surveying her.

"Oh, a letter miss; I don't know what was in it, but it was a money transaction, as important as the Bank of England, and it was to be give to Miss Helma the very instant she come 'ome. Didn't you see it, miss, when you come in?"

"No, I didn't," said Carrie promptly. "I saw no letter of any kind. Here's the blotter, there is nothing on it. It may have got between the folds, however." She took up the thick pad of blotting-paper and shook it, but no letter dropped out.

"There," she said. "I have not the least doubt that Fido jumped on the table and took it up and ate it."

"Oh lor! miss, you don't think so?"

"I should not be surprised. Fido can never resist paper; he is always pulling it about and chewing it."

Maggie looked frantically under the table for even stray pieces of the letter, but she could not find any.

"If he had ate it," she said at last, fixing Carrie with a very determined stare -- "if he had ate it he would have left some bits about. I don't believe it; I believe you 'as took it Miss Carrie. Oh, miss, for shame; and it was as important as the Bank of England -- a money transaction, miss, what ought not to be trifled with. I can't read writin', though I can read books fair enough; but the young lady was awful put about."

"What young lady?" asked Carrie. "You had better tell me everything."

"Oh, it was that Irish young lady, Miss Malone. She come here with the most beautiful 'at on (no, it was wot they calls a talk), and the wiolets in it they might 'av growed, I could a'most smell 'em; and she come in distracted like, and writ the letter, and told me I was to give it to Miss Helma the very moment she returned, and that Miss Helma was to take her the money to-night -- what money is more than I can tell, for I didn't think Miss Helma ever had any. And she said it was an important transaction. And I said, 'Is it like the Bank of England, miss?' and she said, 'Yes, to be sure.' Why, Miss Carrie, you have not gone and hid the letter, 'ave you? That would be real mean of you."

"Look here," said Carrie; "what did you say about those violets?"

"Why, she gave 'em to me, miss; she took 'em out of her cap, and she give 'em to me, and I was to give the letter to Miss Helma. It was a fair and honest bargain, and I must keep my part of it miss."

"Would you like some roses to put with the violets?" said Carrie, making a careful calculation.

"Roses, miss? That would be prime, and very seasonable, wouldn't they miss?"

"Yes, violets and roses look very pretty together, and I'll pin them into your hat and furbish it up. And, look here, Maggie, you can go out with your young man on Sunday. I'll manage it -- I can. I will stay at home."

"Oh, Miss Carrie, you don't mean it?"

"Yes, I do. I'll manage it; but I'll do it only on a condition."

"What is that miss?"

"That you don't every ask me another question with regard to that letter, and that you never, never on any account breathe a word of it to Elma. If you do, why --  -- "

"Oh, Miss, it don't seem fair."

Poor honest Maggie walked to the window and struggled for a few minutes with her temptation. The thought, however, of roses to add to the violets, the thought also of Joe, whom she dearly loved, to walk with her on the following Sunday, proved far too seductive. She struggled with her enemy for a few minutes, and then she fell once and for all.

"I'll have the roses, Miss Carrie. I can't resist them and the thought of Joe on Sunday. Joe is so passionate loving, miss, I can't resist 'im." And then Maggie rushed out of the room.

She flew to her attic, threw herself by the side of her bed and burst into sobs.

"But I oughtn't to 'ave done it," she said several times -- "I oughtn't to 'ave done it. If it worn't for the roses and for Joe I'd 'ave stood up to her; but as it is I was too tempted. But all the same I oughtn't to have done it -- no, I oughtn't to 'ave done it!"

Meanwhile Carrie up in her bedroom was thinking hard. Here indeed was a revelation! So Elma possessed eight pounds, or nearly eight -- for Carrie knew that her blue dress, and the lobster, and the lettuces, and the stout had not cost a great deal of that valuable sum of money.

"At the present moment," she concluded, making a careful computation in her mind, for she was a smart enough girl in certain ways -- "at the present moment Elma must possess the sum of seven pounds or thereabouts." What in the world did that Irish girl lend it to her for? What an utter fool she must have been! But as to Elma's paying it back! as to Elma getting rid of those riches -- Carrie thought she saw her way of preventing that. In order to do so, however, it was all-important that Elma should not see poor Kitty's passionate little appeal to her; for although Elma was anything but an amiable girl, Carrie was certain that mere fright would make her return the money.

Carrie stayed some time in her room; she was thinking out a plan. How could she prevent Elma returning the money to Kitty Malone? She considered rapidly. Never before had she felt so full of energy and of resource; it suddenly occurred to her as extremely unlikely that Elma would carry about so much money on her person. Suppose she, Carrie, had a thorough good hunt for it now on the spot. Suppose she found it, then would it not be her duty, by taking possession of it, to guard Elma from giving it away? Carrie made up her mind quickly; she determined to have a search for the money at once. In the somewhat meagerly-furnished bedroom there were not a great many hiding-places, and Carrie began her search systematically. Elma and she had a little set of drawers each; there were no locks to these drawers. With all her faults, Elma absolutely trusted her own family. It never occurred to her even in her worst moments that Carrie would examine her drawers; she also believed that Maggie was perfectly honest.

Carrie now began to search. She opened Elma's drawers and looked through them. Soon she found what she sought for. In the small right-hand drawer at the top corner was a little parcel. It felt heavy. Carrie opened it and there lay seven shining sovereigns. There were also a couple of shillings and a few pence; but Carrie's eyes were principally fixed upon the sovereigns. Bright and new they looked, almost as if they had just come from the mint. Carrie danced a pirouette there and then.

"I have found the treasure," she gasped. "Now I must take it where it will be safe. I know what I'll do. I'll give it to Sam Raynes to keep for Elma. It will be a nice excuse for seeing him again, and I'll tell him it is money of my own, and ask him to bank it for me. He'll be ever so pleased; he will think all the more of me if he supposes I am wealthy. Yes, I'll take it to Sam; he shall keep it for me."

Flushed, excited, her heart beating high, Carrie once more pinned on her hat. She ran downstairs. As she passed through the hall her mother was letting herself in with a latchkey.

"My dear Carrie," she said, "you are not going out again at this hour of night?"

"I shan't be long, mother. I am just going into Summer Terrace to see the Raynes."

"I wish you would not go out so late, Carrie; it really isn't --  -- "

But Carrie had slammed the door without even waiting for her parent's last words. She soon reached the Terrace, which was within three minutes' walk of her own house. Florrie Raynes let her in.

"My dear Carrie," she said, "what do you want? Oh, you naughty girl; you knew Sam would be in."

"Well, I want to speak to him. Can I see him just for a moment?" gasped Carrie, panting and breathless, pushing the hair from her forehead as she spoke.

"Yes, come right in," said Florrie; "you need not apologize. He is only having a cigar, and he'll be right pleased to see you."

As she spoke she opened the door of a small sitting-room and pushed Carrie in, slamming it behind her. The echo of her rude laughter as she performed this unladylike feat was heard down the passage.

Sam was seated in front of an open window smoking a cigar. When he saw Carrie he removed it from his mouth and came forward in a somewhat nonchalant way to meet her.

"Now, Car," he said, "what's up? Any news? Can we have a jolly time next Sunday?"

"Yes," answered Carrie panting slightly, "and for as many other Sundays as you like. See here, Sam, I cannot wait a minute now. You know you once told me that I was a frivolous little thing, that I was extravagant, and all that. Now, what will you say if I ask you to put seven pounds in the bank for me?"

"Seven pounds!" cried Sam; "'pon my word! Where in the world did you get it, Car?"

"It's out of my savings," replied Carrie.

"Well, I must say -- " Sam gave her a look of the broadest admiration he had ever yet bestowed upon her. "You can bank it for me, can you not?"

"Yes, that I can. But I say, Car, would you like me to speculate with it? I might double it, you know."

"Oh, do what you like with it, only keep it safe," answered Carrie. "I shall want to draw a little of it from time to time. Now, good-by, Sam. I can't wait another moment."

She laid the money on the table. Sam's large and somewhat fat hand closed greedily over it, and the next moment it was conveyed to his waistcoat pocket.

"This will come in very handy for myself," he muttered; but Carrie did not hear the words -- she ran home breathless and excited. She thought she had managed splendidly.



Chapter XII.

The "Spotted Leopard."


Kitty was miserable that night. An Irish girl has always her ups and downs. She is either up in the seventh heaven of bliss, or she is down almost below the ordinary earth in misery. Kitty was suffering from an intense revulsion of spirits. Laurie was in trouble. He was the best brother in all the world; he was Kitty's idol. There never was anybody more reckless, more passionate, more dare-devil than Laurie Malone; and Kitty had always been with him heart and soul, always from the time that they had been little tots together. And now Laurie was in danger. The best broth of a boy might be condemned to go to a school in England; he might be condemned to the misery, the want of freedom, which she was now enduring. Oh, she must save him at any risk. She could do so. She could send him ten pounds; she would have exactly that sum in her possession if only Elma returned the eight which she had lent her. It did not occur to Kitty as at all difficult for Elma to return the money. She had never yet know money difficulties herself; and when Elma had asked for the loan of it she imagined that she could have it back at any time. If this was not the case it would not greatly matter; but now, of course, Laurie's letter altered the complexion of everything.

Kitty was too unsettled and anxious to stay quiet for a single moment. She fidgeted Alice, who was busily engaged preparing her lessons for the following day.

"Kitty," she said, when that erratic young person had jumped up to lean her body half out of the window for the twentieth time, "if you cannot sit still yourself, you ought to have some thought for me. What am I to do if you keep rushing to the window and back again to your seat every couple of minutes?"

"I am looking for Elma," said Kitty.

"For Elma Lewis? Do you expect her to-night?"

"Yes, and on a matter of vital importance. Oh, don't talk to me please, Alice. If she doesn't come soon, I believe my heart will burst."

"That is exactly like one of your exaggerated statements," said Alice. "People's hearts don't burst. Oh, if you only would stay quiet."

"I believe that's herself turning round the corner," cried Kitty, bending out so far now that it was a wonder she was not overbalanced.

"Really, Kitty, you make my heart stand still," said Alice. "You will fall out if you are not careful. Oh, for goodness' sake, don't stoop out any further."

"It's not her," said Kitty, popping in her head. "I was only stooping far enough to catch a glimpse of her boots. Elma always wears such horrid shabby boots; and her feet are too large. By the way, Alice, what do you think of these shoes; do you like them with straps across, and little rosettes?"

"I don't like anything in the way of dress at the present moment," said Alice. "I want quiet and peace. It is impossible for me to do anything while you fidget as you do."

Kitty jumped with a bang into the nearest chair; opened a novel, and tried to read it upside down.

"If she isn't in time I won't be able to send the letter to-night and then -- Alice, do you mind my interrupting you for a moment? What time does the last post go?"

"The pillar outside the gate is cleared at twelve," said Alice.

"It is only nine now. You don't happen to be able to tell me when a letter, cleared at twelve, would reach Castle Malone?"

"I cannot tell you. Forgive me, Kitty, I cannot stay in the room any longer. I am going to our bedroom."

Alice gathered up her books, and swept out of tho room. When she reached the bedroom she shut and locked the door.

Kitty was now left alone in the drawing-room, for Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were spending the evening out. She was glad of this, as she could lean as far out of the window as she dared, and there was no one to shout at her. She could also pace up and down the room, which she presently did with the rapidity and eagerness of a young tigress.

Oh, to be back again at Castle Malone! What was Laurie doing now? Suppose Paddy Wheel-about really told her father about Laurie!

Squire Malone was extremely kind to Kitty; there was no saying what he would not do for Kitty were she in trouble; but Laurie and Pat were different matters. He had fits of severity-with them -- only fits, mind you; for he was too Irish in his character, too generous-hearted, ever to keep his anger long; but in these fits he often made strange resolves, and when these resolves were made, as a rule, he carried them out. He was too proud to change his mind. If once he decided that the boys were to go to school to England, to school they must go -- to "prison," Kitty termed it. Tears rose in her bright eyes, they rolled down her cheeks. Oh, why was not Elma in time? How dreadful, how dreadful if she (Kitty) missed the twelve-o'clock post! She was in this state of fret and worry, when Fred entered the room. Fred hated all girls, with the exception of Kitty Malone. He could not be said by this time to hate her, for he admired her very much indeed. The moment she saw him she called out to him to come in.

"Ah, then, Fred, it is you. Come along in," she cried; "you'll be a drain of a comfort -- not much, but still a drain. Oh, Fred, it's I who am in the trouble entirely. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I am."

"Dear me, Kitty I am sorry," said Fred. "What's up? Has Alice been teasing you as usual?"

"Oh, bother Alice! as if I minded her little pinpricks. It's that darling Laurie in Ireland. He has got into trouble, the broth of a boy that he is."

She then related what had occurred in connection with Paddy Wheel-about's coat.

"And the poor old coat is in the bottom of the lake," she added, "and the lake is feet deep in mud just at the bottom, and anything that falls with a weight into it would sink and sink. Oh, they will never find the coat till the day of judgment, and it full of beautiful money! And Paddy Wheel-about has lost the little grain of sense he ever possessed, and Laurie will be sent to one of those prisons."

"To prison?" cried Fred; "but surely your father -- "

"Oh, I mean a school -- it's all the same. Don't interrupt me, Fred. When my mind is full I must rattle off the speech somehow."

"And he wants you to send him ten pounds?"

"Yes."

"And have you got ten pounds to send him?"

"To be sure I have -- I have ten pounds ten. I am an awful girl for spending money. I bought a whole pound's worth of chocolate yesterday. I only wish I had the money now instead; but poor little Agnes Moore and the other girls in my class, they do love chocolate, and they quite seem to fatten them. I bought the chocolates, and I have got ten shillings in my pocket."

"But you showed me a whole purseful of gold the other day," said Fred.

"Well, it's gone, Fred, and it isn't gone; but I know who could help me to find it if I could catch a sight of her."

"And who is that?" asked Fred.

"Elma Lewis."

"Elma Lewis! Do you like her?"

"I can't say that I like her -- no I don't think I do; but she would help me, if I could only get to see her."

"Then, do you want me to go to her house and tell her so?"

"Why, Fred, that's a splendid idea. You are a jewel, a darling, a duck! Let me fetch my hat, and you and I will go together."

"But I don't know my lessons yet. It is that beastly German. I have pages to translate. It is such rot."

"Oh, what does the German matter? Think of the misery poor Laurie is in. Just stay where you are, Fred; I'll be back in a minute."

Kitty dashed upstairs, two or three steps at a time, and thundered a loud tattoo on the locked door of Alice's bedroom.

"You cannot come in, whoever you are," cried Alice from within.

"Yes, but I must, Alice, aroon; let me in, jewel that you are. I want my hat, and gloves and jacket, nothing else. Do, for goodness' sake, let me in, Alice, asthore!"

But Alice was obdurate. Once let Kitty in, she would never be able to get rid of her again, and her lessons must be learned. They were specially difficult and required all her attention.

"Then if you won't," cried Kitty, whose quick temper was beginning to rise, "at least fling the things out of the window."

"You know you must not go out at this hour."

"If you won't give them to me," said Kitty, "I'll go without them."

"You are not to have them; you are not to go out. It isn't right," called Alice, who felt strong in the cause of virtue.

Kitty rattled violently on the handle for a moment longer, and then rushed downstairs again to where Fred was waiting.

"I can't get my hat," she said; "but it doesn't matter. I'll go as I am."

Now Kitty's dress was more picturesque than suitable. She had on a crimson blouse and a skirt bedizened with many ribbons and frills. The blouse had only elbow sleeves and was cut rather low in the neck. Nothing could be more becoming to the dancing eyes, the rose-bloom cheeks, the head of dark hair.

"Lend me a cap of yours, Fred, there's a darling," called Kitty, "and we'll be off. Alice is in one of her tantrums, and she won't let me into our room nor give me my hat and jacket. If your mother were there it would be all right."

Fred only thought that Kitty looked remarkably pretty. It did not occur to him as at all queer that she should want to walk a couple of miles in this erratic dress. He went downstairs, accommodated her with a small cap which bore the college coat of arms in front, and the two were soon hurrying along the roads at a rapid rate in the direction of Elma's house.

There were two ways to Elma's home. One way was by crossing a wide common, cutting off a certain corner, walking down a by-street, and so, by a series of short cuts, reaching Constantine Road. By the other and slightly longer way you had to pass an open thoroughfare in the center of which blazed, with its shining lights and its gay exterior, a large public-house called the "Spotted Leopard." Now the "Spotted Leopard" was by no means a nice place to pass at night. Men considerably the worse for drink were apt to linger about the doors. Gossiping and idle fellows would congregate just by this special corner, ready to take up any bit of fun or nonsense which might be coming, meaning no special mischief, but being decidedly disagreeable to meet at night.

Fred was as careless a schoolboy as could be found in the length and breadth of Great Britain; Kitty was equally reckless, perhaps more so, if that were possible. That special evening Fred decided that they would not take the short cut across the common.

"A beastly lonely place at this hour of night," he said, "and the road is so uneven and there are no lamps. We'll go round by the 'Spotted Leopard'. You don't mind, do you, Kit?"

"Never a bit," answered Kitty. "Come along, Fred; stretch your legs. I must get to see Elma Lewis to-night as quickly as possible."

Fred walked fast, and Kitty laughed and talked and danced by his side. Now that she was in action she forgot her fears; her volatile spirits rose once again to a height. She entertained Fred with numerous stories relating to Paddy Wheel-about, Laurie, and Pat, and invited him to come to Castle Malone for the whole of the summer holidays, assuring him that the fishing would be splendid, the cycling superb, the riding such as would make your eyes water, and the shooting and the hunting when that season began all that could stimulate the least ambitious of boys. And when Kitty spoke she was apt to illustrate her words, dancing now in front of her companion, now keeping by his side, now lingering a little behind him, all the time gesticulating with eyes and lips and gay motions. She was like a restive young colt -- beautiful, excitable. The boy felt that he had never had such a charming companion before.

All went well, and Kitty's bizarre dress, her hair tossed wildly over her head and hanging partly down her shoulders, her little feet encased in the shoes with the rosettes and steel buckles, the frills on her gay skirt, her bare arms, failed to attract any special attention. But when they got into the neighborhood of the "Spotted Leopard," a blaze of light fell full across her. She was a remarkable enough figure to be out at this hour, and when joined to the somewhat peculiar spectacle, the wild-looking boys -- for they were little more -- who had congregated round this special corner, saw the college cap on her head, they made a rush forward and the next moment had surrounded her.

They began to laugh and to make facetious remarks. It was all done in a second. Kitty stood stock still as if some one had shot her. He gay manner ceased on the instant, she drew herself erect, and the next moment aimed a blow straight from the shoulder at the nearest of the men, knocking him over as completely as though he had been a ninepin; then taking hold of Fred's arm -- who had come to her rescue, although the poor lad had not the least idea what to do -- marched away, her face as crimson as her gay silk blouse.

"Well, Kitty, you did that splendidly," he said.

"The impertinent wretches! Don't speak to me about them," answered Kitty. But just then she came face to face with a more serious obstacle. This was no less a person than Miss Worrick herself.

Now if there was a prim mistress in the whole length and breadth of England, it was Matilda Worrick. She liked girls to be neatly dressed; she could not bear to see them out at what she called inclement hours. She would have thought it the height of impropriety for Kitty and Fred to walk together at such an hour; but when in addition to this Kitty went out in a dress which Miss Worrick would have thought very unsuitable for home, when she wore a boy's college cap on her head, and when she had so far distinguished herself as to have been for a moment the center of a lot of low noisy, rough men, Miss Worrick felt that the moment had come for her to interfere. She grasped Kitty Malone firmly by the arm.

"What are you doing, Miss Malone?" she said. "How dare you be out at this hour?"

"How dare you interfere?" answered Kitty, who, excited already, could not for a moment brook Miss Worrick's interference.

"I shall march you straight home," said the mistress. "If Miss Sherrard knew of this she would expel you from the school. You are a very wicked girl. Fred Denvers, you can go home or go on with your walk, just as you like, but I have charge of Miss Malone; she belongs to the Middleton School, and I must see her home before I go a step further."

Poor Kitty felt staggered.

"I really meant no harm," she said. "I cannot imagine what you are talking about. I could not get my hat and jacket, and as it was most important that I should see Elma Lewis, Fred promised to take me to her house. Please don't ask me to return now with you, Miss Worrick, I really cannot come."

But Miss Worrick was inexorable. She grasped Kitty very firmly by the arm, turned abruptly in the direction of home, and walked forward with a firm step. There was no help for it; Kitty Malone must accompany her. They soon found themselves back again at the Denvers' house. Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out, but Miss Worrick inquired for Alice.

"Ask Miss Alice to come to me immediately," she said to the servant.

The girl looked pityingly at Kitty, who was a prime favorite with her, and then went away to fulfill her errand.

The instant Alice got this somewhat startling message, she forgot her lesson, unlocked her bedroom door, and flew downstairs as fast as she could. Miss Worrick was standing in the center of the drawing-room. Kitty was leaning up against one of the window-curtains. Kitty's face was red, her hair was tossed in wild confusion, and her dark eyes seemed to flash fire.

"Alice," said Miss Worrick, coming straight up to Alice when she appeared. "I must ask you to take charge of Kitty Malone."

"Why so?" asked Alice in some astonishment.

"Just do what I say. Your father and mother are out. Kitty is not to return to school to-morrow until she hears from Miss Sherrard. In the absence of your parents I put her in your charge, Alice. She has behaved disgracefully, and I shall have the great pain of reporting what I have just witnessed to our head-mistress to-morrow."

So saying, Miss Worrick walked quickly out of the room and out of the house.

"Well, thank goodness, she's gone -- the old cat!" cried Kitty.

"Now, Kitty what have you done?" said Alice. "Oh, this is terrible! Fresh scrapes! We seem to live in constant hot water. What is the matter now, you headstrong and dreadful girl?"

"Nothing is the matter," replied Kitty, "absolutely nothing. It is all a storm in a teacup. But if any one is to blame you are the one."

"I?" cried Alice. "What next?"

"Well, you are. You would not give me my hat and jacket. I have a nice plain hat and a jacket to match. I should have put them on if you had not locked our bedroom door, and prevented my coming into the room, which is just as much mine as yours. As it was imperative for me to see Elma Lewis immediately, I asked Fred if he would walk round with me to her house, and I wore his college cap. When we were passing the 'Spotted Leopard' a lot of rough, rude boys rushed out and began to make impertinent remarks about my dress. I just gave one of them a black eye and knocked him over. The next moment I found myself under the fire of Miss Worrick's anger."

"And small wonder," said Alice. "Kitty, what is to be done? Before you came here I thought myself a respectable girl -- all we Middleton girls did; and now for such a fearful thing to happen. Why, it will be all over the place in the morning. They will talk of it everywhere. Oh, Kitty, you have disgraced me for ever."

Here Alice burst into tears.

"Good gracious!" cried Kitty, "what are you crying about? I did nothing; it was the rude men, or boys, or whatever you like to call them, who were to blame."

"You did nothing, going out in that dress?" cried Alice -- "that red blouse, and your arms bare, and with Fred's college cap on your head. I should not be a bit surprised if Fred were expelled; he will certainly get into an awful scrape. Oh dear! oh dear!"

"I cannot imagine what you are talking and crying about," said Kitty. "But there; I have got a headache, and am going to bed. I suppose there is no chance of my -- Oh, poor Laurie! What a wicked girl Elma Lewis is!"

Kitty rushed up to her room. Not that she was frightened -- that was not her way; but she saw that disagreeable things might be pending. In the meantime her most anxious thoughts were for Laurie. What would happen if she could not send him the money by an early post?



Chapter XIII.

Coventry.


Early the next morning Mrs. Denvers was a good deal surprised by receiving a letter from Miss Sherrard. It ran as follows:

"DEAR MRS. DENVERS: I have just heard an extraordinary story from Miss Worrick with regard to Kitty Malone. She met Kitty with your Fred at a late hour last night just outside the 'Spotted Leopard.' She was not wearing an outdoor jacket, and had the college cap on her head. In consequence, she was spoken to impertinently by some men outside the public-house, and when Miss Worrick came up had just knocked one of them down. Miss Worrick says, further, that Kitty showed her great impertinence; and, in short, that the whole affair was wrong and disgraceful. It is my painful duty to look thoroughly into this matter, and I should be glad if you would bring Miss Malone to Middleton School this morning in order that I may do so.

"Yours very truly,

"Emma Sherrard."

"My dear Alice," said Mrs. Denvers, as her daughter entered the room, "what does this letter mean?"

Alice read Miss Sherrard's letter hastily.

"It is exactly as I feared, mother," she said.

"Exactly as you feared, Alice! What do you mean?"

"I always told you that Kitty would be certain to get into trouble sooner or later. Well, she got into trouble last night."

"But what occurred?"

"What occurred!" said Fred, who came into the room at that moment. "I thought you would be talking about poor Kitty. I will tell you exactly what did occur mother; but first I want to say something else. Kitty is just as nice a girl as we ever had in the house. She has not a low nor a small thought in her, but she is excitable, and she has high spirits; and yesterday evening, when I went into the drawing-room, I found her there alone, and in no end of a fret because one of her brothers in Ireland had got into trouble. He had written to her; but she would not tell me what he said. For some extraordinary reason, which none of us know, it seems that Elma Lewis can get him out of his trouble, I cannot pretend to explain what this means; but such is the fact. Poor Kitty was wild to see Elma, and she asked me if I would walk over to her house with her. Of course I promised to do so, for it was difficult not to be good-natured to the poor thing."

"At what hour was this, Fred?" interrupted Mrs. Denvers.

"It was rather late, I will own, mother -- about half-past nine."

"Go on, my dear boy. What happened then?"

"Now it is Alice's turn to get into your black books," continued Fred, darting a malicious look at his sister. "She doesn't like Kitty, and nothing that Kitty can do or say is right in Alice's eyes."

"Fred!" interrupted Alice -- "Mother, you have no right to listen to him."

"I am bound to hear both sides of this story, Alice," said Mrs. Denvers. "Fred shall tell his side first. Go on, my boy."

"When I arranged to go with Kitty, she ran upstairs to the bedroom which she shares with Alice to get her jacket and hat; but Alice had locked the door, and wouldn't let her in. I heard her crying out and begging of Alice to do so, or, at least, if she would not, to throw her hat and jacket out of the window; but no! good nature was not to be expected from my amiable sister. So then Kitty ran down again, and said that as the night was warm it really didn't matter a bit; and she asked me to lend her a cap. I took one from the peg in the hall, never seeing that it was one of the college caps with the coat-of-arms in front, and Kitty popped it on, and off we set. We neither of us gave a thought to her dress, and we walked as fast as possible, chatting and laughing all the way. All went well till we got in front of that horrid 'Spotted Leopard,' and there were several lads round the door. I suppose Kitty's dress attracted them as well as her pretty face, and all in a minute they surrounded her. Such awful cheek! But do you think Kitty would put up with their impudence? I never saw a girl like her! She just aimed a blow straight at one of the fellows and knocked him over as if he were a ninepin. I can tell you she had the laugh on her side; and I don't believe we would have heard anything more about it if that mean, spiteful old cat, Miss Worrick, hadn't been coming round the corner. She ran up to Kitty, and took possession of her, and marched her off home, and put her, forsooth, into Alice's custody. That's the explanation of Miss Sherrard's letter, mother."

"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. Denvers, "it was a most imprudent thing to do. But of course, the poor child meant no harm."

"I should rather think she didn't," cried Fred. "The one you ought really to blame is Alice. No one would have looked at Kitty, nor thought of her one way or the other, if Alice had let her get her hat and jacket; but what was she to do when she was locked out of her own bedroom?"

"But she know very well that she was breaking rules," said Mrs. Denvers. "None of the Middleton girls are allowed to go out so late in the evening except with a suitable escort; and she certainly ought not to have gone in the dress you have described, my boy. It was all thoughtlessness; but she will get into sad trouble, I fear."

"Of course it was thoughtlessness," said Fred; "and the poor thing was bothered, dreadfully bothered, about that brother in Ireland."

"I see, mother," said Alice, "that you are determined to take Kitty's part, whatever happens. She has bewitched you, like all the rest of the household."

"Whom have I bewitched now?" asked Kitty, who entered the room just then.

"Oh, my poor, dear child," said Mrs. Denvers, "you have got into a terrible scrape. See this letter which I have just received from your head-mistress."

Kitty eagerly seized the letter. She was looking pale, and not like her usual self. There were heavy black lines under her eyes. The poor girl had spent most of her night crying. The thought of Laurie was resting on her soul; she was very anxious about him, and, in consequence, very miserable.

"I always said that I hated England," she cried, coloring as she spoke. "Oh, I know, dear Mrs. Denvers, that you are a jewel; and as to Fred, he is no end of a darling; and Mr. Denvers is as nice as a man could be. But there's Alice, and she doesn't like me; and Miss Worrick can't bear me; and half the girls at school don't understand me, and, for the matter of that, I don't care for them; and I don't understand your stiff, proper English ways. I am far and away too wild for England. In Ireland we would only laugh at such a thing as happened last night. What does it matter what sort of dress I go out in and at what hour I go, if I am doing right all the time? I wanted to do something for Laurie, for my dear, dear Laurie, who is in terrible trouble. Please, Mrs. Denvers, let me go home again. Let us both go to Miss Sherrard this morning, and tell her that it is all no use; Kitty Malone was born wild, and wild she will remain to the end of the chapter. Let me go home; please let me go home."

"My poor child, I must not yield to you," said Mrs. Denvers. "You have been sent to us to be made --  -- "

"Oh, don't begin it," cried Kitty. "Don't begin to talk about all the things you have got to make me, and which, to be plain, none of you will ever succeed in doing, for I was not half nor a quarter as wild in Ireland. I was considered in some ways the steady one of the family; but here, why, I am provoked every minute of the day, and I -- I can't stand it much longer."

"Well, sit down now and eat your breakfast," said Mrs. Denvers, "for we must soon hurry off to school. Miss Sherrard will want to see us immediately after prayers."

Kitty seated herself, but she had little appetite for her food.

"Why don't you eat?" said Fred, who sat next to her. "Let me help you to some of this porridge; it's jolly well done this morning, and you always like it, don't you?"

"Yes, yes; but I have got a lump in my throat and I can't swallow," answered Kitty. "Thank you all the same, Fred. There are some chocolates in my room if you like to steal up in the middle of the day in case I am locked up, as twenty to one I shall be for this misdemeanor. There are some chocolates and some rock and toffee. You'll find them in my left-hand drawer in the corner. I spent a whole sovereign on sweets, as I told you a few days ago."

"Oh, thanks. Kitty, you are a brick," whispered Fred back in return.

"You can take as many as you like, Fred, old boy, for you are a comfort to me. I'll tell Laurie about you when I go back to Ireland."

"Come, come, my dears, no whispering," said Mrs. Denvers. "Kitty, if you don't care for your breakfast, perhaps you will go up to your room and make yourself tidy for school."

"Oh, am I not tidy now?" asked Kitty, jumping up and running to the glass in the overmantel to survey herself. "By the way, do you like my frock? it is quite new. Don't you think this crimson cotton with the white sash very effective? It is cool, and yet it's gay. I belong to the Tug -- Oh! I must not mention that. I never did know such a place for awful secrets as England. I am drawn up every minute by remembering that I must not mention something. But how do you like my dress, Mrs. Denvers?"

"Well, dear, I prefer quieter colors; but we will say nothing more about it just now. Get your hat, Kitty; put on your outdoor shoes and your gloves, and come down immediately, for it is time for us to start."

As soon as Kitty had left the room, Alice turned to her mother.

"Are you going to encourage her in all her follies?" she asked.

"My dear Alice, I don't encourage her in her follies; but there is no use in pulling the poor child up short every moment. She expresses herself quite correctly when she says that she is wild; she is not broken in. But to break in Kitty Malone too thoroughly might also break her heart, and that would never do."

"Break her heart! I don't believe she has got one," said Alice. "But, there, I can't talk any longer on the subject."

It occurred to her that if she started immediately for school she might call for Bessie Challoner, and tell her what had occurred. Bessie's sympathy would be very sweet, and Alice determined to secure it if possible. Accordingly she left the house, and at about a quarter to nine found herself at Bessie's house. Bessie was standing on the steps drawing on her gloves.

"Why, Alice, what has brought you?" she cried; "and where is Kitty?"

"Oh, don't mention Kitty, if you don't want to rile me beyond endurance," said Alice.

"I always do rile you when I mention her," answered Bessie; "but where is she all the same?"

"With mother -- she is coming to school with mother."

"With your mother -- to Middleton School! What do you mean?"

"Only that mother has to bring her. She has got into no end of a row."

"Has she? Oh, I am sorry," said Bessie.

"Come out, Bessie," said Alice. "It is a little early to get to school, but we may as well walk slowly, and I will tell you all about it as we go along."

This Alice did, enlarging much upon Kitty's dress, her crimson blouse, her bare arms, the college cap on her head, and her little shoes with the buckles and rosettes.

"She must have looked very pretty," said Bessie.

"Bessie! you really are enough to distract any one. Don't you see the impropriety of it? Don't you see that this will get all over the place? People will say that a Middleton girl dressed so unsuitably, so loudly, that -- Oh, don't you see it?"

"I don't see anything in it except a silly, foolish, girlish act, uncommonly like Kitty Malone," said Bessie. "You are determined to make mountains out of molehills, Alice."

"No, I am not," said Alice. "Anyhow," she added in a tone of triumph, "Miss Sherrard thinks it disgraceful, and so does Miss Worrick. I suppose you will not go against the opinions of your own mistresses, will you, Bessie?"

"No, no; only I am sorry," said Bessie.

At that moment the two girls reached the school. Gwin Harley was just driving up in her pony-chaise, and Elma, as usual, was hovering near.

"Come here, Elma," said Bessie. "We have something to tell you."

"What is it?" asked Elma eagerly.

"It is this," cried Alice. "Kitty Malone has got into the most awful scrape. She went out last night with Fred in her red blouse -- you know that silk blouse she is so fond of wearing?"

"I know; it is sweetly pretty," said Elma.

"Oh, there you are, praising everything she does! Well, anyhow, she wore it, and her arms were bare to the elbow, and she stuck one of the college caps on her head. What will Dr. Butler say? She went with Fred to see you, by the way, Elma. She seemed in an awful hurry to find you. She was in trouble about her brother, and she said you could help her."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Elma. But she had an uncomfortable feeling as the words were said. Her thoughts naturally flew to the eight pounds which Kitty had lent her. Was it possible that Kitty wanted that lovely, that beautiful money back again? Elma had felt almost as if she were living in fairyland from the time that money had been in her possession. She would part with it whenever the day came with extreme reluctance.

"Well," she said, "I cannot imagine what she wanted with me; but what happened?"

"Some rough boys outside the 'Spotted Leopard' were rude to her, and she knocked one of them down; then Miss Worrick came up and took her back to our house; and Miss Sherrard has written this morning to say that mother is to bring Kitty up to school, and that she must have the whole thing explained. There's a nice state of things!"

At that moment the great gong was heard, and the girls were obliged to troop into the school. Prayers were conducted as usual in the great hall, and Elma, Gwin, Alice, and Bessie looked in every imaginable corner for a sight of Kitty Malone. She was not present, however, and they were obliged afterward to go to their class-rooms without having caught sight of her beaming and brilliant face.

Meanwhile Mrs. Denvers and Kitty were waiting for Miss Sherrard in the head-mistress' private sitting-room. Kitty went to the window and looked out.

"I like Miss Sherrard," she said, turning to Mrs. Denvers as she spoke. "I am really sorry to annoy her. It is about a fortnight ago since she spoke to me in this very room; she spoke so kindly, and told me that I had got talents. I was astonished, for I thought she meant cleverness, and I have always been told that I am a dunce; she said that she knew I had good abilities, and that besides I had plenty of other talents -- nice dress, and good looks." Kitty colored and flashed a half-defiant, half-roguish glance at Mrs. Denvers. "She also spoke about my money as a talent. Oh, dear, I felt half-conceited, half-delighted when I left her, and I made up my mind that I would be good; but it seems useless, more than useless. Oh, my poor money, my poor money! I have got none of it left now, or at least scarcely any."

"My dear child, no money!" exclaimed Mrs. Denvers. "Impossible. When you spoke to me last you had about fifteen pounds. Kitty, my dear, it is wrong for you to squander money in that fashion."

"But I haven't squandered it, Mrs. Denvers, not really. I have not got it with me, it is true; but most of it is safe, only I must not talk about that. There's another secret for you. What an awful place England is! Oh, dear, dear! I am in a muddle about everything. I can't bear to stand in this room and remember Miss Sherrard's talk. Fancy her saying that even my dress was a talent! Now there's something in favor of my nice red cotton and my dear red silk blouse; and fancy her saying still more that my looks, my pretty face, was a talent! Mrs. Denvers, do you think me pretty, very, very, very pretty?"

"No, Kitty dear, not so wonderfully pretty as that; but you have an attractive face. Miss Sherrard is quite right; beauty is a gift, although it used to be my old-fashioned idea that the less girls were told about their looks the better."

"Oh, but that's all exploded, love," cried Kitty. "In these days girls are told when they are pretty just as much as they are told when they are clever. Now, I'm not clever, not a bit. I'm a dunce, an out and out dunce; but at any rate I've got a pretty face, and I promised that I would use my talents for -- for the best -- " Here she lowered her face and a thoughtful and beautiful expression came into the great big eyes. "But it's no use," she added. "I am bothered entirely every day of my life, and I am just going from bad to worse."

"Hush, Kitty, you must not talk in that way Hark! I think I hear Miss Sherrard's step." As Mrs. Denvers spoke the door was slowly opened and Miss Sherrard, accompanied by Miss Worrick, came in. Miss Sherrard was just about to speak; but before she could utter a word Kitty rushed to her.

"I have failed, darling; I have failed entirely," she gasped out, "I meant to do right, but I did wrong; I have become worse and worse, although I cannot see the wrong myself. But Miss Worrick has found it out. I want to give up the school, darling, and to go back to Old Ireland. They don't think so badly of me in Old Ireland, and they'll let me dress as I like and go out when I like; and -- and, I am not fit for England, dear. Please write to dad and tell him so -- tell him I am a failure as far as England is concerned. He'll understand, dear old man. He'll be sorry, but he'll understand. Let me go home again, please, Miss Sherrard -- let me go home!"

"No, Kitty, I shall do nothing of the kind," answered Miss Sherrard. "You must not kiss me just now, my dear; no, I am not pleased at all. You did very wrong to go out as late as you did last night. You broke one of the strictest rules of the school, and have brought discredit upon us all. Miss Worrick, will you please relate exactly what occurred?"

Miss Worrick now stood up and made as much as she possibly could of poor Kitty's little escapade in front of the "Spotted Leopard." The story so described made anything but a pleasant picture. Miss Sherrard who was tenacious with regard to the school, and most anxious that each and all of her girls should bear the highest character for quiet and orderly behavior, was deeply annoyed.

"Kitty," she said, "I have always been strangely unwilling to punish you. I have never ceased to remember that you have not been brought up like most of the girls here -- that you have enjoyed a freer, wilder life. On that account I have tried to be very patient with you, my dear; but I am sorry to say that I have no alternative now. I must punish you, and severely. For the next week you are to stay in during the morning recess, and after school is over will remain here day by day to learn different tasks which will be set you. Further, my dear -- and this, I am sure, will be the most severe part of your punishment -- your school companions are absolutely forbidden to speak to you, and you must give your word of honor that you will hold no communication with any of them until the week has expired."

This very severe sentence made poor Kitty quite collapse. She sat down on the nearest chair and her rosy face turned pale.

"Oh, I cannot give my word of honor," she gasped. "I must speak. I must at least speak to Elma Lewis."

"You are not to speak to any of your companions, with the exception of Alice Denvers, in whose house you live," said Miss Sherrard. "Kitty, if you disobey me, I shall have to expel you, and then indeed you will be disgraced for life. My dear you must bow to my authority -- you are to speak to no girl in the school. I trust to your honor to obey me in this particular. If you are expelled -- and it will certainly happen if I find that you are not keeping your word -- you will be branded for life."



Chapter XIV.

The Lost Packet.


After parting with Kitty, Miss Sherrard went back to the school. As she did so, she said a few words to Miss Worrick. The result of this was that all the girls were summoned to appear in the great central hall. When there they were told very briefly -- Miss Sherrard standing by her desk as she spoke -- that Miss Malone was in disgrace.

"Miss Malone has done something which obliges me to put her into Coventry for a week," said the head-mistress. "Her schoolfellows are forbidden to have any intercourse with her. If she attempts to speak to any girl belonging to Middleton School, with the exception of Alice Denvers, in whose house she is living, that girl holds communication with her at her own peril. Such a girl stands a grave chance of being expelled from the school."

Miss Sherrard then descended from her platform, and the usual work of the morning went on.

It may easily be guessed that Kitty Malone, and Kitty Malone only, was the subject of conversation during recess. What had she done? Why was Miss Sherrard so very severe on her? It was not often that a Middleton girl was given such a very terrible punishment. Alice who knew all about it, and Bessie, who knew a little, were therefore in immense request. Girls came up to these two in groups to find out what was the matter; and when they heard from Alice the very glaring account of what Kitty had really done on the previous night, they listened with open mouths, giving vent to their feelings in different ways. The larger number pronounced Kitty's conduct to be the height of all that was disgraceful.

"Is it true," said one, "that she really wore the college cap? Oh, what will Dr. Butler say if he finds it out? Alice, you cannot mean that she had bare arms, bare from the elbows? Oh, impossible!"

"But Alice," said another, "tell me, did she really, really, knock one of those horrid boys down?"

"Yes; like a ninepin, so Fred says," replied Alice. "Oh, it was disgraceful. Don't talk of it any more; my cheeks burn whenever I think of it."

"But after all, Alice" -- said Gwin, who came up at that moment. Gwin's tone sounded quiet, stately, penetrating; it rose above the din which the other girls were making. "After all, Alice, don't you think that you were to blame too? Why did you not let Kitty get into your room and hers? If she wanted to go for a walk it was surely natural enough to ask for her hat and jacket; you refused to give them to her."

"Of course I refused," said Alice, who did not at all wish to share any of poor Kitty's blame. "Kitty knew perfectly well that she was breaking one of the school rules as well as one of our home rules by going out at such an hour -- it was between nine and ten o'clock. As to her going without her hat and jacket, such an idea never entered my wildest dreams. No; bad as I thought Kitty, I did not think her bad enough for that. There is no excuse for her. She is well punished, and for my part I cannot but rejoice."

"For my part," said Gwin gravely, "I am extremely sorry. I like Kitty; I like her much. She has her faults of course; she is different from any of the rest of us; she is wild and daring and eccentric; but she is also the soul of honesty and candor. She is very affectionate and very generous. She has not been brought up in the least as we have been. Things we think wrong are not considered wrong by Kitty Malone. As she herself expresses it, she is a little bit wild. Oh, I am sorry for her, dreadfully sorry; and I think Miss Sherrard has been too severe. I wonder at Miss Sherrard. I thought she understood Kitty. She spoke to mother so kindly about her yesterday; she said there was a great deal of good in the Irish girl, as she called her; and also said that she was very glad that I was her friend. Although Miss Sherrard does not know any of the rules of the Tug-of-war Society, she naturally knows that we have formed it. She told me that she could not express how pleased she was at our having asked Kitty to become a member. Girls, I wish I could speak to Miss Sherrard. I think I will. It will break Kitty's heart to be kept in Coventry for a week."

"I doubt if she has a heart," said Alice. "It is all very fine to talk of her affectionate ways; for my part I call them nothing but impetuous. She is vain, conceited, and selfish; and provided she gets her own way does not care what prejudices she rides roughshod over. Oh, I have no patience with her."

"But," said Bessie Challoner, who was standing stolidly by, looking very determined and very quiet, "what did Kitty want out at that hour? Kitty with all her faults, would not break the rules unless she had a strong motive. What could have been the matter?"

"And why did she want to see you, Elma?" said Gwin. "Can you throw any light on the subject?"

Elma colored first and then turned pale. Several pairs of eyes were immediately fixed on her; one girl looked at the other, and a few nodded significantly. Elma observed the looks and turned away in hot fear.

"I don't know what she wanted with me," she muttered.

The rest of the school hours passed as usual, and just before dinner, when the great school broke up for the day, Kitty was still the subject for conversation. Gwin lingered a little behind the others, and Bessie stopped to ask why she was doing so.

"I have almost made up my mind," she said, "to plead with Miss Sherrard for Kitty."

"Oh Gwin; how noble of you. I respect you, I do from my heart; but I tell you what. Would it not be better for us to do something of this sort? Why should not all the Tug-of-war girls plead for her? That would seem more effective and stronger, would it not? Suppose we wrote a letter, a sort of round-robin, and sent it to Miss Sherrard, begging of her to forgive Kitty this time; and taking upon ourselves the responsibility of her future conduct. Oh, I say, Gwin, could we not do it?"

"It is a splendid thought," said Gwin; "much -- much better than my talking to Miss Sherrard alone. Look here, Bessie; could we not manage to have a meeting of the Tug-of-war at my house this evening? Oh, there's Elma; I'll ask her at once. Elma come here."

Elma who was just shouldering her books preparatory to leaving the school, turned when she heard Gwin's voice.

"What is it, Gwin?" she asked; her manner was a little nervous.

Gwin hastily repeated Bessie's daring suggestion.

"Oh, I'll come of course," said Elma; but there was a certain amount of apathy in her tone.

"And I will secure Alice; I am getting quite to dislike Alice, though," said Bessie.

Gwin promised to write to the other girls at once, and it was finally arranged that a meeting should be held at Harley Grove that evening between four and five o'clock.

Elma walked home alone, musing much over the aspect of affairs.

"I wonder what Kitty did want with me," she said to herself. "Doubtless it had something to do with that money. Kitty was in despair, so it seems. Oh, there's Fred Denvers; perhaps he can tell me something? Hullo, Fred!"

Elma stopped; Fred was on his way from college; he was whistling a gay air, and did not see Elma until he had almost reached her side.

"Hullo, Elma," he answered; "how are you?"

"Oh, I am very well, Fred, thank you; but have you heard about Kitty Malone?"

"How everybody does cry out Kitty Malone; it will soon be sung by the birds in the air," said Fred; "Kitty Malone! Kitty Malone! What's the matter with her now?"

"Oh, she has got into the most awful scrape; of course you know what occurred last night?"

"Rather!" said Fred. "I was with her. I say, Elma, she is about the pluckiest girl I ever met. Didn't she hit out straight from the shoulder; and didn't that fellow go down like a ninepin! I don't believe he is able to see out of his eye to-day. Why, that little hand of hers is as hard as iron. Who taught her the art of boxing like that? She's a born fencer! She's a splendid girl. I never met any one like her."

Elma did not feel so much annoyed at this praise of Kitty as Alice would have been; but all the same it was scarcely gratifying to her. After reflecting for a moment, during which Fred was preparing to continue his swinging pace toward his home, she said suddenly: "But where was she going, Fred?"

Fred's big blue eyes lit up with a sudden light of intelligence.

"What a fool I am!" he said. "You perhaps can throw light on this mystery. She wanted to see you, Elma. I cannot imagine what about. You know how fond she is of her brother Laurie? Well, it seems that Laurie got into some sort of scrape; and Kitty, poor girl, she was in a way about it; fretting like any thing, and she said no one could help her but you. Can you tell me what she wanted with you? She was in a rare hurry to get to your house."

"Of course I cannot tell," answered Elma. "Who could be responsible for the vagaries of Kitty Malone? I thought I would ask you. I thought perhaps you would know. Of course they are talking about it at school, and they are wondering what I can have to do with it. It is anything but pleasant for me I can tell you."

"Oh, you'll manage well enough; you'll fight your own battles. Well, what have they done with her at the school? You look quite mysterious."

"I forgot I had never mentioned it to you. They have sent her to Coventry; Miss Sherrard has done it. We are none of us to speak to her for a week."

"Whew!" said Fred, rounding his lips for a prolonged whistle. "Well, that won't bother Kitty much; I don't suppose talking to you would be much of a loss to her."

"But you don't understand, Fred. It's the disgrace, and Gwin Harley thinks it will break her heart; and -- But I must not tell you any more; I must hurry home."

"Poor Kitty! Anyhow, there's no embargo put on my talking to her," said Fred to himself. "Poor old Kit, poor old girl; I'll make it up to her if I can."

Fred ran home as fast as he could, and Elma continued her way.

"There's no doubt of it," she said to herself; "she wants that money. She will manage, Coventry or not, to ask for it. She promised me faithfully that she would never tell that I borrowed it from her; but, being an Irish girl, she is scarcely likely to keep her word. Now that she is in trouble for some unknown cause, she is certain to blab it out. Did she not say herself that she could never keep a secret? Oh dear, what an awful mess I have got into. If it gets to be known that I borrowed eight pounds from Kitty I shall be expelled. If there is a rule that the Middleton governors are strict about, it is that by which the girls are forbidden to borrow money from one another; and eight pounds is such a large, large sum. All my future will be ruined if this is known. I had better give her back all the money that is left, and at once. It would be the safest plan. I can at any rate let her have seven sovereigns; and perhaps if she has that, she will not say anything whatever about the matter. How miserable I shall feel without it; but anything, anything is better than the dreadful fact getting to Miss Sherrard's ears that I broke one of the strictest rules of the school, and borrowed eight pounds from Kitty. The Tug-of-war Society would never again have anything to do with me. I should have the poorest chance of remaining in the school. It would get to Aunt Charlotte's ears. Yes, yes; all my future depends on keeping this thing dark. I must get rid of that dreadful money as quickly as possible. I thought my luck was going to turn; but it is far too good to be true that I might keep such a large sum of money safely. Poor Kitty! yes of course, I'm sorry for her; but she is certain to tell on me. She would think nothing of getting me into the most terrible scrape. I -- I am bound to think of myself first."

At this point in her meditations Elma reached the house in Constantine Road. She ran up the steps, let herself in with a latchkey, and went straight to her room. She opened the drawer where she kept Kitty's precious sovereigns and put in her hand to take out the little paper parcel. More than once since she had possessed this money had Elma examined that little packet, getting up early in the morning to gloat over it, looking at it the last thing at night; but always taking care that Carrie should be sound asleep. It gave her comfort, the comfort almost of a miser to gaze at her gold. She used to forget at these supreme moments that the gold was in reality not hers at all. She used to forget everything but the delightful sense of possession. She felt as if she could never spend the money, as if she must hoard it and hoard it just for the mere pleasure of looking at it. She knew the exact corner of the drawer where she kept it; no one ever dared to meddle with Elma's drawers. She kept the rest of the family more or less in awe of her. As to Maggie, she was honest as the day. But what was the matter? Search as she would she could not find the precious little packet. She looked frantically here, there, and everywhere. Soon she had removed the drawer from its case and had tumbled all the contents on her bed. Nowhere was the money to be found. Elma's face turned white as a sheet. She trembled from head to foot. In the midst of her meditations Carrie entered the room.

"My dear Elma, what is the matter?" she cried.

A glance had shown her what was really wrong. A smile crossed her face. She walked deliberately across the room and flung herself on her bed.

"How hot it is," she said with a pant.

"Dear me, Carrie, why are you so incorrigibly lazy?" said Elma. "Not that I care -- I am in dreadful trouble I --  --  -- "

"You look like it," said Carrie. "What is the matter?"

"I am looking for some money."

"Money? What money are you likely to have?"

"Well, it so happens that I have some -- a good deal. Carrie have you seen it?"

"Have I seen what?" asked Carrie in a provokingly drawling voice.

"Why, my money. How did you think I got that dress, that dress which you are racking through at such a furious pace?"

Carrie was attired in the pale blue nun's-veiling. It was Carrie's way to have a dress and to wear it morning, noon, and night, destroying all its freshness. The nun's-veiling was already dirty and draggled-looking.

"How do you think I got that dress that you made such a fuss about if I had not money to pay for it?"

"I am sure I couldn't tell, and what's more, I didn't care," said Carrie. "What is vexing you now, Elma? Oh! what a commotion you are making in your poor drawer!"

"I have just lost seven sovereigns and -- Carrie, I see by your face that you do know something about it. Is it possible that you stole the money?"

"How dare you accuse me of such a thing?" said Carrie, flaring up in apparently most righteous indignation -- - in reality she was enjoying herself immensely. She had made up her mind not to tell Elma the truth at present. By and by she would tell, after she had well frightened her sister, but certainly not yet.

"I know nothing whatever about it," she said, caring little for the lie which she was telling. "I am sorry you have lost it; but how did you get it?"

Elma was silent, shutting up her lips tightly. The dinner-gong sounded, and the girls went down to their midday meal.

Carrie soon perceived that Elma was in real trouble. With all her low, idle, careless, and unprincipled ways, at the bottom of her heart she was fond of her sister. She made up her mind to visit Sam Raynes that evening and get him to return the money.

"Poor old Elma," she said to herself. "I don't want to be too hard on her. It is not the fun I expected when she looks at me with such miserable eyes. It would certainly not do for her to get talking to Maggie."

"You leave the matter to me. I may have a clue," she said, when dinner was over. "But rest assured on one point, Maggie has nothing to do with it, nor has mother."

Here Carrie ran upstairs, to put on her things preparatory to returning to her pupils.

Elma was now alone. The hour was three o'clock. At half-past four she was to meet Gwin Harley and the rest of the Tug-of-War girls. In the meantime she knew she could not possibly have any peace of mind until the seven sovereigns were discovered.

Mrs. Lewis had gone up as usual to her room to lie down. She had a headache and was in very low spirits. Elma glanced at her once or twice and determined not to worry her; but Maggie she considered her lawful prey. She had given Carrie no promise, and felt sure that Maggie and Carrie between them were at the bottom of the mystery. She determined to go into the kitchen and terrify Maggie into confession.

That young woman was busy giving sundry touches to the charming toque with which she intended to electrify her young man on the following Sunday.

"Maggie," said Elma, "I wish to speak to you."

"Oh lor! miss, how you startled me," cried Maggie. She jumped up as she spoke, dropping Kitty's violets to the floor. They were so natural, so beautiful, so exactly like the real flowers, that more than one girl had remarked upon them, and among these had been Elma. As they lay on the by-no-means-too-clean kitchen floor, she stooped now to pick them up.

"Where did you get these?" she asked in a sharp voice.

"Oh, Miss Helma, they're mine, and you have no right to 'em," was the quick reply.

"Where did you get them, Maggie? You're a bad girl; you must have stolen them."

"I steal 'em! I like that," said Maggie, turning first crimson and then very white. "They was give to me by the young Irish lady."

"By Miss Malone, Miss Kitty Malone?"

"Yes, miss; the prettiest young lady I ever clapped eyes on; she give 'em to me herself."

"Look here, Maggie," said Elma, "the violets don't matter. Let us talk of something else. Do you know anything about some money which I keep in my drawer upstairs? Now look me straight in the eyes. I miss that money, and you know I can call in the police and have your boxes searched. Do you know anything about it? If you'll tell me the truth I'll be merciful to you. Last night I had seven sovereigns in my drawer, but now they are gone. Did you touch them, Maggie? Tell me the truth and at once."

"I touch your money, miss! I didn't know you had any, that I didn't."

Poor Maggie's face was a study. Perplexity, despair, indignation swept over it in a sort of terror.

"Miss Helma, you're cruel to talk to me like that," she cried. "Me touch your money! No, that I didn't. Oh, miss, is it the money Miss Malone come about? Is it gone?"

A wild hope flashed through Elma's brain, to be discarded the next moment. Could Kitty have come to the house and visited her room and taken away her own money herself?

"What do you mean about Miss Malone?" she cried.

"She come here miss. Oh, Miss Helma, don't look at me so scornfully. She came here yesterday and asked for you and when I told her you was out she writ a letter, and said you was to have it the moment you come in, and that it was as important as the Bank of England. Yes, that she did -- and she laid it on the blotter in the dining-room. She was the prettiest young lady I ever set eyes on, and she took them violets out of her cap and give them to me. She was in an awful way, and said she wanted to see you on a most important matter. I don't know what she wrote in the letter; but it may have been about the money, miss."

"Of course it was about the money," said Elma, who felt more and more uncomfortable each moment; "but where is the letter, Maggie? Why did I not get it?"

"You ask Miss Carrie that, miss. She come in, and -- . Oh, but I mustn't tell any more."

"But you must and shall," said Elma. She took hold of Maggie fiercely by her arm, dragged her forward to the light, and looked her full in the eyes. "Now, tell me every single thing you know, or I'll summon the police this moment," she said.

Thus adjured, Maggie fell on her knees and made an ample confession.



Chapter XV.

Gwin Harley's Scheme.


Elma felt nearly driven to distraction. All her future depended on the character which she was able to maintain at school. She did not, and she knew it, belong to the best class of girls who attended Middleton School. Elma's father was a man of bad reputation. He had long ago disgraced his family, and had been obliged to go to Australia. Mrs. Lewis was better born than her husband; and when trouble came, a sister, who had been much shocked at her marrying Lewis, came to her aid. She did not do much for her; but she did something. This sister, a certain Mrs. Steward, the wife of a clergyman in Buckinghamshire, promised to look after Elma, who was the cleverest and most presentable of the two girls. Mrs. Lewis begged that Elma should not be taken away from her; and Mrs. Steward, angry with herself for what she termed her folly, had yet yielded to her sister's entreaties. She said she would give Elma what would be better than a fortune -- namely, a first-class education; and if, when her education was finished, she showed intelligence, and, above all, a good, sterling, moral character, she would do what she could to place her in life. Her present intention was, after Elma had gone through a course of instruction at Middleton School, to send her to Girton, thus enabling her by and by to take a really good position as teacher.

All these things Elma knew well. She was an ambitious girl; she earnestly desired to secure a good position for herself in life. She hated her sister Carrie's ways, and detested the grumbling, weak sort of character which she could not but see that her mother possessed. All the same, she was not really scrupulous nor high-principled; it was only that the little mean ways and the petty shifts which went on in the small house in Constantine Road sorely fretted her. Her intercourse with girls like Gwin Harley and Bessie Challoner could not but raise her standard. Carrie's manners and ways disgusted her more and more each day.

Now, as she put on her hat and prepared to walk to Harley Grove, she could not help thinking, with great bitterness, of the unlooked-for calamity which had come upon her. She was naturally intensely selfish, and had no idea of sacrificing herself on this occasion. No matter to what subterfuge she must be obliged to stoop, she would never, never, let any of the Middleton girls know that she had broken the rule of the school, and borrowed money from Kitty. For a Middleton girl to borrow money at all was a black crime; but for any one to take advantage of Kitty's innocence, her naïveté, her wild, daring, reckless ways would make the crime all the blacker. Elma, were such a sin to be discovered, would be, if not expelled from the school, which was extremely likely, at any rate tabooed on the spot by all the nice girls who went there. Above all things, she longed for and esteemed popularity. Such a course of treatment would be intolerable. As a matter of course, Mrs. Steward would be told of her niece's transaction. Mrs. Steward would say, "Like father, like daughter." She would cease to patronize Elma. The fees for her schooling would be withdrawn, and Elma herself must sink to the level which Carrie had long ago reached.

"It cannot be," she thought; "whatever happens, I must keep this miserable story from the ears of the girls and mistresses. At the present moment I am fairly safe. Wild and reckless as Kitty is, she would not dare to hold intercourse with any of the Middleton girls now. Alice is the only one allowed to speak to her, and Alice she will certainly not confide in, for she so cordially hates her. Yes, I know perfectly well what I am going to Harley Grove for. Gwin is full of sympathy for Kitty; so is Bessie Challoner. Romantic and silly they both are; but Alice at least will be on my side. I will oppose the petition which the Tug-of-war girls intend to send to Miss Sherrard. Kitty must not be set at liberty until I can return her the money. Carrie has it, beyond doubt. What she has done with it I don't know; but most likely I shall be able to give it back to Kitty to-morrow."

Having made up her mind, Elma walked briskly forward. She would she felt certain, be very unpopular if she opposed the vote which, unless she did something to prevent it, would be carried by the majority in Kitty's favor. She was anxious to see some of the other Tug-of-war girls. It was all-important that a majority should be against Kitty, not for her.

When she arrived at the avenue which led to Harley Grove she met Alice, and a moment later two other girls of the names of Matilda and Jessie Forbes came pantingly up.

"Oh, do wait for us," they cried, seeing Elma and Alice linger for a moment at the gate.

"Alice," said Elma, "before they join us I want to speak to you. Are you for Kitty, or against her?"

"How do you mean?" asked Alice in some wonder.

"I mean, are you going to vote that this petition should be sent to Miss Sherrard or are you not?"

"I am going to vote against it, of course," said Alice, with a short laugh.

"Well, I am on your side; I wish to say so."

"You, Elma! I thought you would never oppose Gwin Harley. You are one of those people who know where their bread is buttered. Why do you take my part on this occasion?"

"Because," said Elma, flushing deeply, for, hardened little sinner as she was, she had not perfect control over her emotions -- "because I think Kitty richly deserves what she has got. It would never do to have this sort of thing going on at the school. But look here, Alice, if the petition is not to be sent to Miss Sherrard, we must try and have a majority on our side. Why should we not secure Matilda and Jessie Forbes?"

"I never thought of that," said Alice; "but really, Elma, now I come to consider it, as far as I personally am concerned, I don't much care. It matters very little to me whether Kitty gets out of Coventry or not. I shall have to speak to her however the tide turns. You do seem strangely eager on the subject."

"When I join a certain side I don't wish it to be the losing one," said Elma, as calmly as she could. "Hullo, Matilda, how out of breath you are! You need not have run so fast; you could see that we were waiting for you."

"Well, you see," said Jessie Forbes, who was also panting as she came up, "we have never yet been to Harley Grove. Is it not a very grand place, Elma? Was it not kind of Gwin to ask us, and -- Oh, of course, we are full of sympathy for that poor, dear Kitty Malone."

"Why do you pity her?" asked Elma coldly.

"Because the poor darling didn't know any better. Does it not seem silly to make such a fuss about such a trifle? I can't imagine why Miss Sherrard has been so very severe."

"I don't agree with you at all," said Elma. "I think Kitty richly deserves her punishment. Of course," she added, "I don't want to be really hard on her; but unless she is made to feel shame when she does an outré and extraordinary thing like she did last night, she will go on doing similar deeds, and get the whole school into disgrace."

"Oh dear, yes," said Jessie, "that is perfectly true, and I should not like father to know that one of the Middleton girls had been spoken to by a rude boy in the street. I really believe he would take us both from the school."

"If you think so," said Elma, "you ought to oppose the petition."

"Are you going to, Elma?"

"Certainly."

"But you are a friend of hers, are you not?"

"Of course I am. I am very fond of her."

"And you oppose it for her good?"

"Undoubtedly; altogether for her good."

"And Miss Sherrard does know what is right," said Matilda, in a thoughtful voice. "Miss Sherrard was never a severe teacher. We all love her dearly."

"And she is very fond of Kitty," said Elma. "I know that for a fact."

"Yes, and so do I know it to my cost," said Alice shrugging her shoulders. She walked up the avenue as she spoke. Jessie ran after her.

"What side are you going to take Alice?" she asked.

"Miss Sherrard's," replied Alice shortly.

Meanwhile Elma had slipped her hand gently through Matilda's arm, and looking up into the face of the taller girl, said in her most insinuating voice:

"I do think, painful as it is, that we ought to take Miss Sherrard's side. Gwin is so enthusiastic, poor dear, and so is Bessie Challoner, that they are certain to be led away by their feelings. Now, Miss Sherrard is the most sympathetic and kindest of head-mistresses, she would not have given Kitty so severe a punishment without reason."

"That is true," said Matilda. "Only, of course, you see, Elma, I don't want to go against Gwin. I am so terribly anxious to become her friend. I admire her so immensely. I don't think there's any other girl in the school to equal her."

"I should think there isn't," said Elma with sudden warmth.

"I am sorry she has taken Kitty Malone's part -- poor Kitty! We certainly all think her charming; but if father were to hear of it!"

"You would not like him to take you from the school now," said Elma, "just when you have such a good chance of the literature scholarship?"

"I should think not; it would be a dreadful blow. But he would be -- oh, I cannot tell you how shocked he would be!"

"And he would be more shocked, would he not, if he heard that you had taken Kitty's part, and had signed the petition against Miss Sherrard?"

"Of course, I never thought of that. I declare Elma, you are clever. I will mention what you say to Jessie, and tell her that she must go against the petition."

Elma felt that she had won her point. There would be at least four girls against Gwin's motion, and probably others would follow their example.

When the girls arrived at the house, they were shown immediately into Gwin's pretty private study. Gwin was standing by the open window. She had a book in her hand, but was not reading it. She was looking anxiously out. There was a perplexed expression on her fine face, and her large deep gray eyes were full of emotion.

"I am so glad you have come," she said when she saw the girls. "I hope all the Tug-of-war girls will be present. The more I think of this affair the more certain I am that it will be the ruin of Kitty Malone."

Elma looked sympathizingly at her friend, Alice frowned, Matilda and Jessie did not know where to look, nor what to say. If they had not met Alice and Elma they would have certainly gone heart and soul with Gwin in the matter.

"Sit down, won't you, girls?" said Gwin. "Tea will be ready in a moment -- are you not thirsty?"

"Yes, it's a very hot day," said Jessie, somewhat timidly.

"And you had a long walk; but it was really kind of you to come. We won't do anything until some more of the Tug-of-war Society arrive. But perhaps my letters have not reached the others."

"Oh, I know the Hodgsons are coming," said Matilda Forbes, "because I met them."

"I am glad of that. Ah, and here is Bessie."

Bessie Challoner at this moment entered the room. She shook hands with the Forbes girls, whom she had not met before that day, nodded to Alice, and going up to Gwin began to whisper in her ear.

Gwin looked more anxious.

"All the same I am determined to do it," she said.

"I am certain Miss Sherrard will be very angry," said Bessie. "Had you really better, Gwin?"

"I certainly had better. I am not afraid of Miss Sherrard, nor twenty Miss Sherrards, when I think I have a righteous cause. She does not know Kitty as well as I know her. Ah, here you are," she said as, the Hodgsons, two rather dowdy, but affectionate girls, came quickly into the room.

"What's this Gwin?" cried Mary, the elder; "something wrong with that Irish girl? What can be up?"

"I will explain everything to you after we have had tea. Ah, here it comes!"

Gwin walked to the table, where the footman now placed tea and cakes, and began to dispense the refreshments. The girls stood round her chatting, munching cake and drinking tea. The afternoon sun poured into the room. Outside it was cool and shady. Gwin went to the window and drew down the green venetian blinds.

"Now, that is cooler," she said. "Have you all had enough?"

"Yes, thank you," answered one or two.

Gwin rang the bell, and the servant came to remove the tea equipage.

"And now to business," said Gwin. "What I briefly propose to do is this: Kitty Malone is in trouble. As a member of the Tug-of-war Society, the rest of the society is bound to support her. I am most anxious that she should get all the support in our power. She is not like any of us; she has been differently brought up. What she did last night was the result of impetuosity and overzeal. She was troubled about her brother, and for some extraordinary reason thought that Elma could help her. Elma, can you throw any light on the matter?"

"None whatever," answered Elma in a stout voice.

"She went out with the college cap on and without her jacket, and for that reason some rough, rude boys talked to her, and she knocked one of them down in trying to defend herself, and so got into a terrible scrape. Miss Worrick, it seems, witnessed the transaction, and she told Miss Sherrard. Miss Sherrard was very much annoyed, and has put Kitty into Coventry for a week. We are none of us allowed, on pain of instant dismissal, to speak to her. Now, my proposal is this; that we write a little petition, and each of us sign it, and then that I take it to Miss Sherrard. I want to ask Miss Sherrard to allow the members of the Tug-of-war Society to speak to Kitty. I want to ask her to allow us all to do our best during her week's punishment to show her that this wild and erratic way will not go down in England; I want her to allow us to do our utmost by kindness to overcome Kitty's wild nature. I have scarcely any doubt, girls, that Miss Sherrard will approve of our scheme."

"Well, I for one approve of it most heartily," said Bessie Challoner. "I believe severity would ruin a girl like Kitty. You cannot drive her; she must be led."

"Thank you, Bessie. I knew you would feel with me. And now, girls, I will put this thing to the vote. All who are in favor of the scheme hold up their hands."

The Forbes girls looked tremblingly, with flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, at Elma and Alice. Their hands went half up and then dropped again into their laps. It was the fear of their father's displeasure which prevented their going altogether with Gwin. The Hodson girls immediately held up their hands; but Alice, Elma, Matilda, and Jessie plainly showed that they did not mean to sign the petition.

"Is this possible?" said Gwin in a vexed voice. "I surely thought there was not -- Elma, you must be at the head of this. What is your reason for not joining us?"

Alice looked as if she were about to speak; but Elma jumped at once to her feet.

"I don't join you because I do not agree with you, dear Gwin. I believe Miss Sherrard knows a great deal better than we do what is good for a girl. I am certain she will be much annoyed by our interfering; and for my part I think a week in Coventry will do Kitty Malone no harm."

"I am surprised and disappointed in you, Elma," said Gwin, "Alice, what is your feeling?"

"Oh, I absolutely agree with Elma," said Alice. "I think it would be a rare comfort to take any means to subdue and crush out of sight, even for one week, that most obnoxious person Kitty Malone. The unfortunate part is that I shall have to do with her even during her week in Coventry."

"But surely," said Gwin, in some astonishment, "you two Forbes girls can have nothing to say against Kitty. It cannot injure you in any way that we should plead for the mitigation of her punishment."

"Well, the fact is this," said Jessie, standing up as she spoke, and looking very miserable. "Father is most particular; he is almost faddy, you know, Gwin -- and if he ever heard that a girl from the school did exactly what Kitty did last night -- I mean that she went out so late against rules, and was dressed in such a queer way, and was obliged to knock down a rude boy in order to protect herself -- why, I think he would take us from school. Then if father also heard that we had gone against Miss Sherrard's authority, we -- Oh, I cannot say it exactly as I ought; but Gwin, I would rather not sign that paper."

"All right," answered Gwin in some vexation.

"Then my scheme falls through. Four against and four for. We have only one other member of the Tug-of-war except poor Kitty herself, and she, I am afraid, cannot come, as she is ill with a bad cold. Well, I shall see Miss Sherrard alone and must take my chance."

"Yes, if you please; that would be much the best plan," said Jessie, sinking down into her seat with a sigh of relief.

Soon afterward the little party at Gwin Harley's house separated. There was a feeling of restraint over them which Gwin's guests seldom experienced. They were not at one. It was impossible to talk any longer on the subject with which their hearts were full. Gwin was anxious to prepare the exact arguments she intended to use with Miss Sherrard. She looked relieved when Elma made the first move of departure. Alice jumped up also with alacrity.

"Good-by Gwin," she said. "I think you are doing wrong to interfered in this matter. A little punishment will do Kitty Malone no more harm than it does any other girl. Of course it's not pleasant; punishment never is. Good-by; take my advice and allow Kitty Malone to shift for herself."

Gwin made no reply at all to this. She gave Alice a cold nod, and the four girls who now formed the opposition left the house.

"Good-by to all chance of my friendship with Gwin," said Jessie Forbes rather miserably as they walked up the avenue.

"Oh, never mind, Jessie, you did the right thing," said Alice. "What is the good of toadying? I hate toadies. If you are ever to become a friend of Gwin Harley's you will see that she hates them also, although, perhaps I am wrong to say that." Here she glanced somewhat significantly at Elma. Elma colored and turned her head aside.

When they reached the top of the avenue the girls turned each to go their several ways. Elma hurried home as fast as she could.

"I must get that money by hook or by crook this evening," she said to herself. "I wonder where Carrie has hidden it. Bad as she is, she would certainly not steal it from me. Oh, it is safe of course, and I must get it and manage to convey it to Kitty to-night, and then as far as I am concerned I don't care how soon the poor thing gets out of Coventry."

When Elma reached home the first person she saw was Carrie. Carrie was standing on the steps of the shabby little villa in Constantine Road talking to a fiery-haired young man.

Elma never condescended to have anything to do with Raynes. Giving him a very cold nod now, she was about to enter the house when Carrie caught her arm and stopped her.

"Why don't you speak to Sam?" she said. "Sam, this is my sister, Elma."

"How do you do?" said Elma. "I am sorry I cannot wait now; I want to see mother."

"There's no use in your going in if it's mother you want," pursued Carrie. "She has gone out for the evening. Mrs. Duncan has asked her to tea. I am glad of it. A little change will do her good."

"I won't keep you now, Car," said Raynes, turning to Carrie and giving her a somewhat clumsy nod. He looked askance at Elma, and the next moment had clattered down the steps, and, turning the corner, was out of sight.

"What a creature!" said Elma. "I wonder you have anything to do with him, Carrie. I think, even for my sake, seeing that Aunt Charlotte is doing so much for me -- "

"Now stop that," said Carrie; "I won't have a word of abuse against Sam. He suits me very well. I'm not a fine lady, and I never mean to be a fine lady. I shall be very comfortable as his wife some day, and I don't want you to abuse him. Whether you like him or not, he is going to be your brother-in-law and -- Why, Elma, how tired you look!"

"I am tired and worried, and I want to speak to you," said Elma.

"To speak to me?" answered Carrie, a little alarm coming into her voice in spite of herself. "What for? Anything special? Are you prepared to make me a present of another dress; I could do with a white one now the weather is getting so very hot, and Sam would like me in white. White with pink ribbons would be a change, or mauve -- mauve ribbons look so sweetly cool with white."

"I am not going to listen to any of your nonsense," said Elma. "I want to ask you a straight question. Where is my money?"

"Your money? What do you mean?"

"What I say. I have heard the whole story from Maggie, and I can bring her as a witness. You have put that money in hiding, and I want it at once. There, Carrie, like a dear old soul, do own up. Let me have the money without any more delay. Of course you have not stolen it. I know you have not; but you have hidden it. I wish you would give it back now. If I can't return it to its rightful owner to-night I shall get into worse trouble. Do let me have the money back."

Carrie's face also now became pale.

"I wish I could," she said in a frightened voice. "Do you mean to say that you really want it back?"

"Why, of course. You haven't spent it? Oh, if you have I am ruined -- ruined for life."

"No, I have not spent it; but the fact is I -- What a little wretch that Maggie was to tell!"

"She couldn't help herself; I made her. Now, speak out, Carrie. Oh, we need not go indoors. Where is the money? Please, please, Carrie, let me have it at once."

Elma's troubled face, her trembling hands, the anxiety depicted all over her nervous little figure, could not but show Carrie that there was something serious in the wind.

"Well," she said, "I am awfully sorry. I -- I just did it in a fit of mischief. I read that letter which Kitty Malone wrote to you, and it seemed to throw light on some of your actions which had puzzled me of late. I went to your drawer and found the money, and thought I would give it to Sam to keep for you."

"To Sam Raynes?" cried Elma, backing a few steps, her voice assuming a tone of terror.

"Yes. Do be careful, Elma, or you'll fall right down into the area. Why shouldn't I lend it to Sam Raynes?"

"Lend it?"

"Well, well, it's all the same; I asked him to keep it for me."

"I'll go to him at once and get it," said Elma, preparing to run down the steps.

Carrie caught her by the arm.

"I'm awfully sorry," she said, "but it's no use, he -- he says we cannot have it for a week, perhaps a fortnight. He is doing a little deal with it, as he expresses it. He says perhaps we'll have it back doubled."

"What can you mean, Carrie?" Elma knew nothing whatever about speculation. That will-o'-the-wisp which leads so many astray had not yet entered into her life.

"You need not look so miserable. Won't you like to have it back again, not seven pounds but fourteen? and Sam says this will probably be the case in a week or a fortnight, or at any rate in a month from now."

Elma threw up her hand in despair.

"If I have to wait a month for the money," she said, "I may as well never have it. Oh Carrie, what have you done? You have ruined me, ruined me! Carrie, I cannot lead a low, common life like yours; I am not fit for it. Oh, Aunt Charlotte will never do anything more for me after this. Kitty wants the money, and I cannot give it to her. Oh, Carrie, to think that you should have ruined my life!"

Poor Elma covered her face with her trembling hands and went into the house. She entered the shabby little sitting-room and sank into the nearest chair. Carrie stood near her in real perplexity and agitation.

"What a pity you didn't confide in me when you brought it home," she said. "Of course I didn't really want to do you an ill turn, Elma; but you were so sly and secretive, and -- and I thought I would have my joke. You don't know how precious dull my life is; and when I saw that letter and felt that you were keeping a nice little hoard of money, all private and without the knowledge of your sister, it was just too much for me, and I took it to Sam because I didn't know where to hide it safe in this house."

"The thing that matters," said Elma, "is the fact that I cannot get it back. But I must get it; I must see Sam Raynes at once."

"Tell me why it is so bad," said Carrie. "You must confide the whole thing to me now. There's no use in keeping secrets from your sister."

Thus adjured, and because she was almost distracted, poor Elma did tell. She described as well as she could the terrible position she would be in at Middleton School if the whole of this transaction were known. She managed to a certain extent to open Carrie's eyes.

"Although, I cannot see what they would be so angry about," said Carrie. "You were offered the money and you accepted it. You never wanted to keep it; you would have given it back some time; and even if you did keep that Irish girl out of it for a month, what would it have mattered? But there -- I see you are in a state, and I am sure I don't want to ruin your life. You, with your high-faluting notions, must not have all your ambitions dashed to the ground. We'll go together to see Sam, and try to find out what can be done."

"Yes, let us go at once," said Elma in feverish haste. "I wanted to take the money to Kitty to-night. At present she cannot tell on me; but she is quite certain to do so if I don't return it to her at once. Let us go down to see Sam now."

"All right," answered Carrie; "come along. I dare say we'll find him at home. I hope we shall."

Five minutes later the girls were standing outside the door of the Raynes' very humble dwelling. It was opened by Florrie Raynes herself.

"Hullo, Carrie, what do you want now?" she cried. "Oh, and Miss Lewis," with a mocking emphasis on the word "Miss." "To what do we owe the honor of this visit?"

"I want to see your brother," said Elma brusquely. "He has got some money of mine, which I must ask him to have the goodness to return at once."

"Money?" said Florrie, opening her eyes rather wide. "Well, you can see him for yourselves; but if it's money that is lent to Sam, I -- I rather pity the girl who wants to get it back from him again. Sam is a very whale on money. He always swallows it wholesale."

With these anything but encouraging words, Florrie threw open the door of the shabby little smoking-room, where Sam, with a pipe in his mouth, was lying at his ease. He started up when he saw the girls, removed his pipe, and going up to Carrie, laid his hand familiarly on her shoulder.

"Well, Car, so you could not do without me," he said with a smile.

"The fact is this," answered Elma, "my sister has told me that she gave you seven pounds a couple of nights ago to keep for her. That money happens to have been lent to me, and I want it back immediately. I have come for it. Will you give it to me, please?"

Sam drew in his breath preparatory to giving a long whistle.

"Highty! tighty!" he cried. "You have very grand airs, Miss Elma Lewis; but I didn't know that money was borrowed. Ho! ho! this puts a very unpleasant complexion on things. When dear old Car brought it to me I thought I might do what I liked with it. Did you not give me to understand as much Car?" Here he gave Carrie a perceptible wink. She was very much under his influence, and immmediately too her cue.

"Well, yes, Sam," she answered. "I did say you might speculate with it if you liked."

"Of course you did, my little girl, and I took the hint and did speculate with it, and a pretty little deal I made. So if you have patience, Miss Elma, you will get your money back doubled, then you will be able to return the principal and have a nice little nest-egg of your own. Now, what do you say to that? Aren't you awfully obliged to me?"

"I say," replied Elma, "that I want the money immediately. I cannot wait until you have doubled it, as you call it, whatever you mean by that. Please let me have it at once, Mr. Raynes. I must have it, I --  -- "

"I am afraid you ask for the impossible," said Sam in a careless tone. "I have speculated with the money, and the returns will come in perhaps in a week, perhaps a fortnight, perhaps longer. I say again that you ought to be obliged to me. It is not every fellow who would take so much trouble."

Poor Elma gave him a despairing glance. There was evidently nothing more to be got out of him. She left the house without a word. Carrie followed her into the street.

"Oh Elma, don't look so miserable," said Carrie. "What is the good of sinking into despair?"

"Don't talk to me," said Elma, pushing her sister's hand away. "You have ruined me; that is the sort of sister you are. And I would have done anything for you, Carrie. When I rose myself and improved myself in the social scale, when I got my post as teacher, I would have done all in my power to aid you and mother; but now -- now we must all sink together. Oh, Carrie, to think that I should be ruined by my own sister!"



Chapter XVI.

Paddy Wheel-About's Old Coat.


It was a moonlit evening in the County Donegal, and there was a broad bar of silver shining in burnished splendor across the beautiful Lake Coulin. Two boys were standing on the edge of the lake. A prettily-trimmed little boat was lying at their feet. One, the taller of the two, was standing with his hand up to his ear, listening intently.

"Ah, then, Pat, can't you stop that shuffling?" he cried to his younger companion. "I can't listen if you keep whistling and moving your feet. It is about time for Daneen to appear. Kitty is sure to send the tinos, dear old girl. Father takes care to keep her well supplied."

"There, I hear Dan's horn; he is coming through the Gap," cried Pat, his face lighting up. "Stay there, Laurie, and I'll run to meet him. He'll just be at the other side of Haggart's Glen when I get up."

The younger boy put wings to his feet, and the next moment was out of sight. The older boy, thrusting both his hands deep into his pockets, stood staring straight before him into the silver light caused by a full moon. The white radiance lit up his young person, his pronounced features, and handsome face. There were gloomy depths in his big black eyes, although the slightest movement, the faintest play of expression would cause them to dance with vitality and fun; the petulant expression, round lips, curved and cut with the delicacy of a cameo, was very manifest. The lad was built in almost Herculean mould, so broad were his shoulders, so upright and tall his young figure. With his head thrown back, the listening attitude on his face, his black hair swept from his forehead, he looked almost like a young god -- all was verve, expectancy, eagerness in his attitude.

"If only Kitty is true it will be all right," he muttered. "Ah, then, what a fool I was when I allowed the other fellows to tempt me to play that practical joke on old Wheel-about. I don't think the governor minds anything else; but he cannot stand our making fun of that poor, old, half-witted chap. Never again will I do such a thing. I would not have father know this matter for all the world. Hullo! there comes Pat. I wonder if he has got my letter."

"Nothing, nothing, and worse than nothing," sang out Pat, extending two empty hands as he approached.

"No letter for me?" cried Laurie. He stepped out of the light, and striding up to his brother, laid one of his big hands on the boy's slighter shoulder. "No letter? But did you really meet Daneen?"

"Of course I did. Don't grip me so hard, old chap. He had only one letter in his pocket, and that was for Aunt Honora, two newspapers for father, and a heap of circulars -- nothing else whatever."

"But are you certain sure? Surely Kitty would not fail a gossoon when he was in trouble."

"I tell you, Laurie, there was nothing from her, nor from any one, except that one letter for Aunt Honora; but perhaps you'll hear in the morning."

Laurie made no reply; his hands dropped to his sides. The next moment he dived into his trousers pocket and extracted a few coins.

"Have we enough for a telegram, I wonder?" he said. "Ah, to be sure -- why, we can send one now for sixpence. And I have tenpence here. I'll wire at once. I say, Pat, we must go to the nearest post office, and to-night. We will start now; do you mind? We can row across the Coulin, and anchor the boat at the opposite side, and then it is only eight miles across the mountains to Ballyshannon."

"But James Dunovan will have shut up the office," exclaimed Pat; "and if we are absent from supper what will father say?"

"Old Jim knows us; he'll open fast enough when he hears that we two lads have come on business."

"But they can't send the telegram after the office is shut."

"Don't make difficulties, Pat. I tell you this is a serious business. You don't want to be banished from the country do you? We'll go to the post office at once, and see that the message is sent to Kitty the very first thing in the morning. Come, what are young lingering for?"

"Supper is waiting, and Aunt Bridget will make a fuss. You know we are not allowed to be out after ten at night."

"Bother!" cried Laurie. "Well, then, we must go home first. What a nuisance. We'll have a bite, and then slink out. The dad can think we have gone to bed. Why, Pat, old boy, I met Wheel-about to-day, and he was like a mad man. He told me he had collected all that money for his funeral. What apes we were to touch the coat!"

"Sure, it's unlike Kitty not to write," said Pat. "She is the last in the world to leave a fellow in the lurch."

"Don't I know that? Who's fault it is it isn't hers, poor old girl. Something has happened to the letter. Now, Pat, let us get supper over, for we have no time to lose."

As Laurie spoke he fastened the little boat securely by a rope to a stone near by, and then the lads turned their backs upon the silver-burnished lake, and strode into the darkness of a narrow mountain defile. The path was steep, and they had to scramble up, doing so with the agility of young ponies.

"It is the thought of Wheel-about that bothers me entirely," said Laurie, after a pause. "I don't want to have it lying on my soul -- upon my honor I don't -- that I turned the poor old chap's brain still crazier."

"Oh, the money will come along before Saturday," said Pat; "and you know you told him he must wait until Saturday. Don't you worry, Laurie. Come on, I tell ye; there's the gong sounding at the Castle."

The deep notes of a very sonorous old gong were distinctly borne on the breeze; the boys ran, hurrying and panting. A few moments later they had climbed an almost inaccessible rock, had tumbled over each other up a lawn, and entered a huge hall, where supper was spread. Squire Malone was seated at the head of the table; down both sides were crowded guests and different retainers -- Squire Malone's cousins, all of them, some to the fifth or sixth removed. Miss Honora Malone was at the foot of the table, and Miss Bridget presided at the tea tray at one of the sides.

"Sit down, you lads," roared the squire when he saw his sons; "you have been keeping us waiting. Now take your places and fall to."

The boys dropped into the seats reserved for them without a word. They were hungry, and enjoyed the abundant fare provided. Miss Honora began to address them with a volley of words.

"Ah, then, boys," she said, "it is ashamed of you I am. Why should you come in to supper like that, without your hair brushed or your hand washed and looking as rough as a pair of young colts? Look at me, now, how neat I am -- I have changed my dress for the evening." As she spoke she glanced at her thin arms, bare to the elbow, and touched the gold chain that encircled her scraggy throat. "You'll never get Dublin manners, you two," she continued, "and what will you do when you go into society? Ah, it is enough to break the heart to look at ye."

Laurie winked boldly at her; Pat laughed, and helped himself so some potatoes.

"Dennis," called out the lady, addressing her brother, "don't you agree with me that it is very bad manners on the part of the boys to come to supper without so much as washing their hands or brushing their hair? Ought they not to put on evening clothes now that they are almost assuming manhood's estate?"

"Oh, leave 'em alone, Honor," was the reply. "Boys will be boys, and Castle Malone is Liberty Hall. Time enough a few years hence to put on that high-faluting style. I like 'em as they are: rough diamonds no doubt, but diamonds all the same."

The old man looked fondly at his sons. He was a picturesque-looking figure, with snow-white hair.

"What will you do, lads, when I send you to England to school?" he said.

"England, father?" said Pat, turning pale. "It would kill me to leave the soil on which I was born. Ah, now, father, I could not live through it; and as to Laurie, why he would -- Laurie, you know what you would do."

"Oh, father's joking," said Laurie, but his face went a little white, and as he drained off a great glass of ice-cold water his hand trembled a trifle.

"It would not be for the making of our happiness, father," he said, just glancing at his father. "Pat is right -- it would about kill us both."

"You young beggars, kill you, indeed!" cried the squire. "Well, I have not made my plans yet. I am thinking of it, and you may as well know it. I have sent the girleen away, and if you can't stand what she can, why, I don't think you have much grit in you. As to Pat, when he's a little older he'll have to prepare for the army."

"Ay, and that's a fine polishing up," said Aunt Bridget, bridling as she spoke, and arranging the set of her very fashionable sleeve. "My jewel of a lad, you'll know what life is like then. You'll think a deal of your clothes, and of the sort of thing that will kill the girls then. Why, if you know how to manage, and with my help I dare say I can contrive it for you, you'll get easily into the very height of Dublin society, and be petted, and spoiled, and coaxed no end. I wonder, now, how that girleen is conducting herself. Sometimes, Dennis when I look at you and think how your heart is wrapped up in her and how she is so to speak the jewel of your eye and the core of your heart I wonder how you had the courage to let her go."

"Don't you worry me about it," cried the squire. "I did it for her good. Laurie, where are you off to?"

"I have had about enough supper," answered Laurie. Pat also scrambled to his feet.

"You are as ill-mannered a pair of young cubs as I ever came across," cried Miss Honora, now really angry. "Why, the syllabub is coming on soon, and the trifle, and the cream that I whipped myself. Well, Pat, you'll have to mend your manners when you get into the army; and as to you Laurie, you'll never be as good a squire as your father, try hard as you may."

A loud laugh at the head of the table interrupted the good lady's flow of words.

"Honora, my woman, you are talking to the air," called out the squire. "The boys are out of earshot. Bless 'em can't you let 'em be? They are hearty lads, and I don't think I'll send either of them out of the country unless they happen to displease me."

Meanwhile the lads had gone down to the lake, unshipped the little boat, and were by this time half across the Coulin. They soon reached the opposite shore, jumped to land, pulled up the boat, fastened it, and started along a long narrow and mountainous path which was the shortest cut to Ballyshannon. They walked so quickly and the hill was so steep that they had little or no time for words. Nor were they boys who talked much when they were alone. Laurie was given to his own meditations. Pat was always planning some scheme which should circumvent Aunt Honora, who lived with them, and annoy Aunt Bridget, who nearly lived with them, although not quite. Aunt Bridget was the most fashionable member of the family; her real home was in Dublin. She was the one who had worked upon the squire's feelings until he had decided to send Kitty to an English school. Pat was not fond of either of his aunts, but he disliked Aunt Bridget the most. After an hour-and-a-half's brisk walking they reached Ballyshannon, knocked up the postmaster, who had gone to bed, asked him to let them in, and confided to him what they wanted. He was a hearty-looking Irishman, and was soon as much interested in the telegram which Laurie was to send as the boy was himself.

"You have heard what a scrape I have got into?" said Laurie.

"About that poor, mad fellow?" said James Dunovan.

"Yes; some other fellows and I stole his coat away in a fit of frolic that day when we were out in the crazy boat on the Coulin. A sudden breeze got up and the boat upset; and the coat -- bad luck to it -- sank to the bottom like a stone. We have tried to get it up, but it is all no go; it has got right into the mud, and not all the boys in Ireland could move it. If the squire heard we had played a trick on Wheel-about he would just do what I don't want him to."

"And what may that be, Master Laurie?"

"Why, Jim, he would banish me to England. You think of that!"

"Ah, to be sure, sir; and it would be a hard punishment entirely, and all for a boy's freak. But how can you circumvent him, sir? that's the puzzle, for old Wheel-about is as sly a fellow as walks. He knows his power with the squire -- there's a story about, but I have not got the rights of it. Anyhow, the squire is always trying to help him. If he cannot get his coat in which he has hidden all his money he will go raving mad about the country, and the squire will soon get at the bottom of the mischief."

"Oh, that's all right," answered Laurie. I saw there was no help for it, and I took Wheel-about into my confidence. He promised if I gave him ten pounds by Saturday next to let the matter of the coat slip by. He said he would never tell."

"I wonder now if the craychur is to be trusted," muttered Jim, in a thoughtful tone.

"Oh, yes, he is, Jim; don't you meet trouble halfway. If once he gets the money everything will be as right as possible. But this 'gram must go off, and you must see to it for me."

"I'll do that, sir, and welcome, the very moment the office opens its doors in the morning."

"How soon do you think it will reach my sister?"

"Well, to be sure, I expect in about half an hour or an hour at the most. I often think I'd like to see them messages a-tumbling along the wires. Do you believe as they go by the wires sir?"

"Oh, I suppose so; I don't bother my head about it. Now, then, Jim, hand us a form and we'll fill it in. What do you think we had best say, Pat?"

"Make it strong," said Pat.

"Yes, I know that." Laurie stood biting the end of his pencil and considering the blank form which Jimmy had provided him with.

"We must make it powerful strong," he said after a pause. "If dad hears this, we two are about done, Pat. He's the easiest old boy in the world, but when once he takes the bit between his teeth he is just like Slieve Loon, our new mare. But I must not keep you up Jim; you are wanting to get back to your bed."

"It don't matter, sir; don't you hurry yourself. I told the wife it was two of the young gentlemen from Castle Malone, and she said I wasn't to mind how much time I spent with you; it was only proper respect to the family."

"All right Jim. Now, then, Pat, what shall I say?"

"Hurry up," said Pat; "if you're not sleepy I am, and the whole house will be locked up if we are not quick."

"I cracked a pane of glass in our window on purpose this morning," said Laurie. "I thought it might turn out convenient."

Pat laughed. Laurie, his face flushed, bent over the telegraph form. After a time, during which beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, the following message was transcribed:

"Miss Kitty Malone, care of Mrs. Denvers, Franklin Avenue, Middleton, London, S.E. -- Wake up, old girleen; hurry with the tin. -- Laurie."

"That's the time of day," he said. "You read it, Jim. Can you make out the address plain?"

"Yes, to be sure," answered Jim. "Very well, sir; this shall go. I am sorry you're in trouble, sir; but I know the squire sends a lot of money to Miss Kitty, for he is always coming here for postal orders."

"Oh, I am safe to have it," said Laurie. "Well, good-night Jim, and long life to you."

The boys left the office and retraced their steps across the mountain. They had gone about halfway home when they were interrupted by a curious sort of sound, something between a croon and a chant. It came nearer and nearer, and the next moment a grotesque figure showed clearly in the moonlight. This was no other than Paddy Wheel-about himself. He was a tall man, with a long shaggy beard, penthouse eyebrows, and eyes which were lit now with a fitful and uncertain gleam. He was dressed in rags, his hat was pushed far back on his head, his hair streamed over his shoulders. The savage and yet pathetic-looking creature stopped now before the two boys.

"I say, Paddy, it is all right," said Laurie, going up to him and laying his hand on his shoulder. "You'll get the tin I promised either to-morrow morning or the day after. I have just sent a telegram to the girleen in England. Why, Kitty wouldn't let you suffer; no, not if it were to break her heart."

A wild and yet softened look came into the man's eyes.

"It is because of the girleen I'm fretting," he said. "Listen, you two, I feel fit to die sometimes when I think the coat is lost, and it is all on account of the girleen herself. Why, it was she put in the last patch and a bit of gold was hidden in it; yes, and she sewed it round with her own pretty hands, the darling."

"We'll get back the coat some day, see if we don't," said Laurie. "And meanwhile Paddy, you are safe to have your money on Saturday."

"All right if I do," said Paddy; "if not it is all wrong. I go to Squire Malone. Yes, I go to Squire Malone; but I'll wait until Saturday. I promise that much, and I'll keep my word."

"You'll keep your word for Kitty's sake?" said Laurie.

The man nodded; again his eyes softened and changed in expression, the next moment he had turned on his heel and was out of sight.

"I do believe the only person he cares for in the world is Kitty," said Laurie. "Do you remember when he was so ill he would only allow Kitty to visit him? I say, Pat, we must get back that coat somehow; but in the meantime the ten pounds will keep matters quiet."



Chapter XVII.

"We Are Both In The Same Boat."


Gwin had explained all her points, and Miss Sherrard had listened to her with indulgence, sympathy, and comprehension. They were seated together in Miss Sherrard's charming little sitting-room.

"I am glad you take such an interest in Kitty," she said when the girl had stopped speaking.

"I do. She is uncommon; she is unlike anybody else," said Gwin Harley. "I hope," she added, looking anxiously at the head-mistress, "that you will feel it right so far to mitigate her punishment as to allow the Tug-of-war girls to talk to her. This seems just the time for a society of this sort to help its members.

"There's a great deal in what you say, Gwin; but all the same, to my regret, I am obliged distinctly to refuse your request."

Gwin's face, which had been slightly flushed, now turned pale. She rose to her feet.

"Don't be hurt with me, dear," said the mistress in a gentle voice. "I admire you for your kindness, Gwin, and I can also see the thing from your point of view; but all the same Middleton School is a very important one; there are from six to seven hundred girls here. Most of these girls have got parents; all have got guardians and friends. It would not do for them to know that such a wild and reckless act as Kitty Malone has perpetrated should be passed over without a severe punishment. Kitty will live through this week of isolation and be all the better for it. At the end of that time you Tug-of-war girls can do all in your power to help her. For this one week I must insist on her living in Coventry. She will do her lessons, of course, for it would not be at all wise to give her a holiday; but no girl belonging to the school with the exception of Alice must speak to her."

"I am sorry; and you will forgive me for saying, without any disrespect to you, that I think you are wrong," answered Gwin. She now held out her hand to Miss Sherrard. Miss Sherrard took it and pressed it gently.

"You are a very good girl, Gwin; and I wish with all my heart and soul that I could grant your request."

Meanwhile Kitty had returned to the Denvers' house in a whirl of passionate protest and indignation. She could not understand why she had been punished. The sin she had committed did not seem to be any sin at all to her. What did it matter how she dressed or when she went out? The fact that she had broken a very strict rule of Middleton School did not affect her. She was now seriously unhappy -- the fetters with which she was surrounded tortured her. How could she live through the terrible week of isolation? And what made her more wretched than anything else was the fact that she could not see Elma in order to get the money from her to send to Laurie.

Kitty and Laurie had always been more than ordinary friends. The thoughts of each were known to the heart of the other. If there was one person in the wide world whom Kitty loved with passion, almost with idolatry, it was her handsome brother Laurie. The bare idea that Laurie should plead to Kitty to help him, and that Kitty would be obliged to turn a deaf ear to his entreaties was enough to madden the reckless girl.

The whole of that afternoon she spent in her bedroom, pacing up and down like a young caged tiger. Mrs. Denvers went to talk to her, but Kitty would not speak. She would pour out her troubles to no one. Her proud Irish heart felt as if it would burst from misery; but she would not stoop to the sympathy of those who, she felt, could not possibly understand her.

Of all the Denver family, she liked Fred the best; and when he ventured to knock at her door in the course of the evening she did not refuse to open it to him.

"Come along downstairs at once, Kitty," said Fred, holding out his hand to her.

"I would rather stay where I am, Fred, asthore."

"I say it's a beastly shame to have you treated like this."

"Oh, don't begin to sympathize with me," said Kitty; "if you do, I'll cry the ocean full of tears. I am holding them back hard now. You don't know what a thing it is when an Irish girl fairly gives way."

"Well, they're beastly hard on you; but I'm sure I would not cry if I were you," said Fred. I'd just be too proud. But come downstairs to my den, Kitty; I have made it awfully comfortable."

"Your den?" said Kitty, her eyes lighting up; "have you got one?"

"Yes; it's not in the house; it's in the garden, at the further end. It's a shed; but I have made it waterproof, and I have got a little lamp, an oil one; and we can sit there and have a jolly talk."

For a moment Kitty's eyes sparkled with renewed hope. "And I have still got some chocolates in my drawer," she exclaimed. "We might eat them together and have a real good time. But oh, that money! it's the money that's bothering me entirely. Oh dear! dear! I'll let the whole thing out if I talk any more to you Fred. Fred, it's the true comfort you are to me, and I'll never forget it to the longest day I live; but I can't go to that shed with you, gossoon asthore, for if I did I'd let out everything."

"But why shouldn't you let out everything?" said Fred. "There's something bothering you, and you're keeping it all to yourself."

"But I promised I wouldn't tell, and I don't want to break my word. I said when she asked me, 'No; I can't keep secrets;' but then it was put in such a way that I must keep it. I can't go with you Fred; pray don't ask me again. Good-by to you, and thank you, thank you."

Kitty ran into her room, shut the door, locked it, and retreated to the window, to be as far as possible from Fred's insinuating voice and ways.

Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out again that night, and the time dragged terribly. Kitty wondered how she was to live through a whole week of this torture.

"I promised Elma that I would not tell about her asking me for that money," she said to herself. "I wish I hadn't said so now; but she seemed so earnest, and I really thought nothing of it at the time. Oh dear, dear! I wonder she does not bring it to me. She must be the meanest of the mean. I never liked her; but now I hate her. Poor, poor, dear old Wheel-about! Don't I know what he is feeling, and what Laurie is feeling, my broth of a boy, my Laurie, asthore! Oh, to think that he is in trouble, and I can't help him! How I wish I was back in Ireland now! This will break my heart -- it will break my heart."

Tears filled her eyes; but she was too proud to let them roll over.

"I will keep them back if I die for it," she said to herself. "I am Kitty Malone, and they will break my heart if this goes on; but I won't cry. No, that I won't."

While these thoughts were coursing through the poor girl's brain, there came another knock at the door; an insistent and somewhat fierce one this time. The handle was sharply turned, and the clear voice of Alice was heard.

"Open the door at once, please, Kitty," she said.

Kitty crossed the room, turned the key in the lock, and allowed Alice to enter.

"I must beg of you, Kitty," said Alice, "not to lock the door again."

"And why not, pray? You locked it last night. It was on account of that I am now in all this trouble."

"Really, Kitty, you are quite too ridiculous; as if I were the cause of your trouble. You are in trouble because you disobeyed a strict rule; and my locking the door or not had nothing whatever to do with it. You are quite the most tiresome, inconsistent girl I ever came across."

"Well, it is nothing to you what I am," said Kitty. She sank down on a chair by the side of her little bed as she spoke; her expression was so woe-begone, her face so pale, the droop of her eyes so pathetic, that Alice was slightly touched in spite of herself.

"I am going to see Bessie Challoner," she said. "If you were different I would not leave you."

"Oh, never mind me, pray."

"All the same, I would not leave you, Kitty; for remember I am the only girl belonging to the school who may speak to you for the next week; but, really, your ways are so unpleasant --  -- "

"And I so infinitely prefer your absence to your company," retorted Kitty. "So you may go with quite an easy mind."

"Thanks awfully," replied Alice, with a sneer. Her momentary good-nature had dried up like the dew. She put on her hat, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and left the room.

Kitty returned to her place by the window. It was now between eight and nine o'clock. She had refused both dinner and tea, and was in consequence feeling weak and faint. There was a giddy sensation in her head to which she was not accustomed. She did not connect it with the fact that she was starving, and wondered what was the matter with her. She was too excited and wretched to feel her ordinary appetite. She had gone through a great deal, and her nerves were reminding her of the cruel trick she was playing on them. It was very dull in her room; the gas jet shed a hideous glare over the place. The room in itself was by no means pretty, for the paper was the worse for wear, and the paint was nearly worn through to the woodwork. The hangings to the windows and to the two little beds were of an ugly drab color; and the view out of these windows only revealed a narrow street. At Kitty's own home she had a bedroom in the Castle end; the paper hung in ribbons, the door was draughty, the bedstead rickety and old; but what a view there was from the windows! A view of Lake Coulin and the mountains in the distance, and the park lying verdant and green between the lake and the house. What a breeze blew in at those windows!

"Oh, I should never be dull if I were locked up in the dear old bedroom at home," thought the girl. "But here! here it is enough to madden one; and yet I must stay here, for I cannot talk to the others. I will not allow Fred to guess my secret. Oh, what a miserable, unhappy, wretched girl I am! I am a prisoner. Oh, if only Laurie saw me! Dear Laurie; the darling, the treasure that he is! It would break his heart if he knew what I am suffering."

There were no books at all interesting to Kitty in the room, so she could not while away the lagging hours with a novel. As a rule the arranging of her wardrobe, the trying on of her many dresses, gave her pleasant occupation; but she was in no humor to make herself smart that evening.

"I suppose the love of dress is a sin," she said to herself; "although it is one of the rules of the Tug-of-war Society that the girls are to be fashionably dressed. Anyhow, it seems to have been my undoing, for if I had only gone out in somber ugly attire last night I might have the money now for my darling Laurie; and this heavy, heavy weight would be off my mind, and I should not be in disgrace at Middleton School -- not that that much matters."

She went to the window, flung it open, and looked out. It was a clear, starlit night. She could see the sky from between the long rows of houses. She looked up at it, and then put in her head again.

"I shall suffocate if I stay any longer in this room," she said to herself. "After all, why should I obey Miss Sherrard? She spoke about my word of honor; but I have not given it. I was silent -- I was silent on purpose. If I could only see Elma and get my money back all would be right, and I could really bear the rest of this terrible week. I have a great mind to risk it and go to her."

No sooner had the thought entered the head of the wayward girl than she proceeded to act upon it. She put on a long cloak which reached nearly to her feet, a little cap of blue cloth was secured over her mass of curling hair, and then going cautiously across the room, she took the key out of the lock, unfastened the door, shut it behind her, locked it from the outside, put the key in her pocket, and ran downstairs.

"If the servants or Alice come up they will think I have gone to bed. What fun if I keep Alice out of her bed for an hour or two!" laughed Kitty. She was now once more in high excitement and pleasure. It never took long to raise her volatile spirits. "I hope Fred won't be about. I don't want to get the poor darling into mischief," she said to herself. There was no one in sight, however. The younger children were away in another part of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out, the servants were in the kitchen, Alice was with Bessie Challoner, and Fred was down in his shed mourning the absence of Kitty, whose bright ways were fascinating him more and more.

"It's all right," thought the girl. She left the house, and a few moments later was walking at a rapid pace in the direction of Constantine Road. The thought of her disobedience, of the daring of her own act, but added zest and pleasure to her walk.

"How happy I shall be when I get the money," she said to herself. "I'll coax Fred or Mrs. Denvers to get me a postal order to-morrow, and I'll send it to Laurie at once. Oh, what a weight will be off my mind! Why, I'll almost feel inclined to turn good again!"

The walk to Constantine Road was a long one, and Kitty on this occasion was determined to avoid the neighborhood of the "Spotted Leopard." In preference she took the short cut across the common. It was very lonely here, but she had no fear of ghosts or bogies. She walked with her upright, young carriage, her quick, alert, dancing step. It was ten o'clock however, before she reached Constantine Road. She ran up the steps of No. 14, and rang the bell. The door was opened to her by the servant, Maggie.

"Oh, Miss Malone," cried that young woman, "is that yourself, miss? I has got into the most terrible trouble."

Maggie's face was flushed and blistered with crying.

"They has took away my wiolets, miss, and I call it a bitter, cruel shame."

"Never mind that now, Maggie," answered Kitty, "I want to see Miss Elma. Is she in?"

"That she is, miss, and she shan't escape you this time. Come right into the parlor, and I'll send her down to you."

Kitty danced into the house. As far as her appearance now went she had never known a sorrow nor a care in her life. She stood in the center of the room, waiting impatiently for Elma to appear.

Maggie having shut her in, went cautiously upstairs. Elma and Carrie were in their bedroom. Carrie was already in bed.

Maggie, who seemed to scent mischief all round, thought she would now act with considerable guile. She knocked a low and gentle knock on the panel of the door. Elma came to open it.

"What is it, Maggie?"

"Miss Helma, will you come outside on the landing for a minute?"

Elma went out.

"I have a bit of news about that money, miss. If you'll come right down to the dining-room I'll tell you there."

"News about my money, Maggie? Oh, impossible!" But hope, ever ready to dawn in the human breast, could not help rising now on poor Elma's horizon. It all seemed utterly impossible; but what earthly sense would there be in Maggie telling a lie.

"I was just getting into bed," she said. "Can't you tell me here?"

"No, miss, it's not me at all; it's news of the money you'll get if you just come down to the dining-room, and be quick about it."

"Well, I may as well go. Is there anybody there?"

"You go and find out, miss."

"Oh!" thought Elma, "Sam Raynes has repented. He was able to find money after all, and has brought it to me. This is nice."

"What's the matter, Elma?" called Carrie from her bed.

"Nothing, Carrie. I'll be back in a few moments."

Elma hastily refastened her dress; put up her hands to her hair to smooth it, and tripped downstairs, full of expectation and hope. Maggie had relit the gas in the dining-room. Elma bounded into the room.

"Well, Sam," she exclaimed. Then she stepped back a couple of paces; she was confronted not by Sam, but by Kitty Malone herself.

"Kitty!" cried Elma. There was a faintness in her voice, which Kitty had no time to remark.

"Yes, Elma, I have come. I have broken my word of honor; but after all, I never really gave it. I dare say I shall get into a worse scrape than ever; but I can't help it. I came to you, Elma, because I must have that money. Will you let me have it now at once please -- my eight sovereigns -- will you give them to me now? If I had seen you last night I should not have been so miserable. I was coming to you when Fred and I passed the 'Spotted Leopard.' Oh, please, Elma, give me my money at once!"

Elma's face could scarcely turn whiter. She looked piteously at Kitty.

"I wish I could give it to you," she began; "but --  -- "

"What do you mean; can't you let me have my own money? You have not spent it, not all of it, have you?"

"Yes, I -- I spent it."

"You spent all that money! all those eight sovereigns? Oh, Elma, you must be joking. Can't you let me have some of it back? Please, Elma, don't say no. It is for Laurie; he is in the most awful trouble. I must have the money, and at once."

"I can't give it to you," said Elma. "I am awfully sorry. Sit down, please, Kitty. Oh, Kitty, you won't tell on me?"

"I don't know what I'll do," said Kitty. "I am nearly distracted."

"But you promised you would not tell. You don't know what an awful scrape I shall get into if you do. And you -- oh, yes -- you shall have the money soon."

"What do you mean by soon; to-morrow? Shall I have it to-morrow?"

"Not quite so soon as that. Give me a week, Kitty."

"I can't," answered Kitty. "It is a case of life or death to Laurie. Your mother must give it to me if you cannot; but have it I must."

"But you are rich; surely you can manage without it for one week."

"It is not that, and I am unable to explain. Laurie must have the money. He wants me to help him about something, and I must send it to him to-morrow."

"I wish I could give it to you," said Elma. "I would do anything in all the world to let you have it back; but it isn't my fault."

"What did you spend it on? Dress?"

"Oh, in different ways." Elma had made up her mind not to tell about Carrie and Sam Raynes.

"I'll let her think that I spent the money on finery," she said to herself. "She is sympathizing about dress. I'll let her think that."

Kitty's hands had dropped to her sides; a look of despair filled her face.

"What is to be done?" she said. "I never thought for a moment you could not let me have it back."

"You shall have it in a week; that I promise you faithfully."

"But a week will be no good, Elma. Oh! Elma, Elma, Laurie will suffer for this. They will take his freedom from him; he will be like a chained lion; he will lose his spirit; perhaps -- perhaps he will die. I cannot stand it, Elma, I cannot."

Kitty covered her face with both her hands, and the tears which with difficulty she had been keeping back all the evening burst forth in torrents. Kitty did not cry as an English girl might. She cried with the wild, passionate sobs of those who have seldom exercised self-control. Elma was dreadfully frightened.

"Do stop, Kitty," she said. "You make so much noise; mother and Carrie will hear you. Carrie will come down."

"What if she does?" cried Kitty. "Oh, Laurie, Laurie! this will break your heart. You are ruined; ruined for life!"

"There are more than Laurie ruined for life, it seems to me," said Elma. "Kitty, I am ever so sorry; but if you will only be patient I will try and think of some plan of helping you. Now, please, please, promise me one thing -- you won't tell that I asked you for this money?"

"Why not? I must tell some one. I must get the money somehow."

"But you made me a promise you would not tell. It is very wrong to break a promise."

"I don't care whether it is right or wrong. I cannot keep this secret, Elma. I must remember Laurie, Perhaps Mr. Denvers will lend me the money. I must think of Laurie first."

"Please, Kitty, listen to me. If you will promise to keep my secret I'll manage to get you the money somehow."

"But how, Elma?"

"Oh, I'll think out some plan. Do promise me that you'll keep my secret. It would be my ruin if it were known. Do promise, Kitty; do, please."

"I cannot," said Kitty. She walked restlessly to the door. "I must go," she said; "if I don't they will discover that I am out."

"And if they do you'll get into an awful scrape."

"Oh, it doesn't matter; I can't be worse off than I am. My one hope now is that they will expel me; then I'll have to return to Ireland; and perhaps I may coax father not to be too hard on Laurie."

"Then Kitty, you have quite made up your mind to tell all about me?"

"I think so. I cannot imagine why it matters."

"But it does, and I must give you the reason. I did wrong, dreadfully wrong, ever to ask you for that money. I broke one of the strictest rules of the school."

"What do you mean?"

"It is one of the strictest rules of Middleton School that no schoolgirl must ask another to lend her money. The governors are terribly particular. If it is ever known I shall be most likely expelled. Anyhow, my character will be gone, and I shall be ruined for life. Oh, Kitty, you have not such a hard life as I have. Do have pity on me."

Kitty stood silent; she was thinking deeply.

"You'll promise; won't you?" repeated Elma.

"I can't say. I scarcely know what I am doing at the present moment."

"Then listen to me. If you tell about the money I'll tell about this visit. There; don't you see now we are quits."

"You tell! That would be mean of you."

"Yes. I'll tell that you broke your parole."

"But I never gave it."

"Oh, that is only begging the question, Kitty. Miss Sherrard understood that you had given it. When you came here you broke it. You'll get into a terrible scrape."

"And you spoke to me, Elma; so you too will get into a scrape."

Kitty's tears stopped like summer rain, and a flash of sunshine flew across her charming face.

"Poor Elma, you will be in hot water too," she said. "What a muddle everything is in."

"You see, Kitty, we must cling together, for we are both in the same boat. I'll do my utmost to get you that money. I am sure I can manage somehow. But you must not tell."

"All right. I'll keep the secret until after school to-morrow. Good-by, Elma."

She left the house, and Elma returned to Carrie.

"Who were you talking to all that time?" exclaimed Carrie.

"That unfortunate girl, Kitty Malone."

"You mean to say she was here?"

"Yes; she came about the money. I am miserable about it. I promised to get it for her by hook or by crook. How can I manage?"

"Look here," said Carrie after a pause, during which she was sitting up in bed and thinking intently. "You say that Kitty Malone is very rich?"

"Yes, of course she is. She has more money than she knows what to do with. Why, I tell you, Carrie, the day she lent me those eight sovereigns I saw fifteen in her purse. Fancy a girl having fifteen sovereigns just to do what she liked with? I could scarcely realize it. I took the money before I knew what I was doing. She did tempt me so sorely when she showed me her purse."

"Oh, I'm not a bit surprised," said Carrie. "If I had been in your shoes I'd have taken the whole fifteen sovereigns just as soon as the eight. But listen to me, Elma; I have a plan in my head. I'll talk it over with Sam to-morrow; perhaps we can get the money; but there's no saying. I'll talk it over with Sam."

"I wish you would not. I would rather not get it through his means."

"What a dislike you have to him."

"I have. He is not good enough for you, Carrie. Oh, Carrie, dear, I vow and declare that I'll work for you and mother; I'll work my very fingers to the bone; I'll do anything for you. Only don't marry that horrid fellow."

"How excitable you are, Elma, and queer. Sam suits me very well. Oh, if you don't want his help you need not have it -- remember it is your scrape, not mine."

"It is your scrape, too, Carrie. You stole the money and gave it to Sam Raynes. You are a thief, and you have ruined your sister."

"If you begin abusing me I shall certainly not stay awake any longer," said Carrie; "I'm dead with sleep as it is. Now, do put out the candle, like a good girl. I'm off to the Land of Nod."

Carrie pulled the clothes over her head and struggled down among the pillows. Elma stood and stared out of the window.

"I wonder if I could do it," she said at last to herself. "It might be the best plan; and Gwin is very kind and very rich. I wonder if I dare. Anything seems better than my present predicament."



Chapter XVIII.

"I Cannot Help You."


Elma scarcely slept that night. At an early hour on the following brilliant summer's morning she stole softly out of bed, glanced for a moment at Carrie, as she lay sleeping the sleep of the just, with her towzled hair tossed about the pillow, and then, getting deftly into her own clothes, left the room without arousing the sleeper. She had made up her mind very definitely what to do. Without even waiting to get any breakfast, she unfastened the hall door, opened it, and stepped out into the full radiance of the summer's morning. A quick walk brought her in a little over half an hour to Harley Grove. When she went up the ponderous flight of steps which led to the principal door of the mansion a clock far away struck the hour of seven.

"It is terribly early," she said to herself, "terribly early to disturb her; but it is my only chance. I must have time; I cannot rush this thing. If she can help me I believe she will; and anyhow, I do no harm by what I intend to say to her."

Elma rang the bell, but her early summons was not immediately attended to. Presently a servant girl, who looked as if she might be one of the under-housemaids, unbolted and unbarred the door, and opened it a few inches. "When she saw a neat-looking girl, in all probability a schoolgirl, standing outside she opened it a little further and her jaw dropped in some astonishment.

"I have come here," said Elma to know if I can see, Miss Harley immediately on very special business."

"I don't know, miss, I am sure," answered the girl, who was a stranger in those parts. "I can't say that you can see Miss Harley now, for I think she is fast asleep and in bed, miss."

"It is of the utmost importance or I would not disturb her," said Elma. "I have brought a note with me; can you manage in some way to have it delivered to her? I can wait downstairs in any of the rooms until I get her answer."

As Elma spoke she slipped a little three-cornered note into the girl's hand, at the same time placing in it one of her own most valuable and very few and far between shillings.

"Can you manage it for me?" she said. "It is really of the utmost importance."

A shilling was a small bribe; but the housemaid was young and tender-hearted. She looked again once or twice at Elma, who could wear a most pleasing expression when she chose, and then, ushering her into a small room to the left of the wide entrance hall, departed slowly upstairs on her errand.

While she was away Elma fidgeted, walking from end to end of the little room into which she had been admitted. All depended, or so she imagined, on her note reaching its destination. She knew Gwin's kind heart; she was certain that if Gwin received the note, however tired and sleepy she was, she would at least see her for a few minutes. Elma had worded it craftily.

"I am in great trouble," she had written. "It is connected with Kitty Malone. I see my way to helping Kitty if you, Gwin, can help me. But I must see you now at once. Let me come to your bedroom. I would not disturb you if it were not a matter of life or death."

This note, sufficiently startling in its contents, was given by the under-housemaid to Gwin's own special maid. The girl, after some deliberation, said she would venture to give it to Gwin, early as the hour was. Accordingly she stole into the shaded bedroom, drew up one of the blinds, and when Gwin opened her sleepy eyes presented her with the little three-cornered note on a salver.

"There's a young lady, a Miss Lewis, waiting downstairs. She brought this note and begged that it should be delivered to you at once, miss. I ventured under the circumstances to wake you, as the young lady seemed from all accounts to be in a desperate way."

"What can it mean?" said Gwin. She sprang up in bed, tore open the note, and read the contents.

"Is my cold bath in the room, Simpson?" she asked of her maid.

"Yes, miss; in your dressing-room."

"Well, I shall dress at once. Go down, please, to Miss Lewis and tell her that I'll be ready to see her in my study in twenty minutes."

The maid departed on this errand, which brought much relief to poor Elma.

In less than the time named she was summoned by Gwin's maid to come with her to Miss Harley's study. There a moment later she and Gwin were clasping each other's hands. Gwin was in a long white dressing-gown; her hair streaming over her shoulders.

"Well, to be sure, Elma," she exclaimed, "you are an early bird. Now, what do you want with me? I am full of curiosity. You are in trouble, and it is something connected with Kitty Malone?"

"Yes," said Elma. "I am desperate, and I have come on a desperate errand, Gwin. Can you manage, somehow or other, in some fashion, to let me have the use of eight pounds for -- for say a fortnight?"

Gwin Harley gasped; not only at the magnitude of the sum demanded, but also at Elma's audacity in asking for it.

"You want eight pounds," She exclaimed. "But, Elma, you know the rule?"

"Oh, yes, I know the rule; and it is because I am fairly desperate I apply to you. You might lend the money to my sister Carrie; or perhaps mother would be best. It might be managed so that I didn't appear to borrow it. I would not ask for it if -- if the trouble were not terrible; and -- and the secret belongs to another."

"What do you mean?"

"It belongs partly to Kitty Malone."

"I cannot help you," said Gwin decidedly.

"Why? Oh Gwin, I did not know you could be so cruel."

"You don't understand, Elma. I am surprised that you should ask me. How could I break one of the strictest rules of the school?"

"Oh, but you need not really break it; I mean it could be managed in this way: Would not your father lend mother the money? You need not do it at all; all you have to do is to ask him."

"You must tell me everything, Elma. This is most mysterious. Why do you want money? Is it for yourself? You must tell me every single thing."

"I cannot tell you, because the secret is not mine."

"You say Kitty is mixed up with this?"

"Yes, yes."

"And you will not tell why?"

"I cannot. I wish I could."

"Then, Elma, I also must be firm. I cannot help you."

"You will not ask your father?"

"How could I? It would be a subterfuge -- the whole thing would be a subterfuge. I must have nothing to do with it. I am sorry, Elma, for I see you are in great trouble; but I am powerless."

"Then I am ruined," said Elma. She covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled slowly between her fingers.

"I wish I could help you," said Gwin kindly. "Is there any other way?"

"No other way. I want eight pounds for a fortnight -- I want it desperately. You could manage to let me have it without breaking the rules of the school, but you will not."

"I am truly sorry, but -- I will not."

"Oh, Gwin, if you would only trust me. We were always friends, were we not?"

"Yes," answered Gwin slowly. "I have always liked you, Elma."

"We were friends," continued Elma, wiping the tears passionately from her cheeks; "and I did think last night, when I was in such trouble, that perhaps you could come to my aid. I thought you would trust me without my telling you everything."

"I cannot, Elma," said Gwin again.

"Why?"

Elma now looked steadily into Gwin's face. Gwin looked gravely into hers. After a time Gwin spoke slowly:

"Because," she said -- "forgive me, Elma -- you are not trustworthy."

"Oh!" said Elma. She turned first pale and then red.

"There is no use in my staying," she said, after a pause. "I am sorry I got you up so early."

"Oh, that does not matter," said Gwin, in an altered tone. "I would do what I could to help you; but I cannot do the impossible."

"I see that I was mistaken in you."

"Not at all," replied Gwin. "You found me what I have always been. I am naturally careful. I never jump to wild conclusions; I am not impulsive. I have liked you, and I shall go on liking you in the future."

"Even though I am not trustworthy?"

"Yes; I shall like you for what you are. You have always been nice to me, and I wish to be nice to you. Please understand that this will make no difference."

"And you won't tell what I came about?"

"No, I shall never mention it. Now, must you go?"

"I must," said Elma.

The full morning light fell upon her face as she spoke, and Gwin noticed that it looked small, pinched, and thin.

"You must have some breakfast first," she said. She walked across the room and sounded the bell. The servant appeared in a moment.

"Order breakfast to be served here this morning," said Miss Harley, "for two, please." The maid withdrew. Gwin opened the window and looked out.

"I am very sorry for Kitty," she said, after a pause.

Elma did not reply. After a time she said slowly:

"Did you see Miss Sherrard last night?"

"I did; but it was useless. She won't retract her mandate."

A sigh of relief came from Elma's lips.

The servant again appeared with breakfast. Gwin poured out tea for her friend. Elma drank a cup, her throat felt dry. She saw no way out of her difficulty. She could scarcely bring herself to eat.

A few moments later she was on her way back from Harley Grove. She hesitated whether to go straight to the school and wait there until nine o'clock or to return to Constantine Road. After a little reflection she decided on the latter course. She reached home hot and weary between eight and nine o'clock. Carrie was seated at the breakfast table; a letter lay on Elma's plate.

"Why, Elma, what have you been doing out and about at this unearthly hour?" said Carrie, as she cracked the shell of an egg by no means fresh.

"Where is mother?" remarked Elma, as she seated herself at the table.

"She has a bad headache. I have sent up her breakfast. Are you going to see her?"

"No, I think not. I shall just have time to eat something -- not that I am specially hungry -- and then start for school."

"There's a letter on your plate. Why don't you read it?"

"I know; it's from Aunt Charlotte."

"Well, well, and you are interested in Aunt Charlotte more than I am," said Carrie. "Do read your letter."

Elma somewhat languidly tore open the envelope. The next moment she uttered an exclamation, and her face went first red and then pale.

"Aunt Charlotte writes to say she is coming here to-day."

"To-day! Good gracious!" said Carrie. "She doesn't want me to stay in, does she?"

"Oh, no; but this is terribly awkward."

"Why so, Elma? Why shouldn't you ask her to lend you the money?"

"Ask Aunt Charlotte! I may as well put my hand into the fire."

"Well, suppose I were to help you," said Carrie, after a time.

"You, Carrie; how could you?"

"But suppose I were to -- I am not the sort of person who does anything for nothing. What would you give me if I got you out of this?"

"But how could you get me out of it?"

"Why, I suppose by giving Kitty the money."

"Carrie, you talk nonsense. Unless, indeed, you were to persuade Sam Raynes --  -- "

"Oh, it's useless to worry poor Sam. He has speculated with that money, and if he doubles it we shall have it back. I think when that time comes the very least you ought to do, Elma is to give me half of the balance over and above what you borrowed. That would be three pounds ten, for me quite a nice little sum. It would keep me in ribbons, gloves, and boots for a bit. I get such a very small salary."

"Well, the money has not been doubled; it's time enough to talk of our chickens when they are hatched," said Elma. She rose from her seat, looking despairingly at the open letter which she held in her hand.

"After all, I may as well take this up to mother," she said.

"One moment before you go, Elma. Would you like me to help you, or would you not?"

"If you could help me, Carrie, of course I should be obliged."

"And what is the punishment they have inflicted upon that Irish lass?"

"Oh, dear me, Carrie, I told you all about that yesterday; she is in Coventry -- we are none of us allowed to speak to her."

"All the same, you did speak to her last night, don't forget."

"Yes, I could not help myself; but if it was found out it would go hard with us both."

"Then I am the one to interfere," said Carrie sotto voce. "I'll do my best, Elma, and trust to you to make it up to me when I have got you out of this scrape."

"I wish you would do something, Carrie; but I don't suppose you can. It's awful to think of Aunt Charlotte coming now. If I can't help Kitty, Kitty is sure to tell, and then it will be all over the school. They won't blame her so much as they'll blame me. Oh dear, dear! if you would do something!"

"Well, I promise that I just will," said Carrie. "Now go off to school with an easy mind."



Chapter XIX.

Kitty Tells The Truth.


Early the next morning Kitty received her telegram. It certainly was not at all calculated to soothe her. She was restless and miserable before; now her hands shook so violently that she could scarcely eat her breakfast.

Alice acted somewhat the part of a jailer; she had to convey the disgraced girl to Middleton School.

"I am ill; I won't go," said Kitty, bursting into tears.

"You had much better come, Kitty," said Alice, speaking almost kindly for the first time in her life; she really pitied poor Kitty at that moment. "If you will only take your punishment patiently it will soon be over, and I know for a fact," she continued, "that many of the girls are only too anxious to make it up to you by and by."

"Oh, it's not that," said Kitty; "it is because I am so wretched. I have a great trouble at home; but there, there's no use in talking to you about it, Alice."

"So you always say," answered Alice. "Whenever I want to be the least bit good to you, you put me off; but never mind, I am sure I can do without your friendship. Anyhow, I think you must come to school unless you are so ill that mother will be obliged to send for the doctor."

"Oh, I don't want that," said Kitty, "I never had a doctor in my life. If you'll wait for me, Alice, I'll go upstairs and put on my hat."

She rushed to her room, flung herself on her knees for a moment by her bedside, and uttered a frantic prayer to Heaven.

"Oh! God, in your mercy, keep Laurie from doing anything desperate," cried the unhappy girl. She then joined Alice downstairs. Her face was white; there were heavy black lines under her eyes; she had never looked prettier, more pathetic, more likely to win sympathy from the other girls.

At prayers that morning all eyes were directed to Kitty Malone. She was not allowed to sit with the others, but was given, a place on the bench with the teachers. Here she faced the rest of the school. It would have been a cruel position for another girl; but it did not matter to Kitty, for she saw no one present. Her eyes, with that queer inward look in them, were gazing straight, not at the scene before her, but at the old home in Ireland. The squire, whom she so passionately loved, roused to the last extremity of anger; the boy, whose heart was hers, crushed, trapped, imprisoned, his liberty taken from him. Kitty trembled from head to foot; she could scarcely restrain her terrible emotion.

After school she accompanied the others to the classroom, but in absolute silence. She was given her usual lessons to do, but at a table by herself. Her punishment was to be carried out in all its fullness; but, dreadful as it would seem to most, it did not touch her at all to-day. Her head ached, her eyes felt dim. Laurie's telegram, which lay in her pocket, seemed to scorch into the very depths of her heart. She had not even been allowed to answer it; the whole weight of her trouble lay unrelieved upon her. The poor child was unaccustomed to such anguish, and her self-control was in danger moment by moment of giving way.

As she strove to get that dull piece of English history into her head, as she endeavored to follow the rules of syntax, as the knowledge that she never, never to the longest day of her life, would understand what was meant by the possessive case, alongside with these feeble little efforts to follow her lessons, ran the dark thought of how, by what possible means, she could help Laurie. And more and more as the time went on she felt that she could not keep her promise to Elma. Elma had been cruel to her; she had borrowed her money when she knew she had not the most remote chance of paying it back; she had spent it according to her own saying in the most frivolous way. Now, for the first time, Kitty learned to despise dress. How could Elma spend the money which was to save Laurie in anything so contemptible as ribbons and finery? Kitty looked down at her own neatly-appointed clothes; her perfect little shoes peeped out from beneath the frill of her dress. Notwithstanding her misery she was as neat as usual in her attire; but now she had no heart to appreciate gay clothes, good looks, pretty ribbons -- any of the things which usually delighted her. Laurie seemed to cry to her; she fancied she could hear his voice coming across the waters to her ears -- Laurie, who had always trusted to her, who, strong as he was, was not quite so strong as Kitty when scrapes and troubles were about. Oh! if only she could go to him! If only she might relieve her feelings and tell the exact truth to Miss Sherrard! What kept her back? Nothing whatever but the thought of Elma. She had given Elma a promise, and, tempted as she was, she must not break it.

As this thought came to her she remembered that she had only promised Elma to keep the secret until after morning school. That time would soon be up.

"Once Miss Sherrard knows I am certain she will help me," thought Kitty, "though I don't want to excuse myself; yet I know that a great deal of the blame of my proceedings will be lifted from my shoulders to Elma's. Why should I go through all the suffering, and Elma sit there looking so calm, and quiet, and still?"

As these thoughts rushed through Kitty's mind she glanced up for the first time, and calmly surveyed the great room full of her fellow-students. As if with one impulse all the girls raised their eyes and looked back at her. There was pity on most of the faces, amusement on a few, curiosity on a few others; but on Elma's face alone was an expression of intense anxiety and misery. Kitty had the kindest heart in the world. The moment she saw this expression the idea of betraying Elma melted from her mind.

"She does look wretched," she said to herself. "I must not speak to her; I dare not, and yet -- yet -- I should like her to know that I am not going to be hard on her."

Kitty tore off a piece of her exercise book and managed, when she thought no one would see, to write a little note to Elma. In this she said, "Don't be afraid, Elma; I have made up my mind not to tell."

This note she twisted up, and, as the girls were going to the playground for recess, managed to flash an intelligent glance toward Elma. Elma approached close to her table, Kitty stretched out her hand, and Elma's fingers were just about to close over the note, when, by an unlucky chance, there came a breeze through the window, and the note, for some inconceivable reason, fluttered from Kitty's hand to the floor. In an instant Miss Worrick had seen it. She was just stepping forward when Elma like a flash caught it up and tore it into fragments. She would not for the world have the note seen. Miss Worrick, filled with anger, came up to Kitty.

"You are a bad girl, the worst girl I know," she said. "You are not even honorable. Did you not give your parole that you would not hold communication with another girl in the school, and yet you have been trying to communicate with Elma Lewis by means of writing?"

"Writing is not speaking," said Kitty, now standing up very erect and proud, and replying to Miss Worrick as pertly as she could.

"Don't answer me, miss; you grow worse and worse. Elma Lewis, do you know anything about that note?"

Kitty looked full at Elma. If she was going to be true to Elma, would Elma be equally true to her?"

"I know nothing about it," said Elma promptly.

Kitty's eyes filled with withering scorn; an expression of disdain curled her pretty lips.

"You are quite certain, Elma? Kitty Malone seems to have a great anxiety to communicate with you. Can you throw any light on the scrape she has got into?"

"I know nothing whatever about her secrets; I -- I have nothing to do with them," said Elma in an agitated voice, which she endeavored in vain to render calm.

Gwin Harley, who had stopped on her way out of the classroom, paused to listen to Elma's words.

Kitty's face was now white as death. She did not glance at Elma; she was looking the other way.

"Leave us, girls," said Miss Worrick.

The next moment the great classroom was empty, with the exception of Miss Worrick and Kitty Malone. Kitty was standing upright as a dart.

"Take me to Miss Sherrard; I want to speak to her," she said.

"I am certainly going to take you to her. You are a very, very wicked girl. I doubt not you will be expelled."

"Oh, I hope I shall," said Kitty. "I should like nothing in all the world better."

"You would? You are quite incorrigible. Do you know, you wretched girl, what it means?"

"No," answered Kitty; "I wait for you to tell me. What does it mean, Miss Worrick?"

"That you are tainted for life, disgraced for life. Wherever you go it will be always remembered to you that your conduct was so bad at school that you were obliged to be expelled."

"But that won't matter in old Ireland," said Kitty with a hollow, forced laugh.

"Yes, it will; it will break your father's heart. There are no people so proud as the Irish. They can stand a good deal; but any cloud on their honor --  -- "

"Ah, you are right," cried Kitty, standing still, and a queer change coming over her face. "Our honor -- no one ever touched that yet."

"It will have a nice blow when you are dismissed from Middleton School," said Miss Worrick, glad to find a point in Kitty's hitherto invulnerable armor. "Come with me at once, you bad girl. I must explain your conduct to Miss Sherrard."

"I have something on my own account to say to Miss Sherrard," answered Kitty in a proud voice; "something which will explain a good deal."

"I am glad to hear it; but I scarcely think any words of yours can remove the stigma on your character. But come; I have no time to argue with you further."

Miss Worrick now led the way into Miss Sherrard's little sitting-room. Miss Sherrard was standing near the window; she turned quickly when she saw Miss Worrick, and a displeased and withal a troubled glance filled her eyes as they rested upon Kitty."

"Anything fresh?" she said, turning to the teacher with a weary expression in her voice.

"Only just what I expected," said Miss Worrick with bitterness. "Kitty Malone is not to be trusted. Yesterday she gave her word of honor --  -- "

"I didn't," interrupted Kitty.

"Kitty my dear, allow your teacher to speak."

"She gave her word of honor, or equivalent to it, that she would submit to the punishment which you rightly inflicted upon her. Well, I found her just now in the act of smuggling a note into Elma Lewis' hand."

"Oh, but this is very bad, Kitty," said Miss Sherrard. "Did you not know what your word of honor meant?"

"I never promised anything," replied Kitty. "You spoke; but I was silent."

"Pardon me, my dear; that is begging the question. You were told that you were not to communicate with any of your fellow-pupils. Your silence signified consent. Kitty, I am ashamed of you."

"As you know so much you may as well know all," said Kitty, desperation in her tone. "I did far worse than you think. Last night I went out again after dark by myself to see Elma Lewis. I had an interview with her. I talked to her, and she talked to me. That was not exactly her fault; for I forced her to speak. Now, you know how very bad I am. Expel me if you wish. I know you will after this. I am in dreadful disgrace. I only wish I were dead."

"Leave us, Miss Worrick," said Miss Sherrard.

The door was closed behind the governess; and the head-mistress, taking one of Kitty's cold hands, led her to a seat near herself on the sofa.

"There is more behind," she said. "Kitty, you must tell me the truth."

"I long to tell you," answered Kitty. "A short time back I had made up my mind to conceal it because the telling would make another girl miserable -- miserable for life. Now my feelings are changed."

"I am glad that you are at last willing to confide in me," said Miss Sherrard in a kinder tone. "Tell me everything, Kitty, and as quickly as you can."

Thus counseled, Kitty's reserve absolutely gave way. The whole miserable story was quickly revealed: Elma Lewis' request for money; Kitty's generous response; Laurie's passionate and anguished letter; Kitty's desire to help him; her reasons, which had almost driven her mad, for seeking Elma; her desperate resolve at last to go to her late at night; then Elma's passionate beseeching of her to keep the secret; Kitty's promise that she would do so until after morning school that day; then her further resolve, when she saw the look of misery on Elma's face, to keep it altogether even at the cost of breaking Laurie's heart; then Elma's conduct when the note was discovered.

"I scorn her now," said Kitty. "I don't regard any promise I ever made to her. I am glad to tell. She is false, cowardly, and I scorn her. Miss Sherrard, you know everything; expel me if you must."

"Yes, I know everything," replied Miss Sherrard. She sat still for a few moments, lost in anxious thought. She blamed Kitty still, but she also deeply pitied her. Her feelings toward Elma were so strong that she could scarcely trust herself to speak of them at the present moment.

"My honor is gone, and my heart is broken," continued Kitty. "Of course you will expel me after this; and, indeed, I want to go home. Please, Miss Sherrard, let me go home; I cannot stay any longer at school."

"My dear Kitty," said Miss Sherrard, "I am very sorry for you. I am certainly glad at last to know the truth. You, poor child, have been more sinned against than sinning. I cannot tell you what I think about Elma. Such a girl does more mischief in a school than twenty like you. Stay, my dear; stop crying. Kitty, Kitty, what is it?"

"I feel nearly mad -- Laurie is in such trouble. May I not at least answer his telegram?"

"Yes, here is a telegraph form. Fill in what you like; I will send it at once to the post office."

"Miss Sherrard, would it be possible for you to lend me the money?"

Miss Sherrard shook her head.

"I could not do it, Kitty; nor would it be right. Your brother has done distinctly wrong; and if you telegraph to him now I hope you will counsel him to go straight to your father and confess everything. There is never the least use in concealment where wrong-doing is concerned, my dear."

But Kitty's eyes had now blazed again with renewed passion.

"You are not a Malone nor an Irishwoman," she cried. "You do not know Ireland, or you would not speak in that tone. I counsel Laurie to tell father what he did to poor Paddy Wheel-about! I counsel him to say that he took the old man's coat -- stole it from him! Miss Sherrard, you don't know father. Laurie did it, it is true, in a fit of bravado; but father would never understand. He would be furious, wild; Le would punish him severely. Oh, I must get that money somehow, in some fashion!"

"Kitty, you are speaking disrespectfully," said Miss Sherrard, "and I cannot allow it. I am sorry for you, my dear; you are dreadfully overcome at present. Go home now; I will see you again in the afternoon."

Poor Kitty left the room without even bidding her teacher good-by.



Chapter XX.

An Eye-Opener.


In her own room the miserable child fell on her knees, and gave way to a burst of passionate weeping. She cried as she had never cried in the whole course of her life before; her tears seemed as though they could not cease. She was so exhausted at last that, kneeling by her little bed, she fell into a sound sleep. In her sleep she dreamed that she was home again; but all was confusion, worry, distress. Laurie was going to a school in England; Laurie's heart was broken. Old Paddy Wheel-about was dead; the squire was so upset and so angry that he would not even allow Kitty herself to comfort him. Aunt Honora was grumbling and going from room to room in the old Castle. Aunt Bridget was talking about dress, and scolding Kitty with regard to the state of her wardrobe. Kitty's head ached, and she felt a sense of irritation.

"And it's so pretty," said Aunt Honora. "Those ruffles round the skirt are done in such a dainty manner, and -- oh, I won't disturb you if you'll allow me just to take the pattern. I can in a moment -- don't move, don't move!"

Kitty opened her eyes in some bewilderment, and gazed full into the fat and somewhat red face of Carrie Lewis. It was Carrie's voice she had heard, piercing through her dreams. It was Carrie who was bending by her side and holding up a length of her skirt in her hand.

"Oh, don't move, pray; I have just got the set of it; it's very curious and very fashionable. I know Sam would like it awfully."

"Who are you, and what do you want?" said Kitty, jumping to her feet and confronting her unwelcome visitor with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

"I knocked at your door several times, and you didn't answer," said Carrie; "so then I opened it softly and came in, and you were half-sitting, half-kneeling by your bed, sound asleep; and your skirt did look so very fashionable that I was tempted! -- oh yes, I have taken the pattern in my mind's eye. I'll alter my blue nun's-veiling. I can easily get a bit more of the stuff to match, and it will make it quite comme il fait,"

"But who are you?" said Kitty, who had never laid eyes on Carrie before.

"I'm Elma's sister. Now you know."

"Elma's sister?" said Kitty. "But what have you come to my room for? What do you want here?"

"To speak to you. I want to help you if you'll let me."

"To help me?" said Kitty languidly. "I would much rather you went away. You cannot help me; you know nothing whatever about me. I am in great great trouble, and I would much rather be alone."

"You would not rather be alone if you could be helped," said Carrie. "I know all about it. You have got a brother in Ireland who has got into a scrape. Bless you, I know all about the scrapes of young men. Now, poor Sam Raynes, he --  -- . Yes, what is it, Miss Malone?"

"I wish you would leave me," said Kitty in a haughty tone. "I am not friends with Elma just now, and I would rather not see any of her family."

"Yes, but I think you'll see me when I tell you my errand," said Carrie, in no way abashed by Kitty's manner. She crossed the room as she spoke, and deliberately placing herself in the one easy-chair the room possessed, crossed her legs, and leaning back, looked fixedly at Kitty.

"Very well, if you won't go, then I must," said Kitty. "I don't understand English people. They talk a great deal about manners; but no Irishwoman, none that I ever heard of, would dream --  -- "

"Oh, bosh! Stop all that," said Carrie in her rudest voice. "I have come here to help you, and I see that I must explain myself. You want some money, don't you?"

"Yes; but I cannot get it," answered Kitty.

"Oh, my dear, do just stay still a moment. What a sweet little shoe! Did you get it at any shop here?"

"No," answered Kitty, interested for the moment in spite of herself. "Aunt Honora bought these in Grafton Street, Dublin. They have the nicest shoes in that special shop of any place I know. Do you like it?"

"Oh, it is quite sweet; it is the way the heel is arranged, and that little buckle."

"Well, never mind about my shoes now," said Kitty, pushing the attractive little foot well in under her skirt. "What is it you have come to say? Please say it, and then -- go."

"I will, if you wish me to. Look here, I know all about your story. You are in dreadful trouble, and so is Elma; but I do declare I think poor Elma's trouble much worse than yours."

"You know nothing about it," cried Kitty, with passion. "Elma in worse trouble! Oh, if you only could guess!"

"I guess well enough," said Carrie, "and so does Elma. You want money, which, evidently, as a rule, is as plentiful to you as blackberries on the hedges in September; and you think, because you cannot lay your hand on that money immediately, the whole world is going to change. But let me tell you that Elma and I want money far, far more badly than you have any idea of. Until you gave Elma that eight pounds, we neither of us ever in our lives had so much in our possession."

"I didn't give it -- you make a mistake -- I lent it."

"Oh, it is all the same. Elma had it, and, for practical purposes, it was just as valuable as if it were really her own."

"Well, I want her to give it back to me now. I surely have a right to ask for my own money back again?"

"No, you have not -- not without reasonable notice. She asked you to lend her some money -- she never asked for eight pounds -- you let her take it. You said she might have as much as she liked. When she explained the position of things to me, I said: 'Elma, you were a rare fool not to take the whole fifteen.'"

"You must be a very queer girl," said Kitty, astonished at this remarkable specimen of young ladyhood.

"Am I? I don't know. I am frank, and I am generally hard-up. I know, if any one does, where the shoe pinches. Bless you! it would do you good to open your eyes. You don't know what poverty means -- a little house, a disgusting little house, shabby paper, dirty ceilings, badly-carpeted floors, the drains wrong, the water-supply as likely to poison us as not, an invalid mother -- "

"Oh, have you a mother? Then, I am sure you are not to be pitied," interrupted Kitty.

"Little you know! What good is a mother who is in bed most of the day, a father who -- Well, I need not mention him; he is not in the country at any rate. No education to speak of; no dress worth considering; toil, toil from morning till night; and life a mere scramble, a scramble for bread without butter. That's what our life is!"

Kitty had ceased to fidget; she even sank down on the corner of the nearest chair. Her pretty figure, her beautifully-appointed dress, her whole appearance, from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot, betokened what the other girl could never aspire to, never hope to have -- abundance of money. And yet at the present moment Kitty was breaking her heart for want of money. No wonder Carrie was puzzled. Kitty's own eyes were opened to an extent they had never been opened before.

"Yes, our life is a rough one," continued Carrie; "very rough indeed; but I don't grumble. I was brought up to it, and use is half the battle, as perhaps you don't know, but you ought. You'll get accustomed to doing without your eight pounds after a bit, and never give it another thought."

"Oh, no, that I won't," said Kitty, now jumping to her feet in her indignation; "and it is not for myself, it is for --  -- "

"Oh, never mind who it is for. You want it, and you think the world is going to stand still because you cannot get it. Well, the world won't stand still. I, who am quite used to doing without money, can assure you as to the truth of that fact. Would you like to know, now, how I spend my days? I teach some horrid children in a small private school from ten to one each morning, and then in the afternoon I go to a family and teach some more little brats; and I am scarcely paid anything for all this toil -- starvation wages I call it -- and I hate it, hate it. But I have my consolations. I am not overparticular; very small pleasures content me; and there's a fellow whom I love."

"A fellow whom you love?" echoed Kitty; "is it a brother?"

"Bless you, I'm not likely to put myself out about a brother; not that I have one, and so much the better, thank goodness. There's a man whom I love, and a right jolly fellow he is -- his name is Sam Raynes. He is not one of your fine, bread-and-butter gentlemen -- not he. He is rough and ready, and he has his joke, and he isn't too handsome, although some people admire red hair; but, anyhow, I'm fond of him and he's fond of me, and some day -- I don't know when -- when we can scrape enough together, we are going to set up housekeeping."

"You are going to marry; is that it?" said Kitty.

"Yes; some day we'll marry. Now, you see, that's a bit of fun for me; and I can go out with Sam on bank holidays and on Sunday afternoons just like any other girl with her young man. Bless you, I don't mind."

"I wonder what all this is leading up to," said Kitty, with a slight yawn. "Of course, it is very interesting to you; but I don't care about your young man."

"No more you do, you haughty little minx; and I wouldn't bother you about him, for, with all his faults, he's too good to have words wasted about him to a little independent chit of a thing like you. But, as I was saying, I'm not talking for nothing, I'm leading up to something. Now, I am content enough with our lot; but Elma isn't. Elma is quite different from me -- she has got a great deal of refinement about her."

"Has she indeed?" said Kitty in a voice of scorn.

"Yes, she has, and you needn't contradict me. She's a very clever girl, is Elma. I don't say that she's always as straight as a die -- I don't pretend that she is; but she is a clever girl, and she is fond of her books, and she's likely to get on -- that is, if you don't spike her guns."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, well, it's only an expression of mine. I heard Sam use it last week. I often copy his phrases, they're so fine and full of flourish. Well, now, if you don't spoil sport, Elma will get into an altogether different circle from your humble servant. Mother and I will go one way, and Elma another. Elma, with her grand notions and her set-you-up sort of airs, will rise in life. She's heartily welcome to go her own way, and I wish her Godspeed, for she is the only sister I have got."

"I don't understand," interrupted Kitty.

"If you'll let me speak I'll soon explain. You don't suppose that girls such as I am are often to be seen at Middleton School?"

"Well, I have not seen any like you," said Kitty, gazing from head to foot at her very peculiar visitor.

"No more you have, bless you; and I'm not the least offended by your very frank stare. Sam admires me, and that's enough for me. Now, Elma looks a lady, doesn't she?"

"I suppose so," said Kitty in a dubious tone.

"You suppose so indeed! Let me tell you that Elma is a born little lady, a real lady, and she looks it, every inch of her. That is why she goes to Middleton School; but now, who do you think pay for her?"

"How can I tell?"

"Do you think mother, or father, or I? Now, who do you think does? I should be interested to know your thoughts."

"I cannot really tell you, Miss Lewis."

"Oh, it does sound fine to hear you Miss Lewising me. My name is Carrie."

"I prefer to call you Miss Lewis."

"Highty! tighty! we are haughty. Well, the person who pays for Elma is our Aunt Charlotte -- a certain Mrs. Steward, wife of the Reverend John Steward, rector of St. Bartholomew's, Buckinghamshire. There's a grand enough name for you; and I suppose, being a clergyman, you'll consider that he is a gentleman and that his wife is a lady. Aunt Charlotte happens to be own sister to mother; and when Elma made her little complaint to her she took pity on her; and now she pays all her expenses at Middleton School. And if Elma does well and nothing disagreeable comes to Aunt Charlotte's ears, she will send her presently to Newnham or Girton. Think of that I Elma will be a college girl; she will be an undergraduate of one of the universities -- and some day a graduate; and then she will get a first-class post as high-school mistress, or mistress of something or other. But if you tell on her and make things bad, and the truth gets out -- You look pale; are you ill?"

"I am all right," said Kitty. She staggered across the room and poured some water into a glass.

"I did not eat much lunch," she continued; "and I am -- Never mind; go on."

"Well," continued Carrie, "if nothing comes to Aunt Charlotte's ears to turn her mind the other way, Elma will be all right; she will move in your sphere -- yes, she will, whether you like it or not. She is just so clever she is able to do anything. So I have come to say that I hope to goodness you won't split on her, for it would be mighty cruel of you. You would ruin her for life, and that would be a nice consolation for you when you came to die. She did not steal your money, remember; you gave it to her."

"I lent it to her."

"Oh, how you will harp upon that! But you didn't tell her to a day when she was to pay it back again."

"No, I certainly did not; but, of course, I expected that she would return it to me when I asked for it; and then she spent it on dress."

"Spent it on dress? What do you mean?"

"She told me so."

"Oh, naughty, naughty little Elma!" said Carrie, shaking her forefinger in a very knowing manner "She didn't like to tell about Sam, and so she made up that story, did she? Well, it was an untruth. She didn't spend that money on dress; she -- well, I will tell you -- I stole it from her."

"You!" gasped Kitty, backing away in horror.

"Yes. Good gracious! how scared you are! You don't understand the larks of girls like me. I didn't mean any harm. I took it and gave it to Sam to keep for her."

"Then," said Kitty, coming close up to Carrie, her lips parted, the color flooding her cheeks, her eyes full of light, "then, of course, you, Carrie --  -- "

"Oh, I'm Carrie now, am I?"

"Yes, you are; but never mind. Then, you, Carrie, can get it back for me?"

"So I will, all in good time, my pretty little dear. You shall have the money if you are willing to wait, say a month."

"There's no use at all in that," said Kitty, her voice sounding faint and far away.

"I am afraid there must be, as far as that eight pounds is concerned. The fact is, Sam is speculating with the money, and when we get it back it will be doubled. Elma and I will divide the profits between us, and you shall have your eight pounds back. Now, I think I have told you everything except -- "

"And, having told me, I wish you would go away," said Kitty. "I don't know that you have bettered matters in any way. Of course I am sorry for Elma; but it is only right that you should know something. It would be well also for Elma to know the truth. I told her yesterday when I went to your house that I would keep her secret until after morning school."

"Good gracious! You have not blurted out the truth?"

"Wait till you hear. When I was at school this morning I was -- oh so miserable! I could not help thinking of -- But never mind; you would not understand."

"No, no, of course not; pray proceed."

"I was thinking how soon I might tell."

"Nice sort of creature you are!"

"Why will you interrupt me?" said Kitty. "But then I looked at Elma, and I saw that she seemed very anxious and miserable; and wretched as I was, I made up my mind to be kind to her. I said to myself I will keep her secret; and -- and I wrote her a note to tell her so. You would not understand if I said any more; but -- but immediately after morning school she -- she was false to me; utterly false. You ask her when you see her how she received that letter I wrote to her at the risk of getting into terrible trouble myself. I have been angry, furious, beside myself; and now Miss Sherrard knows everything."

"You don't mean it?" said Carrie. Her florid face had turned perfectly white. She bit her lip and looked out of the window. After a time she looked back again at Kitty, and said slowly:

"You are very cruel, and you have ruined Elma; but after all it is partly my fault. I ought not to have taken that money. Now, look here, shall I tell you what I really came for to-day?"

"If you would do so quickly and then go."

"You won't be in such a hurry to part from me when you know the truth. Now, then, listen. You want some money; I think I see a way to getting it for you."

"Do you really?"

"Yes, I do; that is, if you on your part will do what I want."

"I will do anything to get the money. I want to send it to Laurie if I can this evening. There's nothing I would not give you."

"I will remember that small promise presently," said Carrie in a frank voice. "But now let me tell you what my plan is. You have a great many clothes, have you not?"

"Yes; but please don't bother me about them now. I was always fond of pretty dress; but I should not care if I had to wear rags at the present moment if only I might get that eight pounds."

"If them's your sentiments," said Carrie, "you very soon can have your wish."

"What in the world do you mean?"

"Why, this. If you'll just allow me to take the pick of your wardrobe I can take away the things and sell them. I'll soon bring back the eight pounds -- yes, and for that matter ten too."

"Sell my clothes?" said Kitty. She stared at the other girl as if she did not believe the evidence of her own senses.

"Yes. Did you never hear of a pawnshop, you dear little wiseacre?"

"A pawnshop! Do you think I would allow my clothes to go to a pawnshop?"

"I know nothing whatever about it; but I make you the proposal. I will transact the business for you if you'll allow me ten per cent, upon it. I can get you the money."

"Oh, Carrie, it seems such a bitter shame," said Kitty. Her face was crimson; she went to the other side of the room, opened the window and put out her head. She wanted the cool air to soothe her scorched cheeks; her heart was thumping in her breast. Had matters indeed come to this, that she, Kitty Malone, was to pawn her pretty dresses, her trinkets, her whatnots! Alas! she could not do it.

"I have often had to do it," said Carrie. "I know just how to manage. If you'll allow me to select the most suitable of your things, I'll bring you back the money in no time."

"You are sure?" said Kitty, beginning to yield.

"Certain -- sure -- positive. But you must allow me ten per cent."

"I know nothing about percentage; but you may take every scrap that is over after you have got me the eight pounds."

"Very well, that's a liberal offer," said Carrie. "Now, then, I may as well take a look at your clothes."

"Oh, it seems such an awful thing to do," said Kitty. "Are you sure, quite sure, that no one will find it out?"

"Not a bit of it; that is, if you'll be quick and not allow that other girl -- Alice, you call her -- to come into the room."

"I'll lock the door," said Kitty. She rushed across the room with new hope, turned the key, and came back again to Carrie.

"I never heard of anything quite so extraordinary in my life," she said. "And you -- you call yourself a lady?"

"No, I don't; I call myself a good-natured lump of a girl."

"Well, perhaps you are; but to pawn one's things! Do you mean that I will never see them again?"

"Oh, yes; whenever you like to return the money. They'll be kept safe enough for you. If you don't return the money, of course, they belong to the pawnbroker; but you have lots of time to think of that. Look here, I'll pawn them for a month; that will give you heaps of time to look round."

"So it will," said Kitty. "And are you quite, quite certain that I shall have the money to-night?"

"Oh, yes, if you won't talk so much, only act. Now, then, open your wardrobe."

Kitty unlocked the door of the mahogany wardrobe which she shared with Alice, and Carrie began to pull her choice little garments about.

Kitty went and stood by the window.

"Don't you want to know what I am taking?" said Carrie. "Don't you want to make a selection?"

"No; I'll leave it all to you. I can't bear to see them. Take -- take what you want."

"Goodness, what a girl!" thought Carrie to herself. "Here's an opportunity for me."

She made a hasty and very wise selection, choosing the richest dresses, the most stylish jackets, skirts, shoes, ribbons, gloves -- clipping the feathers out of the hats and the flowers from the toques -- throwing in some of the finest cambric handkerchiefs; and then, taking a sheet of brown paper which she had put into a basket on her arm when she left home, she folded the things into it and fastened her parcel with stout string.

"Here I am," she said; "and this is my parcel. I have looked through your wardrobe; your clothes are neat, fine, some of them gaudy, but all good. I can get from three to four pounds for this lot."

"But why don't you take enough to get the eight pounds?" said Kitty, who had quite made up her mind by this time.

"I could not carry any more. Now, then, open your jewel-case, quick."

"My jewel-case. Oh! I cannot part with my jewels."

"You must, if you want your eight pounds by to-night. I know my pawnbroker. He won't give five pounds for this little parcel. Now then, be quick. Oh, there I see Alice Denvers coming up the road with that other fine young lady, Bessie Challoner. Where's your jewel-case?"

Kitty's face was like a sheet.

"I have not any jewels," she said; "or scarcely any worth mentioning. I didn't bring any jewels with me. But here's my watch; will that do?"

"Do -- rather! Why, it's a beauty. Don't say a word to the others; keep your own counsel. Now, then, I'll be off to the pawnshop, and you shall have the money to-night. Au revoir! an revoir!"



Chapter XXI.

The Lady From Buckinghamshire.


Mrs. Steward was a great contrast to Mrs. Lewis. Mrs. Steward was a tall, thin, rather refined-looking woman. Mrs. Lewis was fat and dumpy, decidedly untidy in appearance, with a melancholy air and a habit of constantly indulging in low weeping. Mrs. Steward looked as if she had never wept in her life; she sat upright as a dart, her movements were quick, her manners independent; she had a vivacious eye, a somewhat short nose, thin lips, and a very decided manner.

Mrs. Steward and Mrs. Lewis had a long conversation in the untidy, ugly little parlor, while they waited for Elma to return from school. Maggie had been going in and out, glancing with some apprehension at the lady, and then whisking back to her kitchen to sigh profoundly and mourn for the violets which were no longer in her possession.

"I should like something to eat," said Mrs. Steward to her sister. "I thought I would come to you for lunch, Caroline. Have you got anything in the house -- a lamb chop or even cold lamb and salad will do quite nicely."

"My dear Charlotte," said Mrs. Lewis, laying her fat, tremulous hand upon her sister's firm but thin arm, "do you think it likely that we often have lamb chops or even cold lamb and salad for lunch? It is true that since the Australian meat came in we can now and then indulge in a very small joint of lamb for Sundays, but certainly on no other day. Ah, Charlotte, you little know the poverty to which your poor sister is subjected."

"I know all about it," said Mrs. Stewart, shaking herself angrily, "and my plain answer to you is this -- as you sow you must reap. What else did you expect when you married that fool of a man, James Lewis?"

Mrs. Lewis made a great endeavor to rise from the sofa, she made a further effort to look dignified; but all she could really accomplish was to burst into a fresh wail of low weeping and to murmur under her breath, "Charlotte, you are cruel to me, you are cruel."

"I don't mean to be, my dear; but really, Caroline, you do annoy me. Have you no spunk at all in your composition? Are you still fretting your heart out for that good-for-nothing man?"

"Well, you see, I love him," said the poor wife. "The parting from my dear husband was a terrible trial. I think of him at all hours both day and night. I often have an uncontrollable desire to join him in Australia."

"Pray yield to it," said Mrs. Steward in the calmest of voices, "and when you go, take that great lout of a Caroline with you. She is as like you in appearance as one pea is like another. I am ashamed of you. Now, let us turn to a more congenial topic. Little Elma, I am glad to say, is made of very different stuff."

"Oh, Elma is a good girl," said Mrs. Lewis. At that moment Maggie came into the room.

"Have you ordered your servant to prepare any lunch for me?" said Mrs. Steward.

"Well, really -- " Mrs. Lewis looked imploringly and with a vacant eye at Maggie.

"There's the remains of the salt beef, mum," said that small worthy, dropping a bob of a courtesy as she spoke.

"I couldn't touch it," said Mrs. Steward with a shudder. "Have you got a fresh egg in the house?"

"Oh, my dear, nothing of the kind -- a fresh egg! Fresh eggs are worth their weight in gold. We have a stale egg, if you don't mind that."

Mrs. Steward indulged in another shudder even more violent than the last.

"My good girl," she said then, "pray get me a cup of tea and some thin toast, and be quick about it. See that the tea is really strong and the cream fresh."

"Cream!" murmured Mrs. Lewis; but Maggie had withdrawn.

"Well, now, that is comfortably settled," said Mrs. Steward, "and I can tell you what really brought me to town -- I have come about Elma."

"Indeed, and what about her?"

"I mean to take her from you."

"To take Elma away from me, my own dear child?"

"Oh, now, come, Caroline, don't sicken me with your false sentiment. It is a precious good thing for Elma that she has got an aunt ready and willing to help her. I have just arranged to send her to a first-class German school. Her English, I should say, was fair, and she will be taken as pupil-teacher; she will thus have the advantage of learning German. I heard of this through a great friend of mine, Fräulein Van Brunt. She is going to Germany herself next week, and will take Elma, if you can spare her."

"If I can spare her? But it will break my heart -- such a sensible girl as she is," said poor Mrs. Lewis.

"Come, come, Carrie, no more nonsense; when I explain all the advantages you will see for yourself how all-important it is that Elma should go. The school is in the Harz Mountains, a splendid place; magnificent air, and all the rest. If Elma stays there for two years, I will then have her home, and send her to Girton as I promised. I will further arrange that she spends her holidays with me, as I think really -- " here Mrs. Steward glanced round the shabby room -- "I think that the less she remains with her own family for the present the better."

"I see what you mean. I am beneath my own child."

"Beneath her. Well, it is a painful thing to say; but, as you put it so frankly, I must reply in the affirmative," replied Mrs. Steward. "Ah, who is this now?"

The door was flung open, and Carrie, very red about the face, and with her parcel under her arm, entered the room. Her intention was to ask her mother to accompany her to the pawnshop. It had not been the first nor the second nor the third time that the unfortunate lady had been obliged to pawn her things. Carrie thought that her parent could make a better bargain than she could herself, and she hoped that she would have been in time to transact this little business before the arrival of her aunt. She now gave a start of dismay, and, dropping the parcel, sank down on the nearest chair. As she did so Kitty's watch and chain tumbled out of the front of her dress, where she had very insecurely fastened them. The watch was a lovely one, with an enameled back studded with pearls, and the chain was made of eighteen-carat gold. Owing to a warning glance from Carrie, Mrs. Lewis refrained from saying a word; but Mrs. Steward had no idea of keeping her emotions to herself.

"You, I presume, are Carrie," she said, looking at her niece. "Come here, Carrie, and speak to your aunt."

Carrie advanced as if she were treading on buttered eggs. She held out one dimpled hand gingerly.

"How do you do, my dear? Allow me to congratulate you on the acquisition of that very lovely little watch and that splendid chain. Now, I am devoured with curiosity to know who has given them to you. Surely not your mother? Surely, Caroline, with all your faults, you have not --  -- "

"Oh, dear me, no," said Mrs. Lewis.

Carrie indulged in a loud laugh.

"Bless us, aunt," she cried, "do you suppose mother can afford to give me these? No, I -- " She grew red and turned away.

Mrs. Lewis fidgeted on her seat, and appeared thoroughly uncomfortable.

"I do not wish to pry into your secrets, Caroline," said Mrs. Steward, favoring the untidy and vulgar-looking girl with a glance full of reprehension. "You are at liberty to wear handsome watches and chains made of the best gold if your mother cares to see you with things so unsuitable to your class and appearance. Your doings in life are no affair of mine. But now, as you happen to be my niece, will you have the kindness to go immediately into the kitchen and tell Maggie, or whatever the name of your servant is, to hurry with that tea and toast."

Carrie was only too glad to dart from the room. She picked up her parcel, and resorted to the kitchen.

"Oh, Miss Carrie, I do wish you would help me," said Maggie, who was flying distractedly about. "There's the kitchen fire all but out, and the lady ordered toast as crisp as you please. I don't believe we can do it for her. Wouldn't she be content with thin bread and butter curled in rolls?"

"Oh, of course she would, and must," said Carrie. "She is in no end of a temper, and for my part I don't wish to humor her. Yes, of course, Maggie. I'll cut the bread and butter and make it into rolls, and you see to the tea."

"Thank you, miss, I'm sure I'm much obliged, and perhaps, miss, you wouldn't mind taking it into the dining-room, for her eyes do fasten on to you that fierce that I get all of a tremble, and as likely as not I'll drop the tray."

Carrie laughed, and being at heart good-natured in her own way, helped Maggie with some vigor to prepare the tea.

At last a meal, which could not be remarked for its abundance, was forthcoming, and was brought into the dining-room.

"I ordered toast," said Mrs. Steward in an angry voice.

"I am sorry, Aunt Charlotte," said Carrie; "but the fire happened to be out in the kitchen. You see," she added, somewhat spitefully, "we are obliged to economize with coals, and we don't keep a fire up in the middle of the day."

"Well, I am really so famished that I am content with anything," said the good lady. "Pour me out a cup of tea at once, my dear, and just put the bread and butter where I can reach it."

Carrie did so, winking at her mother as she arranged the tray. The next moment Mrs. Lewis went out into the passage. Carrie followed her, closing the door behind their guest.

"Mother, I want you to come with me to the Sign of the Three Balls."

"What in the world for, Carrie?"

"I have got to pawn some things, some beautiful things, and I am to get ten per cent, on the commission. I shall turn over a nice little bit of money, and you can have your favorite supper. You will come, won't you, mother? And I'll give you half a crown into the bargain."

"Oh, dear, dear," said Mrs. Lewis, "I wish she had not come! She never helps me in any way. All she does is to scold me and make me more depressed than I am already. And she blames me so for marrying your poor father, Carrie; as if I could help that now. And what do you think she is going to do? She says she is going to take Elma from us."

"And a good thing, too," said Carrie.

"Carrie, what an unnatural girl you are! Do you mean to say you would be glad to part from your sister?"

"I would, because I am fond of her, and she has got into the most awful scrape at school. Don't you put any spoke in her wheel, mother, for goodness' sake!"

At that moment the latchkey was heard in the lock, and Elma herself appeared on the scene.

"Oh, good gracious! Elma," cried Carrie, darting up to her sister, and beginning to whisper vigorously into her ear.

"What?" said Elma, with a start of dismay. "So soon?"

"Yes, yes; she's been here for nearly an hour. She is devouring rolled bread and butter and tea in the dining-room at present. She asked for toast --  -- "

"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Lewis, who now came up and began also to whisper; "yes, and fresh eggs, and cream, and lamb chops, and cold lamb and salad. I never heard of anything so unreasonable. My poor head is in an awful whirl. But she has come about you, Elma. She wants to take you away with her."

"She wants to take me away with her?" exclaimed Elma, starting, and her pale face flushing.

"And you had better go, Elma, and be quick about it," said Carrie, giving her a warning glance.

"I don't know what all this means," said Elma, her heart beating uncomfortably fast; "but I had better go in and see Aunt Charlotte."

"Yes, my love, yes; and while you are talking to her I -- What do you say, Carrie -- you and I might go out upon that little matter of business, might we not?"

"To be sure, mother; an excellent thought. If you stay here I'll run upstairs and fetch your bonnet, veil, and mantle in a twinkling. Go in to Aunt Charlotte, Elma; do, for goodness sake, make yourself of use. More depends on it than you think. If she hears us whispering and mattering in the hall she'll be out upon us."

Elma instinctively put up her two hands to smooth back her hair, she straightened her already perfectly neat little jacket, and, drawing herself up to her full petite height, entered the little dining-room.

Elma was a perfect contrast to her untidy mother and her frowzy sister. However poorly dressed, she was always the pink of neatness. She was full of agitation now and nervous fear, but not a trace of these emotions could be visible in her manner and appearance. She went up to her Aunt Charlotte, who for her part held out both her arms and, drawing the girl down, printed a kiss upon her cheek.

"I am really glad to see you, Elma," exclaimed Mrs. Steward. "Sit near me, my dear; it is a pity you were not in when I arrived. It was the least you might have done for your aunt, Elma. You had my letter this morning. Oh, my poor child, I have gone through a dreadful hour! These vulgar relations of yours grow worse and worse."

"My mother and sister?" murmured Elma.

"Yes; it is a terrible affliction for you. But, my dear, I am going to relieve you from the strain. I, your aunt, am coming to the rescue. There, Elma, pour me out another cup of tea, and I will tell you everything."

Elma raised the teapot, she filled her aunt's cup with fresh tea, added a little milk, and brought it to her side.

"Thank you, my dear. Now, Elma, you may consider yourself a made girl."

"Made?" echoed Elma, turning her white face to Mrs. Steward.

"Yes, made. What would you say to going abroad?"

Elma's eyes brightened.

"Do you mean on the Continent?"

"Yes, I do, my dear child. To no less a place than the Harz Mountains. I have heard of a most charming school, fifty times better than Middleton School; and you are to go there, my dear Elma, at my expense. You will go as pupil-teacher, and you thus acquire perfect German. Think what that will mean for you! I propose to leave you in Germany for two years, and at the end of that time you will return and go to Girton, I being responsible for all your expenses. My dear, your fortune is made. I have further arranged with your poor unfortunate mother that you spend the holidays with me, as it is not to be expected that you can associate any longer with such a person, nor with that frowzy young woman who calls herself your sister."

Elma did not speak. This news which would have delighted her at another and less harassing moment, was now fraught with perplexity and alarm. At the same time she thought she saw in it a possible means of escape. Suppose Aunt Charlotte took her away at once, before Kitty had time to tell what she knew, before Middleton School had time to ring with the news of her dishonor. Oh, if so, she might indeed be saved!

"Am I to go immediately?" she asked, choking down a strangled sob in her throat, "or am I to stay at Middleton School till the end of the term?"

"Well, dear, that is the awkward part, for of course you are working very hard for a prize, are you not?"

"I am working for a small scholarship," answered Elma. "If I succeed in my examination I shall obtain a scholarship in English Literature worth ten pounds a year for three years. That would be a very large sum to me, Aunt Charlotte."

"A large sum to you! I should think it would be a large sum to anybody," said Mrs. Steward in a severe tone. "Ten pounds is quite a fortune for any young girl. Pray don't begin to speak of money in that disparaging sort of way, Elma; it ill suits your circumstances, my love. But now, dear, I am sorry to disappoint you -- I have heard of an admirable escort; a certain Fräulein Van Brunt is going to the Harz Mountains next Monday; it will therefore be necessary for me to take you back to Buckinghamshire to-night, Elma."

"Oh, Aunt Charlotte, I am glad!" burst from Elma's lips.

"Glad to leave your mother and sister?" said Mrs, Steward, looking severely at the young girl. "After all, they are the last people you ought to associate with; but still natural ties, my dear Elma."

"Oh, I am sorry to leave them, I am sorry to go; I am both glad and sorry," gasped poor Elma. "I have been worried, and am glad to get out of everything."

"Worried! I suppose with that dreadful sister and your poor, muddled mother. Her unfortunate habit of weeping has reduced the little brain she possessed to a state of pap. Of course I know she is not well off; but all she absolutely could offer me in this house was a stale egg, and not even toast. Oh, I scorn to complain, but -- I know this is not your wish, Elma. Your ideas were always very different, my dear child."

Elma did not say anything; she was fidgeting with her hand, making a slight noise with the teaspoon which she was tapping against a saucer. The noise was irritating to Mrs. Steward's easily-affected nerves.

"That calm of manner which I trust you will acquire after you have had the advantages which I am giving you will soon show you how very unpleasant those little tattoos and small noises are, Elma," remarked the good lady, taking the teaspoon severely out of her niece's hand. "Yes, my dear, you are to come with me to-night; that is, of course -- "

"What do you mean by 'of course,' Aunt Charlotte?"

"After I have seen your head-mistress, Miss Sherrard."

"Do you want to see Miss Sherrard?" asked Elma, a note of alarm in her voice.

"Certainly; and I am going immediately to the school. You will not be admitted into the admirable school in Germany without a testimonial from your present teacher; and I am going to Miss Sherrard in order to secure one. It will, of course be merely a matter of form my asking for it, for your conduct has always been admirable -- admirable in the extreme. Miss Sherrard has written to me about you from time to time, and always spoke of you with affection and admiration. She said your abilities were good; your moral character without a flaw. I will just step across to the school now, Elma; and, if you like, you can accompany me."

Elma hesitated. She did not yet know what had taken place; but when she had last seen Kitty there was a flash in her eyes the reverse of assuring. She could only hope against hope that nothing had yet taken place; that Kitty had still kept her miserable secret. If Miss Sherrard knew nothing she would of course give her an excellent character; and she herself would leave Middleton School that afternoon and forever. Then indeed she might snap her fingers at Kitty and her distress. She would be saved just at the very moment when she thought her ruin most imminent.



Chapter XXII

Stunned And Cold.


"Come, Elma, what are you looking so thoughtful about?" asked Mrs. Steward in an impatient voice.

"Nothing, Aunt Charlotte," replied Elma, rising to her feet. "I am ready to go," she added. She sighed as she spoke.

"You must give up that unpleasant habit, my dear child. Nothing irritates me more than hearing people sigh. It always seems as if they were discontented and ungrateful to Providence. Now, what have you, for instance, to sigh about? A singularly fortunate girl, a girl who possesses an aunt who is willing to take a mother's duties upon her shoulders. If it were that wretched, vulgar Carrie now, or even my poor sister herself; but you, Elma, don't let me think that you are ungrateful to me or I wash my hands of you on the spot."

"Oh, I am nothing of the kind indeed, Aunt Charlotte," replied Elma. "I always have felt that you -- you were more than good to me."

"Well, my dear that's as it should be. I honor your feelings. I often say to myself and to your uncle-in-law -- remember he is not your real uncle, Elma, but your uncle-in-law, my dear husband, the rector of St. Bartholomew's -- 'John,' I say, 'if Elma doesn't show gratitude for all I am doing for her I shall once and for all give up the human race. I shall never again expect right feeling from any one." But of course you are grateful, Elma; you will be the comfort of my old age. You will be as my own child to me. I -- I sometimes think, my dear, that when your education is finished and you are turned into a refined, highly-cultivated, highly-trained woman, I will keep you with me. You shall be my companion, my housekeeper, the one who is to read aloud to me, to sit with me in the long evenings when my sight begins to fail. My eyes do ache at times, my dear, I have thought of all that. You will be my adopted child; not that I can leave you anything in my will, but I would provide a home for you while I am left in this tabernacle of the flesh. What do you say, Elma, eh?"

"It is too soon to say anything at present," answered Elma, to whom this prospect was the reverse of charming. To live as her aunt's unsalaried companion could not be attractive to her; but she wisely concluded that sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, and she had yet to be educated and brought to that calm of spirit and strain of intellect which would satisfy Aunt Charlotte.

"Come now at once," said the good lady, who suddenly from being in a very cross temper became in the best of humor. "We have just nice time to go across to the school, and then after we have seen Miss Sherrard to return here for you to pack your things. What do you say, Elma, to our both staying in London to-night? It would be a pleasant treat for you, and there may be a few little things necessary to add to your wardrobe, which I shall have much pleasure in providing you with. Elma, you are in rare luck. When I think of all I am doing for you I feel that you have indeed much to be thankful for."

"Yes, Aunt Charlotte," echoed Elma, but her voice sounded faint, and she brought out her words with an effort.

Leaning on her niece's arm, Mrs. Steward now pursued her way to Middleton School. Alas! her journey there quickly dissipated her lately acquired good-humor. She had not gone one hundred yards before she complained of the dust of the roads, she had not gone two before her anger was great at the length of the way, and when she found that it was necessary to mount uphill her complaints became loud grievances -- in short, by the time she really arrived at the school she was in as bad a temper as Elma had ever seen her in.

"What it is to have a great girl like you hanging on to one, dependent on one!" she cried. "It was most inconsiderate of Caroline to marry as she did, and she now even complains when I blame her for it. She is an extraordinary person. If she had remained single she might have been living comfortably with me at St. Bartholomew's rectory, and you and Carrie would never have been in the world plaguing your relatives."

"Well, you see we are in the world," said poor Elma, who felt that she must just show the faintest spark of spirit. "We did not ask to be born," she added, "so I don't see that we are to be blamed."

Mrs. Steward favored her with a sharp glance.

"Elma," she said, "if you indulge in pertness I shall wash my hands of you. Now, here we are. Have the goodness to ring the bell."

The great school door was opened presently by a neat-looking maid-servant, and Mrs. Steward inquired in a tart voice if Miss Sherrard was in."

"She is, ma'am," replied the girl; "but she is particularly engaged at this moment. Oh, is that you, Miss Lewis?" she continued. "Miss Sherrard is just sending for you, miss; but I don't think the messenger has gone yet. I'll run and stop him. Will you walk inside, ma'am!"

"A messenger for me!" murmured Elma. She felt terribly uncomfortable; her face grew whiter than ever.

"Will you have the goodness to tell your mistress that I wish to speak to her at once," said Mrs. Steward; "that I am in a hurry, and cannot be kept waiting? Pray mention my name, Mrs. Steward, from St. Bartholomew's Rectory, Buckinghamshire."

The girl promised to do so, and withdrew. She soon returned to say that Miss Sherrard would be pleased to see both Mrs. Steward and Miss Lewis in her private room.

"I wish to see Miss Sherrard alone," said Mrs. Steward. "Remain where you are, Elma." Mrs. Steward sailed out of the room, and poor Elma sank down on the nearest chair.

"If Miss Sherrard has sent for me she must know something," thought the wretched girl. "Oh! how am I to live through it? She will tell Aunt Charlotte and then all my prospects are over."

Meanwhile Mrs. Steward sailed down the passage with a dignity and majesty of demeanor which impressed Miss Sherrard's neat handmaid considerably. The next instant she was ushered into the school-mistress' presence.

Miss Sherrard looked troubled; she came forward to meet Mrs. Steward very gravely, and, motioning with her hand to a chair, asked her to seat herself. Mrs. Steward stared for a moment at the head-mistress, and the head-mistress stared back at her. At last Mrs. Steward said glibly:

"I am sorry to take up any of your valuable time, Miss Sherrard; but I think I can explain my errand in a few words. I am about to remove my niece, Elma Lewis, from the school."

"Indeed, I am heartily glad to hear it," answered Miss Sherrard, visible relief both in her tone and face.

"What an extraordinary remark for you to make! But I will pass it by, for I am in a considerable hurry. I have heard of an admirable school in Germany to which I intend to send my niece. Not that I have the least objection to your mode of teaching, Miss Sherrard, nor to this very celebrated school; but of course when it comes to foreign languages you cannot compare England to the Continent."

"Certainly not," answered Miss Sherrard, who was now staring at the other lady in some wonder.

"It is my intention to remove Elma to-night," continued Mrs. Steward; "for although it is not quite the end of term, yet the Harz Mountains are some distance away, and it would not be possible for a young girl who has at present no knowledge of the German language to go so far without an escort. Miss Sherrard, you will be glad to hear that an escort has been found, a suitable escort, and Elma will leave England next week. Under these circumstance I propose to take her back to my husband's rectory in Buckinghamshire to-morrow morning, and she will leave the school now."

"Indeed! I repeat that this is a most fortunate coincidence. I am glad to hear it," said Miss Sherrard.

"Your remarks seem to me the reverse of flattering; but I have no time to ask you to explain them. What I have really come about is this: It is necessary for Elma to have a certificate from her present mistress in order to be admitted into the very first-class school in Germany where I propose to place her. Will you kindly give me a testimonial in my niece's favor, Miss Sherrard? Just say anything you can to the credit of her character and general attainments. From your many letters to me I judge that you have a very high opinion of the dear girl; and I trust, now that I am doing so much, in starting this young girl in life, that I shall not go unrewarded. The care of the young is a sad trial, Miss Sherrard and I doubt not that the looking after Elma will worry me considerably; but I am not one to shirk my duties, and I am willing to take all this responsibility, and for the future to regard that young girl as if she were indeed my own child. But I must have the testimonial, so will you kindly write it at once."

Miss Sherrard had been sitting with her hands clasped in her lap while Mrs. Steward was speaking. Once she had lowered her eyes; but during the greater part of the time they were fixed upon the good lady's face. A look of consternation, almost akin to despair, flitted now over the teacher's expressive countenance.

When at last Mrs. Steward ceased to speak, Miss Sherrard still remained for nearly half a minute quite silent.

"You will perhaps oblige me by writing the testimonial?" said Mrs. Steward in a very haughty voice. Then she added, perceiving that something was wrong, and finding it impossible to guess what, "I dare say you are annoyed at Elma leaving the school so unexpectedly -- "

"No, no; nothing of the kind," said Miss Sherrard. "I have told you twice, Mrs. Steward, that I am glad, very glad of this."

"Your words surprise me; but of course you will write -- my time is precious, I have not a moment to lose."

Miss Sherrard now stood up.

"I cannot give Elma Lewis a testimonial with regard to conduct." The words came out quietly, firmly, distinctly.

Mrs. Steward sprang to her feet.

"You cannot give my niece a testimonial with regard to conduct?" she gasped. "Do you know what you are saying what you are doing, Miss Sherrard?"

"Perfectly well, Mrs. Steward."

"In your letters to me you have invariably spoken of Elma's conduct as excellent. Miss Sherrard, you surely forget yourself -- you cannot be well; you must be mistaking Elma for one of your other pupils? She has always been an exemplary girl. You cannot give her a testimonial with regard to conduct? Am I to believe the testimony of my own ears?"

"I am deeply sorry; I have seldom been more grieved about anything. I am told that Elma has accompanied you here -- if you will permit me, I will send for her, and explain how matters really stand in your presence."

"Oh, this is intolerable," said Mrs. Steward, clasping and unclasping her hands in her agitation. "The wicked girl, what has she done? Pray send for her at once, Miss Sherrard; if she has done anything really disgraceful I wash my hands of her. If you, her mistress, cannot give her a certificate, do you suppose that my husband and I will take her up?"

"It is impossible for me to say, madam. In this emergency to really help Elma would be a Christian act. She may have been tempted beyond her strength, but you will be better able to decide when you know the circumstances."

As Miss Sherrard spoke she rang the bell. "When the servant appeared, she desired her to bring Elma immediately into her presence. A moment later the young girl entered the room. She gave a wild and frightened glance first at her aunt, then at Miss Sherrard, then stepping forward, fell on her knees.

"Has Kitty told you?" she gasped.

"Yes, Elma. Get up; you cannot kneel to me."

"Rise this minute you wicked girl!" said Mrs. Steward.

Elma staggered to her feet.

"It is all up, then," she murmured.

"I know everything, Elma," said Miss Sherrard. "The knowledge has come to me as a painful surprise. Your aunt has just asked me to give you a testimonial with regard to character. I am bitterly pained to say that I must refuse to do so."

"But what does it all mean," cried Mrs. Steward, "and why am I to be kept in the dark any longer? Elma, stop twirling your thumbs; stand back. Now, Miss Sherrard, I have paid the school fees for Elma Lewis for the last four years, so I presume I am entitled to know all about her. Tell me what has occurred. Of what she is accused?"

Miss Sherrard then briefly related the story which had been told to her by Kitty.

It was exactly the sort of tale which would affect a woman of Mrs. Steward's caliber disagreeably. She listened with a horror-stricken face. When the school-mistress had finished, she said abruptly:

"What do you propose to do now?"

"It will be necessary for me to explain the whole circumstances of Elma's wrong-doing to the entire school to-morrow," said Miss Sherrard. "This is necessary for the sake of Kitty Malone."

"At what hour do you propose to make this very pleasant exhibition of my niece?"

"After prayers to-morrow morning -- I sent for you, Elma," continued Miss Sherrard, "to tell you, as I thought you ought to be prepared."

"Thank you," answered Elma, her head bowed on her breast. She felt stunned and cold. The dreadful blow had fallen; but the acute misery which was immediately to follow was not at present awakened within her.

"Come, Elma," said Mrs. Steward. She turned to leave the room. Just as she reached the door she looked back at Miss Sherrard.

"After you have exposed Elma, and ruined her character for life, you will doubtless expel her?" she said.

"I hope not -- I think not."

"In any case she leaves the school, for I pay no more fees. Come Elma."



Chapter XXIII.

Stars And Moon, And God Behind.


During the long walk home to Constantine Road the elder and the younger lady maintained an absolute silence. As soon as they got to the house Mrs. Steward turned to Elma for the first time and spoke.

"Find out immediately if your mother is in. If she is tell her I wish to see her. Go; don't stare at me."

Elma went without a word. Her mother was in, and so was Carrie.

"Mother," said Elma, "Aunt Charlotte wants to see you."

"Why, my dear Elma, what is the matter? How queer you look!"

"Don't mind about me, mother, pray; the expression of my face is not worth considering. Aunt Charlotte is waiting for you in the dining-room."

Mrs. Lewis gave a profound sigh.

"How very unreasonable of Charlotte!" she said; "she will doubtless be expecting more tea and cream and fresh eggs, and other impossibilities."

"Oh, go mother, and stop talking," said Elma.

Mrs. Lewis dragged herself up from the sofa on which she was reclining.

"I really don't know what the world is coming to," she said. "Even my own children are turning out quite disagreeable to me. Dear! dear! what it is to be a mother! How little those who are fortunate in not possessing children understand the burden!"

She went, downstairs slowly, and Elma turned to Carrie.

Carrie was standing with her back to her; she was making up something in tissue-paper.

"Well, Elma," she said, looking up at her sister, "what is up?"

"Everything is up," said Elma.

"What do you mean?"

"Everything is up and everything is over. What are you doing with that paper, Carrie?"

"I am folding up the money I have just got for Kitty Malone?"

"The money you have got for Kitty Malone! Has -- has Sam Raynes returned the sovereigns?"

"Bless you, poor Sam can't do impossibilities. No; this money has nothing whatever to do with Sam. I am folding it up, and giving her a little account with it. We got exactly eleven pounds eleven shillings for the clothes and the watch and chain. She can redeem them all within a month if she likes. Here is the pawnbroker's receipt; tell her to keep it until she does. She can redeem them whenever she cares to pay back eleven pounds eleven shillings with interest. My commission at ten per cent, is one pound three shillings and tenpence -- that leaves a balance of ten pounds seven shilling and twopence; it will doubtless get her nicely out of her difficulty. She ought to be thankful to me to her dying day. Look here, Elma, if you are worried about things -- and I can guess what is the matter pretty well; for I happen to know that Kitty Malone made a clean breast of your secret not long ago -- you will be glad to get out of the house. Here, take this money to her, and be off, can't you?"

Elma still did not speak. That cold, stunned feeling was pressing round her heart. She did not much care whether she was in the house or not. Just at that moment, however, a loud slam of the front door caused both the girls to run to the window. Mrs. Steward had sailed down the steps. Mrs. Steward with her long train streaming behind her, was walking up Constantine Road. The next instant Mrs. Lewis burst into the room.

"Well, Elma," she cried, "this is a pretty state of things. Your aunt has told me everything. What a miserable woman I am!"

"Please, don't scold me," said Elma. "I have had enough scolding during the last hour to last me my life. Say what you like to me to-morrow."

"But your aunt says she washes her hands of you. How are you to be educated? How are you to live? How are you to support yourself?"

"I don't know. I don't think it much matters."

"Don't talk in that silly way, Elma; of course it matters. She says too that you are to be publicly exposed at Middleton School to-morrow, and your conduct -- I must say I could not make out what she was talking about; I don't see that you did anything very wrong -- but your conduct is to be proclaimed to the school, and that you are to be, if not expelled, something like it. Elma, this is enough to take all my senses away!"

"Never mind, now, mother; we can talk it all over presently," said Elma. "Give me the money, Carrie, and let me go."

Carrie handed her sister the little parcel without a word. Elma walked slowly out of the room.

A moment later she found herself on the dusty road. She reached the top of the ugly street, and then paused to look around her. To her right lay the peaceful valley in which Middleton School was situated. A little further away was the open country, beautiful, verdant, full of summer splendor. Gwin Harley's house could be seen in the distance.

"If only Gwin had been my friend this morning, all these terrible things need not have happened," thought Elma. "I have nothing to thank Gwin for; I have nothing to thank Kitty for. I am a miserable, forlorn, forsaken girl. There is nothing before me but the most wretched life. Shall I go to see Kitty? Does Kitty deserve anything at my hands? I have got ten pounds seven shillings and twopence in my pocket. Why should I not go right away with the money? I don't think Kitty would prosecute me; and if she did would it matter? I am so hopeless that I don't think anything much worse could happen to me. I know I could not stand being publicly exposed to-morrow at the school. I cannot have those hundreds of eyes fixed on me; I, who have always been looked up to, respected, who belonged to the Tug-of-war Society. I cannot, cannot bear it. Why should Kitty have this money? She has treated me badly. She promised not to tell. She had no right to break her word. I cannot see her at present; no, I cannot."

Elma walked down the road. She longed beyond words to get into a fresh place, to be where there was no chance of meeting a Middleton girl. She walked faster and faster. Presently she found herself at the little station; she had not an idea where to go nor what to do. She had no luggage with her. It would look queer her going away without even a handbag. It would look very much as if she were running away. All the girls belonging to Middleton School had to wear a badge on their hats, and Elma would therefore be known. She would be recognized as one of the pupils. Nevertheless she thought she would risk it, for the longing to go away got stronger and stronger.

The railway station happened to be rather empty at this time. She looked around her hastily, saw no one that she knew about, and went into the booking-office. She hastily made up her mind to take a ticket for a large seaport town a few miles distant. She asked for a third-class single ticket to Saltbury, inquired when the next train came up, and a few moments later found herself on the right platform waiting for it. It came in within a quarter of an hour, and Elma took her seat in a third-class compartment. She was relieved to find that she was in the company of a good-natured-looking, middle-aged woman who was just returning to her own home from doing some marketing at Middleton. She did not take any notice of Elma, who crouched up in the opposite corner, and sat looking out at the country. The woman left the carriage at the next station, and Elma continued her journey for the rest of the way alone. She got to Saltbury within an hour, and stepped out on to the platform. She had been at Saltbury before with her mother and Carrie. They had once spent a never-to-be-forgotten week there when Mrs. Lewis had a ten-pound note in her pocket which she resolved to devote to a treat at the seaside. Elma wondered if she might venture to go to the little cottage in the suburbs of Saltbury where she had spent this week. After reflection, however, she thought that it would not be wise to venture, for if she were missed it would be very easy to trace her to Saltbury, and then this cottage would be the first to seek for her in. Accordingly she went into the more thronged and populous part of the town. The expensive season had not yet begun, and she presently went into a neat little house with "Apartments" written on a card in the window. She asked for a bed for the night. The landlady, a ruddy-faced young woman, immediately said she could accommodate her, and took Elma upstairs to the top of the house to show her a neat little bedroom.

"You can have this for half a crown a night, miss," she said. "Are you likely to make a long stay?"

"I don't know," answered Elma; "I can't be sure. I want the room for one night, and then I'll let you know."

"Very well, miss, that's quite satisfactory, and I can get in anything you like in the way of food. If you happened to wish for a sitting-room, miss -- "

"Oh, no, a bedroom will be enough," answered Elma. "I do not care to go to the expense of a sitting-room."

"You left your luggage I suppose, miss, at the railway station?"

Elma colored and then turned pale.

"No," she said; "I have not brought any luggage with me."

The woman stared, opening her eyes very wide, now giving Elma a full and particular attention which she had not hitherto vouchsafed to her. She said nothing further, and Elma went downstairs.

"I'll go down to the beach for a little," she said. "You might have some tea ready for me when I come back. I am very tired, and should like some tea and toast."

"And a hegg, miss, or anything of that sort?"

"No, thank you; just tea and toast, please. Nothing more."

The woman stared after her as she went down the street. Elma got as far as the beach; she then sat down on a bench and gazed out at the waves. The tide was coming in. The beach at Saltbury was celebrated, and children were playing about, amusing themselves gathering shells, making sand-castles, and otherwise disporting themselves after the manner of their kind. A little boy was wading far out. Elma watched him with lack-luster eyes. She wondered vaguely how long he would be allowed to wade, and how deep he might go. He got as far as his knees, and then turned back. As he was going back he fell, wetting himself and crying out lustily.

Elma continued to gaze at him with eyes which scarcely saw.

"He thinks he is hurt," she said to herself, "that he has had a terrible misfortune. How little he knows what real pain means, and what real misfortune is! Here am I with money in my pocket which does not belong to me, having run away from home, disgraced for life, miserable for life. Oh! what shall I do?"

It had been a very hot day, but the evening was chilly, and Elma shivered as she went back to her lodgings in South Street. She had brought away no wraps with her, and her thin cotton dress was not sufficient to keep out the chill of the sea breezes. She thought she would be glad to get under shelter, to go to bed, to wrap herself up and cover her face and court sleep. When she got to the door, however, the young landlady, who was evidently waiting for her, came out on to the steps.

"If you please, miss," she said, "I am really very sorry, but my husband thinks --  -- "

"What?" said Elma.

"That as you have no luggage, miss (you know it ain't customary for us to take in ladies without luggage) --  -- "

"Then you mean -- " said Elma, turning very white and pale.

"Yes, miss, I'm ever so sorry."

"You can't give me the room even for one night?"

"We can't really, miss."

"But I can pay in advance," said Elma eagerly.

"I'm ever so sorry, miss; but another lady came just as you left, and she had a box and a handbag, and everything proper, and as she wanted the room very badly and as we had her before, we have let it to her, miss. I am sure I am very sorry not to oblige; but I dare say -- There are a great many other apartments down this road, miss."

"Thank you," said Elma; "it does not matter at all."

She spoke with a voice of ice; pride, a remnant of pride, came to her aid. She would not let the woman see how distressed she was.

"Good-evening, miss," said the young landlady. "I'm real sorry not to oblige."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Elma; "I dare say I can manage."

She walked down South Street, knowing that the landlady was watching her as she disappeared. She soon came to a corner where four roads met. Where should she go? What could she do? Where was she to have shelter for the night?

It occurred to her that after all there was nothing now left to her but to return to Middleton. She hurried up to the railway station, and asked when the next train would start. A porter, who was standing just inside the station informed her that the last train for Middleton had left five minutes ago.

"The next will be at seven to-morrow morning," he said.

"Thank you," answered Elma. She would not allow any of the dismay on her face to appear.

"After all, it is too absurd that I can't have shelter," she said to herself, "when I have over ten pounds in my pocket. What can the landlady have meant? Surely, if I pay my way that is all that is necessary."

But, all the same, she did not like to go and inquire at any other lodging. She could not stand meeting once again the stony stare of a landlady when she explained that she had no luggage, none at all. It occurred to her that she might go into a shop and buy some night-gear and a small handbag, but she rejected the idea almost as quickly as it came to her.

"It would only waste the money," she said to herself, "and where is the use? I suppose I can manage to spend the night somewhere. Thank goodness, it is a fine summer's night; I might do worse than spend it in the open air."

She wandered away, and presently passing a small restaurant, went in and ordered a cup of tea for herself, and some bread and butter. She drank the tea, but found that to eat choked her. The outlook before her was more miserable moment by moment. She was driven to such despair that it seemed of very little consequence to her whether she succeeded in getting away from Middleton School, from the censorious eyes of the whole of her world, or not. Everything was up with her. She kept repeating that moodily, drearily under her breath. Everything was up; she had not a friend in the wide, wide world.

Having finished her meager meal, she went out again into South Street. She was horrified when she saw the name at one end of the street. She did not want to pass by that neat little house which contained that snug little bedroom where she had hoped to cover her eyes from the light, and court sleep, in order to get rid of her misery for a few hours.

She had now reached the neighborhood of the shore. The tide was nearly full in; the great, broad expanse of beach was covered. The children had all gone home to supper and to bed. The stars were coming out in the sky; a full moon was riding in majesty across the heavens. It seemed to Elma, fine as the night was, that the sea moaned in an unreasonable and very dreadful manner. She had to press her hands to her ears to shut away the sound of that moaning sea. She determined to go inland. There was plenty of time, plenty. She could get back to the station by seven in the morning, wait for the first train which returned to Middleton, and reach the school after all in time for her exposure.

She turned her steps now countrywise, and after walking for a mile or two found that she was too weary to go any further. She crept inside a narrow opening in a hedge, and got into a field. Here she was absolutely alone; not a human being was in sight. As far as she could tell there was not a living creature near. She felt the grass; it was heavy with dew. She had always heard that it was very dangerous to sit down on grass soaked with dew, but danger now was of no moment to her.

"It would be rather nice to be ill; it would be rather nice to die." She had nothing left to live for. Her whole life had been a mistake. She had tried hard to get away from her own set, the set in which she was born. She had made a mess of it; she had failed. Her own set -- the narrow-minded, the vulgar, the low -- were the only ones who could claim her, who could touch her, who could have anything in common with her. How terribly shocked Miss Sherrard had been at what she had done. How disgusted, how coldly, terribly cruel Aunt Charlotte had been; but her mother had thought very little about it, and Carrie would love her just as much after her disgraceful conduct as she had done before.

"I belong to them, and they belong to me," thought poor Elma. "My ambitions were wrong; I shall sink now, and become a second Carrie. No, I shall never marry a Sam Raynes, but I shall become a sour old maid. Perhaps I shall do charring some day, there is no saying. I did wrong to try to raise myself. I --  -- "

She never saw where her fault lay. She was not really repentant for her wrong-doing. The consequences were terrible, but the sin did not trouble her.

After a time, terribly exhausted and weary, she lay down just as she was on the soaking wet grass and fell asleep. She had been chilled and tired before she slept; but when in the very middle of the night she awoke she had never known anything like the bitter cold which she experienced. She could not at first remember where she was; but all too soon memory with a flash returned to her. She remembered all the events of yesterday. She knew that she was a runaway, that she had stolen money in her pocket. She might be arrested and put in prison; there was no saying what awful fate lay before her. In the dead of night lying there she became really frightened; she almost felt as if she could scream aloud in her terror. How empty the world seemed, how hollow! She wished the stars overhead would not blink at her; she wished the moon would go behind a cloud; she felt as if God Himself was looking at her through the face of the moon, and she did not like it. She covered her face with her cold and trembling hands, and tried to shut away what she felt might be the face of God Himself.

"I have been a very wicked girl," she moaned, and now, for the first time, she thought not so much of the consequences as of the sin. Tears rained from her eyes; she sat up and covered her face.

"God help me! Please, God, don't be too angry, with me; I am the most miserable girl in the world," she faltered.

After that frightened cry or prayer she felt more comfortable; and now, staggering to her feet, she saw, standing about ten yards away, and looking at her fixedly out of its large and luminous eyes, a brown cow. There were several more cows in the field, and this one had come up, and was gazing inquiringly at her. The motherly creature could not imagine what desolate and queer young thing this was, up and awake in the middle of the night. Such creatures as Elma, in the cow's experience, were not to be seen at these inclement hours. It lashed its long tail slowly from side to side, and kept gazing at her; and Elma looked at it, and her nervous terrors grew worse. The cow had horns; suppose it came near, and tried to horn her. She was not a country girl, and did not understand country creatures. A bitter cry of abject terror rose from her lips. She darted past the animal, rushed out by the way she had come into the field, and found herself once more on the highroad.

The cow, its curiosity very faintly tickled by the appearance of Elma on the scene, placidly resumed its feeding, and the terrified girl ran as if she had wings to her feet up the highroad.

In after days she was never able to tell how she spent the remainder of that night; but the longest hours only herald in the dawn, and at last the sun arose and the worst of her fears were over. The sun warmed her, and took away the dreadful feeling of chill which she was experiencing. She wandered about, sitting down now and then, too feeble, too tired, too utterly depressed to have room even for active fears, and at last the time came when she might again present herself at the station.



Chapter XXIV.

Sunshine Again.


When Carrie left her, Kitty Malone was buoyed up with a certain degree of hope. Carrie had spoken with confidence; she had assured her that her clothes were worth money. Never before, much as she prized pretty things, had they seemed so valuable in poor Kitty's eyes. If Carrie would really keep her word it would be possible for Kitty to send Laurie the money which he wanted that evening. Could she do this her worst anxieties would be laid to rest, and she felt that it would be even possible for her to try to be good once more. As things were at present, she cared nothing at all about being either good or bad. Every thought of her mind was fixed upon Laurie; if he were saved she would be good; if not -- if he indeed, the darling of her heart, went to the dogs -- nothing mattered.

Kitty was too restless and miserable to go down to the rest of the family. She walked up and down, up and down her bedroom, watching and longing for Carrie. Now and then she would rush to the window, putting out her head and shoulders and half her body, to watch if by any chance Carrie might be coming up the street. That red-faced, fat, uninteresting-looking young woman now represented all Kitty's hopes.

When darkness set in, however, when the hours first struck nine and then ten, poor Kitty gradually saw the last star in her firmament expire. "Without doubt Carrie had failed to pawn the things.

"And I thought them so good," whispered Kitty to herself. "Aunt Bridget would be sure to choose nice and expensive things. Perhaps they were too good for the people who come to the pawnbroker for their clothes. That must be the reason; but I wonder Carrie did not come back to tell me."

Presently Alice bustled into the room, and, opening the door of the large wardrobe which the girls shared between them, began to make active search for a neat little jacket which she wanted to put on. She was going out for the evening, and wished to wear it when she was returning home. Search as she would, however, she could not find it, and presently turned to ask Kitty if she had seen it.

"Dear me, no," answered Kitty, starting and blushing. "Is it not in the wardrobe?"

"No," replied Alice. "And I remember I hung it on this peg. Where can it possibly have disappeared to? Don't you know anything about it, Kitty? By the way, how wonderfully empty the wardrobe looks! Have you been putting your clothes back into your boxes?"

Kitty, who had been standing in the middle of the room looking the very picture of despair, now burst into a hearty peal of laughter.

"What are you laughing about?" asked Alice.

"I am awfully afraid it has happened," she cried.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that your jacket has gone to the pawn."

"Kitty!" cried Alice, looking at the Irish girl in some alarm, "have you gone mad?"

"No, Alice; but I am dreadfully afraid all the same that it has happened; indeed, there can be no doubt of it."

Kitty laughed again. She often cried when she laughed and now the tears ran down her cheeks.

"Well, this is too funny!" she gasped between her paroxysms of mirth.

"I don't think it funny at all. I think you must have taken leave of your senses. Kitty, please, explain yourself."

"I will try to, Alice. Oh, don't frown at me so horribly, or I shall go off into fits of laughter again. This is the simple truth. I wanted money very, very badly. I could not get it, and Carrie Lewis -- "

"Carrie Lewis? Who is she?" asked Alice.

"Oh, don't be so ridiculous, Alice. Of course you know who Carrie Lewis is. She is Elma's sister. She came here to-day."

"How very interesting! What a nice set of people you seem to be getting to know! I wasn't aware that you were acquainted with any of the Lewises except Elma."

"Well, I am acquainted with Carrie now, and I rather like her. She is great fun, much more fun than you are. She is vulgar, of course; but really that does not matter. She called to see me, and as I happened to want money she suggested pawning some of my things for me. I conclude she took your jacket by mistake with the rest."

Alice was so stunned absolutely by this news that no words would come to her. She stared at Kitty, her face growing whiter and more wooden-looking each moment. Then, without vouchsafing a syllable of reply, she left the room, banging the door behind her.

"There, I have given her a good settler," thought Kitty; and for a moment the feeling that Alice was as uncomfortable as she was herself gave her a certain sense of satisfaction.

The last post brought a letter from Laurie. It was brief, and was written in frantic hurry and despair.

"My dear Kitty," wrote the boy, "what has come to you? I am looking for a letter by every post, but none arrives. I shall not be able to give Wheel-about the money I promised him on Saturday, and I know he will not keep my secret any longer. When father hears it, all is up. If I don't receive that money by Saturday morning I shall run away to sea. -- LAURIE."

The letter fluttered from poor Kitty's fingers to the floor. She felt stunned; there was a cold weight now at her heart, which made it almost impossible for her to move or even think. If Laurie did not get the money by Saturday morning he would run away to sea. This was Thursday evening. There was still time, just time, to save him. Oh, if only Carrie would come! How dreadful, how terrible of her to fail Kitty at such a moment as this! Laurie was just the sort of boy to do what he said. The longing to go to sea had been one of the innermost cravings of his heart for many years. If he did so, the squire would never forgive him. His career would be ruined. Bad and awful as an English school in Kitty's opinion would be, the fate which he now had mapped out for himself would be much worse. The cruel, cruel sea might even drown him. Kitty might never behold her Laurie again. He was the joy of her heart and the light of her eyes. She uttered a piercing cry, and fell down half-fainting by her bedside. She lay so for the greater part of an hour, then struggling to her feet got into bed without undressing, and pulled the bedclothes well over her head.

When Alice came in very late that evening she thought that Kitty was asleep, and did not disturb her; but all during the long hours of that miserable night poor Kitty lay awake, her heart beating loud, terrible visions passing before her eyes. Toward morning she fell into a troubled sleep, to awake again quite early. Her head ached badly, her pulses beat too quickly; she could not stand her hot bed any longer. Springing up, she went into the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and refreshed herself with a bath. She felt really desperate and quite impervious to all ideas of discipline. She made up her mind to go to the Lewises, knock up Carrie, and demand an account of the property which she had confided to her on the previous day. Even still there was just -- just time to save Laurie, for if she could catch the early post he would receive his money on Saturday morning.

Kitty found herself at Constantino Road between seven and eight o'clock. The blinds of Carrie's bedroom window were still down, for the Lewises were not early risers. Maggie however, was up, and when Kitty rang the bell she opened the door for her.

"Miss Malone!" she cried.

"I want to see Miss Carrie at once," cried Kitty. "Is she up, Maggie?"

"Not she, miss. She's sound asleep and in bed. But I'll run up and tell her that you are here. Please come into the dining-room, Miss Malone."

Maggie threw open the door of this by-no-means luxurious apartment, and then ran upstairs to inform Carrie of Kitty's unexpected arrival.

"Now, what can be up?" thought Carrie. "Surely she is satisfied. I did very well for her."

She dressed herself hastily, and in five minutes was standing by Kitty's side.

"What is it?" she asked. "Are you not pleased? Elma took you the money, did she not? She must have stayed with one of the Middleton School girls for the night, for she never returned home; but she took you the money. I thought I did very well by you. Were you not satisfied?"

"She took me the money?" cried Kitty, turning pale. "No; that she did not. I never had any money. What do you mean, Carrie?"

"What I say," answered Carrie. "Oh, do sit down, Kitty; you look quite ghastly. I gave Elma ten pounds seven shillings and twopence to give you I got eleven guineas for your things, including the watch and chain. After I deducted my ten per cent., the balance for you was ten pounds seven and twopence. I thought you would be delighted. Did she not take you the money early yesterday evening?"

"No. I have never seen her."

"But she left here quite early on purpose. She said she was going straight to your house. I sent you plenty of money, did I not?"

"How much did you say?" asked Kitty, putting her hand up to her forehead in a distracted way.

"Ten pounds seven and twopence. You only really wanted eight pounds, did you not?"

"I had a little money of my own, and eight pounds would have done," said Kitty in a low voice; "but --  -- "

Here she sprang forward and gripped Carrie by the arm. "What does it mean, Carrie -- what does it mean? Elma never came near me; I never, never saw her last night."

"You never saw her? Elma never went to you?"

"No, never. Do you think I would tell an untruth? I never saw her, not since early school yesterday. Oh, Carrie, tell me what it means?"

"I cannot. I must say it looks very queer," said Carrie. She frowned, turned her back partly upon Kitty, and supporting her fat chin on one of her dimpled hands, began to think deeply. The more she thought the less she liked the aspect of affairs.

"Carrie, what does it mean?" cried Kitty, reiterating her words in a kind of frenzy of agitation.

"Oh, stop talking to me for a minute, Kitty! I must think this out."

Carrie walked to the window, pulled up the blinds, threw the sash up, and allowed the fresh morning air to blow upon her hot face. After a time she turned round and faced Kitty.

"You may well look pale," she said. "I confess I am as bewildered as you are yourself. Of course Elma may have been taken ill -- she had a dreadful shock yesterday."

"How?"

"You are silly to talk like that. Don't you know?"

"You mean because I told about her?"

"Well, it turned out very badly, as badly as possible. You did tell, and when you did so you ruined her. If you had only kept that precious story to yourself, even for twenty-four hours, little Elma would have been made -- made for life; but you ruined her."

"Oh do please tell me what you mean! My head is going round in a whirl; I can scarcely follow you."

"You can pull yourself together if you like. This is what happened. I told you, did I not, yesterday, that Aunt Charlotte pays Elma's fees at Middleton School?"

"I think so, but I don't quite remember."

"That is so like you. I always said you were selfish."

"Think what you like, Carrie; but please tell me everything."

"Oh, I'm quite willing. This is the story. Aunt Charlotte came here yesterday. She had heard of a splendid school in Germany, where Elma was to be sent as pupil-teacher. She wanted Elma to leave Middleton School at once, as she had found an escort to take her to Germany; but before Elma could be admitted into this new school it was necessary for her to have a certificate from Miss Sherrard. Now you see daylight, don't you? My aunt, Mrs. Steward, went to see Miss Sherrard, taking Elma with her. Elma did not know that you had put a match to the mine, and of course Aunt Charlotte knew nothing about it. When Miss Sherrard was asked to give Elma a certificate for conduct, she refused point-blank. Of course the mine exploded. Elma was called in, and all your nice, miserable story told to Aunt Charlotte. Elma is to be publicly exposed at Middleton School to-day; and Aunt Charlotte has washed her hands of her forever. There! that's what you have done. We have much to thank you for, have we not?"

Kitty's face had grown whiter and whiter.

"You blame me very much for what I am not to be blamed for," she said after a pause.

"That's what you think. You're an Irish girl, and you think nothing of a promise. You promised Elma you would not tell. You lent her the money, and you promised you would not tell about it. You broke your promise, and you have ruined her for life. There! that's what has happened. I wish you joy of the nice state your conscience must be in."

"You are very bitter to me, Carrie; but you cannot quite see my side of the question. I would not have told about Elma if Elma had been in the least true to me, but she was not, not a bit. All the same, I am terribly, terribly sorry for her. I would not have got her into this scrape if I had known."

"Ay, you had no thought, you see. You just blurted out everything."

"I am very miserable," said poor Kitty. She clasped her trembling hands together, and tears slowly welled into her beautiful dark-blue eyes. Carrie watched her with anxiety.

"There, now I like you," she said, after a pause "You look awfully pretty with those tears in your eyes, and --  -- "

"Pretty, do I?" said Kitty. For a moment a pleased smile flitted across her face, but then it faded; the present anxiety was too intense for her to give much thought to her personal appearance.

"Where can Elma be?" she said.

"Ah, that's the dreadful part. I don't know. She went out of the house with your money. She evidently never took it to you. I am sure I cannot think what has happened to her."

"And my money is gone?" said Kitty.

"So it seems -- that is, unless we can find Elma. It is all very dreadful, very horrible. I suppose the plain English of the matter is this" -- here Carrie gulped something down in her throat -- "that she -- she stole your money and has run away with it."

"Carrie, you cannot think so!"

"It is what I have to think," answered Carrie. "It is a mighty unpalatable truth, I can tell you. I suppose, now, your next step will be to prosecute her to send the police after her, and have her locked up. Then you will ruin me too, for Sam Raynes -- not that he is overparticular, nor that he cares twopence about refinement, or anything of that sort -- would not care to marry a girl whose -- whose sister was put in prison. That's your next step isn't it, Kitty Malone?"

"I won't stop to listen to you," said Kitty; "you are too terrible."

She ran to the door, opened it, and the next moment found herself in the street. She walked fast, ugly words repeating themselves in her ears. Carrie had been very blunt, and had given the petted, half-spoiled girl some home truths to think about. Had she really been unkind in telling about Elma? Oh, what was right and what was wrong? What was the matter? Could she ever, ever, in the whole course of her existence, have a light heart again? She walked up the street, little caring what she was doing or where she was going. At the next corner she came plump upon Elma herself, who was coming slowly, very slowly in the direction of Constantine Road. When she saw her, poor Kitty gave a sudden shout.

"Oh, Elma!" she said, "how glad I am -- how glad I am!"

"What do you mean?" said Elma. Her voice was faint.

"I thought I might never see you again. I thought -- I don't know what I thought -- but you have come back."

"I ran away, and I have come back again," said Elma. "You can punish me if you like, Kitty; things can never be much worse than they are." Here she staggered, and would have fallen had not Kitty held her up.

"How dreadfully bad you look! But oh, the relief of seeing you again!" said Kitty. "Where have you been? What have you done?"

"I scarcely know what I have done, or where I have been. I have a noise in my head, a queer noise. My head aches so badly it seems as if it would never leave off again. I am going to school, and they are going to expose me. It was all because you told, Kitty. And here is nearly all your money." Elm a put her hand into her pocket. "I must tell you everything, Kitty; for nothing really matters now. I meant to take that money. I meant to steal it all, but when it came to the point I found I could not. Here is most of it back. I spent three shillings on my fare to Saltbury and back, and sixpence on tea last night. That leaves ten pounds three and eightpence. Here, count it, won't you, Kitty? Take it in your hand. Here are the ten sovereigns, and the three shillings, and the sixpence and twopence. Have you got them all right? I must owe you the balance, but I'll pay you soon -- soon."

Elma's voice sounded weaker and weaker. Kitty clasped the money; her small fingers closed over it, her eyes grew bright, a flaming color rose into each of her cheeks, and it was as if new life was put into her.

"How bad you look!" she cried; "but oh, how happy I am to have this money! Never mind for a moment what you meant to do; I have it now, and I forgive you with my whole heart. Let us go straight to the nearest post office. I must get a postal order lor eight pounds immediately. Come, Elma, come."

"But what do you mean? Why should I go with you?"

"Because you must -- because I am not going to part with you -- not yet. Come, come at once. Oh, how dead tired you look! You are not to go back to that dreadful little house of yours -- not yet. Here is a nice-looking restaurant. You just go straight in, and I'll go on to the post office and send off the postal order to the dear old boy. He is saved now, and I am saved; nothing -- nothing else matters. Dear Elma, of course I forgive you; pray don't look so miserable. I felt fit to die five minutes ago, but now I am as well and jolly as possible. Here, Elma, come into the restaurant and wait."

Kitty had clutched hold of Elma's arm, and now she dragged her into a large, bright-looking restaurant, which they were just passing. The next moment Elma found herself seated by a small marble table. Kitty was ordering tea or something, Elma could not quite make out what, nor did she care. Everything was dreamy and unreal to her.

"I'll be back in a minute, Elma," cried Kitty. Her flashing eyes smiled as they glanced at Elma. Elma tried to smile back, but could not. The next moment Kitty was out of the place. She was back again in less than a quarter of an hour.

"I have done it," she cried, "and my heart is as light as a feather. I have sent off the postal order to Laurie; he will be saved now. Oh, it is so comforting; and we have a little over two pounds for ourselves."

"For ourselves -- what do you mean?" said Elma.

"Why, of course, we'll divide it and have a jolly time. Aren't you going to have your breakfast? I'm as hungry as a hawk."

As Kitty spoke she poured out a cup of tea, added milk to it, and pushed it toward Elma. Elma drank it off, and when she had done so the confused feeling in her head got a little better. Kitty then began to speak in a low, excited whisper.

"Let us do something," she said. "Let us do something quite mad and wild and jolly. We have got out of our scrape."

"You have; but I am in it up to my neck," said poor Elma. "Oh Kitty, I am a miserable, wretched girl!"

"Never mind, you are going to be a jolly girl now, the jolliest girl in the world. Do you think because I am happy again that I am going to leave you to all this misery, particularly after that nice blunt, determined Carrie of yours telling me that it was my fault, and that I would repent it to my dying day? Look here, Elma, did you say that you wanted to go back to Middleton School this morning?"

"I have to. I am to be exposed, you know."

"Not a bit of it. Neither you nor I will go to that hateful school; let us run away."

"Run away? But I have run away and come back again."

"Let us do it over again."

"Kitty, what do you mean?"

"What I say. I have heaps of money; let us get back to Saltbury and enjoy ourselves, Elma. Why can't we take the next train? No one will prevent us; no one will guess where we are. We will have a nice time, a really nice time. Say 'Yes,' Elma, won't you?"

"But would you really go with me?"

"Why not? I am the wild Irish girl, and you are the naughty English girl; let us go off together."

"Well, it does sound tempting," said Elma, her eyes sparkling. "Kitty, it is wonderful of you not to give me up."

"Oh, I am not the sort of girl to give up a friend when she is in trouble. You have made it right for me, and the sun is shining again, and I am as happy as the day is long. Elma, you must come."

"It does sound tempting -- I wish my head did not ache so badly."

"It will be better when you get to the seaside."

"Perhaps so, and then I need not go to Middleton School."

"You need never go there again. Oh, don't waste any more time over breakfast. We can eat when we get to Saltbury. I want to get off before Alice and Carrie or any of them begin to miss us. Let us go to the railway station; it is not far off."

Kitty's eager and impetuous words earned the day, and in a quarter of an hour's time the girls found themselves speeding away to Saltbury.

"We have indeed burned our boats now," said Kitty, with a laugh; "we have both run away. Now they have something really to scold us about; but never mind. I never felt, more jolly in my life."



Chapter XXV.

Kitty "Go-Bragh" (Forever).


But Kitty's happiness was very short-lived, for long before they got to Saltbury Elma was really so ill that she could not hold up her head. Kitty had never seen such severe illness before. She was not easily frightened; she had plenty of pluck when a real emergency arose, and she now determined to do her best for her companion.

"It is all the worry and the misery she has undergone," thought Kitty to herself; "but now that my mind is at rest she will see what a good friend I can be to her." When they got to Saltbury she immediately ordered a cab, and desired the man to drive her to the nearest hotel.

"Oh, Kitty!" gasped poor Elma, "they won't take us in, because we have no luggage, you know."

"I'll manage it," said Kitty; "no luggage -- what does that matter?"

She followed Elma into the cab, and a few moments later the girls found themselves at the door of a neat little inn facing the sea. Kitty jumped out and went straight to the bar.

"I want a nice, quiet bedroom," she said, "with two beds in it."

"Certainly, miss," said the woman, glancing into Kitty's bright face.

"It must be a very quiet room," continued Kitty, "for my companion is ill; she has a bad headache, and we must send for a doctor immediately."

"Yes, miss. I'll send the porter out to bring in your luggage."

"That's the annoying part," said Kitty; "we have no luggage."

The woman looked dubious, and turned to glance at a man who approached.

"Two young ladies want a room," she said in a low voice. "One of them is ill, and -- they have no luggage."

"Then in that case, miss, I am very sorry --  -- " began the man.

But Kitty interrupted him.

"Don't say those words," she began. "I know exactly what you are going to say, but please don't. We have no luggage, for we -- we have run away from school. There now, I have confided in you. Here's father's card. He will be responsible for us. Please show us to your very best room immediately."

As Kitty spoke she took a card out of her sealskin purse and handed it to the woman.

"Dennis Malone, Castle Malone, County Donegal," was inscribed on the small piece of pasteboard. It evidently had a good effect, but a still greater effect was produced by the sparkling and lovely eyes of the handsome girl who spoke in a tone of quiet assurance.

"Father will be so grateful to you for taking us in," she continued. "It would be terrible, you know, if you allowed us to wander about the streets. I am going to telegraph to him now, and he will arrive here, I have no doubt, within the next twenty-four hours. I have not much money with me," added Kitty frankly, "but father will bring plenty -- plenty when he arrives."

Again the man and woman whispered together, and now approving and interesting glances turned in Kitty's direction. The woman presently said:

"Very well, miss, we'll do our best for you. Will you follow me, miss?"

She took Kitty and Elma upstairs and showed them into the best room in the house. In a very short time poor Elma found herself in bed, with Kitty bending over her, kissing her now and then, and whispering kind words in her ears.

"I have managed beautifully with the people of the hotel," whispered Kitty. "And now, darling, you'll be made so comfortable. I am going to make up to you for -- for what Carrie said I did."

"But you did nothing; it was I who was bad, very bad," cried Elma.

"Oh, don't begin to get remorseful now, while you are ill. Wait, at least until you are better. I have ordered some fruit and jelly and ice, and I have asked the landlady -- isn't she a dear -- to send for the doctor."

"It seems like a dream," said Elma. "Is it possible that everything has changed so completely, and you -- you, Kitty Malone -- you to whom I have acted so badly, are good to me?"

"Yes, yes, I mean to be good to you; but don't begin to fret about your sins until you are better. Leave unpleasant things alone. Go to sleep, Elma; go to sleep."

Kitty went out of the room and stood and reflected for a few moments on the landing.

"Here's a state of things," Kitty said to herself; "but on the whole I rather like it. I knew I should be good in emergencies; I felt that it was in me. I am afraid poor Elma is going to be downright ill. I suppose I did wrong to run away -- perhaps I did; but I am so relieved about Laurie that nothing else seems to matter now. I will telegraph immediately to the dear old dad and ask him to come right away here at once. When I see him and know that Laurie is really saved, I'll just tell him everything. Oh, yes, that is the only -- only thing to do."

Kitty went straight to the nearest post office, and in an incredibly short space of time the following message was being carried across the wires to Castle Malone:

"AT THE SIGN OF THE RED DOE, SALTBURY. -- You will be surprised, father; but I have run away from school. I will tell you everything when I see you. I am here with a sick girl who has also run away. We have very little money; and I, your Kitty, want you dreadfully. Come to me as quickly as you can.

"Kitty Malone."

"Bless him," said the girl to herself. "He may be angry for a minute, but this message will bring him on the wings of the wind. Now that it has gone off I wonder ought I to let them know at Middleton?"

Kitty reflected earnestly over this problem. She quickly, however, made up her mind to keep her secret to herself.

"A little suspense will be rather good for Alice than otherwise," she thought; "and although Mr and Mrs. Denvers may be anxious about me, they can but telegraph to father; and as he will know my address already it won't put him into a taking. Miss Sherrard too can bear it; and as to Carrie, I am really sorry for poor old Carrie, and I should not much mind having her here; but I think until father comes I will look after Elma my lone self, as they say in Ireland."

Having made up her mind, Kitty went back to the hotel and asked the landlady, with whom she was now great friends, to send for the best doctor in the neighborhood.

Dr. Marchand arrived in the course of the morning, and pronounced Elma to be ill, but not alarmingly so.

"Your young friend is suffering from considerable shock," he said, "and has evidently also taken a severe cold; but with care and nursing she will in all probability soon get relief -- that is, if the strain from which she is suffering is taken off her mind."

"Oh, I think I can manage that," answered Kitty, nodding to the doctor in a very bright and frank way. Her dark-blue eyes were shining like stars; the color in her cheeks, the set of her beautiful head on her lovely neck, the very arrangement of her clothes fairly bewitched that good man. He had seldom seen such sparkling eyes nor such a beautiful dimpled mouth. Kitty's manner completely won Dr. Marchand over to her side, as it had already done the good people at the hotel.

After getting innumerable directions from the doctor, she went downstairs to consult with her land lady.

"Now, Mrs. Stacey," she said, "I must buy lots of things, and I wonder if you can help me. I have telegraphed to father to come here; but until he does I have only this much;" here she opened her purse and tumbled the contents on to the landlady's palm.

Mrs. Stacey started back in some astonishment. Really this was a very fascinating young lady; but she had never met anybody quite so -- so out of the common.

"You can reckon it up if you like," said Kitty; "you will see that it does not come to two pounds. Now, do you know of a shop that would trust me -- give me credit, I mean -- for some things?"

"What sort of things, miss?"

"Oh, clothes, and a couple of trunks. You see, we are not respectable without trunks, are we?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Malone, you are."

"But do you know of such a shop? Please think very hard, Mrs. Stacey."

"Williamson's round the corner will oblige you to any extent, miss, if you mention my name."

"Then I'll go there immediately. Thank you; how very nice you are!" said Kitty.

"Of course I ought not to be nice to you, miss, for it ain't right -- no, that it ain't -- to encourage runaways."

"When you know our story you will be quite glad you encouraged us," laughed Kitty.

"Then perhaps you'll confide in me, miss."

Kitty colored and thought for a moment.

"I think father must know it first," she said. "And now I must rush away to get the things that poor Elma requires."

During the course of that day it could scarcely be said that Kitty Malone was without luggage; for two new trunks presently made their appearance, full to the brim with all sorts of dainty clothing both for Elma and herself.

"Elma," she cried, dancing into the sick-room, "I have got two of the most charming hats you ever laid eyes on. Mine is sweetly becoming to me, and I am sure yours will suit you equally well; they are both big white leghorns, with great bunches of black feathers in front. Won't they look sweet with our new muslin dresses? Mine is pink, but I thought blue would suit you best. I expect dad to-morrow evening at the latest; and I am going to meet him at the station in my new hat and dress. There will be no doubt about his forgiving me when he sees me in them."

Just then there was a tap at the door, and Kitty, rushing to open it, found a telegram awaiting her. She tore it open and read the following words:

"Starting from Dublin by the night-boat, with you to-morrow. -- DENNIS MALONE."

"There, didn't I say he was a darling -- the best, best darling in the world?" cried the excited girl. "Oh, won't he have a caed mille afaltha; won't he? Elma, I am almost beside myself."

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Elma. "What do you mean by those queer words?"

"Caed mille afaltha? Oh, they are the Irish for a hundred thousand welcomes. We put them over our arches and everything when people are coming home. Oh, they don't speak a half nor a quarter of what our hearts are full of. Oh father, father, the joy -- the joy your poor little Kitty feels at the thought of seeing your darling face again!"

That night again Kitty lay awake, although Elma slept. Strange thoughts, strange and new, were coursing through the young girl's brain. Everything had been a failure, and yet she felt bright and happy and like her old self once more.

"It is the thought of seeing father," she said to herself. "I was never fit for England. England and its ways will never suit me, never, never; but when I see father I shall be all right. Oh, to think that he is really coming, and that Laurie is saved! I must, of course, tell father everything; but he won't be angry with Laurie when I tell him the story in my own way."

Accordingly early the next morning Kitty dressed herself in the fascinating leghorn hat and slipped on the pink muslin dress, and, with a bunch of roses at her belt, sallied forth to the railway station. She soon found the right platform, and paced up and down in a fever of impatience waiting for the train. As she was doing so, flaunting her pretty little person in a somewhat aggressive way and causing some prim-looking ladies to gaze at her with anything but approval, a hand was laid on her arm, and turning she saw, to her amazement, the extremely indignant faces of Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick.

"Well, Kitty, after this!" said Miss Sherrard,

"Oh, please don't scold me just now!" said Kitty, with a little gasp; "wait until he comes."

"Until who comes?"

"Father. I am expecting him by this train."

"I am relieved at that," said Miss Sherrard. "I shall have a painful tale to tell him."

"So you may, Miss Sherrard. You may tell him everything; but please let me tell him my story first. You must, you shall; I insist."

The girl's eyes were flashing; she was trembling all over. Just when her happiness seemed to be at its height, for Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick to appear!

"Oh, and there's the train!" she cried. "He will be here in a minute; let me see him first. Oh, the train, is stopping, and there he is; I see him at the very end; there he is with his white hair and -- let me go, let me go!"

She rushed from Miss Sherrard's retaining arm and flew up the platform, and a moment later the owner of the pink dress and leghorn hat was being clasped tightly, tightly to the breast of the magnificent-looking old gentleman, almost a king in his way, who had suddenly stepped on to the platform.

"Father, you'll protect me -- they have come, they have followed me. You will let me tell you my story first? Father! father! oh, feel how my heart is beating!"

"Why, Kitty, asthore; Kitty, Kitty, my own. What is it, Kit? I say, Kit, what is wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing now that you have come; but let me tell you my story first."

"Your story first -- why, of course, Kit."

"They are there; speak to them; tell them you will see them afterward. We are staying at the Sign of the Red Doe; tell them that you will see me first and then you will see them."

"Introduce me to them, Kitty, and calm yourself. Come, Kitty, come."

"Yes, father, yes; it is all right."

Kitty's terrible excitement subsided; leaning on her father's arm, she approached the platform where Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick, both looking rather confused, were standing.

"This is my father, Miss Sherrard," said Kitty, introducing Dennis Malone, who took off his hat with a grand sweep.

"I am relieved to see you," began Miss Sherrard.

"Pardon me one moment, madam," said Malone; "but Kitty here would like to tell me her story first. You are her school-mistress, the lady with whom I have had the pleasure of corresponding?"

"I am, and I have a very, very painful tale to tell you."

"You shall tell me your story afterward."

Here the owner of Castle Malone caught sight of Miss Worrick, and gave her a bow even more deferential than he had bestowed upon the head-mistress.

"I am sorry to put you off even for a few moments, ladies," he said; "but you see this little girl, she -- she must come first. However badly she has behaved, she -- she is my only girl, you understand, and I -- I must hear her story first. Will you meet us both within an hour at the Sign of the Red Doe? Then everything can be explained."

"I wonder if that dreadful girl is to go unpunished in the end," said Miss Worrick to Miss Sherrard, as they both slowly went to the nearest hotel to wait until the time arranged to meet Kitty and her father at the Sign of the Red Doe."

"It seems like it," said Miss Sherrard. "But what a splendid old man! Perhaps after all it may be the best thing for Kitty Malone not to punish her, Miss Worrick."

"Oh, Miss Sherrard! I cannot approve of your very lax opinions. Surely punishment for such terrible wrong-doing -- "

"Yes, she behaved badly, but not so badly as Elma, I think we must wait to hear the whole story explained; at present we are more or less in the dark."

"And now, Kit, what is it?" said the squire, when he and his daughter were ensconced in the little sitting-room at the Sign of the Red Doe.

"Do you mind if I give you one of my real big hugs first?" said Kitty.

"To be sure not, alanna -- oh, acushla macree! it is like flowers in May to see you again."

"There! I am better now," said Kitty, after she had bestowed one of her most violent hugs upon her father. "Let me sit on your knee and I will tell you everything."

At the best it was a sad story, a story full of wrong-doing, full of impulse, full of passion; and although Kitty tried hard to make Elma's part of it as light as possible, the squire's eyes blazed and a thundering note came into his voice as he listened.

"That's a bad girl, Kitty," he cried; "and you ought to have nothing to do with her."

"But that's exactly it, father -- that's what I am coming to. If you won't let me have anything to do with Elma, why -- why, you must punish me terribly. I want you to let me -- to let me make Elma my real friend."

"That sort of girl your friend? Not if I know it," said the squire.

"But, please, father, do let me plead for her. I have done her injury, and she -- she has never had advantages like the rest of us."

Then Kitty began to coax, and few, very few people could coax like this Irish girl. Not only with her voice, but with her eyes, with a smile here and a frown there, she set herself to bring old Squire Malone to her way of thinking. And as always from the time she was a tiny child she had been able to twist this old lion round her little finger, so she twisted him now.

"You have got to do it, father," she said at last. "You have got to forgive Laurie, and you have got to forgive Elma, and --  -- "

"Bless the boy, it was just like his recklessness, Why didn't he come and tell me? He wasn't afraid of his old father, was he?"

"Well, father, you know you are very fierce when you like."

"Tut! tut! Kitty, don't you begin to scold."

"No; I won't -- not if you yield to me. Full and free forgiveness for the whole three of us; for your Kit --  -- "

"Bless you, child, I have forgiven you already."

"Ay, didn't I know it -- didn't I say he was a dear old thing? Now, Laurie -- you won't say a word to him?"

"I'll give him a right good scolding."

"Why, then, dad, your scolding never did anybody any harm; your bark is worse than your bite, you know; but there will be no school in England for him, that's what I mean."

"Well, it doesn't seem to have succeeded with you, asthore."

"No more it did. Why, it was breaking the heart in me entirely."

"So you want to come back with me again?"

"That I do, and never, never be a polished lady with manners to the longest day of my life."

"You want to be Wild Kitty still?"

"Wild, wild, the wildest of Kittys to the end of the chapter."

"And what will your aunts say?"

"Never mind; what you say is the important thing."

"It shall be as you please, Kit. I am sure I have missed you sore, very sore."

"And now, what about Elma?"

"Yes; what do you want me to do for her?"

"I want her to come back with me to Castle Malone for the rest of the summer."

"Oh, heart alive! child; but I don't think I could take to that sort of girl."

"Yes, you will, if I take to her. Now, dad, must I begin it all over again?"

"No, no; anything to please you, Kit."

"And at the end of the summer, as you have plenty of money, and as I am sure she has repented most bitterly will you send her to Girton?"

"Oh, come, come; I make no promises."

"But I know it is all right, and I am going to rush up to her and tell her everything. Oh, and here come Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick. You shall see them without me."

"I declare, upon my word, Kitty, you are the most extraordinary creature. How am I to face the good ladies?"

"Here they are, father. Please, Miss Sherrard, come in; father will see you, and Miss Worrick too."

Kitty flung open the door, and the head-mistress of Middleton School and her subordinate found it closed behind them. They had a short interview with Squire Malone -- very short. It ended by Miss Sherrard and the squire shaking hands most heartily.

"You did your best for her, and I am awfully obliged to you," said the squire. "But, after all, she is too wild for England; she had better stay in her own land."

"I believe you are right," said Miss Sherrard.

<eob>

The Cash Boy

By

Horatio Alger, Jr.



Chapter I

A Revelation


A group of boys was assembled in an open field to the west of the public schoolhouse in the town of Crawford. Most of them held hats in their hands, while two, stationed sixty feet distant from each other, were "having catch."

Tom Pinkerton, son of Deacon Pinkerton, had just returned from Brooklyn, and while there had witnessed a match game between two professional clubs. On his return he proposed that the boys of Crawford should establish a club, to be known as the Excelsior Club of Crawford, to play among themselves, and on suitable occasions to challenge clubs belonging to other villages. This proposal was received with instant approval.

"I move that Tom Pinkerton address the meeting," said one boy.

"Second the motion," said another.

As there was no chairman, James Briggs was appointed to that position, and put the motion, which was unanimously carried.

Tom Pinkerton, in his own estimation a personage of considerable importance, came forward in a consequential manner, and commenced as follows:

"Mr. Chairman and boys. You all know what has brought us together. We want to start a club for playing baseball, like the big clubs they have in Brooklyn and New York."

"How shall we do it?" asked Henry Scott.

"We must first appoint a captain of the club, who will have power to assign the members to their different positions. Of course you will want one that understands about these matters."

"He means himself," whispered Henry Scott, to his next neighbor; and here he was right.

"Is that all?" asked Sam Pomeroy.

"No; as there will be some expenses, there must be a treasurer to receive and take care of the funds, and we shall need a secretary to keep the records of the club, and write and answer challenges."

"Boys," said the chairman, "you have heard Tom Pinkerton's remarks. Those who are in favor of organizing a club on this plan will please signify it in the usual way."

All the boys raised their hands, and it was declared a vote.

"You will bring in your votes for captain," said the chairman.

Tom Pinkerton drew a little apart with a conscious look, as he supposed, of course, that no one but himself would be thought of as leader.

Slips of paper were passed around, and the boys began to prepare their ballots. They were brought to the chairman in a hat, and he forthwith took them out and began to count them.

"Boys," he announced, amid a universal stillness, "there is one vote for Sam Pomeroy, one for Eugene Morton, and the rest are for Frank Fowler, who is elected."

There was a clapping of hands, in which Tom Pinkerton did not join.

Frank Fowler, who is to be our hero, came forward a little, and spoke modestly as follows:

"Boys, I thank you for electing me captain of the club. I am afraid I am not very well qualified for the place, but I will do as well as I can."

The speaker was a boy of fourteen. He was of medium height for his age, strong and sturdy in build, and with a frank prepossessing countenance, and an open, cordial manner, which made him a general favorite. It was not, however, to his popularity that he owed his election, but to the fact that both at bat and in the field he excelled all the boys, and therefore was the best suited to take the lead.

The boys now proceeded to make choice of a treasurer and secretary. For the first position Tom Pinkerton received a majority of the votes. Though not popular, it was felt that some office was due him.

For secretary, Ike Stanton, who excelled in penmanship, was elected, and thus all the offices were filled.

The boys now crowded around Frank Fowler, with petitions for such places as they desired.

"I hope you will give me a little time before I decide about positions, boys," Frank said; "I want to consider a little."

"All right! Take till next week," said one and another, "and let us have a scrub game this afternoon."

The boys were in the middle of the sixth inning, when some one called out to Frank Fowler: "Frank, your sister is running across the field. I think she wants you."

Frank dropped his bat and hastened to meet his sister.

"What's the matter, Gracie?" he asked in alarm.

"Oh, Frank!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears. "Mother's been bleeding at the lungs, and she looks so white. I'm afraid she's very sick."

"Boys," said Frank, turning to his companions, "I must go home at once. You can get some one to take my place, my mother is very sick."

When Frank reached the little brown cottage which he called home, he found his mother in an exhausted state reclining on the bed.

"How do you feel, mother?" asked our hero, anxiously.

"Quite weak, Frank," she answered in a low voice. "I have had a severe attack."

"Let me go for the doctor, mother."

"I don't think it will be necessary, Frank. The attack is over, and I need no medicines, only time to bring back my strength."

But three days passed, and Mrs. Fowler's nervous prostration continued. She had attacks previously from which she rallied sooner, and her present weakness induced serious misgivings as to whether she would ever recover. Frank thought that her eyes followed him with more than ordinary anxiety, and after convincing himself that this was the case, he drew near his mother's bedside, and inquired:

"Mother, isn't there something you want me to do?"

"Nothing, I believe, Frank."

"I thought you looked at me as if you wanted to say something." "There is something I must say to you before I die."

"Before you die, mother!" echoed Frank, in a startled voice.

"Yes. Frank, I am beginning to think that this is my last sickness."

"But, mother, you have been so before, and got up again."

"There must always be a last time, Frank; and my strength is too far reduced to rally again, I fear."

"I can't bear the thought of losing you, mother," said Frank, deeply moved.

"You will miss me, then, Frank?" said Mrs. Fowler.

"Shall I not? Grace and I will be alone in the world."

"Alone in the world!" repeated the sick woman, sorrowfully, "with little help to hope for from man, for I shall leave you nothing. Poor children!"

"That isn't what I think of," said Frank, hastily.

"I can support myself."

"But Grace? She is a delicate girl," said the mother, anxiously. "She cannot make her way as you can."

"She won't need to," said Frank, promptly; "I shall take care of her."

"But you are very young even to support yourself. You are only fourteen."

"I know it, mother, but I am strong, and I am not afraid. There are a hundred ways of making a living."

"But do you realize that you will have to start with absolutely nothing? Deacon Pinkerton holds a mortgage on this house for all it will bring in the market, and I owe him arrears of interest besides."

"I didn't know that, mother, but it doesn't frighten me."

"And you will take care of Grace?"

"I promise it, mother."

"Suppose Grace were not your sister?" said the sick woman, anxiously scanning the face of the boy.

"What makes you suppose such a thing as that, mother? Of course she is my sister."

"But suppose she were not," persisted Mrs. Fowler, "you would not recall your promise?"

"No, surely not, for I love her. But why do you talk so, mother?" and a suspicion crossed Frank's mind that his mother's intellect might be wandering.

"It is time to tell you all, Frank. Sit down by the bedside, and I will gather my strength to tell you what must be told."

"Grace is not your sister, Frank!"

"Not my sister, mother?" he exclaimed. "You are not in earnest?"

"I am quite in earnest, Frank."

"Then whose child is she?"

"She is my child."

"Then she must be my sister -- are you not my mother?"

"No, Frank, I am not your mother!"



Chapter II

Mrs. Fowler's Story


"Not my mother!" he exclaimed. "Who, then, is my mother?"

"I cannot tell you, Frank. I never knew. You will forgive me for concealing this from you for so long."

"No matter who was my real mother since I have you. You have been a mother to me, and I shall always think of you as such."

"You make me happy, Frank, when you say that. And you will look upon Grace as a sister also, will you not?"

"Always," said the boy, emphatically. "Mother, will you tell all you know about me? I don't know what to think; now that I am not your son I cannot rest till I learn who I am."

"I can understand your feelings, Frank, but I must defer the explanation till to-morrow. I have fatigued myself with talking, but to-morrow you shall know all that I can tell you."

"Forgive me for not thinking of your being tired, mother," and he bent over and pressed his lips upon the cheek of the sick woman. "But don't talk any more. Wait till to-morrow."

In the afternoon Frank had a call from Sam Pomeroy.

"The club is to play to-morrow afternoon against a picked nine, Frank," he said. "Will you be there?"

"I can't, Sam," he answered. "My mother is very sick, and it is my duty to stay at home with her."

"We shall miss you -- that is, all of us but one. Tom Pinkerton said yesterday that you ought to resign, as you can't attend to your duties. He wouldn't object to filling your place, I fancy."

"He is welcome to the place as soon as the club feels like electing him," said Frank. "Tell the boys I am sorry I can't be on hand. They had better get you to fill my place."

"I'll mention it, but I don't think they'll see it in that light. They're all jealous of my superior playing," said Sam, humorously. "Well, good-bye, Frank. I hope your mother'll be better soon."

"Thank you, Sam," answered Frank, soberly. "I hope so, too, but she is very sick."

The next day Mrs. Fowler again called Frank to the bedside.

"Grace is gone out on an errand," she said, "and I can find no better time for telling you what I know about you and the circumstances which led to my assuming the charge of you."

"Are you strong enough, mother?"

"Yes, Frank. Thirteen years ago my husband and myself occupied a small tenement in that part of Brooklyn know as Gowanus, not far from Greenwood Cemetery. My husband was a carpenter, and though his wages were small he was generally employed. We had been married three years, but had no children of our own. Our expenses were small, and we got on comfortably, and should have continued to do so, but that Mr. Fowler met with an accident which partially disabled him. He fell from a high scaffold and broke his arm. This was set and he was soon able to work again, but he must also have met with some internal injury, for his full strength never returned. Half a day's work tired him more than a whole day's work formerly had done. Of course our income was very much diminished, and we were obliged to economize very closely. This preyed upon my husband's mind and seeing his anxiety, I set about considering how I could help him, and earn my share of the expenses.

"One day in looking over the advertising columns of a New York paper I saw the following advertisement:

"'For adoption -- A healthy male infant. The parents are able to pay liberally for the child's maintenance, but circumstances compel them to delegate the care to another. Address for interview A. M.'

"I had no sooner read this advertisement than I felt that it was just what I wanted. A liberal compensation was promised, and under our present circumstances would be welcome, as it was urgently needed. I mentioned the matter to my husband, and he was finally induced to give his consent.

"Accordingly, I replied to the advertisement.

"Three days passed in which I heard nothing from it. But as we were sitting at the supper table at six o'clock one afternoon, there came a knock at our front door. I opened it, and saw before me a tall stranger, a man of about thirty-five, of dark complexion, and dark whiskers. He was well dressed, and evidently a gentleman in station.

"'Is this Mrs. Fowler?' he asked.

"'Yes, sir,' I answered, in some surprise

"'Then may I beg permission to enter your house for a few minutes? I have something to say to you.'

"Still wondering, I led the way into the sitting-room, where your father -- where Mr. Fowler --  -- "

"Call him my father -- I know no other," said Frank.

"Where your father was seated.

"'You have answered an advertisement,' said the stranger.

"'Yes, sir,' I replied.

"'I am A. M.,' was his next announcement. 'Of course I have received many letters, but on the whole I was led to consider yours most favorably. I have made inquiries about you in the neighborhood, and the answers have been satisfactory. You have no children of your own?'

"'No, sir.'

"'All the better. You would be able to give more attention to this child.'

"'Is it yours, sir?' I asked

"'Ye-es,' he answered, with hesitation. 'Circumstances,' he continued, 'circumstances which I need not state, compel me to separate from it. Five hundred dollars a year will be paid for its maintenance.'

"Five hundred dollars! I heard this with joy, for it was considerably more than my husband was able to earn since his accident. It would make us comfortable at once, and your father might work when he pleased, without feeling any anxiety about our coming to want.

"'Will that sum be satisfactory?' asked the stranger.

"'It is very liberal,' I answered.

"'I intended it to be so,' he said. 'Since there is no difficulty on this score, I am inclined to trust you with the care of the child. But I must make two conditions.'

"'What are they, sir?'

"'In the first place, you must not try to find out the friends of the child. They do not desire to be known. Another thing, you must move from Brooklyn.'

"'Move from Brooklyn?' I repeated.

"'Yes,' he answered, firmly. 'I do not think it necessary to give you a reason for this condition. Enough that it is imperative. If you decline, our negotiations are at an end.'

"I looked at my husband. He seemed as much surprised as I was.

"'Perhaps you will wish to consult together,' suggested our visitor. 'If so, I can give you twenty minutes. I will remain in this room while you go out and talk it over.'

"We acted on this hint, and went into the kitchen. We decided that though we should prefer to live in Brooklyn, it would be worth our while to make the sacrifice for the sake of the addition to our income. We came in at the end of ten minutes, and announced our decision. Our visitor seemed to be very much pleased.

"'Where would you wish us to move?' asked your father.

"'I do not care to designate any particular place. I should prefer some small country town, from fifty to a hundred miles distant. I suppose you will be able to move soon?'

"'Yes, sir; we will make it a point to do so. How soon will the child be placed in our hands? Shall we send for it?'

"'No, no,' he said, hastily. 'I cannot tell you exactly when, but it will be brought here probably in the course of a day or two. I myself shall bring it, and if at that time you wish to say anything additional you can do so.'

"He went away, leaving us surprised and somewhat excited at the change that was to take place in our lives. The next evening the sound of wheels was heard, and a hack stopped at our gate. The same gentleman descended hurriedly with a child in his arms -- you were the child, Frank -- and entered the house.

"'This is the child,' he said, placing it in my arms, 'and here is the first quarterly installment of your pay. Three months hence you will receive the same sum from my agent in New York. Here is his address,' and he placed a card in my hands. 'Have you anything to ask?'

"'Suppose I wish to communicate with you respecting the child? Suppose he is sick?'

"'Then write to A. M., care of Giles Warner, No.  --  --  Nassau Street. By the way, it will be necessary for you to send him your postoffice address after your removal in order that he may send you your quarterly dues.'

"With this he left us, entered the hack, and drove off. I have never seen him since."



Chapter III

Left Alone

Frank listened to this revelation with wonder. For the first time in his life he asked himself, "Who am I?"

"How came I by my name, mother?" he asked.

"I must tell you. After the sudden departure of the gentleman who brought you, we happened to think that we had not asked your name. We accordingly wrote to the address which had been given us, making the inquiry. In return we received a slip of paper containing these words: 'The name is immaterial; give him any name you please. A. M.'"

"You gave me the name of Frank."

"It was Mr. Fowler's name. We should have given it to you had you been our own boy; as the choice was left to us, we selected that."

"It suits me as well as any other. How soon did you leave Brooklyn, mother?"

"In a week we had made all arrangements, and removed to this place. It is a small place, but it furnished as much work as my husband felt able to do. With the help of the allowance for your support, we not only got on comfortably, but saved up a hundred and fifty dollars annually, which we deposited in a savings bank. But after five years the money stopped coming. It was the year 1857, the year of the great panic, and among others who failed was Giles Warner's agent, from whom we received our payments. Mr. Fowler went to New York to inquire about it, but only learned that Mr. Warner, weighed down by his troubles, had committed suicide, leaving no clew to the name of the man who left you with us."

"How long ago was that, mother?"

"Seven years ago nearly eight."

"And you continued to keep me, though the payments stopped."

"Certainly; you were as dear to us as our own child -- for we now had a child of our own -- Grace. We should as soon have thought of casting off her as you."

"But you must have been poor, mother."

"We were economical, and we got along till your father died three years ago. Since then it has been hard work."

"You have had a hard time, mother."

"No harder on your account. You have been a great comfort to me, Frank. I am only anxious for the future. I fear you and Grace will suffer after I am gone."

"Don't fear, mother, I am young and strong; I am not afraid to face the world with God's help."

"What are you thinking of, Frank?" asked Mrs. Fowler, noticing the boy's fixed look.

"Mother," he said, earnestly, "I mean to seek for that man you have told me of. I want to find out who I am. Do you think he was my father?"

"He said he was, but I do not believe it. He spoke with hesitation, and said this to deceive us, probably."

"I am glad you think so, I would not like to think him my father. From what you have told me of him I am sure I would not like him."

"He must be nearly fifty now -- dark complexion, with dark hair and whiskers. I am afraid that description will not help you any. There are many men who look like that. I should know him by his expression, but I cannot describe that to you."

Here Mrs. Fowler was seized with a very severe fit of coughing, and Frank begged her to say no more.

Two days later, and Mrs. Fowler was no better. She was rapidly failing, and no hope was entertained that she would rally. She herself felt that death was near at hand and told Frank so, but he found it hard to believe.

On the second of the two days, as he was returning from the village store with an orange for his mother, he was overtaken by Sam Pomeroy.

"Is your mother very sick, Frank?" he asked.

"Yes, Sam, I'm afraid she won't live."

"Is it so bad as that? I do believe," he added, with a sudden change of tone, "Tom Pinkerton is the meanest boy I ever knew. He is trying to get your place as captain of the baseball club. He says that if your mother doesn't live, you will have to go to the poorhouse, for you won't have any money, and that it will be a disgrace for the club to have a captain from the poorhouse."

"Did he say that?" asked Frank, indignantly.

"Yes."

"When he tells you that, you may say that I shall never go to the poorhouse."

"He says his father is going to put you and your sister there."

"All the Deacon Pinkertons in the world can never make me go to the poorhouse!" said Frank, resolutely.

"Bully for you, Frank! I knew you had spunk."

Frank hurried home. As he entered the little house a neighbor's wife, who had been watching with his mother, came to meet him.

"Frank," she said, gravely, "you must prepare yourself for sad news. While you were out your mother had another hemorrhage, and -- and -- "

"Is she dead?" asked the boy, his face very pale.

"She is dead!"



Chapter IV

The Town Autocrat


"The Widder Fowler is dead," remarked Deacon Pinkerton, at the supper table. "She died this afternoon."

"I suppose she won't leave anything," said Mrs. Pinkerton.

"No. I hold a mortgage on her furniture, and that is all she has."

"What will become of the children?"

"As I observed, day before yesterday, they will be constrained to find a refuge in the poorhouse."

"What do you think Sam Pomeroy told me, father?"

"I am not able to conjecture what Samuel would be likely to observe, my son."

"He observed that Frank Fowler said he wouldn't go to the poorhouse."

"Ahem!" coughed the deacon. "The boy will not be consulted."

"That's what I say, father," said Tom, who desired to obtain his father's co-operation. "You'll make him go to the poorhouse, won't you?"

"I shall undoubtedly exercise my authority, if it should be necessary, my son."

"He told Sam Pomeroy that all the Deacon Pinkertons in the world couldn't make him go to the poorhouse."

"I will constrain him," said the deacon.

"I would if I were you, father," said Tom, elated at the effect of his words. "Just teach him a lesson."

"Really, deacon, you mustn't be too hard upon the poor boy," said his better-hearted wife. "He's got trouble enough on him."

"I will only constrain him for his good, Jane. In the poorhouse he will be well provided for."

Meanwhile another conversation respecting our hero and his fortunes was held at Sam Pomeroy's home. It was not as handsome as the deacon's, for Mr. Pomeroy was a poor man, but it was a happy one, nevertheless, and Mr. Pomeroy, limited as were his means, was far more liberal than the deacon.

"I pity Frank Fowler," said Sam, who was warm-hearted and sympathetic, and a strong friend of Frank. "I don't know what he will do."

"I suppose his mother left nothing."

"I understood," said Mr. Pomeroy, "that Deacon Pinkerton holds a mortgage on her furniture."

"The deacon wants to send Frank and his sister to the poorhouse."

"That would be a pity."

"I should think so; but Frank positively says he won't go."

"I am afraid there isn't anything else for him. To be sure, he may get a chance to work in a shop or on a farm, but Grace can't support herself."

"Father, I want to ask you a favor."

"What is it, Sam?"

"Won't you invite Frank and his sister to come and stay here a week?"

"Just as your mother says."

"I say yes. The poor children will be quite welcome. If we were rich enough they might stay with us all the time."

"When Frank comes here I will talk over his affairs with him," said Mr. Pomeroy. "Perhaps we can think of some plan for him."

"I wish you could, father."

"In the meantime, you can invite him and Grace to come and stay with us a week, or a fortnight. Shall we say a fortnight, wife?"

"With all my heart."

"All right, father. Thank you."

Sam delivered the invitation in a way that showed how strongly his own feelings were enlisted in favor of its acceptance. Frank grasped his hand.

"Thank you, Sam, you are a true friend," he said.

"I hadn't begun to think of what we were to do, Grace and I."

"You'll come, won't you?"

"You are sure that it won't trouble your mother, Sam?"

"She is anxious to have you come."

"Then I'll come. I haven't formed any plans yet, but I must as soon -- as soon as mother is buried. I think I can earn my living somehow. One thing I am determined about -- I won't go to the poorhouse."

The funeral was over. Frank and Grace walked back to the little house, now their home no longer. They were to pack up a little bundle of clothes and go over to Mr. Pomeroy's in time for supper.

When Frank had made up his bundle, urged by some impulse, he opened a drawer in his mother's bureau. His mind was full of the story she had told him, and he thought it just possible that he might find something to throw additional light upon his past history. While exploring the contents of the drawer he came to a letter directed to him in his mother's well-known handwriting. He opened it hastily, and with a feeling of solemnity, read as follows:


"My Dear Frank: In the lower drawer, wrapped in a piece of brown paper, you will find two gold eagles, worth twenty dollars. You will need them when I am gone. Use them for Grace and yourself. I saved these for my children. Take them, Frank, for I have nothing else to give you. The furniture will pay the debt I owe Deacon Pinkerton. There ought to be something over, but I think he will take all. I wish I had more to leave you, dear Frank, but the God of the Fatherless will watch over you -- to Him I commit you and Grace.

"Your affectionate mother,

"Ruth Fowler."


Frank, following the instructions of the letter, found the gold pieces and put them carefully into his pocketbook. He did not mention the letter to Grace at present, for he knew not but Deacon Pinkerton might lay claim to the money to satisfy his debt if he knew it.

"I am ready, Frank," said Grace, entering the room. "Shall we go?"

"Yes, Grace. There is no use in stopping here any longer."

As he spoke he heard the outer door open, and a minute later Deacon Pinkerton entered the room.

None of the deacon's pompousness was abated as he entered the house and the room.

"Will you take a seat?" said our hero, with the air of master of the house.

"I intended to," said the deacon, not acknowledging his claim. "So your poor mother is gone?"

"Yes, sir," said Frank, briefly.

"We must all die," said the deacon, feeling that it was incumbent on him to say something religious. "Ahem! your mother died poor? She left no property?"

"It was not her fault."

"Of course not. Did she mention that I had advanced her money on the furniture?"

"My mother told me all about it, sir."

"Ahem! You are in a sad condition. But you will be taken care of. You ought to be thankful that there is a home provided for those who have no means."

"What home do you refer to, Deacon Pinkerton?" asked Frank, looking steadily in the face of his visitor.

"I mean the poorhouse, which the town generously provides for those who cannot support themselves."

This was the first intimation Grace had received of the possibility that they would be sent to such a home, and it frightened her.

"Oh, Frank!" she exclaimed, "must we go to the poorhouse?"

"No, Grace; don't be frightened," said Frank, soothingly. "We will not go."

"Frank Fowler," said the deacon, sternly, "cease to mislead your sister."

"I am not misleading her, sir."

"Did you not tell her that she would not be obliged to go to the poorhouse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then what do you mean by resisting my authority?"

"You have no authority over us. We are not paupers," and Frank lifted his head proudly, and looked steadily in the face of the deacon.

"You are paupers, whether you admit it or not."

"We are not," said the boy, indignantly.

"Where is your money? Where is your property?"

"Here, sir," said our hero, holding out his hands.

"I have two strong hands, and they will help me make a living for my sister and myself."

"May I ask whether you expect to live here and use my furniture?"

"I do not intend to, sir. I shall ask no favors of you, neither for Grace nor myself. I am going to leave the house. I only came back to get a few clothes. Mr. Pomeroy has invited Grace and me to stay at his house for a few days. I haven't decided what I shall do afterward."

"You will have to go to the poorhouse, then. I have no objection to your making this visit first. It will be a saving to the town."

"Then, sir, we will bid you good-day. Grace, let us go."



Chapter V

A Little Misunderstanding


"Have you carried Frank Fowler to the poorhouse?" asked Tom Pinkerton, eagerly, on his father's return.

"No," said the deacon, "he is going to make a visit at Mr. Pomeroy's first."

"I shouldn't think you would have let him make a visit," said Tom, discontentedly. "I should think you would have taken him to the poorhouse right off."

"I feel it my duty to save the town unnecessary expense," said Deacon Pinkerton.

So Tom was compelled to rest satisfied with his father's assurance that the removal was only deferred.

Meanwhile Frank and Grace received a cordial welcome at the house of Mr. Pomeroy. Sam and Frank were intimate friends, and our hero had been in the habit of calling frequently, and it seemed homelike.

"I wish you could stay with us all the time, Frank -- you and Grace," said Sam one evening.

"We should all like it," said Mr. Pomeroy, "but we cannot always have what we want. If I had it in my power to offer Frank any employment which it would be worth his while to follow, it might do. But he has got his way to make in the world. Have you formed any plans yet, Frank?"

"That is what I want to consult you about, Mr. Pomeroy."

"I will give you the best advice I can, Frank. I suppose you do not mean to stay in the village."

"No, sir. There is nothing for me to do here. I must go somewhere where I can make a living for Grace and myself."

"You've got a hard row to hoe, Frank," said Mr. Pomeroy, thoughtfully. "Have you decided where to go?"

"Yes, sir. I shall go to New York."

"What! To the city?"

"Yes, sir. I'll get something to do, no matter what it is."

"But how are you going to live in the meantime?"

"I've got a little money."

"That won't last long."

"I know it, but I shall soon get work, if it is only to black boots in the streets."

"With that spirit, Frank, you will stand a fair chance to succeed. What do you mean to do with Grace?"

"I will take her with me."

"I can think of a better plan. Leave her here till you have found something to do. Then send for her."

"But if I leave her here Deacon Pinkerton will want to put her in the poorhouse. I can't bear to have Grace go there."

"She need not. She can stay here with me for three months."

"Will you let me pay her board?"

"I can afford to give her board for three months."

"You are very kind, Mr. Pomeroy, but it wouldn't be right for me to accept your kindness. It is my duty to take care of Grace."

"I honor your independence, Frank. It shall be as you say. When you are able -- mind, not till then -- you may pay me at the rate of two dollars a week for Grace's board."

"Then," said Frank, "if you are willing to board Grace for a while, I think I had better go to the city at once."

"I will look over your clothes to-morrow, Frank," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "and see if they need mending."

"Then I will start Thursday morning -- the day after."

About four o'clock the next afternoon he was walking up the main street, when just in front of Deacon Pinkerton's house he saw Tom leaning against a tree.

"How are you Tom?" he said, and was about to pass on.

"Where are you going?" Tom asked abruptly.

"To Mr. Pomeroy's."

"How soon are you going to the poorhouse to live?"

"Who told you I was going?"

"My father."

"Then your father's mistaken."

"Ain't you a pauper?" said Tom, insolently. "You haven't got any money."

"I have got hands to earn money, and I am going to try."

"Anyway, I advise you to resign as captain of the baseball club."

"Why?"

"Because if you don't you'll be kicked out. Do you think the fellows will be willing to have a pauper for their captain?"

"That's the second time you have called me a pauper. Don't call me so again."

"You are a pauper and you know it."

Frank was not a quarrelsome boy, but this repeated insult was too much for him. He seized Tom by the collar, and tripping him up left him on the ground howling with rage. As valor was not his strong point, he resolved to be revenged upon Frank vicariously. He was unable to report the case to his father till the next morning, as the deacon did not return from a neighboring village, whither he had gone on business, till late, but the result of his communication was a call at Mr. Pomeroy's from the deacon at nine o'clock the next morning. Had he found Frank, it was his intention, at Tom's request, to take him at once to the poorhouse. But he was too late. Our hero was already on his way to New York.



Chapter VI

Frank Gets A Place


"So this is New York," said Frank to himself, as he emerged from the railway station and looked about him with interest and curiosity.

"Black yer boots? Shine?" asked a bootblack, seeing our hero standing still.

Frank looked at his shoes. They were dirty, without doubt, but he would not have felt disposed to be so extravagant, considering his limited resources, had he not felt it necessary to obtain some information about the city.

"Yes," he said, "you may black them."

The boy was on his knees instantly and at work.

"How much do you make in a day?" asked Frank.

"When it's a good day I make a dollar."

"That's pretty good," said Frank.

"Can you show me the way to Broadway?"

"Go straight ahead."

Our hero paid for his shine and started in the direction indicated.

Frank's plans, so far as he had any, were to get into a store. He knew that Broadway was the principal business street in the city, and this was about all he did know about it.

He reached the great thoroughfare in a few minutes, and was fortunate enough to find on the window of the corner store the sign:

"A Boy Wanted."

He entered at once, and going up to the counter, addressed a young man, who was putting up goods.

"Do you want a boy?"

"I believe the boss wants one; I don't. Go out to that desk."

Frank found the desk, and propounded the same question to a sandy-whiskered man, who looked up from his writing.

"You're prompt," he said. "That notice was only put out two minutes ago."

"I only saw it one minute ago."

"So you want the place, do you?"

"I should like it."

"Do you know your way about the city?"

"No, sir, but I could soon find out."

"That won't do. I shall have plenty of applications from boys who live in the city and are familiar with the streets."

Frank left the store rather discomfited.

He soon came to another store where there was a similar notice of "A Boy Wanted." It was a dry goods store.

"Do you live with your parents?" was asked.

"My parents are dead," said Frank, sadly.

"Very sorry, but we can't take you."

"Why not, sir?"

"In case you took anything we should make your parents responsible."

"I shouldn't take anything," said Frank, indignantly.

"You might; I can't take you."

Our hero left this store a little disheartened by his second rebuff.

He made several more fruitless applications, but did not lose courage wholly. He was gaining an appetite, however. It is not surprising therefore, that his attention was drawn to the bills of a restaurant on the opposite side of the street. He crossed over, and standing outside, began to examine them to see what was the scale of prices. While in this position he was suddenly aroused by a slap on the back.

Turning he met the gaze of a young man of about thirty, who was smiling quite cordially.

"Why, Frank, my boy, how are you?" he said, offering his hand.

"Pretty well, thank you," said our hero bewildered, for he had no recollection of the man who had called him by name.

The other smiled a little more broadly, and thought:

"It was a lucky guess; his name is Frank."

"I am delighted to hear it," he continued. "When did you reach the city?"

"This morning," said the unsuspecting Frank.

"Well, it's queer I happened to meet you so soon, isn't it? Going to stay long?"

"I shall, if I can get a place."

"Perhaps I can help you."

"I suppose I ought to remember you," ventured our hero, "but I can't think of your name."

"Jasper Wheelock. You don't mean to say you don't remember me? Perhaps it isn't strange, as we only met once or twice in your country home. But that doesn't matter. I'm just as ready to help you. By the way, have you dined?"

"No."

"No more have I. Come in and dine with me."

"What'll you take?" asked Jasper Wheelock, passing the bill of fare to Frank.

"I think I should like to have some roast beef," said Frank.

"That will suit me. Here, waiter, two plates of roast beef, and two cups of coffee."

"How are they all at home?" asked Jasper.

"My mother has just died."

"You don't say so," said Jasper, sympathetically.

"My sister is well."

"I forgot your sister's name."

"Grace."

"Of course -- Grace. I find it hard to remember names. The fact is, I have been trying to recall your last name, but it's gone from me."

"Fowler."

"To be sure Frank Fowler. How could I be so forgetful."

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the coffee and roast beet, which both he and his new friend attacked with vigor.

"What kind of pudding will you have?" asked the stranger.

"Apple dumpling," said Frank.

"That suits me. Apple dumpling for two."

In due time the apple dumpling was disposed of, and two checks were brought, amounting to seventy cents.

"I'll pay for both," said Jasper. "No thanks. We are old acquaintances, you know."

He put his hand into his pocket, and quickly withdrew it with an exclamation of surprise:

"Well, if that isn't a good joke," he said. "I've left my money at home. I remember now, I left it in the pocket of my other coat. I shall have to borrow the money of you. You may as well hand me a dollar!"

Frank was not disposed to be suspicious, but the request for money made him uneasy. Still there seemed no way of refusing, and he reluctantly drew out the money.

His companion settled the bill and then led the way into the street.

Jasper Wheelock was not very scrupulous; he was quite capable of borrowing money, without intending to return it; but he had his good side.

"Frank," said he, as they found themselves in the street, "you have done me a favor, and I am going to help you in return. Have you got very much money?"

"No. I had twenty dollars when I left home, but I had to pay my fare in the cars and the dinner, I have seventeen dollars and a half left."

"Then it is necessary for you to get a place as soon as possible."

"Yes; I have a sister to support; Grace, you know."

"No, I don't know. The fact is, Frank, I have been imposing upon you. I never saw you before in the whole course of my life."

"What made you say you knew me?"

"I wanted to get a dinner out of you. Don't be troubled, though; I'll pay back the money. I've been out of a place for three or four weeks, but I enter upon one the first of next week. For the rest of the week I've got nothing to do, and I will try to get you a place.

"The first thing is to get a room somewhere. I'll tell you what, you may have part of my room."

"Is it expensive?"

"No; I pay a dollar and a half a week. I think the old lady won't charge more than fifty cents extra for you."

"Then my share would be a dollar."

"You may pay only fifty cents. I'll keep on paying what I do now. My room is on Sixth Avenue." They had some distance to walk. Finally Jasper halted before a baker's shop.

"It's over this," he said.

He drew out a latch-key and entered.

"This is my den," he said. "It isn't large you can't get any better for the money."

"I shall have to be satisfied," said Frank. "I want to get along as cheap as I can."

"I've got to economize myself for a short time. After this week I shall earn fifteen dollars a week."

"What business are you in, Mr. Wheelock?"

"I am a journeyman printer. It is a very good business, and I generally have steady work. I expect to have after I get started again. Now, shall I give you some advice?"

"I wish you would."

"You don't know your way around New York. I believe I have a map somewhere. I'll just show you on it the position of the principal streets, and that will give you a clearer idea of where we go."

The map was found and Jasper explained to Frank the leading topographical features of the Island City.

One thing only was wanting now to make him contented, and this was employment. But it was too late to make any further inquiries.

"I've been thinking, Frank," said Jasper, the next morning, "that you might get the position as a cash-boy."

"What does a cash-boy do?"

"In large retail establishments every salesman keeps a book in which his sales are entered. He does not himself make change, for it would not do to have so many having access to the money-drawer. The money is carried to the cashier's desk by boys employed for the purpose, who return with the change."

"Do you think I can get a situation as cash-boy?"

"I will try at Gilbert & Mack's. I know one of the principal salesmen. If there is a vacancy he will get it for you to oblige me."

They entered a large retail store on Broadway. It was broad and spacious. Twenty salesmen stood behind the counter, and boys were running this way and that with small books in their hands.

"How are you, Duncan?" said Jasper.

The person addressed was about Jasper Wheelock's age. He had a keen, energetic look and manner, and would be readily singled out as one of the leading clerks.

"All right, Wheelock. How are you?" he responded. "Do you want anything in our line?"

"No goods; I want a place for this youngster. He's a friend of mine. I'll answer for his good character."

"That will be satisfactory. But what sort of a place does he want?"

"He is ready to begin as cash-boy."

"Then we can oblige you, as one of our boys has fallen sick, and we have not supplied his place. I'll speak to Mr. Gilbert."

He went up to Mr. Gilbert, a portly man in the back part of the store. Mr. Gilbert seemed to be asking two or three questions. Frank waited the result in suspense, dreading another disappointment, but this time he was fortunate.

"The boy can stay," reported Duncan. "His wages are three dollars a week."

It was not much, but Frank was well pleased to feel that at last he had a place in the city.

He wrote a letter to Grace in the evening, announcing his success, and expressing the hope that he would soon be able to send for her.



Chapter VII

The Cash Boy Has An Adventure


Four weeks passed. The duties of a cash-boy are simple enough, and Frank had no difficulty in discharging them satisfactorily. At first he found it tiresome, being on his feet all day, for the cash-boys were not allowed to sit down, but he got used to this, being young and strong.

All this was very satisfactory, but one thing gave Frank uneasiness. His income was very inadequate to his wants.

"What makes you so glum, Frank?" asked Jasper Wheelock one evening.

"Do I look glum?" said Frank. "I was only thinking how I could earn more money. You know how little I get. I can hardly take care of myself, much less take care of Grace."

"I can lend you some money, Frank. Thanks to your good advice, I have got some laid up."

"Thank you, Jasper, but that wouldn't help matters. I should owe you the money, and I don't know how I could pay you."

"About increasing your income, I really don't know," said Jasper. "I am afraid Gilbert & Mack wouldn't raise your wages."

"I don't expect it. All the rest of the cash-boys would ask the same thing."

"True; still I know they are very well pleased with you. Duncan told me you did more work than any of the rest of the boys."

"I try to do all I can."

"He said you would make a good salesman, he thought. Of course you are too young for that yet."

"I suppose I am."

"Frank, I am earning fifteen dollars a week, you know, and I can get along on ten, but of the five I save let me give you two. I shall never feel it, and by and by when you are promoted it won't be necessary."

"Jasper, you are a true friend," said Frank, warmly; "but it wouldn't be right for me to accept your kind offer, though I shan't forget it. You have been a good friend to me."

"And you to me, Frank. I'll look out for you. Perhaps I may hear of something for you."

Small as Frank's income was, he had managed to live within it. It will be remembered that he had paid but fifty cents a week for a room. By great economy he had made his meals cost but two dollars a week, so that out of his three dollars he saved fifty cents. But this saving would not be sufficient to pay for his clothes. However, he had had no occasion to buy any as yet, and his little fund altogether amounted to twenty dollars. Of this sum he inclosed {sic} eight dollars to Mr. Pomeroy to pay for four weeks' board for Grace.

"I hope I shall be able to keep it up," he said to himself, thoughtfully. "At any rate, I've got enough to pay for six weeks more. Before that time something may turn up."

Several days passed without showing Frank any way by which he could increase his income. Jasper again offered to give him two dollars a week out of his own wages, but this our hero steadily refused.

One Friday evening, just as the store was about to close, the head salesman called Frank to him.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"In Sixth avenue, near Twenty-fifth street."

"There's a bundle to go to Forty-sixth street. I'll pay your fare upon the stage if you'll carry it. I promised to send it to-night, and I don't like to disappoint the lady."

"I can carry it just as well as not."

Frank took the bundle, and got on board a passing omnibus. There was just one seat vacant beside an old gentleman of seventy, who appeared to be quite feeble.

At Forty-fifth street he pulled the strap and prepared to descend, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so. By some mischance the horses started a little too soon and the old man, losing his footing, fell in the street. Frank observed the accident and sprang out instantly to his help.

"I hope you are not much hurt, sir?" he said, hastily.

"I have hurt my knee," said the old gentleman.

"Let me assist you, sir," said Frank, helping him up.

"Thank you, my boy. I live at number forty-five, close by. If you will lead me to the door and into the house I shall be much indebted to you."

"Certainly, sir. It is no trouble to me."

With slow step, supported by our hero, the old gentleman walked to his own door.

It was opened by a maid servant, who looked with some surprise at Frank.

"I fell, Mary," explained her master, "and this young gentleman has kindly helped me home."

"Did you hurt yourself much, sir?"

"Not seriously."

"Can I do anything more for you, sir?" asked Frank.

"Come in a moment."

Our hero followed his new acquaintance into a handsomely furnished parlor.

"Now, my young friend tell me if you have been taken out of your way by your attention to me?"

"Oh, no, sir; I intended to get out at the next street."

"My dinner is just ready. Won't you stop and dine with me?"

"Thank you, sir," he said, hesitatingly, "but I promised to carry this bundle. I believe it is wanted at once."

"So you shall. You say the house is in the next street. You can go and return in five minutes. You have done me a service, and I may have it in my power to do something for you in return."

"Perhaps," thought Frank, "he can help me to some employment for my evenings." Then, aloud:

"Thank you, sir; I will come."

Five minutes later Frank was ushered into a handsome dining-room. The dinner was already on the table, but chairs were only set for three. The one at the head of the table was of course occupied by the old gentleman, the one opposite by Mrs. Bradley, his housekeeper, and one at the side was placed for Frank.

"Mrs. Bradley," said the old gentleman, "this is a young gentleman who was kind enough to help me home after the accident of which I just spoke to you. I would mention his name, but I must leave that to him."

"Frank Fowler, sir."

"And my name is Wharton. Now that we are all introduced, we can talk more freely."

"Will you have some soup, Mr. Fowler?" asked the housekeeper.

She was a tall thin woman, with a reserved manner that was somewhat repellant. She had only nodded slightly at the introduction, fixing her eyes coldly and searchingly on the face of our hero. It was evident that whatever impression the service rendered might have made upon the mind of Mr. Wharton, it was not calculated to warm the housekeeper to cordiality.

"Thank you," he answered, but he could not help feeling at the same time that Mrs. Bradley was not a very agreeable woman.

"You ought to have a good appetite," said Mr. Wharton. "You have to work hard during the day. Our young friend is a cash-boy at Gilbert & Mack's, Mrs. Bradley.

"Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Bradley, arching her brows as much as to say: "You have invited strange company to dinner."

"Do your parents live in the city, Frank -- I believe your name is Frank?"

"No, sir; they are dead. My mother died only a few weeks since."

"And have you no brothers and sisters?"

"I have one sister -- Grace."

"I suppose she is in the city here with you?"

"No, sir. I left her in the country. I am here alone."

"I will ask you more about yourself after dinner. If you have no engagement, I should like to have you stay with me a part of the evening."

"Thank you, sir."

Frank accepted the invitation, though he knew Jasper would wonder what had become of him. He saw that the old gentleman was kindly disposed toward him, and in his present circumstances he needed such a friend.

But in proportion as Mr. Wharton became more cordial, Mrs. Bradley became more frosty, until at last the old gentleman noticed her manner.

"Don't you feel well this evening, Mrs Bradley?" he asked.

"I have a little headache," said the housekeeper, coldly.

"You had better do something for it."

"It will pass away of itself, sir."

They arose from the dinner table, and Mr. Wharton, followed by Frank, ascended the staircase to the front room on the second floor, which was handsomely fitted up as a library.

"What makes him take such notice of a mere cash-boy?" said Mrs. Bradley to herself. "That boy reminds me of somebody. Who is it?"



Chapter VIII

An Unexpected Engagement


"Take a seat, Frank," said Mr. Wharton, pointing to a luxurious armchair on one side of the cheerful grate fire; "I will take the other, and you shall tell me all about yourself."

"Thank you, sir," said our hero.

His confidence was won by Mr. Wharton's kind tone, and he briefly recounted his story.

At the conclusion, Mr. Wharton said:

"How old are you, Frank?"

"Fourteen, sir."

"You are a brave boy, and a good boy, and you deserve success."

"Thank you, sir."

"But I am bound to say that you have a hard task before you."

"I know it, sir."

"Why not let your sister go to the poorhouse for a few years, till you are older, and better able to provide for her?"

"I should be ashamed to do it, sir," he said. "I promised my mother to take care of Grace, and I will."

"How much do you earn as a cash-boy?"

"Three dollars a week."

"Only three dollars a week! Why, that won't pay your own expenses!" said the old gentleman in surprise.

"Yes, sir, it does. I pay fifty cents a week for my room, and my meals don't cost me much."

"But you will want clothes."

"I have enough for the present, and I am laying up fifty cents a week to buy more when I need them."

"You can't buy many for twenty-six dollars a year. But that doesn't allow anything for your sister's expenses."

"That is what puzzles me, sir," said Frank, fixing a troubled glance upon the fire. "I shall have to work in the evenings for Grace."

"What can you do?"

"I could copy, but I suppose there isn't much chance of getting copying to do."

"Then you have a good handwriting?"

"Pretty fair, sir."

"Let me see a specimen. There are pen and ink on the table, and here is a sheet of paper."

Frank seated himself at the table, and wrote his name on the paper.

"Very good," said his host, approvingly. "Your hand is good enough for a copyist, but you are correct in supposing that work of that kind is hard to get. Are you a good reader?"

"Do you mean in reading aloud, sir?"

"Yes."

"I will try, if you wish."

"Take a book from the table -- any book -- and let me hear you read."

Frank opened the first book that came to hand -- one of Irving's and read in a clear, unembarrassed voice about half a page.

"Very good indeed!" said Mr. Wharton. "You have been well taught. Where did you attend school?"

"Only in the town school, sir."

"You have, at any rate, made good use of your advantages."

"But will it do me any good, sir?" asked Frank.

"People are not paid for reading, are they?"

"Not in general, but we will suppose the case of a person whose eyes are weak, and likely to be badly affected by evening use. Then suppose such a person could secure the services of a good, clear, distinct reader, don't you think he would be willing to pay something?"

"I suppose so. Do you know of any such person?" asked Frank.

"I am describing myself, Frank. A year since I strained my eyes very severely, and have never dared to use them much since by gaslight. Mrs. Bradley, my housekeeper, has read to me some, but she has other duties, and I don't think she enjoys it very much. Now, why shouldn't I get you to read to me in the evening when you are not otherwise employed?"

"I wish you would, Mr. Wharton," said Frank, eagerly. "I would do my best."

"I have no doubt of that, but there is another question -- perhaps you might ask a higher salary than I could afford to pay."

"Would a dollar a week be too much?" asked Frank.

"I don't think I could complain of that," said Mr. Wharton, gravely. "Very well, I will engage you as my reader."

"Thank you, sir."

"But about the pay; I have made up my mind to pay you five dollars a week."

"Five dollars a week!" Frank repeated. "It is much more than my services will be worth sir."

"Let me judge of that, Frank."

"I don't know how to thank you, sir," said Frank, gratefully. "I never expected to be so rich. I shall have no trouble in paying for Grace's board and clothes now. When do you want me to begin reading to you?"

"You may as well begin to-night -- that is, unless you have some other engagement."

"Oh, no, sir, I have nothing else to do."

"Take the Evening Post, then, and read me the leading editorial. Afterward, I will tell you what to read."

Frank had been reading about half an hour, when a knock was heard at the door.

"Come in," said Mr. Wharton.

Mrs. Bradley entered, with a soft, quiet step.

"I thought, sir," she began, "you might like me to read to you, as usual."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bradley, but I am going to relieve you of that portion of your labors. My young friend here is to come every evening and read to me."

"Indeed!" ejaculated the housekeeper in a tone of chilly displeasure, and a sharp glance at Frank, which indicated no great amount of cordiality. "Then, as I am intruding, I will take my leave."

There was something in her tone that made Frank feel uncomfortable.



Chapter IX

The Housekeeper's Nephew


"By no means," said Mr. Wharton, as the housekeeper was about to withdraw; "don't imagine you are intruding. Come in and sit down."

"Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Bradley, in a measured tone. "You are very considerate, I am sure, but if you'll excuse me, I won't come in this evening."

"Mrs. Bradley has been with me a good many years," explained Mr. Wharton, "and I dare say she feels a little disturbed at seeing another occupy her place, even in a duty like this."

"I am afraid she will be offended with me, sir," said Frank.

"Oh, no; I will explain matters to her. Go on with your reading, Frank."

At half-past nine, Mr. Wharton took out his watch.

"It is getting late," he said. "I have no doubt you are tired and need rest."

"I am not tired, sir."

"I believe in going to bed early. I shall seldom keep you later than this. Do you think you can find your way out?"

"Yes, sir. When shall I come to-morrow evening?"

"A little before eight."

"I will be punctual."

Jasper was waiting for him, not wholly without anxiety, for it was very unusual for Frank to be late.

"Well, Frank!" he exclaimed; "this is a pretty time for you to come home. I began to think you had got into trouble. I was just going around to the nearest station house in search of you."

"I was in quite a different place, Jasper."

Frank told his story, including an account of his engagement.

"So it seems I am to lose your company in the evening. I am sorry for that, but I am glad you are so lucky."

"It was better than I expected," said Frank, with satisfaction.

"What sort of a man is this Mr. Wharton?" said Jasper.

"He is very kind and generous. I am lucky to have so good a friend. There's only one thing that is likely to be disagreeable."

"What's that?"

"The housekeeper -- her name is Mrs. Bradley -- for some reason or other she doesn't want me there."

"What makes you think so?"

"Her manner, and the way she speaks. She came in to read to Mr. Wharton last evening, and didn't seem to like it because I had been taken in her place."

"She is evidently jealous. You must take care not to offend her. She might endeavor to have you dismissed."

"I shall always treat her politely, but I don't think I can ever like her."

Meanwhile, the housekeeper, on leaving the library, had gone to her own room in dudgeon.

"Mr. Wharton's a fool!" she muttered to herself.

"What possessed him to take this cash-boy from the streets, invite him to dinner, and treat him as an honored guest, and finally to engage him as a reader? I never heard of anything so ridiculous! Is this little vagabond to take my place in the old man's good graces? I've been slaving and slaving for twenty years, and what have I got by it? I've laid up two thousand dollars; and what is that to provide for my old age? If the old man would die, and remember me handsomely in his will, it would be worth while; but this new favorite may stand in my way. If he does I'll be revenged on him as sure as my name is Ulrica Bradley."

Here the area bell rang, and in a moment one of the housemaids entered Mrs. Bradley's room.

"There's your nephew outside, ma'am, and wanting to see you."

"Tell him to come in," and the housekeeper's cold face became softer and pleasanter in aspect as a young man of twenty entered and greeted her carelessly.

"How are you, aunt?"

"Pretty well, Thomas," she answered. "You haven't been here for some time."

"No. I've had a lot of work to do. Nothing but work, work, all the time," he grumbled. "I wish I was rich."

"You get through at six o'clock, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I hope you spend your evenings profitably, Thomas?"

"I ain't likely to go on any sprees, aunt, if that's what you mean. I only get twelve dollars a week."

"I should think you might live on it."

"Starve, you mean. What's twelve dollars to a young fellow like me when he's got his board to pay, and has to dress like a gentleman?"

"You are not in debt, I hope, Thomas?" said Mrs. Bradley, uneasily.

"I owe for the suit I have on, and I don't know where I'm going to get the money to pay for it."

He was dressed in a flashy style, not unlike what is popularly denominated a swell. His coarse features were disfigured with unhealthy blotches, and his outward appearance was hardly such as to recommend him. But to him alone the cold heart of the housekeeper was warm. He was her sister's son and her nearest relative. Her savings were destined for him, and in her attachment she was not conscious of his disagreeable characteristics. She had occasionally given him a five-dollar bill to eke out what he termed his miserable pay, and now whenever he called he didn't spare hints that he was out of pocket, and that a further gift would be acceptable. Indeed, the only tie that bound him to his aunt was a mercenary one.

But the housekeeper, sharp-sighted as she ordinarily was, did not detect the secret motive of such attention she received from her nephew. She flattered herself that he really loved her, not suspecting that he was too selfish to love anybody but himself.

"Thomas," she said, with a sudden thought, "I may be able to help you to an increase of your income. Mr. Wharton needs somebody to read to him evenings. On my recommendation he might take you."

"Thank you, aunt, but I don't see it. I don't want to be worked to death."

"But, think, Thomas," said his aunt, earnestly. "He is very rich. He might take a fancy to you and remember you in his will."

"I wish somebody would remember me in his will. Do you really think there's any chance of the old boy's doing something handsome for me?"

"That depends on yourself. You must try to please him."

"Well, I must do something. What'll he give?"

"I don't know yet. In fact, there's another reading to him just now."

"Then there's no chance for me."

"Listen to me. It's a boy he's picked up in the streets, quite unsuited for the place. He's a cash-boy at Gilbert & Mack's. Why, that's where you are," she added, with sudden recollection.

"A cash-boy from my own place? What's his name?"

"Fowler, I believe."

"I know him -- he's lately come. How did he get in with the old man?"

"Mr. Wharton fell in the street, and he happened to be near, and helped him home."

"You'll have to manage it, aunt."

"I'll see what I can do to-morrow. He ought to prefer my nephew to a strange boy, seeing I have been twenty years in his service. I'll let you know as soon as I have accomplished anything."

"I don't half like the idea of giving up my evenings. I don't believe I can stand it."

"It is only for a little while, to get him interested in you."

"Maybe I might try it a week, and then tell him my health was failing, and get him to do something else for me."

"At any rate, the first thing must be to become acquainted."

Thomas now withdrew, for he did not enjoy spending an evening with his aunt, the richer by five dollars, half of which was spent before the evening closed at a neighboring billiard saloon.



Chapter X

The Housekeeper Scheming


If Mrs. Bradley had been wiser, she would have felt less confident of her nephew's producing a favorable impression upon Mr. Wharton. She resolved to open the subject at the breakfast table.

"I didn't know, Mr. Wharton," she commenced, "that you intended to engage a reader."

"Nor did I propose to do so until last evening."

"I think -- you'll excuse me for saying so -- that you will find that boy too young to suit you."

"I don't think so. He reads very clearly and distinctly."

"If I had known you thought of engaging a reader, I would have asked you to engage my nephew."

"Indeed, I was not aware that you had a nephew in the city. Is he a boy?"

"No; he is a young man. He was twenty years old last June."

"Is he unfavorably situated?"

"He has a place as salesman."

"With what firm?"

"Gilbert & Mack."

"Why, that is the same firm that employs my young friend. It is a good firm."

"Perhaps it is, but my poor nephew receives a very small salary. He finds it very hard to get along."

"Your nephew is young. He will be promoted if he serves his employers well."

"Thomas would have been glad to read to you in the evening, sir," said Mrs. Bradley, commencing the attack.

"But for my present engagement, I might have taken him," said Mr. Wharton, politely.

"Have you engaged that boy for any length of time?"

"No; but it is understood that he will stay while I need him, and he continues to suit me. I have a favorable opinion of him. Besides, he needs the pay. He receives but three dollars a week as a cash-boy, and has a sister to support as well as himself."

"I am sorry," she said in an injured tone. "I hope you'll excuse my mentioning it, but I took the liberty, having been for twenty years in your employ."

"To be sure! You were quite right," said her employer, kindly. "Perhaps I may be able to do something for your nephew, though not that. Tell him to come and see me some time."

"Thank you, sir," said the housekeeper.

There was one question she wanted to determine, and that was the amount of compensation received by Frank. She did not like to inquire directly from Mr. Wharton, but resolved to gain the information from our hero. Some evenings later she had the opportunity. Mr. Wharton had an engagement, and asked her to tell Frank, when he arrived that he was released from duty. Instead of this she received him in the library herself.

"Probably Mr. Wharton will not be at home this evening," she said. "If he does not return in half an hour, you need not wait."

She took up her work, seated in Mr. Wharton's usual place, and Frank remained ready for duty.

"Mr. Wharton tells me you have a sister," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"You must find it hard work to provide for her as well as yourself."

"I do, or rather I did till I came here."

"How much does Mr. Wharton pay you?" she asked, in an indifferent tone.

"Five dollars a week," answered Frank.

"You are lucky that you have such a chance," she said.

"Yes, ma'am; it is more than I earn, I know, but it is a great help to me."

"And how much do you get as cash-boy?"

"Three dollars a week."

"So you actually receive nearly twice as much for a couple of hours in the evening as for the whole day."

"Yes, ma'am."

"What a pity Thomas can't have this chance," she thought.

When it was nine o'clock, she said:

"You need not wait any longer. Mr. Wharton will not be home in time to hear you read."

"Good-evening, Mrs. Bradley," said Frank.

"Good-evening!" she responded, coldly.

"That boy is in the way," she said to herself, when she was left alone. "He is in my way, and Tom's way. I can see that he is artfully intriguing for Mr. Wharton's favor, but I must checkmate him. It's odd," she resumed, after a pause, "but there is something in his face and voice that seems familiar to me. What is it?"


* * * * *


The following evening the housekeeper received another visit from her nephew.

"How do, aunt?" said Thomas Bradley, carelessly, as he entered the housekeeper's room.

"Very well, thank you, Thomas. I am glad you are here. I have been wanting to see you."

"The old man isn't going to do anything for me, is he?"

"How can you expect it so soon? He doesn't know you yet. How much do you think he pays the cash-boy that reads to him in the evening?"

"I don't know."

"Five dollars a week."

"I wouldn't give up my evenings for that," he said.

"It isn't so much the pay, Thomas, though that would be a help. He might take a fancy to you."

"That might pay better. When are you going to introduce me?"

"This evening; that is, I will ask Mr. Wharton if he will see you."

Mrs. Bradley entered the library, where Frank was engaged in reading aloud.

"Excuse my interruption," she said; "but my nephew has just called, and I should like to introduce him to you, if you will kindly receive him."

"Certainly, Mrs. Bradley," said Mr. Wharton. "Bring him in."

The housekeeper left the room, but speedily reappeared, followed by her nephew, who seemed a little abashed.

"My nephew, Thomas Bradley, Mr. Wharton," said his aunt, by way of introduction. "You have often heard me speak of Mr. Wharton, Thomas."

"How do you do, sir?" said Thomas awkwardly.

"Pray take a seat, Mr. Bradley. Your aunt has been long a member of my family. I am glad to see a nephew of hers. I believe you are a salesman at Gilbert & Mack's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you must know my young friend here?" pointing to Frank.

"How are you, Cash?" said Thomas, laughing, under the impression that he had said something smart.

"Very well, Mr. Bradley," answered Frank, quietly.

"You see, that's all the name we call 'em in the store," said Thomas.

Mr. Wharton could not help thinking:

"How poorly this young man compares with my young friend. Still, as he is Mrs. Bradley's nephew, I must be polite to him."

"Are there many cash-boys in your establishment, Mr. Bradley?"

"About a dozen. Ain't there, Fowler?"

"I believe so, Mr. Bradley."

"Gilbert & Mack do a good business, I should judge."

"Yes, they do; but that doesn't do us poor salesmen much good. We get just enough to keep soul and body together."

"I am sorry to hear it," said Mr. Wharton.

"Why, sir," said Thomas, gaining confidence, "all they pay me is twelve dollars a week. How can they expect a fellow to live on that?"

"I began my career about your age," said Mr. Wharton, "or perhaps a little younger, and had to live on but six dollars a week."

"Didn't you come near starving?" he asked.

"On the contrary, I saved a little every week."

"I can't," said Thomas, a little discomfited. "Why, it takes half that to dress decently."

Mr. Wharton glanced quietly at the rather loud and flashy dress worn by his visitor, but only said:

"A small salary, of course, makes economy necessary."

"But when a fellow knows he earns a good deal more than he gets, he doesn't feel like starving himself just that his employers may grow rich."

"Of course, if he can better himself they cannot object."

"That's just what I want to do," said Thomas; "but I expect I need influence to help me to something better. That's a good hint," thought he.

"I was telling Thomas," said the housekeeper, "that you had kindly expressed a desire to be of service to him."

"I am not now in active business," said Mr. Wharton, "and of course have not the opportunities I formerly had for helping young men, but I will bear your case in mind, Mr. Bradley."

"Thank you, sir," said Thomas. "I am sure I earn a thousand dollars a year."

"I think, Thomas," said Mrs. Bradley, "we won't intrude on Mr. Wharton longer this evening. When he finds something for you he will tell me."

"All right, aunt. Good-night, Mr. Wharton. Good-night, Cash," said Thomas, chuckling anew at the old joke.

"Well, aunt," said he, when they were once more in the housekeeper's room, "do you think the old gentleman will do anything for me?"

"I hope so; but I am not sure, Thomas, whether you were not too familiar. You spoke of money too quick."

"It's my way to come to business."

"I wish you were his reader, instead of that boy."

"Well, I don't. I wouldn't want to be mewed up in that room with the old man every night. I should get tired to death of it."

"You would have a chance to get him interested in you. That boy is artful; he is doing all he can to win Mr. Wharton's favor. He is the one you have most reason to dread."

"Do you think he will do me any harm?"

"I think he will injure your chances."

"Egad! if I thought that, I'd wring the young rascal's neck."

"There's a better way, Thomas."

"What's that?"

"Can't you get him dismissed from Gilbert & Mack's?"

"I haven't enough influence with the firm."

"Suppose they thought him dishonest?"

"They'd give him the sack, of course."

"Can't you make them think so, Thomas?"

"I don't know."

"Then make it your business to find out."

"I suppose you know what good it's going to do, aunt, but I don't. He's got his place here with the old man."

"If Mr. Wharton hears that he is discharged, and has lost his situation, he will probably discharge him, too."

"Perhaps so; I suppose you know best."

"Do as I tell you, and I will manage the rest."

"All right. I need your help enough. To-night, for instance, I'm regularly cleaned out. Haven't got but twenty-five cents to my name."

"It seems to me, Thomas," said his aunt, with a troubled look, "you are always out of money. I'll give you five dollars, Thomas, but you must remember that I am not made of money. My wages are small."

"You ought to have a good nest-egg laid aside, aunt."

"I've got something, Thomas, and when I die, it'll be yours."

"I hope I shan't have to wait too long," thought Thomas, "but he did not give utterance to the thought."

"Come again, Thomas, and don't forget what I have said," said Mrs. Bradley.



Chapter XI

John Wade


A tall man, with a sallow complexion, and heavily-bearded face, stood on the deck of a Cunard steamer, only a few miles distant from New York harbor.

"It's three years since I have seen America," he said to himself, thoughtfully. "I suppose I ought to feel a patriotic fervor about setting foot once more on my native shore, but I don't believe in nonsense. I would be content to live in Europe all my life, if my uncle's fortune were once in my possession. I am his sole heir, but he persists in holding on to his money bags, and limits me to a paltry three thousand a year. I must see if I can't induce him to give me a good, round sum on account -- fifty thousand, at least -- and then I can wait a little more patiently till he drops off."

"When shall we reach port, captain?" he asked, as he passed that officer.

"In four hours, I think, Mr. Wade."

"So this is my birthday," he said to himself.

"Thirty five years old to-day. Half my life gone, and I am still a dependent on my uncle's bounty. Suppose he should throw me off -- leave me out in the cold -- where should I be? If he should find the boy -- but no, there is no chance of that. I have taken good care of that. By the way, I must look him up soon -- cautiously, of course -- and see what has become of him. He will grow up a laborer or mechanic and die without a knowledge of his birth, while I fill his place and enjoy his inheritance."

At six o'clock the vessel reached the Quarantine. Most of the passengers decided to remain on board one night more, but John Wade was impatient, and, leaving his trunks, obtained a small boat, and soon touched the shore.

It was nearly eight when John Wade landed in the city. It was half-past eight when he stood on the steps of his uncle's residence and rang the bell.

"Is my uncle is Mr. Wharton -- at home?" he asked of the servant who answered the bell.

"Yes, sir."

"I am his nephew, just arrived from Europe. Let him know that I am here, and would like to see him."

The servant, who had never before seen him, having only been six months in the house, regarded him with a great deal of curiosity, and then went to do his biding.

"My nephew arrived!" exclaimed Mr. Wharton, in surprise. "Why, he never let me know he was coming."

"Will you see him, sir?"

"To be sure! Bring him in at once."

"My dear uncle!" exclaimed John Wade, with effusion, for he was a polite man, and could act when it suited his interests to do so, "I am glad to see you. How is your health?"

"I am getting older every day, John."

"You don't look a day older, sir," said John, who did not believe what he said, for he could plainly see that his uncle had grown older since he last saw him.

"You think so, John, but I feel it. Your coming is a surprise. You did not write that you intended sailing."

"I formed the determination very suddenly, sir."

"Were you tired of Europe?"

"No; but I wanted to see you, sir."

"Thank you, John," said his uncle, pressing his nephew's hand. "I am glad you think so much of me. Did you have a pleasant voyage?"

"Rather rough, sir."

"You have had no supper, of course? If you will ring the bell, the housekeeper will see that some is got ready for you."

"Is Mrs. Bradley still in your employ, uncle?"

"Yes, John. I am so used to her that I shouldn't know how to get along without her."

Hitherto John Wade had been so occupied with his uncle that he had not observed Frank. But at this moment our hero coughed, involuntarily, and John Wade looked at him. He seemed to be singularly affected. He started perceptibly, and his sallow face blanched, as his eager eyes were fixed on the boy's face.

"Good heavens!" he muttered to himself. "Who is that boy? How comes he here?"

Frank noticed his intent gaze, and wondered at it, but Mr. Wharton's eyesight was defective, and he did not perceive his nephew's excitement.

"I see you have a young visitor, uncle," said John Wade.

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Wharton, with a kindly smile. "He spends all his evenings with me."

"What do you mean, sir?" demanded John Wade, with sudden suspicion and fear. "He seems very young company for --  -- "

"For a man of my years," said Mr. Wharton, finishing the sentence. "You are right, John. But, you see, my eyes are weak, and I cannot use them for reading in the evening, so it occurred to me to engage a reader."

"Very true," said his nephew. He wished to inquire the name of the boy whose appearance had so powerfully impressed him but he determined not to do so at present. What information he sought he preferred to obtain from the housekeeper.

"He seemed surprised, as if he had seen me some where before, and recognized me," thought Frank, "but I don't remember him. If I had seen his face before, I think I should remember it."

"Don't come out, uncle." said John Wade, when summoned to tea by the housekeeper. "Mrs. Bradley and I are going to have a chat by ourselves, and I will soon return."

"You are looking thin, Mr. John," said Mrs Bradley.

"Am I thinner than usual? I never was very corpulent, you know. How is my uncle's health? He says he is well."

"He is pretty well, but he isn't as young as he was."

"I think he looks older," said John. "But that is not surprising -- at his age. He is seventy, isn't he?"

"Not quite. He is sixty-nine."

"His father died at seventy-one."

"Yes."

"But that is no reason why my uncle should not live till eighty. I hope he will."

"We all hope so," said the housekeeper; but she knew, while she spoke, that if, as she supposed, Mr. Wharton's will contained a generous legacy for her, his death would not afflict her much. She suspected also that John Wade was waiting impatiently for his uncle's death, that he might enter upon his inheritance. Still, their little social fictions must be kept up, and so both expressed a desire for his continued life, though neither was deceived as to the other's real feeling on the subject.

"By the way, Mrs. Bradley," said John Wade, "how came my uncle to engage that boy to read to him?"

"He was led into it, sir," said the housekeeper, with a great deal of indignation, "by the boy himself. He's an artful and designing fellow, you may rely upon it."

"What's his name?"

"Frank Fowler."

"Fowler! Is his name Fowler?" he repeated, with a startled expression.

"Yes, sir," answered the housekeeper, rather surprised at his manner. "You don't know anything about him, do you?"

"Oh, no," said John Wade, recovering his composure. "He is a perfect stranger to me; but I once knew a man of that name, and a precious rascal he was. When you mentioned his name, I thought he might be a son of this man. Does he say his father is alive?"

"No; he is dead, and his mother, too, so the boy says."

"You haven't told me how my uncle fell in with him?"

"It was an accident. Your uncle fell in getting out of a Broadway stage, and this boy happened to be near, and seeing Mr. Wharton was a rich gentleman, he helped him home, and was invited in. Then he told some story about his poverty, and so worked upon your uncle's feelings that he hired him to read to him at five dollars a week."

"Is this all the boy does?"

"No; he is cash-boy in a large store on Broadway. He is employed there all day, and he is here only in the evenings."

"Does my uncle seem attached to him?" asked John.

"He's getting fond of him, I should say. The other day he asked me if I didn't think it would be a good thing to take him into the house and give him a room. I suppose the boy put it into his head."

"No doubt. What did you say?"

"I opposed it. I told him that a boy would be a great deal of trouble in the family."

"You did right, Mrs. Bradley. What did my uncle say?"

"He hinted about taking him from the store and letting him go to school. The next thing would be his adopting him. The fact is, Mr. John, the boy is so artful that he knows just how to manage your uncle. No doubt he put the idea into Mr. Wharton's head, and he may do it yet."

"Does my uncle give any reason for the fancy he has taken to the boy?" demanded John.

"Yes," said the housekeeper. "He has taken it into his head that the boy resembles your cousin, George, who died abroad. You were with him, I believe?"

"Yes, I was with him. Is the resemblance strong? I took very little notice of him."

"You can look for yourself when you go back," answered the housekeeper.

"What else did my uncle say? Tell me all."

"He said: 'What would I give, Mrs. Bradley, if I had such a grandson? If George's boy had lived, he would have been about Frank's age. And," continued the housekeeper, "I might as well speak plainly. You're my master's heir, or ought to be; but if this artful boy stays here long, there's no knowing what your uncle may be influenced to do. If he gets into his dotage, he may come to adopt him, and leave the property away from you."

"I believe you are quite right. The danger exists, and we must guard against it. I see you don't like the boy," said John Wade.

"No, I don't. He's separated your uncle and me. Before he came, I used to spend my evenings in the library, and read to your uncle. Besides, when I found your uncle wanted a reader, I asked him to take my nephew, who is a salesman in the very same store where that boy is a cash-boy, but although I've been twenty years in this house I could not get him to grant the favor, which he granted to that boy, whom he never met till a few weeks ago."

"Mrs. Bradley, I sympathize with you," said her companion. "The boy is evidently working against us both. You have been twenty years in my uncle's service. He ought to remember you handsomely in his will. If I inherit the property, as is my right, your services shall be remembered," said John Wade.

"Thank you, Mr. John," said the gratified housekeeper.

"That secures her help," thought John, in his turn.

"She will now work hard for me. When the time comes, I can do as much or as little for her as I please."

"Of course, we must work together against this interloper, who appears to have gained a dangerous influence over my uncle."

"You can depend upon me, Mr. John," said Mrs. Bradley.

"I will think it over, and tell you my plan," said John Wade. "But my uncle will wonder at my appetite. I must go back to the library. We will speak of this subject again."



Chapter XII

A False Friend


When John Wade re-entered the library, Frank was reading, but Mr. Wharton stopped him.

"That will do, Frank," he said. "As I have not seen my nephew for a long time, I shall not require you to read any longer. You can go, if you like."

Frank bowed, and bidding the two good-evening, left the room.

"That is an excellent boy, John." said the old gentleman, as the door closed upon our hero.

"How did you fall in with him?" asked John. Mr. Wharton told the story with which the reader is already familiar.

"You don't know anything of his antecedents, I suppose?" said John, carelessly.

"Only what he told me. His father and mother are dead, and he is obliged to support himself and his sister. Did you notice anything familiar in Frank's expression?" asked Mr. Wharton.

"I don't know. I didn't observe him very closely."

"Whenever I look at Frank, I think of George. I suppose that is why I have felt more closely drawn to the boy. I proposed to Mrs. Bradley that the boy should have a room here, but she did not favor it. I think she is prejudiced against him."

"Probably she is afraid he would be some trouble," replied John.

"If George's boy had lived he would be about Frank's age. It would have been a great comfort to me to superintend his education, and watch him grow up. I could not have wished him to be more gentlemanly or promising than my young reader."

"Decidedly, that boy is in my way," said John Wade to himself. "I must manage to get rid of him, and that speedily, or my infatuated uncle will be adopting him."

"Of what disease did George's boy die, John?" asked Mr. Wharton.

"A sudden fever."

"I wish I could have seen him before he died. But I returned only to find both son and grandson gone. I had only the sad satisfaction of seeing his grave."

"Yes, he was buried in the family lot at Greenwood, five days before you reached home."

"When I see men of my own age, surrounded by children and grandchildren, it makes me almost envious," said Mr. Wharton, sadly. "I declare to you, John, since that boy has been with me, I have felt happier and more cheerful than for years."

"That boy again!" muttered John to himself. "I begin to hate the young cub, but I mustn't show it. My first work will be to separate him from my uncle. That will require consideration. I wonder whether the boy knows that he is not Fowler's son? I must find out. If he does, and should happen to mention it in my uncle's presence, it might awaken suspicions in his mind. I must interview the boy, and find out what I can. To enlist his confidence, I must assume a friendly manner."

In furtherance of this determination, John Wade greeted our hero very cordially the next evening, when they met, a little to Frank's surprise.

When the reading terminated, John Wade said, carelessly:

"I believe, uncle, I will go out for a walk. I think I shall be better for it. In what direction are you going, Frank?"

"Down Sixth Avenue, sir."

"Very good; I will walk along with you."

Frank and his companion walked toward Sixth Avenue.

"My uncle tells me you have a sister to support," said Wade, opening the conversation.

"Yes, sir."

"Does your sister resemble you?" asked John Wade.

"No, sir! but that is not surprising, for --  -- "

"Why is it not surprising?"

Frank hesitated.

"You were about to assign some reason."

"It is a secret," said our hero, slowly; "that is, has been a secret, but I don't know why I should conceal it. Grace is not my sister. She is Mrs. Fowler's daughter, but I am not her son. I will tell you the story."

That story Frank told as briefly as possible. John Wade listened to it with secret alarm.

"It is a strange story," he said. "Do you not feel a strong desire to learn your true parentage?"

"Yes, sir. I don't know, but I feel as if I should some day meet the man who gave me into Mrs. Fowler's charge."

"You have met him, but it is lucky you don't suspect it," thought John Wade.

"I am glad you told me this story," said he, aloud.

"It is quite romantic. I may be able to help you in your search. But let me advise you to tell no one else at present. No doubt there are parties interested in keeping the secret of your birth from you. You must move cautiously, and your chance of solving the mystery will be improved."

"Thank you, sir. I will follow your advice."

"I was mistaken in him," thought Frank. "I disliked him at first, but he seems inclined to be my friend."

When Frank reached his lodging he found Jasper waiting up for him. He looked thoughtful, so much so that Frank noticed it.

"You look as if you had something on your mind," Jasper.

"You have guessed right. I have read that letter."

He drew from his pocket a letter, which Frank took from his hands.

"It is from an uncle of mine in Ohio, who is proprietor of a weekly newspaper. He is getting old, and finds the work too much for him. He offers me a thousand dollars a year if I will come out and relieve him."

"That's a good offer, Jasper. I suppose you will accept it?"

"It is for my interest to do so. Probably my uncle will, after a while, surrender the whole establishment to me."

"I shall be sorry to part with you, Jasper. It will seem very lonely, but I think you ought to go. It is a good chance, and if you refuse it you may not get such another."

"My uncle wants me to come on at once. I think I will start Monday."

Jasper saw no reason to change his determination, and on Monday morning he started on his journey to Ohio.

Thus, at a critical moment in his fortunes, when two persons were planning to injure him, he lost the presence and help of a valued friend.



Chapter XIII

The Spider And The Fly


"Uncle," said John Wade, "you spoke of inviting Frank Fowler to occupy a room in the house. Why don't you do it? It would be more convenient to you and a very good chance for him."

"I should like it," said Mr. Wharton, "but Mrs. Bradley did not seem to regard it favorably when I suggested it."

"Oh, Mrs. Bradley is unused to boys, and she is afraid he would give her trouble. I'll undertake to bring her around."

"I wish you would, John. I don't think Frank would give any trouble, and it would enliven the house to have a boy here. Besides, he reminds me of George, as I told you the other day."

"I agree with you, uncle," he said. "He does remind me a little of George."

"Well, Mrs. Bradley, what do you think I have done?" asked John, entering the housekeeper's room directly after his interview with his uncle.

"I don't know, Mr. John," she answered.

"I have asked him to give that boy a room in the house."

"Are you carried away with him as well as your uncle?"

"Not quite. The fact is, I have a motive in what I am doing. I'll tell you."

He bent over and whispered in her ear.

"I never should have thought of that."

"You see, our purpose is to convince my uncle that he is unworthy of his favor. At present that would be rather difficult, but once get him into the house and we shall have no trouble."

"I understand."

In due time John Wade announced to his uncle that the housekeeper had withdrawn her objections to his plan.

"Then I'll tell him to-night," said Mr. Wharton, brightening up.

Shortly after Frank entered the library that evening Mr. Wharton made the proposal.

"You are very kind, Mr. Wharton," he said. "I never thought of such a thing."

"Then it is settled that you are to come. You can choose your own time for coming."

"I will come to-morrow, sir."

"Very well," said Mr. Wharton, with satisfaction.

The next day, by special favor, Frank got off from the store two hours earlier than usual. He bought at a Sixth Avenue basement store, a small, second hand trunk for two dollars. He packed his scanty wardrobe into the trunk, which, small as it was he was unable to fill, and had it carried to Mr. Wharton's house.

He asked to see Mrs. Bradley, and she came to the door.

"I am glad to see you," she said graciously. "You may leave your trunk in the hall and I will have it carried up by the servants."

"Thank you," said Frank, and he followed the housekeeper up the handsome staircase.

"This is to be your room," said the housekeeper, opening the door of a small chamber on the third floor.

"It looks very nice and comfortable," said Frank, looking about him with satisfaction.

She left the room, and five minutes later our hero's modest trunk was brought up and deposited in the room.

That evening Frank read to Mr. Wharton as usual.

When nine o'clock came he said:

"You need not read aloud any more, but if you see any books in my library which you would like to read to yourself you may do so. In fact, Frank, you must consider yourself one of the family, and act as freely as if you were at home."

"How kind you are to me, Mr. Wharton," said Frank.

The next morning after Frank had left the house for his daily task, John Wade entered the housekeeper's room.

"The boy is out of the way now, Mrs. Bradley," he said. "You had better see if you have a key that will unlock his trunk."

The two conspirators went upstairs, and together entered Frank's room.

Mrs. Bradley brought out a large bunch of keys, and successively tried them, but one after another failed to open it.

"That's awkward," said John Wade. "I have a few keys in my pocket. One may possibly answer."

The housekeeper kneeled down, and made a trial of John Wade's keys. The last one was successful. The cover was lifted, and the contents were disclosed. However, neither John nor Mrs. Bradley seemed particularly interested in the articles for after turning them over they locked the trunk once more.

"So far so good," said John Wade. "We have found the means of opening the trunk when we please."

"When do you expect to carry out your plan, Mr. John?"

"Two weeks from this time my uncle is obliged to go to Washington for a few days on business. While he is gone we will spring the trap, and when he comes back he will find the boy gone in disgrace. We'll make short work of him."



Chapter XIV

Springing The Trap


"I am going to give you a few days' vacation, Frank," said Mr. Wharton, a fortnight later. "I am called to Washington on business. However, you have got to feel at home here now."

"Oh, yes, sir."

"And Mrs. Bradley will see that you are comfortable."

"I am sure of that, sir," said Frank, politely.

When Frank returned at night, Mr. Wharton was already gone. John Wade and the housekeeper seated themselves in the library after dinner, and by their invitation our hero joined them.

"By the way, Frank," said John Wade, "did I ever show you this Russia leather pocketbook?" producing one from his pocket.

"No, sir, I believe not."

"I bought it at Vienna, which is noted for its articles of Russia leather."

"It is very handsome, sir."

"So I think. By the way, you may like to look at my sleeve-buttons. They are of Venetian mosaic. I got them myself in Venice last year."

"They are very elegant. You must have enjoyed visiting so many famous cities."

"Yes; it is very interesting."

John Wade took up the evening paper, and Frank occupied himself with a book from his patron's library. After a while John threw down the paper yawning, and said that he had an engagement. Nothing else occurred that evening which merits record.

Two days later Frank returned home in his usual spirits. But at the table he was struck by a singular change in the manner of Mrs. Bradley and John Wade. They spoke to him only on what it was absolutely necessary, and answered his questions in monosyllables.

"Will you step into the library a moment?" said John Wade, as they arose from the table.

Frank followed John into the library, and Mrs. Bradley entered also.

"Frank Fowler," the enemy began, "do you remember my showing you two evenings since a pocketbook, also some sleeve-buttons of Venetian mosaic, expensively mounted in gold?"

"Certainly, sir."

"That pocketbook contained a considerable sum of money," pursued his questioner.

"I don't know anything about that."

"You probably supposed so."

"Will you tell me what you mean, Mr. Wade?" demanded Frank, impatiently. "I have answered your questions, but I can't understand why you ask them."

"Perhaps you may suspect," said Wade, sarcastically.

"It looks as if you had lost them and suspected me of taking them."

"So it appears."

"You are entirely mistaken, Mr. Wade. I am not a thief. I never stole anything in my life."

"It is very easy to say that," sneered John Wade. "You and Mrs. Bradley were the only persons present when I showed the articles, and I suppose you won't pretend that she stole them?"

"No, sir; though she appears to agree with you that I am a thief. I never thought of accusing her," replied Frank.

"Mr. Wade," said the housekeeper, "I feel that it is my duty to insist upon search being made in my room."

"Do you make the same offer?" asked John Wade, turning to Frank.

"Yes, sir," answered our hero, proudly. "I wish you to satisfy yourself that I am not a thief. If you will come to my room at once, Mr. Wade, you and Mrs. Bradley, I will hand you the key of my trunk."

The two followed him upstairs, exulting wickedly in his discomfiture, which they had reason to forsee.

He handed his key to his artful enemy, and the latter bending over, opened the trunk, which contained all our hero's small possessions.

He raised the pile of clothes, and, to Frank's dismay, disclosed the missing pocketbook and sleeve-buttons in the bottom of the trunk.

"What have you got to say for yourself now, you young villain?" demanded John Wade, in a loud voice.

"I don't understand it," Frank said, in a troubled tone. "I don't know how the things came there. I didn't put them there."

"Probably they crept in themselves," sneered John.

"Someone put them there," said Frank, pale, but resolute; "some wicked person, who wanted to get me into trouble."

"What do you mean by that, you young vagabond?" demanded John Wade, suspiciously.

"I mean what I say," he asserted. "I am away all day, and nothing is easier than to open my trunk and put articles in, in order to throw suspicion on me."

"Look here, you rascal!" said John Wade, roughly. "I shall treat you better than you deserve. I won't give you over to the police out of regard for my uncle, but you must leave this house and never set foot in it again. It will be the worse for you if you do."

John Wade and the housekeeper left the room, and our hero was left to realize the misfortune which had overwhelmed him.

Frank arose at an early hour the next morning and left the house. It was necessary for him to find a new home at once in order to be at the store in time. He bought a copy of the Sun and turned to the advertising columns. He saw a cheap room advertised near the one he had formerly occupied. Finding his way there he rang the bell.

The door was opened by a slatternly-looking woman, who looked as if she had just got up.

"I see by the Sun you have a room to let," said Frank.

"Yes; do you want to see it now?"

"I should like to."

"Come upstairs and I will show you the room."

The room proved to be small, and by no means neat in appearance, but the rent was only a dollar and a quarter a week, and Frank felt that he could not afford to be particular, so he quickly closed the bargain.

The next day, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, he was surprised at seeing Mrs. Bradley enter the store and thread her way to that part of the counter where her nephew was stationed. She darted one quick look at him, but gave him no sign of recognition. His heart sank within him, for he had a presentiment that her visit boded fresh evil for him.



Chapter XV

From Bad To Worse


Frank's misgivings were not without good cause. The housekeeper's call at the store was connected with him. How, will be understood from a conversation which took place that morning between her and John Wade.

"It's a relief to get that boy out of the house, Mrs. Bradley," he said at the breakfast table.

"That it is, Mr. John," she replied. "But he'll be trying to get back, take my word for it."

"He won't dare to," said John Wade, incredulously. "I told him if he came near the house I would give him up to the police."

"I am afraid he will write to your uncle. He's bold enough for anything."

"I didn't think of that," said John, thoughtfully.

"Do you know his handwriting, Mrs. Bradley?"

"I think I should know it."

"Then if any letters come which you know to be from him, keep them back from my uncle."

"What shall I do with them?"

"Give them to me. I don't want my uncle worried by his appeals."

"Your uncle seems to be very attached to him. He may go to the store to see him."

"That is true. I should not like that. How shall we prevent it, that's the question."

"If Gilbert & Mack knew that he was not honest they would discharge him."

"Exactly," said John Wade; "and as probably he would be unable to get another situation, he would be compelled to leave the city, and we should get rid of him. I commend your shrewdness, Mrs. Bradley. Your plan is most excellent."

John Wade had more reasons than the housekeeper knew of for desiring the removal of our young hero from the city -- reasons which the reader has probably guessed. There was a dark secret in his life connected with a wrong done in years past, from which he hoped some day to reap personal benefit. Unconsciously Frank Fowler stood in his way, and must be removed. Such was his determination.

"I am going out this morning," said the housekeeper. "I will make it in my way to call at Gilbert & Mack's. My nephew is a salesman there, as I have told you. I will drop a word in his ear, and that will be enough to settle that boy's hash."

"Your language is professional, Mrs. Bradley," said John Wade, laughing, "but you shouldn't allude to hash in an aristocratic household. I shall be glad to have you carry out your plan."

"I hope you'll speak to your uncle about my nephew, Mr. John. He gets very poor pay where he is."

"I won't forget him," said John, carelessly.

In his heart he thought Thomas Bradley a very low, obtrusive fellow, whom he felt by no means inclined to assist, but it was cheap to make promises.

The reader understands now why Mrs. Bradley made a morning call at Gilbert & Mack's store.

She knew at what part of the counter her nephew was stationed, and made her way thither at once. He did not at first recognize her, until she said:

"Good-morning, Thomas."

"Good-morning, aunt. What brings you here this morning? Any good news for me? Has the old gentleman come around and concluded to do something handsome?"

"Mr. Wharton is not in the city. He has gone to Washington. But that isn't what I came about this morning. You remember that boy who has been reading to Mr. Wharton?"

"One of our cash-boys. Yes; there he is, just gone by."

"Well, he has stolen Mr. John's pocketbook and some jewelry belonging to him."

"What have you done about it? What does Mr. Wharton say?"

"He's away from home. He doesn't know yet. Mr. John gave him a lecture, and ordered him to leave the house."

"Does he admit that he took the things?"

"No; he denied it as bold as brass, but it didn't do him any good. There were the things in his trunk. He couldn't get over that."

Thomas fastened a shrewd glance on his aunt's face, for he suspected the truth.

"So you've got rid of him?" he said. "What do you propose to do next?"

"Mr. John thinks your employer ought to know that he is a thief."

"Are you going to tell them?"

"I want you to do it."

"You must tell them yourself, aunt. I shan't."

"Then introduce me to Mr. Gilbert, Thomas, and I'll do it."

"Follow me, aunt."

He led his aunt to the rear of the store, where Mr. Gilbert was standing.

"Mr. Gilbert," he said, "allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Bradley."

The housekeeper was courteously received, and invited to be seated. She soon opened her business, and blackened poor Frank's character as she had intended.

"Really, Mrs. Bradley, I am sorry to hear this," said Mr. Gilbert. "You think there is no doubt of the boy's guilt?"

"I am sorry to say that I have no doubt at all," said the housekeeper, hypocritically.

"Mr. Mack and myself have had a very good opinion of him. He is faithful and prompt."

"Of course, sir, you will retain him in your employ if you are willing to take the risk, but I thought it my duty to put you on your guard."

"I am obliged to you, Mrs. Bradley; though, as I said, I regret to find that my confidence in the boy has been misplaced."

Late in the afternoon, Frank was called to the cashier's desk.

"I am directed by Mr. Gilbert to say that your services will not be required after to-day," he said. "Here are the week's wages."

"Why am I discharged? What have I done?" demanded Frank, while his heart sank within him.

"I don't know. You must ask Mr. Gilbert," answered the cashier.

"I will speak to him, at any rate," and Frank walked up to the senior partner, and addressed to him the same question.

"Can you not guess?" asked Mr. Gilbert, sternly.

"I can guess that a false accusation has been brought against me," said Frank.

"A respectable lady has informed me that you are not honest. I regret it, for I have been pleased with your diligence. Of course, I cannot retain you in my employ."

"Mr. Gilbert," said Frank, earnestly, "the charge is false. Mrs. Bradley is my enemy, and wishes me harm. I don't understand how the things came into my trunk, but I didn't put them there."

"I hope you are innocent, but I must discharge you. Business is dull now, and I had decided to part with four of my cash-boys. I won't pass judgment upon you, but you must go."

Frank bowed in silence, for he saw that further entreaty would be vain, and left the store more dispirited than at any moment since he had been in the city.

Ten days Frank spent in fruitless efforts to obtain a place.

All this time his money steadily diminished. He perceived that he would soon be penniless. Evidently, something must be done. He formed two determinations. The first was to write to Mr. Wharton, who, he thought, must now have returned from Washington, asserting his innocence and appealing to him to see Gilbert & Mack, and re-establish him in their confidence. The second was, since he could not obtain a regular place, to frequent the wharves and seek chances to carry bundles. In this way he might earn enough, with great economy, to pay for his board and lodging.

One morning the housekeeper entered the library where John Wade sat reading the daily papers.

"Mr. John," she said, holding out a letter, "here is a letter from that boy. I expected he would write to your uncle."

John Wade deliberately opened the letter.

"Sit down, Mrs. Bradley, and I will read the letter aloud."

It will be only necessary to quote the concluding sentences:


"'I hope, Mr. Wharton, you will not be influenced against me by what Mrs. Bradley and your nephew say. I don't know why it is, but they are my enemies, though I have always treated them with respect. I am afraid they have a desire to injure me in your estimation. If they had not been, they would have been content with driving me from your house, without also slandering me to my employers, and inducing them to discharge me. Since I was discharged, I have tried very hard to get another place, but as I cannot bring a recommendation from Gilbert & Mack, I have everywhere been refused. I ask you, Mr. Wharton to consider my situation. Already my small supply of money is nearly gone, and I do not know how I am to pay my expenses. If it was any fault of mine that had brought me into this situation, I would not complain, but it seems hard to suffer when I am innocent.

"'I do not ask to return to your house, Mr. Wharton, for it would not be pleasant, since your nephew and Mrs. Bradley dislike me, but I have a right to ask that the truth may be told to my employers, so that if they do not wish me to return to their service, they may, at least, be willing to give me a recommendation that will give me a place elsewhere."'


"I must prevent the boy communicating with my uncle, if it is a possible thing. 'Strike while the iron is hot,' I say."

"I think that is very judicious, Mr. John. I have no doubt you will know how to manage matters."

John Wade dressed himself for a walk, and drawing out a cigar, descended the steps of his uncle's house into the street.

He reached Fifth Avenue, and walked slowly downtown. He was about opposite Twenty-eighth Street, when he came face to face with the subject of his thoughts.

"Where are you going?" John Wade demanded sternly.

"I don't know that I am bound to answer your question," answered Frank, quietly, "but I have no objection. I am going to Thirty-ninth Street with this bundle."

"Hark you, boy! I have something to say to you," continued John Wade, harshly. "You have had the impudence to write to my uncle."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing that you would like to hear. He looks upon you as a thief."

"You have slandered me to him, Mr. Wade," he said, angrily. "You might be in better business than accusingly a poor boy falsely."

"Hark you, young man! I have had enough of your impudence. I will give you a bit of advice, which you will do well to follow. Leave this city for a place where you are not known, or I may feel disposed to shut you up on a charge of theft."

"I shall not leave the city, Mr. Wade," returned Frank, firmly. "I shall stay here in spite of you," and without waiting for an answer, he walked on.



Chapter XVI

An Accomplice Found


No sooner had John Wade parted from our hero than he saw approaching him a dark, sinister-looking man, whom he had known years before.

"Good-morning, Mr. Wade," said the newcomer.

"Good-morning, Mr. Graves. Are you busy just now?"

"No, sir; I am out of employment. I have been unfortunate."

"Then I will give you a job. Do you see that boy?" said John Wade, rapidly.

"Yes, I see him."

"I want you to follow him. Find out where he lives, and let me know this evening. Do you understand?"

"I understand. You may rely upon me, sir," answered Nathan Graves; and quickening his pace, he soon came within a hundred feet of our hero.

After fulfilling his errand, Frank walked downtown again, but did not succeed in obtaining any further employment. Wherever he went, he was followed by Graves. Unconsciously, he exhausted the patience of that gentleman, who got heartily tired of his tramp about the streets. But the longest day will come to an end, and at last he had the satisfaction of tracking Frank to his humble lodging. Then, and not till then, he felt justified in leaving him.

Nathan Graves sought the residence of John Wade. He rang the bell as the clock struck eight.

"Well, what success?" asked Wade, when they met.

"I have tracked the boy. What more can I do for you?" asked Graves.

"I want to get him away from the city. The fact is -- I may as well tell you -- my uncle has taken a great fancy to the boy, and might be induced to adopt him, and cut me off from my rightful inheritance. The boy is an artful young rascal, and has been doing all he could to get into the good graces of my uncle, who is old and weak-minded."

It was nine o'clock when Nathan Graves left the house, John Wade himself accompanying him to the door.

"How soon do you think you can carry out my instructions?" asked Wade.

"To-morrow, if possible."

"The sooner the better."

"It is lucky I fell in with him," said Nathan Graves to himself, with satisfaction, as he slowly walked down Fifth Avenue. "It's a queer business, but that's none of my business. The main thing for me to consider is that it brings money to my purse, and of that I have need enough."

Graves left the house richer by a hundred dollars than he entered it.

It was eleven o'clock on the forenoon of the next day when Frank walked up Canal Street toward Broadway. He had been down to the wharves since early in the morning, seeking for employment. He had offered his services to many, but as yet had been unable to secure a job.

As he was walking along a man addressed him:

"Will you be kind enough to direct me to Broadway?"

It was Nathan Graves, with whom Frank was destined to have some unpleasant experiences.

"Straight ahead," answered Frank. "I am going there, and will show you, if you like."

"Thank you, I wish you would. I live only fifteen or twenty miles distant," said Graves, "but I don't often come to the city, and am not much acquainted. I keep a dry-goods store, but my partner generally comes here to buy goods. By the way, perhaps you can help me about the errand that calls me here today."

"I will, sir, if I can," said Frank, politely.

"My youngest clerk has just left me, and I want to find a successor -- a boy about your age, say. Do you know any one who would like such a position?"

"I am out of employment myself just now. Do you think I will suit?"

"I think you will," said Mr. Graves.

"You won't object to go into the country?"

"No, sir."

"I will give you five dollars a week and your board for the present. If you suit me, your pay will be raised at the end of six months. Will that be satisfactory?" asked his companion.

"Quite so, sir. When do you wish me to come?"

"Can you go out with me this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir. I only want to go home and pack up my trunk."

"To save time, I will go with you, and we will start as soon as possible."

Nathan Graves accompanied Frank to his room, where his scanty wardrobe was soon packed. A hack was called, and they were speedily on their way to the Cortland Street ferry.

They crossed the ferry, and Mr. Graves purchased two tickets to Elizabeth. He bought a paper, and occupied himself in reading. Frank felt that fortune had begun to shine upon him once more. By and by, he could send for Grace, and get her boarded near him. As soon as his wages were raised, he determined to do this. While engaged in these pleasant speculations, they reached the station.

"We get out here," said Mr. Graves.

"Is your store in this place?" asked Frank.

"No; it is in the next town."

Nathan Graves looked about him for a conveyance. He finally drove a bargain with a man driving a shabby-looking vehicle, and the two took their seats.

They were driven about six miles through a flat, unpicturesque country, when they reached a branch road leading away from the main one.

It was a narrow road, and apparently not much frequented. Frank could see no houses on either side.

"Is your store on this road?" he asked.

"Oh, no; but I am not going to the store yet. We will go to my house, and leave your trunk."

At length the wagon stopped, by Graves' orders, in front of a gate hanging loosely by one hinge.

"We'll get out here," said Graves.

Frank looked with some curiosity, and some disappointment, at his future home. It was a square, unpainted house, discolored by time, and looked far from attractive. There were no outward signs of occupation, and everything about it appeared to have fallen into decay. Not far off was a barn, looking even more dilapidated than the house.

At the front door, instead of knocking -- there was no bell -- Graves drew a rusty key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. They found themselves in a small entry, uncarpeted and dingy.

"We'll go upstairs," said Graves.

Arrived on the landing, he threw open a door, and ushered in our hero.

"This will be your room," he said.

Frank looked around in dismay.

It was a large, square room, uncarpeted, and containing only a bed, two chairs and a washstand, all of the cheapest and rudest manufacture.

"I hope you will soon feel at home here," said Graves. "I'll go down and see if I can find something to eat."

He went out, locking the door behind him

"What does this mean?" thought Frank, with a strange sensation.



Chapter XVII

Frank And His Jailer


It was twenty minutes before Frank, waiting impatiently, heard the steps of his late companion ascending the stairs.

But the door was not unlocked. Instead, a slide was revealed, about eight inches square, through which his late traveling companion pushed a plate of cold meat and bread.

"Here's something to eat," he said; "take it."

"Why do you lock me in?" demanded our hero.

"You can get along without knowing, I suppose," said the other, with a sneer.

"I don't mean to," said Frank, firmly. "I demand an explanation. How long do you intend to keep me here?"

"I am sorry I can't gratify your curiosity, but I don't know myself."

"Perhaps you think that I am rich, but I am not. I have no money. You can't get anything out of me," said Frank.

"That may be so, but I shall keep you."

"I suppose that was all a lie about your keeping store?"

"It was a pretty little story, told for your amusement, my dear boy," said Graves. "I was afraid you wouldn't come without it."

"You are a villain!" said Frank.

"Look here, boy," said Graves, in a different tone, his face darkening, "you had better not talk in that way. I advise you to eat your dinner and be quiet. Some supper will be brought to you before night."

So saying, he abruptly closed the slide, and descended the stairs, leaving Frank to his reflections, which it may be supposed, were not of the pleasantest character.

Frank did not allow his unpleasant situation to take away his appetite, and though he was fully determined to make the earliest possible attempt to escape, he was sensible enough first to eat the food which his jailer had brought him.

His lunch dispatched, he began at once to revolve plans of escape.

There were three windows in the room, two on the front of the house, the other at the side.

He tried one after another, but the result was the same. All were so fastened that it was quite impossible to raise them.

Feeling that he could probably escape through one of the windows when he pleased, though at the cost of considerable trouble, Frank did not trouble himself much, or allow himself to feel unhappy. He decided to continue his explorations.

In the corner of the room was a door, probably admitting to a closet.

"I suppose it is locked," thought Frank, but on trying it, he found that such was not the case. He looked curiously about him, but found little to repay him. His attention was drawn, however to several dark-colored masks lying upon a shelf.

He also discovered a small hole in the wall of the size of a marble. Actuated by curiosity, he applied his eye to the opening, and peeped into what was probably the adjoining room. It was furnished in very much the same way as the one in which he was confined, but at present it was untenanted. Having seen what little there was to be seen, Frank withdrew from his post of observation and returned to his room.

It was several hours later when he again heard steps ascending the stairs, and the slide in the door was moved.

He looked toward it, but the face that he saw was not that of Nathan Graves.

It was the face of a woman.



Chapter XVIII


"Over The Hill To The Poorhouse"


We are compelled for a time to leave our hero in the hands of his enemies, and return to the town of Crawford, where an event has occurred which influences seriously the happiness and position of his sister, Grace.

Ever since Frank left the town, Grace had been a welcome member of Mr. Pomeroy's family, receiving the kindest treatment from all, so that she had come to feel very much at home.

So they lived happily together, till one disastrous night a fire broke out, which consumed the house, and they were forced to snatch their clothes and escape, saving nothing else.

Mr. Pomeroy's house was insured for two-thirds of its value, and he proposed to rebuild immediately, but it would be three months at least before the new house would be completed. In the interim, he succeeded in hiring a couple of rooms for his family, but their narrow accommodations would oblige them to dispense with their boarder. Sorry as Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy were to part with her, it was obvious that Grace must find another home.

"We must let Frank know," said Mr. Pomeroy, and having occasion to go up to the city at once to see about insurance, he went to the store of Gilbert & Mack, and inquired for Prank.

"Fowler? What was he?" was asked.

"A cash-boy."

"Oh, he is no longer here. Mr. Gilbert discharged him."

"Do you know why he was discharged?" asked Mr. Pomeroy, pained and startled.

"No; but there stands Mr. Gilbert. He can tell you."

Mr. Pomeroy introduced himself to the head of the firm and repeated his inquiry.

"If you are a friend of the lad," said Mr. Gilbert, "you will be sorry to learn that he was charged with dishonesty. It was a very respectable lady who made the charge. It is only fair to say that the boy denied it, and that, personally, we found him faithful and trusty. But as the dullness of trade compelled us to discharge some of our cash-boys, we naturally discharged him among the number, without, however, judging his case."

"Then, sir, you have treated the boy very unfairly. On the strength of a charge not proved, you have dismissed him, though personally you had noticed nothing out of the way in him, and rendered it impossible for him to obtain another place."

"There is something in what you say, I admit. Perhaps I was too hasty. If you will send the boy to me, I will take him back on probation."

"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Pomeroy, gratefully "I will send him here."

But this Mr. Pomeroy was unable to do. He did not know of Frank's new address, and though he was still in the city, he failed to find him.

He returned to Crawford and communicated the unsatisfactory intelligence. He tried to obtain a new boarding place for Grace, but no one was willing to take her at two dollars a week, especially when Mr. Pomeroy was compelled to admit that Frank was now out of employment, and it was doubtful if he would be able to keep up the payment.

Tom Pinkerton managed to learn that Grace was now without a home, and mentioned it to his father.

"Won't she have to go to the poorhouse now, father?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes," said Deacon Pinkerton. "There is no other place for her that I can see."

"Ah, I'm glad," said Tom, maliciously. "Won't that upstart's pride be taken down? He was too proud to go to the poorhouse, where he belonged, but he can't help his sister's going there. If he isn't a pauper himself, he'll be the brother of a pauper, and that's the next thing to it."

"That is true," said the deacon. "He was very impudent in return for my kindness. Still, I am sorry for him."

I am afraid the deacon's sorrow was not very deep, for he certainly looked unusually cheerful when he harnessed up his horse and drove around to the temporary home of the Pomeroys.

"Good-morning, Mr. Pomeroy," he said, seeing the latter in the yard. "You've met with a severe loss."

"Yes, deacon; it is a severe loss to a poor man like me."

"To be sure. Well, I've called around to relieve you of a part of your cares. I am going to take Grace Fowler to the poorhouse."

"Couldn't you get her a place with a private family to help about the house in return for her board, while she goes to school?"

"There's nobody wants a young girl like her," said the deacon.

"Her brother would pay part of her board -- that is, when he has a place."

"Hasn't he got a place?" asked the deacon, pricking up his ears. "I heard he was in a store in New York."

"He lost his place," said Mr. Pomeroy, reluctantly, "partly because of the dullness of general trade."

"Then he can't maintain his sister. She will have to go to the poorhouse. Will you ask her to get ready, and I'll take her right over to the poorhouse."

There was no alternative. Mr. Pomeroy went into the house, and broke the sad news to his wife and Grace.

"Never mind," she said, with attempted cheerfulness, though her lips quivered, "I shan't have to stay there long. Frank will be sure to send for me very shortly."

"It's too bad, Grace," said Sam, looking red about the eyes; "it's too bad that you should have to go to the poorhouse."

"Come and see me, Sam," said Grace.

"Yes, I will, Grace. I'll come often, too. You shan't stay there long."

"Good-by," said Grace, faltering. "You have all been very kind to me."

"Good-by, my dear child," said Mrs. Pomeroy.

"Who knows but you can return to us when the new house is done?"

So poor Grace went out from her pleasant home to find the deacon, grim-faced and stern, waiting for her.

"Jump in, little girl," he said. "You've kept me waiting for you a long time, and my time is valuable."

The distance to the poorhouse was about a mile and a half. For the first half mile Deacon Pinkerton kept silence. Then he began to speak, in a tone of cold condescension, as if it were a favor for such a superior being to address an insignificant child, about to become a pauper.

"Little girl, have you heard from your brother lately?"

"Not very lately, sir."

"What is he doing?"

"He is in a store."

"I apprehend you are mistaken. He has lost his place. He has been turned away," said the deacon, with satisfaction.

"Frank turned away! Oh, sir, you must be mistaken."

"Mr. Pomeroy told me. He found out yesterday when he went to the city."

Poor Grace! she could not longer doubt now, and her brother's misfortune saddened her even more than her own.

"Probably you will soon see your brother."

"Oh, do you think so, sir?" asked Grace, joyfully.

"Yes," answered the deacon, grimly. "He will find himself in danger of starvation in the city, and he'll creep back, only too glad to obtain a nice, comfortable home in the poorhouse."

But Grace knew her brother better than that. She knew his courage, his self-reliance and his independent spirit, and she was sure the deacon was mistaken.

The home for which Grace was expected to be so grateful was now in sight. It was a dark, neglected looking house, situated in the midst of barren fields, and had a lonely and desolate aspect. It was superintended by Mr. and Mrs. Chase, distant relations of Deacon Pinkerton.

Mr. Chase was an inoffensive man, but Mrs. Chase had a violent temper. She was at work in the kitchen when Deacon Pinkerton drove up. Hearing the sound of wheels, she came to the door.

"Mrs. Chase," said the deacon, "I've brought you a little girl, to be placed under your care."

"What's her name?" inquired the lady.

"Grace Fowler."

"Grace, humph! Why didn't she have a decent name?"

"You can call her anything you like," said the deacon.

"Little girl, you must behave well," said Deacon Pinkerton, by way of parting admonition. "The town expects it. I expect it. You must never cease to be grateful for the good home which it provides you free of expense."

Grace did not reply. Looking in the face of her future task-mistress was scarcely calculated to awaken a very deep feeling of gratitude.

"Now," said Mrs. Chase, addressing her new boarder, "just take off your things, Betsy, and make yourself useful."

"My name isn't Betsy, ma'am."

"It isn't, isn't it?"

"No; it is Grace."

"You don't say so! I'll tell you one thing, I shan't allow anybody to contradict me here, and your name's got to be Betsy while you're in this house. Now take off your things and hang them up on that peg. I'm going to set you right to work."

"Yes, ma'am," said Grace, alarmed.

"There's some dishes I want washed, Betsy, and I won't have you loitering over your work, neither."

"Very well, ma'am."

Such was the new home for which poor Grace was expected to be grateful.



Chapter XIX

What Frank Heard Through The Crevice


Frank looked with some surprise at the woman who was looking through the slide of his door. He had expected to see Nathan Graves. She also regarded him with interest.

"I have brought you some supper," she said.

Frank reached out and drew in a small waiter, containing a cup of tea and a plate of toast.

"Thank you," he said. "Where is the man who brought me here?"

"He has gone out."

"Do you know why he keeps me here in confinement?"

"No," said the woman, hastily. "I know nothing. I see much, but I know nothing."

"Are many prisoners brought here as I have been?" asked our hero, in spite of the woman's refusal to speak.

"No."

"I can't understand what object they can have in detaining me. If I were rich, I might guess, but I am poor. I am compelled to work for my daily bread, and have been out of a place for two weeks."

"I don't understand," she said, in a low voice, rather to herself than to him. "But I cannot wait. I must not stand here. I will come up in fifteen minutes, and if you wish another cup of tea, or some toast, I will bring them."

His confinement did not affect his appetite, for he enjoyed his tea and toast; and when, as she had promised, the woman came up, he told her he would like another cup of tea, and some more toast.

"Will you answer one question?" asked our hero.

"I don't know," answered the woman in a flurried tone.

"You look like a good woman. Why do you stay in such a house as this?"

"I will tell you, though I should do better to be silent. But you won't betray me?"

"On no account."

"I was poor, starving, when I had an application to come here. The man who engaged me told me that it was to be a housekeeper, and I had no suspicion of the character of the house -- that it was a den of -- "

She stopped short, but Frank understood what she would have said.

"When I discovered the character of the house, I would have left but for two reasons. First, I had no other home; next, I had become acquainted with the secrets of the house, and they would have feared that I would reveal them. I should incur great risk. So I stayed."

Here there was a sound below. The woman started.

"Some one has come," she said. "I must go down I will come up as soon as I can with the rest of your supper."

"Thank you. You need not hurry."

Our hero was left to ponder over what he had heard. There was evidently a mystery connected with this lonely house a mystery which he very much desired to solve. But there was one chance. Through the aperture in the closet he might both see and hear something, provided any should meet there that evening.

The remainder of his supper was brought him by the same woman, but she was in haste, and he obtained no opportunity of exchanging another word with her.

Frank did not learn who it was that had arrived. Listening intently, he thought he heard some sounds in the next room. Opening the closet door, and applying his eye to the aperture, he saw two men seated in the room, one of whom was the man who had brought him there.

He applied his ear to the opening, and heard the following conversation:

"I hear you've brought a boy here, Nathan," said the other, who was a stout, low-browed man, with an evil look.

"Yes," said Graves, with a smile; "I am going to board him here a while."

"What's it all about? What are you going to gain by it?"

"I'll tell you all I know. I've known something of the family for a long time. John Wade employed me long ago. The old millionaire had a son who went abroad and died there. His cousin, John Wade, brought home his son -- a mere baby -- the old man's grandson, of course, and sole heir, or likely to be, to the old man's wealth, if he had lived. In that case, John Wade would have been left out in the cold, or put off with a small bequest."

"Yes. Did the boy live?"

"No; he died, very conveniently for John Wade, and thus removed the only obstacle from his path."

"Very convenient. Do you think there was any foul play?"

"There may have been."

"But I should think the old man would have suspected."

"He was away at the time. When he returned to the city, he heard from his nephew that the boy was dead. It was a great blow to him, of course. Now, I'll tell you what," said Graves, sinking his voice so that Frank found it difficult to hear, "I'll tell you what I've thought at times."

"I think the grandson may have been spirited off somewhere. Nothing more easy, you know. Murder is a risky operation, and John Wade is respectable, and wouldn't want to run the risk of a halter."

"You may be right. You don't connect this story of yours with the boy you've brought here, do you?"

"I do," answered Graves, emphatically. "I shouldn't be surprised if this was the very boy!"

"What makes you think so?"

"First, because there's some resemblance between the boy and the old man's son, as I remember him. Next, it would explain John Wade's anxiety to get rid of him. It's my belief that John Wade has recognized in this boy the baby he got rid of fourteen years ago, and is afraid his uncle will make the same discovery."

Frank left the crevice through which he had received so much information in a whirl of new and bewildering thoughts.

"Was it possible," he asked himself, "that he could be the grandson of Mr. Wharton, his kind benefactor?"



Chapter XX

The Escape


It was eight o'clock the next morning before Frank's breakfast was brought to him.

"I am sorry you have had to wait," the housekeeper said, as she appeared at the door with a cup of coffee and a plate of beefsteak and toast, "I couldn't come up before."

"Have the men gone away?" said Frank.

"Yes."

"Then I have something to tell you. I learned something about myself last night. I was in the closet, and heard the man who brought me here talking to another person. May I tell you the story?"

"If you think it will do any good," said the housekeeper, "but I can't help you if that is what you want."

He told the whole story. As he proceeded, the housekeeper betrayed increased, almost eager interest, and from time to time asked him questions in particular as to the personal appearance of John Wade. When Frank had described him as well as he could, she said, in an excited manner:

"Yes, it is -- it must be the same man."

"The same man!" repeated our hero, in surprise.

"Do you know anything about him?"

"I know that he is a wicked man. I am afraid that I have helped him carry out his wicked plan, but I did not know it at the time, or I never would have given my consent."

"I don't understand you," said our hero, puzzled.

"Will you tell me what you mean?"

"Fourteen years ago I was very poor -- poor and sick besides. My husband had died, leaving me nothing but the care of a young infant, whom it was necessary for me to support besides myself. Enfeebled by sickness, I was able to earn but little, but we lived in a wretched room in a crowded tenement house. My infant boy was taken sick and died. As I sat sorrowfully beside the bed on which he lay dead, I heard a knock at the door. I opened it, and admitted a man whom I afterward learned to be John Wade. He very soon explained his errand. He agreed to take my poor boy, and pay all the expenses of his burial in Greenwood Cemetery, provided I would not object to any of his arrangements. He was willing besides to pay me two hundred dollars for the relief of my necessities. Though I was almost beside myself with grief for my child's loss, and though this was a very favorable proposal, I hesitated. I could not understand why a stranger should make me such an offer. I asked him the reason."

"'You ask too much,' he answered, appearing annoyed. 'I have made you a fair offer. Will you accept it, or will you leave your child to have a pauper's funeral?'

"That consideration decided me. For my child's sake I agreed to his proposal, and forebore to question him further. He provided a handsome rosewood casket for my dear child, but upon the silver plate was inscribed a name that was strange to me -- the name of Francis Wharton."

"Francis Wharton!" exclaimed Frank.

"I was too weak and sorrowful to make opposition, and my baby was buried as Francis Wharton. Not only this, but a monument is erected over him at Greenwood, which bears this name."

She proceeded after a pause:

"I did not then understand his object. Your story makes it clear. I think that you are that Francis Wharton, under whose name my boy was buried."

"How strange!" said Frank, thoughtfully. "I cannot realize it. But how did you know the name of the man who called upon you?"

"A card slipped from his pocket, which I secured without his knowledge."

"How fortunate that I met you," said Frank. "I mean to let Mr. Wharton know all that I have learned, and then he shall decide whether he will recognize me or not as his grandson."

"I have been the means of helping to deprive you of your just rights, though unconsciously. Now that I know the wicked conspiracy in which I assisted, I will help undo the work."

"Thank you," said Frank. "The first thing is to get out of this place."

"I cannot open the door of your room. They do not trust me with the key."

"The windows are not very high from the ground. I can get down from the outside."

"I will bring you a clothesline and a hatchet."

Frank received them with exultation.

"Before I attempt to escape," he said, "tell me where I can meet you in New York. I want you to go with me to Mr. Wharton's. I shall need you to confirm my story."

"I will meet you to-morrow at No. 15 B -- Street."

"Then we shall meet to-morrow. What shall I call your name?"

"Mrs. Parker."

"Thank you. I will get away as quickly as possible, and when we are in the city we will talk over our future plans."

With the help of the hatchet, Frank soon demolished the lower part of the window. Fastening the rope to the bedstead, he got out of the window and safely descended to the ground.

A long and fatiguing walk lay before him. But at last he reached the cars, and half an hour later the ferry at Jersey City.

Frank thought himself out of danger for the time being, but he was mistaken.

Standing on the deck of the ferryboat, and looking back to the pier from which he had just started, he met the glance of a man who had intended to take the same boat, but had reached the pier just too late. His heart beat quicker when he recognized in the belated passenger his late jailer, Nathan Graves.

Carried away by his rage and disappointment, Nathan Graves clenched his fist and shook it at his receding victim.

Our hero walked into the cabin. He wanted a chance to deliberate. He knew that Nathan Graves would follow him by the next boat, and it was important that he should not find him. Where was he to go?

Fifteen minutes after Frank set foot on the pier, his enemy also landed. But now the difficult part of the pursuit began. He had absolutely no clew as to the direction which Frank had taken.

For an hour and a half he walked the streets in the immediate neighborhood of the square, but his labor was without reward. Not a glimpse could he catch of his late prisoner.

"I suppose I must go to see Mr. Wade," he at last reluctantly decided. "He may be angry, but he can't blame me. I did my best. I couldn't stand guard over the young rascal all day."

The address which the housekeeper had given Frank was that of a policeman's family in which she was at one time a boarder. On giving his reference, he was hospitably received, and succeeded in making arrangements for a temporary residence.

About seven o'clock Mrs. Parker made her appearance. She was fatigued by her journey and glad to rest.

"I was afraid you might be prevented from coming," said Frank.

"I feared it also. I was about to start at twelve o'clock, when, to my dismay, one of the men came home. He said he had the headache. I was obliged to make him some tea and toast. He remained about till four o'clock, when, to my relief, he went upstairs to lie down. I was afraid some inquiry might be made about you, and your absence discovered, especially as the rope was still hanging out of the window, and I was unable to do anything more than cut off the lower end of it. When the sick man retired to his bed I instantly left the house, fearing that the return of some other of the band might prevent my escaping altogether."

"Suppose you had met one of them, Mrs. Parker?"

"I did. It was about half a mile from the house."

"Did he recognize you?"

"Yes. He asked in some surprise where I was going. I was obliged to make up a story about our being out of sugar. He accepted it without suspicion, and I kept on. I hope I shall be forgiven for the lie. I was forced to it."

"You met no further trouble?"

"No."

"I must tell you of my adventure," said Frank.

"I came across the very man whom I most dreaded -- the man who made me a prisoner."

"Since he knows that you have escaped, he is probably on your track," said Mrs. Parker. "It will be hardly safe for you to go to Mr. Wharton's."

"Why?"

"He will probably think you likely to go there, and be lying in wait somewhere about."

"But I must go to Mr. Wharton," said Frank. "I must tell him this story."

"It will be safer to write."

"The housekeeper, Mrs. Bradley, or John Wade, will get hold of the letter and suppress it. I don't want to put them on their guard."

"You are right. It is necessary to be cautious."

"You see I am obliged to call on my grandfather, that is, on Mr. Wharton."

"I can think of a better plan."

"What is it?"

"Go to a respectable lawyer. Tell him your story, and place your case in his hands. He will write to your grandfather, inviting him to call at his office on business of importance, without letting him know what is the nature of it. You and I can be there to meet him, and tell our story. In this way John Wade will know nothing, and learn nothing, of your movements."

"That is good advice, Mrs. Parker, but there is one thing you have not thought of," said our hero.

"What is that?"

"Lawyers charge a great deal for their services, and I have no money."

"You have what is as good a recommendation -- a good case. The lawyer will see at once that if not at present rich, you stand a good chance of obtaining a position which will make you so. Besides, your grandfather will be willing, if he admits your claim, to recompense the lawyer handsomely."

"I did not think of that. I will do as you advise to-morrow."



Chapter XXI

John Wade's Disappointment


Mr. Wharton sat at dinner with his nephew and the housekeeper. He had been at home for some time, and of course on his arrival had been greeted with the news of our hero's perfidy. But, to the indignation of Mrs. Bradley and John, he was obstinately incredulous.

"There is some mistake, I am sure," he said. "Such a boy as Frank is incapable of stealing. You may be mistaken after all, John. Why did you not let him stay till I got back? I should like to have examined him myself."

"I was so angry with him for repaying your kindness in such a way that I instantly ordered him out of the house."

"I blame you, John, for your haste," said his uncle. "It was not just to the boy."

"I acted for the best, sir," he forced himself to say in a subdued tone.

"Young people are apt to be impetuous, and I excuse you; but you should have waited for my return. I will call at Gilbert & Mack's, and inquire of Frank himself what explanation he has to give."

"Of course, sir, you will do what you think proper," said his nephew.

This ended the conversation, and Mr. Wharton, according to his declared intention, went to Gilbert & Mack's. He returned disappointed with the information that our hero was no longer in the store.

I now return to Mr. Wharton at dinner.

"Here is a letter for you, sir," said the housekeeper. "It was brought by the postman this afternoon."

Mr. Wharton adjusted his spectacles and read as follows:

"No. --  Wall Street.

"Dear Sir: Will you have the kindness to call at my office to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock, if it suits your convenience? I have an important communication to make to you, which will, I think be of an agreeable character. Should the time named not suit you, will you have the kindness to name your own time?

"Yours respectfully,

"Morris Hall."


"Read that, John," said his uncle, passing him the letter.

"Morris Hall is a lawyer, I believe, sir," said John.

"Have you any idea of the nature of the communication he desires to make?"

"No idea at all."

"If it would relieve you, sir, I will go in your place," said John, whose curiosity was aroused.

"Thank you, John, but this is evidently a personal matter. I shall go down there to-morrow at the appointed time."

John was far from suspecting that the communication related to Frank, though he had heard the day previous from Nathan Graves of the boy's escape. He had been very much annoyed, and had given his agent a severe scolding, with imperative orders to recapture the boy, if possible.

It was not without a feeling of curiosity that Mr. Wharton entered the law office of Mr. Hall. He announced himself and was cordially welcomed.

"You have a communication to make to me," said Mr. Wharton.

"I have."

"Tell me all without delay."

"I will, sir. This is the communication I desire to make."

The story of John Wade's treachery was told, and the means by which he had imposed upon his uncle, but the lawyer carefully abstained from identifying the lost grandson with Frank Fowler.

When the story was concluded, Mr. Wharton said:

"Where is my grandson -- my poor George's boy? Find him for me, and name your own reward."

"I will show him to you at once, sir. Frank!"

At the word, Frank, who was in an inner office, entered. Mr. Wharton started in amazement.

"Frank!" he exclaimed. "My dear boy, is it you who are my grandson?"

"Grandfather!"

Mr. Wharton held out his arms, and our hero, already attached to him for his kindness, was folded in close embrace.

"Then you believe I am your grandson?" said Frank.

"I believe it without further proof."

"Still, Mr. Wharton," said the lawyer, "I want to submit my whole proof. Mrs. Parker!"

Mrs. Parker entered and detailed her part in the plot, which for fourteen years had separated Frank from his family.

"Enough!" said Mr. Wharton. "I am convinced -- I did not believe my nephew capable of such baseness. Mrs. Parker, you shall not regret your confession. I will give you a pension which will relieve you from all fear of want. Call next week on Mr. Hall, and you shall learn what provision I have made for you. You, Frank, will return with me."

"What will Mr. John say?" asked Frank.

"He shall no longer sleep under my roof," said Mr. Wharton, sternly.

Frank was taken to a tailor and fitted out with a handsome new suit, ready-made for immediate use, while three more were ordered.

When Mr. Wharton reached home, he entered the library and rang the bell.

To the servant who answered he said:

"Is Mr. John at home?"

"Yes, sir; he came in ten minutes ago."

"Tell him I wish to see him at once in the library. Summon the housekeeper, also."

Surprised at the summons, John Wade answered it directly. He and Mrs. Bradley met at the door and entered together. Their surprise and dismay may be conjectured when they saw our hero seated beside Mr. Wharton, dressed like a young gentleman.

"John Wade," said his uncle, sternly, "the boy whom you malign, the boy you have so deeply wronged, has found a permanent home in this house."

"What, sir! you take him back?"

"I do. There is no more fitting place for him than the house of his grandfather."

"His grandfather!" exclaimed his nephew and the housekeeper, in chorus.

"I have abundant proof of the relationship. This morning I have listened to the story of your treachery. I have seen the woman whose son, represented to me as my grandson, lies in Greenwood Cemetery. I have learned your wicked plans to defraud him of his inheritance, and I tell you that you have failed."

"I shall make my will to-morrow, bequeathing all my property to my grandson, excepting only an annual income of two thousand dollars to yourself. And now I must trouble you to find a boarding place. After what has passed I do not desire to have you in the family."

"I do not believe he is your grandson," said John Wade, too angry to heed prudential considerations.

"Your opinion is of little consequence."

"Then, sir, I have only to wish you good-morning. I will send for my trunks during the day."

"Good-morning," said Mr. Wharton, gravely, and John Wade left the room, baffled and humiliated.

"I hope, sir," said the housekeeper, alarmed for her position; "I hope you don't think I knew Mr. Frank was your grandson. I never was so astonished and flustrated in my life. I hope you won't discharge me, sir -- me that have served you so faithfully for many years."

"You shall remain on probation. But if Frank ever has any fault to find with you, you must go."

"I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Frank."

"I forgive you freely," said our hero, who was at a generous disposition.



Chapter XXII

Conclusion


Meanwhile poor Grace had fared badly at the poorhouse in Crawford. It was a sad contrast to the gentle and kindly circle at Mr. Pomeroy's. What made it worse for Grace was, that she could hear nothing of Frank. She feared he was sick, or had met with some great misfortune, which prevented his writing.

One day a handsome carriage drove up to the door. From it descended our hero, elegantly attired. He knocked at the door.

Mrs. Chase, who was impressed by wealth, came to the door in a flutter of respect, induced by the handsome carriage.

"What do you wish, sir?" she asked, not recognizing Frank.

"Miss Grace Fowler!" repeated Mrs. Chase, almost paralyzed at Grace being called for by such stylish acquaintances.

"Yes, my sister Grace."

"What! are you Frank Fowler?"

"Yes. I have come to take Grace away."

"I don't know as I have the right to let her go," said Mrs. Chase, cautiously, regretting that Grace was likely to escape her clutches.

"Here is an order from Deacon Pinkerton, chairman of the overseers of the poor."

"That is sufficient. She can go. You look as if you had prospered in the city," she added, with curiosity.

"Yes. I have found my grandfather, who is very wealthy."

"You don't say!" ejaculated Mrs. Chase. "I'll tell Grace at once."

Grace at work in the kitchen had not heard of the arrival. What was her surprise when Mrs. Chase, entering the room, said, graciously:

"Go up at once, Grace, and change your clothes. Your brother has come for you. He is going to take you away."

Grace almost gasped for breath.

"Is it true?"

"It is indeed. Your brother looks remarkably well. He is rich. He has found a rich grandfather, and has come for you in a carriage."

In amazed bewilderment Grace went upstairs and put on her best dress, poor enough in comparison with her brother's clothes, and was soon happy in his embrace.

"I am glad to see you, my dear child," said Mr. Wharton, who had accompanied Frank. "Will you come to the city and live with me and your brother?"

"Oh, sir, I shall be glad to be wherever Frank is."

"Good-bye, my dear child," sand Mrs. Chase, whose feelings were very much changed, now that Grace was a rich young lady. "Come and see me some time."

"Thank you, Mrs. Chase. Good-bye!"

The carriage rolled on.

* * * * *

A few words only remain. Our hero was placed at a classical school, and in due time entered college, where he acquitted himself with distinction. He is now making a tour of Europe. Grace was also placed at an excellent school, and has developed into a handsome and accomplished young lady. It is thought she will marry Sam Pomeroy, who obtained a place in a counting-room through Mr. Wharton's influence, and is now head clerk, with a prospect of partnership. His father received a gift of five thousand dollars from Mr. Wharton as an acknowledgment of his kindness to Frank. Tom Pinkerton holds a subordinate clerkship in the same house, and is obliged to look up to Sam as his superior. It chafes his pride, but his father has become a poor man, and Tom is too prudent to run the risk of losing his situation. John Wade draws his income regularly, but he is never seen at his uncle's house.

Mr. Wharton is very happy in his grandson, and made happier by the intelligence just received from Europe of Frank's engagement to a brilliant young New York lady whom he met in his travels. He bids fair, though advanced in age, to live some years yet, to witness the happiness of his dear grandson, once a humble cash-boy.

<eob>

Sir Gawain And The Lady Of Lys

By

Jessie L. Weston



Sir Gawain and the Lady of Lys


Hearken to me and ye shall hear how the good King Arthur and his knights went forth to the wood for archery, and how at vesper-tide they gat them homeward right joyfully.

The knights rode gaily ahead, holding converse the one with the other, and behind them came the king, on a tall and prancing steed. He ware no robe of state, but a short coat, which became him right well.

Behind all his men he rode, pensive and frowning, as one lost in thought. And as he thus lagged behind Sir Gawain looked back, and saw the king riding alone and pensive, and he bade his comrades draw rein and wait for their lord. And as the king came anigh he drew his steed beside him, and stretched out his hand, laughing, and laid hold on the bridle, and said, "Sire, tell us, for the love of God, of what ye may now be thinking? Sire, your thoughts should be of naught but good, for there is no prince in this world equal to ye in valour or in honour, therefore should ye be very joyful!"

The king made answer courteously, "Fair nephew, an I may be joyful I will tell ye truly that whereon I thought. There is no king living on earth who hath had such good and such great service from his men as I; it seemeth to me now right and fitting that I should give to them that which they have deserved for the toil they have suffered for me, whereby I be come to such high estate. Fair nephew, I bethought me that my riches would avail little if through sloth I failed to reward the good service of these my knights, who have made me everywhere to be obeyed and honoured. Now without delay will I tell ye that I am minded to hold, at Pentecost, a far greater court than is my wont, and to give to each and all such gifts as shall be well pleasing to them, so that each may be glad and joyful, and ever hereafter of good will towards me."

Swiftly, and before all the others, Sir Gawain made answer, "Fair Sire, blessed be the thought into which ye have fallen, for 'tis so fair and so good that neither kaiser nor king nor count might think a better."

And the king asked, "Nephew, tell me straightway where do ye counsel that this my court be held?"

"Sire, at Carnarvon; there let all your knighthood assemble, for there is not in all your kingdom a fairer place, nor nobler halls, and it lieth in the marches of Wales, and of the land of Britain."

The king and all his company rode back joyfully, and that selfsame night did the king Arthur give command that all the knights and all the barons throughout the land should be summoned by letter to come to him at Pentecost.

That great knighthood came thither, that famous knighthood came thither, even so have I heard, and assembled for this court at Carnarvon.

Ah God! from what far-off lands did they come. Thither were come the men of Ireland, and of Scotland, of Iceland, of Wales, and of Galvoie (a land where many a man goeth astray). From Logres they came, and from Escavalon; men of Norway, Bretons, Danes, and they of Orcanie. Never was so great a knighthood assembled at any court as that which the good king Arthur summoned to him.

The day of the Holy Feast, when he had worn his crown at the high procession, knights and barons conducted him with joy to his palace; and therewith Kay, the seneschal, bade them sound the trumpets and bring water. First the king washed, and thereafter sat down aloft, on the high dais, so that all who sat there at meat might see him. Four hundred knights, save three, sat themselves down at the Round Table; at the second were seated the thirty peers. Crowded were the ranks of the other knights who were seated throughout the hall, as was fitting, on dais, and at tables on the ground. Then quickly Kay the seneschal bare the first meat, and the service was made throughout the hall, in joyful wise, as befitted such high festivity.

Now as the king ate, he looked towards the Round Table, even as one who would take knowledge of all, and by hap his eye fell on the seat of a knight good and true, which was void and lacking its rightful lord. Then so great a pity and tenderness took him that the tears rose from his heart to his eyes, and thence welled forth, and he sighed a great and piteous sigh when he remembered him of that knight. He took a knife which Yones held (nephew was he to king Ydier, and carved before Arthur), and, frowning and thoughtful, smote the blade through the bread which lay on the board. Then he rested his head on the one hand, even as one whose thoughts are troubled by anger or grief, and unheeding, ran the palm of the other adown the sharp knife, so that he was somewhat wounded. At sight of the blood he bethought himself, and left hold of the knife and taking the napkin, wrapped it swiftly around his hand, so that they who ate in the hall below might not see. And with that he fell once more into thought and bowed down his head, and as he mused the tears came again to his eyes.

When Sir Gawain beheld this he marvelled much, and therein was he right, for to all who were in the hall it seemed but folly. Then he rose up straightway, and passed between the ranks till that he came before the dais, and saw that the king was again lost in thought. He hasted not to speak till that he saw him raise his head, but so soon as he lifted up his face Sir Gawain spake right courteously; "Sire, Sire, 'tis neither right nor fitting that ye should have such wrath or displeasure as should make ye thus moody in the sight of so many high and noble barons as ye may see here around ye; rather should their solace and their company please and rejoice ye."

"Gawain, will ye that I tell ye whence came the thought which has made me thus sad and silent?"

"Yea, Sire, that do I pray of ye."

"Fair nephew, know of a truth that I will tell ye willingly, in the hearing of all these good knights. My thoughts were of ye, and of many another whom I see here, of the wickedness of which ye are full, and of the envy and the treason long time hid, and now made manifest." With that the king held his peace, and said no more.

Sir Gawain grew crimson with anger and shame, and throughout the palace all held their peace, for much they marvelled that the king spake thus evilly to his nephew, calling him in the hearing of all a traitor proven, and all were wroth therefor. Then he to whom the ill words were said answered as best he might, "Sire, that was an ugly word; for your honour bethink ye of what ye have said in the hearing of all who be here within."

"Gawain," answered the king, "'tis no empty word, thus of a truth do I repeat it, and Ywain may well take heed and know that I thought of him but now, when I sat silent and pensive, here within have I not one single comrade whom I do not accuse of treason and too great felony!"

With that I know not how many sprang to their feet, and a great clamour filled the hall. "Lords," cried Tor fis Ares, "I conjure ye by the oath which ye and I alike sware to king Arthur that ye restrain yourselves, and act as is befitting; he accuses ye all of treason -- these be right evil tidings!" In like wise also spake Sir Ywain. "Ah God," quoth Sir Gawain, "with what joy was all this great court summoned and assembled, and in what grief shall it be broken up!"

The king heard, and, sighing, spake, "Gawain, I have spoken but the truth!"

"Fair Sire, for the love of God, and for honesty, tell us after what manner and in what fashion we be felon and traitorous?"

Quoth the king, "An ye will I will tell ye; now hearken. Ye know of a truth that aforetime there reigned in this land a folk who built castles and cities, strong towers and fortresses, and the great Chastel Orguellous did they fortify against us. When we heard tell thereof ye, my knights, delayed not to go thither, not with my will! There did I lose so many of my folk that the thought thereof yet grieveth my heart; the greater part were slain, but some among them were made captive. They took one of my companions, three years long have they held him in prison, and thereof have I great grief at heart. Here within do I see no better knight; he was beyond measure valiant, fair of face and form, and very wise was he in counsel. But now, when all this great lordship was set down here to meat, I beheld that knight's seat void and lacking its lord, and for sorrow and grief was my heart heavy and troubled when I saw him not in his place in your ranks; it lacked but little that I were distraught. Therefore, my lords, do I arraign ye all of treason; Giflet fis Do is he named that good and gentle knight, three whole years have gone by since he was imprisoned in that tower, and ye be all traitors who have left your comrade three years and have not sought for or freed him! Yea, and I who have blamed ye, I be even more the traitor in that I ever ware crown, or made joy, or held high feast before I knew if he might be restored to me, or where he now may be, whether dead or living! Now on this have I set my heart, -- by the faith I owe to that Heavenly Lord who hath bestowed on me earthly honour, and kingdom, and lands, that for no hap that may befall me will I delay to set forth in search of him, be it in never so distant a land. For verily I tell ye all that the king who loseth so good a knight by wrongful deed or by sloth, he hath right neither to lands nor to honour, nor should he live a day longer, an he deliver not that knight who for his honour suffered toil and was made captive. In the ears of ye all do I make a vow that I will lie not more than one night in any place till that I know whether he be dead, or may be freed."

Then all cried with one voice, "Shame upon him, Sire, who will not plead guilty to this treason, for ye speak with right and reason; by overmuch sloth have we delayed to ride forth and seek him far hence, even at the Chastel Orguellous."

"Lords," quoth the king, "I tell ye here and at once that I shall set forth to-morrow, but by the faith that I owe to Saint Germain I must needs proceed with wisdom, for here is force of no avail."

"True, fair Sire," answered Sir Gawain. "Know for sooth that the roads 'twixt here and the Chastel Orguellous be passing hard and difficult; 'tis a good fifteen days ere ye be come thither; longer days have ye never ridden! 'Tis best that one tell ye the truth! And when ye be come thither, fair Sire, then shall ye have each day battle, as I know right well, one knight against the other, a hundred against a hundred, that shall ye find truly. Now take good counsel for the journey, what folk ye may best take with ye."

"Lords," said the king, "now let us to meat, and afterward will I see by aid of your counsel whom I take with me, and whom I leave to guard my land and my folk."

With that all in the palace, great and small, ate as quickly as might be; and so soon as the king saw that 'twas time and place to speak he bade remove the cloths, which they did without delay. Thereafter they brought water, and bare round the wine in cups of fine gold. Then, it seemeth me, there sprang to their feet at once more than three thousand knights, who cried the king mercy, and prayed that he would take them with him on this adventure, for right willingly would they go.

"Lords," quoth the king, "they whom my barons elect, those will I take, and the others shall remain to keep my kingdom in peace."

Then first, before all others, spake king Urien, a very wise knight was he. "My Lord king, ye have no need to take with ye too great a force; take with ye rather a few, but good, men, so to my thinking will ye more swiftly free Giflet, our good comrade, from his prison. Take with ye the best of your knights, 'twill be for your greater honour, and your foes will be the more speedily vanquished; knight against knight must ye fight there, and I think me that such of their men shall there be worsted that they shall that same day yield ye Giflet the good and valiant knight. Have no doubt for the when or how, but bid them make ready. I can but praise the folk who shall go with ye."

Then quoth the king, "What say ye, Lords? I await your counsel!"

King Ydier spake. "Sire, none of us should give ye praise, or speak other than the best he knoweth. Shamed be he who should give ye counsel wherein ye may find no honour. I know full well that the more part of your folk would gladly go with ye, but if ye take them, Sire, 'twill not be for your honour, but believe king Urien, for he hath given good counsel so I tell ye of a truth."

"Certes," saith Sir Gawain, "he would be false and foolish who should give other rede!" And all said, "Let it be as the king will; let him take those whom he please, and leave the others in the land."

"Ye have said well," said the king; "now go ye to your lodging, and prepare to depart, and I will cause to be made ready a pennon of silk for each of those whom I shall lead with me." As he said, so it was done, and all betook them to their lodging.

The king forthwith sent the pennons, and bade them without fail be armed and ahorse at dawn.

What more shall I tell ye? At sunrise were all the knights armed, even as the king commanded, all they who had received the pennons came together ahorse before the hall.

Now will I tell ye their names: there were Sir Gawain, king Ydier, Guengasoains, Kay, and Lucains, the butler. The sixth was Tors. Then Saigremors, and Mabonagrain, who was nephew unto king Urien. Eight have I now named unto ye, counting the kinsman of king Urien. The ninth was Lancelot du Lac; the tenth Ider, son of Nut; the Laid Hardi, the eleventh; with Doon l'Aiglain have we twelve, all very courteous knights. Galegantins the Galois, and the brave Carados Briefbras, who was a right cheery comrade, made fourteen, and the fifteenth was the good Taulas de Rogemont: so many were they, nor more, nor less.

All ready armed were they before the hall the while they awaited the king, ere he came forth armed from his chamber. Then he mounted his steed, and I tell ye that, to my knowledge, was never king so richly armed afore, nor ever hereafter shall there be such. The queen bare him company even to the entrance of the palace, then she turned her back.

Then the king bade his companions march, and they began to move as swiftly as might be on the highway, but so great a folk convoyed them that hardly might they depart or go forth from the burg. And when the king had ridden three miles he drew rein in the midst of a meadow, and there he bade farewell to his folk, who, sad and sorrowful, gat them back to the burg. And the king and his fifteen comrades rode on their way; they passed even through the land of Britain, so I think me, and hasted them much to ride quickly.

One day the king, fasting, came forth from a very great forest, on to a heath of broom; the sun was hot, and burning, and the country over large and waste. The king was so wearied by the heat, in that he rode fasting, that he had much need of rest, could he but find a fitting spot. By chance they found a great tree, where they drew bridle; beneath was a spring, and for heat and for weariness they bared their heads and their hands, and washed their faces and their mouths. I know well that one and all had much need of food, but they had naught with them, and all were sore vexed for the king, who suffered over much from the fast.

Sir Gawain gazed into the plain, far below, 'neath the forest, and he showed unto the seneschal a house of thatch, well fenced about; "Kay," quoth he, "methinks under that roof there must be folk!"

"'Tis true," said Kay; "I will go and see if I may find victual, and ye shall await me here." With that he departed from them, and went straightway to the house; within he found an old woman, but nothing of what he sought; food was there none.

The crone spake and said, "Sir, so God help me, for twenty miles round about are naught but waste lands, know that well, save only that the king of Meliolant has built there below 'neath the trees a forest lodge. He cometh thither ofttimes privately with his hounds. There, Sir, will ye be well lodged, an ye find him; from that tree yonder may ye see the house on the hill."

The seneschal straightway went even as the crone had said, and he saw the dwelling, right well enclosed with orchards, vineyards and meadows. Ponds were there, lands, and fish-tanks, all well fenced about. In the midst was a tower; ye might ask no better, no defence was lacking to it. Beholding it the seneschal stayed not, but passed the roadway, and the gate, and the chief drawbridge, and thus came to the foot of the tower. There did he dismount, but he found no living soul of whom he might ask concerning the dwelling and who might be within. Then he entered a hall, very high and long and wide. On a great hearth he saw a goodly fire alight, but he found no man save a dwarf, who was roasting a fat peacock ('twere hard to find a better!), well larded, on a spit of apple-wood, which the dwarf knew right well how to turn.

Kay came forward quickly, and the dwarf beheld him with evil countenance. "Dwarf," quoth the seneschal, "tell me if there be any here within save thyself?" But the wretch would not speak a word.

Kay would have slain him there and then, if he had not thought to be shamed thereby, but he knew right well that twere too great villainy.

"Miserable hunchback," quoth he, "I see none here in this house save thee and this peacock, which I will now have for my dinner; I will share it as shall seem me good."

"By the King Who lieth not," quoth the dwarf, "ye shall neither eat thereof yourself nor share it with others; I counsel you to quit this hostel, or know ye well, and without doubt, that ye shall be right shamefully thrust out!"

This vexed Kay mightily, and he sprang forward to smite him; with his foot he thrust him against the pillar of the hearth so that the stone thereof became bloody. The dwarf bled freely for the heat, and made loud lament, for he feared lest he should be slain.

Then on the left the seneschal heard a door shut-to sharply, and there came forth a knight, tall and strong, and of proud countenance, and very fair and goodly to look upon; he might not be above thirty years old. He ware a vest of new samite, furred with ermine for warmth; 'twas not long, but wide, and of ample folds. Thus was he well clad and cunningly shod; and I tell ye truly that he ware a fair girdle of golden links; no treasury hath a richer. All uncovered he came forth, in guise of a man greatly wroth, leading two greyhounds by a fair leash of silk which he held in his hand. When he saw that his dwarf bled, he spake, "Ye who be come all armed into this hall, wherefore have ye slain this my servant?"

"A curse upon such a servant," quoth Kay, "from this day on, for in all the world is there not one so evil, so small, or so misshapen!"

Then the knight answered, "By all the saints, but ye say ill, and I challenge ye for it, fair sir."

Quoth the seneschal, "Many a goodly knight have I seen, to the full as noble as ye may be, and ye be evil and vexatious, even if I have smitten this servant who roasted here this peacock, to speak thus concerning the matter."

The knight answered frankly, "Sir, ye speak not courteously, but for God's sake I would ask ye a mere nothing, even that ye vouchsafe to tell me your name."

Kay spake in great wrath, "I will tell ye willingly, so help me God I have told it ere this to five hundred knights better than ye be; know of a truth that my name is Kay."

"Certes, sir, I may well believe that ye speak truly; by your speech alone may one quickly know ye. This lad refused ye the peacock; 'tis not the custom of my house that meat be refused to any who may ask for it; ye shall have your share of the peacock, and that right swiftly, so God help me!" With that he seized the spit, and raised it aloft, and with great strength and force smote Sir Kay therewith, so that he well nigh slew him, and know that he smote him on the neck so that he must needs fall, he had no foot so firm that it might keep him upright. And as the peacock burst asunder, the hot blood thereof ran between the links of his hauberk in such wise that Sir Kay bare the mark thereof all the days of his life. Then the knight threw the peacock to his two hounds, and spake, "Sir Kay, rise, that be your share, ye shall have no more; now get out of my sight quickly, I am over wroth when I behold ye!"

With that came quickly two sergeants, fully armed, and led the seneschal forth from the hall. He mounted his steed, and turned him back, passing the bridge and the plain, and came to where the king had dismounted.

Then his comrades asked him, "Seneschal, have ye found nothing of that which ye went to seek?"

"Not I, my lords; 'tis a right evil land here wherein to seek for food; it behoveth us to ride far, for here may we find nor hostelry, nor victual -- so hath it been told to me."

Quoth Sir Gawain, laughing, "Certes, he with whom ye spake lives by meat, even as we; without meat might he not dwell in this great and well wooded land."

"By my faith, no," answered Kay, "but I tell ye truly, 'tis so proud a vassal that for naught that we may say will he give us shelter."

The king said, "Then is he right discourteous, and I counsel that we send Gawain to him. Fair nephew, go, and we will wait ye here."

Sir Gawain mounted forthwith. What more shall I tell ye save that he came straight to the dwelling, and when the knight saw him he made marvellous joy of him, and asked his name, and he answered that men called him Gawain, and straightway the knight knew him.

Then he told him his errand, saying, "The king is not far distant, and would fain lodge with ye." This was well pleasing to the knight, and he said, "Fair Sir, go, bring the king hither."

Then Sir Gawain rode swiftly back, and brought Arthur with him to the hostel; but ere they might enter all the waters were set free and the fountains 'gan to play. For joy and in honour of the king the knight had assembled all his folk, and received him with very great honour, and led him into the tower. The hounds were yet there, devouring the flesh of the peacock. The king looked at Taulas, and quoth, "Body of Saint Thomas, these two hounds have fared better than we to-day!" The knight heard, and laughed to himself. Kay saw that, but said naught.

From thence they passed into the hall, and when they had disarmed the meat was made ready, the knight bade bring white napkins, and pasties. After dinner he made them wash their heads, and their necks, and their feet, which were sorely bruised. Then he caused them to rest in fair beds, covered with cloth of samite, and they slept even to the morrow without stirring. But when they were awakened the host had prepared for them a right plenteous meal, this he did of his good will. They sat them down joyfully, and were richly served. I would weary ye if I told all the dishes. The knights made much mirth of the seneschal's burn, for the dwarf would not keep the tale secret from them, but began to speak thereof. Never would it have been known through Kay, if the dwarf had not brought it to mind, for he was over bent on hiding it, and the host even more than he; all that night his comrades mocked and made sport of him even till they betook them to rest.

Next morn, without delay, the king arose at daybreak, and likewise did all the others, and armed themselves. Then the king thanked his host for the good lodging he had given them.

Why should I make long telling thereof? The king saith, "Hide not from me how ye be called."

"Sire, my name is Ydier the fair, and, Sire, this castle is mine own."

Then Ydier prayed the king that of his kindness he would take him with him, but Arthur said he might not lead with him other save those whom he had brought from his own land; and he took leave of the knight since he might no longer abide in his hostelry, and went forth with his companions.

The tale is here over long, but I will shorten it for ye. Two days did they ride without food, for they might not sooner find place where they might win food or seek lodging. Thus must they needs ride till they came to the Orchard of the Sepulchres, where adventures be found oft and perilous. There they ate with the hermits, of whom there were a hundred and more. Here 'tis not fitting to tell of the marvels of the cemetery, so diverse they be, and so great that there is no man living on earth who could think, or believe, that the tale be true. Since 'twas made and established never has the tale been told whence came those graves, nor the custom which the hermits observed; to my mind 'twould take too long did I tell it ye ere the fitting time and place be come. But this will I tell ye of a truth, when the king had sojourned two days, and beheld the Orchard, on the third, after meat, he departed, and took the road once more.

On the morrow he came to a wondrous fair land; small need to seek a richer in meadows, forests, or orchards planted with rare and diverse trees. In the forest ways the grass grew green and tall, reaching even to the horses' girths. Towards even-tide they came to a trodden way, where the tall grass was beaten to earth, and trampled down by horses, even for the length of a bowshot. "A hundred and more have passed this way," quoth the king's men.

Sir Gawain spake to the king, "Fair Sire, follow me gently with these my comrades on this wide road. I will ride on ahead, and seek out, and ask whether there be near at hand hostel where we may lodge this night, for of lodging have we great need. Yet, Sire, I pray that ye leave not the road for word of any."

With that he set spurs to his steed, and rode swiftly on his way; nor had he ridden long ere he was free of the forest, and saw before him a hill, and a company of well-nigh a hundred horsemen, who rode in knightly guise; 'twas on their track he followed.

Sir Gawain pressed on his steed, but when he had crossed the valley and mounted the hill there was never a man in sight. But he saw before him a castle; none so fair had he beheld afore, which stood on the bank of a broad river; 'twould take me over long to tell the fashion thereof, but this and no more will I say, 'twas the fairest ever seen.

Then Sir Gawain looked toward the river, and beheld two maidens, in very fair vesture of purple, bearing pitchers of fine gold, wherein they had drawn water, and he quoth, "Maidens, God save ye, and give ye good speed!" and they answered, as was fitting, "Fair sir, God bless ye!"

"Maidens, by the faith ye owe me answer me, and hide it not, what bear ye in those pitchers?"

Quoth the one, "No need have we to hide aught; 'tis but water, wherewith the good knight shall wash his hands."

"Of a faith," quoth Sir Gawain, "courteously have ye named him; great honour is there in such a name!"

The second maiden answered, "Sir, she hath spoken truth; ye will not lightly find a fairer, or a better, knight. See, but now doth he enter within his burg."

Then Sir Gawain hasted, and spake no more with the maidens, but rode over the bridge, and entered the castle by the gateway. Since the hour of his birth never had he seen one so fair, nor, I think me, so long as he live shall he see a fairer. All the way by which he passed was hung with curtains richly wrought, whereat he marvelled strangely. 'Twas closed all along with fair buildings of diverse fashions. In long rows adown the street Sir Gawain beheld rich booths of changers, wherein on many-coloured carpets were set forth vessels of gold and silver (no treasury ever held richer), cups, tankards, and dishes, the fairest ever seen, with money of all lands: esterlins, besants, deniers of Africa, and treasure trove. Every kind of money was there, and much the good knight marvelled thereat.

Stuffs there were too, of all colours, the cost whereof was past his telling. All the doors stood open; but one thing troubled Sir Gawain sore: there was never a living soul to be seen.

Then he said within himself, "Of a sooth, for love and kindness do they bear their lord, who but now hath entered the burg, company to the little castle yonder." Thus he went his way straight to that castle, and came within a goodly hall, both high and wide, and in length equal to a bowshot. On every dais a linen cloth was spread, and sure never king nor count might eat off fairer or better wrought. All was made ready for meat, and the bread and wine set in readiness on the tables; but never a living soul was there. In a side chamber he beheld on grails of silver more than a hundred boars' heads, with pepper beside them, dressed for the serving. Sir Gawain beheld, and crossed himself with lifted hand, but would no longer abide, finding no man with whom he might have speech.

He turned him again through the castle, thinking to find at the bridgehead the maidens of whom I told but now, whom he had left bearing the water in golden pitchers, but nowhere might he find them, and it vexed him sore that he saw them not, since he thought within himself that they would surely have told him the truth concerning their lord, whom he had seen but now enter the burg.

Much he mused thereon, repenting him that he had not longer spoken with them, but now would he make no more abiding, but set him speedily on his way, to meet the king. Nor did he draw bridle till he came unto him.

"Fair nephew," quoth Arthur, "shall we to-day find hostel where we may take rest, for we have sore need thereof?"

"Fair Sire, be at rest; food shall ye have now," answered Sir Gawain.

"'Tis a good word," quoth Kay; "right gladly will I serve the first course unto the king, and to my comrades after!"

"Kay," saith Sir Gawain "not for all the world might ye guess the marvels I have found!" Then he told unto them the adventure, even as it had fallen out, the while he guided them to the burg. As they rode adown the street the king marvelled greatly at the riches he beheld, and Kay spake a courteous word,

"Castle, he who hence might bear ye Would do ill an he should spare ye!"

Thus came they all into the inner burg, and, still ahorse, into the great hall, but they found no man to whom they might speak, or to whose care they might give their steeds. Then they said to each other, "'Twere ill to let them fast," and the king spake, "I counsel that after supper we go forth into yonder fair meadow."

This they held for good rede, and dismounted, making fast their steeds to the stag's antlers on the wall. Then they washed their faces and their hands in a bowl of silver, and the king sat himself down first, and his knights after.

With no delay Kay set the first course before the king; 'twas a great boar's head, and he bare it joyfully, and thereafter swiftly served the rest, saying an any found cause for plaint, there was no lack, he could have at his will. "The food hath cost me naught and I give it freely; nay, of a verity we might, an we were so minded, feed our steeds on boars' heads; this is no niggard hostelry! See ye the fair couches in yonder chamber?" And he pointed to an open doorway.

Sir Gawain looked, and saw a shield hanging on the wall, and within the shield yet stood the fragment of a mighty lance, with a silken pennon hanging from it. I tell ye of a truth, so soon as he was ware thereof the blood stirred in his veins; he spake no word, but swiftly as might be he sprang up from meat, casting aside the knife he held, and gat him to his steed, and girthed him tightly, and set his helmet on his head, and sat him down again on a bench near by the dais, his shield beside him.

The king marvelled greatly, and the knights said the one to the other, "Ha, God, what aileth Sir Gawain?" Each would fain know wherefore he had armed himself thus swiftly; they thought of a surety his head had grown light through over much fasting and the great heat of the day. They were sore dismayed thereat, for they had seen and heard naught that might give occasion for arming, and they might not guess the cause.

The king spake simply, "Fair nephew, say, wherefore have ye ceased to eat? And wherefore thus arm in haste? Ye make us much to marvel; tell me, I pray, doth aught ail ye?"

"Naught, Sire, save that I pray ye to eat quickly, an ye love me!"

"How," quoth Arthur, "without ye, who have fasted even as we? Methinks that were ill done!"

"By God and Saint Thomas, to eat here will profit me naught; ye are wrong, Sire!" Thus answered Sir Gawain, swearing that for naught in the world would he eat in this hostelry, neither might he be joyful or at ease so long as they abode therein. "But I pray ye, Sire, hasten and eat."

Then the king in the hearing of all sware straitly by Him who lieth not, that he would eat naught till that he knew wherefore his nephew had thus donned his helmet.

"Sire," quoth Sir Gawain, "ill and falsely should I have wrought if for the telling of so slight a matter I should make ye fast this day; certes I will tell ye, and lie not. Ye know well how five years agone ye led an army great and strong against the city of Branlant; many a king, many a baron, with twenty thousand men all told, with ye laid siege to the city. Within were many of great valour to aid the lord who held the seignorie of that land. One morn, at break of day, they made a sortie on our host; the cry and clamour were so great that I took no leisure to arm me, but mounted my steed and rode forth, even as I was, to learn the cause of the tumult, bearing with me but shield and lance. Thus I rode forth from the camp, and came straightway on the men of the city, who were hasting to return with their spoil. I followed them, wherein I did foolishly, since I came near to lose my life thereby, for I was wounded by a spear in the shoulder, as ye know, so that I was like to die, and must needs lie sick four months and more ere that I was whole and sound.

"One morning, as I lay in my tent, I bade them raise the hangings around that I might look on the land, and I beheld one of my squires, mounted on the Gringalet, making his way from the stream where he had watered the steed. I called him, and he came to me, and I bade him without delay saddle the good horse, and he did my bidding. I clad me swiftly the while, and bade them bring me my armour secretly, and when I had armed me I mounted, and rode alone out of the camp. Fair Sire, ye followed me, ere I came beyond the tents, praying me straitly to return, but I entreated ye gently that since I had lain overlong sick ye would grant me to go forth into the fields to disport myself, and to test if I were in very truth healed of my wound, promising to return speedily to camp. By this covenant, Sire, ye granted me to ride forth.

"Thus I went my way till I came to a leafy grove, beset with flowers, and abounding in birds, which sang loud and clear. I stayed my steed to hearken, and for the sweetness of the song my heart grew light, and I felt nor pain nor ill. Then I set spurs to my steed, and galloped adown the glade. I found myself hale and strong, and feared no longer for my wound.

"Thus I hearkened to the sweet song of the birds till that I forgat myself, and passed a second grove, and a third, and a fourth, ere that I bethought me of returning. Thus I rode till I came to a clearing fair and wide, where I saw beside a fountain a pavilion, richly fashioned. I rode even to the doorway, and looked within, and there on a couch I beheld so wondrous fair a maiden that I was abashed for her great beauty. Sire, I dismounted, and fastened my steed without the tent and entered and saluted the maiden; but, Sire, first she greeted Sir Gawain ere that she made answer to me.

"Then I asked her wherefore she did thus, and she answered that she held Sir Gawain in honour above all knights, and therefore she first gave him greeting. And when I heard this I spake saying that I was indeed Sir Gawain, and her most true knight, but scarce would the maiden believe me. I must needs unhelm, and from an inner chamber she brought forth a silken ribbon, whereon a Saracen maiden of the queen's household had wrought my semblance. And when she had looked thereon, and beheld me disarmed, and knew of a verity that I was he whom she desired, then she threw her arms around me, and kissed me more than a hundred times, saying that she was mine even as long as she might live.

"Then I took that fair gift right joyfully, and we spake together long, and had our will the one of the other. And this I tell ye that ere we parted I sware to her that other love would I never have. Then when I had armed me again, and mounted my steed, I took leave of the maid right lovingly, and turned me again for the camp, joyful of this my fair adventure.

"Thus I rode swiftly through one grove, but had gone scarce a bowshot beyond when a knight came fast behind me, marvellous well armed, and bearing a lance with a fair pennon. He cried loudly upon me, 'Traitor, ye may go no further; ye must pay dearly for my brother, whom ye slew, and for this my daughter, whom ye have now dishonoured.' Then I answered him, 'Sir Knight, ye might speak more courteously, for I have done ye neither shame nor evil; an I had, I were ready to give ye what amends might seem good to ye and to my lady; treason have I not done.'

"With that I set spurs to my steed, and he likewise, and we came fast the one against the other, and his lance was shivered on my shield, but my blade pierced him through shield and hauberk, so that he fell to the ground sore wounded. Sire, I pray ye eat, for an I tell ye more it may turn to evil." And the king quoth, "Nephew, say on speedily, and delay not."

Then spake Sir Gawain, "Sire, I left the knight lying, and went my way, but ere I had gone far I heard one cry upon me, 'Traitor, stay; ye must pay for my uncle and this my father, whom ye have wrongfully slain, and for my sister, whom ye have dishonoured!' Then I stayed my steed, and prayed him to speak more courteously, for that I was ready to make amends an I had done wrong, but that I was no traitor.

"Then we set ourselves to joust, and I tell ye, Sire, we came so hard together that we were borne both of us to the earth. Then we betook us to our swords, and dealt many a blow the one to the other; but in the end, in that I was scarce healed of my wound, he dealt me more harm than I might deal him; in this I lie not, I was well-nigh worn down, and put to the worse. Then I bethought me, Sire, and prayed him to tell me his name since I was fain to know it; and he told me he was Bran de Lis. Ider de Lis, the good and valiant, was his father, and Melians de Lis his uncle, and he said did I get the better of him, then had I slain the three best knights in any land, yet he deemed well, an God would help him, that he might even avenge the twain; for he quoth, 'I know well that a combat betwixt us may not endure over long, but that one of us must needs be slain.' And I answered, 'Sir, let us do otherwise, for an ye put me to the worse but few will believe the tale, for in this land it were not lightly held that any man may vanquish me. Methinks 'twere better that our combat be fought in the sight of many, who shall bear true witness as to the which of us comes off the better.' Thus, Sire, we made covenant together by token that in what place soever he should find me, whether armed or unarmed, there we should fight. This we sware, the one to the other. By the love I bear ye, Sire, never since that day have I heard aught of him in any land where I might be. Thus was our combat ended, as I tell ye, and of a truth I saw him no more.

"But even now, Sire, as I sat at meat, from which I arose in wrath and misease (willingly would I have eaten an I might), this is what chanced: I saw in yonder chamber the selfsame shield which Bran de Lis bare the day we did combat together; full well I remember it, and there it hangeth on the wall. Fair lord king, an God help me 'tis no lie; there in the shield standeth fast my pennon, and a great splinter of my lance; by that token, Sire, Bran de Lis doth haunt this country, since his shield be here. Therefore am I vexed and wrathful, and therefore I arose from meat, since I feared to be taken at a loss; in sooth, I somewhat fear him, for so good a knight I never saw! Sire, now have I told ye the truth, and wherefore I have donned my helmet, ye need press me no further, since not for the kingdom of Logres would I be found unarmed in such place as he may be. Fair Sire, I pray ye hasten, otherwise, an there be long abiding, I may chance to pay over dear for my meat."

Quoth the king, "Fair nephew, sit ye down again, nor have fear of any foe. He cometh not."

But Sir Gawain answered, "Sire, for naught that ye may say will I eat in this hostel!"

"So be it," quoth the king, "an ye will do naught for my prayer." With that all the others betook them to meat in good fellowship.

After no long time they beheld a little brachet, which ran out from a side chamber and came into the hall. A long leash trailed behind it, and round its neck was a collar of gold, wherein were many precious stones, red, and green as ivy leaves. The brachet was white as snow, and smoother than any ermine. I tell ye of a truth 'twas not ugly, but very fair and well shapen, and the king gazed long at it. It barked loudly at the knights on the dais, and made small joy of them, I tell ye. Then Kay the seneschal coveted it, and spake to the king, "Sire, I will keep this brachet, and take it hence, an ye grant me this gift; 'twill be a comrade for Huden." And the king said, "Take it, seneschal, and bear it hence."

With that the brachet turned tail, and Kay with no delay sprang up and thought to seize it, but the dog would not await him, but fled on through a chamber wrought in marble, and the leash which was long fell about the feet of Kay, who would fain have caught it but might not come at it. Might he set foot on the leash he could have held it, but he failed to catch it.

Thus the chase went from chamber to chamber till five were passed, and the seneschal came into a fair garden set with olive trees and pines, wherein were more folk than in a city. They were playing at diverse games, and making such joy and festivity as 'twere overlong to recount, for that day they were keeping the feast of a saint of that land.

Beneath the shade of a laurel in the midst of an orchard a knight was disarming; tall he was and strong, valiant and proud, and to serve him and honour him the best and most renowned of the folk stood and knelt around waiting on his disarming. The brachet which Kay was chasing stayed not till it came to the knight, and took shelter betwixt his legs, barking loudly at the pursuer.

Kay stayed his steps, abashed at the sight and sound of this folk, and thought to return swiftly, and with no delay; but the knight looked on his people and said, "There is a stranger among us, whoever he may be!" Then beholding Kay, who would turn him again whence he came, he spake, "See him there, take him, and bring him hither!"

This they did swiftly, and brought Kay before him, and when the knight beheld him he said joyfully, "Sir Kay, ye are right welcome as my friend and comrade; where is the king, your master?"

"Sir, he is within, on the dais, and with him many a valiant knight; they are even now at meat!"

"And is the king's nephew, Gawain, there? Fain would I be assured thereof." And Kay answered, "The best knight in the world is in the king's company; without him would he go nowhither!"

Now when the knight heard this he was like to fly for joy. Half armed as he was he sprang to his feet, and for very gladness stayed not to finish his disarming. A rich mantle had they hung on his shoulders, but the neck was yet unfastened, nor would he tarry to clasp it, for haste and joy. And know that one leg was still shod with iron, which hung downward, half unlaced, nor would he stay to rid himself thereof. Thus he sped in all haste to the hall, and his folk after him, and without slacking speed he ran into the hall, followed by so great a crowd that the king was sore abashed when he heard the tumult.

The knight went forward even to the dais, and saluted the king courteously, and commanded the folk to bring torches, for 'twas scarce light therein, and they did at his pleasures, and he bade bring other meats, so that Arthur, the valiant and courteous, was well served as befitting a king.

The knight was very joyous, and quoth, "Sire, now hath God done me great honour, for never before might I do ye service; now am I right glad and joyful that ye be lodged here! I have greeted ye in all fair friendship without thought of ill, ye and this goodly company, save one whom as yet I see not!"

With that there entered men bearing torches and tapers, so that the hall, which before was dark and dim, became light and clear. The folk who had come thither that they might look upon the king, of whom they had oft heard tell, made such haste to see him that there was no space to sit down, and all the palace was but a sea of heads.

The lord was sore vexed. He held in his hand a little round staff, short and heavy, and being chafed with anger in that he saw not Sir Gawain, and knew not where he might be, began laying about him to part the crowd, making them by force to mount on the dais, and sills of the windows, and buttresses of the walls, since he might not drive them from the hall.

When Sir Gawain saw that the folk was thus parted asunder, without delaying he mounted him on his steed. Then first the lord of the castle beheld him, and was sore vexed that he had not come upon him disarmed. Scowling for very anger, he threw his staff aside, and when he had somewhat bethought him he lifted his head, and gat him to Sir Gawain, and laid hold of his bridle, saying, "Fair sir, hearken, are ye ready to keep the covenant ye made with me? It vexeth me that ye are so far quit that I have failed to find ye disarmed, as I fain had done; I had better have been slain the day I made this compact, for then, verily, ye too had died, had I not granted the respite, but now I deem our battle shall last the longer!"

Sir Gawain straightway granted him his battle, and the knight bade bring more torches, for the stars already shone forth. Then they brought them in great plenty, and he told off folk to hold them by the fist full, so that one might see far and near, as clearly as might be. Then the lord of the castle seated himself in the midst of the hall, on a great carpet, which a squire spread swiftly at his bidding, and he bade them bring thither all that was needful to the rightful arming of a knight desirous of battle rather than of aught beside. He donned a greave of iron, and relaced that which hung loose; then he bade them bring armpieces, and he laced them on his arms, and when he had done this he came before the king and said, "Eat joyfully, and be not dismayed; behold me, that I am strong and bold, hale and swift. Your nephew on his part is even as I am; I know not if he hath told ye how the matter be come to this point that the one of us must needs die ere we be parted. 'Twere hard to think this morn that the one of us was so nigh unto his end!"

Then the king's eyes filled with tears, and the knight, beholding, spake in his pride: "Certes, Sire, I prize ye less than afore; ye are but half-hearted who are thus compassionate for naught; by all the Saints in the calendar, ye be like unto him who crieth out afore he be hurt! Never before did I set eyes on a king who wept, and knew not wherefore! By my faith, this cometh of a cowardly heart!"

He turned him again without further word, and armed him swiftly, and did on his harness, and when he was armed he mounted his steed, and bade bring a lance, stout and strong, with shining blade. Then he hung his shield on his neck by a broidered band, and settled him well in his saddle, and called unto Sir Gawain, and quoth, "Here in this house is the lordship mine by right of heritage, yet would I do no outrage nor take vantage thereof; the rather do I bid and conjure ye to take that part of the hall which seemeth best; now look well where ye will make your stand."

Sir Gawain hearkened, but stirred not, save that he drew somewhat back, and lowered his lance, and his foe, on his part, did likewise. I testify of a truth, and tell ye, that they rode over hard a joust, for as they came together at their horses' full speed the one smote the other so fiercely on the shield that both alike were split asunder, so that the sharp blade passed right through, yet they harmed not the hauberks which clung close and tight. Thus as they sped on the lances bent and brake, yet the steeds stayed not, and the knights who bestrode them were naught dismayed, but when they would have passed each other in their course they came together with such weight of body and shield, and full front of the horses, that they smote each other to the ground, and all four fell on a heap, the good steeds undermost. But the knights lightly sprang to their feet, and threw aside their lances, and drew their good swords, and dealt each the other so mighty a blow on the shining helm that it was well indented. The king and they who looked on were sore anguished and afraid, but the twain, 'twixt whom there was such enmity, ran again on each other in such fashion that, I tell ye and lie not, never was so fierce a melee of two knights beheld. They made sparks to spring from the helmet and smote the circlets asunder as those who make no feint to fight. When the good swords smote the shields they made the splinters to fly apace: so eager was each to put the other to the worse that they ceased not nor slackened this the first assault till that both were covered with blood. Then the heat which vexed them mightily made them perforce draw asunder, to recover breath. Too heavy and too sore had been their combat for those who loved them to behold; never day of his life had King Arthur so feared for his nephew.

Now at the head of the master dais was a door, opening into an inner chamber, and, as the tale telleth, in a little space there came forth a damosel, so fair of face and form that Christendom might not show her peer. She was clad in fair and fitting fashion, in a vesture richly broidered in gold, and had seen, perchance, some twenty summers. She was so fair, so tall and gracious, that no woman born might equal her, and all marvelled at her beauty.

She leant awhile on the head of the dais, beholding the two knights, who strove hard to slay each the other. They had returned to the onslaught in such pride and wrath that verily I tell ye they might not long endure. Such blows they dealt on helm and shield with their naked blades that they made the splinters fly, and the crimson blood welled from their wounds and streamed through the mail of their hauberk down on to the pavement. Nor was the fight equal, for Sir Gawain had broken the laces of his helm, so that 'twas no longer on his head, but lay on the ground at his feet. Yet he covered himself full well with his shield, as one who was no child in sword play. But his foeman pressed him sore, and oft he smote him with hard and angry blows; Sir Gawain defended himself right valiantly, but it went too ill with him in that he had lost his helm, therefore as much as might be he held himself on the defensive. But once, as he made attack, Bran de Lis smote him so fierce and heavy a blow at his head that, but that it fell first on the shield, it had then and there ended the matter, and all said that without fail he had been a dead man. Bran de Lis spake wrathfully, "Take this blow for mine uncle; ye shall have one anon for my father; if I may, it shall be the last!"

Sir Gawain struck back, but he was sore hindered by the blood which ran down into his eyes ('twas that which vexed him the most); he would fain have drawn him back, but Bran de Lis left him no space, so wrathfully did he run upon him, and Sir Gawain withstood him sturdily, yet so hardly was he pressed that whether he would or no he must needs yield ground.

Then the damosel of whom I spake but now turned her, and ran swiftly into the inner chamber, and in a short space came forth with a little child, whom she set upon the dais. He wore a little coat of red samite, furred with ermine, cut to his measure; and of his age no fairer child might be seen. His face was oval and fair, his eyes bright and laughing; he was marvellous tall and strong for his age, which might not be more than four years; and by the richness of his clothing 'twas clear that there were those who held him dear.

The knights who fought below still dealt each other such mighty blows that all who beheld them had dole and wrath. I can tell ye each was weak and weary enow, but verily Sir Gawain had yielded ground somewhat, and would fain have wiped away the blood which ran adown his face and into his eyes, but he might in no wise do so, since Bran de Lis held him so close, doing what he might to slay or wound him.

Then without delay the damosel took her child, there where he stood before her, and said very softly, "Fair little son, go quickly to yonder tall knight, 'tis thine uncle, doubt it not, fall at his feet, little son, and kiss them, and pray for God's sake the life of thy father that he slay him not!"

Straightway she set him on the ground, and the child ran, and clasped his uncle by the right leg, and kissed his foot, and said, "My mother prays ye for the love of God, that ye slay not my father, fair sweet uncle; she will die of grief an ye do!"

Great pity fell upon the king when he heard the child speak thus, and all who hearkened and beheld were filled with wrath and anguish. All had compassion on the child, save Bran de Lis alone, for he quoth in wrath and anger, "Get thee hence, son of a light woman!" and he withdrew his foot so swiftly from the child's clasp that, whether he would or no, he fell, and smote face and forehead hard on the stone of the pavement, so that he grazed mouth and face, and lay senseless and bleeding on the floor.

Then King Arthur sprang from the dais, and caught the child to him, and kissed it twenty times on face and eyes and mouth, and wept for very anger; nor for the blood on the child's face would he cease to caress it, so great love had he towards it, for he thought of a truth that he held again Gawain, whom he now counted for lost. He quoth, "Sir Bran de Lis, this little child is very fair; never in your life did ye do such villainy as to go near to slay so sweet a child, nor ought ye to have denied the request he made, for he asked naught outrageous. Nor will I have him slain, for he is my joy and my solace; henceforward know well that for naught will I leave him in your care!"

Quoth Bran de Lis, "Sire, ye are less courteous than I had heard tell, and ye make overmuch dole and plaint for the life of a single knight; ye should not so be dismayed, this is naught but feebleness of heart."

As Bran de Lis thus spake to the king Sir Gawain wiped off the blood which ran down his face, and bound up his wounds, the while he had respite; the king, who was wise enow, held his foeman the longer in speech that his nephew might be the more refreshed, for the strength and valour of that good knight doubled as midnight passed. For this was the custom of Sir Gawain: when as ever midnight had struck his strength was redoubled and he waxed in force even until noon.

Now so soon as his strength came again, and he saw the king, and his love, and the great folk who beheld them, then a mighty shame overtook him, and he ran in wrath on his foe, and assailed him straitly, but the other yielded not, crying, "Honour to ye that ye thus seek me!"

Then might ye see them smite blows great and fierce, with the swords they wielded, so that they were well nigh beaten down. Sir Bran de Lis smote a mighty blow, thinking to catch Sir Gawain on the head, but that good knight, who knew right well how to cover himself, held his shield in such wise that the stroke fell upon it, and split it adown the midst; so hard had he smitten that the blade entered even to the hilt, and his body following the blow he bent him forwards, and ere he might recover him Sir Gawain smote him full on the helm, so that the laces brake, and it flew off adown the hall, leaving the head bare. And ere Sir Bran de Lis was well aware he followed up the blow with one above the ventaille so that he bled right freely. Now were they again on a par, so that one might scarce tell the which of them had the better. In great pride and wrath they ran each on the other, so that in short space of time they had lost overmuch blood. Mightily each strove to put his foe to the worse, and all who looked upon them waxed strangely pitiful, and would fain have parted them asunder had they dared.

Now might ye have seen that gentle knight, who full oft had made offering of good deeds and alms, right well acquit himself, for so sorely he vexed his foeman that he hacked his shield all to pieces, and he might no longer hold his ground, but whether he would or no he must yield place, and wavered backward adown the hall. Then he smote him again, so that he tottered upon his feet, and Sir Gawain hasted, and threw himself upon him with such weight of body and of shield that he well nigh bare him to earth, so he drave him staggering adown the hall till he fell against a dais.

When the damosel saw this she tare her child from the king's arms, and ran swiftly, and threw herself right valiantly betwixt the two, so that she came nigh to be cut in pieces, and cried, "Son, pray thy father that he have pity on thy mother, and stay his hand ere he slay my brother, whom I love more than mine own life!" But the child spake no word, but looked up at the glancing sword blades, and laughed blithely. And all were moved to pity and wrath who saw him anon bleeding and now laughing for very joy.

Then Sir Gawain, of right good will, drew himself aback, but he whom he had thus hard pressed drave forward at him, like one reft of his senses, and came nigh to doing him a mischief in that Sir Gawain was off his guard. Then she who held the child sprang swiftly betwixt them, and cried, "Now by God I will see the which of ye twain will slay him, for he shall be cloven asunder ere that I take him hence."

The swords clashed together aloft, but wrought no ill, for neither might come at the other for fear of the child whom they were loth to harm, and for fear of her who held him. And the child laughed gaily at the glancing swords, and stretched up his hands to his own shadow, which he saw on the shining blade, and showed it with his finger to his father when he saw it come anear, and had fain sprung up and caught the blades, sharp though they might be. And many a man wept, and there arose within the hall a great cry, as of one voice, "Good lord king, stay the fight; we will all aid thee thereto, for no man should longer suffer this!"

Then Arthur sprang up swiftly, and seized his sword and shield, and came unto the twain, and parted them asunder, whether they would or no, and said to the knight ye have heard me praise, "Sir, take the amends offered, and I tell ye truly I will add thereto, for I myself will do ye honour, and become your man, for the sake of peace." And all cried with one voice, "Sir, by God and by the True Cross, ye shall not refuse this, for the king has spoken as right valiant man." Then the knight held his hand, hearing that which pleased him.

Thus was peace made, and the battle parted asunder, and Sir Bran de Lis did right sagely, for he spake, "Sire, it were nor right nor reason that ye should become my man, hence will I do ye true homage, but for hostage will I ask the knights of the Round Table, who are the most valiant in the world; also shall your nephew do other amends, even as he promised me, in abbey and nuns, for the repose of my father's soul, and ye shall free one hundred serfs with your own hand." And the king answered, "Know of a truth that all shall be done at my charges."

Then Bran de Lis did homage to the king, and kissed him in all good faith, and then came forward Sir Gawain, and he humbled himself before him, kneeling at his feet, and praying that he would pardon his ill will; and Sir Gawain took him by the hand, and raised him up, and quoth, "I pardon thee all, and henceforth will I be your friend in all good faith and courage, nor will I fail ye for any harm ye may aforetime have done me."

Both were sore faint and feeble, and void of strength by reason of the blood they had lost, so that scarce might they stand on their feet without falling to the ground. They bare them to an inner chamber; never knight nor maiden entered within a fairer, for I tell of a truth there was no good herb in Christendom with which it was not strewn. 'Twas richly garnished, and four great tapers, cunningly placed, gave fitting light. Then leeches searched their wounds and said there was no need for dismay, for neither was wounded to the death, and within fifteen days both might well be healed, and all were joyful at the tidings.

The king and his barons abode the fifteen days at the castle of Lys, nor departed therefrom; in all the world was neither fish nor fowl, fruit nor venison, of which the king might not each day eat in plenty if he so willed. But he was loth to part from Sir Bran de Lis, by reason of the good tales which he told concerning the folk of the Castle Orguellous, whereat the king rejoiced greatly.

"Sire," quoth Bran de Lis, "I myself will go with ye, and we will take with us squires and footmen. My pavilion is large and fair, and by faith, we will carry that too along with us; and also a pack of hounds, the best we may find, for there be thick forests all around, where we may hunt at our will, and go a-shooting too, an it please us, for we shall find great plenty of deer and other game."

Sir Gawain took little heed of all he said, so wholly was he taken up with his lady, and she forgat him not, but was ever at his service, at any hour that might please him; 'twas all gladness, and no ill thought. Nor did Sir Gawain mislike his fair son, whom he caressed right often. Fain would he have tarried long time with them. Nor marvel at that, my masters, for he was there at ease, and he who hath whatsoever he may desire doeth ill methinks to make over haste to change, nor will he make plaint, since he suffereth nor pain nor ill.

But when the fifteen days came to an end, then did the king bid make ready, for he had no mind to tarry longer; well I know 'twas a Tuesday morn that they set them on their way, and with them went that good knight, Sir Bran de Lis.




Castle Orguellous


For seven full days King Arthur and his men journeyed, and passed through many a forest ere they came into the open land and saw before their eyes the rich Castle Orguellous, the which they had greatly desired to behold. They who had gone ahead had already pitched the king's pavilion in a fair meadow nigh unto a grove of branching olive trees, very fair and full of leaf. There the king, and they who were with him, dismounted gladly; they might go no further, since 'twas well known in the land that they came to make war on the castle.

They had made no long abiding when they heard a great bell toll -- no man had ever heard a greater -- five leagues around might the sound be heard, and all the earth trembled. Then the king asked of him who knew the customs of the castle wherefore the bell tolled thus.

Quoth Bran de Lis, "Of a truth, 'tis that all the country round may know that the castle is besieged, till that the bell be tolled nor shield nor spear may be set on the walls, the towers, or battlements." As he spake thus they saw to the right more than five thousand banners wave from the walls, the towers, and donjon, and as many shields hung forth from the battlements. Then they saw issue forth from the forest on to the plain knights mounted on palfreys and war-horses, who made their way by many roads to the castles; right gladly did the king and his comrades behold them.

I will not devise unto ye all the fashion of the castle, I must needs spend overmuch time thereon, but since the birth of Christ no man ever saw one more fairly placed, nor richer, nor better garnished with tall towers and donjon.

Now was meat made ready in the king's tent, and all sat them down to supper in right merry mood; they said among themselves that enough knights were entered into the castle to give work to each and all. Thus they spake and made sport concerning those within.

So soon as the king had sat him down Lucains the butler poured the wine into a golden cup, and spake unto the king, "I pray the right of the first joust that be ridden to-morrow morn, for it pertaineth unto mine office!" Quoth the king, "I were loth to refuse the first gift prayed of me here in this land." "'Tis well said," quoth the lord of Lys. And the king said to the butler, "Go, eat with my nephew," and he did so right gladly.

So soon as supper was done, and they had washed, swiftly they commanded their arms to be brought, nor will I lie to ye; thereafter might ye have seen a great testing, many greaves of iron laced on, limbs outstretched, feet bent; squires were bidden don the hauberks that they might look well to them, and add straps or take away -- all were fain to see that naught was lacking, but all in fair and knightly order. Ye never saw a folk thus busy themselves. They made merry with the king the while, and prayed of him in sport to say the day he would allot to each, that their pain might be the sooner ended. "Nay, lords," quoth Arthur, "I would fain keep ye the longer in dread." Thus when they had made sport enow, and it was nightfall, they drank, and betook them to rest.

On the morrow, without delay, they arose at sunrise, and betook them to a chapel in a wood, nigh to a meadow where were buried all the good knights slain before the castle, whether strangers or men of the land. And so soon as the priest had said the Mass of the Holy Ghost, and the service was ended, they turned them again, and made ready for meat in the king's pavilion, and the king and all his knights ate together right joyfully. When they had eaten they arose, and armed Lucains the butler well and courteously. The vest he ware under his hauberk was of purple broidered with gold. Then they brought him his horse and his shield, and he mounted right glad and joyful, and they brought unto him his pennon. Thus he departed from the king and his comrades, and set spurs to his steed, and stayed not till he came unto the field of battle, whither they betook them and demanded joust of those of the castle.

Masters, at the four corners of the meadow were planted four olive trees, to show the bounds of the field, and he was held for vanquished who should first pass the boundary of the olives. Since he had come thither armed, it befell not Lucains to await long, but short space after he had entered the field he saw ride proudly forth from the castle a great knight, mounted on a roan steed, right well appointed of arms and accoutrements. He came at full speed to the meadow, and swiftly, as befitted, each lowered his lance, and set spurs to his steed, and rode the one against the other. Great blows they dealt on each other's shield, and the knight smote Lucains so fiercely that he brake his lance all to shivers, and the butler smote back in such wise that he bare him out of the saddle on to the ground. Then he took the steed, and turned him, leaving his foeman afoot, and came gladly and blithely again to the pavilion. Quoth Bran de Lis, "Certes, butler, the siege had been raised had ye brought yon knight captive, nor would ye have had further travail, for the quest on which ye came hither had been achieved, and ere nightfall Sir Giflet had been delivered up, for yonder is so good a knight they had gladly made the exchange!"

When the butler heard this he was ill-pleased, and he tarried no longer at the pavilion, but leaving the steed gat him back to the meadow, nor turned again for the king, who many a time called upon him. Then from the gateway rode forth a great knight bearing his pennon, and came spurring into the meadow, and when the butler saw him he rode against him, and smote him so fiercely on the shield that the shaft of apple-wood brake, and the knight smote him back with so strong a lance that he bare him to the ground. Lucains sprang up swiftly, and thought to take the splinters from his arm without delaying, but the knight ran upon him fiercely, and he defended himself as best he might, though wounded, but since the blade was yet in him, whether he would or no, he must needs yield himself prisoner, as one who might do no more. Thus he yielded up his sword to the knight, who led him with him to the castle, but first he drew out the blade carefully, stanching the blood, and binding up the wound.

Very wrathful was the king when he saw his butler thus led thence; then quoth Sir Gawain, "Certes, an Lucains were whole I should rejoice in that he is captive, for now will our comrade Giflet, the brave and valiant, who hath been there in durance four years, learn such tidings of us as shall make him glad and joyful. The butler is a right gallant knight, and it may chance to any that he be overthrown and wounded. I have no mind to blame him for such ill hap." Sir Bran de Lis answered, "Fair Sir, an God help me, he hath overthrown one of their men, and I know no better among their ten thousand knights." So spake Sir Bran de Lis, but for all that was he somewhat vexed concerning the butler, in that he had reproached him for not having taken the knight captive, for he thought in his heart that for these words of his, and for naught else, had Lucains been taken.

Then he came unto the king, and besought him for the great love he bare him to grant him the morrow's joust; but though he prayed him straitly the king was loth to yield, but answered that in no wise would he grant his request save that he was fain not to anger him by reason of the true faith that he bare unto him. "So God help me, fair friend; I have it in my mind that I were but ill sped did I chance to lose ye!"

"Sire, think not of that; 'tis ill done to summon evil, an God will this shall not befall so long as I live; doubt ye not, Sire, but grant me the fight freely, ere others ask it!"

Then the king quoth, "Have your desire, since ye so will." With that they gat them to meat in the tent, but that day a butler was lacking to them.

Into that selfsame chamber where that good knight, Giflet fis Do, had long lain, they led Lucains prisoner, and Giflet when he beheld him failed not to know him, but sprang up, and embraced him, and asked straightway, "Tell me, gentle friend, in what land were ye made captive?" Then Lucains told him the truth from beginning to end, how the king had set siege to the castle, and was lodged without, "And he hath sworn he will not depart hence, nor lift the siege, till that he hath freed ye." Giflet was right joyful when he heard this, and he spake again, "Sir Lucains, greatly do I desire to hear from ye tidings of the best knights in the world, even the companions of the Round Table; 'tis over long since I saw them, or heard speak of them." And the butler made answer, "Sir, by all the Saints in the calendar, such an one is dead, such an one made captive, this and that knight are hale and whole, and to the places of the dead many a good knight and true hath been elect." And Giflet cried, "Ah, God, how minished is that goodly company; I know not the half of them who yet live!"

Quoth Lucains, "Know of a truth that all greatly desire to have ye again, nor will they know joy in their hearts till that ye be once more of their fellowship."

At these words they brought them food, and they washed, and ate, and when 'twas time they gat them to rest, and passed the night in great joy of each other's company. But the night was short, since Pentecost was past, and the feast of S. John, when the days are the longest in the year.

On the morrow the sun rose fine and fair, for the weather was calm and clear, and the king arose betimes with his comrades. First they gat them to the chapel and heard Mass, and then dinner was made ready, since to eat ere noon is healthful for the brain. The dinner was rich and plentiful, they sat them down gaily and ate with speed, they had larded venison (for of deer was there no lack), and so soon as they had dined the chamberlain armed the lord of Lys right richly, on a fair flowered carpet, and the king himself laced his helmet. Then Sir Bran de Lis mounted and hung the shield about his neck, and took his lance whereon was a pennon, and spurred straight for the meadow, which he knew full well.

Then from the gates of the castle he beheld issue forth a knight on a gallant steed, right fittingly armed, who rode at full speed to the meadow where Sir Bran de Lis awaited his coming. And so soon as each beheld the other they spurred swiftly forward, and I tell ye of a truth that they smote each other on the shield so that their lances brake, and they came together with such force that they hurled each other to the ground; but they lay not there for long, but sprang up anon, and laid to with their swords, dealing each other mighty blows on the gleaming helmets, for the worser of the twain was a gallant knight. But he of the castle was sore vexed, in that he was wounded while Bran de Lis was yet whole, and passing light on his feet, so that he pressed him sore, in so much that he might not abide in any place. By force Sir Bran de Lis brought his foeman to his knees, and ere he might rise he must perforce yield himself captive. Thus he led him to the pavilion, and made gift of him to Arthur, who received him well, and thanked the lord of Lis right heartily.

Then the king bade them make a lodge of boughs, with curtains round about, whereto they led the wounded knight to rest, for much need had he of repose. King Arthur and his men disarmed Sir Bran de Lis gaily, and he washed himself, and they made great sport all day long. And when it came to the freshness of the evening they went forth to disport themselves; many a valiant knight sat there, round about the king, in the shade of an olive tree.

Then they heard the sound of those who blew loudly on the horn and played upon the flageolet; there was no instrument befitting a watch the music of which was not to be heard within the castle, and much joy they made therein. The king was the more wakeful by night in that he took pleasure in the fair melody which the watchmen who sounded the horn made in answering the one the other.

Beside the lord of Lys sat Kay, who hearkened to the music, nor might he long keep silence, but must needs speak his mind. "Sire," quoth he, "by Saint Denis, meseemeth the joust be forgotten, for this eve none hath demanded it; the king hath neither companion nor peer who hath so far prayed it, I wot none be desirous thereof!"

"Kay," quoth the King, "I grant thee the joust."

"Sire," quoth Kay, "by Saint Martin, I were liever to handle a spit than a spear to-morrow; I thank ye for naught! Nevertheless, Sire, an such be your pleasure I will do it, by the faith I owe to my lord Sir Gawain." Then all laughed at Kay's words, and when they had made sport enow of him they gat them back to the tent.

Thus the night passed, and on the morrow at dawn, ere prime had rung, the king hearkened Mass, and when they had dined they armed the seneschal, and he mounted, and took his shield, and departed from them swiftly. No sooner had he come to the meadow when a knight, right well armed, came forth from the castle, and rode on to the field. They smote each other on the shields so that they fell to the ground, and springing up lightly they fell to with their sharp swords; right dourly they pressed on each other, and smote sounding blows on the helms. He of the castle struck wrathfully at Kay, and the seneschal caught the blow, and the knight smote again on the boss of the shield so that the blade brake, notwithstanding he had so pressed on the seneschal that he made him by force to pass the boundary of the four olives, which stood at the corners of the field.

There the knight stayed him, and turned him back to his steed which was in the midst of the meadow, and remounted, and took Kay's horse, for he saw well 'twas a good steed, and led it away, none gainsaying him. Kay went his way back, and knew not that he had been deceived, but deemed he had won the day, though in sooth he was vanquished.

Then the knights spake unto the king, "Sire, let us go to meet Kay, and make merry over him; 'twill be rare sport to mislead him!" The king was right willing, so they went in company towards the seneschal.

The king went ahead, as one wise and courteous, and spake gently, "Kay, hast thou come from far? Has mischance befallen thee?" and Kay, who was ever sharp and ready of tongue, answered, "Sire, let me be; ye have naught wherewith to reproach me. I have vanquished one of their knights, but he hath taken my horse; the field is mine, for I have conquered it; and he who hath ridden hence hath the worse!" All held their peace, and laughed not.

"Sir, are ye in need of help?" quoth Tor fis Ares. And then the others spake; "Seneschal, are ye wounded?" "Methinks ye limp somewhat," quoth Sir Gawain.

"Kay, hand me your shield," said Sir Ywain. "Right valiantly have ye approved yourself, marvellous were the blows I saw ye deal! God be thanked that ye did thus well!" With that he took the shield, and hung it around his own neck. Each joined in the sport as best he might, and Kay was right well aware thereof.

Then he spake to Sir Ywain, "Sir, I will grant ye to-morrow so much as I have won to-day, the joust and the field shall ye have in exchange for my shield which ye bear. Ye can do well, an ye will, and I were fain to repay ye in such wise as I may."

Those who heard might not refrain their mirth, and in merry mood they led him to the tent, and disarmed him, and the lord of Lys said, "Sir Kay, ye passed the boundary of the four olive trees, and he who first passes betwixt them is held for vanquished." And Kay answered, "May be, Sir, by the faith I owe the King of Heaven an ye know the differ 'twixt entry and exit 'tis more than I may do; sure, 'tis all one, for there where one cometh in the other goeth out!"

Suddenly there rang forth from the castle and the minster a peal so great and glad that ye might scarce hear God thunder, and the king asked wherefore the bells rang thus.

Then Bran de Lis spake, "I will tell ye, Sire: 'tis Saturday to-day, and now that noon be past they within will do naught against ye, come what may. In this land is the Mother of God more honoured than elsewhere in Christendom; know of a truth that ye shall presently see knights and ladies, burgesses and other folk, clad in their best, betake them to the minster; they go to hear Vespers, and do honour to Our Lady. Thus it is from noon on Saturday till Tierce on Monday, when Mass is sung, and the bells chimed throughout the burg, then they get them to their tasks again; the minstrels and other folk. I tell ye without fail till then shall no joust be ridden; to-morrow, an ye will, ye may go forth to hunt in the forest."

The king praised the custom much, and spent the night with a light heart until the morn, when he arose, and with his knights betook him to the woods, and all day long the forest rang to the sound of the huntsman's horn.

Now it chanced that Sir Gawain beheld a great stag, which two of his hounds had severed from the rest of the herd, and he followed hard after the chase till that the quarry was pulled down in a clearing. There he slew and quartered it, and gave their portion to the dogs, but would take with him naught save the back and sides. So he rode on fairly, and without annoy, the hounds running ahead, till, as he went his way, he heard nigh at hand a hawk cry loudly. Then he turned him quickly towards the sound, and came on to a wide and dusky path, and followed it speedily to a dwelling, the fairest he had found in any land wherein he had sojourned.

'Twas set in the midst of a clearing, and no wish or thought of man might devise aught that was lacking unto it. There was a fair hall and a strong tower, 'twas set round about with palisades, and there was a good drawbridge over the moat, which was wide enow, and full of running water. At the entry of the bridge was a pine-tree, and beneath, on a fair carpet, sat a knight; never had ye seen one so tall, or so proud of bearing.

Sir Gawain rode straight and fast to him, but he stirred no whit for his coming, but sat still, frowning and thoughtful. Sir Gawain marvelled at his stature, and spake very courteously, "Sir, God save ye!" But the stranger answered nor loud nor low, having no mind for speech. Thrice Sir Gawain greeted him, but he answered not, and the good knight stayed his steed full before him, but he made no semblance of seeing him.

Quoth Sir Gawain, "Ha, God, who hath made man with Thine own hand, wherefore didst Thou make this man so fair if he be deaf and dumb? So tall is he, and so well fashioned he is like unto a giant. An I had a comrade with me I would lead him hence, even unto the king; methinks he would thank me well, for he would look on him as a marvel!" And he bethought him that he would even bear the knight hence with him on his steed. Thus he laid his venison beneath a tree, and bent him downwards from his saddlebow, and took the other by the shoulders, and raised him a little.

Then the knight clapped hand to his side, but his sword was lacking, and he cried, "Who may ye be? It lacked but little and I had slain ye with my fist, since ye have snatched me from death; had I my sword here 'twere red with your blood! Get ye hence, vassal, and leave me to my death."

Then he sat him again under the tree, and fell a-musing, even as when Sir Gawain found him. And that good knight, without more ado, reloaded his venison and turned him back, leaving the knight sad and sorrowful.

Scarce had Sir Gawain ridden half a league when he saw coming towards him a maiden, fair and courteous, on a great Norman palfrey; nor king nor count had been better horsed. The bridle, the harness, the trappings of her steed were beyond price, nor might I tell ye how richly the maiden was clad. Her vesture was of cloth of gold, the buttons of Moorish work, wrought in silk with golden pendants. The lady smote her steed oft and again, and rode past Sir Gawain with never a word of greeting.

Sir Gawain marvelled much at her haste, and that she had failed to speak with him, and he turned him about, and rode after, crying "Stay a little, Lady!" but she answered not, but made the more haste.

Then Sir Gawain overtook her, and rode alongside, saying, "Lady, stay, and tell me whither ye be bound." Then she made answer, "Sir, for God's sake, hinder me not, for an ye do I tell ye of a truth I shall have slain the best and the fairest knight in any castle of Christendom!"

"What," quoth Sir Gawain, "have ye slain him with your own hands?"

"I, sir? God forbid, but I made covenant with him yesterday that I would be with him ere noon, and now have I failed of my compact. He awaiteth me at a tower near by, mine own true love, the best knight in the world!"

"Certes, Lady, he is yet alive, of that am I true witness; 'twas but now he well nigh dealt me a buffet with his fist! Make not such haste!"

"Fair sir, are ye sure and certain?"

"Yea, Lady, but he was sore bemused."

"Then know of a truth, Sir Knight, that he may no longer be alive, and I may not tarry." With that she struck her steed and rode off apace. Sir Gawain gazed after her, and it vexed him much that he had not asked more concerning the knight, whence he came, his land and his name, but knew neither beginning nor end of his story.

Thus he went on his way, and came again to the pavilion where his companions awaited him, sore perplexed at his delay, and were right joyful when they beheld him. Then straightway he told them the adventure, even as it had chanced, and when the lord of Lys heard it he said unto the King, "Sire, the knight is the Rich Soudoier, he who maintaineth all this goodly following and seignorie; and so much doth he love the maiden whom he calleth his lady and his love, that all men say he will die an he win her not."

As he spake they beheld a great cloud of dust arise toward the forest, and there rode past so great a company of folk there cannot have been less than twenty thousand; there was left in the city not a soul who might well stir thence who went not forth of right good will toward the forest. 'Twas nigh unto nightfall ere all had entered therein.

Then the king asked whither all this folk were bound, and Bran de Lis answered, "Sire, they go to meet their lord, and to do him honour, for never before this hath he led his lady hither. I tell ye of a truth that each one of his barons will dub three new knights, to honour and pleasure him, for so have they sworn, and for that doth he owe them right good will."

What more may I tell ye? All night they held great feast through the city, with many lights in castle, tower, and hall. They blazed upon the walls, the trees, and round about the meadows, till that the great burg seemed all aflame, and all night long they heard the sound of song and loud rejoicing.

Then the king betook him to rest, and at dawn Sir Ywain prayed as gift the joust which Kay had given unto him. The king made no gainsaying, but after meat they armed their comrade well and fittingly, and he mounted quickly, and took shield and lance; nor did he long await a foe, for there rode forth from the castle one well armed, on a strong and swift steed, and spurred upon Sir Ywain. He smote him so that his lance brake, and Sir Ywain smote him again with such force that he bare him to earth ere that his lance failed. Then he rode upon him with unsheathed sword, and by weight of his steed bare him to earth when he had fain arisen, and trod him underfoot so hardly that, whether he would or no, he must needs yield. Then Sir Ywain took his pledge, and led him without more ado to the pavilion, and delivered him to the king.

Such was the day's gain, but know that 'twas one of the new made knights, not of the mesnie of the Rich Soudoier. And when he was disarmed the king spake unto him in the hearing of all his men, and said, "Fair friend, whence do ye come, and of what land may ye be?"

Then he answered, "Sire, I am of Ireland, and son to the Count Brangelis, and ever have I served the lady of the Rich Soudoier. She bade me carve before her, and my lord for love of her yestermorn made me knight, and as guerdon for my service they granted me the joust; yet, but for my lady who prayed for me this grace, they had not given it to me, since within the walls there be many a good man and true who was sore vexed thereat."

"Friend," quoth Sir Gawain, "know ye, perchance, the which of them shall joust on the morrow?"

"Certes, Sir, I should know right well; 'tis the lord of the castle himself who shall be first on the field, and I will tell ye how I know this. 'Tis the custom therein that each morn the maidens mount the walls, and she who first beholds the armed knight take the field, 'tis her knight who shall ride forth against him. Yestereven my lady assembled all the maidens and prayed of them that they would let her alone mount the wall -- thus shall the joust be as I tell ye."

Straightway Sir Gawain sprang to his feet, and went before the king, and demanded the joust, but Arthur forbade him saying, "Fair nephew, ye shall not go to-morrow, but later, ere it be my turn, 'tis for us twain to ride the last jousts; ye shall have it when all save I have proved themselves."

"Sire, Sire, I shall be sore shamed an ye deny me this gift; never more shall I be joyful, nor will I ride joust in this land, but will get me hence alone!"

Quoth the king, "An it be thus ye may have it." And Sir Gawain answered, "I thank ye, Sire."

Thus they passed the night, and at daybreak, when the dew lay thick upon the grass, Sir Gawain arose, and Sir Ywain with him. Know that the morning was so fine, so fair and clear, as if 'twere made to be gazed on. Then he who was no coward washed face and hands and feet in the dew, and gat him back to the pavilion. There they brought him a wadded vest, of purple, bordered with samite, and he donned it, and fastened on his armlets deftly.

And ere he was fully armed the king his uncle had risen, and they gat them to Mass, and when Mass was said, to meat. When they had well dined they bade bring thither the armour, and Sir Gawain sat him on a rich carpet, spread on the ground in the midst of the tent, and there was never a knight but stood around uncovered, till that he had armed him at his leisure with all that pertaineth to assault and defence, so that he had naught to do save but to set forth.

Then they led unto him his steed, all covered with a rich trapping, and he mounted, and sat thereon, so goodly to look upon that never might ye hear speak of a fairer knight. Excalibur, his good sword, did King Arthur hand to him, and he girt it round him as he sat on the saddle, lightly, so that it vexed him not. Then he took shield and lance, and departed from them, making great speed for the meadow.

Now the adventure telleth that he had been there but short space when from the master tower of the castle a horn was sounded long and clear, so that for a league around the earth quivered by reason of the echo of the blast, and Sir Bran de Lis spake to the king, "Sire, in short space shall ye see the Rich Soudoier come forth armed on his steed, for they sound not the horn thus save for his arming. I know well by the long blast that he laceth on his spurs."

Then the horn sounded a second time, and he said, "By my faith, now hath he donned and laced his greaves."

For a long space there was silence, and again the horn rang forth so loudly that all the castle re-echoed, and the lord of Lys said, "Sire, now hath he donned his hauberk and laced his helm." With that the horn sounded once again, "Now, Sire, he is mounted, and the horn will be blown no more to-day."

This had the good knight told them truly, for the burg was all astir: he who bare lordship therein rode proudly down from the castle, and after him so many of his folk that they of the pavilion heard the sound of their tread, though they might not behold them. Even to the gate they bare him company, and as he issued forth the king's men beheld him covered with a silken robe, even to his spurs, his banner in his hand. Then they saw a great crowd mount to the battlements to watch the combat of the twain; the walls were covered even to the gateways, so that 'twas a marvel to behold.

Thus the lord of the castle came proudly to the meadow where Sir Gawain awaited him, and when he saw him he gripped his shield tightly, and made ready for the onslaught. Then they laid their lances in rest, and shook forth their blazons, and smote their spurs into their steeds; nor did the joust fail, for they came together with such force of steed and shield and body that, an they would or no, both came to the ground in mid meadow and the good steeds fell over them. But the twain were full of valour, and arose up lightly, and drew their swords, and ran boldly on each other. Then might ye behold a dour combat, and a sight for many folk, for with great wrath they dealt each other mighty blows, so that all who beheld were astonied, and the king was in sore dread for his nephew, and they of the castle for their lord.

From either side many a prayer went up to Heaven that their champion might return safe and whole. And the twain spared not themselves, but each with shining blade smote the other, so that their strength waned apace. For know that that day there was so great a heat that never since hath the like been known, and that heat vexed and weakened them sore.

Now know ye of a certain truth that my lord Sir Gawain waxed ever in strength, doubling his force from midnight, and even till noon was past and the day waned did his strength endure, but then he somewhat weakened till 'twas midnight again. This I tell ye of a truth, 'twas early morn that they fought thus in the meadow, and greatly did this gift aid him, and great evil it wrought to the Rich Soudoier. Neither had conquered aught on the other till it waxed high noon. If the one dealt mighty blows the other knew right well how to return them with wrath and vigour; 'twas hard to say the which were the better, and all marvelled much that neither was as yet or slain or put to the worse.

'Twas the Soudoier who first gave ground; by reason of the over great heat so sore a thirst seized him that he might no longer endure the heavy blows, and well nigh fell to the earth. When Sir Gawain felt his foe thus weakening he pressed him the more, till that he staggered on his feet, and Sir Gawain ran on him with such force that both fell to the ground. But the king's nephew sprang to his feet lightly and cried, "Vassal, yield ye prisoner ere I slay ye!" but his foe was so dazed that for a space he might speak no word.

When he gat breath and speech he sighed forth, "Ah, God, who will slay me? Since she be dead I care naught for my life."

Sir Gawain wondered much what the words might mean, and he shook him by the vizor, and when he saw that he took no heed he spake again, "Sir Knight, yield to me!" And he sighed, "Suddenly was she slain who was fairest in the world; I loved her with a passing great love!"

When Sir Gawain saw that he would answer none otherwise, conjure him as he might, he cut the laces of his helmet, and saw that he lay with his eyes closed as one in a swoon; by reason of the great heat and his sore thirst he had lost all colour, and was senseless. Sir Gawain was vexed in that he might not win from him speech, neither by word nor by blow, yet was he loth to slay him; nor would he leave him lying; for he thought an he slew him he might lose all he would gain by his victory, and should he get him back to the pavilion to seek aid to bear his prisoner hence, on his return he would surely find him gone. Thus was he much perplexed in mind. Then he doffed his helm, and sat him down beside the knight, sheathing Excalibur, and taking the sword of his foe. In a short space the Soudoier came again to himself, and seeing him sit thus, asked of him his name. Then he answered straightway, and when the other knew 'twas Gawain, he said, "Sir, now know I for a certainty that ye be the best knight in the world." Then he held his peace, and spake no further, and Sir Gawain looked upon him, and said, "Fair Sir Knight, bear me no ill will for aught ye may have heard me say, but come with me, an ye will, to yonder pavilion, and we will take your pledge."

Then the Rich Soudoier answered, "I have a lady I love more than my life, and if she die then must I needs die too, so soon as I hear tell thereof. I pray ye, sir, for God's sake, for love's sake, for gentleness, for courtesy, save me my love that she die not, by covenant that, whether for right or for wrong, no man of the Castle Orguellous shall henceforth be against ye. Fair sir, an ye will do for me that which I now pray, I will pledge my faith to do all the king's will, nor shall there be therein man of arms whom I will not make swear the same. But an if my lady knew thereof, as God be my witness, she would die straightway, for never would she believe that ye had conquered me; 'tis truth I tell ye! Now of your courtesy, Sir Knight, I pray of ye this great service, that ye come back with me to the castle, that ye there do me honour, and kneeling to my lady declare ye her prisoner; an ye will thus make feint and say I have vanquished ye in fair field, then shall ye save my life, and that of my most sweet lady, and if ye will not do thus, then slay me here and now!"

Then that gentle knight, Sir Gawain, remembered him of how he had found him aforetime in the forest beneath the tower, and how the maiden who rode to keep tryst feared for his life, and he knew that he loved his lady with so great a love that he would die an she knew him to be shamed, and he thought within himself 'twas over much cruelty to slay so good a knight, and he answered. "Fair sir, certes will I go with ye to the Castle Orguellous, and there yield me captive, nor will I forbear for any doubt or misgiving. It might well turn to my shame, but even if I should die thereby, I would not, Sir Knight, that ye or your lady be wronged or aggrieved."

Then the knight spake frankly, "Sir, I am your liege man all the days of my life." And he gave him his hand, and sware straitly that he would do all the king's pleasure. And when Sir Gawain had taken his oath, straightway the two mounted their steeds and betook them to the Castle Orguellous.

Well nigh did King Arthur die of wrath when he saw his nephew ride hence, and he cried, "Now am I indeed bereft if my nephew be led therein; now will they hold him prisoner! Think ye, my lords, that he be of a truth captive?"

"Yea, Sire, of a faith, so it seemeth, yet are we greatly in marvel thereat, for we know certainly that he had vanquished and overthrown his adversary. Never so great an ill hap hath befallen any knight, for ere the knight of the castle rose we said surely that he was conquered!"

The king had no heart to hearken longer, but betook him straightway to his bed; cause enow had he for woe, or so it seemed him!

But they of the castle sped joyously to meet their lord, whom they thought to have lost, and ran to bear the tidings to the lady, who was well nigh distraught with grief, and anger, and they told her that her lord came again. "And he leadeth by the bridle, as one conquered, Sir Gawain!"

Even at these words came the knights unto the gateway, and dismounted, and Sir Gawain speedily yielded him prisoner to the maiden, saying, "Lady, take here my sword, and know of a proven truth that this good knight, your true lover, hath vanquished me by force of arms."

Never since the hour ye were born did ye see such rejoicing as the maiden made, and the Rich Soudoier spake, saying, "Ride ye to my castle of Bouvies with five hundred knights, and make ready the chambers. I will be with ye to-morrow, and would fain sojourn there; we will have but few folk with us. Marvel not at this, for to-day have I been over much wearied."

And the maiden answered, "Ye have well said; the castle is very fair and pleasant." With that she was mounted, and the knights set forth to convoy her to the castle. And know ye why he sent her hence? 'Twas that he might tell his men the truth of what had passed.

When the lady had departed 'twas made known throughout the castle how the matter had in very truth fallen out, and the lord bade release the son of Do, and the butler, and they did his bidding. But when Sir Gawain saw Giflet he ran towards him, and kissed him more than a hundred times, and made marvellous great joy of him. Then they sat them down on a bench, side by side, and held converse together. And when the twain who had fought were disarmed they brought for the four very fair robes of rich and royal cloth; never had ye seen such. Then the Soudoier bade saddle four steeds, and they mounted, and rode thus adown the street.

Thus they four alone took their way to the pavilion, and the king's men beheld them, even as they came forth from the castle gateway, and Sir Ywain cried, "By my faith, and no lie, I see four men come hither, and all four be knights, so it seemeth me!" And Kay answered, "I see them too!"

And when they came so near to the pavilion that their faces might be seen, Sir Ywain ran joyfully to the king. "Sire, Sire, an God help me, here cometh Sir Gawain, and with him three others, all hand in hand: there be the son of Do, and Sir Lucains, and for the fourth a great knight!"

The king answered no word, but made semblance as if he heard not, and rose not from his couch, save that he raised himself somewhat higher thereon.

In a little space he spake to his knights, "Be not over dismayed, but make as fair a countenance as ye may; methinks they come thither to bid us return with them to prison, but I go not hence ere that I be vanquished, or have freed my comrades." And all answered, "Well spoken, Sire!"

But now had the four come so nigh that they had dismounted, and come before the king; never was seen such rejoicing as his lord made of Giflet, but now was he in sore distress, and, lo! his sorrow was turned to joy! Why should I lie to ye? The Rich Soudoier told him how Sir Gawain had conquered him, and how, by his courtesy, he had given life to him and to his fair lady; and the king hearkened to the tale right willingly.

Now will I leave speaking of them, but this much will I say, that well might the lord of the castle love and cherish him who first overcame him by arms and then did him so great honour as to yield him to his lady so that his life might thereby be saved. So here will I hold my peace, no, nor speak further, save to tell ye that now was the king lord alike of the Castle Orguellous and the lands around; never in all his days did he make so great a conquest, as Bleheris doth witness to us.

<eob>

Elsie's Kith And Kin

By

Martha Finley



Chapter I.

"O married love! each heart shall own; Where two congenial souls unite, Thy golden chains inlaid with down, Thy lamp with heaven's own splendor bright." LANGHORNE.


"There, there, little woman! light of my eyes, and core of my heart! if you don't stop this pretty soon, I very much fear I shall be compelled to join you," Edward Travilla said, between a laugh and a sigh, drawing Zoe closer to him, laying her head against his breast, and kissing her tenderly on lip and cheek and brow. "I shall begin to think you already regret having staid behind with me."

"No, no, no!" she cried, dashing away her tears, then putting her arms about his neck, and returning his caresses with ardor of affection. "Dear Ned, you know you're more than all the rest of the world to your silly little wife. But it seems lonely just at first, to have them all gone at once, especially mamma; and to think we'll not see her again for months! I do believe you'd cry yourself, if you were a girl."

"Altogether likely," he said, laughing, and giving her another hug; "but, being a man, it wouldn't do at all to allow my feelings to overcome me in that manner. Besides, with my darling little wife still left me, I'd be an ungrateful wretch to repine at the absence of other dear ones."

"What a neat little speech, Ned!" she exclaimed, lifting her head to look up into his face, and laughing through her tears -- for her eyes had filled again. "Well, you know I can't help feeling a little lonely and sad just at first; but, for all that, I wouldn't for the world be anywhere else than here in your arms:" and with a sigh of content and thankfulness, she let her pretty head drop upon his breast again.

"My darling! may it ever be to you the happiest place on earth! God helping me, I shall always try to make it so," he said, with a sudden change to gravity, and in low, moved tones.

"My dear, dear husband!" she murmured, clinging closer to him.

Then, wiping her eyes, "I sha'n't cry any more; for, if I'm not the happiest woman in the world, I ought to be. And what a nice time we shall have together, dear Ned! each wholly devoted to the other all winter long. I have it all planned out: while you are out about the plantation in the mornings, I'll attend to my housekeeping and my studies; and in the afternoons and evenings, -- after I've recited, -- we can write our letters, or entertain ourselves and each other with music or books; you can read to me while I work, you know."

"Yes: a book is twice as enjoyable read in that way -- sharing the pleasure with you," he said, softly stroking her hair, and smiling down into her eyes.

"Especially if it is a good story, or a bit of lovely poetry," she added.

"Yes," he said: "we'll have both those in turn, and some solid reading besides."

"I don't like solid reading," she returned, with a charming pout.

"One may cultivate a taste for it, I think," he answered pleasantly.

"But you can't cultivate what you haven't got," she objected.

"True enough," he said, laughing. "Well, then, we'll try to get a little first, and cultivate it carefully afterward. I must go now, love," he added, releasing her: "the men need some directions from me, in regard to their work."

"And the women some from me," said Zoe. "Oh! you needn't laugh, Ned," shaking her finger at him, as he turned in the doorway to give her an amused glance: "perhaps some of these days you'll find out that I am really an accomplished housewife, capable of giving orders and directions too."

"No doubt, my dear; for I am already proud of you in that capacity," he said, throwing her a smiling kiss, then hurrying away.

Zoe summoned Aunt Dicey, the housekeeper, gave her orders for the day, and the needed supplies from pantry and storeroom, they went to the sewing-room, to give some directions to Christine and Alma.

She lingered there for a little, trying on a morning-dress they were making for her, then repaired to her boudoir, intent upon beginning her studies, which had been rather neglected of late, in the excitement of the preparations for the departure of the greater part of the family for a winter at Viamede.

But she had scarcely taken out her books, when the sound of wheels on the avenue attracted her attention; and glancing from the window, she saw the Roselands carriage draw up at the front entrance, and Ella Conly alight from it, and run up the veranda steps.

"There, I'll not do much studying to-day, I'm afraid," said Zoe, half aloud; "for, even if it's only a call she has come for, she'll not leave under an hour."

She hastily replaced the books in the drawer from which she had taken them, -- for she had a feeling, only half acknowledged even to herself, of repugnance to having Ella know of her studies, -- Ella, who had graduated from boarding-school, and evidently felt herself thoroughly educated, -- and hurried down to meet and welcome her guest.

"I told Cal and Art, I thought you'd be sure to feel dreadfully lonely to-day, after seeing everybody but Ned start off on a long journey, and so I'd come and spend the day with you," said Ella, when the two had exchanged kisses, and inquiries after each other's health.

"It was very kind and thoughtful in you," returned Zoe, leading the way into the parlor usually occupied by the family, where an open wood fire blazed cheerily on the hearth.

"Take this easy-chair, won't you?" she said, wheeling it a little nearer the grate; "and Dinah shall carry away your wraps when it suits you to doff them. I wish cousins Cal and Art would invite themselves to dine with us too."

"Art's very busy just now," said Ella: "there's a good deal of sickness, and I don't believe he's spent a whole night at home for the last week or more."

"Dear me! I wouldn't be a doctor for any thing, nor a doctor's wife!" exclaimed Zoe.

"Well, I don't know: there's something to be said on both sides of that question," laughed Ella. "I can tell you, Art would make a mighty good husband; and it's very handy, in ease of sickness, to have the doctor in the house."

"Yes; but, according to your account, he's generally somewhere else than in his own house," returned Zoe playfully.

Ella laughed. "Yes," she said, "doctors do have a hard life; but, if you say so to Art, he always says he has never regretted having chosen the medical profession, because it affords so many opportunities for doing good. It's plain he makes that the business of his life. I'm proud of Art. I don't believe there's a better man anywhere. I was sick last summer, and you wouldn't believe how kindly he nursed me."

"You can't tell me any thing about him that I should think too good to believe," said Zoe. "He's our family doctor, you remember; and, of course, we are all attached to him on that account, as well as because of the relationship."

"Yes, to be sure. There, Dinah, you may carry away my hat and cloak," Ella said, divesting herself of them as she spoke, "but leave the satchel. I brought my fancy-work, Zoe: one has to be industrious now, as Christmas is coming. I decided to embroider a pair of slippers for each of my three brothers. Walter does not expect to get home; so I made his first, as they had to travel so far. I'm nearly done with Art's, and then I have Cal's to do."

"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Zoe, examining the work: "and that's a new stitch; won't you teach it to me?"

"Yes, indeed, with pleasure. And I want you to teach me how to crochet that lace I saw you making the other day. I thought it so pretty."

The two spent a pleasant morning chatting together over their fancy-work, saying nothing very wise, perhaps, but neither did they say any thing harmful: an innocent jest now and again, something -- usually laudatory -- about some member of the family connection, and remarks and directions about their work, formed the staple of their talk.

"Oh! how did it come that you and Ned staid behind when all the rest went to Viamede for the winter?" asked Ella.

"Business kept my husband, and love for him and his society kept me," returned Zoe, with a look and smile that altogether belied any suspicion Ella might have had that she was fretting over the disappointment.

"Didn't you want to go?"

"Yes, indeed, if Edward could have gone with me; but any place with him is better than any other without him."

"Well, I don't believe I should have been willing to stay behind, even in your place. I've always had a longing to spend a winter there visiting my sister Isa, and my cousins Elsie and Molly. Cal and Art say, perhaps one or both of them may go on to spend two or three weeks this winter; and in that case I shall go along."

"Perhaps we may go at the same time, and what a nice party we will make!" said Zoe. "There," glancing from the window, "I see my husband coming, and I want to run out and speak to him. Will you excuse me a moment?" and scarcely waiting for a reply, she ran gayly away.

Meeting Edward on the threshold, "I have no lessons to recite this time," she said; "but you are not to scold, because I've been prevented from studying by company. Ella is spending the day with me."

"Ah! I hope you have had a pleasant time together -- not too much troubled by fear of a lecture from the old tyrant who bears your lessons," he said laughingly, as he bent his head to press a kiss of ardent affection upon the rosy lips she held up to him.

"No," she laughed in return: "I'm not a bit afraid of him."

Zoe had feared the hours when Edward was unavoidably absent from her side would be very lonely now while the other members of the Ion family were away; but she did not find it so; her studies, and the work of making various pretty things for Christmas gifts, keeping her very busy.

And, when he was with her, time flew on very rapid wings. She had grown quite industrious, and generally plied her needle in the evenings while he read or talked to her. But occasionally he would take the embroidery, or whatever it was, out of her hands, and toss it aside, saying she was trying her eyes by such constant use; and, besides, he wanted her undivided attention.

And she would resign herself to her fate, nothing loath to be drawn close to his side, or to a seat upon his knee, to be petted and caressed like a child, which, indeed, he persisted in calling her.

This was when they were alone: but very frequently they had company to spend the day, afternoon, or evening; for Ion had always been noted for its hospitality; and scarcely a week passed in which they did not pay a visit to the Oaks, the Laurels, the Pines, or Roselands.

Also a brisk correspondence was carried on with the absent members of the family. And Zoe's housekeeping cares and duties were just enough to be an agreeable variety in her occupations: every day, too, when the weather permitted, she walked or rode out with her husband.

And so the time passed quite delightfully for the first two months after the departure of the Viamede party.

It was a disappointment that Edward found himself too busy to make the hoped-for trip to Viamede at Christmas-time; yet Zoe did not fret over it, and really enjoyed the holidays extremely, giving and receiving numerous handsome presents, and, with Edward's assistance, making it a merry and happy time for the servants and other dependants, as well as for the relatives and friends still in the neighborhood.

The necessary shopping, with Edward to help her, and the packing and sending off of the Christmas-boxes to Viamede, to the college-boys, -- Herbert and Harold, -- and numerous other relatives and friends far and near, Zoe thought altogether the most delightful business she had ever taken in hand.

A very merry, happy little woman she was through all those weeks and months, Edward as devoted as any lover, and as gay and light-hearted as herself.

"Zoe, darling," Edward said one day at dinner, "I must drive over into our little village of Union -- by the way, do you know that we have more than a hundred towns of that name in these United States?"

"No, I did not know, or suspect, that we had nearly so many," she interrupted, laughing: "no wonder letters go astray when people are not particular to give the names of both county and State. But what were you going to say about driving over there?"

"I must see a gentleman on business, who will be there to meet the five-o'clock train, and leave on it; and, in order to be certain of seeing him, I must be there at least fifteen or twenty minutes before it is due. Shall I have the pleasure of my wife's company in the carriage? I have ordered it to be at the door by fifteen or twenty minutes past four, which will give us plenty of time, as it is an easy matter to drive from here to Union in ten minutes."

"Thank you," she said. "I accept the invitation with pleasure, and promise to be ready at the minute."

"You are the best little woman about that," he returned, with an appreciative look and smile. "I don't remember that you have ever yet kept me waiting, when told beforehand at what time I intended to start."

"Of course not," she said, with a pleased laugh; "because I was afraid, if I did, I shouldn't be invited so often: and I'm always so glad to go with you."

"Not gladder than I am to have you," he said, with a very lover-like glance and smile. "I always enjoy your society, and am always proud to show my friends and acquaintances what a dear little wife I have. I dare say I'm looked upon as a very fortunate fellow in that respect, and sometimes envied on account of having drawn such a prize in the matrimonial lottery."

They had left the table while he spoke, and with the last words he passed his arm round her waist.

"Dear me, Ned, what a gallant speech!" she said, flushing with delight; "you deserve a reward:" and she held up her face for a kiss.

"I am overpaid," he said, when he had bestowed it.

"In spite of the coin being such as you have a right to help yourself to whenever you will?" she returned with a merry laugh. "O Ned, my lover-husband!" she added, laying her head on his breast, "I am so happy in belonging to you, and I can never love you enough for all your goodness to me!"

"Darling, are you not equally good and loving to me?" he asked in tender tones, and holding her close.

"But I owe every thing to you," she responded with emotion. "If you had not come to my aid when my dear father was taken from me, what would have become of me, a mere child, without a near relative in the world, alone and destitute in a foreign land?"

"But I loved you, dearest. I sought my own happiness, as well as yours, in asking you to be my wife. So you need never feel burdened by the idea that you are under any special obligation to me, to whom you are the very sunshine of life."

"Dear Ned, how very kind in you to say so," she responded, gazing with ardent affection into his eyes; "but it isn't burdensome to be under obligation to you, any more than it is a trial to be ruled by you," she added, with playful tenderness; "and I love to think of all your goodness to me."

It was five minutes past four by Zoe's watch, and she just about to go to her dressing-room to put on her hat and cloak, when visitors were announced, -- some ladies who always made a lengthened call at Ion; so she at once resigned herself to the loss of her anticipated drive with her husband.

"O Ned!" she whispered in a hasty, vexed aside, "you'll have to go alone."

"Yes, dear," he returned; "but I'll try to get back in time to take you a drive in the other direction."

They stepped forward, and greeted their guests with hospitable cordiality.

They were friends whose visits were prized and enjoyed, though their coming just at this time was causing Zoe a real disappointment. However, Edward's promise of a drive with him at a later hour so far made amends for it, that she could truthfully express pleasure in seeing her guests.

Edward chatted with them for a few moments, then, excusing himself on the plea of business that could not be deferred, left them to be entertained by Zoe, while he entered his waiting carriage, and went on his way to the village, where he expected to meet his business acquaintance.



Chapter II.

"The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness." -- SHAKSPEARE.


Edward had met and held his desired interview with his business acquaintance, seen him aboard his train, and was standing watching it as it steamed away and disappeared in the distance, when a feminine voice, close at hand, suddenly accosted him.

"O Mr. Travilla! how are you? I consider myself very fortunate in finding you here."

He turned toward the speaker, and was not too greatly pleased at sight of her.

"Ah! good-evening, Miss Deane," he said, taking her offered hand, and speaking with gentlemanly courtesy. "In what can I be of service to you?"

"By inviting me to Ion to spend the night," she returned laughingly. "I've missed my train, and was quite in despair at the thought of staying alone over night in one of the miserable little hotels of this miserable little village. So I was delighted to see your carriage standing there, and you yourself beside it; for, knowing you to be one of the most hospitable of men, I am sure you will be moved to pity, and take me home with you."

Edward's heart sank at thought of Zoe, but, seeing no way out of the dilemma, "Certainly," he said, and helped his self-invited guest to a seat in his carriage, placed himself by her side, and bade the coachman drive on to Ion.

"Now, really, this is very good in you, Mr. Travilla," remarked Miss Deane: "there is no place I like better to visit than Ion, and I begin to think it was rather a fortunate mishap -- missing my train."

"Very unfortunate for me, I fear," sighed Edward to himself. "The loss of her drive will be a great disappointment to Zoe, and the sight of such a guest far from making it up to her. I am thankful the visit is to be for only a night."

Aloud he said, "I fear you will find it less pleasant than on former occasions, -- in fact, rather lonely; as all the family are absent -- spending the winter at Viamede, my mother's Louisiana plantation -- except my wife and myself."

"Ah! but your wife is a charming little girl, -- I never can think of her as a woman, you know, -- and you are a host in yourself," returned the lady laughingly.

Zoe's callers had left; and she, having donned hat and cloak, not to keep her husband a single moment, was at the window watching for his coming, when the carriage came driving up the avenue, and drew up at the door.

She hurried out, expecting to find no one there but himself, and to be at once handed to a seat in the vehicle, and the next minute be speeding away with him, enjoying her drive all the more for the little disappointment that had preceded it.

What, then, was her chagrin to see a visitor handed out, and that visitor the woman for whom she had conceived the most violent antipathy!

"Miss Deane, my dear," Edward said, with an entreating look at Zoe, which she did not see, her eyes being at that instant fixed upon the face of her uninvited and unwelcome guest.

"How do you do, my dear Mrs. Travilla? I hope you are glad to see me?" laughed the intruder, holding out a delicately gloved hand, "your husband has played the Good Samaritan to me to-night -- saving me from having to stay in one of those wretched little hotels in the village till two o'clock to-morrow morning."

"I am in usual health, thank you. Will you walk in?" returned Zoe in a freezing tone, and utterly ignoring the offered hand. "Will you step into the parlor? or would you prefer being shown to your room first?"

"The latter, if you please," Miss Deane answered sweetly, apparently quite unaware that Zoe's manner was in the least ungracious.

"Dinah," said Zoe, to a maid-in-waiting, "show Miss Deane to the room she occupied on her last visit. Carry up her satchel, and see that she has every thing she wants."

Having given the order, Zoe stepped out to the veranda where Edward still was, having staid behind to give directions in regard to the horses.

"Zoe, love, I am very sorry," he said, as the man turned his horses' heads, and drove away toward the stables.

"O Edward! how could you?" she exclaimed reproachfully, tears of disappointment and vexation springing to her eyes.

"Darling, I really could not help it," he replied soothingly, drawing her to him with a caress, and went on to tell exactly what had occurred.

"She is not a real lady," said Zoe, "or she never would have done a thing like that."

"I agree with you, love," he said; "but I was sorry your reception of her was so extremely ungracious and cold."

"Would you have had me play the hypocrite, Ned?" she asked indignantly.

"No, Zoe, I should be very far from approving of that," he answered gravely: "but while it was right and truthful not to express pleasure which you did not feel, at her coming, you might, on the other hand, have avoided absolute rudeness; you might have shaken hands with her, and asked after her health and that of her father's family."

"I treated her as well as she deserved; and it does not make her any the more welcome to me, that she has already been the means of drawing down upon me a reproof from my husband's lips," Zoe said in tremulous tones, and turning away from him with her eyes full of tears.

"My words were hardly intended as that, little wife," Edward responded in a kindly tone, following her into the hall, catching her in his arms, and imprinting a kiss on her ruby lips.

"And I wanted my drive with you so badly," she murmured, half hiding her face on his breast; "but she has robbed us of that, and -- O Ned! is she to come between us again, and make us quarrel, and be so dreadfully unhappy?" Her voice was full of tears and sobs before she had ended.

"No, no; I could not endure that any more than you," he said with emotion, and clasping her very close: "and it is only for to-night you will have to bear the annoyance of her presence; she is to leave in the morning."

"Is she? that is some comfort. I hope somebody will come in for the evening, and share with us the infliction of her society," Zoe said, concluding with a forlorn attempt at a laugh.

"Won't you take off that very becoming hat and cloak, Mrs. Travilla, and spend the evening?" asked Edward playfully.

"Thank you. I believe I will, if you will accompany me to the dressing-room," she returned, with a smiling look up into his face.

"That I will with pleasure," he said, "provided you will reward me with some assistance with my toilet."

"Such as brushing your hair, and tying your cravat? Yes, sir, I will: it's a bargain."

And so, laughing and chatting, they went up to their own private apartments.

Halt an hour later they came down again together, to find Miss Deane in the parlor, seated by a window overlooking the avenue.

"There's a carriage just drawing up before your front entrance," she remarked: "the Roselands family carriage, I think it is."

Zoe gave her husband a bright, pleased look. It seemed her wish for an addition to their party for the evening had been granted.

The next moment the room-door was thrown, open, and Dr. Conly and Miss Ella were announced.

They were cordially welcomed, asked to tea, and staid the evening, greatly relieving Zoe in the matter of entertaining her unwelcome guest, who devoted herself to the doctor, and left Edward to his wife and cousin, a condition of things decidedly agreeable to Zoe.

A little after nine the Roselands carriage was announced; and the doctor and Ella took their departure, Edward and Zoe accompanying them to the outer door.

The sky was black with clouds, and the wind roaring through the trees on the lawn.

"We are going to have a heavy storm. I think," remarked Arthur, glancing upward: "there is not a star to be seen, and the wind blows almost a gale. I hope no patient of mine will want the doctor very badly to-night," he added with a slight laugh. "Step in out of the wind, cousin Zoe, or you may be the very one to send for me."

Doing as directed, "No, indeed," she said: "I'm sure I couldn't have the heart to call anybody up out of a warm bed to face such a cutting wind as this."

"No, no; never hesitate when there is a real necessity," he returned, speaking from his seat in the carriage, where he had already taken his place beside his sister, whom Edward had handed in. "Good-night, and hurry in, both of you, for my sake if not for your own."

But they lingered a moment till the carriage turned, and drove swiftly down the avenue.

"I am so glad they came," remarked Zoe, as Edward shut the door and locked it for the night.

"Yes," he said: "they added a good deal to the pleasure of the evening. As we couldn't be alone together, three guests were more acceptable than one."

"Decidedly; and that one was delighted, I'm sure, to have an opportunity to exercise her conversational gifts for the benefit of a single man instead of a married one."

"Zoe, love, don't allow yourself to grow bitter and sarcastic," Edward said, turning toward her, laying a hand lightly, affectionately, upon her shoulder, and gazing down into her eyes with a look of grave concern.

She colored under it, and turned away with a pout that almost spoiled the beauty of her fair face. She was more than ever impatient to be rid of their self-invited guest.

"She always sets Ned to scolding me," was the bitter thought in her heart as she went slowly back to the parlor, where they had left Miss Deane, Edward following, sighing inwardly at the change in his darling always wrought by that unwelcome presence in the house.

"How the wind roars down the chimney!" Miss Deane remarked as her host and hostess re-entered the room, where she was comfortably seated in an easy-chair beside the glowing grate. "I fear to-morrow will prove a stormy day; but in that case I shall feel all the more delighted with my comfortable quarters here, -- all the more grateful to you, Mr. Travilla, for saving me from a long detention in one of those miserable little country taverns, where I should have died of ennui."

"You seem kindly disposed, my dear madam, to make a great deal of a small service," returned Edward gallantly.

But Zoe said not a word. She stood gazing into the fire, apparently lost in thought; but the color deepened on her cheek, and a slight frown contracted her brows.

Presently she turned to her guest, saying courteously, "You must be weary with your journey, Miss Deane: would you like to retire?"

"Thank you, I should," was the reply; and thereupon the good-nights were said, and they sought their respective rooms.

"You are not displeased with me, dear?" Zoe asked, lifting her eyes inquiringly to her husband's face as she stood before their dressing-room fire with his arm about her waist: "you are looking so very grave."

"No, dearest, I am not disposed to find fault with you," he said, softly caressing her hair and cheek with his disengaged hand; "though I should be glad if you could be a trifle more cordial to our uninvited guest."

"It's my nature to act just as I feel; and, if there's a creature on earth I thoroughly detest, it is she!" returned the child-wife with almost passionate vehemence. "I know she hates me, -- for all her purring manner and sweet tones and words, -- and that she likes nothing better than to make trouble between my husband and me."

"My dear child, you really must try not to be so uncharitable and suspicious," Edward said in a slightly reproving tone. "I do not perceive any such designs or any hypocrisy in her conduct toward you."

"No: men are as blind as a bat in their intercourse with such women; never can see through their designs; always take them to be as sweet and amiable as they pretend to be. It takes a woman to understand her own sex."

"Maybe so," he said soothingly; "but we will leave the disagreeable subject for to-night at least, shall we not?"

"Yes; and, oh, I do hope the weather to-morrow will not be such as to afford her an excuse for prolonging her stay!"

"I hope not, indeed, love," he responded; "but let us resolve, that, if it does, we will try to bear the infliction patiently, and give our self-invited guest no right to accuse us of a lack of hospitality toward her. Let us not forget or disobey the Bible injunction, to 'use hospitality one to another without grudging.'"

"I'll try not to. I'll be as good to her as I can, without feeling that I am acting insincerely."

"And that is all I ask, love. Your perfect freedom from any thing approaching to deceit is one of your greatest charms, in your husband's eyes," he said, tenderly caressing her. "It would, I am sure, be quite impossible for me to love a wife in whose absolute truth and sincerity I had not entire confidence."

"And you do love me, your foolish, faulty little wife?" she said, in a tone that was a mixture of assertion and inquiry, while her lovely eyes gazed searchingly into his.

"Dearly, dearly, my sweet!" he said, smiling fondly down upon her. "And now to bed, lest these bright eyes and rosy cheeks should lose something of their brilliance and beauty."

"Suppose they should," she said, turning slightly pale, as with sudden pain. "O Ned! if I live, I must some day grow old and gray and wrinkled, my eyes dim and sunken: shall you love me then, darling?"

"Better than ever, love," he whispered, holding her closer to his heart; "for how long we shall have lived and loved together! We shall have come to be as one indeed, each with hardly a thought or feeling unshared by the other."



Chapter III.

"One woman reads another's character, without the tedious trouble of deciphering." -- JONSON.


Zoe's sleep that night was profound and refreshing, and she woke in perfect health and vigor of body and mind; but the first sound that smote upon her ear -- the dashing of sleet against the window-pane -- sent a pang of disappointment and dismay to her heart.

She sprang from her bed, and, running to the window, drew aside the curtain, and looked out.

"O Ned!" she groaned, "the ground is covered with sleet and snow, -- about a foot deep, I should think, -- and just hear how the wind shrieks and howls round the house!"

"Well, love," he answered in a cheery tone, "we are well sheltered, and supplied with all needful things for comfort and enjoyment."

"And one that will destroy every bit of my enjoyment in any or all the others," she sighed; "but," eagerly and half hopefully, "do you think it is quite certain to be too bad for her to go?"

"Quite, I am afraid. If she should offer to go," he added mischievously, "we will not be more urgent against it than politeness demands, and, if she persists, will not refuse the use of the close carriage as far as the depot."

"She offer to go!" exclaimed Zoe scornfully: "you may depend, she'll stay as long as she has the least vestige of an excuse for doing so."

"Oh, now, little woman! don't begin the day with being quite so hard and uncharitable," Edward said, half seriously, half laughingly.

Zoe was not far wrong in her estimate of her guest. Miss Deane was both insincere and a thoroughly selfish person, caring nothing for the comfort or happiness of others. She had perceived Zoe's antipathy from the first day of their acquaintance, and took a revengeful, malicious delight in tormenting her; and she had sufficient penetration to see that the most effectual way to accomplish her end was through Edward. The young wife's ardent and jealous affection for her husband was very evident; plainly, it was pain to her to see him show Miss Deane the slightest attention, or seem interested in any thing she did or said; therefore the intruder put forth every effort to interest him, and monopolize his attention, and at the same time contrived to draw out into exhibition the most unamiable traits in Zoe's character, doing it so adroitly that Edward did not perceive her agency in the matter, and thought Zoe alone to blame. To him Miss Deane's behavior appeared unexceptionable, her manner most polite and courteous, Zoe's just the reverse.

It was so through all that day and week; for the storm continued, and the uninvited guest never so much as hinted at a wish to leave the shelter of their hospitable roof.

Zoe began each day with heroic resolve to be patient and forbearing, sweet-tempered and polite, toward her tormentor, and ended it with a deep sense of humiliating failure, and of having lost something of the high esteem and admiration in which her almost idolized husband had been wont to hold her.

Feeling that, more or less of change in her manner toward him was inevitable; less sure than formerly of his entire approval and ardent affection, a certain timidity and hesitation crept into her manner of approaching him, even when they were quite alone together; she grew sad, silent, and reserved: and he, thinking her sullen and jealous without reason, ceased to lavish endearments upon her, and, more than that, half unconsciously allowed both his looks and tones to express disapprobation and reproof.

That almost broke Zoe's heart; but she strove to hide her wounds from him, and especially from her tormentor.

The storm kept Edward in the house: at another time that would have been a joy to Zoe, but now it only added to her troubles, affording constant opportunity to the wily foe to carry out her evil designs.

On the evening of the second day from the setting in of the storm, Miss Deane challenged Edward to a game of chess. He accepted at once, and with an air of quiet satisfaction brought out the board, and placed the men.

He was fond of the game; but Zoe had never fancied it, and he had played but seldom since their marriage.

Miss Deane was a more than ordinarily skilful player, and so was he; indeed, so well matched were they, that neither found it an easy matter to checkmate the other: and that first game proved a long one, -- so long that Zoe, who had watched its progress with some interest in the beginning, eager to see Edward win, at length grew so weary as to find it difficult to keep her eyes open, or refrain from yawning.

But Edward, usually so tenderly careful of her, took no notice, -- indeed, as she said bitterly to herself, seemed to have forgotten her existence.

Still, it was with a thrill of delight that she at length perceived that he had come off victorious.

Miss Deane took her defeat with very good grace, and smilingly challenged him to another contest.

"Rather late, isn't it?" he said with a glance at the clock, whose hands pointed to half-past eleven. "Suppose we sign a truce until to-morrow?"

"Certainly: that will be decidedly best," she promptly replied, following the direction of his glance. "I feel so fresh, and have enjoyed myself so much, that I had no idea of the hour, and am quite ashamed of having kept my youthful hostess up so late," she added, looking sweetly at Zoe. "Very young people need a large amount of sleep, and can't keep up health and strength without it."

"You are most kind," said Zoe, a touch of sarcasm in her tones: "it must be a very sympathetic nature that has enabled you to remember so long how young people feel."

A twinkle of fun shone in Edward's eyes at that.

Miss Deane colored furiously, bade a hasty good-night, and departed to her own room.

"That was a rather hard thrust, my dear," remarked Edward, laughing, as he led the way into their dressing-room; "not quite polite, I'm afraid."

"I don't care if it wasn't!" said Zoe. "She is always twitting me on my extreme youth."

"Sour grapes," he said lightly: "she will never see twenty-five again, and would give a great deal for your youth. And since you are exactly the age to suit me, why should you care a fig for her sneers?"

"I don't, when I seem to suit you in all respects," returned Zoe with tears in her voice.

Her back was toward him; but he caught sight of her face in a mirror, and saw that tears were also glistening in her eyes.

Putting his arm round her waist, and drawing her to him, "I don't want a piece of perfection for my wife," he said; "she would be decidedly too great a contrast to her husband: and I have never yet seen the woman or girl I should be willing to take in exchange for the one belonging to me. And I'm very sure such a one doesn't exist."

"How good in you to say it!" she said, clinging about his neck, and lifting to his, eyes shining with joy and love. "O Ned! we were so happy by ourselves!"

"So we were," he assented, "and so we may hope to be again very soon."

"Not so very, I'm afraid," she answered with a rueful shake of the head; "for just hark how it is storming still!"

"Yes; but it may be all over by morning. How weary you look, love! Get to bed as fast as you can. You should not have waited for the conclusion of that long game, that, I know, did not interest you."

"I was interested for your sake," she said, "and so glad to see you win."

"Wife-like," he returned with a smile, adding, "It was a very close game, and you needn't be surprised to see me beaten in the next battle."

"I'm afraid she will stay for that, even if the storm is over," sighed Zoe. "Dear me! I don't see how anybody can have the face to stay where she is self-invited, and must know she isn't a welcome guest to the lady of the house. I'd go through any storm rather than prolong a visit under such circumstances."

"You would never have put yourself in such a position," Edward said. "But I wish you could manage to treat her with a little more cordiality. I should feel more comfortable. I could not avoid bringing her here, as you know; nor can I send her away in such inclement weather, or, indeed, at all, till she offers to go; and your want of courtesy toward her -- to put it mildly -- is a constant mortification to me."

"Why don't you say at once that you are ashamed of me?" she exclaimed, tears starting to her eyes again, as with a determined effort she freed herself from his grasp, and moved away to the farther side of the room.

"I am usually very proud of you," he answered in a quiet tone; "but this woman seems to exert a strangely malign influence over you."

To that, Zoe made no response; she could not trust herself to speak; so prepared for bed, and laid herself down there in silence, wiped away a tear or two, and presently fell asleep.

Morning brought no abatement of the storm, and consequently no relief to Zoe from the annoyance of Miss Deane's presence in the house.

On waking, she found that Edward had risen before her; she heard him moving about in the dressing-room; then he came to the door, looked in, and, seeing her eyes open, said, "Ah, so you are awake! I hope you slept well? I'm sorry for your sake that it is still storming."

"Yes, I slept soundly, thank you; and as for the storm, I'll just have to try to bear with it and its consequences as patiently as possible," she sighed.

"A wise resolve, my dear. I hope you will try to carry it out." he returned. "Now I must run away, and leave you to make your toilet, as I have some little matters to attend to before breakfast."

She made no reply; and he passed out of the room, and down the stairs.

"Poor little woman!" he said to himself: "she looks depressed, though usually she is so bright and cheery. I hope, from my heart, Miss Deane may never darken these doors again."

Zoe was feeling quite out of spirits over the prospect of another day to be spent in society so distasteful: she lay for a moment contemplating it ruefully.

"The worst of it is, that she manages to make me appear so unamiable and unattractive in my husband's eyes," she sighed to herself. "But I'll foil her efforts," she added, between her shut teeth, springing up, and beginning her toilet as she spoke: "he likes to have me bright and cheery, and well and becomingly dressed, and so I will be."

She made haste to arrange her hair in the style he considered most becoming, and to don the morning-dress he most admired.

As she put the finishing touches to her attire, she thought she heard his step on the stairs, and ran out eagerly to meet him, and claim a morning kiss.

But the bright, joyous expression of her face suddenly changed to one of anger and chagrin as she caught the sound of his and Miss Deane's voices in the hall below, and, looking over the balustrade, saw them go into the library together.

"She begins early! It's a pity if I can't have my own husband to myself even before breakfast," Zoe muttered, stepping back into the dressing-room.

Her first impulse was to remain where she was; the second, to go down at once, and join them.

She hastened to do so, but, before she reached the foot of the stairway, the breakfast-bell rang; and, instead of going into the library, she passed on directly to the dining-room, and, as the other two entered a moment later, gave Miss Deane a cold "Good-morning," and Edward a half reproachful, half pleading look, which he, however, returned with one so kind and re-assuring that she immediately recovered her spirits, and was able to do the honors of the table with ease and grace.

Coming upon her in that room alone, an hour later, just as she had dismissed Aunt Dicey with her orders for the day, "Little wife," he said, bending down to give her the coveted caress, "I owe you an explanation."

"No, Ned, dear, I don't ask it of you: I know it is all right," she answered, flushing with happiness, and her eyes smiling up into his.

"Still, I think it best to explain," he said. "I had finished attending to the little matters I spoke of, -- writing a note, and giving some directions to Uncle Ben, -- and was on my way back to our apartments, when Miss Deane met me on the stairway, and asked if I would go into the library with her, and help her to look up a certain passage in one of Shakspeare's plays, which she wished to quote in a letter she was writing. She was anxious to have it perfectly correct, she said, and would be extremely obliged for my assistance in finding it."

"And you could not in politeness refuse. I know that, Ned, and please don't think me jealous."

"I know, dear, that you try not to be; and it shall be my care to avoid giving you the least occasion. And I do again earnestly assure you, you need have no fear that the first place in my heart will not always be yours."

"I don't fear it," she said; "and yet, -- O Ned! it is misery to me to have to share your society with that woman, even for a day or two!"

"I don't know how I can help you out of it," he said, after a moment's consideration, "unless by shutting myself up alone, -- to attend to correspondence or something, -- and leaving you to entertain her by yourself. Shall I do that?"

"Oh, no! unless you much prefer it. I think it would set me wild to have her whole attention concentrated upon me," Zoe answered with an uneasy laugh.

So they went together to the parlor, where Miss Deane sat waiting for them, or rather for Edward.

She had the chess-board out, the men placed, and at once challenged him to a renewal of last night's contest.

He accepted, of course; and they played without intermission till lunch-time, Zoe sitting by, for the most part silent, and wishing Miss Deane miles away from Ion.

This proved a worse day to her than either of the preceding ones. Miss Deane succeeded several times in rousing her to an exhibition of temper that very much mortified and displeased Edward; and his manner, when they retired that night to their private apartments, was many degrees colder than it had been in the morning. He considered himself forbearing in refraining from remark to Zoe on her behavior; while she said to herself, she would rather he would scold her, and have done with it, than keep on looking like a thunder-cloud, and not speaking at all. He was not more disgusted with her conduct than she was herself, and she would own it in a minute if he would but say a kind word to open the way.

But he did not; and they made their preparations for the night and sought their pillows in uncomfortable silence, Zoe wetting hers with tears before she slept.



Chapter IV.

"Forbear sharp speeches to her. She's a lady So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes, And strokes death to her." -- SHAKSPEARE.


As we have said, the storm lasted for a week; and all that time Edward and Zoe were slowly drifting farther and farther apart.

But at last the clouds broke and the sun shone out cheerily. It was about the middle of the forenoon when this occurred.

"Oh," cried Miss Deane, "do see the sun! Now I shall no longer need to encroach upon your hospitality, my kind entertainers. I can go home by this afternoon's train, if you, Mr. Travilla, will be so very good as to take or send me to the depot."

"The Ion carriage is quite at your service," he returned politely.

"Thanks," she said; "then I'll just run up to my room, and do my bit of packing."

She hurried out to the hall, then the front door was heard to open; and the next minute a piercing shriek brought master, mistress, and servants running out to the veranda to inquire the cause.

Miss Deane lay there groaning, and crying out "that she had sprained her ankle terribly; she had slipped on a bit of ice, and fallen; and oh! when now would she be able to go home?"

The question found an echo in Zoe's heart, and she groaned inwardly at the thought of having this most unwelcome guest fastened upon her for weeks longer.

Yet she pitied her pain, and was anxious to do what she could for her relief. She hastened to the medicine-closet in search of remedies; while Edward and Uncle Ben gently lifted the sufferer, carried her in, and laid her on the sofa.

Also a messenger was at once despatched for Dr. Conly. Zoe stationed herself at a front window of the drawing-room to watch for his coming. Presently Edward came to her side. "Zoe," he said, "can't you go to Miss Deane?"

"What for?" she asked, without turning her head to look at him.

"To show your kind feeling."

"I'm not sure that I have any."

"Zoe! I am shocked! She is in great pain."

"She has plenty of helpers about her, -- Christine, Aunt Dicey, and a servant-maid or two, -- who will do all they can to relieve her. If I could do any thing more, I would; but I can't, and should only be in the way. You forget what a mere child you have always considered me, and that I have had no experience in nursing."

"It isn't nursing, I am asking you to give her, but a little kindly sympathy."

A carriage was coming swiftly up the avenue.

"There's the doctor," said Zoe. "You'd better consult with him about his patient; and, if he thinks my presence in her room will hasten her recovery, she shall have all I can give her of it, that we may get her out of the house as soon as possible."

"Zoe! I had no idea you could be so heartless," he said, with much displeasure, as he turned and left the room.

Zoe remained where she was, shedding some tears of mingled anger and grief, then hastily endeavoring to remove their traces; for Arthur would be sure to step into the parlor, to see her before leaving, if it were but for a moment.

She had barely recovered her composure when he came in, having found his patient not in need of a lengthened visit.

His face was bright, his tone cheery and kind, as he bade her good-morning, and asked after her health.

"I'm very well, thank you," she said, giving him her hand. "Is Miss Deane's accident a very bad one?"

"It is a severe sprain," he said: "she will not be able to bear her weight upon that ankle for six weeks." Then seeing Zoe's look of dismay, shrewdly guessing at the cause, he hastened to add, "But she might be sent home in an ambulance a few days hence, without the least injury."

Zoe looked greatly relieved, Edward scarcely less so.

"I can't understand how she came to fall," remarked Arthur reflectively.

"Nor I," said Zoe. "Wouldn't it be well for you to advise her never to set foot on that dangerous veranda again?"

Arthur smiled. "That would be a waste of breath," he said, "while Ion is so delightful a place to visit."

"How are they all at Viamede?" he asked, turning to Edward.

"Quite well at last accounts, thank you," Edward replied, adding, with a slight sigh, "I wish they were here, -- my mother at least, if none of the others."

Zoe colored violently. "Cousin Arthur, do you think I am needed in your patient's room?" she asked.

"Only to cheer and amuse her with your pleasant society," he answered.

"She would find neither pleasure nor amusement in my society," said Zoe; "and hers is most distasteful to me."

"That's a pity," said Arthur, with a look of concern. "Suppose I lend you Ella for a few days? She, I think, would rather enjoy taking the entertainment of your guest off your hands."

"Oh, thank you!" said Zoe, brightening; "that would be a relief: and, besides, I should enjoy Ella myself, between times, and after Miss Deane goes home."

"Please tell Ella we will both be greatly obliged if she will come," Edward said.

"I'll do so," said Arthur, rising to go; "but I have a long drive to take, in another direction, before returning to Roselands. And you must remember," he added with a smile, "that I lend her for only a few days. Cal and I wouldn't know how to do without her very long."

With that, he took his departure, leaving Edward and Zoe alone together.

"I am sorry, Zoe, that you thought it necessary to let Arthur into the secret of the mutual dislike between Miss Deane and yourself," remarked Edward, in a grave, reproving tone.

Zoe colored angrily. "I don't care who knows it," she retorted, with a little toss of her head. "I did not think it necessary to let Arthur into the secret, as you call it (I don't consider it one), but neither did I see any objection to his knowing about it."

"Then, let me request you to say no more on the subject to any one," he said, with vexation.

"I sha'n't promise," she muttered, half under her breath. But he heard it.

"Very well, then, I forbid it; and you have promised to obey me."

"And you promised that it should always be love and coaxing," she said, in tones trembling with pain and passion. "I'll have to tell Ella something about it."

"Then, say only what is quite necessary," he returned, his tones softening.

Then, after a moment's silence, in which Zoe's face was turned from him so that he could not see its expression, "Won't you go now, and ask if Miss Deane is any easier? Surely, as her hostess, you should do so much."

"No, I won't! I'll do all I can to make her comfortable; I'll provide her with society more agreeable to her than mine; I'll see that she has interesting reading-matter, if she wants it; I'll do any thing and every thing I can, except that; but you needn't ask that of me."

"O Zoe! I had thought you would do a harder thing than that at my request," he said reproachfully.

Ignoring his remark, she went on, "I just believe she fell and hurt herself purposely, that she might have an excuse for prolonging her visit, and continuing to torment me."

"Zoe, Zoe, how shockingly uncharitable you are!" he exclaimed. "I could never have believed it of you! We are told, 'Charity thinketh no evil.' Do try not to judge so harshly."

He left the room; and Zoe indulged in a hearty cry, but hastily dried her eyes, and turned her back toward the door, as she heard his step approaching again.

He just looked in, saying, "Zoe, I am going to drive over to Roselands for Ella: will you go along?"

"No. I've been lectured enough for one day," was her ungracious rejoinder; and he closed the door, and went away.

He was dumb with astonishment and pain. "What has come over her?" he asked himself. "She has always before been so delighted to go any and every where with me. Have I been too ready to reprove her of late? I have thought myself rather forbearing, considering how much ill-temper she has shown. She has had provocation, to be sure; but it is high time she learned to exercise some self-control. Yet perhaps I should have been more sympathizing, more forbearing and affectionate."

He had stepped into his carriage, and was driving down the avenue. He passed through the great gates, and turned into the road, still thinking of Zoe, and mentally reviewing their behavior toward each other since the unfortunate day in which Miss Deane had crossed their threshold.

The conclusion he presently arrived at was, that he had not been altogether blameless; that, if his reproofs had been given in more loving fashion, they would have been received in a better spirit; that he had not been faithful to his promise always to try "love and coaxing" with the impulsive, sensitive child-wife, who, he doubted not, loved him with her whole heart; and, once convinced of that, he determined to say so on his return, and make it up with her.

True, it seemed to him that she ought to make the first advances toward an adjustment of their slight differences (quarrels they could scarcely be called; a slight coldness, a cessation of accustomed manifestations of conjugal affection, a few sharp or impatient words on each side), but he would be too generous to wait for that; he loved her dearly enough to sacrifice his pride to some extent; he could better afford that than the sight of her unhappiness.

In the mean time Zoe was bitterly repenting of the rebuff she had given him. He had hardly closed the door when she started up, and ran to it to call him back, apologize for her curt refusal to go with him, and ask if she might still accept his invitation. But it was too late: he was already beyond hearing.

She could not refrain from another cry, and was very angry with herself for her petulance. She regretted the loss of the drive, too, which would have been a real treat after the week of confinement to the house.

She had refused to comply with her husband's request that she would go to Miss Deane and ask how she was: now she repented, and went as soon as she had removed the traces of her tears.

"Ah! you have come at last!" was the salutation she received on entering the room where Miss Deane lay on a sofa, with the injured limb propped upon pillows. "I began to fear," sweetly, "that your delicate nerves had given way under the sight of my sufferings."

"My nerves are not delicate," returned Zoe coldly; "in fact, I never discovered that I had any; so please do not trouble yourself with anxiety on that account. I trust the applications have relieved you somewhat."

"Very little, thank you. I suppose it was hardly to be expected that they would take effect so soon. Ah, me!" she added with a profound sigh, "I fear I am tied to this couch for weeks."

"No; do not disturb yourself with that idea," said Zoe. "The doctor told me you could easily be taken home in a few days in an ambulance."

"I shall certainly avail myself of the first opportunity to do so," said Miss Deane, her eyes flashing with anger, "for I plainly perceive that I have worn out my welcome."

"No, not at all," said Zoe; "at least, not so far as I am concerned." Miss Deane looked her incredulity and surprise, and Zoe explained, -- "I think I may as well be perfectly frank with you," she said. "You have not worn out your welcome with me, because I had none for you when you came. How could I, knowing that you invariably make trouble between my husband and myself?"

"Truly, a polite speech to make to a guest!" sniffled Miss Deane. "I hope you pride yourself on your very polished manners."

"I prefer truth and sincerity." said Zoe, "I shall do all I can to make you comfortable while you are here; and, if you choose to avoid the line of conduct I have objected to, we may learn to like each other. I very well know that you do not love me now."

"Since frankness is in fashion at this moment," was the contemptuous retort, "I will own that there is no love lost between us. Stay," as Zoe was about to leave the room, "let me give you a piece of disinterested advice. Learn to control your quick temper, and show yourself more amiable, or you may find one of these days, when it is too late, that you have lost your husband's heart."

At that, Zoe turned away, and went swiftly from the room. She was beyond speaking, her whole frame quivering from head to foot with the agitation of her feelings.

Lose the love of her idolized husband? That would be worse than death. But it should never be: he loved her dearly now (it could not be possible that these last few wretched days had robbed her quite of the devoted affection she had known beyond a doubt to be hers before); and she would tell him, as soon as he came in, how sorry she was for the conduct that had vexed him, and never, no, never again, would she do or say any thing to displease him, or lower herself in his estimation.

As she thought thus, hurrying down the hall, she caught the sound of wheels on the drive, and ran out, expecting to see him, as it was about time for his return from Roselands.

It was the Ion carriage she had heard, but only Ella Conly alighted from it.

They exchanged greetings, then Zoe asked half breathlessly, "Where's Edward?"

"Gone," Ella responded, moving on into the hall. "Come, let's go into the parlor, and sit down, and I'll tell you all I know about it. Why, Zoe," as she turned and caught sight of her companion's face, "you are as pale as death, and look ready to faint! There's nothing to be scared about, and you mustn't mind my nonsense."

"Oh, tell me! tell me quickly!" gasped Zoe, sinking into a chair, her hands clasped beseechingly, her eyes wild with terror: "what, what has happened?"

"Nothing, child, nothing, except that we met cousin Horace on our way here, and he carried Ned off to Union. They had to hurry to catch a train, in order to be in time for some business matter in the city, I didn't understand what: so Ned couldn't wait to write the least bit of a note to tell you about it; and he told me to explain every thing to you, and say you were not to fret or worry, not even if he shouldn't get home to-night; for he might not be able to finish up the business in time for even the last train that would bring him."

The color had come back to Zoe's cheek, but her countenance was still distressed; and as Ella concluded, two scalding tears rolled quickly down her face, and plashed upon the small white hands lying clasped in her lap.

"Dear me!" said Ella, "how fond you are of him!"

"Yes," said Zoe, with a not very successful effort to smile through her tears: "who wouldn't be, in my place? I owe every thing to Ned, and he pets and indulges me to the greatest extent. Besides, he is so good, noble, and true, that any woman might be proud to be his wife."

"Yes: I admit every word of it; but all that doesn't explain your tears," returned Ella, half sympathizingly, half teasingly. "Now, I should have supposed that anybody who could boast of such a piece of perfection for a husband would be very happy."

"But I -- we've hardly ever been separated over night," stammered Zoe, blushing rosy red; "and -- and -- O Ella! I hadn't a chance to say good-by to him, and -- and you know accidents so often happen" -- 

She broke down with a burst of tears and sobs that quite dismayed her cousin.

"Why, Zoe, I'm afraid you cannot be well," she said. "Come, cheer up, and don't borrow trouble."

"I'm afraid I'm very silly, and have been making you very uncomfortable," said Zoe, hastily wiping away her tears, "and it's a great shame; particularly, considering that you have kindly come on purpose to help me through with a disagreeable task.

"I'll show you to your room now, if you like," she added, rising, "and try to behave myself better during the rest of your visit."

"Apologies are quite uncalled for," returned Ella lightly, as they went up-stairs together. "I have always had a good time at Ion, and don't believe this is going to be an exception to the general rule. But do you know," lowering her voice a little, "I don't propose to spend nearly all my time with that hateful Miss Deane. I never could bear her."

"Then, how good it was in you to come!" exclaimed Zoe gratefully. "But I should never have asked it of you, if I had thought you disliked her as well as I."

They were now in the room Ella was to occupy, and she was taking off her hat and cloak. "Oh, never mind! I was delighted to come anyhow," she answered gayly, as she threw aside the latter garment, and took possession of an easy-chair beside the open fire. "To tell you a secret," she went on laughingly, "I like my cousins Ned and Zoe Travilla immensely, and am always glad of an excuse to pay them a visit. But that Miss Deane, -- oh! she's just too sweet for any thing!" making a grimace expressive of disgust and aversion, "and a consummate, incorrigible flirt: any one of the male sex can be made to serve her turn, from a boy of sixteen to a man of seventy-five."

"I think you are correct about that," said Zoe. "And, do you know, she is forever making covert sneers at my youth; and it's perfectly exasperating to me."

"Sour grapes," laughed Ella. "I wouldn't let it vex me in the least: it's all to hide her envy of you, because you are really young, and married too. I know very well she's dreadfully afraid of being called an old maid."

"I suspected as much," Zoe remarked. "But don't you think gentlemen are more apt to be pleased with her than ladies?"

"Yes: they don't see through her as her own sex do. And she is handsome, and certainly a brilliant talker. I'd give a good deal for conversational powers equal to hers."

"So would I," Zoe said, with an involuntary sigh.

Ella gave her a keen, inquiring look; and Zoe flushed hotly under it.

"Shall we go down now?" she asked. "It is nearly dinner-time; and we shall have to dine alone unless some one drops in unexpectedly," she added, as they left the room together, and passed down the stairs, arm in arm.

"If Arthur should, wouldn't it be a trial to Miss Deane to have to dine in her own room?" exclaimed Ella, with a gleeful laugh.

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Zoe, opening her eyes wide with surprise.

"That she would not have the slightest objection to becoming Mrs. Dr. Conly."

"But you don't think there's any danger?" queried Zoe, by no means pleased with the idea of having the lady in question made a member of the family connection.

"No, and I certainly hope not. It wouldn't be I that would want to call her sister," returned Ella emphatically.

"I should think Art had sufficient penetration to see through her," said Zoe. "But no; on second thoughts, I'm not so sure; for Ned will have it that it's more than half my imagination when I say she sneers at me."

"That's too bad," said Ella. "But Art is older than Ned by some years, and has probably had more opportunity to study character."

"Yes," replied Zoe, speaking with some hesitation, not liking to admit that any one was wiser than her husband, little as she was inclined to own herself in the wrong when he differed from her.



Chapter V.

"Is there no constancy in earthly things? No happiness in us, but what must alter?"


Zoe drove over to the village in good season to meet the last train for that day, coming from the direction in which Edward had gone, ardently hoping he might be on board.

The carriage was brought to a stand-still near the depot; and she eagerly watched the arrival of the train, and scanned the little crowd of passengers who alighted from it.

But Edward was not among them, and now it was quite certain that she could not see him before another day.

Just as she reached that conclusion, a telegram was handed her: -- 

"Can't be home before to-morrow or next day. Will return as soon as possible. E. TRAVILLA."

To the girl-wife the message seemed but cold and formal. "So different from the way he talks to me when he is not vexed or displeased, as he hardly ever is," she whispered to herself with starting tears during the solitary drive back to Ion. "I know it's silly -- telegrams can't be loving and kind: it wouldn't do, of course -- but I can't help feeling as if he is angry with me, because there's not a bit of love in what he says. And, oh, dear! to think he may be away two nights, and I'm longing so to tell him how sorry I am for being so cross this morning, and before that, too, and to have him take me in his arms and kiss me, and say all is right between us, that I don't know how to wait a single minute!"

She reached home in a sad and tearful mood. Ella, however, proved so entertaining and mirth-provoking a companion, that the evening passed quickly, and by no means unpleasantly.

But when the two had retired to their respective apartments, Zoe felt very lonely, and said to herself that she would rather have Edward there, even silent and displeased, as he had been for several days past, than be without him.

Her last thought before falling asleep, and her first on awaking next morning, were of him.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed half aloud, as she opened her eyes, and glanced round the room, "what shall I do if he doesn't come to-day? I'll have to stand it, of course; but what does a woman do who has no husband?" And for the first time she began to feel some sympathy for Miss Deane, as a lonely maiden lady.

She thought a good deal about her unwelcome guest while attending to the duties of the toilet, and determined to treat her with all possible kindness during the remainder of her enforced stay at Ion. So, meeting, on her way to the breakfast-room, the old negress who had been given charge of Miss Deane through the night, she stopped her, and asked how her patient was.

"Jes' pow'ful cross dis hyar mawnin', Miss Zoe," was the reply, in a tone of disgust. "Dar isn't one ob de fambly dat would be makin' half de fuss ef dey'd sprained bofe dey's ankles. Doan ye go nigh her, honey, fear she bite yo' head off."

"Indeed I sha'n't, Aunt Phillis, if there's any danger of that," laughed Zoe. "But as she can't jump up and run after me, I think I shall be quite safe if I don't go within arm's-length of her sofa."

"She's pow'ful cross," repeated Aunt Phillis: "she done gone call dis chile up time an' again fru de night; an' when I ax her, 'Whar yo' misery at?' she say, 'In my ankle, ob c'ose, yo' ole fool you! Cayn't yo' hab nuff sense to change de dressin'?'"

"Who is that has been so polite and complimentary to you, Aunt Phillis?" cried a merry voice in their rear.

Ella was descending the stairway at whose foot they stood, as they perceived, on turning at the sound of her voice.

"Good-morning, cousin: how bright and well you are looking!" said Zoe.

"Just as I feel. And how are you, Mrs. Travilla? I trust you did not spend the night in crying over Ned's absence?" was the gay rejoinder.

"No, not nearly all of it," returned Zoe, catching her spirit of fun.

"Mawnin', Miss Ella," said the old nurse, dropping a courtesy. "'Twas de lady what sprain her foot yisteday I was talkin' bout to Miss Zoe."

"Ah! how is she?"

"I doan' t'ink she gwine die dis day, Miss Ella," laughed the nurse, "she so pow'ful cross; and dey do say folks is dat way when dey's gittin' bettah."

"Yes, I have always heard it was a hopeful sign, if not an agreeable one," Ella remarked, "Was that the breakfast-bell I heard just now?"

"Yes," said Zoe. "I hope you feel ready to do justice to your meal?"

As they seated themselves at the table, Zoe, glancing toward Edward's vacant chair, remarked, with a sigh, that it seemed very lonely to sit down without him.

"Well, now," said Ella, "I think it's quite nice to take a meal occasionally without the presence of anybody of the masculine gender."

"Perhaps that is because you have never been married," said Zoe.

"Perhaps so," returned her cousin, laughing; "yet I don't think that can be all that ails me, for I have heard married women express the same opinion quite frequently. What shall we do with ourselves to-day, Zoe? I've no notion of devoting myself exclusively to Miss Deane's entertainment, especially if she is really as cross as reported."

"No, indeed! I couldn't bear to let you, even if you were willing," replied Zoe with decision. "I consented to your taking my place in that, only because I supposed you found her agreeable; while to me she is any thing else."

"Suppose we call on her together, after a little, and let the length of our stay depend upon the enjoyment our presence seems to afford her," suggested Ella.

"Agreed," said Zoe. "Then I will supply her with plenty of reading-matter, which, as she professes to be so very intellectual, ought to entertain her far better than we can. Shall we ride after that?"

"Yes, and take a promenade on the verandas. We'll have to take our exercise in those ways, as the roads are not yet fit for walking."

"Yes," said Zoe; "but I hope that by afternoon they will be good enough for driving; as I mean to drive over to the depot to meet the late train, hoping to find Ned on it."

"Don't expect him till to-morrow," said Ella.

"Why not?" queried Zoe, looking as if she could hardly endure the thought.

"Because, in that case, your disappointment, if you have one, will be agreeable."

"Yes; but, on the other hand, I should lose all the enjoyment of looking forward through the whole day, to seeing him this evening. Following your plan, I shouldn't have half so happy a day as if I keep to my own."


"Ah! that's an entirely new view of the case," Ella said in her merry, laughing tones.

Miss Deane did not seem to enjoy their society, and they soon withdrew from her room; Zoe having done all in her power to provide her with every comfort and amusement available in her case.

"I'm glad that's over," sighed Zoe, when they were alone again. "And now for our ride, if you are ready, Ella. I ordered my pony for myself, and mamma's for you; and I see they are at the door."

"Then let us don our riding-habits, and be off at once," said Ella.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as they cantered down the avenue.

"To the village, if you like. I want to call at the post-office."

"In hopes of finding a note from Ned, I suppose. I don't believe there can be one there that would bring you later news than yesterday's telegram. But I have no objection to making sure, and would as soon ride in that direction as any other."

Nothing from Edward was found at the office; and the young wife seemed much disappointed, till Ella suggested that that looked as if he expected to be at home before night.

It was a cheering idea to Zoe: she brightened up at once, and in the afternoon drove over the same road, feeling almost certain Edward would be on the incoming train, due about the time she would reach the village, or rather at the time she had planned to be there. Ella, who had asked to accompany her, was slow with her dressing, taxing Zoe's patience pretty severely by thus causing ten minutes' detention.

"Come, now, don't be worried: it won't kill Ned to have to wait ten or fifteen minutes," she said laughingly, as she stepped into the carriage, and seated herself by Zoe's side.

"No, I dare say not," returned the latter, trying to speak with perfect pleasantness of tone and manner; "and he isn't one of the impatient ones, who can never bear to be kept waiting a minute, like myself," she added with a smile. "Now, Uncle Ben, drive pretty fast, so that we won't be so very far behind time."

"Fas' as I kin widout damagin' de hosses, Miss Zoe," answered the old coachman. "Marso Ed'ard allus tole me be keerful ob dem, and de roads am putty bad sence de big storm."

Zoe glanced at her watch as they entered the village. "Drive directly to the depot, Uncle Ben," she said. "It's fully fifteen minutes past the time for the train to be in."

"I ain't heard de whistle, Miss Zoe," he remarked, as he turned his horses' heads in the desired direction.

"No, nor have I," said Ella; "and we ought to have heard it fully five minutes before it got in. There may have been a detention. That is nothing very unusual," she hastened to add, as she saw that Zoe had suddenly grown very pale.

The carriage drew up before the door of the depot; and the girls leaned from its windows, sending eager, searching glances from side to side, and up and down the track.

No train was in sight, and the depot seemed strangely silent and deserted.

"Oh!" cried Zoe, "what can be the matter?"

"I suppose the train must have got in some time ago, -- perhaps before we left Ion," replied Ella, in a re-assuring tone; "and all the passengers have dispersed to their homes, or wherever they were going."

"No, there could not have been time for all that," Zoe responded, in accents full of anxiety and alarm.

"Our watches may be much too slow," suggested Ella, trying to re-assure both herself and her cousin, yet trembling with apprehension as she spoke.

"No, it isn't possible that they and all the timepieces in the house could be so far from correct," said Zoe despairingly.

"Dar doan' 'pear to be nobody 'bout dis hyar depot," remarked Uncle Ben reflectively; "but I reckon dar's somebody comin' to 'splain de mattah. Wha's de 'casion ob dis mos' onusual state ob t'ings?" he added, as a woman, who been watching the carriage and its occupants, the open door of a neighboring house, came miming in their direction.

"What de mattah, Aunt Rhoda?" he queried, as she reached the side of the vehicle, almost breathless with excitement and exertion.

"Why, Uncle Ben, dar -- dar's been a accident to de kyars, dey say, an' dey's all broke up, and de folks roun' here is all" -- 

"Where? where?" exclaimed Ella, while Zoe sank back against the cushions, quite unable to speak for the moment.

"Dunno, Miss," was the reply; "but," pointing up the road, "it's out dat way, 'bout a mile, I reckon. Yo see, de kyars was a comin' fas' dis way, and 'nudder ole injine whiskin' 'long dat way, and dey bofe comes togedder wid a big crash, breakin' de kyars, and de injines bofe of em, till dey's good for nuffin' but kin'lin' wood; and de folks what's ridin' in de kyars is all broke up too, dey says; and de doctahs and body" -- 

"Edward!" gasped Zoe. "Drive us there, Uncle Ben, drive with all your might! O Edward, my husband, my husband!" and she burst into hysterical weeping.

Ella threw her arms about her. "Don't, dear Zoe, oh, don't cry so! He may not be hurt. He may not have been on that train at all."

Ben had already turned and whipped up his horses, and now they dashed along the road at a furious rate.

Zoe dropped her head on Ella's shoulder, answering only with tears and sobs and moans, till the carriage came to a sudden stand-still.

"We's got dar, Miss Zoe," said Uncle Ben, in a subdued tone full of grief and sympathy.

She lifted her head; and her eye instantly fell upon a little group, scarcely a yard distant, consisting of several men, among whom she recognized Dr. Conly, gathered about an apparently insensible form lying on the ground.

Ella and Ben saw it too. She suddenly caught the reins from his hands: he sprang from the carriage, and, lifting Zoe in his strong arms as if she had been but a child, set her on her feet, and supported her to the side of the prostrate man; the little crowd respectfully making way for her, at the words spoken by Ben in a voice half choked with emotion, "Hit's Marse Ed'ard's wife, gen'lemen."

It was Edward lying there motionless, and with a face like that of a corpse.

With an agonized cry, Zoe dropped on her knees at his side, and pressed her lips passionately to his.

There was no response, no movement, not the quiver of an eyelid; and she lifted her grief-stricken face to that of the doctor, with a look of anguished inquiry in the beautiful eyes fit to move a heart of stone.

"I do not despair of him yet, dear cousin Zoe," Arthur said in a low, moved tone. "I lave found no external injury, and it may be that he is only stunned."

The words had scarcely left his lips when Edward drew a sighing breath, and opened his eyes, glancing up into Zoe's face bending over Mm in deepest, tenderest solicitude.

"Ah, love! is it you?" he murmured faintly, and with a smile. "Where am I? What has happened?"

"O Ned! dear, dear Ned! I thought you were killed!" she sobbed, covering his face with kisses and tears.

"There has been an accident, and you got a blow that stunned you," answered the doctor; "but I think you are all right now, or will be soon."

"An accident!" Edward repeated, with a bewildered look, and putting his hand to his head. "What was it?"

"A collision on the railroad," Arthur said. "There is an ambulance here: I think I will put you in it, and have you taken home at once. 'Tis only a few miles, and not a rough road."

"Yes, yes: home is much the best place," he sighed, again putting his hand to his head.

"Are you in pain?" asked Arthur.

"Not much, but I feel strangely confused. I should like to be taken home as soon as possible. But not to the neglect of any one who may have been more seriously hurt than I," he added, feebly raising his head to look about him.

"There are none such," Arthur answered. "You perhaps remember that the cars were nearly empty of passengers: no lives were lost and no one, I think, worse hurt than yourself."

"And I?" returned Edward, in a tone of inquiry.

"Have escaped without any broken bones, and I trust will be all right in a few days."

"O Ned! how glad I am it is no worse!" sobbed Zoe, clinging to his hand, while the tears rolled fast down her cheeks.

"Yes, little wife," he said, gazing lovingly into her eyes.

"There, I positively forbid any more talking," said Arthur, with a mixture of authority and playfulness. "Here is the ambulance. Help me to lift him in, men," to the by-standers. "And you, cousin Zoe, get into your carriage, and drive on behind it, or ahead if you choose."

"Can't I ride in the ambulance beside him?" she asked, almost imploringly.

"No, no: you will both be more comfortable In doing as I have directed."

"Then, please go with him yourself," she entreated.

"I shall do so, certainly," he answered, motioning her away, then stooping to assist the others in lifting the injured man.

Zoe would not stir till she had seen Edward put into the ambulance, and made as comfortable for his ride home as circumstances would permit. Then, as the vehicle moved slowly off, she hurried to her carriage.

Ben helped her in, sprang into his own seat, and, as he took the reins from Ella, Zoe gave the order, "Home now, Uncle Ben, keeping as close behind the ambulance as you can."

"Oh, don't, Zoe! you oughtn't to!" expostulated Ella, perceiving that her cousin was crying violently behind her veil. "I don't think Ned is very badly hurt. Didn't you hear Arthur say so?"

"He only expressed such a hope: he didn't say certainly," sobbed Zoe. "And when people are in danger, doctors always try to hide it from their friends."

"Arthur is perfectly truthful," asserted Ella, with some warmth. "He may keep his opinions to himself at times, but he never builds people up with false hopes. So cheer up, coz," she added, squeezing Zoe's hand affectionately.

"I know that what you say of cousin Arthur is all true," sobbed Zoe; "but I could see he had fears as well as hopes: and -- and -- Ned doesn't seem a bit like himself; he has such a dazed look, as if not quite in his right mind."

"But he knew you and Art; and it is to be expected that a man would feel dazed after such a shock as he must have had."

"Yes, of course. Oh, I'm afraid he's dreadfully, dreadfully hurt, and will never get over it!"

"Still," returned Ella, "try to hope for the best. Don't you think that is the wiser plan always?"

"I suppose so," said Zoe, laughing and crying hysterically; "but I can't be wise to-night; indeed, I never can."



Chapter VI.

"And, if division come, it soon is past, Too sharp, too strange an agony to last." MRS. NORTON.


Christine and Aunt Phillis, who had been left in charge of Miss Deane, had had a sore trial of patience in waiting upon her, humoring her whims, listening to her fretting and complaints, and trying to soothe and entertain her. She was extremely irritable, and seemed determined not to be pleased with any thing they could do for her.

"Where is your mistress?" she asked at length. "Pretty manners she has, to leave a suffering guest to the sole care of servants."

"Yes, Miss, Ise alluz t'ought Miss Zoe hab pretty manners and a pretty face," replied Aunt Phillis; "but dere is ladies what habn't none, an' doan' git pleased wid nuffin' nor nobody, an eayn't stan' no misery nowhars 'bout deirselves, but jes' keep frettin' and concessantly displainin' 'bout dis t'ing and dat, like dey hasn't got nuffin' to be thankful for."

"Impudence!" muttered Miss Deane, her eyes flashing angrily. Then bidding her attendants be quiet, she settled herself for a nap.

She was waked by a slight bustle in the house, accompanied by sounds as if a number of men were carrying a heavy burden through the entrance-hall, and up the wide stairway leading to the second story.

"What's the matter? What's going on? Has any thing happened?" she asked, starting up to a sitting posture.

Christine had risen to her feet, pale and trembling, and stood listening intently.

"I must go and see," she said, and hurried from the room, Aunt Phillis shambling after her in haste and trepidation.

"Stay!" cried Miss Deane: "don't leave me alone. What are you thinking of?"

But they were already out of hearing. "I was never so shamefully treated anywhere as I am here," muttered the angry lady, sinking back upon her pillows. "I'll leave this house to-morrow, if it is a possible thing, and never darken its doors again."

Listening again, she thought she heard sounds of grief, sobbing and wailing, groans and sighs.

She was by no means deficient in curiosity, and it was exceedingly trying to be compelled to lie there in doubt and suspense.

The time seemed very much longer than it really was before Aunt Phillis came back, sobbing, and wiping her eyes on her apron.

"What is the matter?" asked Miss Deane impatiently.

"Dere's -- dere's been a awful commission on de railroad," sobbed Aunt Phillis; "and Marse Ed'ard's 'most killed."

"Oh, dreadful!" cried Miss Deane. "Have they sent for his mother?"

Aunt Phillis only shook her head doubtfully, and burst into fresh and louder sobs.

"Most killed! Dear me!" sighed the lady. "And he was so young and handsome! It will quite break his mother's heart, I suppose. But she'll get over it. It takes a vast deal of grief to kill."

"P'raps Marse Ed'ard ain't gwine ter die," said the old nurse, checking her sobs. "Dey does say Doctah Arthur kin 'most raise de dead."

"Well, I'm sure I hope Mr. Travilla won't die," responded Miss Deane, "or prove to be permanently injured in any way. -- Ah, Christine!" as the latter re-entered the room: "what is all this story about a railroad accident? Is Mr. Travilla killed?"

"No, no, he not killed," replied Christine, in her broken English. "How bad hurt, I not know to say; but not killed."

Meantime Edward had been taken to his room, and put comfortably to bed; while Zoe, seated in her boudoir, waited anxiously for the doctor's report of his condition.

Ella was with her, and now and then tried to speak a comforting word, which Zoe scarcely seemed to hear. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, listening intently to catch every sound from the room where her injured husband lay. She looked pale and anxious, and occasionally a tear would roll quickly down her cheek.

At last the door opened, and Arthur stepped softly across the room to her side.

"Cheer up, little cousin," he said kindly. "Edward seems to be doing very well; and if you will be a good, quiet little woman, you may go and sit by his side."

"Oh, thank you! I'll try," she said, starting up at once. "But mayn't I talk to him at all?"

"Not much to-night," was the reply; "not more than seems absolutely necessary; and you must be particularly careful not to say any thing that would have the least tendency to excite him."

"Oh, then he must be very, very ill, -- terribly injured!" she cried, with a burst of tears and sobs.

"That does not necessarily follow," Arthur said, taking her hand, and holding it in a kindly pressure. "But you must be more composed, or," playfully, "I shall be compelled to exert my authority so far as to forbid you to go to him."

"Oh, no, no! don't do that!" she cried pleadingly. "I'll be calm and quiet; indeed, indeed I will."

"That's right," he said. "I think I may venture to try you."

"But won't you please tell me just how much you think he is hurt?" she pleaded, clinging to his hand, and looking up beseechingly into his face.

"My dear little cousin," he said in a tenderly sympathizing tone, "I wish to do all in my power to relieve your anxiety, but am as yet in some doubt myself as to the extent of his injuries. He is a good deal shaken and bruised; but, as I have said before, there are no broken bones; and, unless there should be some internal injury which I have not yet discovered, he is likely to recover entirely in a few days or weeks."

"But you are not sure? Oh! how could I ever bear it if he should" -- she broke off with a burst of violent weeping.

He led her to a seat, for she seemed hardly able to stand: her whole frame was shaking with emotion.

"Try not to meet trouble half way, little cousin," he said gently. "'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' and 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' It is God's promise to all who put their trust in him, and cannot fail; all his promises are yea and amen in Christ Jesus."

"Yes, I know," she said, making a strong effort to control herself. "And you do hope Ned will soon be well?"

"I certainly do," he responded in cheerful accents. "And now, if you will wipe away your tears, and promise to be very good and quiet, I will take you to him. He was asking for you when I left the room."

She gave the desired promise, and he led her to the bedside.

"I have brought you your wife, Ned," he said in a quiet tone, "and mean to leave her with you for a while; but you are to be a good boy, and not indulge in much chatter with her."

"We'll be good: I'll answer for her, and myself too," Edward returned, with a tenderly affectionate smile up into Zoe's face, as she bent over him, and touched her lips to his forehead.

She dared not trust herself to speak, but silently put her hand in his, dropped on her knees by the bedside, and laid her pretty head on the pillow on which his rested.

"My own darling!" he murmured, softly pressing the hand he held: "my own precious little wife!"

Once more Arthur enjoined quiet, then went out, and left them alone together.

He paid a professional visit to Miss Deane, satisfied her curiosity in regard to Edward's injuries, and learned with pleasure that she was quite resolved to go home the next morning.

"Of course Mrs. Travilla should give all her attention to her husband now," she remarked; "and I shall be only in the way. One disabled person is quite enough to have in a house at one time. So if you, doctor, will be so kind as to have the ambulance sent out for me directly after breakfast, I'll be much obliged."

"I will do so," he said. "The journey will do you no harm, and you will probably be better cared for and happier in your own home than here, under the circumstances."

Zoe's poor heart was longing to pour itself out into her husband's ear in words of contrition, penitence, and love; and only the fear of injuring him enabled her to restrain her feelings, and remain calm and quiet, kneeling there close by his side, with her hand in his. She couldn't rest till she told him how very, very sorry she was for the petulance of the past few days, and especially for the cold rejection of his invitation to accompany him on his drive to Roselands, how firmly resolved never again to give him like cause to be displeased with her, and how dearly she loved him.

But she must refrain, from fear of exciting him: she must wait till all danger from that was past.

It was hard; yet there was strong consolation in the certainty that his dear love was still hers. She read it in his eyes, as they gazed fondly into hers; felt it in the tender pressure of his hand; heard it in the tones of his voice, as he called her his "darling, his own precious little wife."

Yet she was tormented with the fear that his accident had affected his mind and memory for the time, so that he had forgotten the unkindness of the morning; and that, when returning health and vigor should recall the facts to his remembrance, he would again treat her with the coldness and displeasure merited by her behavior.

"But," she comforted herself, "if he does, it will not last long: he is sure to forgive and love me as soon as I tell him how sorry I am."

She did not want to leave him to take either food or rest; but Arthur insisted that she should go down to tea, and later to bed, leaving Edward in his care; and she finally yielded to his persuasions, and exertion of medical authority.

She objected that it was quite useless to go to bed; she was positively sure she could not sleep a wink: but her head had scarcely touched the pillow before she fell into a profound slumber, for she was quite worn out with anxiety and grief.

It was broad daylight when she woke. The events of yesterday flashed instantly upon her mind; and she sprang from her bed and began dressing in haste.

She must learn as speedily as possible how Edward was; not worse, surely, for Arthur had promised faithfully to call her at once if there should be any unfavorable change during the night. Still, a light tap at the door made her start, and turn pale; and she opened it with a trembling hand.

Ella stood there with a bright, smiling countenance. "Good-morning, coz," she said gayly. "I bring you good news, -- two pieces of it. Ned is almost himself again; Arthur is entirely satisfied that there is no serious injury, -- internal or otherwise; and Miss Deane has already set out for her home, leaving me to give you her adieus. Now are you not happy?"

"Indeed, indeed I am!" cried Zoe, dancing about the room in ecstasy, her eyes shining, and her cheeks flushing with joy.

"May I go to him at once?" she asked, stopping short, with an eager, questioning look.

"Yes. Art says you may, and Ned is asking for you. How fond he is of you, Zoe! though, I think, no fonder than you are of him."

"I don't deserve it," responded Zoe, with unwonted humility, answering the first part of the remark.

"I don't see but you do," said Ella. "Can I help you with your dressing? I know you are in a hurry to get to him."

"Thank you. I don't think you can, but I'll be done in five minutes."

Edward lay watching for her coming, listening for the sound of her light footsteps, and, as she opened the door, looked up, and greeted her with a tenderly affectionate smile.

"O Ned! dear, dear Ned!" she cried, hastening to the bedside; "how like yourself you look again!"

"And feel, too, love," he said, drawing her down till their lips met in a long kiss.

Arthur had stepped out on her entrance, and they were quite alone together.

"God has been very good to us, darling, in sparing us to each other," Edward said, in low, moved tones.

"Oh, yes, yes!" she sobbed. "And I didn't deserve it; for I was so cross to you day before yesterday, when you asked me to go with you: and I'd been cross for days before that. Can you, will you, forgive me, dear Ned?"

"I have not been blameless, and we will exchange forgiveness," he said, drawing her closer, till her head rested against his breast.

"It is so good in you to say that," she sobbed. "Oh, if you had been killed, as I thought for one minute you were, I could never have had an hour of peace or comfort in this world! Those unkind words would have been the last I ever spoke to you; and I should never have been able to forget them, or the sad look that your face must have worn as you turned away. I didn't see it, for I had rudely turned my back to you; but I could imagine it: for I knew you must have been hurt, and grieved too."

"So I was, little wife," he said tenderly, and passing his hand caressingly over her hair and cheek: "but a few moments' honest retrospect showed me that I was not blameless, had not been as forbearing and affectionate in my treatment of my darling little wife, for the past few days, as I ought to have been; and I resolved to tell her so, on the first opportunity."

"O Ned! I don't deserve such a kind, loving husband!" she sighed; "and you ought to have a great deal better wife."

"I am entirely satisfied with the one I have," lifting her hand to his lips. "There isn't a woman in the world I would exchange her for."

"But I often do and say things you don't approve," she murmured, with a regretful sigh.

"Yes; but have I not told you more than once, that I do not want a piece of perfection for my wife, lest there should be far too strong a contrast between her and myself?"

"But there wouldn't be," she asserted. "I don't believe there's another man in all the world quite so dear and good as my husband."

"Sweet flattery from your lips," he returned laughingly. "Now, dearest, go and eat your breakfast. I have had mine."

"Ned, do you know our tormentor is gone?" she asked, lifting her head, and looking into his eyes, with a glad light in her own.

"Yes, and am much relieved to know it," he replied. "And, dearest, she shall never come again, if I can prevent it."



Chapter VII.

"Tell me the old, old story."


"My dear Zoe! what a happy face!" was Ella's pleased exclamation, as the two met in the breakfast-room.

"Very bright, indeed!" said Arthur, who had come in with Zoe, smiling kindly upon her as he spoke.

"Because it reflects the light and joy in my heart," she returned. "Wouldn't it be strange if I were not happy in knowing that my husband is not seriously hurt? Oh, we have been so happy together, that I have often feared it could not last!"

"There seems every reasonable prospect that it will," Arthur said, as they seated themselves at the table. "You are both young and healthy, your tastes are congenial, and you have enough of this world's goods to enable you to live free from carking cares and exhausting labors."

Zoe was in so great haste to return to Edward, that she could scarce refrain from eating her breakfast more rapidly than was consistent with either politeness toward her guests or a due regard for her own health: but she tried to restrain her impatience; and Arthur, who perceived and sympathized with it, exerted himself for her entertainment, telling amusing anecdotes, and making mirth-provoking remarks.

Ella, perceiving his designs, joined in, in the same strain. Zoe presently entered into their mood, and they seemed, as in fact they were, a light-hearted and happy little breakfast party; both Arthur and Ella feeling greatly relieved by the favorable change in their cousin, not for Zoe's sake alone, but also because of their own affection for him.

Edward no longer needed Arthur as nurse: indeed, Zoe claimed the right to a monopoly of the, to her, sweet task of waiting upon him, and attending to all his wants. So Arthur resigned in that capacity, but was to continue his visits as physician.

He and Ella returned to Roselands shortly after leaving the breakfast-table; and Zoe, in joyous, tender mood, took her place by her husband's bedside.

He welcomed her with a loving smile, taking her hand in his, and carrying it to his lips.

"Arthur has condemned me to lie here for a full week," he said. "It would seem a weary while in the prospect, but for the thought of having, through it all, the sweet companionship of my darling little wife."

"Dear Ned, how good in you to say so!" she murmured, kneeling beside the bed, and laying her cheek to his. "I don't believe there's another creature in the world that thinks my society of much account."

"If you are right in that, which I very much doubt," he said with a smile of incredulity, "it only shows their want of taste, and makes no difference to us, does it, love, since we are all the world to each other?"

"I am sure it makes no difference to me," she responded: "if you love, and are pleased with, me, it's very little I care what anybody else may think or say about me. But, oh! isn't it nice to be alone together again?"

"Very nice."

"And remember, you are to make all possible use of me, -- as nurse, reader, -- when you feel that you would like to listen to book or news-paper, -- as amanuensis, every thing."

"Yes, dearest, I expect to employ you in all those capacities by and by; but at present, I want nothing but to have you sit by my side, and talk to me, while I hold your hand, and feast my eyes on the face that is to me the dearest in all the world."

At that, the pretty face was suffused with blushes and smiles. "I'm so happy! so very happy!" she murmured, stealing an arm round his neck. "It is such a change from yesterday, when for a little while, I -- I thought you -- were gone, and -- and without my having had a chance to ask your forgiveness."

The sobs came thick and fast as she went on. "O Ned! dear, dear Ned! I -- I don't mean ever to be cross to you again, especially when we are going to part even for an hour."

"No," he said, with emotion, and drawing her closer to him; "we should not have parted so; we had promised each other we would not; and I should have gone to you and made it up with you before leaving the house."

"It was all my fault," she sobbed; "and if -- if you had been taken from me, I could never have had another happy moment."

"Thank God that we are spared to each other!" he said with fervent gratitude. "And now, dear wife, let us try to forget that there has been ever any coldness or clashing between us. Let us enjoy the present, and be as happy in each other as if no cloud, even the slightest, had ever come over our intercourse as husband and wife."

"Yes," she said. Then, lifting her face, and gazing earnestly into his, "How pale and exhausted you look!" she cried in alarm. "I have talked, and let you talk, too much and too excitingly. I'm afraid cousin Arthur will say I am but a poor sort of nurse. Now," withdrawing herself from his embrace, and gently re-arranging his pillows, and smoothing the bed-clothes, "shut your eyes, and try to sleep. I'll stay close beside you, and be as quiet as a mouse."

With a faint smile, he did as he was bidden; and she fulfilled her promise to the letter, watching beside him with love and solicitude for two hours, till his eyes again unclosed, and met hers, gazing so tenderly upon him, with an answering look of ardent affection.

"You have had a good nap, and look quite refreshed, dear," she said, bending over him, and softly stroking his hair with her little white hand.

"Yes; I feel much better," he said. "And you, love, -- have you been sitting there all this time?"

"Of course I have," she answered gayly: "did you think I would break my word, or feel any desire to go away and leave you?"

"I know you to be the most devoted of nurses, when it is I who require your services," he returned, with a tenderly appreciative smile. "You are the best of little wives. But you must be very weary, and I want you now to go and take some exercise in the open air."

"Is that an order?" she asked playfully.

"Not yet," he returned, in the same tone; "but, if not obeyed as a request, it may become -- something stronger."

"Well," she said laughing, "it won't hurt me if it does: you can't hurt me in that way any more; for do you know, Ned," and she bent lovingly over him, pressing a kiss upon his forehead, "I have become such a silly thing, that I actually enjoy obeying you, -- when you don't order me as if you thought I wouldn't do as you wish, and you meant to force me to it."

"Forgive me, love, that I have ever done it in that spirit," he said remorsefully, and coloring deeply.

"Ned, I haven't any thing to forgive," she said, with sudden energy and warmth of affection.

"Then you will obey about the air and exercise?" he asked, returning to his playful tone.

"Presently, sir, when I have seen you eat something. It's time for that now, according to the doctor's directions."

She rang for refreshment, saw him take it, then left him for a short time in the care of old Aunt Phillis, while she donned riding hat and habit, mounted her pony, and flew over several miles of road and back again.

She seemed to bring a breath of fresh air with her when she returned to his side.

"My darling," he said, smiling up at her, "how the roses glow on your cheeks, and how bright your eyes are! Give me a kiss, and then sit down close by my side."

"I obey both orders most willingly," she said merrily, as she bent down and kissed him on lips and forehead and cheek, then took possession of the chair she had vacated on leaving the room.

"Now, sir, what next?"

"Move your chair round a trifle, so that I can have a better view of your face."

She smilingly obeyed. "There! does that satisfy your lordship?"

"Quite. Now talk to me."

"About what?"

"Any thing you please: the principal thing is to hear the music of your voice."

"Suppose I sing, then."

"Yes, yes!" eagerly; "that's just what I should enjoy. Let it be, 'I love to tell the story.'"

Zoe had a beautiful voice. Soft and sweet and clear it rose, -- 

"'I love to tell the story Of unseen things above, Of Jesus and his glory, Of Jesus and his love. I love to tell the story, Because I know it's true: It satisfies my longings As nothing else can do.

"I love to tell the story: 'Twill be my theme in glory, To tell the old, old story, Of Jesus and his love.

"I love to tell the story: More wonderful it seems, Than all the golden fancies Of all our golden dreams. I love to tell the story, It did so much for me; And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee.

"I love to tell the story; 'Tis pleasant to repeat What seems, each time I tell it, More wonderfully sweet. I love to tell the story, For some have never heard The message of salvation From God's own Holy Word.

"I love to tell the story; For those who know it best, Seem hungering and thirsting To hear it like the rest. And when in scenes of glory, I sing the new, new song, 'Twill be the old, old story, That I have loved so long.'"

The last note died away, and for a moment there was silence in the room. Edward lay gazing into his wife's eyes with a look of sad, yearning tenderness.

"O Ned! why, why do you look so at me?" she asked, with a sudden burst of tears, and dropping her face on the pillow beside his. He had been holding her hand while she sang; he kept it still, and, laying his other one gently on her head, "Zoe, my darling," he said, in tones tremulous with emotion, "it is the one longing desire of my heart that you may learn the full sweetness of that old, old story. O love! sometimes the thought, 'What if my precious wife should miss heaven, and our union be only for time, and not for eternity,' sends so keen a pang to my heart, that I know not how to endure it."

"O Ned! surely I shall not miss it," she said, with a sob: "my father and mother were such good Christians; and you, my own husband, are so good too."

"Ah, my darling!" he sighed, "that hope is but as a spider's web. Do you not remember that passage in Ezekiel, 'Though these three men, Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, they should deliver but their own souls by their righteousness, saith the Lord God'? And it is repeated again and again, 'Though Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, as I live, saith the Lord God, they shall deliver neither son nor daughter; they shall but deliver their own souls by their righteousness.' Zoe, dear, no righteousness but the imputed righteousness of Christ can save the soul from death. He offers it to you, love; and will you continue to reject it?"

"Ned," she sobbed, "I wish I had it: I often think I would be a Christian if I only knew how, but I don't."

"Do you not?" he asked, in some surprise. "I will try to make it plain. Jesus offers you a full and free salvation, purchased by what he has done and suffered in your stead, that 'God might be just, and yet the justifier of him who believeth in Jesus.'

"'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'

"He bids you come to him, and says, 'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.'"

"But how shall I come?" she asked. "Tell me just how."

"How do you come to me, love, when you feel that you have displeased me, and want to be reconciled?"

"Oh! you know I just come and acknowledge that I've been hateful and cross, and say how sorry I am, and that I don't mean to behave so any more, and ask you to forgive and love me; and, dear Ned, you are always so willing and ready to do that, you hardly wait till I've said my say, before you put your arms round me, and hug and kiss me, and it's all right between us."

"Yes, dearest; and God, our heavenly Father, is far more ready to receive and forgive us when we turn to him with sorrow for our sins, confessing them and pleading for pardon in the name, and for the sake, of his dear Son, our Saviour," "I'm afraid I don't feel half so sorry as I ought."

"Who of us does? but we are not to wait for that. We must come to him, to be shown the evil of our natures, the sinfulness of our lives.

"'Him hath God exalted with his right hand to be a Prince and a Saviour, for to give repentance to Israel, and forgiveness of sins.'"

"But how am I to make myself believe?" she asked.

"'By grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.' So you see, we have to go to Jesus for it all, -- for repentance, for faith, for salvation from the guilt and love of sin, and from eternal death.

"The plan of salvation is very simple, -- its very simplicity seems to stumble many; they don't know how to believe that it is offered them as a free gift; they think they must do something to merit it; but it cannot be bought, it is 'without money and without price.' 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely,' Come to Jesus, dear one; come now, for only the present moment is yours; delay is most dangerous, for the invitation may be withdrawn at any time."

"If I could only see him! If I could hear his voice!" she sighed.

"That you cannot; yet you know I am not nearer to you, or more willing to hear a petition from you, than he is."

At that moment a well-known step was heard in the hall without; and as Zoe rose hastily, wiping her eyes, Arthur tapped at the door.



Chapter VIII.

"I bless thee for kind looks and words Showered on my path like dew, For all the love in those deep eyes, A gladness ever new."  -- MRS. HEMANS.


A week had passed since Edward's accident; and he now exchanged his bed, during the day, for an easy-chair.

He and Zoe had just finished taking their breakfast together in her boudoir when a servant came in with the mail.

There were letters from Viamede, -- one for Edward from his mother, one for Zoe from Betty Johnson.

Both brought the unwelcome tidings that little Grace Raymond and Violet's babe were very ill with scarlet-fever.

Edward read aloud his mother's announcement of the fact. "Yes," said Zoe. "Betty tells me the same thing. O Ned! how sorry I am for poor Vi! It would be hard enough for her if she had the captain with her, to help bear the burden and responsibility, and to share in her grief if they should die."

"Yes, it is hard for her; and I am glad she has mamma and grandpa and grandma with her. Mamma says Dick Percival is attending the children, and there is talk of telegraphing for Arthur.

"Ah," glancing from the window, "here he comes! He will perhaps bring us later news."

Arthur did so: the children were worse than at the date of the letters. He had just received his summons, and would obey it immediately, taking the next train; had called to tell them, and see how Edward was.

"Almost entirely recovered, tell my mother," Edward said, in reply to the query; "and you needn't go feeling any anxiety in regard to this one of your patients," he added playfully.

"I leave him in your care, Zoe," said Arthur; "and, if he does not do well, I shall hold you responsible."

"Then you must lay your commands upon him to obey my orders," she said, with a merry glance from one to the other.

"Would that be any thing new in his experience?" asked the doctor with mock gravity.

"It won't do to question us too closely," returned Zoe, coloring and laughing.

"She is a very good little wife, and tolerably obedient," laughed Edward. "Really, would you believe it? she told me once she actually enjoyed obeying -- under certain circumstances; and so, I suppose, should I. Zoe, you mustn't be too hard on me."

"Oh! I intend to be very strict in seeing the doctor's orders carried out," she said; "and I expect to enjoy my brief authority immensely."

Dr. Conly took leave almost immediately, for he had no time to spare; and the reading of the letters was resumed.

Betty's was a long one, giving a full account, from her point of view, of the contest between Mr. Dinsmore and Lulu Raymond in regard to her refusal to take music-lessons of Signor Foresti after he had struck her. None of the family had mentioned the affair in their letters, even Rosie feeling that she had no warrant to do so; and the story was both new and interesting to Zoe.

Lulu had not yet submitted when Betty wrote, so the story as told in her letter left the little girl still in banishment at Oakdale Academy.

Zoe read the letter aloud to Edward.

"Lulu is certainly the most ungovernable child I have ever seen or heard of," he remarked, at its conclusion. "I often wonder at the patience and forbearance grandpa and mamma have shown toward her. In their place, I should have had her banished to a boarding-school long ago, one at a distance, too, so that she could not trouble me, even during holidays."

"So should I," said Zoe: "she hasn't the least shadow of a claim upon them."

"No: the captain feels that, and is duly grateful. It is evident, too, that Lulu's lack of gratitude, and her bad behavior, are extremely mortifying to him."

"But don't you think, Ned, it was rather hard to insist on her going back to that ill-tempered, abusive old music-teacher?"

"Yes," he acknowledged with some hesitation. "I rather wonder at grandpa."

"I wonder how it is going to end," said Zoe: "they are both so very determined, I should not like to stand in Lulu's shoes, nor yet in his."

A second letter from Betty, received a fort-night later, told how it had ended: though Betty, not being in Lulu's confidence as Evelyn was, knew nothing of Capt. Raymond's letter to his daughter, or of Lulu's confession in reply to it; so her story ended with the statement that Lulu had at last submitted, been restored to favor, and was at Magnolia Hall with Evelyn as a companion, all the children who were in health having been banished from Viamede to save them from the danger of catching the dreaded fever.

But to go back to the morning when the first instalment of her story was received.

"It must be a very anxious time for them, -- the family at Viamede, I mean," remarked Edward musingly. "And poor, dear Vi is so young to have such burdens to bear. What a blessing that she has mamma with her!"

"Yes," said Zoe. "And, oh! I hope the children will get well, they are such darlings, both Gracie and the baby. I feel very sorry they are so ill, and yet I can't help rejoicing that my dear husband is able to sit up again.

"Is that quite heartless in me?" she asked, laying her hand on one of his, which rested on the arm of his easy-chair; for she was seated in a low rocker, close at his side.

"I think not," he answered, smiling down into her eyes. "It will do them no good for us to make ourselves unhappy. We will sympathize with, and pray for, them, but at the same time be thankful and joyful because of all God's goodness to us and them. 'Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice.' 'Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation.'"

"You have certainly obeyed that last injunction," remarked Zoe, looking at him with affectionate admiration; "so patient and cheerful as you have been ever since your injury! Many a man would have grumbled and growled from morning to night; while you have been so pleasant, it was a privilege to wait on you."

"Thank you," he said, laughing: "it is uncommonly good in you to say that, but I'm afraid you are rather uncharitable in your judgment of 'many men.'

"Mamma has not yet heard of my accident," he remarked presently, "and wonders over my long silence. I'll write to her now, if you will be so kind as to bring me my writing-desk."

"I'm doubtful about allowing such exertion," she said: "you are left under my orders, you remember, and I'm to be held responsible for your continued improvement."

"Nonsense! that wouldn't hurt me," he returned, with an amused smile; "and if you won't get the desk, I'll go after it myself."

"No, you mustn't: I sha'n't allow it," she said, knitting her brows, and trying to look stern.

"Then get it for me."

"Well," she said reflectively, "I suppose there'll have to be a compromise. I'll get the desk, if you'll let me act as your amanuensis."

"We'll consider that arrangement after you have brought it."

"No: you must agree to my proposition first."

"Why, what a little tyrant you are!" he laughed. "Well, I consent. Now will you please to bring the desk?"

"Yes," she said, jumping up, and crossing the room to where it stood; "and if you are very good, you may write a postscript with your own hand."

"I'll do it all with my own hand," he said as she returned to his side.

"Why, Ned!" she exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you were a man of your word!"

"And so I am, I trust," he said, smiling at her astonished look, then catching her right hand in his. "Is not this mine?" he asked: "did you not give it to me? -- Let me see -- nearly two years ago?"

"Yes, I did," she answered, laughing and blushing with pleasure and happiness: "you are right; it is yours. So you have every right to use it, and must do so."

"Ah!" he said, "'a wilful woman will have her way,' I see: there never was a truer saying. No, that won't do," as she seated herself with the desk on her lap: "put it on the table. I can't have you bending over to write on your lap, and so growing round-shouldered, especially in my service."

"Any thing to please you," she returned gayly, doing as he directed. "I suppose my right hand is not all of me that you lay claim to?"

"No, indeed! I claim you altogether, as my better and dearer half," he said, his tone changing from jest to earnest, and the light of love shining in his eyes.

She ran to him at that, put her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek to his. "No, Ned, I can't have you say that," she murmured, "you who are so good and wise, while I am such a silly and faulty thing, not at all worthy to be your wife. Whatever made you marry me?"

"Love," he answered, drawing her closer, and fondly caressing her hair and cheek, -- "love that grows stronger and deeper with every day we live together, dearest."

"Dear Ned, my own dear husband!" she said, hugging him tighter. "Words could never tell how much I love you, or how I rejoice in your love for me: you are truly my other, my best, half, and I don't know how I could live without you."

"Our mutual love is a cause for great gratitude to God," he said reverently. "There are so many miserably unhappy couples, I feel that I can never be thankful enough for the little wife who suits me so entirely."

"You are my very greatest earthly blessing," she replied, lifting her head, and gazing into his face with eyes shining with joy and love; "and your words make me very, very happy. Now," releasing herself from his embrace, "it's time to attend to business, isn't it? I am ready to write if you will dictate." And she seated herself before the desk, and took up her pen.

It was not a lengthened epistle. He began with an acknowledgment of the receipt of his mother's letter, expressed his sympathy in the sorrow and suffering at Viamede, gave a brief account of his accident, consequent illness, and partial recovery, highly eulogizing Zoe as the best of wives and nurses.

When he began that, her pen ceased its movement, and was held suspended over the paper, while, blushing deeply, she turned to him with a remonstrance.

"Don't ask me to write that: I am ashamed to have mamma see it in my handwriting."

"Go on," he said: "she will know they are my words, and not yours."

"Well, I obey orders," she replied with a smile; "but I don't half like to do it."

"Then let me," he said. "If you will hold the desk on the arm of my chair for five minutes, and give me the pen, I can finish up the thing easily, and without the least danger of hurting my precious self."

She did as directed. "There, now lie back in your chair, and rest," she said, when he had finished his note, and signed his name. "You do look a little tired," she added, with an anxious glance at him as she returned the desk to the table.

"Nonsense! tired with that slight exertion!" he responded gayly. "You may read that over, and see if it wants any correction."

She did so, then, turning toward him with an arch smile, asked, "May I criticise?"

"I should be happy to have the benefit of your criticism," he said, laughing; "but don't make it too severe, please."

"Oh, no! I was only thinking that mamma, judging of her by myself, would not be half satisfied with such a bare statement of facts, and that I had better write a supplement, giving her more of the particulars."

"I highly approve the suggestion," he answered, "only stipulating that you shall not spend too much time over it, and shall read it to me when finished."

"I'm afraid it won't be worth your hearing."

"Let me judge of that. If not worth my hearing, can it be worth mamma's reading?"

"Perhaps so," she said with a blush; "because what I tell will be news to her, but not to you."

"Ah! I hadn't thought of that. But I shall want to hear it all the same, and take my turn at criticism."

"If you are not more severe than I was, I can stand it," she said. "And now please keep quiet till I am done."

He complied, lying back at his ease, and amusing himself with watching her, admiring the graceful pose of her figure, the pretty face bending over the paper, and the small, white, shapely hand that was gliding swiftly back and forth.

"Come," he said at last, "you are making quite too long a story of it."

"Mamma won't think so," she retorted, without looking up; "and you know you are not obliged to hear it."

"Ah! but that is not the objection; I want to hear every word of it: but I can't spare my companion and nurse so long."

She turned to him with a bright smile. "What can I do for you, dear? Just tell me. The letter can be finished afterward, you know."

"I want nothing but you," was the smiling rejoinder. "Finish your letter, and then come and sit close by my side.

"But no; you must take your accustomed exercise in the open air."

Considering a moment, "I think," he said, "I'll have you order the carriage for about the time you are likely to be done there, and we'll have a drive together."

She shook her head gravely. "You are not fit for any such exertion."

"Uncle Ben and Solon shall help me down the stairs and into the carriage, so there need be no exertion about it."

"I won't consent," she said. "The doctor left you in my charge; and his orders were, that you should keep quiet for the next few days."

"You prefer to go alone, do you?"

"Yes, rather than have you injured by going with me."

"Come here," he said; and, laying down her pen, she obeyed.

He took both her hands in his, and, gazing with mock gravity up into her face as she stood over him, "What a little tyrant you are developing into!" he remarked, knitting his brows. "Will you order the carriage, and take a drive in my company?"

"No."

"Then what will you do?"

"Go by myself, or stay at home with you, just as you bid me."

"What a remarkable mixture of tyranny and submission," he exclaimed, laughing, as he pulled her down to put his arm round her, and kiss her first on one cheek, then on the other. "I'll tell you what we'll do: you finish that letter, read it to me, and take the benefit of my able criticisms; then I'll try to get a nap while you take your drive or walk, whichever you prefer."

"That will do nicely," she said, returning his caresses; "if you will be pleased to let me go, I'll order the carriage, finish the letter in five minutes, hear the able criticisms, put my patient to bed, and be off for my drive."

"Do so," he said, releasing her.

From this time forward, till the children were considered out of danger, and Edward was able to go about and attend to his affairs as usual, there were daily letters and telegrams passing between Viamede and Ion. Then Dr. Conly came home, and almost immediately on his arrival drove over to Ion to see for himself if his patient there had entirely recovered, and to carry some messages and tokens of affection from the absent members of the family.

It was late in the afternoon that he reached Ion, and he found Edward and Zoe sitting together in the parlor; she with a bit of embroidery in her hands, he reading aloud to her.

Arthur was very warmly welcomed by both.

"Cousin Arthur, I'm delighted to see you!" cried Zoe, giving him her hand.

"And I no less so," added Edward, offering his. "How did you leave them all at Viamede?"

"All in health, except, of course, the two little ones who have been so ill," he said, taking the chair Edward drew forward for him; "and them we consider out of danger, with the careful attention they are sure to have."

"How have mamma and Vi stood the anxiety and nursing?" asked Edward.

"Quite as well as could have been expected. They have lost a little in flesh and color, but will, I think, soon regain both, now that their anxiety is relieved.

"And you, Ned, are quite yourself again, I should say, from appearances?"

"Yes; and I desire to give all credit to the nurse in whose charge you left me," returned Edward, with a smiling glance at Zoe.

"As is but fair," said Arthur. "I discovered her capabilities before I left."

"She made the most of her delegated authority," remarked Edward gravely. "I was allowed no will of my own, till I had so entirely recovered from my injuries that she had no longer the shadow of an excuse for depriving me of my liberty."

"I thought it was a good lesson for him," retorted Zoe. "I've read somewhere that nobody is fit to rule who hasn't first learned to obey."

"Ah! but that I learned before I was a year old," said Edward, laughing.


"Nobody would have thought it, seeing the trouble I had to make you obey," said Zoe.

"Now, cousin Arthur, tell us all about Viamede, and what you did and saw there."

"It is a lovely place," he said. "I expected to be disappointed after the glowing accounts I had heard, but I feel like saying, 'The half has not been told me;'" and he plunged into an enthusiastic description of the mansion, its grounds, and the surrounding country.

"I was loath to leave it," he said in conclusion.

"And you make me more desirous to see it than ever," said Zoe.

"Oh, do tell us! had Capt. Raymond been heard from before you left? We have seen by the papers that the report of the loss of his vessel was untrue, and, of course, we were greatly relieved."

"Yes: letters came from him the day before I started for home. Fortunately, they had been able to keep the report from Vi and little Gracie; but May and Lulu had heard it, and were terribly distressed, I was told."

"They are very fond of their father," remarked Zoe.

"Yes, as they have good reason to be," said Arthur: "he is a noble fellow, and one of the best of husbands and fathers."

"Did you hear any thing in particular about Lulu?" Zoe asked.

"No, I think not," he said reflectively; "nothing but that she, May, and Evelyn Leland were staying, by invitation, at Magnolia Hall.

"Ah, yes! I remember now that Betty told me there had been some trouble between uncle Horace and Lulu in regard to her taking lessons of a music-teacher whom she greatly disliked; that, because of her obstinate refusal, he had banished her from Viamede, entering her as a boarder at the academy the children were all attending; but that her distress of mind over the illness of her little sisters, and the sad report about her father, had led her to submit."

"Much to Vi's relief, no doubt," remarked Edward. "Poor Vi! She is devotedly attached to her husband, but Lulu is a sore thorn in her side."

"I don't believe she has ever acknowledged as much, or could be induced to," said Zoe.

"No," assented Edward; "but it is evident to those who know her well, nevertheless. She tries hard to conceal the fact, and has wonderful patience with the wilful passionate child, really loving her for her father's sake."

"And for her own, too, if I mistake not," Arthur said. "There is something quite lovable about Lulu, in spite of her very serious faults."

"There is," said Edward. "I have felt it strongly myself at times. She is warm-hearted, energetic, very generous, and remarkably straight-forward, truthful, and honest."

Dr. Conly had risen, as if to take leave.

"Now, cousin Arthur," said Zoe, "please sit down again; for we cannot let you leave us till after tea."

Edward seconded the invitation.

"Thank you both," Arthur said, "but" -- 

"But -- no buts," interrupted Zoe gayly. "I know you were about to plead haste; but there is the tea-bell now, so you will not be delayed; for you have to take time for your meals."

"Then I accept," he said, "rejoicing in the opportunity to spend a little longer time in your very pleasant society."



Chapter IX.

"Here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper."


Edward and Zoe now began to look forward to the return of the family as a desirable event not very far in the future. They had been extremely happy in each other during almost the whole time of separation from the rest; but now they were hungering for a sight of "mamma's sweet face," and would by no means object to a glimpse of those of grandparents, sisters, and children.

At length a letter was received, fixing the date of the intended departure from Viamede, and stating by what train the party would probably reach the neighboring village of Union, where carriages must be in readiness to receive and convey them to Ion.

And now Edward and Zoe began counting the days: the little matron put on more housewifely airs than was her wont, and was in great glee over her preparations for a grand reception and welcoming feast to the loved travellers.

She insisted on much cleaning and renovating, and on the day of the arrival robbed the green-houses and conservatories for the adornment of the house, the table, and her own person.

Edward laughingly asserted that he was almost, if not quite, as much under her orders at that time as when left in her charge by the doctor, and could have no peace but in showing himself entirely submissive, and ready to carry out all her schemes and wishes.

Fairview also was getting ready to receive its master and mistress; but the indoor preparations there were overseen by Mrs. Lacey of the Laurels, -- Edward's aunt Rose.

It was the last of April: lovely spring weather had come, and the head gardeners and their subordinates of both places found much to do in making all trim and neat against the expected arrival of the respective owners; and of these matters Edward took a general oversight.

He and Zoe were up earlier than their wont on the morning of the long-looked-for day, wandering about the gardens before breakfast.

"How lovely every thing looks!" exclaimed Zoe, in delight. "I am sure mamma will be greatly pleased, and praise you to your heart's content, Cuff," she added, turning to the gardener at work near by.

"Ya'as, Miss Zoe," he answered, with a broad grin of satisfaction; "dat's what I'se been a workin' for, an' spects to hab sho', kase Miss Elsie, she doan' nebber grudge nuffin' in de way ob praise nor ob wages, when yo's done yo' bes', ob co'se; an' dis chile done do dat, sho's yo' bawn."

"Yes, I'm sure you have, Cuff," said Edward kindly: "the flowers look very flourishing; there's not a dead leaf or a weed to be seen anywhere; the walks are clean and smooth as a floor; nothing amiss anywhere, so far as I can perceive."

They moved on, walking slowly, and inspecting carefully as they went, yet finding nothing to mar their satisfaction.

They had reached the front of the house, and were about to go in, when a boy on horseback came cantering up the avenue, and handed a telegram to Edward.

Tearing it hastily open, "From grandpa," he said. "Ah! they will be here by the next train!"

"Half a day sooner than they or we expected," cried Zoe, half joyfully, half in dismay, struck with a momentary fear that her preparations could not be quite complete in season.

Edward hastened to re-assure her. "Altogether, good news, isn't it?" he said. "We can be quite ready, I am sure, and will escape some hours of waiting; while they will gain time for rest and refreshment before the arrival of the family party who are to gather here from the Oaks, Roselands, the Laurels, and the Pines."

"Oh, yes, yes! it is ever so nice! and I'm as glad as I can be," she cried rapturously. "Now let us make haste to get our breakfast, and then attend to the finishing touches needed by the house and our own persons."

"Stay," said Edward, detaining her as she was starting up the steps into the veranda. "We should send word to Fairview, but it will be time enough after breakfast. Suppose we ride over there immediately upon leaving the table, and carry the news ourselves? The air and exercise will do you good."

"It would be very nice," she returned meditatively; "but I'm afraid I shall hardly have time."

"Yes, you will," he said. "You can give your orders, and let Christine and Aunt Dicey see them carried out."

"But I want my taste consulted in the arrangement of the flowers," she objected.

"Plenty of time for that after we get back," he said. "And I want your help in deciding whether every thing is exactly as it should be in the grounds at Fairview. Shall I order the horses?"

"Yes. I'll go, of course, if you wish it, and enjoy it greatly, I know."

They were very gay over their breakfast and during their ride; for they were young, healthy, happy in each other; the morning air was delicious, and not a cloud was to be perceived in either the natural sky above their heads, or in that of their future; all was bright and joyous, and they seemed to have naught to do with sorrow or care, or any of the evils that oppressed the hearts and darkened the lives of many of their fellow-creatures.

Their tidings were received with joy by the retainers at Fairview, nearly every thing being in readiness for the reception of its master and mistress.

Edward and Zoe had agreed that it was not at all necessary to inform the expected guests of the evening of the change in the hour for the arrival of the home-coming party they intended to welcome.

"The meeting will be quite as early as anticipated," remarked Edward; "and it will do no harm for mamma and the others to have a chance to rest a little before seeing so many."

"They will enjoy themselves all the better, I'm sure," said Zoe.

They were cantering homeward as they talked. Arrived there, Zoe set to work at the pleasant task of adorning the house -- "mamma's" boudoir in particular -- with beautiful and sweet-scented flowers, and contrived to be delightfully busy in their arrangement till some little time after Edward had gone with the carriages to meet and bring home the travellers.

All came directly to Ion, except the Fairview family, who sought their own home first, but promised to be present at the evening festivities.

The journey had been taken leisurely; and no one seemed fatigued but the little convalescents, who were glad to be put immediately to bed.

"Mamma, dear, dearest mamma!" cried Zoe, as the two clasped each other in a close embrace. "I am so, so glad to see you!"

"Tired of housekeeping, little woman?" Elsie asked, with an arch look and smile.

"No, mamma, not that, though willing enough to resign my position to you," was the gay rejoinder. "But my delight is altogether because you are so dear and sweet, that everybody must be the happier for your presence."

"Dear child, I prize and fully return your affection," Elsie said in reply.

For each one, Zoe had a joyous and affectionate greeting, till it came to Lulu's turn.

At her she glanced doubtfully for an instant, then gave her a hearty kiss, saying to herself, "Though she did behave so badly, I'm sure she had a good deal of provocation."

Lulu had noted the momentary hesitation, and flushed hotly under it; but the kiss set all right, and she returned it as warmly as it was given.

"It seems nice to see you and uncle Edward again, aunt Zoe!" she said, "and nice to get back to Ion, though Viamede is so lovely."

"Yes," chimed in Rosie. "Viamede is almost an earthly paradise, but Ion is the homiest home of the two."

Lulu had been on her very best behavior ever since the termination of the controversy between Mr. Dinsmore and herself in regard to her tuition by Signor Foresti; and she had returned to Ion full of good resolutions, promising herself, that, if permitted to continue to live at Ion, she would henceforward be submissive, obedient, and very determined in her efforts to control her unruly temper.

But was she to be allowed to stay there? No objection had been raised by any of the family; but remembering her father's repeated warning, that, if she proved troublesome to these kind friends, he would feel compelled to take her away from Ion, and send her to a boarding-school, she awaited his decision with much secret apprehension.

It was quite too soon to look for a response to her confession, written from Magnolia Hall, or a letter from him to her mamma, grandma Elsie, or grandpa Dinsmore, giving his verdict in regard to her; and, at times, she found the suspense very hard to bear.

Thus far, Evelyn Leland had been the sole confidant of her doubts, fears, and anxieties on the subject; not even Max having been made acquainted with the contents of either her father's letter to her, or her reply to it.

She had managed to conceal her uneasiness from him, and also from grandma Elsie and Violet; the time and attention of both ladies being much occupied with the care of the little invalids.

But, on the evening of this day, Grace and baby Elsie were fast asleep, the one in bed, the other in her dainty crib, at an early hour; and Violet bethought her of Lulu in connection with the expected assembling of a large family party.

"I must see that the child is suitably attired," she said to herself, and, deferring her own toilet, went at once to the little girl's room.

She found her already dressed, -- suitably and tastefully too, -- and sitting by a window in an attitude of dejection, her elbow on the sill, her head on her hand; but she was not looking out; her eyes were downcast, and her countenance was sad.

"What is the matter, Lulu, dear?" Violet asked in gentle tones, as she drew near, and laid her soft white hand caressingly on the bowed head: "are you sorry to be at home again?"

"Ok, no, no, mamma Vi! it's not that. I should be very glad to get back, if I were only sure of being allowed to stay," Lulu answered, lifting her head, and hastily wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye. "But I -- I'm dreadfully afraid papa will say I can't; that I must be sent away somewhere, because of having been so disobedient and obstinate."

"I hope not, dear," Violet said: "you have been so good ever since you gave up, and consented to do as grandpa wished."

"Thank you for saying that, mamma Vi. I have been trying with all my might, -- asking God to help me too," she added low and reverentially; "but papa doesn't know that, and he has been very near banishing me two or three times before. Oh, I don't know how to wait to hear from him! I wish a letter would come!"

"It is almost too soon to hope for it yet, dear child; but I trust we may hear before very long," said Violet.

At that moment there came a little tap at the door; and the sweetest of voices asked, "Shall I come in?"

"Oh, yes, mamma!"

"Yes, grandma Elsie!" answered the two addressed.

"I thought our little girl might like some help with her toilet for the evening," Elsie said, advancing into the room. "But -- is any thing wrong? I think you are looking troubled and unhappy, Lulu."

Violet explained the cause; and Elsie said, very kindly, "I don't want you sent away, Lulu, dear. No one could desire a better behaved child than you have been of late; and I have written to your father to tell him so, and ask that you may stay with us still. So cheer up, and hope for the best, little girl," she added, with a smile and an affectionate kiss.

Lulu had risen, and was standing by Elsie's side. As the latter bent down to bestow the caress, her arms were thrown impulsively about her neck with a glad, grateful exclamation, "O grandma Elsie! how good you are to me! I don't know how you could want to keep me here, when I've been so bad and troublesome so many times."

"I trust you have been so for the very last time, dear child," Elsie responded. "Think how it will rejoice your father's heart if he learns that you have at length conquered in the fight with your naturally quick, wilful temper, which has been the cause of so much distress to both him and yourself."

"I do think of it very often, grandma Elsie," Lulu returned, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her heart. "And I do want to please papa, and make him happy: but, -- oh, dear! when something happens to make me angry, I forget all about it and my good resolutions till it's too late; the first thing I know, I've been acting like a fury, and disgracing myself and him."

"Yet don't be discouraged, or ever give up the fight," Elsie said. "Persevere, using all your own strength, and asking help from on high, and you will come off conqueror at last."

About the same time that this little scene was enacting at Ion, Elsie Leland, passing the door of Evelyn's room, thought she heard a low sob coming from within.

She paused and listened. The sound was repeated, and she tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer; and opening it, she stole softly in.

Evelyn sat in an easy-chair at the farther side of the room, her face hidden in her hands, an open letter lying in her lap.

"My poor child! Is it bad news?" Elsie asked, going up to the little girl, and touching her hair caressingly.

"It is heart-breaking to me, aunt Elsie; but read and judge for yourself," Evelyn replied, in a voice choking with sobs; and taking up the letter, she put it into her aunt's hand.

Elsie gave it a hasty perusal, then, tossing it indignantly aside, took the young weeper in her arms, bestowing upon her tender caresses and soothing words.

"It is hard, very hard for you, dear, I know; it would be for me in your place; but we must just try to make the best of it."

"Yes," sobbed Evelyn; "but I could hardly feel more fully orphaned if my mother were dead. And papa has not been gone a year. Oh, how could she! how could she! You see, aunt Elsie, she talks of my joining her as soon as I am my own mistress; but how can I ever think of it now?"

"We -- your uncle and I -- would be very loath to give you up, darling; and, if you can only be content, I think you may always have a happy home here, with us," Elsie said, with another tender caress.

"Dear auntie, you and uncle have made it a very happy home to me," returned Evelyn gratefully, wiping away her tears as she spoke, and forcing a rather sad sort of smile. "I should be as sorry to leave it as you could possibly be to have me do so."

Evelyn was of a very quiet temperament, rarely indulging in bursts of emotion of any kind; and Elsie soon succeeded in restoring her to calmness, though her eyes still showed traces of tears; and her expressive features again wore the look of gentle sadness that was their wont in the first weeks of her sojourn at Fairview, but which had gradually changed to one of cheerfulness and content.

"Now, Eva, dear, it is time we were getting ready for our drive to Ion," Elsie said. "Shall I help you change your dress?"

"I -- I think, if you will excuse me, auntie," Evelyn returned, with hesitation, "I should prefer to stay at home. I'm scarcely in the mood for merry-making."

"Of course, you shall do just as you like, dear child," was the kindly response; "but it is only to be a family party, and you need not be mixed up with any fun or frolic, -- I don't suppose there will be any thing of the kind going on, -- and you will probably enjoy a private chat with your bosom-friend, Lulu. You know, there are plenty of corners where you can get together by yourselves. I think you would find it lonely staying here, and Lulu would not half enjoy her evening without you."

"You are right, auntie: I will go," Evelyn answered, more cheerfully than she had spoken since reading her letter. "I will dress at once, but shall not need any help except advice about what I shall wear."

Elsie gave it, and, saying the carriage would be at the door in half an hour, went back to her own apartments, to attend to the proper adornment of her own pretty person.

Soon after her little talk with grandma Elsie and mamma Vi, Lulu, still unable to banish the anxiety which made her restless and uneasy, wandered out into the shrubbery, where she presently met Max.

"I've been all round the place," he said; "and I tell you, Lu, it's in prime order: every thing's as neat as a pin. Don't the grounds look lovely, even after Viamede?"

"Yes," she sighed, glancing round from side to side with a melancholy expression of countenance quite unusual with her.

"What's the matter, sis?" he asked with some surprise: "I hope you're not sick?"

"No, I'm perfectly well," she answered; "but, the prettier the place looks, the sorrier I feel to think I may have to go away and leave it."

"Who says you are to go away?" he demanded, -- "not grandma Elsie, or mamma Vi either, I am sure, for they're both too kind; and, in fact, I don't believe anybody here wants to send you off."

"Maybe not," she said, "but I'll have to go if papa says so; and, O Max! I'm so afraid he will, because of -- all that -- all the trouble between grandpa Dinsmore and me about the music-lessons."

"I didn't suppose papa had been told about it?" he remarked, half inquiringly.

"Yes," she said: "I confessed every bit of it to him in that letter I wrote at Magnolia Hall."

"Bully for you!" cried Max heartily. "I knew you'd own up at last, like a brick, as you are."

"O Max! you forget that mamma Vi does not approve of slang," she said. "But I don't deserve a bit of praise for confessing, because I had to. Papa wrote to me that he was sure I'd been misbehaving, -- though nobody had told him a single word about it, -- and that I must write at once, and tell him every thing."

"Well, I'm glad you did; and I hope he won't be hard on you, Lu. Still, I wouldn't like to be in your place, for papa can be quite severe when he thinks it necessary. I wouldn't fret, though," he added in a consolatory tone, "because there's no use trying to cross the bridge before you come to it, 'specially when you mayn't come at all."

"That's quite true, but it's a great deal easier to preach than to practise," she said. "Maxie, would you be sorry to have me sent away?" she asked, her voice taking on a beseeching tone.

"Why, of course I should," he said. "We've gone through a good deal together, and you know we've always been rather fond of each other, considering that we're brother and sister," he added laughingly. "Ah, here comes Eva!" and he lifted his hat with a profound bow as a turn in the walk brought them face to face with her.

"O Eva! I'm so glad you've come early!" exclaimed Lulu.

"I too," said Max; "but, if you have any secrets for each other's private ear, I'll be off."

"Your company is always agreeable, Max," Evelyn said with a faint smile, "and I should be sorry to drive you away."

"Thanks," he said; "but I'll have to go, for I hear grandpa Dinsmore calling me."

He hastened to obey the call; and the two girls, each putting an arm about the other's waist, paced to and fro along the gravel-walk.

"How is Fairview looking?" asked Lulu.

"Lovely: it couldn't be in better order, and there are a great many flowers in bloom. One might say just the same of Ion."

"Yes: it is even prettier than Fairview, I have always thought. But that's a sweet place too and aunt Elsie and uncle Lester are delightful to live with. I only wish I was as sure as you are of such a sweet home."

"Don't worry, Lu. I hope your father will let you stay on here," Evelyn said in an affectionate tone; "but, indeed, I don't think you have any reason to envy me."

She ended with so profound a sigh, that Lulu turned a surprised, inquiring look upon her, asking, "Have you had any bad news, Eva? I know you have been looking anxiously for a letter from your mother."

"Yes, it has come: I found it waiting for me at Fairview, and" -- She paused for a moment, her heart too full for speech.

"And it was bad news? Oh, I am so sorry!" said Lulu. "I hope it wasn't that she wants you to go away from here -- unless I have to go too, and we can be together somewhere."

"No, it was not that -- not now. Mamma knows that, because of the way papa made his will, I must stay with uncle Lester till I come of age. She talks of my going to her then; but I cannot, -- oh, I never can! for, -- Lulu, she's married again, to an Italian count; and it is not a year since my dear, dear father was taken from us."

Evelyn's voice was tremulous with pain, and she ended with a burst of bitter weeping.

"Oh, how could she!" exclaimed Lulu. "I don't wonder you feel so about it, Eva. A horrid Italian too!" she added, thinking of Signor Foresti. "I'd never call him father!"

"Indeed, I've no idea of doing that," Eva said indignantly. "I only hope he may never cross my path; and so I -- feel as if my mother is lost to me. You are far better off than I, Lulu: you have your own dear father still living, and aunt Vi is so lovely and sweet."

"Yes, I am better off than you," Lulu acknowledged emphatically; "and if I hadn't such a bad temper, always getting me into trouble, I'd be a girl to be envied."



Chapter X.

Lulu's Sentence.


Pending Capt. Raymond's verdict in regard to Lulu, life at Ion fell into the old grooves, for her as well as the other members of the family.

Studies were taken up again by all the children, including Evelyn Leland, where they had been dropped; Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter giving instruction, and hearing recitations, as formerly.

This interval of waiting lasted for over two months, a longer period of silence on the part of the husband and father than usual; but, as they learned afterward, letters had been delayed in both going and coming.

Capt. Raymond, in his good ship, far out on the ocean, was wearying for news from home, when his pressing want was most opportunely supplied by a passing vessel.

She had a heavy mail for the man-of-war, and a generous share of it fell to her commander.

He was soon seated in the privacy of his own cabin, with Violet's letter open in his hand. It was sure to receive his attention before that of any other correspondent.

With a swelling heart he read of the sore trial she had been passing through, in the severe illness of Gracie and the babe. Deeply he regretted not having been there to lighten her burdens with his sympathy and help in the nursing; and though, at the time of writing, she was able to report that the little sufferers were considered out of danger, he could not repress a fear, amid his thankfulness, that there might be a relapse, or the dread disease might leave behind it, as it so often does, some lasting ill effect.

He lingered over the letter, re-reading passages here and there, but at length laid it aside, and gave his attention to others bearing the same post-mark.

There was a short one from Max, which stirred his heart with fatherly love and pride in his boy; that came next after Violet's: then he opened Lulu's bulky packet.

He sighed deeply as he laid it down after a careful perusal, during which his face had grown stern and troubled, and, rising, paced the cabin to and fro, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed on his breast, which again and again heaved with a deep-drawn sigh.

"What I am to do with that child, I do not know," he groaned within himself. "If I could make a home for her, and have her constantly with me, I might perhaps be able to train her up aright, and help her to learn the hard lesson how to rule her own spirit.

"I could not do that, however, without resigning from the service; and that would be giving up my only means of earning a livelihood for her as well as the others and myself. That is not to be thought of: nor could I forsake the service without heartfelt regret, were I a millionnaire."

The captain was a man of prayer. Some moments were spent on his knees, asking guidance and help for himself, and a change of heart for his wayward little daughter; then, again seating himself at his writing-table, he opened yet another letter, one whose superscription he recognized as that of a business agent in one of our far Western States.

His face lighted up as he read, and a text flashed across his mind: "And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear."

That sheet of paper was the bearer of most strange, unlooked-for tidings: a tract of wild land, bought by him for a trifle years before, and long considered of little or no value, had suddenly become -- by the discovery that it contained rich mineral deposits, and the consequent opening of mines, and laying out of a town upon it -- worth many thousands, perhaps millions of money.

And he -- Capt. Raymond -- was the undisputed owner of it all, -- of wealth beyond his wildest dreams. He could scarce believe it: it seemed impossible. Yet it was undoubtedly true; and a bright vision of a lovely home, with wife and children about him, rose up before his mind's eye, and filled him with joy and gratitude to the Giver of all good.

He would send in his resignation, and realize the vision at the earliest possible moment.

But stay! could he now, in the prime of life, forsake the service for which he had been educated, and to which he had already given many of his best years? Could he be content to bid a final farewell to the glorious old ocean so long his home, so beautiful and lovable in its varied moods, and settle down upon the unchanging land, quite reconciled to its sameness? Would he not find in himself an insatiable longing to be again upon the ever restless sea, treading once more the deck of his gallant ship, monarch of her little world, director of all her movements?

It was not a question to be decided in a moment; it required time for thought; a careful consideration of seemingly conflicting duties; a careful balancing of inclinations and interests, and for seeking counsel of his best, his almighty and all-wise, Friend.

At Ion, as the summer heats approached, the question was mooted, "Where shall we spend the next two or three months?" After some discussion, it was decided that all should go North to Cape May for a time: afterward they would break up into smaller parties, and scatter to different points of interest, as they might fancy.

Lester and Elsie Leland would spend a portion of the season at Cliff Cottage, -- Evelyn's old home, -- taking her and Lulu with them.

Edward and Zoe, too, and probably some of the others, would visit there.


All necessary arrangements had been made, and they were to start the next day, when at last letters were received from Capt. Raymond.

Lulu's heart beat very fast at sight of them. She had been full of delight at the prospect of her Northern trip, especially the visit to be paid with Evelyn to her former home; the latter having in their private talks dwelt much upon its many attractions, and the life she had led there in the sweet companionship of her beloved father.

"Would there be any thing in papa's letter to prevent the carrying out of the cherished plans?" Lulu asked herself as, in fear and trembling, she watched Violet opening with eager fingers the packet handed her at the breakfast-table.

Max and Gracie, too, looked on with interest quite equal to Lulu's; but in their case there was only joyous expectancy unmingled with dread.

"There is something for each of us, as usual," Violet said presently, with a smiling glance from one to another, -- "Max, Lulu, Gracie, and myself."

Lulu received hers, -- only a folded slip of paper, -- and, asking to be excused, stole away to the privacy of her own room to read it.

"MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER [it ran], -- The story of your misconduct has given a very sad heart to the father who loves you so dearly. I forgive you, my child, but can no longer let you remain at Ion to be a trouble and torment to our kind friends there. I shall remove you elsewhere as soon as I can settle upon a suitable place. In the mean time, if you are truly sorry for the past, you will, I am sure, earnestly strive to be patient, submissive and obedient to those who have you in charge.

"Your loving father,

"L. Raymond."

The paper fell from Lulu's hand, and fluttered to the floor, as she folded her arms upon the sill of the window beside which she had seated herself, and rested her head upon them.

"And that's all; just that I am to go away, nobody knows where; to be separated from Max and Gracie and every one else that I care for: and when papa comes home, maybe he won't visit me at all; or, if he does, it will be for only a little bit, because, of course, he will want to spend most of his leave where the others are. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish I'd been good! I wish I'd been born sweet-tempered and patient, like Gracie. I wonder if papa will ever, ever let me come back!

"But perhaps grandpa Dinsmore and grandma Elsie will never invite me again. I wouldn't in their place, I'm sure."

The captain's letter to his wife made the same announcement of his intentions in regard to Lulu; adding, that, for the present he would have her disposed of as should seem best to them -- Mr. Dinsmore, his daughter, and Violet herself -- upon consultation together; he had entire confidence, he said, in their wisdom and their kind feeling toward his wayward, troublesome, yet still beloved child; so that he could trust her to their tender mercies without hesitation.

He went on to say (and, ah, with what a smile of exultation and delight those words were penned!), that "there was a possibility that he might be with them again in the fall, long enough to find a suitable home for Lulu; and, in the mean time, would they kindly seize any opportunity that presented itself, to make inquiries in regard to such a place?"

Violet read that portion of his letter aloud to her mother and grandfather, then asked if they saw in it any thing necessitating a change in their plans for the summer.

They did not, and were glad for Lulu's sake that it was so.

Lulu, in the solitude of her room, was anxiously considering the same question, and presently went with it to her mamma, taking her father's note in her hand.

Finding Violet alone in her dressing-room, giving the captain's missive another perusal, "Mamma Vi," she said, "what -- what does papa tell you about me?" She spoke hesitatingly, her head drooping, her cheeks hot with blushes. "I mean, what does he say is to be done with me?"

Violet pitied the child from the bottom of her heart. "I wish, dear," she said, "that I could tell you he consented to mamma's request to let us try you here a little longer; but -- doesn't he say something about it in his note to you?"

"Yes, mamma Vi," Lulu answered chokingly: "he says he can't let me stay here any longer, to be such a trouble and torment to you all, and will put me somewhere else as soon as he can find a suitable place; but he doesn't say what is to be done with me just now."

"No, dear: he leaves that to us, -- grandpa, mamma, and me, -- and we have decided that no change in the arrangements for the summer need be made."

"O mamma Vi! how good and kind you all are!" cried Lulu, in a burst of irrestrainable gratitude; and her tears began to fall.

Violet was quite moved by the child's emotion. "You have been a dear good girl of late, and we feel glad to take you with us," she said, drawing her to her side, and giving her an affectionate kiss. "Your father says there is a possibility that he may be at home with us again for a while, in the fall; he expects to settle you somewhere then: but if you continue to be so good, perhaps he may relent, and allow you still to have a home with us. I am quite sure that such a child as you have been for the last two or three months, would be heartily welcome to us all."

"It's ever so good in you to say that, mamma Vi," returned the little girl, furtively wiping her eyes; "and I'm determined to try with all my might. I'd want to do it to please papa, even if I knew there wasn't one bit of hope of his letting me stay. I don't think there is much, because, if he decides a thing positively, he's very apt to stick to it."

"Yes, I know; but he will doubtless take into account that circumstances alter cases," Violet answered lightly, and with a pleasant smile. "And at all events, you may be quite sure that whatever small influence I may possess will be exerted in your behalf."

"I am sure you have a great deal, mamma Vi; and I thank you very much for that promise," Lulu said, turning to go.

But at that instant a quick, boyish step sounded in the hall without; and Max's voice at the door asked, "Mamma Vi, may I come in?"

"Yes," she said; and in he rushed, with a face full of excitement. "Lu, I've been looking everywhere for you!" he cried. "What do you think? just see that!" and he held up a bit of paper, waving it triumphantly in the air, while he capered round the room in an ecstasy of delight.

"What is it?" asked Lulu. "Nothing but a strip of paper, as far as I can see."

"That's because you haven't had a chance to examine it," he said, laughing with pleasure. "It's a check with papa's name to it, and it's good for fifty dollars. Now, do you wonder I'm delighted?"

"No, not if it's yours. Did he give it to you?"

"Half of it; the other half's to be divided between you and Gracie; and it's just for pocket-money for this summer."

"Oh, that is nice!" exclaimed Violet. "I am very glad for you all."

Lulu looked astounded for an instant; then the tears welled up into her eyes as she said falteringly, "I -- don't deserve it; and -- I thought papa was so vexed with me, I should never have expected he'd give me a single cent."

"He's just a splendid father, that's what he is!" cried Max, with another bound of exultant delight. "He says that if we go to the mountains, and grandpa thinks I can be trusted with a gun, I'm to have one of the best that can be bought; and, if I'm a splendid boy all the time, when he comes home I shall have a fine pony of my own."

Then sobering down, "I'm afraid, though, that he can't afford all that; and I shall tell him so, and that I don't want him to spend too much of his hard-earned pay on his only son."

"Good boy!" Violet said with an approving smile; "but I know it gives your father far more pleasure to lay out money for his children than to spend it on himself."

Still, she wondered within herself, for a moment, if her husband had in some way become a little richer than he was when last he described his circumstances to her. Had he had a legacy from some lately deceased relative or friend? (surely no one could be more deserving of such remembrance) or an increase of pay? But no, he would surely have told her if either of those things had happened; and with that thought, the subject was dismissed from her mind.

He had not told her of his good fortune -- the sudden, unexpected change in his circumstances: he wanted to keep it secret till he could see the shining of her eyes, the lighting up of her face, as she learned that their long separations were a thing of the past; that in future they would have a home of their own, and be as constantly together as Lester and Elsie, Edward and Zoe.

But his mind was full of plans for making her and his children happy by means of his newly acquired wealth, and he had not been able to refrain from some attempt to do so at once.

"I don't want papa to waste his money on me, either," Lulu said. "I'd rather never have any pocket-money than have him do without a single thing to give it to me."

"Dear child, I know you would," Violet said. "But take what he has sent, and be happy with it; that is what he desires you to do; and I think you need have no fear that he will want for any thing because of having sent it to you."

"Let me see that, won't you, Maxie?" Lulu asked, following her brother from the room.

He handed her the check, and she examined it curiously.

"It has your name on it," she remarked.

"Yes: it is drawn payable to me," returned Max, assuming an air of importance.

"But," said Lulu, still examining it critically, "how can you turn it into money?"

"Oh! I know all about that," laughed Max. "Papa explained it to me the last time he was at home: I just write my name on the back of that, and take it to a bank, and they'll give me the fifty dollars."

"And then you'll keep half, and divide the other half between Gracie and me. That will be twelve dollars and fifty cents for each of us, won't it?"

"No, it isn't to be divided equally: papa says you are to have fifteen dollars, and Gracie ten, -- because you are older than she is, you know."

"But she's better, and deserves more than I," said Lulu. "Anyway, she shall have half, if she wants it."

"No, she doesn't," said Max. "I told her about it; and she thinks ten dollars, to do just what she pleases with, is a great fortune."

"When will you get it, Max?"

"What, -- the money? Not till after we go North. Grandpa Dinsmore says it will be best to wait till then, as we won't care to spend any of it here. O Lu! -- you are going along, I suppose? -- what does papa say about -- about what you told him in your last letter?"

"You may read for yourself, Max," replied Lulu, putting the note into his hand.

She watched his face while he read, and knew by its expression that he was sorry for her, even before he said so, as he handed it back.

"But perhaps papa may change his mind, if you keep on being as good as you have been ever since you left that school," he added. "But you haven't told me yet whether you are still to go North with us, or not."

"Yes: mamma Vi says I am. She says papa says in his letter to her, that they may do what they think best with me for the present: and they will take me along. It's good in them, isn't it?"

To that Max gave a hearty assent. "They are the kindest people in the world," he said.



Chapter XI.

"How terrible is passion!"


The summer passed quickly and pleasantly to our friends of Ion and Fairview. The plans they had made for themselves before leaving home were carried out, with, perhaps, some slight variations.

Lulu had her greatly desired visit to Cliff Cottage, and enjoyed it nearly as much as she had hoped to; a good deal less than she would if she could have quite forgotten her past misconduct, and its impending consequences.

As matters stood, she could seldom entirely banish the thought that the time was daily drawing nearer when her father's sentence would be carried out, to her sad exclusion from the pleasant family circle of which she had now been so long a member.

She experienced the truth of the saying, that blessings brighten as they take their flight, and would have given much to undo the past, so that she might prove herself worthy of a continuance of those she had rated so far below their real value, that, in spite of her father's repeated warnings, she had wantonly thrown them away.

She kept her promise to Violet, and strove earnestly to deserve a repeal of her sentence, though her hope of gaining it was very faint. All summer long she had exercised sufficient control over her temper to avoid any outbursts of passion, and generally had behaved quite amiably.

By the 1st of October the two families were again at home at Ion and Fairview, pursuing the even tenor of their way, Lulu with them, as of old, no new home having yet been found for her. No one had cared to make much effort in that direction. It was just as well, Mr. Dinsmore, Elsie his daughter, and Violet thought, simply to let things take their course till her father should return, and take matters into his own hands.

There was no certainty when that would be: his letters still alluded to his coming that fall as merely a possibility.

But Lulu had been so amiable and docile for months past, that no one was in haste to be rid of her presence. Even Rosie was quite friendly with her, had ceased to tease and vex her; and mutual forbearance had given each a better opinion of the other than she had formerly entertained.

But Lulu grew self-confident, and began to relax her vigilance: it was so long since her temper had got decidedly the better of her, that she thought it conquered, or so nearly so that she need not be continually on the watch against it.

Rosie had brought home with her a new pet, -- a beautiful puppy as mischievous as he was handsome.

Unfortunately it happened again and again that something belonging to Lulu attracted his attention, and was seriously damaged or totally destroyed by his teeth and claws. He chewed up a pair of kid gloves belonging to her; and it did not mend matters that Rosie laughed as though it were a good joke, and then told her it was her own fault for not putting them in their proper place when she took them off: he tore her garden-hat into shreds; he upset her inkstand; tumbled over her work-basket, tangling the spools of sewing-silk and cotton; jumped upon her with muddy paws, soiling a new dress and handsome sash; and at last capped the climax by defacing a book of engravings, belonging to Mr. Dinsmore, which she had carelessly left in his way.

Then her anger burst forth, and she kicked the dog till his howls brought Rosie running to the rescue.

"How dare you, Lulu Raymond!" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes, as she gathered Trip in her arms, and soothed him with caresses. "I'll not allow my pet to be so ill used in my own mother's house!"

"He deserves a great deal more than I gave him," retorted Lulu, quivering with passion; "and if you don't want him hurt, you'll have to keep him out of mischief. Just look what he has done to this book!"

"One of grandpa's handsome volumes of engravings!" cried Rosie, aghast. "But who left it lying there?"

"I did."

"Then you are the one to blame, and not my poor little Trip, who, of course, knew no better. How is he to tell that books are not meant for gnawing quite as much as bones?"

"What is the matter, children?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, stepping out upon the veranda where the little scene was enacting. "It surprises me to hear such loud and angry tones."

For a moment each girlish head drooped in silence, hot blushes dyeing their cheeks; then Lulu, lifting hers, said, "I'm very sorry, grandpa Dinsmore. I oughtn't to have brought this book out here; but it wouldn't have come to any harm if it hadn't been for that troublesome dog, that's as full of mischief as he can be. I don't believe it was more than five minutes that I left the book lying there on the settee; and when I ran back to get it, and put it away in its place, he had torn out a leaf, and nibbled and soiled the cover, as you see.

"But if you'll please not be angry, I'll save up all my pocket-money till I can buy you another copy."

"That would take a good while, child," Mr. Dinsmore answered. "It is a great pity you were so careless. But I'll not scold you, since you are so penitent, and so ready to make all the amends in your power. Rosie, you really must try to restrain the mischievous propensities of your pet."

"I do, grandpa," she said, flashing an angry glance at Lulu; "but I can't keep him in sight every minute; and, if people will leave things in his way, I think they are more to blame than he is if he spoils them."

"Tut, tut! don't speak to me in that manner," said her grandfather. "If your dog continues to damage valuable property, he shall be sent away."

Rosie made no reply, but colored deeply as she turned and walked away with her pet in her arms.

"Now, Lulu," said Mr. Dinsmore, not unkindly, "remember that in future you are not to bring a valuable book such as this, out here. If you want to look at them, do so in the library."

"Yes, sir, I will. I'm very sorry about that; but if you'll tell me, please, how much it would cost to buy another just like it, I'll write to papa, and I know he will pay for it."

"I thought you proposed to pay for it yourself," remarked Mr. Dinsmore grimly.

"Yes, sir; but I don't wish to keep you waiting; papa wouldn't wish it. He sends his children pocket-money every once in a while, and I'd ask him to keep back what he considered my share till it would count up to as much as the price of the book."

"Well, child, that is honorable and right," Mr. Dinsmore said in a pleasanter tone; "but I think we will let the matter rest now till your father comes, which I trust will be before a very great while."

Rosie, knowing that her grandfather was quite capable of carrying out his threat, lacking neither the ability nor the will to do so, curtailed the liberty of her pet, and exerted herself to keep him out of mischief.

Still, he occasionally came in Lulu's way, and when he did was very apt to receive a blow or kick.

He had a fashion of catching at her skirts with his teeth, and giving them a jerk, which was very exasperating to her -- all the more so, that Rosie evidently enjoyed seeing him do it.

A stop would have been put to the "fun" if the older people of the family had happened to be aware of what was going on; but the dog always seemed to seize the opportunity when none of them were by, and Lulu scorned to tell tales.

One morning, about a week after the accident to the book, Lulu, coming down a little before the ringing of the breakfast-bell, found Max on the veranda.

"Don't you want to take a ride with me after breakfast, Lu?" he asked. "Mamma Vi says I can have her pony; and, as Rosie doesn't care to go, of course you can ride hers."

"How do you know Rosie doesn't want to ride?" asked Lulu.

"Because I heard her tell her mother she didn't; that she meant to drive over to Roselands with grandpa Dinsmore instead; that he had told her he expected to go there to see Cal about some business matter, and would take her with him. So you see, her pony won't be wanted; and grandma Elsie has often said we could have it whenever it wasn't in use or tired, and of course it must be quite fresh this morning."

"Then I'll go," said Lulu with satisfaction; for she was extremely fond of riding, especially when her steed was Rosie's pretty, easy-going pony, Gyp.

So Max ordered the two ponies to be in readiness; and, as soon as breakfast was over, Lulu hastened to her room to prepare for her ride.

But in the mean time Mr. Dinsmore had told Rosie he had, for some reason, changed his plans, and should wait till afternoon to make his call at Roselands.

Then Rosie, glancing from the window, and seeing her pony at the door, ready saddled and bridled, suddenly decided to take a ride, ran to her room, donned riding hat and habit, and was down again a little in advance of Lulu.

Max, who was on the veranda, waiting for his sister, felt rather dismayed at sight of Rosie, as she came tripping out in riding-attire.

"O Rosie! excuse me," he said. "I heard you say you were going to drive to Roselands with your grandpa, and so, as I was sure you wouldn't be wanting your pony, I ordered him saddled for Lu."

"That happened very well, because he is here now all ready for me," returned Rosie, laughing, as she vaulted into the saddle, hardly giving Max a chance to help her. "Lu can have him another time. Come, will you go with me?"

For an instant Max hesitated. He did not like to refuse Rosie's request, as she was not allowed to go alone outside the grounds, yet was equally averse to seem to desert Lu.

"But," he thought, "she's sure to be in a passion when she finds this out, and I can't bear to see it."

So he sprang upon his waiting steed; and as Lulu, ready dressed for her ride, and eager to take it, stepped out upon the veranda, she just caught a glimpse of the two horses and their riders disappearing down the avenue.

She turned white with anger at the sight, and stamped her foot in fury, exclaiming between her clinched teeth, "It's the meanest trick I ever saw!"

There were several servants standing near, one of them little Elsie's nurse, an old negress, Aunt Dinah, who, having lived in the family for more than twenty years, felt herself privileged to speak her mind upon occasion, particularly to its younger members.

"Now, Miss Lu," she said, "dat's not de propah way fo' you to talk 'bout dis t'ing; kase dat pony b'longs to Miss Rosie, an' co'se she hab de right to ride him befo' anybody else."

"You've no call to put in your word, and I'm not going to be lectured and reproved by a servant!" retorted Lulu passionately; and turning quickly away, she strode to the head of the short flight of steps leading down into the avenue, and stood there leaning against a pillar, with her back toward the other occupants of the veranda. Her left arm was round the pillar, and in her right hand she held her little riding-whip.

She was angry at Dinah, furiously angry at Rosie; and when the next minute something -- Rosie's dog, she supposed -- tugged at her skirts, she gave a vicious backward kick without turning her head.

Instantly a sound of something falling, accompanied by a faint, frightened little cry, and chorus of shrieks of dismay from older voices flashed upon her the terrible knowledge that she had sent her baby sister rolling down the steps to the hard gravel-walk below.

She clutched at her pillar, almost losing consciousness for one brief moment, in her dreadful fright.

Violet's agonized cry, as she came rushing from the open doorway, "My baby! oh, my baby! she's killed!" roused her: and she saw Dinah pick up the little creature from the ground, and place it in its mother's arms, where it lay limp and white, like a dead thing, without sense or motion; the whole household, young and old, black and white, gathering round in wild excitement and grief.

No one so much as glanced at her, or seemed to think of her at all: their attention was wholly occupied with the injured little one.

She shuddered as she caught a glimpse of its deathlike face, then put her hand over her eyes to shut out the fearful sight. She felt as if she were turning to stone with a sense of the awful thing she had done in her mad passion; then suddenly seized with an overwhelming desire to hide herself from all these eyes, that would presently be gazing accusingly and threateningly at her, she hurried away to her own room, and shut and locked herself in.

Her riding-whip was still in her hand. She tossed it on to the window-sill, tore off her gloves, hat, and habit, and threw them aside, then, dropping on her knees beside the bed, buried her face in the clothes, sobbing wildly, "Oh, I've killed my little sister! my own dear little baby sister! What shall I do? what shall I do?"

Moments passed that seemed like hours: faint sounds came up from below. She heard steps and voices, and, "Was that mamma Vi crying, -- crying as if her heart would break? saying over and over again, 'My baby's dead! my baby's dead! killed by her sister, her cruel, passionate sister!' Would they come and take her (Lulu) to jail? Would they try her for murder, and hang her? Oh! then papa's heart would break, losing two of his children in such dreadful ways.

"Oh! wouldn't it break anyhow when he heard what she had done, -- when he knew the baby was dead, and that she had killed it, even if she should not be sent to prison, and tried for murder?"

At length some one tried the door; and a little, sobbing voice said, "Lulu, please let me in."

She rose, staggered to the door, and unlocked it. "Is it only you, Gracie?" she asked in a terrified whisper, opening it just far enough to admit the little slender figure.

"Yes: there's nobody else here," said the child. "I came to tell you the baby isn't dead; but the doctor has come, and, I believe, he doesn't feel sure she won't die. O Lu! how could you?" she asked with a burst of sobs.

"O Gracie! I didn't do it on purpose! how could you think so? I mean, I didn't know it was the baby: I thought it was that hateful dog."

"Oh, I'm glad! I couldn't b'lieve it, though some of them do!" exclaimed Gracie in a tone of relief.

Then, with a fresh burst of tears and sobs, "But she's dreadfully hurt, the dear little thing! I heard the doctor tell grandpa Dinsmore he was afraid she'd never get over it; but he mustn't let mamma know yet, 'cause maybe she might."

Lulu paced the room, wringing her hands and sobbing like one distracted.

"O Gracie!" she cried, "I'd like to beat myself black and blue! I just hope papa will come home and do it, because I ought to be made to suffer ever so much for hurting the baby so."

"O Lu, no!" cried Gracie, aghast at the very idea. "It wouldn't do the baby any good. Oh, I hope papa won't whip you!"

"But he will! I know he will; and he ought to," returned Lulu vehemently. "Oh, hark!"

She stood still, listening intently, Grace doing the same. They had seemed to hear a familiar step that they had not heard for many a long month; yes, there it was again: and with a low cry of joy, Grace bounded to the door, threw it open, but closed it quickly behind her, and sprang into her father's arms.

"My darling, my precious little daughter!" he said, clasping her close, and showering kisses on her face. "Where is every one? you are the first I have seen, and -- why, how you have been crying! What is wrong?"

"O papa! the baby -- the baby's most killed," she sobbed. "Come, I'll take you to her and mamma!"

Fairly stunned by the sudden dreadful announcement, he silently submitted himself to her guidance, and suffered her to lead him into the nursery, where Violet sat in a low chair with the apparently dying babe on her lap, her mother, grandfather and his wife, and the doctor, grouped about her.

No one noticed his entrance, so intent were they all upon the little sufferer; but just as he gained her side, Violet looked up, and recognized him with a low cry of mingled joy and grief.

"O Levis, my husband! Thank God that you have come in time -- to see her alive."

He bent down and kissed the sweet, tremulous lips, his features working with emotion, "My wife, my dear love, what -- what is this? what ails our little one?" he asked in anguished accents, turning his eyes upon the waxen baby face; and, bending still lower, he softly touched his lips to its forehead.

No one replied to his question; and gazing with close scrutiny at the child, "She has been hurt?" he said, half in assertion, half inquiringly.

"Yes, captain," said Dr. Conly: "she has had a fall, -- a very severe one for so young and tender a creature."

"How did it happen?" he asked, in tones of mingled grief and sternness.

No one answered; and after waiting a moment, he repeated the question, addressing it directly to his wife.

"Oh, do not ask me, love!" she said entreatingly, and he reluctantly yielded to her request; but light began to dawn upon him, sending an added pang to his heart; suddenly he remembered Lulu's former jealousy of the baby, her displeasure at its birth; and with a thrill of horror, he asked himself if this could be her work.

He glanced about the room in search of her and Max.

Neither was there.

He passed noiselessly into the next room, then into the one beyond, -- his wife's boudoir, -- and there found his son.

Max sat gazing abstractedly from a window, his eyes showing traces of tears.

Turning his head as the captain entered, he started up with a joyful but subdued cry, "Papa!" then threw himself with bitter sobbing into the arms outstretched to receive him.

"My boy, my dear boy!" the captain said, in moved tones. "What is this dreadful thing that has happened? Can you tell me how your baby sister came to get so sad a fall?"

"I didn't see it, papa: I was out riding at the time."

"But you have heard about it from those who did see it?"

"Yes, sir," the lad answered reluctantly; "but -- please, papa, don't ask me what they said."

"Was Lulu at home at the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would she be able to tell me all about it, do you think?"

"I haven't seen her, papa, since I came in," Max answered evasively.

The captain sighed. His suspicions had deepened to almost certainty.

"Where is she?" he asked, releasing Max from his embrace, and turning to leave the room.

"I do not know, papa," answered Max.

"Where was the baby when she fell? can you tell me that?" asked his father.

"On the veranda, sir: so the servants told me."

"Which of them saw it?"

"Aunt Dinah, Agnes, Aunt Dicey, -- nearly all the women, I believe, sir."

The captain mused a moment.

"Was Lulu there?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; and papa, -- if you must know just how it happened, -- I think she could tell you all about it as well as anybody else, or maybe better. And you know she always speaks the truth."

"Yes," the captain said, as if considering the suggestion: "however, I prefer to hear the story first from some one else."

He passed on through the upper hall and down the stairs, then on out to the veranda, where he found a group of servants -- of whom Aunt Dicey was one -- excitedly discussing the very occurrence he wished to inquire about.

They did not share the reluctance of Violet and Max, but answered his questions promptly, with a very full and detailed account of the affair.

They gave a graphic description of the rage Lulu was thrown into at the sight of Rosie galloping away on the pony she had expected to ride, repeated her angry retort in reply to Aunt Dinah's reproof, and told, without any extenuation of the hard facts, how the baby girl, escaping from her nurse's watchful care for a moment, had toddled along to her sister, caught at her skirts for support, and received a savage kick, that sent her down the steps to the gravel-walk below.

The captain heard the story with ever increasing, burning indignation. Lulu's act seemed the very wantonness of cruelty, -- a most cowardly attack of a big, strong girl upon a tiny, helpless creature, who had an indisputable claim upon her tenderest protecting care.

By the time the story had come to an end, he was exceedingly angry with Lulu; he felt that in this instance it would be no painful task to him to chastise her with extreme severity; in fact, he dared not go to her at once, lest he should do her some injury; he had never yet punished a child in anger; he had often resolved that he never would, but would always wait till the feeling of love for the delinquent was uppermost in his heart, so that he could be entirely sure his motive was a desire for the reformation of the offender, and not the gratification of his own passion.

Feeling that he had a battle to fight with himself ere he dared venture to discipline his child, and that he must have solitude for it, he strode away down the avenue, turned into a part of the grounds but little frequented, and there paced back and forth, his arms folded on his breast, his head bent, his heart going up in silent prayer for strength to rule his own spirit, for patience and wisdom according to his need.

Then he strove to recall all that was lovable about his wayward little daughter, and to think of every possible excuse for the dreadful deed she had done, yet without being able to find any that deserved the name.

At length, feeling that the victory was at least partially won, and filled with anxiety about the baby, he began to retrace his steps toward the house.

In the avenue, he met Edward and Zoe, who greeted him with joyful surprise, not having before known of his arrival.

The expression of his countenance told them that he was already informed of the sad occurrence of the morning; and Edward said with heartfelt sympathy, "It is but a sad home-coming for you, captain, but let us try to hope for the best: it is possible the little darling has not received any lasting injury."

A silent pressure of the hand was the captain's only reply for the moment. He seemed too much overcome for speech.

"Such a darling as she is!" said Zoe; "the pet of the whole house, and just the loveliest little creature I ever saw."

"Did you -- either of you -- see her fall?" asked the captain huskily.

"Yes," said Zoe, "I did. Violet and I happened to be at the window of the little reception-room overlooking the veranda, and were watching the little creature as she toddled along, and" -- But Zoe paused, suddenly remembering that her listener was the father of Lulu as well as of her poor little victim.

"Please go on," he said with emotion. "What was it that sent her down the steps?"

"Lulu was standing there," Zoe went on, hesitating, and coloring with embarrassment, "and I saw the baby-hands clutch at her skirts" -- 

Again she paused.

"And Lulu, giving the tender, toddling thing a savage kick, caused the dreadful catastrophe?" he groaned, turning away his face. "You need not have feared to tell me. I had already heard it from the servants who were eye-witnesses, and I only wanted further and undoubtedly reliable testimony."

"I think," said Edward, "that Lulu really had no idea what it was she was kicking at. I happened to be out in the grounds, and coming round the corner of the house just in time to catch her look of horror and despair as she half turned her head and saw the baby fall."

"Thank you," the captain said feelingly. "It is some relief to her unhappy father to learn of the least extenuating circumstance."



Chapter XII.

"Anger resteth in the bosom of fools." -- ECCLES. vii. 9.

"Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him." -- PROV. xxii. 15.


"He seems to feel terribly about it, poor man!" remarked Zoe with a backward glance at the retreating form of Capt. Raymond, as he left them and pursued his way to the house.

"Yes, and no wonder," said Edward. "Not for worlds would I be the father of such a child as Lulu!"

"Nor I her mother," said Zoe. "So I'm glad it was you I got for a husband instead of Capt. Raymond."

"Only for that reason?" he queried, facing round upon her in mock astonishment and wrath.

"Oh, of course!" she returned, laughing, then sobering down with a sudden recollection of the sorrow in the house. "But, O Ned! how heartless we are to be joking and laughing when poor Vi and the captain are in such distress!"

"I'm afraid you are right," he assented with a sigh. "Yet I am quite sure we both feel deeply for them, and are personally grieved for the injury to our darling little niece."

"Yes, indeed! the pretty pet that she is!" returned Zoe, wiping her eyes.

Gracie was on the veranda looking for her father, and, catching sight of him in the avenue, ran to meet him.

"How is baby now? Can you tell me?" he asked, taking her hand, and stooping to give her a kiss.

"Just the same, I suppose, papa," she said. "Oh, it's very hard to see it suffer so! isn't it, papa?"

He nodded a silent assent.

"Papa," she asked, lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a pleading look, "have you seen Lulu yet?"

"No."

"O papa! do go now! It must be so hard for her to wait so long to see you, when you've just come home."

"I doubt if she wants to see me," he said, with some sternness of look and tone.

"O dear papa! don't punish her very hard. She didn't hurt the baby on purpose."

"I shall try to do what is best for her, my little girl, though I very much doubt if that is exemption from punishment," he said with an involuntary sigh. "But if she is in haste to see me," he added, "there is nothing, so far as I am aware, to prevent her from coming to me."

"But she's afraid, papa, because she has been so very, very naughty."

"In that case, is it not kinder for me to keep away from her?"

"O papa! you know she always wants things -- bad things -- over."

"The bad thing she has brought upon the poor baby will not be over very soon," he said sternly. "I must go now to it and your mamma."

He did so; and sharing Violet's deep grief and anxiety, and perceiving that his very presence was a comfort and support to her, he remained at her side for hours.

Hours, that to Lulu seemed like weeks or months. Alone in her room, in an agony of remorse and fear, she waited and watched and listened for her father's coming, longing for, and yet dreading it, more than words could express.

"What would his anger be like?" she asked herself. "What terrible punishment would he inflict? Would he ever love her again, especially if the baby should die?

"Perhaps he would send her away to some very far-off place, and never, never come near her any more."

Naturally of a very impatient temperament, suspense and passive waiting were well-nigh intolerable to her. By turns she walked the floor, fell on her knees by the bedside, and buried her face in a pillow, or threw herself into a chair by table or window, and hid it on her folded arms.

"Oh! would this long day, this dreadful, dreadful waiting for -- what? ever come to an end?" she asked herself over and over again.

Yet, when at last the expected step drew near, she shuddered, trembled, and turned pale with affright, and, starting to her feet, looked this way and that with a wild impulse to flee: then, as the door opened, she dropped into her chair again, and covered her face with her shaking hands.

She heard the door close: the step drew nearer, nearer, and stopped close at her side. She dared not look up, but felt her father's eyes gazing sternly upon her.

"Miserable child!" he said at length, "do you know what your terrible temper has wrought? -- that in your mad passion you have nearly or quite killed your little sister? that, even should she live, she may be a life-long sufferer, in consequence of your fiendish act?"

"O papa, don't!" she pleaded in broken accents, cowering and shrinking as if he had struck her a deadly blow.

"You deserve it," he said: "indeed, I could not possibly inflict a worse punishment than your conduct merits. But what is the use of punishing you? nothing reforms you! I am in despair of you! You seem determined to make yourself a curse to me instead of the blessing I once esteemed you. What am I to do with you? Will you compel me to cage or chain you up like a wild beast, lest you do some one a fatal injury?"

A cry of pain was her only answer, and he turned and left the room.

"Oh!" she moaned, "it's worse than if he had beaten me half to death! he thinks I'm too bad, even to be punished; because nothing will make me good: he says I'm a curse to him, so he must hate me; though he used to love me dearly, and I loved him so too! I suppose everybody hates me now, and always will. I wish I was dead and out of their way. But, oh! no, I don't; for I'm not fit to die. Oh! what shall I do? I wish it was I that was hurt instead of the baby. I'd like to go away and hide from everybody that knows me; then I shouldn't be a curse and trouble to papa or any of them."

She lifted her head, and looked about her. It was growing dusk. Quick as a flash came the thought that now was her time; now, while almost everybody was so taken up with the critical condition of the injured little one; now, before the servants had lighted the lamps in rooms and halls.

She would slip down a back stairway, out into the grounds, and away, she cared not whither.

Always impulsive, and now full of mental distress, she did not pause a moment to consider, but, snatching up a hat and coat lying conveniently at hand, stole noiselessly from the room, putting them on as she went.

She gained a side-door without meeting any one; and the grounds seemed deserted as she passed round the house and entered the avenue, down which she ran with swift footsteps, after one hasty glance around to make sure that she was not seen.

She reached the great gates, pushed them open, stepped out, letting them swing to after her, and started on a run down the road.

But the next instant some one had caught her: a hand was on her shoulder, and a stern, astonished voice cried, "Lulu! is it possible this can be you? What are you doing out here in the public road alone, and in the darkness of evening? Where were you going?"

"I -- I -- don't want -- to tell you, papa," she faltered.

"Where were you going?" he repeated, in a tone that said an answer he would have, and that at once.

"Nowhere -- anywhere to get away from this place, where everybody hates me!" she replied sullenly, trying to wrench herself free. "Please let me go, and I'll never come back to trouble you any more."

He made no reply to that, but simply took her band in a firm grasp, and led her back to the house, back to her own room, where he shut himself in with her, locking the door on the inside.

Then he dropped her hand, and began pacing the floor to and fro, seemingly in deep and troubled thought, his arms folded, his head bowed upon his breast.

A servant had brought in a light during Lulu's absence; and now, looking timidly up at her father, she saw his face for the first time since they had bidden each other farewell a year before. It struck her as not only very pale, stern, and grief-stricken, but very much older and more deeply lined than she remembered it: she did not know that the change had been wrought almost entirely in the last few hours, yet recognized it with a pang nevertheless.

"Papa is growing old," she thought: "are there gray hairs in his head, I wonder?" Then there came dimly to her recollection some Bible words about bringing a father's gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave. "Was her misconduct killing her father?" She burst into an agony of sobs and tears at the thought.

He lifted his head, and looked at her gravely, and with mingled sternness and compassion.

"Take off that hat and coat, get your night-dress, and make yourself ready for bed," he commanded, then, stepping to the table, sat down, drew the lamp nearer, opened her Bible, lying there, and slowly turned over the leaves as if in search of some particular passage, while she moved slowly about the room, tremblingly and tearfully obeying his order.

"Shall I get into bed, papa?" she asked tremulously, when she had finished.

"No, not yet. Come here."

She went and stood at his side, with drooping head and fast-beating heart, her eyes on the carpet, for she dared not look in his face.

He seemed to have found the passage he sought; and, keeping the book open with his left hand, he turned to her as she stood at his right.

"Lucilla," he said, and his accents were not stern, though very grave and sad, "you cannot have forgotten that I have repeatedly and positively forbidden you to go wandering alone about unfrequented streets and roads, even in broad daylight; yet you attempted to do that very thing to-night in the darkness, which, of course, makes it much worse."

"Yes, papa; but I -- I didn't mean ever to come back."

"You were running away?"

"Yes, sir: I -- I thought you would be glad to get rid of me," she sobbed.

He did not speak again for a moment; and when he did, it was in moved tones.

"Supposing I did desire to be rid of you, -- which is very far from being the case, -- I should have no right to let you go; for you are my own child, whom God has given to me to take care of, provide for, and train up for his service. You and I belong to each other as parent and child: you have no right to run away from my care and authority, and I have none to let you do so. In fact, I feel compelled to punish the attempt quite severely, lest there should be a repetition of it."

"Oh, don't, papa!" she sobbed. "I'll never do it again."

"It was an act of daring, wilful disobedience," he said, "and I must punish you for it. Also, for the fury of passion indulged in this morning. Read this, and this, aloud," he added, pointing to the open page; and she obeyed, reading faltering, sobbingly, -- 

"'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.' ... 'Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.'"

"You see, my child, that my orders are too plain to be misunderstood," he said, when she had finished; "and they must be obeyed, however unwelcome to me or to you."

"Yes, papa; and -- and I -- I -- 'most want you to whip me for hurting the baby so. I suppose nobody believes I'm sorry, but I am. I could beat myself for it, though I didn't know it was the baby pulling at my skirt. I thought it was Rosie's dog."

"It is not exactly for hurting the baby," he said; "if you had done that by accident, I should never think of punishing you for it: but for the fury of passion that betrayed you into doing it, I must punish you very severely.

"I shudder to think what you may come to, if I let you go on indulging your fiery, ungovernable temper: yes, and to think what it has already brought you to," he added, with a heavy sigh.

"You can never enter heaven unless you gain the victory over that, as well as every other sin: and, my daughter, there are but two places to choose from as our eternal home, -- heaven and hell; and I must use every effort to deliver your soul from going to that last -- dreadful place!"

He rose, stepped to the window where her little riding-whip still lay, came back to her; and for the next few minutes she forgot mental distress in sharp, physical pain, as the stinging, though not heavy, blows fell thick and fast on her thinly covered back and shoulders.

She writhed and sobbed under them, but neither screamed, nor pleaded for mercy.

When he had finished, he sat down again, and drew the weeping, writhing child in between his knees, put his arm about her in tender, fatherly fashion, and made her lay her head on his shoulder; but he said not a word. Perhaps his heart was too full for speech.

Presently Lulu's arm crept round his neck. "Papa," she sobbed, "I -- I do love you, and I -- I'm glad you wouldn't let me run away, -- and that you try to save me from losing my soul. But oh, I can't be good! I wish, I wish I could!" she ended, with a bitter, despairing cry.

He was much moved.

"We will kneel down, and ask God to help you, my poor, dear child," he said.

He did so, making her kneel beside him, while, with his arm still about her, he poured out a prayer so earnest and tender, so exactly describing her feelings and her needs, that she could join in it with all her heart. He prayed like one talking to his Father and Friend, who he knew was both able and willing to do great things for him and his.

When they had risen from their knees, she lifted her eyes to his face with a timid, pleading look.

He understood the mute petition, and, sitting down again, drew her to his knee, and kissed her several times with grave tenderness.

"I wanted a kiss so badly, papa," she said. "You know, it is a whole year since I had one; and you never came home before without giving me one just as soon as we met."

"No; but I never before had so little reason to bestow a caress on you," he said. "When I heard of your deed of this morning, I felt that I ought not to show you any mark of favor, at least not until I had given you the punishment you so richly deserved. Do you not think I was right?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, hanging her head, and blushing deeply.

"I will put you in your bed now, and leave you for to-night," he said. "I must go back to my little suffering baby and her almost heart-broken mother."

He led her to the bed, and lifted her into it as he spoke.

"Papa, can't I have a piece of bread?" she asked humbly. "I'm so hungry!"

"Hungry!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Had you no supper?"

"No, sir, nor dinner either. I haven't had a bite to eat since breakfast."

"Strange!" he said; "but I suppose you were forgotten in the excitement and anxiety every one in the house has felt ever since the baby's sad fall. And they may have felt it unnecessary to bring any thing to you, as you were quite able to go to the dining-room for it."

"I couldn't bear to, papa," she said, with tears of shame and grief; "and, indeed, I wasn't hungry till a little while ago; but now I feel faint and sick for something to eat."

"You shall have it," he replied, and went hastily from the room, to return in a few minutes, bringing a bowl of milk and a plentiful supply of bread and butter.

He set them on the table, and bade her come and eat.

"Papa, you are very kind to me, ever so much kinder than I deserve," she said tremulously, as she made haste to obey the order. "I think some fathers would say I must go hungry for to-night."

"I have already punished you in what I consider a better way, because it could not injure your health," he said; "while going a long time without food would be almost sure to do so. It is not my intention ever to punish my children in a way to do them injury. Present pain is all I am at all willing to inflict, and that only for their good."

"Yes, papa, I know that," she said with a sob, setting down her bowl of milk to wipe her eyes; "so, when you punish me, it doesn't make me quit loving you."

"If I did not love you, if you were not my own dear child," he said, laying his hand on her head as he stood by her side, "I don't think I could be at the trouble and pain of disciplining you as I have to-night. But eat your supper: I can't stay with you much longer, and I want to see you in bed before I go."

As she laid her head on her pillow again, there was a flash of lightning, followed instantly by a .crash of thunder and a heavy downpour of rain.

"Do you hear that?" he asked. "Now, suppose I had let you go when I caught you trying to run away, how would you feel, alone out of doors, in the darkness and storm, no shelter, no home, no friends, no father to take care of you, and provide for your wants?"

"O papa! it would be very, very dreadful!" she sobbed, putting her arm round his neck as he bent over her. "I'm very glad you brought me back, even to punish me so severely; and I don't think I'll ever want to run away again."

"I trust not," he said, kissing her good-night; "and you must not leave this room till I give you permission. I intend that you shall spend some days in solitude, -- except when I see fit to come to you, -- that you may have plenty of time and opportunity to think over your sinful conduct and its dire consequences."



Chapter XIII.

"I'm on the rack; For sure, the greatest evil man can know, Bears no proportion to the dread suspense."


"Is there any change, doctor?" asked Capt. Raymond, meeting Arthur Conly in the hall.

"Hardly," was the reply: "certainly none for the worse."

"Will she get over it, do you think?" The father's tones were unsteady as he asked the question.

"My dear captain, it is impossible to tell yet," Arthur said feelingly; "but we must try to hope for the best."

Their hands met in a warm clasp.

"I shall certainly do so," the captain said. "But you are not going to leave us, -- especially not in this storm?"

"No: I expect to pass the night in the house, ready to be summoned at a moment's notice, should any change take place."

"Thank you: it will be a great satisfaction to us to know we have you close at hand." And the captain turned and entered the nursery, which Arthur had just left.

Violet, seated by the side of the crib where her baby lay, looked up on her husband's entrance, greeting him with a smile of mingled love and sadness.

"Your dear presence is such a comfort and support!" she murmured as he drew near. "I don't like to lose sight of you for a single moment."

"Nor I of you, dearest," he answered, bending down to kiss her pale cheek, then taking a seat close beside her; "but I had to seek solitude for a time while fighting a battle with myself. Since that I have been with Lulu."

He concluded with a heavy sigh, and for a moment both were silent; then he said with grave tenderness, -- 

"I fear you will find it hard to forgive her: it has been no easy thing for me to do so."

"I cannot yet," returned Violet, a hard look that he had never seen there before stealing over her face; "and that is an added distress, for 'if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.' I think I can if my baby recovers; but should it -- be taken away -- or -- or, worse by far, live to be a constant sufferer -- oh, how can I ever forgive the author of that suffering! Pray for me, my dear husband," she sobbed, laying her head on his shoulder.

"I will, I do, my darling," he whispered, passing his arm about her, and drawing her closer; "and I know the help you need will be given.

"'Ask, and it shall be given you.'

"Perhaps it may aid the effort, if I tell you Lulu did not intentionally harm her little sister, and is greatly distressed at her state. She thought it was Rosie's dog pulling at her skirts; and I own that that explanation makes the sad affair a little less heart-rending to me, though I could not accept it as any excuse for an act done in a fury of passion, and have punished her very severely for it; that is, for her passion. I think it is right, under the circumstances, that you should know that I have, and that it is my fixed purpose to keep her in solitary confinement, at least so long as the baby continues in a critical condition."

"Oh! I am glad to know it was not done purposely," Violet exclaimed, -- though in a tone hardly raised above a whisper, -- lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a look of something like relief: "knowing that, I begin to feel that it may be possible to forgive and forget, especially if the consequences do not prove lasting," she added with a sob, and turning her eyes to the little wan face on the pillow. "But I certainly take no delight in the severity of her punishment: in fact, I fear it may destroy any little affection she has had for her baby sister."

"No," he said, "I am not at all apprehensive of that. When she found I was about to punish her, she said she almost wanted me to; that she felt like beating herself for hurting the baby, then went on to explain her mistake, -- thinking it was the dog tugging at her dress, -- and I then gave her fully to understand, that the chastisement was not for hurting the baby, but for indulging in such a fury of passion, a fault that I have punished her for on more than one former occasion; telling her, too, that I intended to chastise her every time I knew of her being guilty of it."

The sound of a low sob caused the captain to turn his head, to find his little Grace standing at the back of his chair, and crying bitterly, though without much noise.

He took her hand, and drew her to his side. "What is the matter, daughter?" he asked tenderly.

"O papa! I'm so sorry for Lulu," she sobbed; "please, mayn't I go to her for a little while?"

"No, Gracie. I cannot allow her the pleasure of seeing you, either to-night, or for some days."

"But, papa, you said -- you told mamma just now -- that you had already punished her very severely; and must you keep on?"

"Yes, my child, so far as to keep her in solitude, that she may have plenty of time to think about what she has brought upon herself and others by the indulgence of an ungovernable temper. She needs to have the lesson impressed upon her as deeply as possible."

"I'm so sorry for her, papa!" repeated the gentle little pleader.

"So am I, daughter," he said; "but I think, that to see that she has the full benefit of this sad lesson, will be the greatest kindness I can do her. And my little Grace must try to believe that papa knows best.

"Now, give me a good-night kiss, and go to your bed, for it is quite time you were there."

As he spoke, he took her in his arms, and held her for a moment in a close embrace. "Papa's dear little girl!" he said softly: "you have never given me a pang, except by your feeble health."

"I don't want to, papa: I hope I never, never shall!" she returned, hugging him tight.

Leaving him, she went to Violet, put her arms about her neck, and said in her sweet, childish treble, "Dear mamma, don't feel so dreadfully about baby: I've been asking God to make her quite, quite well; and I do believe he will."

When she had left the room, the captain found himself alone with his young wife and their little one. Again her head was on his shoulder, his arm about her waist.

"My husband, my dear, dear husband," she murmured, "I am so glad to have you here! I cannot tell you how I longed for you when the children were so ill. Oh, if we could only be together always, as Lester and Elsie, Edward and Zoe, are!"

"My love, my life," he said in low tones, tremulous with feeling, "what if I should tell you that your wish is already accomplished?"

She gave him a glance of astonishment and incredulity.

"It is even so: I mean all I have said," he answered to the look. "I have sent in my resignation: it has been accepted, and I have come home -- no, I have come here to make a home for you and my children, hoping to live in it with you and them for the rest of my days."

Her face had grown radiant. "Oh! can it be true?" she cried, half under her breath; for even in her glad surprise, the thought of her suffering babe and its critical condition was present with her: "are we not to be forced apart again in a few days or weeks? not to go on spending more than half our lives at a distance from each other?"

"It is quite true, my darling," he answered, then went on to tell, in a few brief sentences, how it had come about.

"It cost me a struggle to give up the service," he said in conclusion; "and perhaps I might not have decided as I did, but for the thought that, if I should be needed by my country at some future day, I could offer her my services; and the thought that, at present, wife and children needed me more, probably, than she. I felt that Lulu, in particular, needed my oversight and training; that the task of bringing her up was too difficult, too trying, to be left to other hands than those of her father; and I feel that still more sensibly since hearing of this day's doings," he added in a tone of heartfelt sorrow.

"I think you are right," Violet said. "She is more willing to submit to your authority than to that of anybody else; as, indeed, she ought to be: and in a home that she will feel is really her own, her father's house, and with him constantly at hand, to watch over, and help her to correct her faults, there is hope, I think, that she may grow to be all you desire."

"Thank you, love, for saying it," he responded with emotion. "I could not blame you if now you thought her utterly irreclaimable."

"No, oh, no!" she answered earnestly. "I have great hopes of her, with her father at hand to help her in the struggle with her temper; for I am sure she does struggle against it; and I must acknowledge, that, for months past, she has been as good and lovable a child as one could desire. I don't know a more lovable one than she is when her temper does not get the better of her; and, as Gracie says, whenever it does, 'she gets sorry very soon.'"

"My darling," he said, pressing the hand he held, "you are most kind to be so ready to see what is commendable in my wayward child. I cannot reasonably expect even you to look at her with her father's partial eyes. And dearly as I certainly do love her, I have been exceedingly angry with her to-day; so angry, that, for a time, I dared not trust myself to go near her, I, who ought to have unlimited patience with her, knowing, as I do, that she inherits her temper from me."

"I don't know how to believe that, my dear, good husband," Violet said, gazing up into his face with fond, admiring eyes; "for I have never seen any evidence of it. If you have such a temper, you have certainly gained complete mastery of it. And that may well give us hope for Lulu."

"I do not despair of her," he said; "though I was near doing so to-day -- for a time -- after hearing a full account of her passionate behavior -- her savage assault, as it seemed to be, upon her baby sister."

"Oh!" moaned Violet, bending over the little one with fast-falling tears, -- for it was moaning as if in pain, -- "my baby, my poor, precious baby! how gladly mamma would bear all your suffering for you, if she could! O Levis! what shall we do if she is taken from us?"

"Dear wife, I hope we may not be called to endure that trial," he said; "but, in any case, we have the gracious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And that blessed assurance, for our consolation, in regard to her, 'He shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.'"

"'Tis a very sweet promise; but, oh! I don't know how to resign her, even to Him," she said, weeping bitterly.

"Nor I; but we will try to leave it all with Him. We will rejoice if she is spared to us; and, if not, we will be glad to know that she is so safe, so happy with Him -- gathered with His arm, carried in His bosom."

"Yes, yes," she sobbed: "it would be only for ourselves we would need to grieve, not for her, sweet pet."

Elsie, Violet's mother, came into the room at that moment.

"My dear Vi," she said tenderly, "you are looking sadly worn and weary. I want you and the captain to take your rest to-night, while Arthur and I will care for baby."

"Thank you, dearest mamma," Violet replied; "but rest and sleep are quite as necessary to you as to me; and, besides, I could not bear to leave her."

"I took a nap on purpose to be able to sit up to-night," Elsie said; "also, I am less exhausted by mental distress than her mother is, dearly as I love her. Can you not trust her to me, with the doctor sharing my vigil?"

"I could trust your nursing sooner than my own, mother," Violet answered; "it is not that; but I cannot tear myself away from my darling, while she is in so critical a state."

"And I," said the captain, "while warmly thanking you and the doctor, cannot consent to leave either wife or baby to-night."

So, finding they were not to be persuaded to rest, the others left them to watch over the little one through that night.

The morning brought a slight change for the better, yet no certainty of recovery; but even that barely perceptible improvement, joined to the delightful prospect of always having her husband at home, cheered Violet greatly.

They had talked much of that through the night, beguiling the long hours of their tedium with many a bright plan for the future, always hoping that "baby" would be a sharer in their realization.

The captain hoped to buy or build in the near neighborhood of Ion, that Violet need not be separated from her mother, -- a separation he was most desirous to avoid on his own account, also; for he entertained a very high regard and warm affection for his mother-in-law, averring that it would be scarcely possible for him to love her better were he her own son.

He had resigned to Violet the pleasure of telling the joyful news to her mother and the whole family, except his children; reserving to himself the right to communicate the glad tidings to them when, and in what way, he should deem best.

Lulu, he said, was to be kept in ignorance of it till the time of her imprisonment expired.

At a very early hour in the morning, Elsie and the doctor came to the relief of the watchers. Arthur noted and announced the improvement, thus reviving hope in the anxious hearts of the parents; and before retiring for a few hours' rest and sleep, Violet whispered to them the news that had gladdened her heart in spite of its heavy load of grief and fear.

They both rejoiced with her, and bade her hope for the best in regard to her babe.

Pain, mental and physical, kept Lulu awake a good while after her father left her; but at length she fell into a deep sleep, which lasted far beyond her customary hour for rising, the house being very still, because of the baby's illness, and the blinds down in her room, so that there was neither light nor noise to rouse her.

Her first thoughts on awaking were a little confused: then, as with a flash, all the events of yesterday came to her remembrance, bringing with them bitter upbraidings of conscience, and torturing anxieties and fears.

Would the baby die? oh! perhaps it was already dead, and she a murderess! the murderess of her own little sister -- her father's child!

If that were so, how could she ever look him, or anybody else, in the face again? And what would be done to her? was there any danger that she would be put in prison? oh! that would be far worse than being sent to a boarding-school, even where the people were as strict and as disagreeable as possible!

And she would be sorry, oh, so sorry! to lose the baby sister, or to have her a sufferer from what she had done, for life, or for years, even could she herself escape all evil consequences.

All the time she was attending to the duties of the toilet, these thoughts and feelings were in her mind and heart; and her fingers trembled so that it was with difficulty she could manage buttons and hooks and eyes, or stick in a pin.

She started at every sound, longing, yet dreading, -- as she had done the previous day, -- to see her father; for who could tell what news he might bring her from the nursery?

Glancing at the little clock on the mantel, when at last she was quite dressed, and ready for her breakfast, she saw that it was more than an hour past the usual time for that meal; yet no one had been near her, and she was very hungry; but, even if her father had not forbidden her to leave the room, she would have preferred the pangs of hunger to showing her face in the dining-room.

Presently, however, footsteps -- not those of her father -- approached her door.

"Miss Lu," said a voice she recognized as that of her mamma's maid, "please open de doah: hyar's yo' breakfus."

The request was promptly complied with; and Agnes entered, carrying a waiter laden with a bountiful supply of savory and toothsome viands.

"Dar it am," she remarked, when she had set it on the table. "I s'pose mos' likely yo' kin eat ef de precious little darlin' is mos' killed by means ob yo' bein' in a passion an' kickin' ob her -- de sweet honey! -- down de steps."

And turning swiftly about, her head in the air, the girl swept from the room, leaving Lulu standing in the middle of the floor, fairly struck dumb with indignation, astonishment, and dismay.

"How dared Agnes -- a mulatto servant-girl, -- talk so to her! But was the baby really dying? Would papa never come to tell her the truth about it? She wouldn't believe any thing so dreadful till she heard it from him: very likely Agnes was only trying to torment her, and make her as miserable as possible."

She had sunk, trembling, into a chair, feeling as if she should never want to eat again; but with that last thought, her hopes revived, hunger once more asserted its sway, and she ate her breakfast with a good deal of appetite and relish.

But, when hunger was appeased, fears and anxieties renewed their assault: she grew half distracted with them, as hour after hour passed on, and no one came near her except another maid, to take away the breakfast-dishes and tidy the room.

On her, Lulu turned her back, holding an open book in her hand, and pretending to be deeply absorbed in its contents, though not a word of the sense was she taking in; for, intense as was her desire to learn the baby's condition, she would not risk any more such stabs to her sensitiveness and pride as had been given by Agnes.

This one came, did her work, and went away again in silence; but all the time she was in the room, Lulu felt that she was casting glances of disgust and disfavor at her. She could not breathe freely till the girl had left the room.

She thought surely the dinner-hour would bring her father; but it did not: her wants were again supplied by a servant.



Chapter XIV.

"The dread of evil is the worst of ill."


On leaving the breakfast-room, Violet hastened back to the nursery; but the captain, calling Max and Grace into her boudoir, said, as he took the little girl on his knee, and motioned Max to sit by his side, -- 

"I have some news for you, my children: can you guess what it is?"

"Something good, I hope, papa," said Max: "you look as if it was."

"I am very much pleased with my share of it," the captain said, smiling; "and I shall know presently, I presume, what you two think of yours. What would you like it to be, Gracie?"

"That my papa was never, never going away any more," she answered promptly, lifting loving eyes to his face.

"There couldn't be better news than that," remarked Max; "but," with a profound sigh, "of course it can't be that."

"Ah! don't be quite so sure, young man," laughed his father.

"Papa, you don't mean to say that that is it?" queried Max breathlessly.

"I do: I have resigned from the navy, and hope soon to have a home ready for my wife and children, and to live in it with them as long as it shall please God to spare our lives."

Tears of joy actually came into the boy's eyes; while Gracie threw her arms round their father's neck, and half smothered him with kisses.

"O papa, papa!" she cried, "I'm so glad, I don't know what to do! I'm the happiest girl in the world! -- or should be, if only the dear baby was well," she added, with springing tears.

"Yes," he sighed: "we cannot feel other than sad, while she is suffering and in danger. But she is a trifle better this morning, and we will hope the improvement may continue till she is entirely restored."

"She's such a darling!" said Max; "just the brightest, cutest baby that ever was seen! Mamma Vi has taught her to know your photograph; and, whenever she sees it, she says, 'Papa,' as plainly as I can. She calls me too, and Lu. Oh! I don't know how Lulu could" -- He broke off, without finishing his sentence.

"Lu didn't do it on purpose," sobbed Gracie, pulling out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

"No," sighed the captain: "I am quite sure she had no intention of harming her little sister, yet she is responsible for it as the consequence of indulging in a fit of rage; she feels that: and I hope the distress of mind she is now suffering because of the dreadful deed she has done in her passion, will be such a lesson to her, that she will learn to rule her own spirit in future."

"Oh, I do hope so!" said Grace. "Papa, does Lulu know your good news?"

"No. I have not told her yet; and I intend to keep her in ignorance of it for some days, as part of her deserved punishment. I do not want her to have any thing to divert her mind from the consideration of the great sin and danger of such indulgence of temper."

"You haven't quit loving her, papa? you won't?" Grace said, half entreatingly, half inquiringly.

"No, daughter, oh, no!" he replied with emotion. "I don't know what would ever make me quit loving any one of my dear children."

He drew her closer, and kissed her fondly as he spoke.

"I am very glad of that, papa," said Max feelingly; "for though I do mean to be always a good son to you, if I ever should do any thing very, very bad, I'd not be afraid to confess it to you. I could stand punishment, you know; but I don't think I could bear to have you give up being fond of me."

A warm pressure of the lad's hand was the captain's only reply at first; but presently he said, "I trust you will always be perfectly open with me, my dear boy. You don't think, do you, that you could have a better -- more disinterested -- earthly friend than your father?"

"No, sir! oh, no, indeed!"

"Then make me your confidant," his father said, with a smile and look that spoke volumes of fatherly pride and affection; "let me into all your secrets. Now that I am to be with you constantly, I shall take a deeper interest than ever in all that concerns you, -- if that be possible, -- in your studies, your sports, your thoughts and feelings. You may always be sure of my sympathy, and such help as I can give in every right and wise undertaking."

"I'll do that, papa!" Max exclaimed with a sudden, glad, lighting-up of the face. "Why, it'll be as good as having the brother I've often wished for!" he added with a pleased laugh; "better, in some ways, anyhow; for you'll be so much wiser than any boy, and keep me out of scrapes with your good advice."

"Papa," queried Grace, with a little bashful hesitation, "mayn't I have you for my friend too?"

"Yes, indeed, my darling little girl!" he answered with a hug and kiss. "I should like to be quite as intimate with you as I hope to be with Max."

"With Lulu too?" she asked.

"Yes; with every one of my children."

Max had averted his face to hide his amusement at his little sister's question in regard to her father's friendship for herself, for the timid, sensitive little girl could hardly bear to be laughed at; but now he turned to his father again with the query, -- 

"Papa, where are we going to live?"

"I don't know yet, Max," the captain answered; "but I hope to be able to buy or build somewhere in this neighborhood, as I should be loath to take your mamma far away from her mother, -- myself either, for that matter; and I presume you would all prefer to live near these kind friends?"

"I am sure I should," said Max. "But, papa," -- he paused, coloring, and casting down his eyes.

"Well, my boy, what is it? don't be afraid to talk freely to your intimate friend," his father said in a kindly tone, and laying a hand affectionately on the lad's shoulder.

"Please don't think me impertinent, papa," Max said, coloring still more, "but I was just going to ask how you could live without your pay; as I have heard you say it was nearly all you had."

"I am not at all offended at the inquiry," was the kindly reply. "The intimacy and confidences are not to be all on one side, my boy.

"I am quite willing you should know that am able now to do without the pay, some land belonging to me in the Far West having so risen in value as to afford me sufficient means for the proper support of my family, and education of my children."

"Oh, that is good!" cried Max, clapping his hands in delight. "And if it is used up by the time I'm grown and educated, I hope I'll be able to take care of you, and provide for you as you do now for me."

"Thank you, my dear boy," the captain said with feeling; "the day may come when you will be the stay and staff of my old age; but, however that may be, you may be sure that nothing can add more to your father's happiness than seeing you growing up to honorable and Christian manhood."

"Yes, sir: it's what I want to do." Then, a little anxiously, after a moment's thought, "Am I to be sent away to school, sir?"

"I have not quite decided that question, and your wishes will have great weight with me in making the decision. I shall keep Lulu at home, and educate her myself, -- act as her tutor, I mean, -- and if my boy would like to become my pupil also" -- 

"O papa! indeed, indeed I should!" exclaimed Max joyfully, as his father paused, looking smilingly at him; "and I'll try hard to do you credit as my teacher as well as my father."

"Then we will make the trial," said the captain. "If it should not prove a success, there will be time enough after that to try a school."

"What about me, papa?" asked Grace wistfully, feeling as if she were being overlooked in the arrangements.

"You, too, shall say lessons to papa," he answered with tender look and tone. "Shall you like that?"

"Ever so much!" she exclaimed, lifting glad, shining eyes to his face.

"Now you may go back to your play," he said, gently putting her off his knee. "I must go to your mamma and our poor, suffering baby."

He went; but the children lingered a while where they were, talking over this wonderfully good news.

"Now," said Max, "if Lu had only controlled her temper yesterday, what a happy family we'd be!"

"Yes," sighed Grace; "how I do wish she had! Oh, I'm so sorry for her, that she doesn't know this about papa going to stay with us all the time! 'Sides, she's 'specting to be sent away somewhere; and how dreadfully she must feel! Papa's punishing her very hard, and very long; but of course he knows best, and he loves her."

"Yes, I'm sure he does," assented Max: "so he won't give her any more punishment than he thinks she needs. It'll be a fine thing for her, and all the rest of us too, if this hard lesson teaches her never to get into a passion again."

Capt. Raymond had intended going to Lulu early in the day; but anxiety about the babe, and sympathy with Violet, kept him with them till late in the afternoon.

When at last he did go to his prisoner, he found her feverish with anxiety and fear for the consequences of her mad act of the day before.


She had been longing for his coming, moving restlessly about the room, feeling that she could not endure the suspense another moment; had at length thrown herself into a chair beside the window, and, as was her wont in times of over-wrought feeling, buried her face on her folded arms, laid on the window-sill.

She started up wildly at the sound of his step and the opening of the door.

"Papa," she cried breathlessly, "O papa! what -- what have you come to tell me? Is -- is the baby" -- 

"She is living, but far from out of danger," he said, regarding her with a very grave, stern expression; but it softened as he marked the anguish in her face.

He sat down, and drew her to his knee, putting his arm about her waist, and with the other hand clasping one of hers.

He was startled to feel how hot and dry it was.

"My child!" he exclaimed, "you are not well."

She dropped her head on his shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "Papa, papa! what shall I do if baby dies? Oh! I would do or bear any thing in the world to make her well."

"I don't doubt it, daughter," he said; "but a bitter lesson we all have to learn is, that we cannot undo the evil deeds we have done. Oh! let this dreadful occurrence be a warning to you to keep a tight rein upon your quick temper."

"Oh! I do mean to, indeed I do," she sobbed; "but that won't cure the dear baby's hurt. Papa, all day long I have been asking God to forgive me. Do you think he will?"

"I am sure that he has already done so, if you have asked with your heart, and for Jesus' sake. But we will ask him again for that, and to give you strength to fight against your evil nature as you never have fought, and to conquer."

"And to make the baby well, papa," she added sobbingly, as he knelt with her.

"Yes," he said.

When they had risen from their knees, he bade her get her hat and coat, saying, "You need fresh air and exercise. I will take you for a walk."

"I'd like to go, papa," she said; "but" -- 

"But what?"

"I -- I'm afraid of -- of meeting some of the family; and -- and I don't want to see any of them."

"Perhaps we shall not meet them," he said; "and, if we do, you need not look toward them; and they will not speak to you. Put on your hat and coat at once: we have no time to lose."

She obeyed; and presently they were walking down the avenue, not having met any one on their way out of the house.

The captain moved on in silence, seemingly absorbed in sad thought, and hardly conscious that Lulu was by his side.

She glanced wistfully up into his grave, stern face two or three times, then said humbly, pleadingly, "Papa, please may I put my hand in yours?"

"Certainly," he said, looking down at her very kindly, as he took her hand, and held it in a warm, affectionate clasp. "Child, you have not lost your father's love. You are very dear to me, in spite of all your naughtiness."

He slackened his pace, for he saw she was finding it difficult to keep up with him; and his attention was again attracted to the heat of her hand.

"You are not well, perhaps not able to walk?" he said inquiringly, and in tenderly solicitous accents.

"It is pleasant to be out in the air, papa," she answered; "but it tires me a good deal more than usual."

"We will not go far, then," he said; "and, if your strength gives out before we get back to the house, I will carry you."

They were in the road now, some distance beyond the avenue-gates; and at this moment a number of horsemen came in sight, approaching from the direction opposite to that they were taking.

Perceiving them, Lulu uttered a sharp cry of terror, and shrank behind her father, though still clinging to his hand.

"What is it, daughter?" he asked in surprise: "what do you fear?"

"O papa, papa!" she sobbed, "are they coming to take me and put me in prison? Oh, don't let them have me!"

"Don't be frightened," he said soothingly. "Don't you see it is only some men who have been out hunting, and are going home with their game?"

"Oh! is that all?" she gasped, the color coming back to her face, which had grown deadly pale. "I thought it was the sheriff coming to put me in jail for hurting the baby. Will they do it, papa? Oh! you won't let them, will you?" she cried entreatingly.

"I could not protect you from the law," he said, in a moved tone; "but I think there is no danger that it will interfere. You did not hurt your sister intentionally, and she is still living. You are very young too; and, doubtless, everybody will think your punishment should be left to me, your father."

She was trembling like a leaf.

He turned aside to a fallen tree, sat down on it, and took her in his arms. She dropped her head on his shoulder, panting like a hunted thing.


"These two days have been too much for you," he said pityingly. "And that fear has tormented you all the time?"

"Yes, papa: oh, I thought I might have to be hung if baby died, and -- it was -- so -- dreadful -- to think I'd killed her -- even if they didn't do any thing to me for it," she sobbed.

"Yes; very, very dreadful; perhaps more so to me -- the father of you both -- than to any one else," he groaned.

"Papa, I'm heart-broken about it," she sobbed "Oh, if I only could undo it!"

He was silent for a moment; then he said, "I know you are suffering very much from remorse; this is a bitter lesson to you; let it be a lasting one. I can relieve you of the fear of punishment from the law of the land; there is no danger of that now: but, if you do not lay this lesson to heart, there may come a time when that danger will be real; for there is no knowing what awful deed such an ungovernable temper as yours may lead you to commit.

"But don't despair: you can conquer it by determination, constant watchfulness, and the help from on high which will be given in answer to earnest prayer."

"Then it shall be conquered!" she cried vehemently. "I will fight it with all my might. And you will help me, papa, all you can, won't you, by watching me, and warning me when you see I'm beginning to get angry, and punishing me for the least little bit of a passion? But oh, I forget that you can't stay with me, or take me with you!" she cried with a fresh burst of sobs and tears. "Must you go back to your ship soon?"

"Not very soon," he said; "and I gladly promise to help you all I can in every way. I can do it with my prayers, even when not close beside you. But, my child, the struggle must be your own; all I can do will be of no avail unless you fight the battle yourself with all your strength.

"We will go home now," he added, rising, and taking her hand in his.

But they had gone only a few steps when he stooped, and took her in his arms, saying. "You are not able to walk. I shall carry you."

"But I am so heavy, papa," she objected.

"No, darling: I can carry you very easily," he said. "There, put your arm round my neck, and lay your head on my shoulder."

The pet name from his lips sent a thrill of joy to her heart; and it was very pleasant, very restful, to feel herself infolded in his strong arms.

He carried her carefully, tenderly along, holding her close, as something precious that he began to fear might slip from his grasp. She had always been a strong, healthy child, and heretofore he had scarcely thought of sickness in connection with her; but now he was alarmed at her state.

"Are you in pain, daughter?" he asked.

"Only a headache, papa; I suppose because I've cried so much."

"I think I must have the doctor see you."

"Oh, no, no, papa! please don't," she sobbed. "I don't want to see him or anybody."

"Then we will wait a little; perhaps you will be all right again by to-morrow."

He did not set her down till they had almost reached the house; and he took her in his arms again at the foot of the stairway, and carried her to her room, where he sat down with her on his knee.

"Papa, aren't you very tired, carrying such a big, heavy girl?" she asked, looking regretfully into his face.

"No; very little," he answered, taking off her hat, and laying his cool hand on her forehead. "Your head is very hot. I'll take off your coat, and lay you on the bed; and I want you to stay there for the rest of the day; go to sleep if you can."

"I will, papa," she answered submissively; then as he laid her down, and turned to leave her, "Oh, I wish you could stay with me!" she cried, clinging to him.

"I cannot now, daughter," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly. "I must go back to your mamma and the baby. But I will come in again to bid you good-night, and see that you are as comfortable as I can make you. Can you eat some supper?"

"I don't know, papa," she answered doubtfully.

"Well, I will send you some; and you can eat it, or not, as you feel inclined."



Chapter XV.

"After the storm, a calm; after the rain, sunlight."


As Capt. Raymond passed through the hall on which Lulu's room opened, a little girl, dressed in deep mourning, rose from the broad, low sill of the front window, where she had been sitting waiting for the last few minutes, and came forward to meet him. She was a rather delicate-looking, sweet-faced child, with large dark eyes, full of intelligence.

"Capt. Raymond?" she said inquiringly, and with a timid look up into his face.

"Yes," he said, holding out his hand to her with a fatherly smile: "and you, I suppose, are my Lulu's little friend, Evelyn Leland?"

"Yes, sir: we -- uncle Lester, aunt Elsie, little Ned, and I -- have been away visiting at some distance, and did not hear of -- of the baby's bad fall till we came home this afternoon. We are all so sorry, so very sorry! Aunt Elsie is with aunt Vi now; and I -- oh! please, sir, may I go to Lulu?"

"My dear little girl, I should like to say yes, for your sake, -- and Lulu's too, -- but for the present I think best not to allow her to see any one," he said in a kindly tone, and affectionately pressing the little hand she had put into his. "But," seeing the disappointment in her face, "I entirely approve of the intimacy, and hope it will be kept up; for I think it has been of benefit to Lulu."

"Thank you, sir," she returned, coloring with pleasure. "But Lulu told me you had quite determined to send her away from here: I hope you will reconsider, and -- let her stay," with a very coaxing look up into his face.

He smiled. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked, -- "one from Lulu only, and that for but a few days?"

"Try me, sir," she answered brightly.

"I will. I have left the navy, and expect to settle down in this neighborhood. In that case, you and Lulu will not be separated; for my strongest reason for the change was, that I might have her constantly with me, and train her up as I think she should be trained; as perhaps no one but her father can train her."

Evelyn's face had grown very bright. "Oh, how delighted, how happy Lu will be when she hears it!" she exclaimed; "for, do you know, sir, she thinks there is nobody in the world to compare to her father?"

Those words brought a glad look into his face for the moment.

"Yes," he said, "she is a warm-hearted, affectionate child; a dear child, in spite of her quick temper."

A door had opened and closed: a step was coming down the hall, and a cheerful voice in his rear said, "Captain, I have good news for you: there has been a great, a really wonderful change for the better in the last hour; the child will live, and I hope, I believe, entirely recover from the injuries caused by her fall."

Before the doctor's sentence was finished, the captain had turned, and caught his hand in a vice-like grasp: his eyes filled, his breast heaved with emotions too big for utterance; he shook the hand warmly, dropped it, and, without a word, hurried into the nursery.

He found nearly the whole family gathered there, every face full of a great gladness.

The doctor, however, following him in, speedily cleared the room of all but two or three: only the two Elsies, besides himself and the parents, were left.

Violet looked up at her husband as he entered, with a face so bright and joyous that it recalled the days of their honeymoon.

"Oh, how happy I am! how good God has been to us!" she whispered, as he bent down to kiss her: "our darling is spared to us! See how sweetly she is sleeping!"

"Yes," he returned, in the same low tone, his features working with emotion: "and what double reason for joy and gratitude have I -- the father of both the injurer and the injured!"

"Forgive me that I have felt a little hard to Lulu. I can and do forgive her now," she said, her sweet eyes looking penitently into his.

"Darling," he returned with emotion, "I have nothing to forgive, but shall be very glad if you can find any love in your heart, after this, for my wayward child, little as she merits it."

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to Mrs. Leland with a brotherly greeting, not having seen her before since his arrival at Ion.

"Vi has told me the glad tidings you brought her yesterday," she said, as he held her hand in his; "and I can't tell you how delighted we all are to know that you have come to stay among us."

"And now I can rejoice in that to the full, my dear, dear husband," Violet said, dropping her head on his shoulder as he sat down by her side, and put his arm about her.

For a little while they all sat silently watching the sleeping babe; then Arthur glanced at the clock, and, with a low-toned promise to be back in an hour, rose, and left the room.

"Excuse me for a little, dear," the captain said to Violet, and softly followed Arthur out to the hall.

"Can you spare me a moment?" he asked.

"Yes, full five of them, if necessary," was the jovial reply.

Arthur's heart was so light in consequence of the improvement in his young patient, that a jest came readily to his lips.

"Thank you," returned the captain warmly, then went on to describe Lulu's condition, and ask what should be done for her.

"Relieve her mind as speedily as possible with the good news of the certainty of the baby's recovery, and, if you choose, the other glad tidings you brought us yesterday," Arthur answered. "The mental strain of the past two days has evidently been too much for her: she must have suffered greatly from grief, remorse, and terror. Relief from those will be the best medicine she could have, and probably work a speedy cure. Good-evening."

He hurried away, and the captain went at once to Lulu.

She was on the bed where he had left her, but, at the opening of the door, started up, and turned to him with a look of wild affright.

"Papa!" she cried breathlessly, "is -- is the baby? -- Oh, no! for how glad your face is!"

"Yes, baby is very much better; in fact, quite out of danger, the doctor thinks. And you? have you not slept?" he asked, bending over her in tender solicitude; for she had fallen back on her pillow, and was sobbing as if her heart would break, weeping for joy as she had before wept with sorrow, remorse, and penitence.

He lifted her from the bed, and sat down with her in his arms.

"Don't cry so, daughter, dear," he said soothingly, softly caressing her hair and cheek: "it will make your head ache still more."

"I can't help it, papa: I'm so glad, so very, very glad!" she sobbed; "so glad the dear baby will get well, and that I -- I'm not a murderess. Papa, won't you thank God for me?"

"Yes," he said with emotion, -- "for you and myself and all of us."

When they had risen from their knees, "Now I hope you can sleep a while, and afterward eat some supper," he said, lifting her, and gently laying her on the bed again.

"O papa! I wish you could stay with me a little longer," she cried, clinging to his hand.

"I cannot stay now, daughter," he said; "but I will come in again to bid you good-night."

He leaned over her, and kissed her several times. She threw her arm round his neck, and drew him down closer.

"Dear, dear papa!" she sobbed: "you are the best father in the world! and oh, I wish I was a better girl! Do you think I -- I'm a curse to you now?"

"I think -- I believe you are going to be a very great blessing to me, my own darling," he answered in tones tremulous with emotion. "I fear I was hard and cruel in what I said when I came to you that first time last night."

"No, papa, I deserved it every bit; but it 'most broke my heart, because I love you so. Oh, I do want to be a blessing to you, and I mean to try with all my might!"

"My dear little girl, my own little daughter, that is all I can ask," he said, repeating his caresses.

Then he covered her up with tender care, and left her, weary and exhausted with the mental suffering of the last two days, but with a heart singing for joy over his restored affection and the assurance of the baby's final recovery.

She expected to stay awake till he came again, but in less than five minutes was fast asleep.

The captain found Max and Gracie hovering near as he passed out into the hall.

"Papa," they said, coming hastily forward, "may we go in to see Lulu now?" Max adding, "I was too angry with her at first to want to see her, but I've got over that now." Grace: "And mayn't she know now that we're going to keep you always at home?" taking his hand in both of hers, and looking up coaxingly into his face.

"No, my dears, not to-night," he said: "she has cried herself sick -- has a bad headache, and I want her to try to sleep it off."

"Poor Lu! she must have been feeling awfully all this time," Max said. "I wish I hadn't been so very angry with her."

"You look very happy -- you two," their father said, smiling down at them.

"So do you, sir," returned Max; "and I'm so glad, for you've been looking heart-broken ever since you came home."

"Pretty much as I have felt," he sighed, patting Gracie's cheek as he spoke.

"We are just as happy as we can be, papa," she said; "only I" -- 

"Well?" he said inquiringly as she paused, leaving her sentence unfinished.

"I'm just hungry to sit on your knee a little while; but," ruefully, "I s'pose you haven't time."

"Come into the nursery with me, and you shall sit there as long as you like, and are willing to keep perfectly quiet, so as not to disturb baby."

"Oh! thank you, papa," she returned joyously, slipping her hand into his. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse."

"I hope my turn will come to-morrow," remarked Max. "I've a hundred questions I want to ask."

"As many as you like, my boy, when I have time to listen; though I don't promise to answer them all to your entire satisfaction," his father replied, as he passed on into the nursery, taking Grace with him.

Max went down-stairs, where he found Evelyn Leland sitting alone in one of the parlors, waiting till her aunt Elsie should be ready to go back to Fairview.

"Max," she said, as he came in, and took a seat at her side, "you have just the nicest kind of a father!"

"Yes, that's so!" he returned heartily: "there couldn't be a better one."

"I wish he would let me see Lu," Evelyn went on: "I was in hopes he would after the doctor had told him the baby was sure to get well."

"I think he would, but that Lu has cried herself sick, and he wants her to sleep off her headache. He refused to let Gracie and me in for that reason."

"Poor thing!" Evelyn exclaimed, tears springing to her eyes. "I should think it must have been almost enough to set her crazy. But how happy she will be when she hears that your father isn't going away again, and means to keep her at home with him."

"Yes, indeed; she'll go wild with joy; it's what all three of us have wanted to have happen more than any thing else we could think of.

"I've often envied boys that could live at home with their fathers; though," he added with a happy laugh, "I've said to myself many a time, that mine was enough nicer than theirs to make up for having to do without him so much of the time; at least, I'd never have been willing to swap fathers with one of 'em. No, indeed!"

"Of course not," said Evelyn. "And I'm so delighted that Lu and I are not to be separated! I can hardly wait to talk with her about it, and the good times we'll have together."

A nap and a nice supper had refreshed Lulu a good deal; but she felt weak and languid, and was lying on the bed again when her father returned to her room.

She looked up at him wistfully as he came and stood beside her, then her eyes filled with tears.

"What is it?" he asked, lifting her from the bed, seating himself, and drawing her into his arms: "what is your petition? for I read in your eyes that you have one to make."

"Papa, you won't send me away -- very -- soon, will you?" she pleaded in tremulous tones, her arm round his neck, her face hidden on his shoulder.

"Not till I go myself; then I shall take you with me."

"To a boarding-school?" she faltered.

"No: I'm going to put you in a private family."

Her face was still hidden, and she did not see the smile in his eyes.

"What kind of people are they, papa?" she asked with a deep-drawn sigh.

"Very nice people, I think: the wife and mother is a very lovely woman, and the four children -- a boy and three girls -- are, I presume, neither better nor worse than my own four. The gentleman, who will teach you himself, along with the others, and have the particular care and oversight of you, is perhaps rather stern and severe with any one who ventures to disobey his orders; but I am quite certain, that, if you are good and obedient, he will be very kind and indulgent, possibly a trifle more indulgent than he ought to be."

Lulu began to cry again. "I don't like men-teachers!" she sobbed. "I don't like a man to have any thing to do with me. Please, please don't send me there, papa!"

"You want me to relent, and let you stay on here if they will have you?"

"No, no, papa! I don't want to stay here! I don't want to see anybody here again, except Max and Gracie; because I'm so ashamed of -- of what I've done. I couldn't look any of them in the face, for I know they must despise me."

"I am sure you are mistaken in that, my child," he said gravely. "But what is it you do desire?"

"To be with you, papa. Oh, if I could only go with you!"

"And leave Max and Gracie?"

"I'll have to leave them, anyhow, if you take me away from here; and, though I love them very much, I love you a great deal better."

"I'm afraid you would have a doleful time on shipboard, with no young companions, nobody to see or speak to but your father and the other officers."

"I wouldn't care for that, or any thing, if I could only be with you. Papa, you don't know how I love you!"

"Then, I'll take you with me when I leave here; and you need never live away from me any more, unless you choose."

"Papa," she cried, lifting her head to look up into his face, with glad, astonished eyes, "do you really mean it? May I go with you?"

He held her close, with a joyous laugh.

"Why, I understood you to say, a moment since, that you didn't want to be in the care of a man, -- any man."

"But you know I didn't mean you, papa."

"But I am the gentleman I spoke of a little while ago, as the one in whose care I intended to put you."

"Papa," she said, with a bewildered look, "I don't understand."

Then he told her; and she was, as Max had foreseen, almost wild with delight.

"Oh!" she cried, "how nice, nice it will be to have a home of our very own, and our father with us all the time! Papa, I think I sha'n't sleep a wink to-night, I'm so glad."

"I trust it will not have that effect," he said, "I hesitated a little about telling you to-night, lest it might interfere with your rest; but you seemed so unhappy about your future prospects, that I felt I must relieve you of the fear of being sent away among strangers."

"You are so very good and kind to me, papa," she returned gratefully. "Where is our dear home to be?"

"I don't know, yet," he said. "I have not had time to look about in search of house or land; but I hope to be able to buy or build a house somewhere in this region, as near Ion as a pleasant location can be found."

"I hope you'll find a house ready built, papa," she said. "I shouldn't know how to wait for one to be built."

"Not if, by waiting, we should, in the end, have a much nicer, pleasanter one?"

She considered a moment. "Couldn't we rent a house to live in while we get our own built?"

"I think that plan might answer quite well," he said with a smile. "I had no idea you were such a business woman. Probably that is what we will do, for I am as anxious to get to housekeeping as even you can be."

"But, papa," she exclaimed, with a look as if struck by a sudden and not very pleasant thought, "may I -- will you be vexed if I ask you something?"

"Suppose you find out by asking?"

"I -- I hope you won't think it's impertinence, papa, I don't mean it for that," she said with hesitation, hanging her head, and blushing; "but -- but -- I hope it isn't mamma Vi's money we're to live on?"

He put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face, so that he could look down into her eyes; and she drew a long breath of relief as she perceived that he was smiling at her.

"No," he said. "You come honestly by your pride of independence. I would no more live on mamma Vi's money than you would."

"Oh, I'm so glad! But -- then, how can you do without your pay, papa?"

"Because my heavenly Father has prospered me, and given me money enough of my own (or, rather, lent it to me; for all we have belongs to him, and is only lent to us for a time) to provide all that is necessary for my family, and educate my children.

"Now we have had a long talk, which has, I trust, made my dear little girl much happier; and it is time for you to go to your bed for the night."

"I don't like to have you leave me," she said, clinging about his neck; "but you were very kind to stay so long. Won't you come soon in the morning?"

"You are not a prisoner any longer," he said, caressing her: "you are free to leave this room, and go where you choose about the house and grounds to-morrow."

"But I don't want to. O papa! I can't face them! Mayn't I stay in my room till you are ready to take me to our own home?"

"You will have to face them sometime," he said; "but we will see what can be done about it. Would you like to see Max and Gracie to-night?"

"Gracie, ever so much; but Max -- I -- I don't know how he feels toward me, papa."

"Very kindly. He has been asking permission to come in to see you; and Gracie has pleaded quite hard for it, and to have you forgiven, and told the good news."

"Gracie always is so dear and kind," she said tremulously; "and Maxie isn't often cross with me. Yes, papa, I should like to see them both."

"Your friend Evelyn was here this afternoon, asking permission to come in to see you, but is gone now. You may see her to-morrow, if you want to. Ah! I hear your brother and sister in the hall."

He opened the door, and called to them. They came bounding in, so full of delight over the pleasant prospect opening before them, as hardly to remember that Lulu had been in such dreadful disgrace.

"O Lu! has papa told you the good news?" they cried.

"Yes."

"And aren't you glad?"

"Yes; glad as glad can be. But, oh, I wish the home was ready to go into to-night!"

Her father laughed. "I think you were born in a hurry, Lulu," he said. "You are never willing to wait a minute for any thing.

"Well, I suppose you children would prefer to be left to yourselves for a while; so I will leave you. You may talk fifteen minutes together, but no longer; as it is your bedtime now, Gracie's at least."

"O papa! don't go!" they all exclaimed in a breath. "Please stay with us: we'd rather have you, a great deal rather!"

He could not resist their entreaties, so sat down, and drew his two little girls into his arms, while Max stationed himself close at his side.

"My dear children," he said, "you can hardly be happier in the prospect before us than your father is."

"Is mamma Vi glad?" asked Lulu.

"Yes; quite as much rejoiced, I think, as any of the rest of us."

"But doesn't she want me sent away to school or somewhere?" with a wistful, anxious gaze into his face. "Is she willing to have me in the new home, papa?"

"Yes, daughter, more than willing: she wants you to be under your father's constant care and watchfulness, hoping that so he may succeed in teaching you to control your temper."

"She's very good and forgiving," was Lulu's comment in a low and not unmoved tone.

"Papa, when will you begin to look for the new home?" asked Grace, affectionately stroking his cheek and whiskers with her small white hand.

"I have been looking at advertisements," he said; "and, now that baby is out of danger, I shall begin the search in earnest."

"Can we afford a big house, and handsome furniture, papa?" queried Lulu.

"And to keep carriage and riding horses?" asked Max.

"I hope my children have not been so thoroughly spoiled by living in the midst of wealth and luxury, that they could not content themselves with a moderately large house, and plain furniture?" he said gravely.

"I'd rather live that way with you, than have all the fine things, and you not with us, dear papa," Lulu said, putting her arm round his neck, and laying her cheek to his.

"I too."

"And I," said Max and Grace.

"And I," he responded, smiling affectionately upon them, "would prefer such a home with my children about me, to earth's grandest palace without them. Millions of money could not buy one of my treasures!"

"Not me, papa?" whispered Lulu tremulously, with her lips close to his ear.

"No, dear child, not even you," he answered, pressing her closer to his side. "You are no less dear than the others."

"I deserve to be," she said with tears in her voice. "It would be just and right, papa, if you did not love me half so well as any of your other children."

She spoke aloud this time, as her father had.

"We all have our faults, Lu," remarked Max, "but papa loves us in spite of them."

"'God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us,'" quoted the captain. "If God so loved me, while yet his enemy, a rebel against his rightful authority, I may well love my own children in spite of all their faults, even were those faults more and greater by far than they are."

"Then, papa, I think we should love you well enough to try very hard to get rid of them," returned Max.

"And the wonderful love of God for us should constrain us to hate and forsake all sin," said his father. "The Bible bids us to 'be followers of God as dear children.' And oh, how we should hate sin when we remember that it crucified our Lord!"

There was a momentary silence: then the children began talking joyfully again of the new home in prospect for them, and their hopes and wishes in regard to it.

Their father entered heartily into their pleasure, and encouraged them to express themselves freely, until the clock, striking nine, reminded him that more than the allotted time for the interview had passed. Then he bade them say good-night, and go to their beds, promising that they should have other opportunities for saying all they wished on the subject.



Chapter XVI.

"'Tis easier for the generous to forgive Than for offence to ask it."


In passing through the hall on his way from Lulu's room to the nursery, Capt. Raymond met "grandma Elsie."

She stopped him, and asked, in a tone of kindly concern, if Lulu was ill, adding, that something she had accidentally overheard him saying to the doctor had made her fear the child was not well.

"Thank you, mother," he said: "you are very kind to take any interest in Lulu after what has occurred. No, she is not quite well: the mental distress of the last two days has been very great, and has exhausted her physically. It could not, of course, be otherwise, unless she were quite heartless. She is full of remorse for her passion and its consequences, and my only consolation is the hope that this terrible lesson may prove a lasting one to her."

"I hope so, indeed," Elsie said, with emotion. "Yes, she must have suffered greatly; for she is a warm-hearted, affectionate child, and would not, I am sure, have intentionally done her baby sister an injury."

"No, it was not intentional; yet, as the result of allowing herself to get into a passion, she is responsible for it, as she feels and acknowledges.

"And so deeply ashamed is she, that she knows not how to face the family, or any one of them, and therefore entreats me to allow her to seclude herself in her own room till I can take her to the home I hope to make for my wife and children ere long."

"Poor child!" sighed Elsie. "Tell her, Levis, that she need not shrink from us as if we were not sinners, as well as herself. Shall I go in to-morrow morning, and have a talk with her before breakfast?"

"It will be a great kindness," he said, flushing with pleasure, "and make it much easier for her to show herself afterwards at the table. But I ought to ask if you are willing to see her there in her accustomed seat?"

"I shall be glad to do so," Elsie answered, with earnest kindliness of look and tone. "She was not banished by any edict of mine or papa's."

"No: I forbade her to leave her room while the baby was in a critical condition. Yet I think she had no disposition to leave it, -- shame and remorse causing a desire to hide herself from everybody."

"It strikes me as a hopeful sign," Elsie said; "and I do not despair of one day seeing Lulu a noble woman, the joy and pride of her father's heart."

She held out her hand as she spoke.

The captain grasped it warmly. "Thank you, mother, for those kind and hopeful words," he said with emotion. "For the last year or two, she has been alternately my joy and my despair; and I am resolved to leave no effort untried to rescue her from the dominion of her fierce temper.

"The task would doubtless have been far easier could I have undertaken it years ago, in her early infancy. But I trust it is not yet too late to accomplish it, with the help and the wisdom I may have in answer to prayer.

"No, I am sure it is by no means a hopeless undertaking, looking where you do for needed strength and wisdom; and I rejoice almost as much for Lulu's sake as for Vi's, that you have now come among us to stay. I will try to see her in the morning, and do what I can to make it easy for her to join the family circle again.

"And now good-night. I must not keep you longer from the wife who grudges every moment that you are absent from her side," she concluded, with a smile as sweet and beautiful as that of her girlhood's days.

While the captain and his mother-in-law held this little conversation in the upper hall, Zoe and Rosie were promenading the veranda, arm in arm. They had been talking of Violet and her baby, rejoicing together over its improved condition.

"How dreadful the last two days have been to poor Vi!" exclaimed Rosie, "even in spite of the home-coming of her husband, which has always before this made her so happy. In fact, it has been a dreadful time to all of us; and nobody to blame except that bad-tempered Lulu.

"At least, so I think," she added, conscience giving her a twinge; "though mamma says I ought to have let her have my pony, and taken my own ride later in the day, if I wanted one."

"It would have been more polite and unselfish, wouldn't it?" queried Zoe, in a teasing tone. "I dare say it is what mamma herself would have done under the same circumstances."

"I have no doubt of that," returned Rosie; "but mamma and I are two very different people. I can never hope to be as good and unselfish as she is, and always has been so far as I can learn."

"Ah! but there's nothing like trying," laughed Zoe.

"Suppose you tell Lulu that, advising her to undertake the task of controlling her temper."

"She was quite a good while without an outbreak," said Zoe; "and really, Rosie, that dog of yours is extremely trying at times."

"It's quite trying to me, that I've had to send him away, and can't have him about any more till Lulu's gone. I'll be sorry to have Vi leave Ion, but rejoiced to be rid of Lulu. I wonder if the captain still intends to send her away? I sincerely hope so, for Vi's sake. Poor little Elsie may be killed outright the next time Lulu has an opportunity to vent her spite upon her."

"O Rosie! how can you talk so?" exclaimed Zoe. "haven't you heard that Lulu says she thought it was your dog she was kicking at? and that she has been really sick with distress about the baby? As to sending her away to be trained and taught by strangers -- her father has no idea of doing it: in fact, -- so Vi told Ned, -- the conviction that Lulu needed his constant oversight and control had a great deal to do in leading him to resign from the service and come home to live."

"Then, he's a very good father, -- a great deal better one than she deserves. But I'm sorry for Vi and her baby."

"You needn't be: surely the captain should be able to protect them from Lulu," laughed Zoe.

Rosie laughed too, remarked that it must be getting late; and they went into the house.

*    *    *    *    *

"I do wish papa would come for me. I can't bear to go down alone to breakfast," Lulu was saying to herself the next morning, when a light step in the hall without caught her ear: then there was a tap at the door; and, opening it, she found the lady of the house standing on the threshold.

"Good-morning, my child," she said in pleasant, cheery tones, and smiling sweetly as she spoke; then, bending clown, she gave the little girl a kiss.

"Good-morning, grandma Elsie," murmured Lulu, blushing deeply, and casting down her eyes: "you are very kind to come to see me, and to kiss me too, when I have been so bad. Please take a chair," she added, drawing one forward.

"Thank you, dear; but I would rather sit on the sofa yonder, with you by my side," Elsie said, taking Lulu's hand, and leading her to it, then, when they had seated themselves, putting the other arm about the child's waist, and drawing her close to her side. "I feel that I have been neglecting you," she went on; "but my thoughts have been much taken up with other things, and" -- 

"O grandma Elsie!" cried Lulu, bursting into tears. "I didn't deserve that you should show me the least kindness, or think of me at all except as a very bad, disagreeable girl. I should think you'd want to turn me out of your house, and say I should never come into it again."

"No, dear child, I have no such feeling toward you: if I had, should I not be very much like that wicked servant to whom his lord had forgiven a debt of ten thousand talents, yet who refused to have compassion on his fellow-servant who owed him a hundred pence? I should, indeed; for my sins against God have been far greater, and more heinous, than yours against me or mine."

"But you were always such a good child when you were a little girl, and I am such a bad one."

"No, my dear; that is quite a mistake; I was not always good as a child, and I am very far from being perfect as a woman."

"You seem so to me, grandma Elsie: I never know of your doing and saying any thing the least bit wrong."

"But you, my child, see only the outward appearance, while God looks at the heart; and he knows that, though I am truly his servant, trying earnestly to do his will, I fall lamentably short of it."

"Grandma Elsie, I didn't know it was the baby: I didn't mean to hurt her."

"No, my dear, I know you didn't."

"But papa said he must punish me all the same, because it was being in a passion that made me do it. Grandma Elsie, if you had such a dreadful temper as mine, wouldn't you be discouraged about ever conquering it?"

"No, my child, not while I could find such words as these in the Bible: 'O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself: but in Me is thine help.' 'Thou shalt call his name Jesus; for he shall save his people from their sins.' 'He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him.' 'God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.'"

"'His people,'" repeated Lulu; then with a sigh, "But I am not one of them, grandma Elsie; so those promises are not for me."

"He invites you to become one of his people, and then they will be for you.

"'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,' Jesus says, 'and I will give you rest.'

"You feel yourself heavy laden with that unconquerable temper, do you not?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then, that invitation is for you; and it will not be unconquerable with the Lord to help you.

"'The God of Israel is he that giveth strength and power unto his people.' 'And they that stumbled are girded with strength.' You cannot doubt that you are included in the invitation, for it is, 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.' And the time to come is now: 'Now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.'"

The breakfast-bell rang at that moment; and grandma Elsie, rising, took Lulu's hand, saying, "Come, my dear, you need not shrink from joining us at the table: no one will be disposed to treat you unkindly."

As she spoke, the door opened, and Capt. Raymond and Violet came in. They exchanged morning greetings with their mother; while Lulu, with eyes cast down, and cheeks aflame, half shrank behind her, ashamed and afraid to meet Violet's gaze.

But Violet bent down and kissed her affectionately, saying in a kindly tone, "I hope you are feeling better than you did yesterday?"

"O mamma Vi!" Lulu cried, throwing her arm round her young step-mother's neck, and bursting into tears, "is baby still getting better? and will you forgive me? I am, oh, so sorry!"

"Yes, dear, baby is improving fast; and it is all forgiven, so far as I am concerned," was the gentle reply.

Then the captain kissed his little girl good-morning, and they all went down to the breakfast-room together.

The worst was over to Lulu in having seen Violet, yet it was quite an ordeal to her to face the rest of the large family; but each one spoke pleasantly to her. Rosie alone bestowed so much an unkind look upon her, and that was wasted; for Lulu, expecting it from that quarter more than any other, constantly averted her gaze from Rosie, keeping her eyes down, or turned in another direction.

Dr. Conly had joined them as they sat down, and presently he addressed the captain: -- 

"I hear, Raymond, that you would like to buy in this neighborhood."

"Yes, if I can find a suitable place, -- one that will satisfy my wife as well as myself," the captain answered with a smiling glance at Violet.

"Well, Vi, how would Woodburn answer, so far as you are concerned?" queried Arthur.

"Woodburn! is it for sale?" she cried delightedly. "O Levis!" turning to her husband, "it is a lovely old place! A visit there was always a great treat to me as a child."

"And it is really for sale?" exclaimed several voices in chorus, all eyes turning inquiringly upon Dr. Conly.

"Yes, so Miss Elliott told me yesterday," replied Arthur. "She was slightly indisposed, and sent for me, and, while telling of her ailments, remarked that she was very lonely since her sister Margaret had married and gone, leaving her sole occupant -- not taking servants into account -- of that large house, with its extensive grounds. So she had at last decided, she said, to comply with her sister's urgent request to sell the place, and take up her abode with them.

"She had thought of advertising, and asked my advice about it. Of course, I thought at once of you and Vi, captain, told her I knew of a gentleman who might like to become a purchaser, and that I would promise her a call from him to-day to look at the place. Will you redeem my promise?"

"Gladly," responded the captain, "especially as Vi expresses so strong a liking for the place. Will you go with me, my dear?"

"I hardly like to leave my baby yet," she answered dubiously. "But if you should feel entirely satisfied with the house, the grounds, and the price asked for them, you could not please me better than by making the purchase."

"There! if Miss Elliott only knew it, she might consider the estate as good as sold," remarked Zoe.

"If she is willing to take a reasonable price, I presume she might," said Arthur. "Captain, I will go there directly from here: will you drive over with me, and take a look at the place?"

"Yes, thank you; and have a talk with the lady, if you will give me an introduction."

Max and Lulu, sitting side by side at the table, exchanged glances, -- Lulu's full of delight, Max's only interested. He shook his head in response to her's.

"What do you mean? wouldn't you like it?" she asked in an undertone.

"Yes, indeed! but I'm pretty sure papa couldn't afford such a place as that: it must be worth a good many thousands."

Lulu's look lost much of its brightness; still, she did not quite give up hope, as the conversation went on among their elders, Woodburn and the Elliotts continuing to be the theme.

"Will it be near enough to Ion?" Capt. Raymond asked, addressing Violet more particularly. "What is the distance?"

"Something over a mile, they call it," said Mr. Dinsmore.

"That is as near as we can expect to be, I suppose," said Violet.

"And with carriages and horses, bicycles, tricycles, and telephones, we may feel ourselves very near neighbors indeed," remarked Edward. "When the weather is too inclement for mamma or Vi to venture out, they can talk together by the hour through the telephone, if they wish."

"And it won't often be too inclement to go back and forth," said Zoe; "almost always good enough for a close carriage, if for nothing else."

"We are talking as if the place were already secured," remarked Violet, with a smiling glance at her husband.

"I think you may feel pretty sure of it if you want it, love; unless Miss Elliott should change her mind about selling," he responded, in a tone too low to reach any ear but hers.

She gave him a bright, glad look, that quite settled the matter so far as he was concerned; he would, if necessary, give even an exorbitant price for the place, to please her.

"Have you never seen Woodburn, captain?" asked Mrs. Dinsmore.

"I have some recollection of driving past it," he replied meditatively; "but -- is not the house nearly concealed from view from the road, by a thick growth of trees and shrubbery?"

"Yes: you will thin them out a little, I hope, for the mansion is well worth looking at; it is a very aristocratic-looking dwelling, -- large, substantial, and handsome architecturally."

"Papa, are you going to buy it?" asked Grace.

"It is too soon to answer that question, daughter," he said pleasantly; and Max and Lulu again exchanged glances, which said this time, "Maybe he will, after all."

Both ardently wished their father would propose taking them along; he did not: but when Dr. Conly said, with a kindly glance at Grace, "There will be room in my carriage for a little friend of mine, if papa is willing to let her go with us," he at once said, -- 

"Certainly, Gracie may go, if she will be ready in season, and not keep the doctor waiting."

"Indeed I will, papa," she cried delightedly, and ran away to don hat and coat; for the meal was concluded, and everybody leaving the table.

Lulu followed her father, till, in the hall, she found an opportunity to speak to him without being overheard.

"Papa," she asked, "what am I to do with myself to-day?"

"Stay in your room, and learn your lessons, beginning just where you left off the other day. You will recite to me after I come back; then we will consider what you shall do for the rest of the day."

"Yes, sir: may I see Evelyn when she comes?"

"If she chooses to go to you in your room."

"Must I stay in my room all the time?" she asked dejectedly.

"While I am away. I will take you out after I return." Then, noticing her downcast look, "You shall have more liberty when we get into our own home," he said kindly.

At that she looked up with a bright, glad smile. "Papa, it will be so nice!"

Max had drawn near.

"Papa," he said, "won't you let Lu take a walk with me? Mayn't we run over to Fairview, and bring Evelyn back with us? I know she'd be glad to have company coming over to school."

"Yes, you may go, both of you, if you like. But, Lulu, when you get home, go at once to your room: don't stop in the grounds or on the veranda."

"I won't, papa," she said: "I'll go straight to my room, and, oh, thank you for letting me go!"



Chapter XVII.

"Home, sweet home!"


"How large is the estate, doctor?" asked Capt. Raymond, as they were on their way to Woodburn.

"I cannot say exactly," replied Arthur. "There is a bit of woodland comprising several acres; and lawn, gardens, and shrubbery cover several more. I believe that is all."

"About as much as I care for," returned the captain.

"The estate was formerly very large," Arthur went on, -- "some thousands of acres, -- and the family was a very wealthy one; but, like many others, they lost heavily by the war, and were compelled to part with one portion of the estate after another, till little more than the homestead was left; and now it seems that it, too, must go."

"Are they so reduced?" the captain asked in a tone of deep sympathy.

"I think Miss Elliott does not feel compelled to part with it, and would still live on there, if it were not for the loneliness of the situation, and a natural desire to be with her sister, the only remaining member of their once large family, besides herself."

"Yes, yes: I see. I understand, and shall feel much more comfortable in buying it, than if I knew that poverty compelled her to part with it against her will."

"That shows your kindness of heart," Arthur said, turning toward his friend with an appreciative smile.

The next moment they had entered the Woodburn grounds, and Capt. Raymond and Grace were glancing from side to side in a very interested manner.

"The place is a good deal run down," remarked Arthur. "They have not had the means to keep it up, I suppose; but if it comes into your hands, captain, you can soon set matters right in regard to that; and I, for one, shall greatly enjoy seeing the improvement."

"And I making it," was the cheery rejoinder; "more, I think, than taking possession of a place that was too perfect to be improved."

"Papa, I'd just love to have this for our home!" cried Gracie, flushing with pleasure as she glanced here and there, and then up into his face with an eager, questioning look, "Won't you buy it, papa?" coaxingly.

"It is still too soon for that question, my child," he said, smiling down at her. "But I hope to be able to answer it before very long."

They had reached the house, and were presently ushered into the presence of its owner. She was desirous to sell, the captain to buy, -- willing also to give not only a fair, but a liberal, price; so it took but a short time for them to come to an agreement.

He bought the land, house, furniture, every thing just as it stood; was promised possession in two weeks, and accorded the privilege of at once beginning any repairs or alterations he might deem desirable.

Before making the agreement, he had inspected the whole house. He found it large, conveniently arranged, and in very tolerable repair.

The furniture had evidently been very handsome in its day, and would do quite well, he thought, to begin with: much of it might, with re-upholstering and varnishing, please Violet as well as any that could be bought elsewhere. He was eager to bring her to look at it, the house and the grounds.

These last delighted both himself and Grace, although lawn and gardens were far from being as trim and neat as those of Ion and Fairview: there was an air of neglect about the whole place, but that could soon be remedied.

The bit of woodland was beautiful; and through it, and across lawn and gardens, ran a little stream of clear, sparkling water, -- a pretty feature in the landscape, without being deep enough to be dangerous to the little ones.

Grace went everywhere with her father, up-stairs and down, indoors and out, quietly looking and listening, but seldom speaking, unless addressed.

Once or twice she said, in a low aside, "Papa, I'd like to live here, if you can 'ford to buy it.

"Papa, this is such a pretty room, and the view from that window is so nice!"

He would reply only by a kind smile, or a word or two of assent. She did not understand all the talk in the library after they had finished their round, and when they left was still in some doubt as to her father's intentions.

"Papa," she asked eagerly, as soon as they were fairly on their homeward way, "have you bought it?"

"We have come to an agreement," he answered.

"Then, is it ours?"

"It will be, as soon as I have got the deed, and handed over the money."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried, clapping her hands with delight. "And we're to be 'lowed to go there to stay in two weeks, aren't we? I thought that was what Miss Elliott said."

"Yes: can you get all your possessions packed up by that time?"

"Yes, indeed, papa: one day would be enough time for that."

"And if you should happen to forget one of the dollies, you could go back for her," remarked the doctor.

"Or replace it with a new one," said the captain.

"But I love all my dollies, papa," she returned, with a wistful look up into his face: "they're my children, you know. Would you be satisfied with another new little girl 'stead of me?"

"No, indeed!" he replied, bending down to kiss her cheek. "If I had another new little girl given me, I should want to hold fast to my little Gracie too; and you shall keep all your dollies as long as you please."

Lulu and Max started on their walk to Fairview about the same time that Dr. Conly drove away with their father and Grace.

Their talk was principally of the new home in prospect. Lulu had only driven past Woodburn several times; but Max had been taken there once by Dr. Conly, with whom he was almost as great a favorite as his sister Grace, and had seen not only the grounds, but one or two rooms of the mansion.

Lulu was eager to hear all he had to tell about the place, and he not at all averse to describing what he had seen.

So interested were they in the topic, that they reached the entrance to the Fairview grounds almost ere they were aware of it.

"Oh, we're here!" exclaimed Lulu, in some surprise. "Max, I'll stay outside, while you go up to the house, for -- I -- I can't bear to see aunt Elsie and the others."

Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks burning with blushes as she spoke.

"But you may as well get it over," said Max: "you'll have to see them all sometime."

"You don't care a bit, do you?" she said, in a hurt tone.

"Yes, I do; I'm right sorry for you; but I can't help your having to meet them sooner or later."

"But I'm afraid I won't be welcome to aunt Elsie. What if she should tell me to go out of the house, she didn't want such a bad girl there?"

"She isn't that kind of person," said Max. "But here comes Eva," as the little girl came tripping down the avenue to meet them.

She shook hands with Max, then threw her arms round Lulu, and kissed her.

"O Eva! I'm 'most ashamed to look at you," murmured Lulu, half averting her blushing face. "I shouldn't think you'd want me for your friend any more."

"I do, though: I love you dearly, and should have gone to your room yesterday if your papa had not refused to allow it," responded Evelyn, repeating her caress. "Come in and rest, both of you: aunt Elsie told me to ask you."

"I'm not sure that papa meant to give me permission to go into the house," said Lulu, hanging back.

"No, -- come to think of it, -- I don't believe he did," said Max. "Besides, it must be pretty near school-time; so if you are ready, Eva, and want to walk, we'll start back directly, and be glad to take you with us."

"Yes, I prefer to walk," she said: "I'll be ready in five minutes, and glad to have your company."

Mrs. Leland was on the veranda.

"Won't they come in?" she asked of Evelyn, as the child came hurrying up the steps.

"No, auntie: Lu is not quite certain that her papa gave her permission."

"Then, I'll go to them."

Lulu's eyes were on the ground, her cheeks hot with blushes, as Mrs. Leland drew near the rustic bench on which she and Max had seated themselves.

"Good-morning, my dears: I am sorry you cannot come in and sit a while," was her pleasant greeting. Then she shook hands with Max and kissed Lulu.

"I heard you were not well yesterday, Lulu: I hope you feel quite so this morning?"

"Yes, ma'am, thank you."

"I heard from Ion before breakfast, and am delighted that baby is still improving, as, no doubt, you are, both of you."

"Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Max.

"And I am gladder than words can tell," said Lulu, a tear rolling quickly down her cheek. "Aunt Elsie, I do love her! I think she is the nicest, sweetest baby I ever saw."

"Yes, my dear; and I have no doubt you intend to be the best of sisters to her."

"Oh, I do! I can't ever make up to her for -- for hurting her so, though I did not mean to do it."

"Of course not: you couldn't be so cruel toward any baby, but especially your own sweet little sister," was the gentle, sweet-toned reply. "I am rejoiced, especially for you, my dears, and for your mamma, that your father is going to settle down here; for I know it will add greatly to your happiness, he is such a good husband and father, and you will so enjoy having a home of your own."

"Yes, aunt Elsie: we think it is the best thing that could have happened to us," replied Max.

Evelyn joined them at that moment; so they said good-by, and started on their way back to Ion.

"Eva," said Max, "have you heard about Woodburn?"

"No; what about it?"

"It's for sale, and perhaps papa will buy it."

"Oh, how nice that would be!" she exclaimed. "I've been there with aunt Elsie, and it's just a lovely place! It has a rather neglected look now; but it wouldn't take long to remedy that, and then it would be quite as handsome as Ion or Fairview, or any other place about here. Aren't you happy, Lu?"

"I shall be if papa gets it; but the best thing of all is, that he is to be with us all the time."

"Yes, of course," sighed Evelyn, thinking of the happy days when she had her father with her. "Lu," she said presently, "I know you are not to be sent away; but where are you to go to school?"

"To papa," replied Lulu, with a glad look and smile.

Evelyn sighed again. "The only part I regret," she remarked, "is that we have to give up being together in our studies, -- you and I. Unless," she added the next moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, "your father would take me as a pupil too. But I wouldn't dare to ask it."

"I would," said Max: "I dare ask papa almost any thing, -- unless it was leave to do something wrong, -- and I'll undertake to sound him on the subject."

"I'm not afraid to ask him, either," said Lulu; "and he's so kind, I do believe he'll say yes, or at least that he'll do it if everybody else is agreed. Have you seen him, Eva?"

"Yes; and he had such a kind, fatherly manner toward me, that I fell in love with him at once. I believe I'd be glad to have him adopt me if he was badly in want of another daughter about my age," she added, with a merry look and smile.

"I believe he'd be the gainer if he could swap me off for you," said Lulu, catching her friend's tone; "but I'm very happy in feeling quite sure he would rather have me, bad as I am, just because I am his own."

"That makes all the difference in the world," said Evelyn; "and perhaps, on becoming acquainted with my faults, he might think them worse than yours."

It was not quite school-time when they reached Ion, and Evelyn proposed that they should spend the few intervening minutes in the grounds.

"I'd like to, ever so much," said Lulu; "but papa bade me go directly to my own room on getting home. So good-by," and she moved on resolutely in the direction of the house.

"Good-by. I'll see you again when school is out, if I can," Evelyn called after her.

Lulu's thoughts were so full of other things, she found great difficulty in fixing them upon her lessons. But saying to herself that it would be much too bad to fail in her first recitations to her father, she exerted her strong will to the utmost, and succeeded. She was quite ready for him when, at length, he came in.

But looking up eagerly from her book, "Papa," she asked, "have you, oh! have you, bought it?"

"Bought what?" he asked smilingly, as he sat down and drew her to his side.

"O papa! you know! Woodburn, I mean."

"I think I have secured it," he said, "and that it will make a very delightful home for us all."

"Oh, I am so glad!" she cried, throwing her arms round his neck, and giving him a vigorous hug. "When can we move in, papa?"

"In about two weeks, probably: can you stand having to wait for that length of time?"

"I s'pose I'll have to," she said, laughing a little ruefully. "It'll help very much that I'll have you here, and see you every day. Are you going to keep me shut up in this room all the time?"

"No: did I not tell you, you were no longer a prisoner?"

"Oh, yes, sir! but I -- I don't care very much to -- to be with Rosie and the rest."

"I prefer that you should not be, except when I am present," he returned gravely. "I want to keep you with me as much as possible; and would rather have you alone, or with Evelyn, Max, and Gracie only, when I am not with you."

"I like that best, too, papa," she replied humbly; "for I can't trust myself not to get into a passion with Rosie and her dog, and I suppose you can't trust me either."

"Not yet, daughter," he said gently; "but I hope the time will come when I can. Now we will attend to the lessons."

When the recitations were finished, "Papa," she said, with an affectionate, admiring look up into his face, "I think you are a very nice teacher: you make every thing so clear and plain, and so interesting. I'm so glad you're the gentleman who is to have charge of me," she added with a happy laugh.

"So am I," he said, caressing her. "I am very glad, very thankful, to be able to take charge of all my own children; and whatever I may lack in experience and ability as a teacher, I hope to make up in the deep interest I shall always feel in the welfare and progress of my pupils."

She then told him of Evelyn's wish, concluding With, "Won't you, dear papa? I'd like it so much, and Eva is such a good girl you wouldn't have a bit of trouble managing her. She's just as different from me as possible."

"Quite a recommendation; and if I were as sure of proving a competent teacher, I should not hesitate to grant your request. But it is a new business to me, and perhaps it would not be wise for me to undertake the tuition of more than my own three at present. However," he added, seeing her look of disappointment, "I will take the matter into consideration."

"Oh, thank you, sir! Papa, I've just thought of two things I want to talk to you about."

"Very well; let me hear them."

"The first is about my being so naughty at Viamede," she went on, hanging her head, and blushing deeply; "in such a passion at Signor Foresti, and so obstinate and disobedient to grandpa Dinsmore."

"I was very sorry to hear of it all," he said gravely: "but what about it?"

"Don't you have to punish me for it?" she asked, half under her breath.

"No: the punishment I gave you the other night settled all accounts up to that date."

She breathed more freely.

"Papa, would you have made me go back to that horrid man after he struck me?"

"It is not worth while to consider that question at this late day. Now, what else?" he asked.

"Papa, I spoiled one of those valuable books of engravings belonging to grandpa Dinsmore; no, I didn't exactly spoil it myself, but I took it out on the veranda without leave, and carelessly left it where Rosie's dog could get at it; and he scratched and gnawed and tore it, till it is almost ruined."

"I shall replace it at once," he said. "I am sorry you were so careless, and particularly that you took the book out there without permission; but that was not half so bad as flying into a passion, even if you hurt nothing or no one but yourself."

"But I did get into a passion, papa, at the dog and at Rosie," she acknowledged, in a frightened tone, and blushing more deeply than before.

"I am deeply grieved to hear it," he said.

"And won't you have to punish me for that, and for getting the book spoiled?"

"No: didn't I tell you just now that all accounts were settled up to the other night?"

"Papa, you're very, very kind," she said, putting her arm round his neck, and laying her head on his shoulder.

"I am very glad, that, with all her faults, my dear little daughter is so truthful and so open with me," he said, smoothing her hair.

"Papa, I'm ever so sorry you'll have to pay so much money to replace that book," she said. "But -- you often give me some pocket-money, and -- won't you please keep all you would give me till it counts up enough to pay for the book?"

"It is a right feeling, a feeling that pleases me, which prompts you to make that request," he said in a kind tone, and pressing his lips to her cheek; "and probably another time I may let you pay for such a piece of carelessness, but you need not in this instance. I feel rich enough to spare the money quite easily for that and an increase in my children's weekly allowance. What is yours now?"

"Fifty cents, papa."

"Where is your purse?"

She took it from her pocket, and put it into his hand.

"Only five cents in it," he remarked, with a smile, when he had examined.

Then, taking a handful of loose change from his pocket, he counted out four bright quarters and ten dimes, and poured them into her purse.

"O papa! so much!" she cried delightedly, "I feel ever so rich!"

He laughed at that. "Now," he said, "you shall have a dollar every week, unless I should have to withdraw it on account of some sort of bad behavior on your part. Max is to have the same; Gracie half a dollar till she is a little older: and you are all to keep an account of your spendings."

He took from another pocket, three little blank-books.

"One of these is for you: the others are for your brother and sister," he said. "See, there is a blank space for every day in the week; and, Whenever you lay out any money, you must write down in the proper place what it was that you bought, and how much it cost."

"And show it to you, papa?"

"Once in a while: probably, whenever I hand you your allowance, I shall look over your account for the week that is just past, and tell you what I think of the way you have laid out your money, in order to help you to learn to spend it judiciously."



Chapter XVIII.

"Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us any thing."


There was a sound of small, hurrying feet in the hall without, a tap at the door; and Max's voice asked, "May we come in?"

"Yes," said his father; and instantly the door was thrown wide. Evelyn came in with a quiet, lady-like step, and Max and Grace more boisterously.

The captain rose, shook hands with Eva, set her a chair, and sat down again, drawing Gracie to his arms, while Max stood at his side.

"Oh! what are those for?" he asked, catching sight of the blank-books.

"This is for you, this for Grace," the captain answered, bestowing them as he spoke, then went on to repeat substantially what he had just been saying to Lulu, and to replenish their purses as he had hers.

They were both delighted, both grateful.

Evelyn looked on, well pleased. "Now your allowance is just the same as mine, and I am so glad," she said to Lulu. "I have never kept an account; but I think it must be a good plan, and I mean to after this."

"There is another thing, children," said the captain: "any money that we have, is only lent to us by our heavenly Father; and it is our duty to set aside a certain portion for giving to his cause."

"How much, papa?" asked Max.

"People have different ideas about that," was the reply. "In Old-Testament times, the rule was one-tenth of all; and I think most people should not give less now: many are able to give a great deal more. I hope each of you will be glad to give as much as that."

He opened Lulu's Bible, lying on the table, and read aloud, "'He who soweth sparingly, shall reap also sparingly; and he who soweth bountifully, shall reap also bountifully. Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity; for God loveth a cheerful giver.'"

"I'll give a tenth of all," said Lulu. "I mean to buy a little purse on purpose to keep my tenth in, and I'll put two of these dimes in it. That will be the tenth of the two dollars you've given me, won't it, papa?"

"Yes," he said.

"And I'll do the same," said Max.

"I too," added Gracie.

"It is just what my papa taught me to do," remarked Evelyn modestly.

"Would you children all like to take a drive with me this afternoon?" asked the captain.

There was a simultaneous and joyful assent from his own three: then Evelyn said, "Thank you, sir. I should like it extremely, if I can get permission. Aunt Elsie expects me home to dinner; but I will go now to the telephone, and ask if I may stay and accept your invitation."

"And while you are doing that, I will go to my wife, and try to persuade her to join our party," the captain said, leaving the room.

Evelyn had no difficulty in gaining permission to stay at Ion for the rest of the day, or go anywhere Capt. Raymond might propose to take her; and he found but little difficulty in persuading Violet to accompany him in a drive that would take her from her baby for an hour or two, the little one being so much better that she did not fear to leave it in charge of her mother and the nurse, thinking it might die before her return.

"The carriage will be at the door in ten or fifteen minutes after we leave the dinner-table," the captain told them all; and each one promised to be ready to start at once.

The children all came down the stairs and out upon the veranda together, and only a little in advance of the captain and Violet.

There was a simultaneous exclamation of surprise as they saw, not the Ion family carriage, but a new and very handsome one, with a pair of fine match-horses, which none of them had ever seen before, drawn up at the foot of the veranda-steps, while, a few feet beyond, a servant held the bridle of a beautiful, spirited pony, whose long mane, gracefully arched neck, and glossy coat, struck them all with admiration.

The carriage-horses were no less handsome or spirited: they were tossing their manes, and pawing the ground, with impatience to be off.

Violet turned a bright, inquiring look upon her husband, while all three of his children were asking in eager, excited tones, "Papa, papa, whose carriage and horses are these?"

"Ours," he said, handing Violet to a seat in the vehicle; then, as he helped Evelyn in, "Max, my son, if you will ride that pony, there will be more room here for the rest of us."

"O papa! may I?" cried the boy in tones of delight. "Did you hire it for me?"

"No: I only bought it for you. Mount, and let me see how well you can manage him -- how well you have improved your opportunities for learning to ride."

Max needed no second invitation, but had vaulted into the saddle before his father was done speaking.

"Now put him through his paces," was the next order.

Max wheeled about, dashed down the avenue at a rapid gallop, turned, and came back at an easy canter; his father and sisters, Violet also, watching him in proud delight, he was so handsome, and sat his pony so well.

"Ah! that will do," his father said when the lad was within easy hearing-distance: "these fellows," glancing at the horses attached to the carriage, "are getting too restless to stand any longer; so you may finish your exhibition at another time. I have seen enough to feel that you are quite equal to the management of your pony."

"O papa! he's just splendid!" Max burst out, bending down to pat and stroke the neck of his steed; "and I can never thank you enough for such a gift."

"Enjoy him, and use him kindly: that is all I ask," the captain said, entering the carriage, where he had already placed his two little girls. "Drive on, Scipio. Max, you may ride along-side."

"I 'spect I know where we're going," remarked Grace gleefully, and with an arch smile up into her father's face, as she noticed the direction they were taking on turning out of the avenue into the high-road.

"Do you?" he said. "Well, wait a little, and you will find out how good a guess you have made."

"To Woodburn, papa?" queried Lulu eagerly.

"Have patience, and you will see presently," he answered with a smile.

"Mamma Vi, do you know?" she asked.

"It is your father's secret," said Violet. "I should not presume to tell you when he declines doing so."

"We shall know in a very few minutes, Lu," said Evelyn: "it is only a short drive to Woodburn."

"I was thinking about that name," said Grace. "Papa, why do they call it Woodburn? There's woods, -- do they burn them sometimes? They don't look as if they'd ever been burned."

"I don't think they have," he said, "except such parts of them as dry twigs and fallen branches, that could be picked up from the ground, or now and then a tree that it was thought best to cut down, or that fell of itself. But you know, there is a pretty little brook running across the estate, and in Scotland such a stream is called a burn; so, having a wood and a burn, Woodburn is a very appropriate name."

"Yes, papa, I think it is, and a pretty name too. Thank you for explaining it, and not laughing at my mistake."

"Even papa doesn't know nearly every thing, little daughter," he said, stroking and patting the small hand she had laid on his knee, "so it would be quite out of place for him to laugh at you for asking a sensible question. We should never be ashamed to ask for information that we need. It is much wiser than to remain in ignorance for fear of being laughed at."

"And her father always gives information so kindly and patiently," remarked Violet.

"And I think he knows 'most every thing," said Grace. "Oh, I did guess right! for here we are at Woodburn."

They drove and walked about the grounds, admiring, criticising, planning improvements; then called on Miss Elliott, and, with her readily accorded permission, went over the house.

Violet and the captain selected a suite of rooms for their own occupation, and he decided which the children should use.

A bedroom opening from their own was selected for Grace, the adjoining room beyond for Lulu; and another, into which both these latter opened, they were told should be their own little sitting-room.

Besides these, a tiny apartment in a tower, communicating with Lulu's bedroom, was given to her. The sitting-room opened into the hall also, so that it was not necessary to pass through one bedroom to reach the other.

They were all bright, cheerful rooms, with a pleasant outlook from every window: in the sitting-room there were French windows opening upon a balcony.

The little girls were almost speechless with delight when told by their father that these four apartments were to be appropriated solely to their use.

Lulu caught his hand, and kissed it, tears of mingled joy and penitence springing to her eyes.

He smiled down at her, and laid his other hand tenderly on her head for an instant.

Then turning to Max, "Now, my boy," he said, "we must settle where you are to lodge. Have you any choice?"

"Is it to be more than one room for me, papa?" he asked, with an arch smile. "I believe boys don't usually fare quite so well as girls in such things."

"My boy does," returned his father: "you shall have two or three rooms if you want them, and quite as well furnished as those of your sisters."

"Then, if you please, papa, I'll take those over Lu's, and thank you very much. But as you have already given me several things that my sisters haven't got, -- a gun, a watch, and that splendid pony, -- I think it would be quite fair that they should have better and prettier furniture in their rooms than I in mine."

"That makes no difference, Max," his father answered with a pleased laugh. "I should hardly want the girls to have guns, but watches and ponies they shall have by the time they are as old as you are now."

At that the two little girls, standing near, exchanged glances of delight. They had been unselfishly glad for Max, and now they rejoiced each for herself and for the other.

Though, in common with all the rest, deeply interested in the new home, Max was not sorry when his father and Violet decided that it was time to return to Ion; for he was eager to show his pony to grandma Elsie, Zoe, and Rosie, who had not yet seen it.

"Papa, do you require me to keep along-side of the carriage?" he asked, as he remounted.

"No: if you wish, you may act as our avant-courier," was the smiling reply. "I quite understand that you are in haste to display your new treasure."

"Yes, sir: that was why I asked. Thank you, sir;" and away the lad flew, urging his pony to a rapid gallop.

He reached Ion some minutes in advance of the carriage, found nearly all of the family who had remained at home on the veranda, and greatly enjoyed their exclamations of surprise and admiration at sight of his steed.

As he drew rein at the foot of the steps, and lifted his hat to the ladies, Zoe and Rosie came hurriedly forward to get a nearer view. The first exclaimed, -- 

"What a beautiful pony! Where did he come from, Max?"

Rosie asking, "Whose is he?"

"Mine; a present from papa," replied Max, sitting proudly erect, and patting the pony's neck; "but I don't know where he came from, aunt Zoe. You'll have to ask papa if you want to know."

"You're in luck, Maxie," she said lightly.

"Yes, indeed. I was born in luck when I was born my father's son."

"Of course you were," she returned, laughing. "Where are the others? Oh, here they come!" as she caught sight of the captain's new carriage just turning in at the avenue-gates.

Those who were in it were a gay and happy party, who, all the way as they came, had been discussing plans for making the new home more convenient, comfortable, and beautiful, and for the life they were to live in it.

Woodburn was the principal theme of conversation in the evening also, the entire family being gathered together in the parlor, and no visitors present.

"Tell us about your nursery, Vi," said her mother: "where is it to be?"

"Next to our sleeping-room, mamma, on the other side from Gracie's: you may be sure we want our little ones near us."

"But is it a pleasant room?"

"None brighter or cheerier in the house, mamma; it is of good size too; and we mean to have it furnished with every comfort, and in a way to make it as attractive as possible."

"Pleasantly suggestive pictures among other things?"

"Yes, mamma. I know, from my own happy experience, that they have a great deal to do with educating a child."

"In both morals and art?" said the captain, looking smilingly at her. "I should think so, judging from what my wife is; and surely, it is reasonable to expect a child to be, to some extent, a reflection of its surroundings; refined or vulgar, according to the style of faces -- living or pictured -- it is constantly gazing upon, etc. But, however that may be, we will try to keep upon the safe side, furnishing only what must have a good influence, so far as it has any at all."

Lulu was there, sitting as close to her father as she could well get. She had a feeling that it was the only safe place for her.

"Shall I have some pictures on my walls, papa?" she asked in a low aside.

"Yes: we will go some day soon to the city, and choose some fine engravings for your rooms, Max's and Gracie's; furniture, too, carpets, curtains, and new paper for the walls."

"Oh, but that will be delightful!" she exclaimed. "Papa, you are just too good and kind for any thing."

Max, who was near at hand, had overheard. "That's so!" he said. "I suppose you mean that I am to go too, papa?"

"Yes; Gracie also. My dear," to Violet, "when will it suit you to accompany us? -- to-morrow?"

"To-morrow is Saturday," she said reflectively. "Suppose we say Monday? I hope baby will be so much better by that time, that I shall feel easy in leaving her for a long day's shopping."

"Very well," he said: "we will go Monday morning if nothing happens to prevent."

"Lulu looks as if she did not know how to wait so long," Violet said, smiling kindly on the little girl. "Can't you take her and Max and Gracie to-morrow, and again on Monday? Surely, they can select some things for their own rooms, with you to help them."

"No. I want your taste as well as my own and theirs, and Lulu must learn to wait: it is a lesson she needs," he added, looking down at her with grave kindliness, and pressing affectionately the hand she had slipped into his.

She flushed, and cast down her eyes.

"Yes, papa," she murmured, "I will try to be good and patient. I'm sure I ought to be when you are so very good to me."

"Now, captain, if my taste and judgment were considered equal to Vi's, and Lulu might be spared that lesson," remarked Zoe laughingly, "I'd offer to go in her place, -- Vi's, I mean. I think it would be great fun to help choose pictures, carpets, and furniture."

"Thank you, Zoe; that is a kind offer," said Violet: "and if mamma thinks it an enjoyable errand, and will consent to supplement your taste and judgment with hers, they will be a good deal more than equal to mine," she concluded, with a smiling glance at her mother.

"I am quite of Zoe's opinion as to the pleasantness of the object of the expedition, Vi," Elsie said, "and quite at the service of the captain and yourself, to go, or to take your place in watching over baby while you go; and I think you will find it necessary to spend more than one or two days in the work of selecting what you will want for the furnishing of your home."

"I dare say you are right about that, mother," said the captain; "and as it seems to be the desire of all parties that the work should be begun to-morrow, I think I will take the children and as many of you ladies as may like to accompany us."

"Papa, mayn't we drive to the city in the new carriage?" pleaded Lulu. "I'd like it ever so much better than going in the cars; and then we can drive from one store to another, without having to take the street-cars or a hack."

"It shall be as the ladies who decide to go with us may wish," he said.

"I think Lulu's plan a very good one," said grandma Elsie, kindly desirous to see the child gratified.

"And I would greatly prefer it, if I should be one of the party," added Zoe.

"As I trust you will," returned the captain gallantly. "Gracie, daughter, it is time little ones like you were in their nests. Bid good-night, and go."

The child obeyed instantly and cheerfully.

"And I must go back to my baby," Violet remarked, as she rose and left the room along with the little girl.

"You may go to your room, Lulu," the captain said, in a quiet aside; "but you need not say good-night to me now: I shall step in to look at you before I go to mine."

"Yes, papa," she returned, with a glad look, and followed Grace's example.

"Max, what do you say to a promenade on the veranda with your father?" Capt. Raymond asked, with a smiling glance at his son.

Max jumped up with alacrity. "That I'd like nothing better, sir," he said; and they went out together.

"You are pleased with your pony, Max?" the captain said inquiringly, striking a match and lighting a cigar as he spoke.

"Yes, indeed, papa!" was the enthusiastic reply. "I feel very rich owning him."

"And mean to be a kind master to him, I trust?"

"Yes, sir; oh, yes, indeed! I don't intend ever to speak a cross word to him, much less give him a blow."

"He has always been used to kind treatment, I was told, and has nothing vicious in his disposition," the captain continued, puffing at his cigar, and pacing the veranda with measured tread, Max keeping close at his side: "so I think he will always give you satisfaction, if you are gentle and kind, never ill-treating him in any way."

"I mean to make quite a pet of him, sir," Max said.

Then, with an arch look up into his father's face, -- a full moon making it light enough for each to see the other's countenance quite distinctly, -- "Papa, you are very generous to me, but you never offer me a cigar."

The captain stopped short in his walk, and faced his son with some sternness of look and tone. "Max, you haven't learned to smoke? tell me: have you ever smoked a cigar? or tobacco in any shape?"

"Yes, sir; but" -- 

"Don't do it again: I utterly and positively forbid it."

"Yes, sir: I'll obey; and, in fact, I have no desire to smoke again: it was just one cigar I tried; and it made me so deathly sick, that I've never wanted another. I wouldn't have done it, papa, if you had ever forbidden me; but -- but you had never said any thing to me on the subject, and I'd seen" -- Max hesitated, and left his sentence unfinished.

"You had seen your father smoke, and naturally thought you might follow his example?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, my son, I can hardly blame you for that; but there are some things a man may do with impunity, that a boy may not. Tobacco is said to be far more injurious to one who has not attained his growth, than to an adult. But it is not seldom injurious to the latter also: some seem to use it with no bad effect, but it has wrought horrible suffering for many. I am sorry I ever formed the habit, and I would save you from the same regret, or something worse: indeed, so anxious am I to do so, that I would much rather hand you a thousand dollars than a cigar, if I thought you would smoke it."

"Papa, I promise you I will never try the thing again; never touch tobacco in any shape," Max said earnestly.

"Thank you, my son; and I will give up the habit for your sake," returned his father, grasping the lad's hand with one of his, and, with the other, flinging his cigar far down the avenue.

"Oh, no, papa! don't do it for my sake," said Max. "Cousin Arthur told me that when a man had smoked for years, it cost him a good deal of suffering to give it up; and I couldn't bear to see you suffer so. I'll refrain all the same, without your stopping."

"I don't doubt that you would, my dear boy; and I fully appreciate the affection for me that prompts you to talk in that way," the captain said: "but I have set a bad example quite long enough, not to my own son alone, but to other people's; and whatever I may have to endure in breaking off from the bad habit, will be no more than I deserve for contracting it. I should be very sorry, Max, to have you feel that you have a coward for a father, -- a man who would shrink from the course he felt to be right, rather than endure pain, mental or physical."

"A coward! O papa! I could never think that of you!" cried the boy, flushing hotly; "and if ever any fellow should dare to hint such a thing in my hearing, I'd knock him down as quick as a flash."

The corners of the captain's lips twitched; but his tones were grave enough as he said, "I don't want you to do any fighting on my account, Max; and if anybody slanders me, I shall try to live it down.

"There is another thing I want to talk to you about," he went on presently, "and that is the danger of tampering with intoxicating drinks. The only safe plan is to let them entirely alone. I am thankful to be able to say that I have not set you a bad example in that direction. My good mother taught me to 'touch not, taste not, handle not;' and I have never taken so much as a glass of wine; though there have been times, my boy, when it required some moral courage to stand out against the persuasions, and especially the ridicule, of my companions."

Max's eyes sparkled. "I know it must, papa," he said; "and when I am tried in the same way, I'll remember my father's example, and try to act as bravely as he did."



Chapter XIX.

"Train up a child in the way he should go." -- PROV. xxii. 6.


"Papa, I want to ask you for something," was Lulu's eager salutation, as, in accordance with his promise, he stepped into her room, on the way to his own, to bid her good-night.

"Well, daughter," he said, sitting down, and drawing her into his arms, "there is scarcely any thing that gives me more pleasure than gratifying any reasonable request from you. What is it you want?"

"Leave to invite Evelyn to go with us to-morrow, if you don't think it will make too many, papa."

"I suppose it would add greatly to your enjoyment to have her with you," he said reflectively. "Yes, you may ask her; or I will do so, early in the morning, through the telephone, if the weather is such that we can go."

"Thank you, you dear papa." she said, giving him a hug and kiss. "I ought to be a very good girl, for you are always so kind to me."

She was up betimes the next morning, eagerly scanning the sky, which, to her great delight, gave every indication of fair weather for the day.

She hastened to array herself in suitable attire for her trip to the city, -- having consulted grandma Elsie on the subject the night before, -- and had just finished when she heard her father's step in the hall.

She ran to open the door.

"Good-morning, little daughter," he said with a smile, and stooping to give her a caress. "I have just been to the telephone. Evelyn will go with us, and I trust you will both enjoy your day."

"Oh, I know I shall!" she cried: "it will be just delightful! Are we all to go in the carriage, papa?"

"All but Max: he prefers to ride his pony."

"I should think he would. I'm so glad you gave it to him, papa!" There was not a trace of envy or jealousy in her look or tone.

"Wouldn't you like to have one?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, indeed, papa! but," hanging her head, and blushing deeply, "I don't deserve it."

"I intend to give you one as soon as you have learned to have patience under provocation, so that I shall be able to trust you to treat him kindly," he said. "How soon do you think that will be?"

"I don't know, papa. It will be a good while before I can feel at all sure of myself," she answered humbly.

"I hope it will," he said; then, as she looked up in surprise, "The apostle says, 'When I am weak, then am I strong.' When we feel our own weakness, and look to God for help, then we are strong with a strength far greater than our own; but when we grow self-confident, and trust in our own strength, we are very apt to find it but weakness.

"And now I must caution you to be on your guard to-day against any exhibition of self-will and ill temper, if your wishes are overruled by those older and wiser than yourself."

"Why, papa, am I not to be allowed to choose the things for my own rooms?" she asked, in a tone of deep disappointment.

"I intend that your taste shall be consulted, my child," he said; "but I cannot promise that you shall have, in every case, exactly what you most prefer. You might select carpets, curtains, and upholstery of material and colors that would wear poorly, or fade very soon. Therefore we must take grandma Elsie into our counsels, and get her help in deciding what to take; for I am sure you would like neither to have your rooms disfigured with faded, worn-out furnishings, or to put your father to the expense of refurnishing for you very soon."

"Oh, no, papa! No, indeed," she said.

"Besides," he went on, "don't you wish to consult my taste too? Would you not have your rooms pleasing to my eyes when I pay a visit to them, as I shall every day?"

"Oh, yes, papa! Yes, indeed! I think I shall care more for that than to have them look pretty to myself," she answered, with a look of eager delight, the cloud having entirely cleared from her brow.

"Then, I think we are not likely to have any trouble," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly, and smiling approvingly upon her.

"Now we will go down to breakfast, and we are to set out very soon after the meal is over." He rose, and took her hand in his, to lead her down to the breakfast-room.

"Papa," she said, looking up at him with eyes shining with filial love, "how kind you were to reason with me in that nice way, instead of saying sternly, as you might have done, 'Now, Lulu, if you are naughty about the choice of things for furnishing your rooms, you sha'n't have any thing pretty for them, and when we get home I'll punish you severely!'"

"Certainly, I might have done that, and probably with the effect of securing your good behavior," he said; "but I think neither of us would have felt quite so happy as we do now."

"I am sure I should not," she said, lifting his hand to her lips.

That little talk had a most happy effect upon Lulu, so that throughout the entire day she showed herself as docile and amiable as any one could have desired.

Her father, on his part, was extremely indulgent toward all three of his children, in every case in which he felt that it was right and wise to be so, sparing no reasonable expense to gratify their tastes and wishes. But in several matters they yielded readily to his or grandma Elsie's better judgment; indeed, always, when asked to do so, seeming, too, well satisfied with the final decision.

They returned home, a very happy set of children, except, in Lulu's case, when memory recalled the passionate outburst of the early part of the week with its dire consequences: that remembrance would be a sore spot in her heart, and a bitter humiliation, for many a day, probably for the rest of her life.

Rosie was on the veranda awaiting their arrival.

"Well, have you had a good time, and bought great quantities of pretty things?" she asked, addressing the company in general.

It was Zoe who answered first.

"Yes: if these young Raymonds are not satisfied with the furnishing of their apartments, I, for one, shall deem them the most unreasonable and ungrateful of human kind."

"She won't have a chance to, though," said Max; "for we're delighted with every thing papa has got us. Aren't we, Lu and Gracie?"

"Yes, indeed!" they both replied. "Oh, we have ever so many beautiful things! Papa and grandma Elsie helped us to choose them; so, of course, they are all just right," added Lulu, looking gratefully from one to the other.

"She takes no account of my very valuable assistance," laughed Zoe.

"Never mind: you are sure to be appreciated in one quarter," said Edward, coming up at that moment, catching her round the waist, and bestowing a hearty kiss upon each cheek. "I have been lost without my wife all day."

"How good of you!" she returned merrily. "I doubt if it isn't a very good plan to run away occasionally, that I may be the more highly appreciated on my return."

"Would you advise me to do likewise, and for the same reason, lady mine?" he asked, drawing her caressingly aside from the little group now busily occupied in telling and hearing about the day's purchases.

"No, sir," she said, tossing back her curls, and looking up into his face with a bewitchingly saucy smile: "you'd better not attempt it, lest there should be mutiny in the camp. When you go, I go too."

"Turn about, fair play," he said, knitting his brows. "I claim the privilege of being quite as independent as you are -- when you can't plead delegated authority from the doctor;" and, drawing her hand within his arm, he led her away to their private apartments.

Violet, hurrying down to welcome her husband home, passed them on the stairway.

"You two happy children!" she said, glancing smilingly back at them.

"Children!" echoed Edward. "Mrs. Raymond, how can you be so disrespectful to your elder brother? -- your senior by some two years."

"Ah! but your united ages are much less than Levis's and mine; and husband and wife make but one, don't they?" she returned gayly, as she tripped away.

Baby was almost herself again, and the young mother's heart was full of gladness.

She joined the group on the veranda, her husband receiving her with a glad smile and tender caress, and standing by his side, her hand on his shoulder, his arm half supporting her slight, girlish form, listened with lively interest to the story his children were telling so eagerly, of papa's kindness and generosity to them, and the many lovely things bought to make beautiful and attractive the rooms in the new home that were to be especially theirs.

He let them talk without restraint for some moments, then said pleasantly, "Now, my dears, it is time for you to go and make yourselves neat for the tea-table. Any thing more you think of that would be likely to interest Rosie and Walter, you can tell them afterwards."

The order was obeyed promptly and cheerfully, even by Lulu.

When the excitement of telling about their purchases, and all the day's experiences, was over, the children found themselves very weary, -- the two little girls at least: Max wouldn't acknowledge that he was at all fatigued, but was quite willing to comply with his father's suggestion that it would be wise for him, as well as for his sisters, to go early to bed.

While Lulu was making ready for hers, her thoughts turned upon the morrow, bringing with them a new source of disquiet.

"Papa," she said pleadingly, when he came in to bid her good-night, "mayn't I stay at home to-morrow?"

"Stay at home from church? Not unless you are sick, or the weather quite too bad for you to go out. Why should you wish it?"

"Because -- because -- I -- I'm afraid people have heard about -- about how bad I was the other day; and -- so I -- I can't bear to go where I'll -- be seen by strangers. No, I mean by folks out of the house that know who I am, and what happened the other day."

"My child, I am sorry for you," he said, taking her on his knee; "but it is a part of the punishment you have brought upon yourself, and will have to bear."

"But let me stay at home to-morrow, won't you?"

"No: it is a duty to go to church, as well as a privilege to be allowed to do so.

"'Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is,' the Bible says; so I cannot allow you to absent yourself from the services of the sanctuary when you are able to attend.

"As I have told you before, I must obey the directions I find in God's Word, and, as far as lies in my power, see that my children obey them too."

"I'd rather take a whipping than go to-morrow," she muttered, half under her breath.

"I hope you are not going to be so naughty that you will have to do both," he said very gravely. "You have been a very good girl to-day, and I want you to end it as such."

"I mean to, papa; I'd be ashamed to be naughty after all you have done for me, and given me to-day: and I mean to be pleasant about going to church to-morrow; though it'll be ever so hard, and I'm sure you wouldn't want to go if you were me."

"If you were I," he corrected. "No: if I were you, I suppose I should feel just as you do; but the question is not what we want to do, but what God bids us do.

"Jesus said, 'If ye love me, keep my commandments.' 'He that hath my commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me.'

"It is the dearest wish of my heart to see my children his followers, showing their love to him by an earnest endeavor to keep all his commandments."

"Papa, you always want to do right, don't you?" she asked. "I mean, you like it; and so it's never hard for you as it is for me?"

"No, daughter, it is sometimes very far from being easy and pleasant for me to do what I feel to be my duty; for instance, when it is to inflict pain upon you, or another of my dear children, or deny you some indulgence that you crave. I should like to grant your request of to-night, if I could feel that it would be right; but I cannot, and therefore must deny it."

Lulu acquiesced in the decision with a deep sigh, and half hoped that something -- a storm, or even a fit of sickness -- might come to prevent her from having to go to church.

But Sunday morning was as bright and clear as the one before it, and she in perfect health; so there was no escape from the dreaded ordeal.

She ventured upon no further entreaty, knowing it would be altogether useless, and quite as much from love to her father, and a real desire to please him, as from fear of punishment, behaved herself as well as possible.

But she kept as entirely in the background as she could, not looking at or speaking to any one unless directly addressed.

No one, however, gave her any reason to suppose her agency in the baby's accident was known; and she returned to Ion with a lighter heart than she had carried with her when she went.

She had not seen the baby yet, since its fall, and though longing to do so, having an ardent affection for the winsome little creature, did not dare to ask that she might.

But as she was about to go into her own room, on reaching home, her father said, "Would you like to go with me to the nursery, Lulu, and see your little sister?"

"Oh, so much, papa, if I may!" she cried eagerly. "But," half drawing back, "perhaps she -- will be afraid of me."

"I trust not," he said, with emotion. "I hope she does not know that you had any thing to do with her fall. Come and see."

He took her hand, and led her to the nursery. The baby was awake, sitting in its nurse's lap, and looking bright, but so much thinner and paler than before her fall, that tears sprang to Lulu's eyes, and she could scarce refrain from sobbing aloud.

But the little one, catching sight of her, held out its arms, with a joyful cry, "Lu!"

At that, Lulu's tears fell fast.

"May I take her, papa?" she asked sobbingly, and with an entreating look up into his face. "I won't hurt her, I wouldn't for all the world!"

"You may take her," he said, his tones a trifle tremulous: "I am quite sure you would never hurt her intentionally."

Lulu gladly availed herself of the permission, took the baby in her arms, and sat down with it on her lap.

"Lu, Lu!" the little one repeated in her sweet baby voice; and Lulu hugged her close, kissing her again and again, and saying softly, "You dear, sweet darling; sister loves you, indeed, indeed she does!"

The captain looked on, his heart swelling with joy and thankfulness over the evident mutual affection of the two; for there had been a time when he feared Lulu would never love the child of her step-mother as she did Max and Grace.

Violet entered the room at that moment, and the little scene caused her eyes to fill with tears of gladness.

She was ready for the shopping expedition the next day: the children were allowed to go too, and again had a most enjoyable time.

After that they were told lessons must be taken up again: and Lulu passed most of her time in her own room, generally engaged in preparing her tasks for her father to hear in the evening; for he was now so busy with the improvements being carried forward at Woodburn, that very often he could not attend to her recitations till after tea.

She continued to think him the kindest and most interesting teacher she had ever had; while he found, to his surprise, that he had a liking for the occupation, aside from his fatherly interest in his pupil: and Max and Grace, listening to Lulu's report, grew anxious for the time when they could share her privileges.

But their waiting-time would not be very long. As soon as Miss Elliott's stipulated two weeks had expired, she would leave Woodburn, and they would take possession immediately. Their father and his young wife were quite as eager as they to begin the new order of things.



Chapter XX.

In The New Home.


The moving to Woodburn was not a formidable affair, there being little to carry from Ion besides the personal belongings of parents and children; and, indeed, nearly every thing, even of that kind, had been sent over beforehand.

Miss Elliott went one morning; and the Raymonds drove over scarcely an hour later, to find the greater part of the house in perfect order, a full staff of competent servants, and an excellent dinner in course of preparation.

Max and his sisters had been directed to stay away from the place ever since the day when their rooms were assigned them, and now a glad surprise awaited them.

"Come up-stairs," their father said, when they had made the circuit of the lower rooms. "My dear," to Violet, "will you please come too?"

"With all my heart," she returned gayly, and tripped lightly after him up the broad stairway, the children following.

He led them first to her apartments, and on through them into those of the little girls, greatly enjoying the exclamations of wonder and delight from her and the children.

They had all supposed the work of renovation and improvement was not to be begun till after the departure of Miss Elliott; but they found it not only begun, but finished; the new papers they had chosen were already on the walls, the carpets down, the curtains up, mirrors and pictures hung, and furniture in place.

Max's rooms, visited last, were found to be in like condition, -- not at all inferior to those of his sisters in any respect.

Violet was greatly pleased; the children were wild with delight; every thing was so dainty and fresh, there was such an air of elegance and refinement about the appointments of each room, that all were charmed with the effect.

They were hardly yet satisfied with gazing and commenting, when the summons to dinner came.

They trooped down to the dining-room, the captain and Violet leading the way, and seated themselves at the table.

Here, too, all was new and handsome; the napery, china, glass and silver ware, such as would not have suffered by comparison with what they had been accustomed to at Ion and Viamede.

Lulu was beginning to express that opinion, when her father silenced her by a gesture.

All quieted down at once, while he reverently gave thanks for their food, and asked God's blessing upon it.

"May I talk now, papa?" she asked, a moment after he had finished.

"Yes, if you have any thing to say worth our hearing."

"I'm not sure about that," she said; "but I wanted to tell you how beautiful I think the china and glass and silver are."

"Ah!" he said, smiling, "I am glad they meet your approval."

"O papa! such a nice, nice home as you have made for us!" exclaimed Grace in her turn. "Isn't it, Maxie?" turning to her brother.

"Yes, indeed! and we'll have to be nice, nice children to fit the home, won't we, Gracie?"

"Yes, and to fit papa and mamma," she responded, sending a merry glance from one to the other.

Both smiled upon her in return.

"We are going to have a house-warming this evening, Gracie," said her father: "do you know what that is?"

"No, papa; but I think it's very nice and warm now in all the rooms. Don't you?"

"It is quite comfortable, I think; but the house-warming will be an assembling of our relatives and friends to celebrate our coming into it, by having a pleasant, social time with us."

"Oh, that will be nice!" she exclaimed. "How many are coming, papa? I s'pose you've 'vited grandma Elsie and all the rest of the folks from Ion, and all the folks at Fairview?"

"Yes, and from the Oaks, the Pines, the Laurels, Roselands, and Ashlands; and we hope they will all come."

She gave him a wistful look.

"Well," he said with a smile, "what is it?"

"Papa, you know I 'most always have to go to bed at eight o'clock. I'd like ever so much to stay up till nine to-night, if you are willing."

"If you will take a nap after dinner, you may," he replied in an indulgent tone. "Max and Lulu may stay up later than usual if they will do likewise."

They all accepted the condition with thanks, and at the conclusion of the meal retired to their respective rooms to fulfil it.

Violet also, having not yet entirely recovered from the ill effects of anxiety and nursing, consequent upon the baby's injury, retired to her apartments to rest and sleep.

Capt. Raymond went to the library to busy himself with some correspondence first, afterwards with books and papers. He had one of these last in his hand, a pile of them on the table before him, when, from the open doorway into the hall, Lulu's voice asked, -- 

"Papa, may I come in? are you very busy?"

"Not too busy to be glad of my little girl's company," he said, glancing up from his paper with a pleasant smile. "Come and sit on my knee."

She availed herself of the invitation with joyful haste.

"I thought you were taking a nap," he remarked, as he put his arm round her, and kissed the ruby lips she held up in mute request.

"So I was, papa; but you didn't intend me to sleep all the afternoon, did you?" she asked, with a gleeful laugh, and nestling closer to him.

"No, hardly," he returned, joining in her mirth: "so much sleep in the daytime would be apt to interfere with your night's rest. I want you all to have sufficient sleep in the twenty-four hours to keep you in health of body and mind, but should be very sorry to have you become sluggards, -- so fond of your beds as to waste time in drowsing there, that should be spent in the exercise and training of body or mind. What have you been doing besides napping?"

"Enjoying my lovely, lovely rooms, papa, and examining the closets and wardrobe and bureau, to find out just where all my things have been put."

"That was well. Do you know any thing about housework, -- sweeping, dusting, and keeping things neat and tidy?"

"Not very much, papa."

"That is to be a part of your education," he said. "I want my daughters to become thorough housekeepers, conversant with all the details of every branch of the business. Gracie is not old enough or strong enough to begin that part of her training yet, but you are; so you must take care of your rooms yourself, except when something more than sweeping, dusting, and bed-making is needed."

"I'd like well enough to do it sometimes, papa," she said, looking a little crestfallen; "but I don't like to be tied down to doing it every day, because some days I shall want to be busy at something else; and besides, it is so much like being a servant."

"My little girl, that isn't a right kind of pride; honest labor is no disgrace; and 'Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work,' is as much a command of God as the 'In it (the sabbath) thou shalt not do any work.'"

"Yes, papa: and I don't think I'm lazy; I like to be busy, and sometimes work for hours together at my fret-sawing."

"No, I have never thought you an indolent child," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly; "but I am afraid you are wilful, and inclined to think yourself wiser than your elders, even your father."

"Please, papa, don't think that," she said, blushing, and hanging her head: "I know you are much wiser than I am."

"Is it, then, that you doubt my affection for you?" he asked seriously.

"Why, papa, how could I, when you are so good to me, and often tell me that you love me dearly?"

"What, then, is the trouble? if you believe your father to be both wise and loving, and if you love him, and want to please him, how can you object to his plans and wishes for you?"

"But, papa, who is to teach me how to take care of my rooms? Not mamma Vi, I suppose? I never saw her do any such work; and -- would you want me taught by one of the servants?" she queried, blushing vividly.

"No," he said: "I have a better plan than that. I have engaged Christine to be housekeeper here, and she will instruct you in all housewifely arts. She is a lady in education and manners, and you need feel it no degradation to be instructed by her."

"Oh, that will be nice! and I'll try to learn to do the work well, and to like it, too, to please you, my own, dear papa," she said, looking up lovingly into his face, her own growing very bright again.

"That is right, my dear little daughter," he returned, smiling kindly upon her.

"You asked just now," he went on, "if your mamma Vi would teach you these things. When I asked her to become my wife, I promised that she should have no care or responsibility in the matter of training and looking after the welfare of the three children I then had; because her mother objected, that she was too young for such a burden: so now that I can live at home with my children, and have no business that need interfere, I shall do my best to be father and mother both to them."

"How nice, papa!" she exclaimed joyfully. "Oh, I do think we ought to be the happiest children in the world, with such a dear, kind father, and such a lovely home! But" -- her face clouded, and she sighed deeply.

"But what, my child?"

"I was thinking of that dreadful temper that is always getting the better of me. But you will help me to conquer it, papa?" she added, half inquiringly, half in assertion.

"I fully intend to do all in my power to that end," he said in a tender tone; "but, my beloved child, the hardest part of the battle must inevitably be your own. You must watch and pray against that, your besetting sin, never allowing yourself to be a moment off your guard."

"I mean to, papa; and you will watch me, and warn me when you see that I am forgetting?"

"I shall be constantly endeavoring to do so," he answered, -- "trying to guard and guide all my children, looking carefully after their welfare, physical, mental, moral, and spiritual.

"To that end, I have just been examining some of the reading-matter which has been provided for them in my absence; and, so far as I have made myself acquainted with it, I decidedly approve it, as I expected I should; having all confidence in those who chose it for you, -- grandpa Dinsmore and grandma Elsie.

"This little paper, 'The Youth's Companion,' strikes me as very entertaining and instructive, also of excellent moral tone. Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, papa! we are all very fond of it, and find a great deal of useful information in it. I wouldn't be without it for a great deal, nor Max wouldn't either; and Gracie likes the part for the little folks ever so much."

"Then, we will continue to take it," he said; "also this magazine, 'St. Nicholas,' if you like it, as I can hardly doubt that you do."

"Indeed we do!" she exclaimed: "we wouldn't any of us like to do without that, either. Oh, I am glad you will let us go on with both that and the paper!

"Papa, where is the schoolroom? You haven't shown us that yet."

"No; and here come Max and Gracie," he said, as the two came hurrying in together. "I will show it to you now."

"What, papa?" asked Max.

"Oh! is there something more to see?" exclaimed Grace, running to her father, and putting her hand in his. "Oh, it's ever so nice to have such a beautiful home, and so many beautiful new things to look at!"

"It is only your schoolroom this time," her father said, closing his fingers lovingly over the little hand, and smiling down into the sweet blue eyes upraised so gratefully to his.

"Oh, yes, I want to see that! I'd 'most forgotten 'bout it," she said, skipping along by his side as he led the way, Max and Lulu following.

The room he had selected for the purpose was in a wing attached to the main building at the end farthest removed from Violet's apartments; for he did not want her to be disturbed by any noise the children might make, or them to feel constrained to keep very quiet when not engaged in study or recitation. There was a simultaneous burst of delight from the three, as he threw open the door, and ushered them in. Every thing had been done to render that as attractive as any other part of the mansion: the windows reached almost from floor to ceiling, some opening on to the veranda, one looking directly out upon lawn and flower-garden, with a glimpse of the wood and the brook beyond; a handsome rug covered the centre of the stained and polished floor. In an open fireplace a bright wood fire was blazing, an easy-chair on each side of it; and a sofa on the farther side of the room seemed to invite to repose: but the handsome writing-table, and three pretty rosewood desks, were suggestive of work to be done ere the occupants of the room might feel entitled to rest. The walls were tinted a delicate gray, an excellent background for the pictures that adorned them here and there: most of these were marine views, -- that over the fireplace, a very large and fine one, of a storm at sea.

On the mantel-shelf were heaped sea-mosses, shells, and coral; but the tiles below it represented Scripture scenes. Blinds and curtains shaded the windows; and the broad, low sills were cushioned, making pleasant places to sit in.

"It will be just a pleasure to study in such a place as this," cried Max, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and smiling all over his face.

"Indeed it will! especially with such a teacher as we are to have," chimed in Lulu.

"Oh, I'm just in ever such a hurry to begin!" said Grace. "Papa, which is my desk?"

"They are exactly alike," he said. "I thought of having yours made a trifle lower than the others, but concluded to give you a foot-rest instead, as you will soon grow tall enough to want it the height it now is. Max and Lulu, shall we give your little sister the first choice, as she is the youngest?"

"Yes, indeed, papa! yes, indeed!" they both answered with hearty good will, Max adding, "And Lu must have the next, if you please, papa."

That matter being speedily settled, the next question was when school was to begin. They were all three asking it.

"You may have your choice -- we will put it to vote -- whether we will begin to-morrow morning, or not till Monday," replied their father; "to-morrow, you will remember, is Thursday: we will begin school regularly at nine o'clock each morning; and it is to last four hours, not including five or ten minutes at the end of every hour for rest."

"That'll be ever so nice!" was Lulu's comment.

"That's so," said Max. "I see you are not going to be hard on a fellow, papa."

"Wait till you are sure," said his father: "there's to be no idling, no half attention to study, in those hours; you are to give your whole minds to your lessons, and I shall be very strict in exacting perfect recitations."

"Do you mean, sir, that we are to repeat the answers in the book, word for word?"

"No, not at all. I shall very much prefer to have you give the sense in your own words: then I shall know that you understand the meaning of the text, and are not repeating sounds merely like a parrot; that you have not been going over the words without trying to take in the ideas they are meant to express."

"But suppose we can't catch the writer's meaning?"

"If you fail to do so, after giving your best efforts to the task, your teacher will always be ready to explain to the best of his ability," was the smiling rejoinder. "But remember, all of you, that I intend you to use your own brains with as little assistance from other people's as possible. Mind as well as body grows strong by exercise."

"But we haven't decided when we are to begin," said Lulu.

"I vote for to-morrow," said Max: "afternoons will give us time enough to do any thing else we want to."

"Yes: I second the motion," she said.

"And I third it," added Grace. "Now, papa, you are laughing at me, and so is Max. Wasn't that the right way to say it?"

"It was 'most as right as Lu's," said Max.

"And both will do well enough," said their father.

"I was going to ask if I might have Eva here to visit me to-morrow, papa," said Lulu; "but she'll be busy with lessons in the morning too. May I ask her to come in the afternoon?"

"Yes: you can ask her this evening; she will be here with the rest.

"Now I have something else to show you. Come with me."

He took Gracie's hand again, and led them to a small, detached building, only a few yards distant, -- a one-story frame, so prettily designed that it was quite an ornament to the grounds.

The children exclaimed in surprise; for, though it had been there on their former visit to Woodburn, it was so greatly changed that they failed to recognize it.

"It wasn't here before, papa, was it?" asked Grace. "I'm sure I didn't see it."

"Yes, it was here," he said, as he ushered them in, "but I have had it altered and fitted up expressly for my children's use: you see, it is a little away from the house, so that the noise of saws and hammers will not be likely to prove an annoyance to your mamma and visitors. See, this is a workroom furnished with fret and scroll saws, and every sort of tool that I know of which would be likely to prove useful to you, Max and Lulu."

"Papa, thank you! how good and kind you are to us!" they both exclaimed, glancing about them, then up into his face, with sparkling eyes.

"You must have spent a great deal of money on us, sir," added Max thoughtfully.

"Yes, indeed," chimed in Lulu with a slight look of uneasiness. "Papa, I do hope you won't have to go without any thing you want, because you've used up so much on these and other things for us."

"No, my dears; and if you are only good and obedient, and make the best use of what I have provided, I shall never regret any thing of what I have done for you.

"See here, Gracie."

He opened an inner door as he spoke, and showed a playroom as completely fitted up for its intended use as the room they were in. It was about the same size as the workroom, the two occupying the whole of the small building.

A pretty carpet covered the floor, a few pictures hung on the delicately tinted walls; there were chairs and a sofa of suitable size for the comfort of the intended occupants, and smaller ones on which Gracie's numerous dolls were seated; a cupboard with glass doors showed sets of toy china dishes, and all the accessories for dinner and tea table; there were also a bureau, wash-stand, and table corresponding in size with the rest of the furniture; and the captain, pulling open the drawers of the first named, showed them well stocked with material of various kinds, suitable for making into new garments for the dolls, and with all the necessary implements, -- needles, thread, thimbles, scissors, etc.

The two little girls were almost breathless with astonishment and delight.

"Papa!" cried Gracie, "you haven't left one single thing for Santa Claus to bring us on Christmas!"

"Haven't I?" he returned, laughing, and pinching her round, rosy cheek. "Ah, well wouldn't you as soon have them as presents from your own papa?"

"Oh, yes, papa! I know he's just pretend, and it would be you or some of the folks that love me," she said, laying her cheek against his hand; "but I like to pretend it, 'cause it's such fun."

"There are a good many weeks yet to Christmas-time," remarked Lulu; "and perhaps our Santa Claus folks will think up something else for you, Gracie."

"Perhaps they may," said the captain, "if she is good: good children are not apt to be forgotten or neglected, and I hope mine are all going to be such."

"I'm quite sure we all intend to try hard, papa," Max said, "not hoping to gain more presents by it, but because you've been so good to us already."

"Indeed we do!" added his sisters.



Chapter XXI.

"Then all was jollity, Feasting and mirth, light wantonness and laughter."


"It seems nice and warm here," remarked Lulu; "but," glancing about, "I don't see any fire."

Her father pointed to a register. "There is a cellar underneath, and a furnace in it," he said. "I thought that the safest way to heat these rooms for the use of very little people. I do not want to expose you to any danger of setting yourselves on fire."

"It's getting a little dark," remarked Grace.

"Yes," he said. "We will go in now. It is time for you to be dressed for the evening."

"Papa, who is to tell us what to wear, -- you, or mamma Vi?" asked Lulu, as they pursued their way back to the house.

"You may wear your cream-colored cashmere with the cherry trimmings; Gracie, hers with the blue," he replied.

"That's just what I wanted you to say, papa! I like those dresses," remarked Lulu with satisfaction.

"That is well: and Gracie, of course, is pleased; for she never objects to any thing papa or mamma wishes her to do," he said, with a loving glance down into the little girl's face.

"'Course not, papa; 'cause I know you and mamma always know best," she said, her blue eyes smiling up into his.

"And I mean to try to be like her in that, papa," Lulu said with unwonted humility.

"I hope so: I have no fault to find with your behavior of late," he returned kindly.

They passed into the house, and in the hall met Christine and Alma.

"Ah! you have come, my good girls?" the captain said to them with a pleased look. "Jane," to the girl who had admitted them, "show them to their rooms."

Christine had come to assume her duties as housekeeper at Woodburn; Alma was to make her home there while still continuing to sew for the families at Ion and Fairview -- an arrangement which suited the sisters admirably.

"Thanks, sir: it ees one grand place you haf here," said Christine. "We shall be very pleased to haf so nice a home."

"I hope it will prove a happy one to you both," he returned kindly. Then, as they followed Jane to the rear of the mansion, -- 

"Now, children," he said, "make haste with your dressing."

"Yes, sir," they replied, hurrying up the broad stairway with willing feet.

At its head they met Agnes, their mamma's maid.

"I'se to help yo' dress, Miss Lu and Miss Gracie," she said. "Miss Wi'let tole me so, and I'se laid out yo' things on yo' beds."

"What things? What dress for me?" asked Lulu sharply.

"De cream-colored cashmere, what Miss Wi'let corrected me to."

Lulu laughed. "Directed, you mean, Agnes. You may tie my sash when I'm ready. I can do all the rest myself," she said, passing on into her bedroom, while Grace skipped gayly into hers.

"Mamma's very good to send you, Agnes," she said; "and you may please dress me as fast as you can, 'cause papa told us to make haste."

Grace was a favorite with Agnes as with all the servants at Ion.

"Ya'as, I'll dress yo' up fine, Miss Gracie, and make yo' look putty as a pink," she said, beginning her task.

"Lots ob folks comin' to-night, honey, and grand doin's gwine on in de kitchen and de dinin'-room. Dere's a long table sot out in de bigges' dinin'-room, and heaps and heaps ob splendiferous china dishes, wid fruits and flowahs painted onto 'em, and silverware bright as de sun, and glass dishes dat sparkle like Miss Elsie's di'mon's; and in de kitchen dey's cookin' turkeys and chickens, and wild game ob warious kinds, and oysters in warious styles; 'sides all de pastry and cakes and fruits and ices, and -- oh, I cayn't begin to tell yo' all de good things the captain has perwided! dere wasn't never nuffin' grander at Ion or Wiamede or de Oaks, or any ob de grand places belongin' to our fam'lies."

Grace was a highly interested listener.

"Oh," she said, "I want to see the table when it's all set and the good things on it! I wonder if papa will let me eat any of them."

"Maybe," said Agnes; "but you know, Miss Grace, yo's sickly, -- leastways, not bery strong, -- and de doctah doan' let you eat rich things."

"No," returned the little girl, sighing slightly, "but I do have a good many nice things; and I'd rather eat plain victuals than be weak and sick. Wouldn't you, Agnes?"

"Yaas, I reckon. Dere, you's done finished, Miss Gracie, and looks sweet as a rosebud."

"So she does," said Lulu, coming hurrying in from her room, arrayed in her pretty cashmere, and with a wide, rich sash-ribbon in her hand. "Now, Agnes, if you will please tie my sash, I'll be 'done finished' too."

"O Lu!" exclaimed Grace in loving admiration, "I'm sure you must look twice as sweet and pretty as I do."

Their father opened the door, and stepped in just in time to hear her words, and, glancing smilingly from one to the other, said, "To papa's eyes, both his dear little girls look sweet and lovable. Agnes, their appearance does you credit. Now, my darlings, we will go down to tea, for there is the bell."

"Have the folks come, papa?" asked Grace, putting her hand into his.

"No, daughter: they will probably not begin to come for an hour or so."


"Then, are we going to have two suppers?"

"Yes, one for ourselves -- the children especially -- at the usual hour, and a later one for the company. That last will be too late, and too heavy, for your weak digestion."

"But not for Max's and mine, will it, papa?" questioned Lulu.

"Yes, I fear so."

"But we are strong and healthy."

"And I wish to keep you so," he said pleasantly; "but you may rest assured that I shall not deny you any enjoyment I think it safe to grant you. Now sit down and be quiet till the blessing has been asked," -- for they had reached the dining-room, and found Violet and Max there waiting for them.

Lulu had overheard a good deal of the glowing account of the coming feast to which Agnes had treated Grace, and, when at liberty to speak again, asked, in a rather discontented tone, if she and Max were not to have any share in the good supper being prepared for the expected guests.

Instead of answering directly, the captain turned to his son, and asked, "Max, what do you think of this supper?"

"It's good enough for a king, sir," returned the lad heartily, glancing over the table as he spoke, -- "the nicest of bread and butter, plenty of rich milk and cream, canned peaches and plums, and splendid gingerbread. Why, Lu, what more could you ask?"

Lulu only blushed and hung her head in reply.

"I think it is a meal to be thankful for," remarked Violet cheerily; "but, my dear, you will let them share in some of the lighter refreshments provided for the guests, won't you?"

"Yes, I intend they shall," replied her husband. "Even Gracie can, I think, eat some ice-cream with safety."

"Thank you, papa: I'll be satisfied with that, if you don't think it is best for me to have any thing else," Lulu said, recovering her spirits.

They had scarcely left the table when the guests began to arrive, those from Ion and Fairview coming first.

"Mamma, dearest mamma! welcome, a thousand times welcome, to our home!" exclaimed Violet, embracing her mother with ardent affection.

"I wish it were yours also, mother," the captain said: "there could be no more welcome inmate."

There were cordial, affectionate greetings for each of the others also: then, when outdoor garments had been laid aside, all were conducted over the house, to be shown the improvements already made, and told of those still in contemplation.

It was a great delight to Lulu and Grace to exhibit their pretty rooms to Evelyn and Rosie, and hear their expressions of surprise and admiration; and the pleasure was repeated several times, as the little folks from the Laurels, the Oaks, and the Pines arrived, and in succession went the same round.

"I am pleased with all I have seen, Vi; but this room is especially charming to me," grandma Elsie said, when Violet led her a second time into the nursery, the rest of the Ion party having passed on down to the parlors. "Baby should be a merry, happy child, if pleasant, cheerful surroundings can make her so."

"I trust she will, mamma," returned the young mother, leading the way to the dainty crib where the little one lay sweetly sleeping.

Elsie bent over the little form, gazing at the sweet baby face with eyes brimful of motherly love and tenderness.

"The lovely, precious darling!" she murmured softly. "I am so rejoiced, so thankful, to see her looking almost herself again!"

"As we are," said Violet, in low, tremulous tones. "Her father is extremely fond of her, mamma, as he is of all his children. I think he has no favorite among them, but loves each one devotedly."

"As I do mine," Elsie responded, a bright, sweet smile lighting up her face. "I love you, my Vi, and all your brothers and sisters, very dearly, -- each with a love differing somewhat in kind from that given to the others, but not at all in intensity."

They lingered a moment longer, watching the young sleeper: then with a parting injunction to the nurse to be very careful of her, not leaving her alone for an instant, they went down-stairs again, and rejoined the rest of the company.

Everybody had come, the last party of children just descended from the inspection of the rooms of Max and his sisters.

"Now, have we seen positively every thing?" asked Rosie Travilla.

"Why, no!" cried Max, as with sudden recollection. Then hurrying to his father, who was talking on the other side of the room to Dr. Conly, and Mr. Horace Dinsmore of the Oaks, he stood waiting respectfully for an opportunity to speak.

The gentlemen paused in their conversations and the captain asked, "What is it, my son?"

"We haven't shown the workroom or the playroom, papa."

"Ah, sure enough! We must have them lighted first. Send Scipio out to put a lamp in each. Then the ladies' wraps will have to be brought down, for they would be in danger of taking cold going even that short distance without."

"I'll attend to it all, sir," Max rejoined with cheerful alacrity, and hastened away to do so.

In a few minutes all was in readiness.

Max, announcing the fact to his father, and the company in general, said dubiously, "I'm afraid we can't go all at once: the rooms aren't big enough to take in so many."

"So we will go in divisions," said Mr. Dinsmore. "There are thirty of us -- not counting the Woodburn family proper: we will make five divisions, six in each, in addition to the guide and exhibiter. Does everybody consent?"

"Yes, yes," was heard on every side.

Then ensued a merry time forming the divisions, and deciding the order of precedence; for every one was in mirthful mood.

It was all settled at last. The visits of inspection were made: everybody agreed in praising all they saw, and congratulating Max and his sisters on the good fortune that had befallen them.

The rest of the evening passed off very pleasantly. The feast was enjoyed, every dish being pronounced a success: the Woodburn children were satisfied with the share of it allowed them, -- all the more, perhaps, that a like care was exercised by the parents and guardians of the other young folks in respect to their indulgence of appetite.

Grace bade good-night, and went to her nest at nine o'clock, a cheerful, happy child; but, as the party broke up at ten, Max and Lulu were allowed to remain up to see them off.

Lulu had taken an early opportunity to give the invitation for the next day to Evelyn, and it was joyfully accepted, "uncle Lester" giving ready permission.

"You'll come as soon as lessons are over at Ion, won't you?" asked Lulu in parting.

"Yes, you may be sure I'll come the first minute I can," Eva answered gayly. "I expect to have a lovely time with you in those beautiful rooms, and I've had a lovely time to-night. Good-by," giving her friend a hearty embrace.

"Well, children," the captain said at breakfast the next morning, "remember, I expect every one of you to be in the schoolroom at five minutes before nine, and to begin studying exactly at the hour."

"Every thing to be done with naval precision, I suppose," remarked Violet, giving him a bright half-saucy smile; "that being, I understand, about on a par with military."

"Yes," he said, smiling in return, "that is to be the rule in this house for every one but my wife: she is to follow her own sweet will in all things."

"Ah!" she responded gayly, "I fear you do not realize what a rash promise you are making; or, rather, how rash you are in according such a privilege."

"It is hardly that," he answered: "acknowledging a right, would be my way of expressing it."

They had left the table and the breakfast-room, and were alone at the moment, the children having scattered to their work or play.

"How good you are to me, my dear husband!" she said, looking up fondly into his face as they stood together before the parlor fire.

"Not a whit better than I ought to be, my darling," he responded, bending to kiss the sweet, upturned face. "I have taken you from a tender mother and a most luxurious home, and it must be my care to see that you lose nothing by the transplantation -- sweet and delicate flower that you are!"

"In my place, Zoe would call you an old flatterer," she returned with a light laugh, but a tell-tale moisture gathering in her eyes.

"And what do you call me, my Violet?" he asked, putting his arm about her, and drawing her close to his side.

"The kindest, best, dearest of husbands, the noblest of men!"

"Ah, my dear! who is the flatterer now?" he laughed. "I'm afraid you and I might be accused of forming a mutual admiration society."

"Well, what if we do? isn't it the very best sort of a society for husband and wife to form? Levis, am I to have no duties in this house? none of the cares and labors that the mistress of an establishment is usually expected to assume?"

"You shall have no care of housekeeping that I can save you from," he said. "I undertake that, with Christine as my head assistant; though you, of course, are mistress, with the right to give orders and directions whenever you will -- to housekeeper, servants, children, even to your husband if you see fit," he concluded with a humorous look and smile.

"The idea of my ordering you whom I have promised to obey," she returned merrily. "But I'm afraid you are going to spoil me. Am I to have nothing to do?"

"You are to do exactly what you please," he said: "the care and training of our little one, aside from all the assistance to be had from servants, will furnish you with no small amount of employment."

"But you will help me with that?"

"Certainly, love; I intend to be as good and faithful a father to her as I know how to be: but you are her mother, and will do a mother's part by her, I know. Then, there are wifely duties which you would not wish to delegate to any one else."

"No, never!" she cried. "O my dear husband! it is the greatest pleasure in life to do any thing I can to add to your comfort and happiness."

"I know it, sweet wife. Ah!" glancing at his watch, "I must tear myself away now from your dear society, and attend to the duties of employer and teacher. I have some directions to give both employees and children."

Grace ran and opened the schoolroom door at the sound of her father's approaching footsteps.

"See, papa," she said, "we are all here, waiting for you to come, and tell us what lessons to learn."

"Yes, you are good, punctual children," he replied, glancing at the pretty little clock on the mantel; "for it still wants five minutes to nine."

"Papa, I know what lessons to learn, of course," remarked Lulu; "but the others are waiting for you to tell them."

"Yes. I shall examine Max first," the captain said, seating himself at his writing-table. "Bring your books here, my son."

"Are you dreadfully frightened, Maxie? very afraid of your new teacher?" Lulu asked laughingly as her brother obeyed the order.

"I don't expect to faint with fright," he returned; "for I've a notion he's pretty fond of me."

"Of you and of all his pupils," the captain said. "Lulu, you may take out your books, and begin to study."

When the tasks had been assigned to each, "Now children," he said, "I am going to leave you for a while. I can do so without fear that you will take advantage of my absence to idle away your time; for I know that you are honorable and trustworthy, also obedient. I have seldom known any one of you to disobey an order from me."

"Thank you, papa," Max said, answering for both himself and sisters, and coloring with pleasure as he spoke. "We'll try to deserve your praise and your confidence. But are we to consider ourselves forbidden to speak at all to each other while you are gone?"

"No, not entirely; but do not engage in unnecessary talk, to the neglect of your studies."

So saying, he went out and left them.

Returning exactly at the expiration of the first hour for study, he found them all busily at work.

He commended their industry, and gave permission for five minutes' rest.

They were prompt to avail themselves of it, and gathered about him full of gleeful chat, the girls seating themselves one on each knee, Max standing close at his side.

School was a decided success that day, and neither teacher nor pupils saw any reason to regret the establishment of the new order of things.

Evelyn came soon after they were dismissed, spent the afternoon and evening, and, when she left, averred that it had been the most delightful visit she had ever paid.



Chapter XXII.

Life At Woodburn.


Lulu's temper was not conquered, but she was more successful than formerly in combating it. The terrible lesson she had had in the injury to her baby sister, consequent upon her outburst of passion, could not easily be forgotten: the bitter recollection was often a great restraint upon her, and her father's loving watchfulness saved her many a time, when, without it, she would have fallen; he kept her with him almost constantly when at home, -- and he was rarely absent, -- scarcely allowed her to go anywhere off the estate without him, and seemed never for a moment to forget her and her special temptation: the slightest elevation in the tones of her voice was sure to catch his ear; and a warning look generally proved sufficient to put her on her guard, and check the rising storm of anger.

There were several reasons why it was -- as she often asserted -- easier to be good with him than with Mr. Dinsmore: he was more patient and sympathizing, less ready to speak with stern authority, though he could be stern enough when he deemed it necessary. Besides, he was her father, whom she greatly reverenced and dearly loved, and who had, as she expressed it, a right to rule her and to punish her when she deserved it.

One morning, after several very happy weeks at Woodburn, the quiet of the schoolroom, which had been profound for many minutes, was broken by a slight exclamation of impatience from Lulu.

Her father, glancing up from the letter he was writing, saw an ominous frown on her brow, as she bent over her slate, setting down figures upon it, and quickly erasing them again, with a sort of feverish haste, shrugging her shoulders fretfully, and pushing her arithmetic peevishly aside with the free hand.

"Lulu, my daughter," he said, in a quiet tone, "put on your hat and coat, and take a five-minutes' run on the driveway."

"Just now, papa?" she asked, looking up in surprise.

"Yes, just now. When you think you have been out the specified number of minutes, you may come back; but I shall not find fault with you if you are not quite punctual, as you will not have a timepiece with you."

"Thank you, sir," she said, obeying with alacrity.

She came in again presently, with cheeks glowing and eyes sparkling, not a cloud on her brow.

"Ah! I see you feel better," her father remarked, smiling kindly upon her; "and I have finished my letter, so have time to talk with you. Max and Gracie, you may take your turn at a run in the fresh air now."

Donning their outdoor garments, while Lulu took hers off, and put them in their proper place, they hurried away.

"Bring your slate and book here, daughter," was the next order, in the kindest of tones, "and let me see what was troubling you so."

"It's these vulgar fractions, papa," she said, giving herself an impatient shake. "I don't wonder they call them vulgar, for they're so hateful! I can't understand the rule, and I can't get the examples right. I wish you wouldn't make me learn them."

"Daughter, daughter!" he said, in grave, reproving accents, "don't give way to an impatient temper. It will only make matters worse."

"But, papa," she said, bringing the book and slate as directed, "won't you please let me skip these vulgar fractions?"

"I thought," he said, "that my Lulu was a brave, persevering little girl, not ready to be overcome by a slight difficulty."

"Oh! but it isn't a slight one, papa: it's big and hard," she pleaded.

"I will go over the rule with you, and try to make it clear," he returned, still speaking in a pleasant tone; "and then we will see what we can do with these troublesome examples."

She sighed almost hopelessly, but gave her attention fully to his explanation, and presently cried out joyfully, "Oh, I do understand it now, papa! and I believe I can get the sums right."

"I think you can," he said. "Stand here by my side, and let me see you try."

She succeeded, and was full of joy.

"There is nothing like trying, my little girl," he said, smiling at her exultation and delight.

She came to him again after lessons were done, and Max and Grace had left the room once more.

"May I talk a little to you, papa?" she asked.

"Yes, more than a little, if you wish," he replied, laying aside the book he had taken up. "What is it?"

"Papa, I want to thank you for sending me out to take that run, and then helping me so nicely and kindly with my arithmetic."

"You are very welcome, my darling," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee.

"If you hadn't done it, papa, or if you had spoken sternly to me, as grandpa Dinsmore would have done in your place, I'd have been in a great passion in a minute. I was feeling like just picking up my slate, and dashing it to pieces against the corner of the desk."

"How grieved I should have been had you done so!" he said; "very, very sorry for your wrong-doing, and that I should have to keep my word in regard to the punishment to be meted out for such conduct."

"Yes, papa," she murmured, hanging her head, and blushing deeply.

"Would breaking the slate have helped you?" he asked with grave seriousness.

"Oh, no, papa! you cannot suppose I'm so foolish as to think it would."

"Was it the fault of the slate that you had such difficulty with your examples?"

"Why, no, papa, of course not."

"Then, was it not extremely foolish, as well as wrong, to want to break it just because of your want of success with your ciphering?"

"Yes, sir," she reluctantly admitted.

He went on, "Anger is great folly. The Bible says, 'Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry; for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.' It seems to be the sort of foolishness that, more than any other, is bound in the heart of this child of mine. It seems, too, that nothing but 'the rod of correction' will drive it out."

She gave him a frightened look.

"No," he said, "you need not be alarmed: as you did not indulge your passionate impulse, I have no punishment to inflict.

"My dear, dear child, try, try to conquer the propensity! Watch and pray against this besetting sin."

"I will, papa," she murmured with a half despairing sigh.

Some weeks later -- it was on an afternoon early in December -- Lulu and Grace were in their own little sitting-room, busied in the manufacture of some small gifts for "papa and Maxie," who were, of course, to be kept in profound ignorance on the subject till the time for presentation; therefore, the young workers sat with locked doors; and when presently Maxie's boyish footsteps were heard rapidly approaching, their materials were hastily gathered up, thrust into a closet close at hand, and the key turned upon them. Then Lulu ran and opened the door.

"Hollo!" cried Max, in a perfectly good-humored tone, "what do you lock a fellow out for? It looks as if you're up to some mischief. I just came to tell you there's company in the parlor, and they've asked for you, both of you."

"Who are they?" asked Lulu, glancing at her reflection in a pier-glass opposite, to make sure that dress and hair were in order.

She was neat and orderly by nature, and her father very particular about the appearance of his children; not caring to have them expensively attired, but always neat and tidy.

"The Oaks young folks," replied Max, -- "Horace and Frank and their two sisters, Maud and Sydney."

"Come, Gracie," said Lulu, turning to her little sister: "we both look nice, and we'll go right down."

The children all felt rather flattered by the call, because the Oaks young people were older than themselves. Horace, Frank, and Maud were all older than Max, and Sydney was between him and Lulu in age.

With the Dinsmore girls, the Raymonds were quite well acquainted, having seen them frequently at Ion, and sometimes met them elsewhere; but the boys, who had been away at school, were comparative strangers.

Violet was in the parlor chatting pleasantly with her young cousins, the call being intended for her also; and her cheerful presence set her little step-daughters more at their ease than they would otherwise have been.

They had not been long in the room ere they learned that the special object of the visit was to invite them and Max to the Oaks, to spend the greater part of Christmas week.

"It is to be a young people's party, you must all understand," said Maud, who seemed to be the chief speaker, "and so the captain and cousin Vi are not invited: not that cousin Vi is not young, you know, for she is that; but there are to be no married folks asked.

"There is to be the usual Christmas-eve party at Ion for all the family connection, Christmas-tree and all that, and the grand dinner-party on Christmas Day; then all the boys and girls of the connection are invited to the Oaks to stay till the next Saturday evening.

"We hope, cousin Vi, that Max and his sisters may come?"

"If it depended upon me," returned Violet pleasantly, "I presume I should say yes; but of course it will have to be as their father says."

"Oh, yes! certainly. Is he in?"

"No, and I fear he will not be for an hour or two; but if you will stay to tea, you will be pretty sure to see him."

The invitation was declined with thanks; "they had other calls to make, and must be going presently:" but they sat for some minutes longer, the whole four joining in an animated description of various diversions planned for the entertainment of their expected guests, and repeating again and again that they hoped Max and his sisters would be permitted to come.

"I do wish papa may let us go!" cried Lulu, the moment the visitors had departed. "I'm sure it will be perfectly delightful!"

"So do I," said Max. "Mamma Vi, do you think papa will consent?"

"I really cannot say, Max," she answered doubtfully. "Do you want to go, too, Gracie?" drawing the child to her side, and softly smoothing her hair.

"Yes, mamma, if -- if I could have you or papa there with me. I don't want to go very much 'less one of you goes too."

"And you are such a delicate little darling, that I hardly think your papa will feel willing to have you go, without either of us along to take care of you."

"I can take perfectly good care of Gracie, mamma Vi," asserted Lulu with dignity.

"Here comes papa," cried Max, as a step was heard in the hall.

Then the door opened, and the captain came in.

"We've had an invitation, papa, and hope you will let us accept it," Max said, coming eagerly forward.

"O papa! please, please do!" cried Lulu, running to him, and taking hold of his hand.

"Let me hear about it," he said, sitting down, and allowing Lulu to take possession of one knee, Gracie of the other; "but speak one at a time. Max, you are the eldest: we will let you have the first turn."

Violet sat quietly listening, and watching her husband's face, while the eager children told their tale, and expressed their wishes.

He looked grave and thoughtful; and before he spoke, she had a tolerably correct idea what he was about to say.

"I am glad my little Gracie does not care to go," he said, caressing the child as he spoke, "because she is too feeble and too young to be so long among comparative strangers, without papa or mamma to take care of her. I am sorry Lulu does want to accept the invitation, as there is an insuperable objection to letting her do so."

Lulu's countenance had assumed an expression of woful disappointment not unmingled with anger and wilfulness.

"I want to go, papa, and I do think you might let me," she said with an ominous frown. "I'm not sickly, and I'm a good deal older than Gracie."

"You cannot go, Lucilla," he said gravely, and with some sternness of tone. "Max," in answer to the eagerly questioning look in the lad's eyes, "if you are particularly desirous to go, you have my permission."

"Thank you, sir," said the boy heartily.

"Papa, why can't I go?" grumbled Lulu.

"I think a moment's reflection will tell you why," he answered. "I will talk with you about it at another time. And now not another word on the subject till I mention it to you first."

Lulu was silenced for the time; but after tea, going into the library, and finding her father sitting there alone, she went up to him, and in her most coaxing tones said, "O papa! won't you please let me go? I'll be" -- 

"Lulu," he interrupted sternly, "go immediately to your room and your bed."

"Papa, it isn't my bedtime for two hours yet," she said, in a half pleading tone, "and I want to read this new 'Companion' that has just come."

"Don't let me have to repeat my order," was the stern rejoinder; and she obeyed, trembling and in haste.

She felt sorely disappointed, angry, and rebellious; but, as her father had said, a few moments' reflection showed her the reason of his refusal to allow her to accept the invitation to the Oaks: and, as she glanced round her rooms at the many pretty things his indulgent kindness had supplied, her anger changed to penitence and love.

"Of course, papa was right," she sighed to herself, as she moved about, getting ready for bed; "and it wasn't because he doesn't love to see me happy; and I wish, oh, how I wish, I'd been good about it!"

She was not at all drowsy; and it seemed a long, long time that she had been lying there awake, when at last she heard her father's step in the hall: then he opened the door, and came in.

He had a lighted lamp in his hand. He set it on the mantel, and drew near the bed.

"You are awake, I see," he said.

"Yes, papa; and I'm sorry I was naughty."

"You understand why I sent you to bed? and why I refused to grant your request?"

"Yes, sir; you can't trust me to pay that visit, because of my bad temper; and you sent me to bed for disobeying you, by asking again, after you had told me to say no more about it."

"Yes: you must learn to be more obedient, less wilful. Did you obey me about going immediately to bed?" he asked, drawing up a chair, and seating himself close beside her.

"Yes, papa, -- just as quickly as I could get ready."

"I hope you did not neglect to kneel down and ask forgiveness of God?" he said inquiringly, in a gentle, tender tone, bending over her, and smoothing her hair as he spoke. "You do not need to be told, that, when you are rebellious and disobedient to your earthly father, you are so toward your heavenly Father also; because he bids you 'honor thy father and thy mother.'"

"Yes, papa, I know; I did ask him; and won't you forgive me too?"

"Yes," he said, giving her a kiss. "I am sorry to have to deprive you of the pleasure of accepting that invitation, but I cannot yet trust you anywhere away from me; and it was to spare your feelings that I did not state my reason before your mamma and brother and sister."

"Oh! I'm sorry I was naughty about it, papa," he said, again putting her hand into his.

He held it in a kindly pressure, while he went on talking to her.

"I intend you shall go to Ion to the Christmas-eve party, and the dinner-party the next day, as I shall be there too."

"Thank you, dear papa: I'd like to go ever so much, but I don't deserve to," she said humbly, "or to have any Christmas gifts. If I were you, and had such a bad child, I wouldn't give her a single thing."

"I hope she is going to be a better girl, in future," he said, kissing her good-night.

It was a joyful surprise to Lulu when, at the breakfast-table the next morning, her father said, "Children, your mamma and I are going to drive into the city, and will take you all along: and, as I suppose you would like to do some Christmas shopping, I shall advance your next week's allowance, -- perhaps furnish something over," he added, with a kindly smile.

All three young faces had grown very bright, and there was a chorus of thanks.

"We expect to start in a few minutes after prayers," the captain went on, "and so there will be no school to-day."

"We like school, papa," said Grace. "I never liked it half so well before."

"Nor I." "Nor I," cried the other two.

"But you are glad of a holiday once in a while, nevertheless?" their father said, with a pleased look.

"Oh, yes, indeed, papa! 'specially when it is to go somewhere with you," replied Grace; and again the others gave a hearty assent.

When family worship was over, the captain handed a little roll of bank-notes to each, saying, "Now run away, and get yourselves ready for your ride. Put on your warmest clothing, for the wind is sharp."

They flurried out into the hall; then Lulu hesitated, turned about, and ran back.

"Papa," she said, rushing up to him, where he sat beside a table, with some papers before him, and throwing her arm round his neck, "dear papa! you are just too good and kind to me! Oh, I don't mean to be disobedient, wilful, or passionate ever again!"

"I am rejoiced to hear you say that, my dear little daughter," he replied, putting his arm round her, hugging her close, and kissing her tenderly; "and I do not think I shall ever regret any thing I have done for you or either of the others. It is, to me, the greatest pleasure in life to do whatever I can to make my children happy."

"I am so, so sorry I was naughty and disobedient last night," she murmured, laying her cheek to his.

"Dear child," he said, "it is fully and freely forgiven. Now run up to your room and dress."

Grace called to Lulu as she came up the stairs, "O Lu! come in here a minute, into my room. Look, look, on the bed! see how many papa has given me, -- ten nice new one dollars."

Lulu counted them as they lay spread out in a row.

"Yes, ten," she said. "O Gracie! isn't it nice? isn't papa kind?"

"'Course he is; kindest man ever was made," said Grace. "Now see how many you have."

Lulu hastily spread out her roll, and counted the bills. "Nine ones, and one two," she announced.

"Just as many as mine," said Grace; "and I've got this besides," holding up a bright new silver half-dollar. "So mine's the most this time, isn't it?"

"No, because one of my bills counts two: that makes mine fifty cents the most. Papa has given us each ten dollars besides our regular allowance."



Chapter XXIII.

"At Christmas play, and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year."  -- TUSSER.


The morning of the twenty-fourth found Grace almost too ill, with a heavy cold, to be out of bed; and it was quite evident that she would not be able to go to the Christmas-eve party at Ion, or the dinner on Christmas Day.

The captain was just finishing his morning toilet when Lulu knocked at his dressing-room door. She had come with the news of Grace's illness, and he followed her at once to the bedside of the sick child.

"My poor darling," he said, bending over her in tender concern, "you seem quite feverish. I think you must stay in bed, and we will send for your doctor."

"And can't I go to-night, papa?" she asked, the tears starting to her eyes.

"I'm afraid not, darling; but don't fret; papa will try to find some way to make it up to you."

"I'll stay with her, papa, and read her stories, and do every thing I can to help her enjoy herself," cried Lulu eagerly. "I may, mayn't I?"

"You may, if you choose," he said; "but I thought you were very anxious to go."

"I was, but I'm not now," she said. "I'd rather stay with Gracie. I shouldn't be one bit happy there without her."

"O Lu! I'd love to have you! but I don't want you to lose all that fun just for me," Grace said, with a wistful, loving look into her sister's eyes.

"It wouldn't be fun without you, my Gracie," was the quick rejoinder.

"I am glad indeed that my little daughters love each other so dearly," the captain said, kissing first one and then the other. "Well, we will see what can be done. If it were not for the disappointment to your mamma, I should stay at home with you, my darlings; as it is, I shall spend at least a part of the evening with you."

He left them, and sought Violet in her dressing-room.

"My dear, what has happened? I am sure you look anxious and troubled!" she exclaimed, the instant she caught sight of his face.

"I confess that I am a little troubled about Gracie," he replied: "she seems to have taken a very heavy cold. I shall send at once for the doctor. And, of course, she has to be disappointed in her expectations for this evening."

"Then, let us all stay at home," returned Violet promptly. "I could not enjoy myself, leaving the poor darling at home, sick. Besides," glancing from the window, "do you see? it is snowing fast, and I should not like to expose baby to the storm. So I propose that we change our plans entirely, and have a private Christmas of our own," she went on in a lively tone. "What do you say to it, my dear?"

They discussed the idea for some minutes, presently growing quite enthusiastic over it.

Their plans were nearly matured when the breakfast-bell rang; and, shortly after leaving the table, they began carrying them out.

Max was taken into their confidence, and allowed to assist; and a proud and happy boy was he, going about with an air of mystery, as one to whom secret and important business is intrusted.

The little girls, shut up in their own apartments, -- Grace reclining on a couch, Lulu with her as constant companion, and making every exertion for her entertainment, while papa, mamma, and Maxie came running in now and then to ask how she was, -- knew nothing of messages sent back and forth through the telephone, of packages of various shapes and sizes brought into the house, of mysterious goings and comings, and much time spent by papa, mamma, Maxie, Christine, and others in a certain large room, hitherto but little used.

Grace frequently fell asleep: then Lulu would darken the room, go into the adjoining one, leaving the door ajar, so that she could hear the slightest movement her little sick sister might make on waking, and amuse herself with a book or her own thoughts.

Their meals were brought to them, and set out in their sitting-room upon a little round table, covered with a snowy damask cloth, whereon were arranged a set of dainty china dishes of a size just suited to the occasion, and toothsome viands such as "papa" deemed they might eat and enjoy without danger to health.

It was very nice, they thought; almost nicer, just for a change, than going to the larger table down-stairs with the rest of the family.

Soon after they had had their supper, their father came in, bringing the doctor with him, for his second visit that day.

"Ah! she is a good deal better," Dr. Conly said, when he had examined his little patient. "Hardly well enough yet to go to Ion," he added with a humorous look and smile; "but I think, if well wrapped up, she may venture a trip down-stairs in papa's arms, and even stay a little while, if she finds the change to the parlor a pleasant one."

"Should you like it, papa's dear pet?" the captain asked, leaning over her.

"Yes, sir, if you and my doctor think it will be good for me," was the reply, in a submissive and rather languid tone, "and if my Lulu is to come too," she added, with a loving look at her sister.

"Oh, yes, indeed! we would not think of going without Lulu!" their father said, smiling affectionately upon her also.

So a large shawl was brought, and carefully wrapped about Gracie's little slender figure; and she made the short journey in her father's strong arms, the doctor and Lulu going on before, hand in hand, chatting and laughing merrily.

Max heard them, and threw open the parlor-door just as they reached it.

Then what a surprise for the little girls! A large, handsome Christmas-tree, loaded with beautiful things, burst upon their astonished sight, and was greeted by them with exclamations of wonder and delight.

"Oh! oh! oh! it's the very prettiest Christmas-tree we ever saw! And we didn't know we were to have any at all! And how many, many lovely things are on it! Papa, papa, how good and kind you are to us!"

He looked as if he enjoyed their surprise and delight quite as much as they did the tree.

"Other folks have been kind to you, too, my darlings," he said, seating himself, with Gracie still in his arms, "as you will see presently, when the gifts are distributed."

"Who, papa?" asked Gracie, laying her head on his shoulder, and gazing with delighted eyes, beginning to single out one beautiful object from another as she sent her glances up and down, here and there.

"Grandma Elsie, and everybody else in the Ion family, I believe; the Oaks and Laurels and Fairview friends; and Roselands people too; to say nothing of mamma and Maxie."

"They're ever so good and kind! they always are," she said in grateful tones. "Oh!" for the first time perceiving that Violet stood near her with the baby in her arms, "mamma and baby too! and how pleased baby looks at the tree!" for the little one was stretching her arms toward it, and cooing and smiling, her pretty blue eyes shining with delight.

When all, children and servants, -- for the latter had been called in to enjoy the sight also, -- had looked to their full, the gifts were distributed.

They were very numerous, -- nearly everybody having given to nearly everybody else, -- and many of those received by the parents and children were very handsome. But their father's gift -- a tiny watch to each, to help them to be punctual with all their duties, he said -- was what gave the greatest amount of pleasure to Lulu and Grace.

Both they and their brother went to bed that night, and woke the next morning, very happy children.

The weather being still too severe for the little ones to be taken out, the captain and Violet went to Ion only for a call, and returned early in the day, bringing a portion of the party that usually gathered there, to dine with them at Woodburn.

Among these, to Lulu's extreme satisfaction, was Evelyn. She staid till after tea; and all the afternoon, there was much passing to and fro of the different members of the large family connection.

Evelyn was to be at the Oaks for the next few days, with the other young people, and regretted greatly that Lulu was not to go too.

But Lulu's rebellious feeling about it was a thing of the past. She told Evelyn frankly her father's reason for refusing his consent, adding that she felt that he was right, and that he was so dear, so kind and indulgent in every thing that he thought best to allow, that she was now entirely satisfied to stay at home; particularly as Gracie was not well, and needed her nursing.

Grace went early to bed and to sleep. Max and Evelyn had gone to the Oaks: there were only grown people in the parlors now; and Lulu did not care to be there, even if she had not wanted to be near her sleeping sister.

There was an open, glowing fire in their little sitting-room, a high fender of polished brass obviating all danger from it to the children's skirts. Lulu seated herself in an easy-chair beside it, and fell into a reverie, unusually deep and prolonged for her.

She called to mind all the Christmases she could remember, -- not very many, -- the last two spent very pleasantly with her new mamma's relatives; the two previous ones passed not half so agreeably, in the poor apology for a home that had been hers and Grade's before their father's second marriage.

But what a change for the better that had brought! What forlorn little things she and Gracie were then! and what favored children now! What a sweet, sweet home of their very own, with their father in it! -- as she had said to Eva that afternoon, "such a dear, kind father; interested in every thing that concerned his children; so thoughtful about providing pleasures for them, as well as needful food, shelter, and clothing; about their health, too, and the improvement of their minds; reading with them, even in other than school-hours; talking with them of what they read, and explaining so clearly and patiently any thing they did not quite understand; but, above all, striving to lead them to Christ, and train them for his service in this world and the next."

He had read with them that morning the story of our Saviour's birth, and spoken feelingly to them of God's wonderful love shown in the "unspeakable gift" of his dear Son.

"Certainly, there could not be in all the world a better, dearer father, than theirs. How strange that she could ever grieve him by being naughty, rebellious, passionate! Oh, if she could only be good! always a comfort and blessing to him! she would try, she would, with all her might!"

Just then the door opened softly; and he came in, came noiselessly to her side, lifted her in his arms, and sat down with her on his knee.

"What has my little girl been thinking of sitting here all by herself?" he asked, pressing his lips to her cheek.

She told him in a few words, finishing with her longing desire to be to him a better child, a comfort and blessing.

"Indeed I ought to be, papa," she said; "and you are such a dear, kind father! you have given me -- and all of us -- such a lovely home, and such a happy, happy Christmas, -- the very happiest we have ever known!"

"And it is God our heavenly Father who has put it in my power to do all that I have done for you, and for all my darlings," he said with emotion, drawing her closer, and holding her tenderly to his heart; "and, O my dear child! if I could know that you had begun this day to truly love and serve him, it would be to me the happiest Christmas that I have ever known."

<eob>

Dave Ranney

Or

Thirty Years On The Bowery: An Autobiography

By

Dave Ranney



Chapter I

Boyhood Days


I have often been asked the question, "Why don't you write a book?" And I have said, "What is the use? What good will it do?" I have thought about it time and time again, and have come to the conclusion to write a story of my life, the good and the bad, and if the story will be a help, and check some one that's just going wrong, set him thinking, and point him on the right road, praise God!

I was born in Hudson City, N. J., over forty years ago, when there were not as many houses in that town as there are now. I was born in old Dutch Row, now called Beacon Avenue, in a two-story frame house. In those days there was an Irish Row and a Dutch Row. The Irish lived by themselves, and the Dutch by themselves.

Quite frequently the boys of the two colonies would have a battle royal, and there would be things doing. Sometimes the Dutch would win out, sometimes the Irish, and many's the time there was a cut head and other bruises. Sometimes a prisoner would be taken, and then we would play Indian with him, and do everything with him except burn him. We were all boys born in America, but if we lived in Dutch Row, why, we had to be Dutch; but if, on the other hand, we happened to live in Irish Row, we had to be Irish. I remember moving one time to Irish Row, and I wondered what would happen when I went to play with the old crowd. They said, "Go and stay with the Irish." I did not know what to do. I would not fight my old comrades, so I was neutral and fought with neither.

We had a good many ring battles in those days, and many's the fight we had without gloves, and many's the black eye I got, and also gave a few. I believe nothing does a boy or girl so much good as lots of play in the open air. I never had a serious sickness in my life except the measles, and that was easy, for I was up before the doctor said I ought to get out of bed. Those were happy days, and little did I think then that I would become the hard man I turned out to be.

I had a good Christian mother, one who loved her boy and thought there was nothing too good for him, and I could always jolly her into getting me anything I wanted. God bless the mothers! How true the saying is, "A boy's best friend is his mother." My father I won't say so much about. He was a rough man who loved his cups, and died, as you might say, a young man through his own waywardness. I did love my mother, and would give anything now to have her here with me as I am writing this story. She has gone to heaven, and I was the means of sending her to an early grave through my wrong-doings. She did not live to see her boy saved. Many's the time I would promise her to lead a different life, and I meant it too, but after all I could not give up my evil ways.


The First Taste For Drink

I remember when I first acquired the taste for drink. My grandfather lived with us, and he liked his mixed ale and would send me for a pint two or three times a day. In those days the beer was weighed so many pounds to the quart. Every time I went for the beer I used to take a swallow before I came back, and sometimes two, and after a while I really began to enjoy it. Do you know, I was laying the foundation right there and then for being what I turned out to be -- a drunkard. I remember one time -- yes, lots of times -- that I was under the influence of the vile stuff when I was not more than ten years of age.

I received a public school education. My school-days were grand good days. I had all the sport that comes to any boy going to school. I would rather play ball than go home to dinner. In those days the game was different from what it is at the present time. I was up in all athletic sports when I was a boy. I could jump three quick jumps and go twenty-eight and a half feet; that was considered great for a schoolboy.

There was one game I really did enjoy; the name of it was "How many miles?" It is played something like this: You choose sides, and it doesn't matter how many there are on a side. Of course each side would be eager to get the quickest and fastest runner on their side. How I did like that game! We then tossed to see who would be the outs and who would chase the outs, and many's the mile we boys would run. We would be late for school and would be kept in after three o'clock; that would break my heart, but I would forget all about it the next day and do the same thing again.

Our teacher, J. W. Wakeman -- God bless him! -- is living yet, and I hope he will live a good many years more. A boy doesn't always like his teacher, and I was no exception; I did not like him very much. He gave me more whippings than any other boy in the school. All the learning I received was, you might say, pounded into me. He used to say to me, "David, why don't you be good and study your lessons? There is the making of a man in you, but if you don't study you will be fit for nothing else than the pick and shovel." How those words rang in my ears many a time in after years when they came true, when I had to use the pick and shovel! I am not saying anything against that sort of labor; it has its place. We must fill in somewhere, in some groove, but that was not mine.

How I did enjoy in after years, when I was roaming over the world, thinking of my old schoolmates! I could name over a dozen who were filling positions of trust in their own city; lawyers, surrogates, judges, and some in business for themselves, making a name and doing something, while I was no earthly use to myself or to any one else. Some people say, "Such is life; as you make your bed so you must lie." How true it was in my case! I made my bed and had to lie on it, but I can truthfully say I did not enjoy it.

There are many men that are down and out now who had a chance to be splendid men. They are now on the Bowery "carrying the banner" -- which means walking the streets without a place to call home -- without food or shelter, but they could, if they looked back to their early life, see that they were making their beds then, or as the Bible reads, sowing the seed. Listen, young people, and take heed. Don't believe the saying, "A fellow must sow his wild oats." The truth is just this: as you sow so shall you reap. I was sowing when I was drinking out of the pail of beer, and I surely did reap the drunkard's portion -- misery.


A Truant

I was a great hand at playing hookey -- that is, staying away from school and not telling your parents. I would start for school in the morning, but instead of going would meet a couple of boys and we would hide our books until closing-time. If any boy was sent to my home with a note, I would see that boy and tell him if he went he knew what he would get. He knew it meant a good punching, and he would not go. I would write a note so that the boy could take it back to the teacher saying that I was sick and would be at school when I got better.

I remember how I was found out one time. We met as usual -- the hookey-players, I mean -- and started down to the Hackensack River to have a good day. Little did I know what would happen before the day was over. One of the boys with us went out beyond his depth and was drowned. I can still hear his cries and see his face as he sank for the last lime. We all could swim a little, and we tried our best to save him, but his time had come.

That wound up his hookey-playing, and you would think it would make me stop too; but no, I went right along sowing the seed, and planting it good and deep for the Devil.

I recollect the first time I went away from home. It happened this way: The teacher got tired of receiving notes saying I was sick, and she determined to see for herself -- for I had a lady for teacher in that class -- what the trouble was.

One afternoon whom should I see coming in the gate but my teacher, and now I was in a fix for fair. I knew if she saw mother it was all up with me, so I ran and met her and told her mother was out and would not be back until late. She asked me how I was getting on. I said I was better and would be at school in the morning. She said, "I am glad of that."

When she turned to go I could have flung my cap in the air and shouted. I thought I had fooled her and could go on playing hookey, but you know the old adage, "There's many a slip." Just at this time my mother looked out of the window and asked who was there and what she wanted. Well, mother came down, and things were made straight as far as she and the teacher were concerned; but I was in for it; I knew that by the way mother looked at me. The jig was up, I was found out, and I knew things would happen; and I did not want to be around when mother said, "You just wait!" I knew what that meant, so I determined to go out into the world and make my own way.

I was a little over thirteen years of age, and you know a boy does not know much at that age, but I thought I did. I went over the fence with mother after me. If dad had been home I guess he could have caught me, that is if he had been sober. Mother could not run very fast, so I got clear of the whip for that time at least. I got a good distance from the house and then I sat down to think. I knew if I went home a whipping was waiting for me, and that I could do without.

There was a boy just a little older than myself, Mike  --  -- ,[1] that was "on the bum," as we used to say. The boys would give him some of the lunch they had brought to school, and I thought I would join forces with and be his pal. I saw Mike and told him all about the licking, and Mike said, "Don't go home; you are a fool if you do." We went around, and I was getting hungry, when we thought of a plan by which we could get something to eat. Mother ran a book in a grocery store, and Mike said, "Go to the store and get a few things, and say you don't have the book but will bring it when you come again." I went to the store and got a ham, a pound of butter, two loaves of bread and one box of sardines.

[Footnote 1: Where proper names are left blank they refer to real persons or places.]

Some people will ask how I can remember so many years back. I remember my first night away from home as though it was yesterday, and I'll never forget it as long as I live. After I got the things the grocer said, "Where is the book?" I told him mother had mislaid it, and he said, "Bring it the next time." We built a fire and cooked the ham and had lots to eat.

Up to this time it had all been smooth sailing; it was warm and we had a good time in general. We had a swim with some other boys, and after telling them not to say that they saw me, we left them. I asked Mike where we were going to sleep, and he said, "I'll show you when it's time."

After a while Mike said, "I guess we had better go to bed." Off we started across the lots until we came to a big haystack, and Mike stooped down and began to pull hay out of the stack and work his way inside. Remember I was green at the business; I had never been away from home before; and Mike, though only a little older, was used to this kind of life. Well, I pulled out hay enough, as I thought, and crawled in, but there was no sleep for me. I kept thinking and thinking. I would call Mike and ask him if he was asleep, and he would say, "Oh, shut up and let a fellow sleep!"

I am no coward, never was, but I was scared that night for fair. About midnight I must have dozed off to sleep when something seemed to be pushing at my feet. I was wide awake now, and shook Mike, but he only turned over and seemed to sleep all the sounder. I could hear the grunting and pushing outside all the time. My head was under and my feet covered with the hay, when something took hold of my foot and began to chew. My hair stood on end, and I gave a yell that would have awakened "The Seven Sleepers." It woke Mike, and the last I heard of him that night he was laughing as though he would split his sides, and all he could shout was, "Pigs, pigs!" as I went flying toward home. I got there as soon as my feet would carry me. I found the house up and mother and sister crying, while father was trying to make them stop. When I shook the door it opened and I was home again, and I was mighty glad.

The reason for the crying was that when it got late and the folks began to look for me, one of the boys said that the last time he saw me I was swimming with Mike  --  -- . When I did not come home they thought surely I was drowned, but I was born for a different fate. Sometimes in my years of roaming afterwards I wished I had been drowned as they thought. They were so glad to see me again that there was no whipping, and I went to school next morning promising to be a better boy.


A Baseball Game

I was fast becoming initiated in the ways of the Devil. There was nothing that I would not do. I remember one time when mother thought I was going to school but found out I was "on the hook." She decided to punish me, and that night after I had gone to sleep she came into my room and took all my clothes except my shirt. I certainly was in a fix. I had to catch for my team and I would not miss that game of ball for anything in the world; I simply had to go. In looking around the room I found a skirt belonging to my sister that I thought would answer my purpose. I had my shirt on and I put the skirt on over my head. Then I ripped the skirt up the center and tied it around each leg with a piece of cord -- anything for that game! -- and there I was with a pair of trousers manufactured out of a girl's skirt. But I had to catch that game of ball that day at any cost. Getting to the ground was easy. I opened the window and let myself down as far as I could and then dropped. I arrived all right, a little shaken up, but what is that to a boy who has a ball game in his head!

I got to the game all right and some of the boys fixed me up. I don't remember which side won that game, but when it was finished I went home and met mother, and the interview was not a pleasant one, though she did not give me a whipping.

I used to read novels, any number of them, in those days -- all about Indians, pirates, and all those blood-and-thunder tales -- lies. You can not get any good out of them, and they do corrupt your mind. I would advise the young people who read these lines, and older folks also, if this is your style of reading, to stop right where you are. Get some good books -- there are plenty of them -- and don't fill your mind with stuff that only unfits you for the real life of the years to come.




Chapter II

First Steps In Crime


I was getting tired of school and wanted to go to work. I had a good Christian man for my Sunday-school teacher, Mr. M., a fairly rich man, and I did think a good deal of him. I liked to go to Sunday-school and was often the first in my class. The teacher would put up a prize for the one that was there first. Sometimes it would be a baseball bat, skates, book, or knife. I would let myself out then and would be first and get the prize.

I asked Mr. M. to get me work in an office. After a few weeks he called and told my mother he had got me a job in Jersey City, in the office of a civil engineer, at $3 a week. I was a happy boy as I started in on my first day's work. It was easy; all I had to do was to open up and dust the office at 8 A. M., and close at 5 P. M. I used to run errands and draw a little. But after a few weeks the newness of work wore off and I wished I was back at school again, where I could play hookey and have fun with the other fellows.


The First Thefts

I had lots of time on my hands, and you know the saying, "Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do." He certainly found plenty for me. The boss was a great smoker and bought his cigars by the box. He asked me if I smoked, and I said no, for I had not begun to smoke as yet. Well, he left the box of cigars around, always open, so I thought I would try one, and I took a couple out of the box. See how the Devil works with a fellow. He seemed to say, "Now if you take them from the top he will miss them," so he showed me how to take them from the bottom. I took out the cigars that were on top, and when I got to the bottom of the box I crossed a couple and took the cigars, and you could not tell that any had been taken out. That was the beginning of my stealing. The cigars were not missed, and I thought how easy it was, but this beginning proved to be just a stepping-stone to what followed.

I did not smoke the cigars then, but waited until I got home. After supper I went out and met Mike  --  -- , and gave him one of them, and I started in to smoke my first cigar. Mike could smoke and not get sick, but there never was a sicker boy than I was. I thought I was going to die then and there and I said, "No more cigars for me." I recovered, however, and as usual forgot my good resolutions. That turned out to be the beginning of my smoking habit, and I was a good judge of a cigar when I was but fourteen years of age. I went on stealing them until the boss tumbled that some one was taking them and locked them up for safe keeping. I never smoked a cigarette in all my life. I know it takes away a young fellow's brains and I really class cigarettes next to drink and would warn boys never to smoke them.

I had been in the office now about three months. At the end of each month I received a check for $12. It seemed a fortune to me and I hated to give it in at the house. The third month I received the check as usual, made out to bearer. Well, I went home and gave the check to mother, and she said I was a good boy and gave me fifty cents to spend.

I watched my mother and saw her put the check in an unused pitcher in the closet on the top shelf. It seemed as though some one was beside me all the time telling me to take it and have a good time. It belonged to me and no one else had a right to it, Satan seemed to say. And what a good time I could have with it! They would never suspect me of taking it, and I could have it cashed and no one would ever know.

So I got up in the middle of the night and started right there and then to be a burglar. I went on tiptoe as softly as I could, and was right in the middle of the kitchen floor when I stumbled over a little stool and it made a noise. It was not much of a noise, but to me it seemed like the shot out of a cannon. I thought it would wake up the whole house, but nobody but mother woke, and she said, "Who's there?" I said nothing, only stood still and waited for her to fall asleep again. As I stood there a voice -- and surely it was the voice of God -- seemed to say, "Go back to bed and leave the check alone. It is not yours: it belongs to your mother. She is feeding and keeping you, and you are doing wrong." I think if the Devil had not butted in I would have gone to bed, but he said, "Now you are here no one sees you, and what a good time you can have with that check!" That settled all good thoughts and I went up to the closet, put my hand in the pitcher, took the check and went back to bed. That was my first burglary.

Did I sleep? Well, I guess not! I rolled and tossed all the balance of the night. I knew I had done wrong. But you see the Devil was there, and I really think he owned me from the time I stole the cigars -- "that little beginning."

I got up the next morning, ate my breakfast and went to work. I still had the check, and all I had to do was to go to the bank and get it cashed. But I was afraid, and how I wished that the check was safe in the old pitcher. I worried all that day, and I think if I had gotten a chance that night after I got home, I would have put the check back. But the old Devil was there saying, "You fool, keep it! It is not missed, and even if it is no one will accuse you of stealing your own money." I tell you, the Devil had me hand and foot, and there seemed to be no getting away. Oh! if I could have had some person to tell me plainly what to do at this time, it might have been the turning-point in my life! Anyway, the check didn't get back to the pitcher. I had it and the Devil had me.

Next day I disguised myself somewhat. I made my face dirty and put on a cap. I had been wearing a hat before, so I thought the teller at the bank would not know me. I had been there often with checks for my boss. Well, the teller just looked at the check, gave me a glance, and passed out the $12. It did not take me long to get out of the bank. I knew I had done wrong, and I felt it, and would have given anything if I could have undone it; but it was too late, and my old companion, the Devil, said, "What a nice time you can have, and wasn't it easy!"

When I went home the first question was, "Did you see your check?" My dear mother asked me that, never thinking that her boy had taken it. Oh! if I had had the courage to tell her then and there, how much misery and trouble it would have saved me in after life! But I was a moral coward, and I said, "No, mother; where did you put it?" I had her guessing whether she really put it in the pitcher or not.

There was a regular hunt for that check, and I hunted as much as any one, but it could not be found. Mother did not know much about banks in those days, but some one told her about a week after that she ought to go to the bank and stop payment on the check. That sounded good to mother, and she said, "Dave, you and I will go to the bank and stop payment on that check." I was in it for fair this time. The only chance I had was in the teller not recognizing me.

We went to the bank, and mother told the teller about the lost -- stolen -- check, and for him to see that it wasn't paid. He said, "All right, madam, I'll not pay it if it is not already paid." He looked over the books and brought back the lost check. I had stood in the background all this time. Then my mother asked him whom he paid it to. He said it was hard for him to recall just then, "But I think I paid it to a boy," he said. "Yes, it was a boy, for I recollect that he had as dirty a face and hands as ever I saw." Mother pulled me up in front of him and told him to look at me and see if I was the boy. He looked at me for a minute or so -- it seemed to me like an hour -- then said, "No, that is not the boy that cashed the check, nothing like him. I am sure I should know that boy." In after years, when I was lined up in front of detectives for identification for some crime, identified or not, I always thought of a dirty face being a good disguise.

On the way home from the bank mother asked me all sorts of questions about boys I knew; if they had dirty faces and so on, but I did not know any such boys, so the check business died out. She little thought that her own boy was the thief, and she blamed my cousin, who was boarding with us at the time.

My grandfather was still with us, and he had quite a sum of money saved. He wanted some money, and he and I went to the bank and he drew out fifty dollars in gold. There was a premium on gold at that time, and he received two twenty-dollar gold-pieces and one ten. Well, that night he lost one of the twenty-dollar gold-pieces and never found it. There was a hot time the next morning, for he was sure he had it when he went to bed. My father was blamed for that, so you see the innocent suffer for the guilty.

I had quite a time with the money while it lasted, went out to the old Bowery Theatre, and had a good time in general. I little thought then that in after years I would be sitting on the old Bowery steps, down and out, without a cent in my pocket and without a friend in the world.


Losing A Position

I was a boy of fourteen at this time, working in a civil engineer's office for three dollars per week, but I knew, young as I was, that as a profession engineering was not for me. I knew that to take it up I needed a good education, and that I did not have. I didn't like the trade, anyway, and didn't care whether I worked or not. That is the reason I lost my job.

One afternoon my employer sent me up Newark Avenue for a suit of clothes that had been made to order. He told me to get them and bring them back as soon as I could. I must say right here that my employer was a good man, and he took quite a liking to me. Many a time he told me he would make a great engineer out of me. I often look back and ask myself the question, "Did I miss my vocation?" And then there comes a voice, which I recognize as God's, saying, "You had to go through all this in order to help others with the same temptations and the same sins," and I say, "Amen."

After getting the clothes I went back to the building where I worked -- No. 9 Exchange Place, Jersey City -- and found the door locked. I waited around for a while, for I thought my employer wanted his clothes or he would not have sent me for them. Finally I got tired of waiting, and after trying the door once more and finding it still locked, I said to myself, "I'll just put these clothes in the furniture store next door and I'll get them to-morrow morning." I left them and told the man I would call for them in the morning, and started for home.

I was in bed dreaming of Indians and other things, when mother wakened me, shouting, "Where's the man's clothes?" I couldn't make out at first what all the racket was about. Then I heard men's voices talking in the yard, and recognized Mr. M., my Sunday-school teacher, and my employer, the man that was going to make a great engineer out of me. I went out on the porch and told him what I had done with the clothes, and he nearly collapsed. He was very angry, and drove off, saying, "You come to the office and get what's due you in the morning." I went the next morning, got my money, and bade him good-by. That was the last of my becoming one of the great engineers of the day.

I was glad, and I went back to school determined to study real hard, and I did remain in school for a year. Then the old craze for work came on me again. Father had died in the meantime, and mother was left to do the best she could, and I got a job with the determination to be a help to her.


At Work Again

I got a position as office boy at 40 Broadway, then one of New York's largest buildings. The man I worked for was a commission merchant, a Hebrew, and one of the finest men I ever met in my life. He took me into his private office and we had a long talk, a sort of fatherly talk, as he had sons and daughters of his own. I loved that man. I had been brought up among the Dutch and Irish, and had never associated with the Jews, and I supposed from what I had heard that they were put on earth for us to get the best of, fire stones at, and treat as meanly as we could. That was my idea of a Jew -- my boy idea. Yet here was a man, a Jew, one of the whitest men I ever met, who by his life changed completely my opinion of the Jews, and I put them down from that day as being pretty good people.

My mother did some work for his wife, and when he heard that I wanted to go to work he told her to send me over to his place of business, and that is how I got my second position in this big world.

I went to work with the determination to make a man of myself, and mother said:

"Now, Dave, be a good boy, and one of these days you will be a big merchant and I shall be proud of you." That was what I might have been if I had had the grace of God to make my life true. I am acquainted with some men to-day that started about the same time I did. They were boys that looked ahead, studied and went up step by step, and are to-day some of the best-known bankers in America.

They say "Hell is paved with good intentions," and I believe it is. We start out in life with the best intentions, but before we know it we are up against some temptation, and unless we have God with us we are sure to fall, and when we fall, why, it's the hardest thing in the world to get back where we tumbled from. I only wish I had taken the Saviour as my helper years ago. Oh! what a change He did make in my life after I did accept Him, seventeen years ago!

I started in to work at four dollars a week, and, as I said, I intended to be a great merchant. I meant well, if that was any consolation. My duties were to go to the postoffice and bring the mail, copy the letters, and run errands, and I was happy.

I was out one day on an errand, when whom should I meet but my old friend Mike  --  -- , my chum of the pig incident. He said, "Hello, Dave, where are you working?" He had a job in a factory in Maiden Lane, at the same wages I was getting. I hadn't seen much of Mike lately, and to tell the truth I didn't care so much about meeting him. I am not superstitious by any means, but I really thought he was my Jonah. We talked a while, and we promised to meet and go home together. Like a foolish boy, I met him that night and many a time after.


Touch Not, Taste Not

Mike was just learning to play pool, and one evening we had to go in and play a game. That night I had the first glass of beer I ever took in a saloon. Mike was getting to be quite a tippler, and he said, "Let's have a drink." I said I didn't want any, and I didn't. But he said -- I really think the Devil was using Mike to make me drink -- "Oh, be a man! One glass won't hurt you; it will do you good." And he talked to me about mother's apron-strings, and finally I took my first drink outside of what I drank when grandfather used to send me for beer.

Do you know, as I stood there before the bar, with that beer in my hand, I heard a voice just as plain as I ever heard anything, saying, "Don't take that stuff; it's no good, and will bring you to shame and misery. It will spoil your future, and you will never become the great merchant you started out to be. Put it down and don't drink it." That was twenty-five years ago, and many a time I have heard that voice since. How I wish now that I had listened to that voice and never taken that first drink! It is not the second or the one hundred and second drink that makes a man a drunkard, but the first.

I started to put the glass down, and with that Mike began to laugh, and his laugh brought the other fellows around. Of course Mike told them I was a milk-and-water boy. I could not stand it to be laughed at, so I put the glass of beer to my lips, swallowed it, and never made a face about it. Then the fellows said, "You're all right! You are initiated now and you're a man!"

I didn't feel very much like a man. I felt as though I was some fellow without a single spark of manhood in my whole make-up. I thought of mother; what would she say if she knew I had broken my promise to her? I had promised her when father died never to take a drink in all my life. I knelt at her dear side, with her hands upon my head, and she prayed that God would bless her boy and keep him from drink. I had honestly intended to keep that promise, but you see how the Devil popped in and once more made me do what I knew was wrong -- drink that first cursed glass of beer.

I went home, walking all the way, and trying to get the smell out of my mouth. I could not face my dear mother, so I went to my room without supper. I thought that all she had to do was to look in my face and she would know that I had broken my promise, and I was ashamed. She came up later and asked me what was the matter, and I said I had a headache. If I had had the courage to tell her then, things might have been different! She brought me a cup of tea and bade me good-night.

The next night the Devil steered me into the same saloon. I drank again and again, till finally I could drink as much as any man, and it would take a good deal to knock me out.

I was still working for the merchant on Broadway, and my prospects were of the brightest. They all liked me and gave me a raise in salary, so I was now getting five dollars a week. But, you see, I was spending money on pool and drink, and five dollars didn't go so very far, so I began to steal. I had charge of the stamps -- the firm used a great many -- -and I had the mailing of all the letters. I would take out fifty cents from the money and balance the account by letters mailed. I began in a small way, and the Devil in me said, "How easy! You're all right." So I went on until I was stealing on an average of $1.50 per day. I still kept on drinking and playing cards. I had by this time blossomed out as quite a poker player and could do as many tricks as the best of them. I used to stay out quite late, and would tell mother that I was kept at the office, and little did she think that her only son was a gambler!

The Bible says, "Be sure your sin will find you out," and it proved true in my case. One night I was out gambling, and had had quite some luck. The fellows got to drinking, and in fact I got drunk, and when I started for home I could hardly walk. I fell down several times, when who should come along but mother and sister, and when they saw me staggering along they were astonished. I heard my mother say, "Oh! my God, my boy, my only son, oh! what happened to you?" Mother knew without asking what the matter was. She had often seen father reeling home under the influence of drink. But here was something she could not understand. Here was her only son beastly drunk, and she cried bitter tears. She took hold of one arm and my sister the other, and we finally reached home. I was getting pretty well sobered up by this time, and knew I was in for a lecture. My mother hadn't whipped me of late, but I dreaded her talk, and then I wished I had never met Mike  --  -- .

Mother didn't say anything until we got home. She put me to bed, brushed my clothes, and told me to go to sleep. About two o'clock I woke up. There was mother kneeling by my bedside, praying God to save her boy and keep him from following in his father's footsteps. I lay there and listened and said amen to everything she asked God to do. Finally I could stand it no longer; I jumped out of bed and knelt beside my mother and asked God to forgive me. I threw my arms around mother's neck and asked her to forgive her boy, which she did. I determined right then and there to do better and never to drink any more.

I really meant to start all over again, but I didn't take Jesus with me -- in fact, I think the Devil owned me for fair. I was pretty good for about a month, kept away from Mike and the other fellows, and mother was delighted. But this did not continue long; I met Mike again, and fell into the same groove, and was even worse than before.

Barnum was running his circus in New York then, and Mike and I decided to see the show and took a day off to go. I had not got leave of absence from work, so on our way home we planned what we could tell our bosses when we went to work the next morning.

When my employer came in that morning I told him I was sick the day before and not able to get out of bed. He just stood there and looked at me, and said, "What a liar you are! You were seen at the circus yesterday! Now, why didn't you tell me the truth, and I would have overlooked it? I can't have any one in my employ that I can't trust." So I had to look for another job. I was sorry, but it was my own fault. There I was, without a job and without a recommendation. What was I going to do? Surely "the way of the transgressor is hard."

I tell the men in the Mission night after night that I would rather deal with a thief than a liar, because you can protect yourself against a thief, but a liar -- what can't a liar do? If I had only told the truth to my employer that day, why, as mother said afterwards, he would have given me a lecture, and it would have been all over.


Deeper In The Mire

Now what was I to tell my mother? You see, if you tell one lie you are bound to tell others, and after you have lied once, how easy it is! My side partner, the Devil, was there by my side to help me, and he said, "Don't tell your mother." So I said nothing, and took my carfare and lunch money every day, went out as if I were going to work, and hoped that something would turn up. That's the way with the sinners; they are always hoping and never doing. So it was with me, always hoping, and the Devil always saying, "Don't worry; it will be all right."

I used to dread going home at night and meeting my mother, and when she would say, "How have you got on to-day?" I was always ready with another lie, telling her I was doing finely, that the boss said he was going to give me a raise soon. He had -- he had raised me right out of the place!

I was getting deeper and deeper into difficulty and could not see my way out. Oh! if I had only told my mother the truth, how different my life might have been! Saturday night was coming, and I did not have any money to bring home, and I did not know what to do. I thought of everything, but could not see my way out, when the thought came to me, "Steal!" My sister was saving up some money to buy a suit, and I knew where she kept it and determined to get it. That night I entered her room and took all the money she had saved. No one saw me but God, but the Devil was there with me, and said, "Isn't it easy? Don't be a coward! God doesn't care." I knew right down in my heart that He did care, and in after years when I was wandering all over the States I found out how much He really cared, and I said, "Praise His name!"




Chapter III

Into The Depths


After I had taken this money from my sister I knew that I was suspected. I was accused of taking it, but I was getting hardened; I had lost my job through lying; I was getting tired of home; I didn't care very much how things went.

About this time my elder sister was married and moved to New York. Her husband was a mechanic and made good money. He liked me, and when the theft was discovered I went and put up with him, staying there until I made money enough to leave, then I got out. All this time I was going from bad to worse, my associates being thieves and crooks and gamblers.

I shall never forget the first time I was arrested. I was with a hardened crook, and we had made a haul of some hundred dollars. But as luck would have it we were caught and sent away for nine months on a "technicality." If we had received our just dues the lowest term would have been five years each. I thought my time in prison would never come to an end, but it did at last, and I was free. But where was I to go? My mother had moved to New York to be near my sister, so I went and called on them. Mother asked me where I had been. I made some kind of an excuse, but I could see by mother's eye that she did not take much stock in it.

I remained at home, and finally got work in a fruit house on Washington Street, at eight dollars a week. I was quite steady for a while, and mother still had hopes of her boy. But through the same old company and drink I lost that job.


Marriage

About this time I ran across a girl who I thought would make a good wife, and we were married. I was then in the crockery business in a small way, and if I had stuck to business I should be worth something now. I'll never forget the day of the wedding. The saying is, "Happy is the bride the sun shines on," but there was no sunshine that day. It rained, it simply poured. Mother tried to get the girl to throw me over; she told her I would never make her a good husband; and I guess Mary was sorry afterward that she did not take her advice.

The night of the wedding we had quite a blowout, and I was as drunk as I could be. I'd ring in right here a bit of advice to my girl readers: Don't ever try to convert a man -- I mean one who drinks -- by marrying him, for in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred you won't succeed. In my case I was young and did not care how the wind blew. I stayed out nights and neglected my home, but I must say, bad as I was, I never hit my wife. I think any man that raises his hand to hit a woman is worse than a cur, and that he will certainly be punished in some way for it.

Things went from bad to worse, and one day I came home to the store and there was no wife. She had gone. Married and deserted in two months! I felt sore, and all I thought about was to get even with my wife. I sold out the business, got a couple hundred dollars together, and started after her. I found out that she had gone to Oswego, and I sent her a telegram and was met at the station by her brother. It did not take me long to get next to him. In a very short time I had him thinking there was no one like Ranney. Mary and I made up and I promised never to drink again, and we started for New York. My promises were easily broken, for before we got to Syracuse both her brother and I were pretty drunk.

After reaching New York we went to mother's house and stayed there until we got rooms, which we did in a few days. Mary's brother got work in a lumberyard. I hunted as usual for a job, praying I wouldn't get it. I went hustling lumber and worked two days, leaving because it took the skin off my hands. Finally I could not pay the rent, was dispossessed, and then went to live in "Hell's Kitchen," in Thirty-ninth Street, where my son was born. Our friends thought the baby would bring Mary and me closer together, as it sometimes does. But what did I care for a baby!

I got work on Jake Sharp's Twenty-third Street cars, and Mary would bring me my dinner and do everything she could for me. But when drink is the idol -- and it was mine -- what does one care for love? Nothing. I certainly led Mary a hard life. At last I came home one night and she and the kid were gone. The baby was then two months old, and I never saw him again until he was a boy of nine. I was not sorry at their going. I wasn't any good in those days. I imagined I was "done dirty," as they say, but I knew the girl couldn't do anything else for herself and baby. I sold out the little furniture the rooms contained, got a few dollars, and jumped the town.


Wanderings

I started out with every one's hand against me and mine against every one's. I struck Marathon, N. Y., and had quite a time there. I worked in Dumphy's tannery, got a few weeks' pay and a few other articles, and jumped out for fear of being arrested. I reached Syracuse and struck a job in McChesney's lumberyard, at $1.35 per day.

I stayed in Syracuse quite a while and learned a little of the lumber business. I had quite a few adventures while there. I had struck up an acquaintance with a New York boy, and one evening after work we were sitting on the grass in front of one of the hotels, and seeing the patrol wagon passing, I made the remark, "Some poor bum is going to get a ride," when it pulled up in front of us and we were told to get in. I tried to argue the point with the captain, but it was of no use. We were taken to the station, and the others were sent below while I was kept up for examination. They put me through a light "third degree," measuring me and noting the color of hair and eyes, size of feet, etc.

Finally they stopped measuring and asking questions, and I waited. I saw my friend come up and go out of the door; he did not take time to bid me good-by. I asked the captain if he was through with me, and he did not know what to say. He apologized, and explained that I had been arrested because I looked like a man that had escaped from Auburn.

I felt rather sorry for the captain, not because I was not the escaped prisoner, but because he was so nervous. I could not leave him without a jolly, so I said, "Captain, if you'll come up to the corner I'll treat," patting my pocket in which I had a few pennies. He thanked me and said, "No." I met the captain every night taking his men as far as Salina Street, and we always saluted one another.

My new pal couldn't be got up on Main Street to the postoffice again for anything, and as soon as he earned money enough he took the train for "little old New York." I've met him on the Bowery since I became a missionary there, and we did smile about that ride in the "hurry-up wagon" in Syracuse.

Finally I came back to New York, after being away quite a time, got work in a carpet factory, and was quite steady for a while.

My poor dear mother was sick, sometimes up and oftentimes in bed. I can still see her and hear her say, "David, my poor boy, I do wish you would stop your drinking. I've prayed for you, and will pray until I die. Oh, Dave! I'd die so happy if my only son would stop and be a man!" But that cursed appetite, what a hold it had on me! It seemed as if I couldn't stop if I had been given all the money in the world.

I did love my mother dearly; I didn't care for any one in the world but her. Still, one of the meanest acts I ever did was to my mother. And such a good mother she was; there are not many like her!

She was in bed and had only a few weeks to live. One day she called me to her bedside and said, "Dave, I am going to leave you, never to see you again on this earth, but oh! how I wish you were going to meet me on the other side. Now, Dave, won't you promise me you will?" I said, "Yes, mother, sure I will." And she made me promise then and there that when she was dead, and waiting burial, I would not get drunk, at least while her body was in the house. I went down on my knees and promised her that I'd meet her in heaven.

She died, and the undertaker had been gone but a short time when I began drinking, and the day of the funeral I was pretty drunk. That was one of the meanest things I ever did. But I am sure that sometimes my dear mother looks over the portals of heaven, and sees her boy -- a man now, a Christian -- and forgives me. And some day, when my time comes, I am going to join her there.

I went from bad to worse, wandering all over, not caring what happened. I took a great many chances. Sometimes I had plenty of money, and at other times I wouldn't have a nickel I could jingle against a tombstone. I boated on the Ohio and Mississippi to New Orleans, then up on the Lakes. I was always wandering, but never at rest, sometimes in prison, and sometimes miles away from human habitation, often remorseful, always wondering what the end would be.

I recollect, after being eighty-two days on the river to New Orleans, being paid off with over $125. I left the steamer at Pittsburg, and the first thing I did was to go and get a jug of beer. Before I got anywhere near drunk I was before Judge White, and was fined $8.40, and discharged. I wasn't free half an hour before I was arrested again, brought before Judge White, and again fined $8.40. After being free for about fifteen minutes, I was again brought before Judge White, who looked at me this time and said, "Can't you keep sober?" I said, "Your Honor, I haven't had a drink since the first time." And I hadn't. But he said, "Five days," and I was shut up for that time, and I was in hell there five days if ever a man was.

Out of jail, I drifted with the tide. I was arrested for a trick that, if I had got my just dues, would have put me in prison for ten years, but I got off with three years, and came out after doing two years and nine months.

When a person is cooped up he has lots of time to think. It's think, think, think, and hope. Many's the time I said, "Oh, if I only get out and still have my health, what a change there will be!" And I meant it.

Isn't it queer how people will say, "I can't stop drinking," but when they're in jail they have to! The prison is a sanitarium for drunkards. They don't drink while on a visit there. Then why not stop it while one has a free foot? I thought of all these things while I was locked up, and I decided that when I was free I would hunt up my wife and baby and be a man.

Prison at best isn't a pleasant place, but you can get the best in it if you behave. There's no coaxing you to be good. They won't say, "If you don't behave I'll send you home." It isn't like school. You have to behave or it's worse for you, for they certainly put you through some pretty tough things. Many's the time I got on my knees and told God all about it. If a man is crossing the street, sees a car coming, and is sure it will hit him, the first thing he says is, "Oh, God, save me!" The car misses him by a foot, and he forgets how much he owes. He simply says, "Thank you, God; when I'm in danger I'll call on You again." It was so with me. Out in the world again, I forgot all about all the promises I made in prison.




Chapter IV

"Saved By Grace"


Twelve years later, after a life spent on the road and in prison, I found myself on the Bowery, in the fall of 1892, without a friend, "down and out." After spending my last dollar in  --  -- 's saloon, I was sitting down in the back room of that place, wondering if I dared ask  --  --  for a drink, when in he walked. He looked at me, and said, "Now, Danny, I think you had better get a move on! Get out and hustle. You are broke, and you know I am not running this place for fun."

I took it kind of hard, but looked at him and said, "All right." I got up from the chair where I'd been sitting and walked out, not caring what I did, but bound to get some money. Now,  --  --  was a good fellow in his way; they all are if you have the price; but saloon-keepers are not running their places for the benefit of others, and when a man's money's gone they don't want him around. I had spent all I had, about twenty dollars, and now I was turned out, and it served me right.

Now there's something in rum that fascinates, something we can't understand. I wanted whiskey, and was ready to do anything to get it. The appetite in me was fierce. No one knows the terrible pangs, the great longing, but one who has been up against it. And nothing can satisfy the awful craving but whiskey.


The Turning-Point

Many's the time I've stood on the Bowery and cursed God and the day I was born, and wished that I was dead. But here I was! Nobody cared for me, and why should they, for I did not care for myself. I did not even think God cared much or He would have done something. I imagined the Devil thought he had me for keeps, and so he did not exert himself very much either. I was out of the saloon, on the street, and little as I imagined such a thing would ever happen, I never entered  --  -- 's saloon again. All unknown to me the turning-point in my life had come.

Sizing up the situation, I knew I must have a drink, but how was I to get it? Up to this time I'd done everything on the calendar except murder, and I don't know how I missed that. I've seen men killed, have been in a few shoot-ups myself, and bear some scars, but I know at this writing that God and a mother's prayers saved me from this awful crime.

Among the many accomplishments suited to the life I was leading was that of a "strong-arm man," and I determined to put it into use now, for I was desperate.

The rule in this dastardly work is always to select a man smaller and weaker than one's self. As I looked about I saw a man coming up the Bowery who seemed to answer to the requirements, and I said to myself, "This is my man!" I walked up to him and touched him on the shoulder, but as he straightened up I saw that he was as big as myself, and I hesitated. I would have taken the chances even then, but he started back and asked what I wanted. I said I was hungry, thinking that he would put his hand in his pocket, and then, having only one hand, I could put the "strangle hold" on him. But he was equal to the situation. He told me afterward that I looked dangerous.

I asked him if he was ever hungry. He said, "Many's the time." I told him I was starving. "Come with me," said he, and we went over to Chatham Square, to a place called "Beefsteak John's."

We went in and sat down, and he said, "Now order what you want." On the Bowery in those days you could get a pretty good meal for fifteen cents -- all you wanted to eat. The waiter was there to take my order. I knew him and winked to him to go away, and he went. He thought I was going to work the young fellow for his money.

The young fellow said, "Why don't you call for something? I thought you were starving."

Now here I was up against it. I'd panned this man for something to eat, and he was willing to pay for anything I wanted, and for the life of me I could not swallow any food. When a man is drinking he doesn't care to eat at a table. Give him a square meal, and he doesn't enjoy it. I know men to-day who spend every dollar they earn for drink, and eat nothing but free lunches, handed out with their drinks. That was what was the matter with me. All I wanted was drink. The young man had called my bluff, and I had nothing to show but lies. I sat there wondering how I was going to get out of this hole. I was looking at the man and he at me, when the little good that was in me cropped out, and looking him square in the eye I said, "Young fellow, I've lied to you. I could not eat the first mouthful." I told him I'd gone up to him thinking he would dig down in his pocket and give me a little change. I did not mention the fact that I intended to "put him up in the air" and rob him. Then I sat back in my chair and waited for the "come-back." Finally he said, "Have some coffee and sinkers" -- rolls. But I could not go even that!

We got to talking, and he asked me where I was living. I smiled at the idea of my living! I wasn't even existing! I told him I lived any place where I hung up my hat: that I didn't put up at the Astor House very often; sometimes at the Delevan, or the Windsor, or in fact, any of the hotels on the Bowery were good enough for me -- that is, if I had the price, fifteen cents. You can get a bed in a lodging-house for ten cents, or if you have only seven cents you can get a "flop." You can sit in some joint all night if you have a nickel, but if you haven't you can do the next best thing in line, and that is "carry the banner." Think of walking the streets all night and being obliged to keep moving!

The man took a fifty-cent piece out of his pocket, held it in his hand, and asked me if I would meet him at the Broome Street Tabernacle the next morning at ten-thirty. Now I wanted that half-dollar, I wanted it badly! It meant ten drinks to me at five per. I would have promised to meet the Devil in hell for drink, and fearing the young man might put the money in his pocket again, I said I'd be there. He gave me the half-dollar, we shook hands, and I never expected to see that man again.

I didn't go back to  --  -- 's, but to  --  --  Bowery -- another place that has put more men on the down-grade than any place I know. It's out of business now, and as I pass there every day I pray that all the saloons may go. I drank the half-dollar up in quick time, for with the Bowery element it's divy even with drinks.


Broome Street Tabernacle

Morning came, and I wondered what I should do for the day. How I loved to stand and smell the liquor, even when not drinking! But now I hate it! Oh, what a change when Christ comes into a man's heart! I had stood there all night in that saloon and didn't feel a bit tired. I went out to "do" some one else, when I thought of the fellow of last night. I thought I had sized him up and that he was easy, so I started for the meeting-place, the Tabernacle. I went there to see if I could work him for a dollar, or perhaps two.

I got to the church and looked for a side door and found a bell which I rang. I did not have to wait long before the young fellow himself opened the door. Out went his hand, and he gave me such a shake that one would have thought he had known me all my life. There's a lot in a handshake! "I'm glad to see you!" he said. "I knew you would keep your promise. I knew you would come."

That took me back a little. Here was a man I had never seen till the night before taking me at my word. I wondered who he was. We went into the church. He was talking to make me feel at home. Finally he looked me over from head to feet and said, "Are those the best clothes you have?" I said, "These are the best and only clothes I have." I had my trunk on my back, and the whole kit, shoes and all, wasn't worth fifty cents. The way of the drunkard is hard. I had helped put diamonds on the saloon-keeper and rags on myself, but if there are any diamonds now I'll put them on my own little wife and not the saloon-keeper's. The young man said, "I've a nice suit that will fit you. Will you let me give it to you?"

Here was a situation that puzzled me. I was an old offender, had "been up" many times and was well known to the police. My record was bad, and whenever there was a robbery or hold-up the police would round up all the ex-convicts and line us up at headquarters for identification. Give a dog a bad name and it sticks. I was suspicious; a man that has "done time" always is; and when the young man said he had clothes for me, I put him down as one of the "stool pigeons" working in with the police. Since I'd graduated to the Bowery doing crooked work I imagined every one was against me. It was a case of "doing" others or they would "do" me. And I wondered why this man took such an interest in me. The more I thought the more puzzled I got.

I looked about me. I was in a church; why should he do me any harm? Then I thought that if I put on the clothes he might slip an Ingersoll watch into the pocket, let me get on the street, and then shout "Stop, thief!" I'd be arrested and then it would be away up the river for a good long bit. However, I'm a pretty good judge of human nature, and I thought I'd take a chance. It was a fine suit; and I could just see myself putting it in pawn, so I said I'd take it. But "there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and lip," and there was a strange slip in my case.

The young fellow said, "Don't you think you had better have a bath?" Well, I did need a bath for fair. A man sleeping in one bed one night and a different one the next, walking the streets and sitting around on park benches, gets things on him, and they are grandparents in a couple of nights. Of course I needed a bath! I was a walking menagerie! He gave me some money, and I went out and had a bath and came back with the change. He showed me where I could change my clothes, and there was a whole outfit laid out for me, underwear and all.

I thought the man was crazy. I could not understand. At last I got into the clothes, and I felt fine. I got a look at myself in the glass, and I looked like a full-fledged Bowery politician. I said as I looked, "Is this me or some other fellow?" I weighed one hundred and ninety pounds and was five feet ten inches tall.

I went into the young man's study and sat down. I did not know what was coming next, perhaps money. I was ready for anything, for I took him for a millionaire's son.

Up to this time he had said nothing to me about God. Finally he opened up and asked my name. I told him Dave Ranney, but I had a few others to use in a pinch. And I told him the truth; kindness had won.

He said, "Dave, why are you leading such a life? Don't you know you were cut out for a far better one?" I was no fool; I knew all about that. I had learned it in Sunday-school, and how often mother had told me the same thing. I knew I was put into the world to get the best, and glorify God; and I was getting the worst, and it was all my own fault. Here I was. I felt that no one wanted anything to do with me, no one would trust me, because I was a jail-bird. But I have found out since there are people that are willing to help a man if they see he is on the level.

"Why," I said, "a man that has no backing has no show in 'little old New York.' You even have to have a pull to get a job shoveling snow, and then you have to buy your own shovel! What does any one care? The politicians have all they want and are only looking for more graft. They need you just twice a year to register and vote. I know I'm crooked, and it's my own fault, I admit, but who's going to give me a chance? Oh, for a chance!"

The young fellow listened, then said, "Dave, there's One that will help."

I did not catch on to his meaning, but said I was glad and thanked him for what he had done. I thought he meant himself. "Not I," he said; "I mean God. Why don't you give Him a chance? Talk about men giving you a chance -- why, God is waiting for a chance to help you!"

Just then my old friend the Devil came in; he always does when he thinks he is going to lose a convert; and he said in his own fine way, "Oh, what rot! Why didn't God help you before this? Don't bother about it; you have a nice suit; get out of this place and sell the duds and have a good time. I'll help you. I'll be your friend." He's sly, but I put him behind me that time.

It was easy enough for this man to talk about God giving me a chance, but he didn't know me -- a hard, wicked sinner, who if half the crimes I had committed were known I'd be put in prison for life. Would God help such a one? I knew I was clean and had a good suit of clothes on, but, oh! how I wished God would give me another chance! But I felt as if He had no use for me.

The man put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I want to be your friend; will you let me?" I said I'd be proud of such a friend. "Now, Dave," he said, "there's One better than I who will stick to you closer than a brother; will you let Him be your friend?" I said I would, though I doubted if He wanted any part of me, but I was going to make a try; and the young man and myself knelt down in the Tabernacle, corner of Broome Street and Centre Market Place, on the 16th of September, 1892, and I asked God to have mercy on me, cut the drink out of my life, and make a man of me, if such a thing could be done, for Christ's sake. I kept praying that over and over again, the man still kneeling with me, when all of a sudden I heard a voice say, "I will, Dave; only trust Me and have faith." I heard those words just as sure as I am living, and writing this book. None but a Christian can understand this voice; others would say we are crazy who say such things; but it's true: only have faith, and all things are yours. I've proved it!


A New Man In Christ Jesus

I rose from my knees a changed man. I can't explain it, but I felt as I hadn't felt in years -- lighter, happier, with a peace that was great in my heart. I thought of mother and only wished she could see me then, but she did all right.

"What will your friends say?" there was the old Devil saying. "Get out of this place, and don't be a fool; be a man."

I stood there listening to the tempter, when the young fellow said, "Dave, what are you going to do now that you have taken Jesus?"

I said, "I've knelt here and asked God for Christ's sake to make me a sober man, and I fully believe that He will. Drink has brought me down, and I'll die before I'll take another drink." And at this writing I'm over seventeen years off the stuff.

I asked the young fellow what his name was, and found that he was Alexander Irvine, lodging-house missionary to the Bowery under the New York City Mission of which Dr. Schauffler is the head. We shook hands, and before we parted we made a compact that we would be pals.

Isn't it wonderful what God can do? I don't believe there's a man or woman, no matter how wicked, no matter what sin they've done, but God can and will save, the only conditions being: Come, believe, and trust. "For God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." -- John 3:16. But you have to have some sand of your own.




Chapter V

On The Up Grade


Mr. Irvine paid for my lodging and meals for a week at 105 Bowery. I thought he was great; I'd never run up against anything like him. He said, "We must get you a job of some kind, and that quick. Will you work?" Well, what do you think of that! Would I work? It struck me as funny. Work and I had fallen out long ago. I could lie down beside work and watch the other fellow do it. I had reached the point where, like a good many others, I felt the world owed me a living, and I was bound to get it. I had toiled hard and faithfully for the Devil, and taken a great many chances, and I never thought of that as work. And I got the wages the Devil always pays -- cuts, shot, prison: I was paid good and plenty. Here I was up against another proposition -- work -- and I hated it!

Irvine said, "You must have something to occupy your mind and time, for you know the Devil finds mischief for idlers." I said I'd tackle anything; I'd work all right. A few days later he told me he had a job for me. "Good," I said. I wondered what kind of work it was. I knew it was not a position of great trust, not a cashier in a bank; that would have to come later on. Well, the job was tending a furnace -- get up steam at 5 A. M., do the chores, and make myself generally useful; wages $12.00 per month and my breakfast!

I did not like this for a starter, and I told Mr. Irvine so, and he had to do some tall talking. He finally got angry and said, "Ranney, you started out to let God help you. Well, you know God helps the man that helps himself." That was so. I had asked God to help me, and here I was at the start refusing to give Him a chance. That clinched it, and I took the first honest job I had had in a good many years. I thank God I did take it, for it was a stepping-stone.


Fishing For A Dinner

I started in working and was getting on fine, but I always felt I wasn't getting money enough. I tried in my leisure time for another job, but in all the places I was asked the same question: "Where did you work last?" I could not tell them, "In prison and on the road," and that queered me. So I stuck to the furnace, was always on time, and was pretty well liked by the people. I had been there about two weeks, and seen the cook every day and smelled the steak, etc., about noontime and at supper, but the cook never asked me if I had a mouth on me. She was a good-natured outspoken Irish woman with a good big heart, and I thought about this time that I'd jolly her a little and get my dinner. One day I came up from the cellar carrying a hod of coal in each hand, and going into the kitchen I tried in every way to attract her attention, but she was busy broiling a steak and never looked around. Finally I got tired and said, "Cook, where will I put this coal?" Well, well, I'll never forget that moment in years! She turned and looked at me and began, "I want you to understand my name is Mrs. Cunningham. I'm none of your cooks, and if you dare call me cook again while you're in this house I'll have you sacked -- discharged!" I thought I had been hit with a steam car. I did not answer her back, and she kept right on: "I'm a lady, and I'll be treated as such or I'll know why!" I never saw a person so mad in all my life, and I couldn't understand why. There she was cooking, and yet she was no cook! I thought to myself, "I guess she doesn't like her job." I didn't blame her, because I didn't like mine either.

My heart went down into my boots. Here I had made a play for a dinner and got left. About a week after this I was doing a little job in the laundry when I ran across the cook, and she said, "Young man, would you like a little bite to eat?" I answered quickly, "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Cunningham," just as sweet as anything. No more "cook" for mine. I'll never call people by their occupation again as long as I live. I'd had my lesson; but I had won out on my dinner too. A short time after she asked me if I could read, and would I read the news to her while she was peeling potatoes. I answered very sweetly, "Yes, Mrs. Cunningham," and I got my supper.

I would see Irvine once in a while, and I was always ready to give up my job, but he would say, "Stay six months, get a recommend, and then you can get something better. Just let God take care of you, and you'll come out away on top of the heap. God is going to use you in His work. Just keep on trusting and don't get discouraged." He always had a word of cheer, and I thank God that I did trust, and things came out better than I even thought.

You readers who are just starting out in the Christian life, just let God have His way. Don't think you know it all. Go right ahead, have a little sand, and trust Him. He will never leave you, and you will have the best in this life and in the life to come. It's an everlasting joy, and isn't it worth working for, boys?


Prayers In A Lodging-House

I remember, when I knelt down in 105 Bowery beside my cot to ask God's blessing and guidance, how a laugh used to go around the dormitory. There were about seventy beds in the place, and it was something unusual to see a man on his knees praying. But when I started out to be a man I meant business, and I said I would say my prayers every night. I don't think God can think much of a man who says his prayers lying on his back, unless he's sick. I believe God expects us to get on our knees, for if a thing is worth getting it's worth thanks. I didn't mind the laugh so much, but I did some: it was sort of cutting. I'm no coward physically, and can handle myself fairly well at the present time, but when it came to getting on my knees I was a rank coward.

A lodging-house is a queer affair. Men of all nations sleep there -- some drunk, some dreaming aloud, others snoring. The cots are about two feet apart -- just room for you to pass between them. It takes a lot of grit and plenty of God's grace to live a Christian life in a lodging-house. I go in them every day now to look after the other fellow: if he is sick or wants to go to the hospital I'll see to that; but I never can forget the time when I was one of those, inmates.

One night I had just got on my knees when boots, shoes, and pillows came sailing at me; one boot hit me, and it did hurt for fair. Then a whiskey flask hit me, and that hurt. I was boiling with rage. I got up, but I didn't say anything; no one would have answered me if I had; they were all asleep, by the way. We call such business hazing, but it's mean and dirty.

I went to work as usual the next day, and thought and planned all day how to catch one of those fellows. I figured out the following plan: I did not go to bed that night until quite late; the gas was turned down low, and I made noise enough for them to hear me. When I was ready for bed I knelt down and turned my head as quick as a flash to catch the throwers, for I knew they would throw again. Just as I turned I caught the fellow in the act of throwing a bottle. It seemed as though the Devil had got me for fair again, for I made a rush for that fellow, got him by the throat, pulled him out of bed and jumped on him, and I think if it hadn't been for the watchman I would have killed him; but he said, "Dan, for God's sake don't kill him!" I let up, and, standing upon that dormitory floor, beds all around, every one awake, about 11 P. M., I gave my first testimony, which was something like this: "Men, I've quit drinking -- been off the stuff about two weeks, a thing I have not done in years unless locked up. I've knelt and asked God to keep me sober and have thanked Him for His kindness to me. Now if you men don't let me alone in the future I'll lick you or you will me."

I went to my cot and knelt down, but I was so stirred up I couldn't pray. I wondered if there was going to be any more throwing, but that night finished it. I went up in the opinion of those men one hundred per cent. I lived there until the place burned down, and was one of the fortunate ones that got out alive when so many lost their lives, and I always said my prayers and was respected by the men. I was making lots of friends and attending Sunday-school, prayer-meeting, and mission services.


The Story Of An Overcoat

One Thanksgiving-time I was hired to carry dinners to the poor families by the New York City Mission. Mrs. Lucy Bainbridge was the superintendent. God bless her, for she was and is one good woman! I didn't have any overcoat and it was cold; but I didn't mind, as I was moving about carrying the dinners. This was about two months after I had decided to follow Christ, and I still had the furnace job when I met Mrs. Bainbridge.

She knew me by sight and asked me how I was getting on, and where was my overcoat? I told her I was getting along all right, but I had no overcoat. She said, "That's too bad! Come with me and we will see if there's one in the Dorcas Room" -- a place where clothes are kept that good people send in for the poor who haven't so much. There were quite a few coats there, any one of which would have suited me, but they didn't please Mrs. Bainbridge. She said, "David, come into the office." She gave me a letter to Rogers, Peet & Co., and told me to take it down there and wait for an answer.

I went down and gave the letter to a clerk, and it was great to see him eye me up. I didn't know then how the letter read, but have since learned that the contents were as follows: "Give this man about the best overcoat you have in the store." No wonder he looked me over!

We began trying on coats, found one that suited us, and he said, "You might as well wear it home." "Not on your natural!" I said. "Put it in paper or a box." I didn't think that coat was for me, for it was fifty dollars if a cent. Picture me with twelve dollars per month and three meals, and a fifty-dollar overcoat!

I went back to Mrs. Bainbridge, and she told me to try the coat on, which I did. Then she said, "David, that coat is for you, but listen, David; that coat is mine. Now I wouldn't go into a saloon, and I want you to promise me that you will never enter a saloon while you wear it." I promised, and that coat never went into a saloon, and I wore it for five years. Then I sent it to old Ireland, to my wife's father, and perhaps he is still wearing it. I often see Mrs. Bainbridge, and she is always the same kind friend, God bless her! I have entry to the Dorcas Room when I need anything to help a man that I'm trying to put on his feet, and that's often.


Delivering Telephone Books

It was coming spring and I was no longer needed at the furnace. I left with a recommendation for six months and a standing invitation from the cook for my meals, and she never went back on me. I don't know where she is now, but if she reads this book I want her to know that I appreciated all she did for me when I started this new life and I am sure she will be delighted to know that she helped a little.

I got another job delivering telephone books. When you see a poor seedy-looking man delivering these books, give him a kind word, for there's many a good man at that job to-day hoping for something better. This job was a hard one and you had to hustle to make a dollar a day, but I did not mind the hustling: I was strong, the drink had gone out of me, and I felt good. I was anxious to get a job as porter in some wholesale house, and delivering these books gave me a good chance to ask, and ask I did in nearly every store where I delivered a book. I always got the same reply, "No one wanted." I stayed at this about three months, and was getting discouraged. It looked as though I'd never get a steady position.

I had only a few more days of work, and was just finishing my deliveries one afternoon. I had Twenty-second Street and North River as my last delivery, which took me into the lumber district and into the office of John McC --  -- . I asked the young man in charge of the office if they wanted a young fellow to work. He asked me what I could do, and I said, "Anything." Now it's an old saying, "A man that can do everything can't do much of anything."

We went down into the yard and he asked me the different qualities of lumber and their names. I'll never forget the first question he asked me, which was, "What's the name of that piece of timber?" I said, "Oak," and I was right. After testing me on the other piles he asked me if I could measure, and could I tally? I told him I could, and he said, "I'll give you $9.00. Is that enough?" I said that would do for a starter, and he told me to be on hand at seven o'clock in the morning.

I delivered the few books I had left, drew my money, got a shave, bought a leather apron, and went to bed. I was up and at John McC --  -- 's yard at 6:30.

He was Police Commissioner then, and one of the whitest men I ever ran up against.

I started in at my third job since I had been converted. I was at home in the lumber yard, as I had learned the business While roughing it in Tonawanda, Troy, Syracuse, Buffalo, and on the Lakes. And when a man learns anything, if he isn't a fool he can always work at it again. Here I was at a business few could tell me much about.


Testifying In A Lumber Yard

The lumber-handlers as a rule are a free and easy set, nearly all drinking men. It's warm work, and when a man is piling all day, pulling up plank after plank, he thinks a pint of beer does him good. They rush the can -- first the piler, then the stager, and then the ground man, then the piler again, and so on. I've counted as many as twenty pints in one day among one gang. I soon got the run of the yard and made friends with all the men; but if ever I was up against temptation it was there in that yard, where I worked a long time. They would ask me to have a drink, but I told them time and time again that I did not care about it; I was off the stuff.

Often when I was sweating after pushing down a load of lumber from the pile and keeping tally at the same time, the Devil would whisper to me, "Oh, have a glass of beer; it won't hurt you; it will do you good," and I was tempted to join with the men and drink. I had to keep praying hard and fast, for I was sorely tempted. But, thank God, I've yet to take my first drink since 1892!

God was always near me, and He often said, "Tell the men all about it, how you have asked Me to help you, and they won't ask you to drink any more." I wondered what the men would say if I told them. I was a little timid about doing it. I had testified once or twice in a meeting, but that was easy compared with this. But after a while I got up courage and told the men why I did not drink. I said, "I have been a hard man and loved drink so much that it separated me from family and friends, put me in prison, and took my manhood away. One year ago I took Jesus as my helper and asked Him to take away this love for drink, and He did. I would rather lose my right arm than go back again, and with God's help I'll win out and never drink again." I often talked with them about it, told them it was a good way to live, and to think it over. I found out in a little while that the men thought better of me, and respected me more than before. I have heard some of them say, "I wish I could give up the drink," and some did, and are living good lives without the cursed stuff.

I've met some of these men on the Bowery, "down and out," and I've stood by them and tried to point them in the right direction. There's one man, a fine noble fellow, who used to work with me in my lumber days, who is on the Bowery at the present time, unable to give up the drink. He is always glad to see me and says, "God bless you, Dan, and keep you away from the stuff. I wish I could!" I tell him to ask God and have faith, and then I slip him a meal ticket and give him a God bless you!




Chapter VI

Promoted


I had never lost sight of my friend Irvine. We used to see each other often and have a good chat about things in general. He said he was going to take charge of the Sea and Land Church and wanted me to come and be the sexton. It would give me $30.00 per month, rooms, coal and gas. He thought it would be a good thing for me to become reunited to my wife Mary, and I thought so too, but she had to give her consent. We had been separated for a number of years, and though I had been calling on her for over a year she never took any stock in my conversion. Here I was fifteen months a redeemed man, trying to get my wife to live with me again. I prayed often, but I never thought she would consent.


Church Of Sea And Land

I was married young, and she was only a girl, and though she loved me she could not forget the misery and hardships she went through. I never hit her in my life, but I wouldn't support her: I'd rather support the rumseller and his family, all for that cursed drink. And I didn't blame her for being afraid to chance it again. "A burnt child dreads the fire." I had made her life very hard, and she was afraid. She was glad to know that I had given up drink, but doubted my remaining sober. Finally she agreed to live with me again if I remained sober for three years. I was put on probation -- the Methodist way. Now I had been on the level for fifteen months, and I had twenty-one months more to go. She was strong-minded and would stick to her word, so I did not see how I could take the job as sexton.

I told Mr. Irvine that was the way things stood and for him to get some one else. He said, "Pretty slim chances, but we will pray about it." He and I went up to Sixty-seventh Street, where Mrs. Ranney was working as laundress, and after a little talk we came to the point. I was a go-ahead man, and tried every way to get her to promise to come down, but she wouldn't say yes. I'll never forget that night in the laundry if I live a hundred years; she took no stock in me at all. I was giving it up as a bad job; she wouldn't come, and that settled it. We got up to go when Mr. Irvine asked if she would object to a word of prayer. She said, "No," and we had a little prayer-meeting right there. We bade Mrs. Ranney good-night and left.

The next night she came down and we showed her all over the church. The sexton who had been living there hadn't kept the living apartments clean, and she did not like them very much, but when she went away she said, "If I only could be sure you would keep sober I would go with you, but I can't depend on you. Fifteen months isn't long enough; you will have to go three years. I don't think I'll come." I said, "That settles it! But listen: whether you come or not, I am not going back to the old life." The next day I received a telegram from Mary saying,

"Come Up For My Things."

I jumped on a single truck, drove up to Sixty-seventh Street, and got all my wife's things, trunks, band-boxes and everything, and it did not take me long to get down to the church. Mary was already there, and I took charge of the Church of the Sea and Land at Market and Henry Streets, where I remained as sexton for ten years. I would not take $10,000 for the character I received from the trustees when I resigned. I always look back with pleasure to those good old days at the church, the many friends we made, and the many blessings I received while there.

It did not take us long to get the run of the place. We sent for our boy, who was in Ireland with his mother's folks. When he came I didn't know him, as I hadn't seen him since he was a little baby. What a surprise it was when at my sister's house, after supper, she went into the front room, leaving me alone in the kitchen, when a manly little fellow came in and looked me over and said, "Hello, father, I'm your son Willie. How are you?"

I looked at him, but couldn't say a word, for I had almost forgotten that I had a son. I opened my arms and the boy came with a rush, threw his arms around my neck, and said, "I love you, dad."

I want to say here that this boy has never given me any trouble and we have been companions ever since that night. He married a good Christian girl and is in his own home to-day.

I heard a little laugh, and there were my sister and Mary taking it all in. I could see then that it was a put-up job, this getting me to go up to my sister's house.

Time passed and we were doing finely. One day we heard the boy playing the piano, and we got him a teacher. In a short time he was able to play for the smaller classes, the juniors. Then my friend Mrs. Bainbridge got him a better teacher. He improved rapidly, and now he is organist in the Fifty-seventh Street Presbyterian Church.

I tell you it pays to be a Christian and on the level. If I hadn't done anything else but give that boy a musical education, it would have paid. I'm proud of him.


My First Sermon

I remember the first meeting I ever led. It came about like this: I had been sexton of Sea and Land Church about four years, was growing in grace and getting on finely. One Wednesday night the minister asked me if I would lead the prayer-meeting the following week, as he was going away. I told him I did not know how to lead a meeting and I was afraid to undertake it, as I couldn't preach a sermon. "Oh, that's all right," he said. "I'll write out something, and all you will have to do is to study it a little, read it over once or twice, then get up and read it off." I told him I'd try. I'd do the best I could. So he wrote about ten sheets of foolscap paper, all about sinners. I remember there was a story about a man going over the falls in a boat, and lots of other interesting things as I thought. I took the paper home and studied as hard as I could to get it into my head.

The night came on which I was to take the meeting -- that eventful night in my life. I got on the platform, took the papers out of my pocket, and opened the big Bible at the chapter I was going to read, and laid out the talk just as I thought a minister might do. I read the chapter, then we had a song, then it was up to me.

Do you know I made the greatest mistake of my life that night! I went on that platform trusting in my own strength and not asking God's help. I got a swelled head and imagined I was the real thing. But God in His own way showed me where I was standing and brought me up with a short turn.

I began reading the article written, and was getting on well, as I thought, taking all the credit myself and not giving God any. I read three pages all right, when some one opened the window. It was a March night, very windy, and when the window was opened something happened, and I thank God that it did.

The wind came directly toward me and took the sermon I was preaching and scattered it all over the room. I didn't know what to say or do. I forgot everything that was written on the papers, and I knew if I tried to get them back I would make a fool of myself.

There was a smile on every face in the congregation. There I stood, wishing the floor would open and let me through. I certainly was in a box!

Just at this moment God spoke to me and said, "David, I did that, and I did it for your own good. Now listen to me. You were not cut out for a minister. Just get up and tell these people how God for Christ's sake saved you, and I'll be with you."

I listened to the voice, bowed my head in prayer, and it seemed as though the Lord put the words in my mouth. I told that roomful of people of my past life and how God saved and had blessed me for four years. We had a grand meeting and a number were saved that night, and, above all, I received one of the greatest blessings of my life.

On his return the minister said, "I hear you had a great meeting. How did the reading go!" I told him what had happened, and he was astonished, but saw God's hand in it, and said so.

From that night on I never wrote up anything to read to my audience, and I have spoken all over within a circle of fifty miles of New York, and even farther away, including Boston, Philadelphia, Albany, and Troy. I tell the Bowery boys I'm what is called an extemporaneous talker. I don't know the first word I'm going to say when I get on my feet, but God never leaves me: I just open my mouth and He fills it. Praise His name!

It was a lesson to me and I have never forgotten it.


The Testimony Of A Gambler

While I was sexton of the old Sea and Land Church I met among other men one who came to be a great friend. We called ourselves pals and loved each other dearly, and yet I have never been able to bring him to Christ. When I told him I was writing the story of my life he said he wanted to add a few lines to tell, he said, what I could not. This is what he wrote:

"'Lead, Kindly Light,' was the song; I'll never forget it. I heard it on the Bowery fifteen years ago. I was passing a Mission, and hearing it I went in -- I don't know why to this day. After the singing some one prayed, and I started to go out when the leader of the meeting called for testimonies for Christ. I waited and listened, and I heard a voice that made me sit down again. I shall never forget the man that was speaking. What he said sounded like the truth. It was the greatest sermon I ever listened to. He was telling how much God had done for him, saved him from drink and made a Christian man of him. I knew it was the truth. I went home that night to wife and children, and told my wife where I had been. She laughed and said, 'Dan, you are getting daffy.' From that night on I have been a better husband and father.

"I left home one night about six o'clock and went down Cherry Street to a saloon where the gang hang out. I had been telling the boys about the things I had heard at the Mission. A young man said, 'Sullivan, there was a young preacher down at my house and asked me to come to a young people's meeting at the Sea and Land Church. I promised I would go, but I haven't got the courage.' In a moment I got churchy. I had never been in a church in New York. I said, 'Come on,' and we went to that meeting. I am glad I did. That night I met my friend Ranney. As I was passing out of the meeting he greeted me -- he was the sexton -- with a handshake and a 'Good-night, old pal; come again!' There is something in a handshake, and as we shook I felt I had made another friend. I'll never forget that night. We became fast friends. There is no one that knows Ranney better than Sullivan. I have watched him in his climb to the top step by step to be in the grand position he fills, that of Lodging House Missionary to the Bowery under the New York City Mission and Tract Society.

"One day we were going up the Bowery and passing a Mission went in. We heard the testimonies, and I turned to Ranney and said, 'Are you a Christian?' He said, 'I am.' I said, 'Get up, then, and tell the men what God has done for you.' Now here I was a gambler telling this man to acknowledge God, and I did not do it myself! Ranney rose and turned all colors. He finally settled down to that style of talking which he alone possesses. He told his story for the first time. I have heard him hundreds of times since, but to me that night fifteen years ago was the greatest talk he ever gave, telling how God saved him from a crooked and drunken life. It had the ring! I loved him from that night on. When he got through I said, 'Dave, God met you face to face to-night. You will be a different man from now on. God spoke to-night, not you. It was the best talk I ever heard. It took you a long time to start, but nothing can stop you now. One word of advice, pal, I'll give you: Don't get stuck on yourself. God will use you when He won't others among your own kind. He will make a preacher of you to men of your own stamp.' And Ranney is to-day what I said and thought he would be.

"You would think that a man who had been the pal of Ranney for three years would never say an unkind word to one that he loved, but that is what I did. We had a misunderstanding, and I said things to Dave Ranney that he never will forget. I called him every name on the calendar. He was speechless and I thought afraid of me. He never said a word. I left him standing there as if petrified -- his friend and pal talking to him like that, his pal that sang with him, and joked with him!

"I went home and swore that never again would I have anything to do with a Christian. I had forgotten for the moment all the little kindnesses he had done and how after I had been on a drunk he had been at my bedside, how he had spoken words of cheer and comfort and said, 'Dan, old man, cheer up. Some day you are going to cut out drink'; and I want to say right now that I have not drank in over twelve years. I'd forgotten all that. I only thought of how I might hang the best fellow on this earth. I came to myself ten minutes after I left him, but the work had been done, and I made up my mind I'd never see or speak to him again. I'd go back to my old life of gambling and cheating, and I did.

"Five months passed. I had not seen Ranney in all that time. I was playing poker one night, the 16th of September, 1899, with no more thought of Dave than if he had never lived. It was in the old  --  --   --  --  Hotel on Water Street, a little before eight in the evening. My partner and I were having a pretty easy time stealing the other men's money -- some call it cheating -- when my thoughts turned to my old Christian pal Ranney. It was the eighth anniversary of his conversion. Quick as a flash I jumped to my feet and said, 'Boys, I'll be back in an hour. I've got to go!' My partner thought I had been caught cheating and was going to cash his chips. I said, 'I'll be back in a little while.'

"I ran all the way up to the Bowery to the place where Ranney was holding his meeting. The Mission was packed. There were a lot of big-guns on the platform. No one saw me that knew me. Ranney was asking for those testimonies that would help the other fellow. I got on my feet and faced him. He turned pale. He thought I was going to set him out then and there. He looked me straight in the eye and began to come slowly toward me, and when I had finished we had one another by the hand. This is part of what I said that night:

"'I make no pretense at being a Christian. I am a gambler. But the man standing there -- Dave Ranney -- was once my chum and pal. We had a little misunderstanding some five months ago, and I am here to-night to ask his forgiveness. Forgive me, Dave. I just left a card-game to come up to your anniversary and help make you happy. I know you don't believe I meant what I said. I love you more to-night than any time since I first met you. Why, men, I would lay down my life that Ranney is one of the best and whitest Christians in New York to-night. It ain't the big things that a man does that show his real character. No, it's the little things. I have watched Ranney, been with him; his sorrows are my sorrows, his joys my joys. I can't say any more to-night.'

"Dave begged me to stay. Mr. Seymour came down to speak to me, but I'd done what I came to do, and I had got out quick -- from Heaven to Hell, from my Christian pal to my pal in crime at the card-table.

"I've never been converted. If I was I'd go like my pal Ranney out in the world and tell how God saved me, and not let the ministers do all the talking. At present all I can say is, 'God bless my pal! and some of these days perhaps I'll be with him on the platform telling what God did for me. God speed the day!'"


Tried In The Fire

I had been sexton for over five years, and had been greatly blessed, when my wife became ill. Things did not always run smoothly, for there are ups and downs even in a sexton's life, and I had mine. When Mary and I took up again I determined to do all in my power to make amends for my former treatment of her, to make life as pleasant for her as I could, and I did. When she was first taken sick I sent her and the boy over to Ireland to visit her parents, thinking the change would do her good. She was better for a little while, but on the 14th of March, 1902, she died. My boy and I were at her bedside and promised to meet her on the other side, and with the help of God we are going to keep our word.

You know there are always "knockers," and I knew quite a few. In every church and society there they are with their little hatchets ready to trim and knock any one that goes ahead of them. Some of these people said of me, "Oh, Ranney is under Christian influences. He is sexton. He is afraid. Wait until he runs up against a lot of trouble, then he will go back to the Bowery again and drink worse than ever." I do think some of those people would have liked to see it happen. I've seen one of them in a sanitarium to be treated for drink who was my worst knocker, and I told him I would pray for him. I'm not talking of the good Christian people. They don't know how to "knock," and I thank God for all such. I had a thousand friends for every "knocker," and they were ready to help me with kind words, money, or in any other way when I was in trouble.

Just as an illustration of this take the act of the poor fellows of the Midnight Mission in Chinatown when my wife died. They wanted to show their sympathy and their love, and a delegation of them came in a body and placed a wreath on Mary's coffin. I learned afterwards how they all chipped in for the collection -- some a few cents, some a nickel. Don't think for a moment that the Bowery down-and-out has no heart, for it isn't so. Many a tough-looking fellow with a jumper instead of a shirt has one of the truest hearts that beats. I only wish I could help them more than I do.

When God took Mary away I thought it was hard, and I was sore and ready to do anything, I didn't care what. There was a lady, Miss Brown, a trained nurse, who had been with Mary all through her illness, whose cheering words did me a wonderful lot of good. One thing she said was, "Trust." God bless her!


A Testing Time

My old friend the Devil was in evidence during this hard time in all his pomp and glory. I could hear him say, "You see how God treats you! He don't care much or He wouldn't have taken Mary away. What did He do it for? Why, He don't know you even a little bit. Come, Dan, I'll be your friend; didn't we always have a good time together on the Bowery? Go get a 'ball'; it'll do you good and make you forget your troubles. You have a good excuse even if any one sees you." I was tempted, but I said, "Not this time, you old Devil: get behind my back!" People said, "Keep your eye on Ranney; he's up against it; now he will start to drink and go down and out."

I'm going to tell you how God came and helped me in my hour of need. It was the day of the funeral, the 17th of March, 1902. The people who were helping had gone home to get ready to attend the service, and my boy and I were left all alone with the dead. We were feeling pretty bad. My boy had lost the best friend he ever had or would have in this world. Some fathers are all right and love their children, but it isn't like a mother's love. No wonder he was weeping and feeling badly.

We were walking about the room saying nothing, just thinking, and wondering what would happen next. We happened to meet just at the head of the casket (God's doing), and stood there as though held by some unseen power, when my boy opens up like this: "Pop, you don't want me to smoke any cigarettes, do you?" I looked at him, astonished at such a question at this time, but I said, "No, Willie, I don't want you to smoke and hope you never will." Then he said, "Father, you don't want me to drink, do you?" I wondered at these questions, and looked at him with tears in my eyes. I said, "No, Bill, my poor boy, I would rather see you dead and in your coffin beside your poor mother, and know you were going to be buried to-day, than to know you would ever drink or be like your father was. Bill, don't you ever take the first glass of beer or whiskey! Ask God to keep you from it."

I wondered what was coming next, but I didn't have to wait long. The boy said, "The people are watching you and say you won't come back from the grave without having a drink, and that you won't be sober a week from now. Pop, trust in the God that saved you ten years ago, won't you? You know we promised to meet mother. Fool these people and let them see that you are the man and father I love."

I straightened up, looked at the lad, and out went my hand. We shook hands and I said, "Son, with the help of God I'll never drink again." And there at the head of the coffin we knelt and asked God to help us and make us men such as He would have us be; we asked it in the name and for the sake of the Christ who died for us.

That was March 17, 1902, and we have kept the faith up to the present time.

I'll never forget that prayer. Don't you think it pays to be on the level with God? If you ask Him to help you He will. Just trust Him and have a little backbone, and you will win out every time. I know now that this experience was God teaching me a lesson and drawing me closer to Him.

Things went differently now; I could not run the church very well alone, so after a few months I handed in my resignation. The trustees wanted me to stay, but I couldn't; sad memories would come up, and I simply had to go. I left the old church where I had spent so many happy days with a record of ten years that money could not buy. I go there once in a while even now.




Chapter VII

The Mission In Chinatown


About two years previous to my wife's death a man, Mr. H. Gould, called on me and asked me if I was the Ranney that was converted on the Bowery. I said, "Yes, I was saved about ten years ago." He said, "I've a proposal to make. I hear you are a natural-born leader of men, and I think you look it. I'm one of the trustees of the Midnight Mission in Chinatown. It's a hard place, but will you come and take charge of it? I can't keep any one there longer than a few weeks; they get drunk or are licked or done up some way. I want some one with backbone; will you take it?" I thanked him. He had said enough to make any one refuse a job like that, but I knew all the ins and outs of that quarter, and I thought I'd like the work. I asked God's guidance, and I spoke with Mr. Dennison, the pastor of the Church of Sea and Land, and he said it was wonderful the way God was leading me. "Go and see what it's like," he said. "Try it. You can run the church also, but if you see you can't get along, give it up."

My wife and boy were planning to go on a visit to Ireland to see if it would improve her health, and when I told her of Mr. Gould's proposal she did not want me to go: she was afraid I'd get killed. But I said it would help to pass the time away until she came back. So in 1900 I took charge of the Chinatown Midnight Mission, remained there six years, and left to be a lodging-house missionary.

I well remember the first night. There sat some of the old gang. They gave me the glad hand, and asked me if I was going to be the bouncer; if so, I could count on them. I said. "Yes, I'm to be the 'main guy,' bouncer, etc." They were pleased, and gave me credit of always being on the level. I made lots of friends while there.


Leading A Meeting

I never had to use force to keep order but once while in that Mission. I had been in charge two months or so when I got notice that the leader would not be there that night, so it was up to me to lead the meeting. I'll never forget that night. There are some things a person can't forget, and that was one of them.

It was snowing and very cold outside, and the Mission was packed with men and a few women. These poor creatures had no place to go, no home; they were outcasts, there through various sins, but mostly through love of rum. I hoped some visitor would come in and I would get him to lead, but no one came, and it was up to me to give the boys a talk. I had never forgotten my first sermon at the church, so, asking God to help me, I went on the platform. I read the story of the Prodigal Son. That was easy; the hard part was to come later on. I asked if some one would play the piano, and a young fellow came up that looked as though he hadn't had a meal or slept in a bed in a month, but when he touched the keys I knew he was a master. I found out later that he was a prodigal, had left home, spent all, and was on the Bowery living on the husks.

We began by singing a hymn, after which I got up and began to talk to the men. I gave my testimony, how God had saved me from a life of crookedness and crime, and that I was no better than the worst man on the Bowery, except by the grace of God. There was one big fellow sitting in the front row who was trying to guy me. While I was talking he would make all sorts of remarks, such as, "Oh, what do you know about it? Go away back and sit down," etc. I asked him to keep still or he would have to get out. I went on trying to talk, but that man would always answer back with some foolish remark. He was trying to stop the meeting -- so he told me afterwards.

There I was. I could not go on if he did, and I told him that when I got through I would give him a chance to talk. Now there were over four hundred men looking at me, wondering what I would do. Some of my old pals shouted, "Put him out, Danny!" and the meeting was in an uproar. I knew if I did not run that meeting, or if I showed the "white feather," I was done as a leader or anything else connected with that place. I said to him, "My friend, if you don't keep still I'll make an example of you." I could have called the police and had him locked up, but I didn't want any one to go behind bars and know that I had him put there. I had been there and that was enough. I've never had one of these poor men arrested in my life. I used kindness.

I began to talk again, and he started in again, but before he got many words out of his mouth I gave him a swinging upper cut which landed on the point of his jaw, lifting him about two feet, and down he went on his back. My old pals came up to help, but I said, "Sit down, men; I can handle two like that fellow." I called out a hymn; then I told him to get up, and if he thought he could behave himself he might sit down, if not, he could get out. Well, he sat down and was as good as could be.

That was the making of me. The men all saw it. They knew that I was one of them, they saw that I could handle myself, and I never had any trouble after that. And the man I hit is to-day one of my best friends.

I told the men that the Devil sent in one of his angels once in a while, the same as to-night, to disturb the meeting-place of God. I said, "You men would be a marker for God if you would only take a stand for God and cut out your sins. I never in my palmy days disturbed a meeting, drunk or sober. I always respected God's house. If I didn't like it I went out, and I think, fellows, that's one of the reasons He picked me up when I was away down in sin and made me what I am to-night. He will do the same for any one here; why not give Him a chance?"


Something New

This was something new for the men. Here was a man that they knew, no stranger, but one of themselves eight years before. He had been in prison with them, drunk with them, stolen with them, and in fact had done everything that they did, and now here he was telling his old pals how they could be better men, how God would help them if they would only give Him a chance.

God was with me that night. It didn't seem to be Ranney at all. I asked who wanted to get this religion, who wanted me to pray for them, and about seventy-five hands went up. A number of men came forward and took a stand for Jesus. It was early in the morning when the meeting closed. It was cold and snowing outside.

It is a hard matter to get these men to declare themselves, for they are afraid of the laugh, but I told them not to mind that; that my pals gave me the laugh when I started out. "If we are honest and have sand and help ourselves after asking God's help," I told them, "we will take no notice of a grin or a sneer. My companions wagged their heads when I started out in the new life in September, 1892. They said, 'Oh, we'll give Danny a couple of weeks. He's trying to work the missionary; he'll be back again!' Don't you men see I'm still trusting? and there isn't a man in the Mission right now that can say I'm not on the level, that I've drank whiskey or beer or done an unmanly act since I gave my life into His keeping. Why? Because I'm trusting, not in man or woman, but I'm honestly trusting in God."

I was satisfied that among the whole roomful of men there were not half a dozen that had a bed to sleep on that night. I didn't have the money to put them to bed, but I departed from the rules, and calling them to order, said, "Boys, how many of you would like to be my guest for the night?" You ought to have seen them look at me! Never such a thing had been known. It set them to thinking. The saloon-keeper wouldn't do it; what did he care for them? I said, "Boys, I'm not doing this; I don't want you to think so. It's God through me."

Many's the night after that I kept the Mission open and let the poor fellows sleep there, on the chairs and on the floor, and they appreciated it. I was winning them through kindness. When I was ready to go home to my nice warm bed, I'd read them a little riot act telling them there were always a few among a lot of men that would spoil a good thing, ending up, "Be good, boys, and have a good sleep. Good-night," and they would say so heartily, "Good-night, Danny! God bless you and keep you!"

Letting the men stay didn't cost me a cent, and there was a big fire to keep them warm and it meant much to them, poor fellows. I had the Board of Health get after me quite a few times, but I'd explain things to them, and they would go away saying, "You're all right." Big hard men said, "If people who want to do good would only get a place to house the poor unfortunates, there would be less crime and misery." I knew that was true, and I'm praying for the day when we can have just such a place, and God is going to give it in His own good time.

I had won the boys, and I stayed in that Mission over six years and saw lots of men and women saved and living good lives. Many times well-dressed men will come into my place and say, "Mr. Ranney, don't you know me?" and when I can't place them they will tell me how I was the means of saving their lives by letting them stay in out of the cold, and giving them a cup of coffee and a piece of bread in the morning. I could count them by the hundreds. Praise His name!


A Poor Outcast

One night just as the doors opened, there came into the Mission a woman who evidently had seen better days. She was one of the poor unfortunates of Chinatown. She asked if she might sit down, as she was very tired and did not feel well. "Go in, Anna," I said, and she went in and took a seat. When I passed her way she said, "Mr. Ranney, will you please give me a drink of water?"

Now this woman had caused me lots of trouble. She would get drunk and carry on, but when sober she would be good and feel sorry. I gave her a cup of water and she said, "Thank you, Dan, and may God bless you!" An hour after that I gave her another cup, and she thanked me again, saying, "God bless you for your patience!" The next time I looked at her she had her head on the seat in front and I thought she was sleeping. Now I never wake any sleepers. I feel that an hour's sleep will do them good, for when the Mission closes and they go out they have no place to sleep. They have to find a truck or a hallway or walk up and down the Bowery all night. I've been there, and it takes one that has been through the mill to sympathize with the "down-and-outs." So I did not disturb this woman.

The meeting was over and the people were all out, when I noticed Anna still in the same position. I went over and called her, and receiving no answer shook her a little, but she never moved. I bent over and raised her head; a pair of sightless eyes seemed to look at me, and I knew she was dead. I never had such a start in my life. Two hours before alive -- now dead! I learned that she was from a town in Connecticut, of good parents, who took her to her last resting-place in the family plot -- a wayward girl who ran away from home. Her "God bless you, Dan!" still rings in my ears and her dead face I'll never forget.

Here was a case that, so far as I knew, did not come under the influence of God's Spirit, and I could only say, "God have mercy on her poor soul!" but there have been scores of other women whom I have been able to reach and help by the grace of God. I shall never forget the "white slave."


Rescued From A Dive

When I had charge of the Chinatown Mission a party of three came down to see the sights and do a little slumming in the district, and they asked me to show them around. Now there wasn't a hole or joint in Chinatown or on the Bowery that I didn't know, but I didn't as a rule take women to such places. I don't like the idea of their looking at other people's misery, and there's nothing but woe and want to be seen when you go slumming. Lots of it is brought on by the people themselves, but still they are human and do not like to be looked at.

However, this night was an exception, and away we went to see the sights. I took them to the Joss House -- the temple where the Chinese pray to Confucius -- and other places down on Cherry Hill. But they wanted to see something hard, so I took them to a place that I thought was hard enough. If you were a stranger and went into this place and displayed a roll of "the green" you would be done up.

We went into one of the worst places on the Bowery, the women being as anxious to go as the rest. The waiter piloted us to a small round table, and we sat down and called for some soda. I'd been there before to bring out a man or a woman or a girl as the case might be, and was pretty well known as "Sky-Pilot Dan."

The party with me were astonished and wondered how such things as they saw could exist in a city like New York. There were all classes in the place, sailors, men, women, and girls, who had lost all self-respect and thought of nothing but the drink and the dance.

While sitting there the lady's attention was drawn to a girl at the next table who sat there looking at the lady, with the tears streaming down her cheeks. The lady said, "Mr. Ranney, what is the matter with that girl? Ask her to join us." I got another chair and asked the girl to come over and sit beside the lady, who asked her how she came to be there, and why she was crying.

At that the girl began to cry harder and sobbed as though her heart would break. After she became a little more quiet she said, "You look like my mother, and I'll never see her again! Oh, I wish I was dead!" We asked her why she didn't go home to her mother. She cried out, "I can't! They won't let me! And if I could get away how could I get to Cincinnati, Ohio, where my mother lives?"

We got her story from the girl, and this is how it ran: She got into conversation with a well-dressed woman in Cincinnati one day who said that she could get her a position as stenographer and typewriter at a fine salary. After telling her mother about it, she and the woman started for New York, the woman paying the fare. The woman gave her an address of a party, but when the poor girl got there, there was no job for a typewriter; it was a very different position. The young girl had been lured from home on false promises, and here she was a "white slave" through no fault of her own.

A difficult situation confronted us. The girl was in trouble and needed help, and what were we going to do about it? She was as pretty a girl as I ever saw, with large black eyes, a regular Southern type of beauty, and just beginning the downward career. That means, as the girls on the Bowery put it, first the Tenderloin, then the white lights and lots of so-called pleasure, until her beauty begins to fade, which usually takes about a year. Second, Fourteenth Street, a little lower down the grade. Third, the Bowery, still lower, where they get nothing but blows and kicks. The fourth and last step, some joint like this, the back room of a saloon, down and out, all respect gone, nothing to live for; some mother's girl picked up some morning frozen stiff; the patrol, the morgue, and then Potter's Field. Some mother away in a country town is waiting for her girl who never comes back.

God help the mothers who read this, for it's true. Look to your girls and don't trust the first strange woman who comes into your house, for she may be a wolf in sheep's clothing. She wants your daughter's fresh young beauty, that's her trade, and the Devil pays good and plenty.

I asked the girl whether she had any friends near, and she said she had an aunt living on Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, that she thought might take her. Then looking around the room she said, "But he won't let me go anyhow." I followed her look, and there standing with his back to the wall was a man I knew. Here was this young girl made to slave and earn a living for this cur! There's lots of it done in New York -- well-dressed men doing no work, living on the earnings of young girls.

We got the address of the aunt in Philadelphia, and I went out and sent a message over the wire, asking if she would receive Annie if she came to Philadelphia. I received an answer in forty-two minutes saying, "Yes, send her on. I'll meet her at the station."

I hurried back, thanking God for the answer, and found them sitting at the same table. Annie was looking better than when we first met her. I said, "It's all right; her aunt will take care of her; now all we have to do is to get her to the ferry and buy her ticket."

There was a tap on my shoulder, and looking around I saw the man she had pointed out, and he said, "You want to keep your hands off that girl, Dan, or there's going to be trouble." Now I knew this kind of man; I knew he would do me if he got a chance, and he was a big fellow at that; but I thought I could hold my own with him or any of his class. I didn't mind what he said; all I was thinking about was getting the girl to Cortlandt Street Ferry.

When we got on our feet to make a start he came over and said, "She don't go out of this place; if she does there's going to be trouble." I said, "Well, if you're looking for trouble you will get all that's coming to you, and you'll get it good and plenty." And I started toward the door. He came after me, asking me what I was going to do. I said, "I'm not going to bother with you, I'm merely going to get a couple of 'Bulls' -- policemen -- and they will give you all the trouble you want. But that girl goes with me."

He weakened. He knew his record was bad and he did not want to go up to 300 Mulberry Street (Police Headquarters), so he said, "All right, Danny, take her, but you are doing me dirty."

We got down to the ferry all right, and the lady and I went to Philadelphia and placed Annie in her aunt's house and bid her good-by.

Frequently I get a letter from Cincinnati from Annie. She is home with her mother, and a team of oxen couldn't pull her away from home again. She writes, "God bless and keep you, Dan! I thank God for the night you found me on the Bowery!"


"Tell Her The Latch-String Is Out"

I was in a Baptist church one Sunday night speaking before a large audience and had in the course of my talk told the above story. The meeting had been a grand one. I felt that God had been with us all the way through. I noticed one man in particular in the audience while I was telling this story. Tears were running down his cheeks and he was greatly agitated. I was shaking hands all around after the meeting was over when this man came and said, "Mr. Ranney, can I have a little talk with you?" I said, "Yes." "Wait till I get the pastor," he said, and in a few minutes the minister joined us in the vestry. The man could not speak. I saw there was something on his heart and mind, and wondered what it could be. I've had lots of men come and tell me all about themselves, how they were going to give up stealing, drinking, and all other sins, but here was something different, so I waited. He tried to speak, but could only sob. Finally he cried out with a choking sob, "Sister!" The minister's hand went out to his shoulder, mine also, and we tried to comfort him; I never saw a man in such agony. After a little he told this story:

"Mr. Ranney, I am sure God sent you here to-night. I had a lovely sister; she may be living yet; I don't know. Seventeen years ago she went out to take a music lesson, and we have never laid eyes on her since, and have never had the first line from her. Oh, if I only knew where she is! She was one of the sweetest girls you ever saw, just like the girl you spoke about to-night. She was enticed away from home by a man old enough to be her father, who left his own family to starve. I've hunted for them all over. I've never passed a poor girl on the street without giving a helping hand, always thinking of my own sweet sister, who might perhaps be in worse circumstances. Mr. Ranney, will you promise me whenever you tell that story -- which I hope will be very often -- just to mention that girl who left a New Jersey town some years ago? Say that mother is waiting for her daughter with arms open. Say the latch-string is out and there's a welcome. Perhaps -- who can tell? -- you may be the means of sending that daughter back to home and mother!"

He gave me his name and address, the girl's name also, and I promised what he wanted. Would to God this book might be the means of uniting these separated ones and sending the gray-haired mother home to heaven rejoicing! Oh, how many a mother's girl is in bondage to-night for the want of a helping hand and some kind friend to give advice!





Chapter VIII

Bowery Work


God moves in a mysterious way to work out His ends, and I can testify that His dealings with me have been wonderful indeed, -- far beyond anything that I have ever merited. During all the years since my conversion I had always kept in touch with Dr. A. F. Schauffler, Superintendent of the City Mission and Tract Society, visiting him at his office once in a while, and he was always glad to see me. He would ask me about my work and we would have a little talk together.


Lodging-House Missionary

One day I said, "Dr. Schauffler, do you know I'm a protege of the New York City Mission?" He said, "I know it, and we have kept our eyes on you for the last ten years, and have decided to make you Lodging-House Missionary to the Bowery, if you accept."

Praise God! Wasn't it wonderful, after thirteen years of God's grace in my life, to get such an appointment! Lodging-House Missionary -- I couldn't understand it! It struck me as being queer in this way; the man who under God was the means of my salvation, who was a missionary when I was converted, had resigned a few years after to become a minister, and now here was Ranney, the ex-crook and drunk, being asked to take the same position!

We don't understand God's ways and purposes; they are too wonderful for us; but here I am on the Bowery, my old stamping-ground, telling the story of Jesus and His love. And I don't believe there's a man in this big world that has a greater story to tell of God's love and mercies than I have. I'm writing this seventeen years after being saved, and I'll still say it's a grand thing to be a Christian. I would not go back to the old life for anything in the world.

Part of my work has been in Mariners' Temple, corner of Oliver and Henry Streets, Chatham Square, New York City, right on the spot where I did everything on the calendar but murder. There I could see the men every night, for we had a meeting all the year round, and every day from 1 to 2 P. M. We invited all those who were in trouble to come, and if we could help them we gladly did so. If they wanted to go to the hospital we placed them there and would do whatever we could for them, always telling them of Jesus the Mighty to save.


From Nothing To $5000 A Year

I remember and love a man who was my partner in the Tuesday night meetings in the Mariners' Temple, when we fed the poor fellows during the winter -- a fine Christian gentleman. You would never think to look at him he was once such a drunkard! He told me his story. He had spent months hanging out in the back room of a saloon on Park Row, only going out once in a while to beg a little food. He had sold everything he could sell and he was a case to look at. He must have been, or the proprietor would never have said, "Say, you are a disgrace to this place! Get out and don't come in here again!" The poor fellow went out. He was down and out sure enough! He thought he would end it all, and he bent his steps toward the East River, intending to jump in, but was chased from the dock by the watchman.

He passed a Mission, heard the singing, and went in. He heard men that were once drunkards get up and testify to the power of God to save a man. He knew a few of the men and thought, "If God can save them He surely can me!" What a lot there is in testimony for the other fellow!

He went out that night and slept in a hallway. He waited until the Mission opened, and going in, heard the same thing again. When the invitation was given he went forward and was gloriously saved. He did not walk the street that night nor has he since. He went to work at his trade -- he was a printer -- and he and his dear wife, who had always prayed for her husband, were united and are now working together in the Master's vineyard.

This was over three years ago. Today this man has a position at a salary of $5000 a year! Three years ago ordered out of a Park Row saloon as a disgrace! Doesn't it pay to be a Christian and be on the level! I could go right on and tell of hundreds that have come up and are on top now. God never leaves nor forsakes us if we do our part.

The Bowery boys are queer propositions. You can't push or drive them; they will resent it and give you back as good. But if, on the other hand, you use a little tact spiced with a little kindness, you will win out with the Bowery boy every time.

It was a kind word and a kind act that were the means of saving me, and I never tire of giving the same.


A Missionary In Court

I remember a few years ago a fellow was arrested for holding up a man on Chatham Square. Now this fellow was an ex-convict and had a very bad record, but he came to our meeting one night to see the pictures of Christ, and was so touched by them that he came again and finally raised his hand for prayers, and when the invitation was given went up to the mercy seat and was saved. At the time he was arrested he had been a grand Christian for two years.

He used to pump the organ. On this Sunday night when he was arrested I had gone over to the Chinatown Mission with him. When he left to go to his lodging-house it was 10:30, and he was arrested right after leaving the meeting on the charge of robbing a man on the Bowery at 9:30 P.M.

When he was arrested he sent for me and told me why he was arrested. Now I knew he had not robbed any one while he was with me.

The day of his trial came on. Judge Crane was the judge -- a good clean man. After the man had sworn that J --  --  was the man who robbed him I was asked to go on the stand and tell what I knew. I told him I was a missionary to the Bowery, and that J --  -- , the man arrested, was not the man who did the robbing, for he was with me at the time the robbery took place.

Judge Crane asked my name. I told him and gave him a brief history of my past life. He was amazed. Then I spoke a few words to the jury. The case was then given to the jury, and after twenty minutes they came in with a verdict of not guilty.

My dear readers, suppose Reilly (Ranney), the crook of sixteen years before, had been on that witness-stand. The Judge would have asked my name and when I'd said, "Reilly, the crook," they would have sent both of us off to prison for life. But the past has been blotted out through Jesus, and it was the word of the redeemed crook that set J --  --  free.

There are lots of cases I could write about where men are arrested and send for me. I go to the Tombs to see them, and as I go up the big stone steps where the visitors go in, the big barred gate opens, and the warden touches his hat and says, "How do you do, Mr. Ranney," and I go in. There's always a queer feeling comes over me when that gate is shut behind me. I realize that I am coming out in an hour or so, but there was a time when I was shoved through the old gate, and didn't know when I would come out.


A Count Disguised As A Tramp

One night in Mariners' Temple, on Chatham Square, I was leading a meeting for men; it was near closing time and the invitation had been given. There were three men at the front on their knees calling on God to help them.

I look back to that night as one I never can forget. One of the men who came up front had no coat; it had been stolen from him in some saloon while he was in a drunken sleep, so he told me. After prayer had been offered and we got on our feet we asked the men to give their testimony. In fact, I think it is a good thing for them to testify, as it helps them when they have declared themselves before the others. They each gave a short testimony in which they said that they intended to lead a better life, with God's help.

The man without a coat said he had but himself to blame for his condition, and, if God would help him, he was going to be a better man.

I saw to it that the man had a lodging and something to eat, when out from the audience stepped a fine-looking man with a coat in his hand and told the man to put it on. I looked at the man in astonishment. He was about five-feet-ten, of fine appearance, a little in need of a shave and a little water, but the man sticking out of him all over.

It is not the clothes that make the man, for here was a man who hadn't anything in the way of clothes, but you could tell by looking at him that he was a gentleman. I just stood and looked at him as he helped the other fellow on with the coat. I thought it one of the grandest acts I ever saw. He was following Christ's command about the man having two coats giving his brother one. I saw the man had on an overcoat, but, even so, it was a grand act, and I told him so.

I did not see him again for some time, when one night, about a week after the coat affair, I saw him sitting among the men at the Doyer Street Midnight Mission, of which I had charge. I went over where he was sitting and while shaking hands with him said, "Say, that was the grandest act you ever did when you gave that man your coat. What did you do it for? You don't seem to have any too much of this world's goods. How did it happen? Are you a Christian? Who are you?" He looked at me a moment and said, "Mr. Ranney, if I can go into your office I'll tell you all about it."

We went into the office, and he said, "How did you find me out?" Well, the question was a queer one to me. How did I find him out? I didn't know what he meant, but I didn't tell him so; I just smiled.

Well, he said he was a French Count (which was true), over here writing a book about the charitable institutions in the United States. He had been in Chicago, San Francisco, and in fact, all over the States, for points for his book. He told me what he had and hadn't done. He had worked in wood-yards for charity organizations; had given himself up and gone to the Island; stood in bread-lines; in fact, he had done everything the tramp does when he is "down and out."

I took quite a fancy to him. He took me up to his room in Eighteenth Street, showed me his credentials, and we became quite chummy. We used to do the slums act, and I would put on an old suit of clothes so I wouldn't be known. We would stand in the bread-line just like the rest of them and get our roll and coffee. It reminded me of my old life, and sometimes I would imagine I was "down and out" again, but it's different when you have a little change in your pocket. A dollar makes a big difference, and you can never appreciate the feelings of a poor "down and out" if you never were there yourself.

We had been going around together for about three or four weeks when one day he showed me a cable dispatch from Paris telling him he was wanted and to come at once. We had had a nice time together and I was sorry he was going.

He asked me for one of my pictures to put in his book, which I gave him. Then he wanted to know what he could do for me. I thought a moment, then said, "Give the poor fellows a feed Sunday night." I was the Sunday night leader and I wanted him on the platform. He said, "All right. Be at the Mission Sunday afternoon."

About 5 P. M. there drove up to the Mission door a carriage with a man in it who said, "Is this 17 Dover Street, and is your name Mr. Ranney?" I said, "Yes." He had four large hampers filled with sandwiches, which we carried into the Mission. He said he was the Count's valet and the Count wished him to make tea for the men. I said, "All right." I thought it would be a change for the men, although coffee would have been all right.

The tea was made and everything was ready for the feed. I wanted the papers to know about it, so I sent my assistant to the office and told the reporters that a real French Count was going to give a feed that night. They were on hand and the next day the papers all had an account of it.

As soon as the doors opened the men came in and the place was jammed to the limit. The meeting was opened with prayer, then the sandwiches and tea were passed around. The Count, wearing a dress-suit, was sitting on the platform. I introduced him as the "man of the hour" who had given the lay-out to the boys. They thanked him with three cheers.

I asked the men to look him over and see if they had ever seen him before. Now the Bowery men are sharp, and over seventy-five hands went up. They had seen him somewhere, in Mission bread-lines and different places.

The Count spoke for about five minutes and then sat down. He sailed on the following Tuesday and I never met him again. He may be in London for all I know, studying up something else. But I'm sure he enjoyed himself when feeding the men. And I have often thought, no matter who or what he was, he had his heart in the right spot. God wants men of his stamp, for He can use them for His honor and glory.


A Musician Won To Christ

There isn't a week passes in my work that there are not some specially interesting happenings. One Wednesday night about six months ago we were having our usual Wednesday night meeting. I found I did not have any one to play the piano; my player had not yet come. I did not worry over that, however, as sometimes we had to go on and have a meeting without music. I generally asked if any one could play, and I did so this night. Presently a man came up the aisle. I asked, "Can you play?" He said, "A little. What number shall I play?" I said, "I guess we will sing my favorite hymn, 'When the Roll Is Called up Yonder, I'll Be There.'" He found the hymn and when he began to play I saw that he was a real musician. He made that old piano fairly talk. "Ah," said I, "here is another 'volunteer organist.'" I had seen the man and talked with him lots of times before, but always took him for a common drunkard. You can't tell what an old coat covers.

After the meeting I had a little talk with him and asked him why he was in such a condition. "Oh," he answered, "it's the old, old story, Mr. Ranney -- the drink habit. I know what you are going to say: why don't I cut it out? Well, I can't. I have tried time and again. I'll go on drinking until I die." I told him to stop trying and ask God to help him, just to lean on His arm, He wouldn't let him fall. I left him thinking it over, and I kept track of him, getting in an odd word here and there and giving him food and lodging.

In four weeks we won out and he became a good Christian man. Now he plays at our meetings and takes a share in them, giving his testimony. I've had him over to my home many times. He takes great delight in our garden there and waits with longing for Thursday to come, for that's the day he visits us, the best one in the week for him. There's nothing like the country for building a man up.

This man came from a good German family, and can play three instruments, piano, violin, and clarinet. I asked him if he was married. "No," he answered, "thank God I never was married. I have not that sin on my soul! I've done nearly everything any one else has done: been in prison many a time, drank and walked the streets lots of nights. I've written home to my mother and told her I had taken her Jesus as mine, and, Mr. Ranney, here's a letter from her." I read the letter. It was the same old letter, the kind those loving mothers write to their wayward boys, thanking God that she lived to see her boy converted and telling him the door was always open, and for him to come home. How many mothers all over the world are praying for their boys that they have not seen for years, boys who perhaps are dead or in prison! God help those mothers!


Saved Through An Outdoor Meeting

Part of my work consists in holding outdoor meetings. Through my friend Dan Sullivan I received a license for street preaching, so whenever an opportunity opens I speak a word for the Master, sometimes on a temporary platform, sometimes standing on a truck, and sometimes from the Gospel Wagon. It is "in season and out of season," here, there, and everywhere, if we are to get hold of the men who don't go near the churches or even the missions.

One night while holding an outdoor meeting on the Bowery at Bleecker Street, I was speaking along the line of drink and the terrible curse it was, how it made men brutes and all that was mean, telling about the prodigal and how God saved him and would save to the uttermost. There were quite a number of men around listening.

The meeting ended and we had given all an invitation to come into the Mission. One young man, well dressed, came up to me and, taking my hand, said he believed every word I said. I saw at a glance he was not of the Bowery type. I got to talking to him and asked him into the Mission. He said he had never been into a place like that in his life and did not take any stock in them, but my talk had interested him. He could not understand how I had given up such a life as I said I had led and had not taken a drink in sixteen years. I said I had not done this in my own strength, but that God had helped me win out, and that God would help any one that wanted to be helped.

We got quite friendly and he told me all about himself. He had just got his two weeks' salary, which amounted to $36.00. He was married and had two sweet little children and a loving wife waiting for him uptown. He told me he had taken a few drinks, as I could plainly see, and he was going down to see the Bowery and do a little sight-seeing in Chinatown. I knew if he went any further he would be a marker for the pickpocket or others and would know nothing in a little while, so I tried to get him into the Mission, and after quite a while succeeded, and we took a seat right by the door. He was just tipsy enough to fall asleep, and I let him do it, for a little sleep often does these men a great deal of good, changing all their thoughts when they wake. When he woke the testimonies were being given. I rose to my feet and gave my testimony, and sat down again. The invitation came next, for all those that wanted this Jesus to stand. I tried to get him on his feet, but he would not take a stand; still the seed had been sown.

He told me where he was working and where he lived -- wrote it down for me. He was bent on going, so I said I would go up to the corner with him. He wanted one more drink -- the Devil's temptation! -- but at last I coaxed him to the Elevated Station at Houston Street. He said, "I wish you could see my home and family. Will you come up with me?" It was 10 P. M. and going would mean home for me about the early hours. But I went up to the Bronx, got to his home, saw him in, was bidding him good-night; nothing would do but I should come in. He had a nice little flat of five rooms. I was introduced to his wife, who was a perfect lady. He wanted to send out for beer. I objected, and his wife said, "George, don't drink any more! I think you have had enough."

Now was the time for me to get in a little of God's work, so I told him my life, and what drink did for me, and I had an attentive audience. When I finished, his wife said, "I wish my husband would take your Jesus, Mr. Ranney. I'm a Christian, but, oh, I'd give anything if George would take Christ and give up his drinking!" He made all kinds of objections and excuses, but we pleaded and prayed. God was working with that man, and at 3 o'clock in the morning we knelt down, the wife, the husband and I, way up in the Bronx, and God did mightily save George. He went to his business on Monday sober. That was three years ago, and he has held out well. He has been advanced twice, with a raise in salary, and comes down to help me in my work on the Bowery. God has blessed him wonderfully, and He will any one who has faith to believe.


Jim The Bricklayer

Where I meet so many men every day and have so many confessions and try to lend a helping hand in so many places, I do forget some of the men, for it seems as though there was an endless procession of them through the Bowery. But some cases stand out so prominently that I shall never forget them. I remember one man in particular who used to come into the Mission. He was one of the regulars and was nearly always drunk. He used to want us to sing all the time. He was a fine fellow, but down and out, and every cent he could earn went to the saloons. I would talk to him nearly every night and ask him why he did not stop his drinking. He would listen, but the next night he would be drunk just the same.

There was good stuff in him, for he was a good bricklayer and could make from $5.00 to $6.00 per day. He told me he was married, and his wife and two children were in Syracuse, living perhaps on charity, while he, instead of making a living for them and giving them a good home, was here on the Bowery drinking himself to death.

He would often say, "Danny, if I could only sober up and be a man and go back to my family, I'd give anything. But what's the use of trying? I can't stop, and I wish sometimes that I was dead. And sometimes, Mr. Ranney, I'm tempted to end it all in the river."

I reasoned with this man time and time again, but with no effect. He knew it was the right way to live, but thought it was not for him, and I thought that if a man was ever gone it was that young man.

One night as the invitation was being given I caught his eye and I said, "Jim, come up front and get rid of that drink." But he said, "What's the use?" I went down, took him by the hand, led him up front, and we all knelt down and asked God to save these poor men. I asked them all to pray for themselves and when I got to Jim I said, "Jim, now pray." And he said, "Lord, help me to be a man and cut the 'booze' out of my life for Jesus' sake. Amen."

He meant business that night and was as sincere as could be. We all got up from our knees, and I put the usual question to them all, now that they had taken Jesus, what were they going to do? It came Jim's turn, and he said, "Mr. Ranney, I've asked God to help me, and I'm going out of this Mission and I'm not going to drink any more whiskey." Then almost in the same breath he said, "I wonder if God will give me a pair of pants." That created a smile in the audience. I knew I could get Jim a pair of pants, and he needed them badly. Just imagine a man six feet tall with a pair of pants on that reached just below the knees, and you have Jim.

I said, "Jim, you have asked God to help you, and He will if you let him. If you keep sober until Friday night, and come in here every night and give your testimony, no matter how short, God will send you a pair of pants." This was on Monday night, my own special night. I knew if Jim came in every night sober, something was doing. Tuesday night came, and sure enough there was Jim with his testimony. He got up and thanked God for being one day without taking a drink. I said, "Praise God! Keep it up, Jim!" Wednesday night Jim thanked God for two days' victory. He was doing finely. Thursday came, and Jim was there with his testimony of three days saved. He had one more day to go before he got his pants. Friday night came and I had gone up and got the pants, but no Jim made his appearance. Near closing time the door opened and in walked Jim. He stood back and just roared out, "Danny, I'm as drunk as a fool; I've lost the pants!" then walked out.

I did not see him for a couple of nights, then he came into the Mission, sat down and was fairly quiet. I reached him in the course of the evening and shook hands with him, but I did not say a word about his going back. That worried him a good deal, for he said, "Dan, are you mad with me?" I said, "No, Jim, I'm mad with the Devil, and I wish I could kick him out of you and kill him." Jim smiled and said, "You're a queer one."

I did not give Jim up, but I did not say anything to him about giving up the drink again for about a week. He would always be in the meeting and I would notice him with a handshake and a smile. I could see he was thinking quite hard and he was not drinking as much as he had been. I was praying for that man, and I was sure that He was going to give me Jim.

One night about a month after Jim had tried the first time, I was giving the invitation to the men, as usual, for all who wanted this salvation to come forward and let us pray with them. After coaxing and pleading with them there were six fellows that came forward and knelt down, when to my astonishment who came walking up the aisle but Jim! He knelt down with the others and prayed. I did not know what the prayer was, but when he rose he went back and took his seat and said nothing.

A month went by to a day. There were testimonies every night from all over the Mission about what God had done and was doing, but Jim never gave the first word of testimony. I often wondered why. This night he got on his feet, and this is what he said: "Men, I've been everything that's bad and mean, a crook and a drunkard, separated from wife and children, a good-for-nothing man. I want to stand here before you people and thank God for keeping me for one whole month; and, men, this is the happiest month I've spent in my life. I asked God to help me and He is doing so. I only wish some of you men would take Jesus as your friend and keeper the same as I have. I'm going to stick, with God's help. I want you Christian people to keep on praying for me, as I feel some one has," and he sat down. Oh, how I did thank God for that testimony! You know a person can tell the true ring of anything, gold, silver, brass, everything, and I knew the ring of that testimony.

Jim stayed after the meeting and we talked things over pretty well. He was a mechanic, but his tools were in pawn. I said, "Jim, I'll meet you to-morrow and we will go and get your tools out." In the morning Jim and I went down to the pawnbroker in New Chambers Street, and Jim produced the tickets, paid the money due, with interest, and received his stock in trade, the tools.

The next thing was a job. I knew a boss mason who was putting up a building in Catherine Street. We saw the boss and he took Jim on. He went to work and made good. He would always come and see me at night, and always testify to God's keeping power. He would ask me, "Do you think I can get back to my wife and children again?" "Yes," I would answer; "wait a little while. Have you written to her?" "Yes." "Got any answer?" "Yes, a couple of letters, but I don't think she takes any stock in my conversion. Dan, can't we have our pictures taken together? I have written my wife a lot about you. I told her you were worse than I ever was. Perhaps if she sees our faces and sees how I look, she may think of old times and give me one more chance."

Jim had been four months converted at this time, and God had him by the hand. It was great to see that big strong man, like a little child in God's love. We went out and had our pictures taken and Jim asked me to write and urge his wife to give him one more chance. I did as Jim wanted me; in fact, I wrote her about everything he said and enclosed the picture.

Every night Jim would come around with the question, "Danny, any word from up State yet?" "Not yet, Jim: have a little patience, she will write soon." We finally got the longed-for letter, but it wasn't favorable. Among other things she said she took no stock in her husband, and that she knew he was the same old good-for-nothing, etc. It was hard lines for poor Jim, who was reading that letter over my shoulder. I looked at him. I could see some of the old Devil come into his eyes. The wife little knew what an escape Jim had then and there. I cheered him up and we got on our knees and prayed good and hard, and God heard the prayer and Jim was sailing straight once more and trusting Jesus.

A thought flashed through my mind, and I said, "Jim, have you any money?" "Yes," he said, "I have over sixty dollars." He gave me the money and we went to the postoffice and I took out a money-order to Mrs. Jim, Syracuse, N. Y., for sixty dollars and sent it on signed by Jim and took the receipt and put it in my pocket.

Five days after I was sitting at my desk in the Mission. A knock came to the door. I said, "Come in," and a woman with two little girls entered. I placed a chair and waited. She said, "You are Mr. Ranney. I recognize you from your picture." She was Jim's wife, as she told me. Then she began about her troubles with her husband: he was a good man, but he would drink. She said, "I begin to think that Jim has religion, for if he hadn't something near it, he would never have sent me the money. Do you think he is all right, Mr. Ranney?" To which I answered that I really believed he was, and that he would be a good husband and father. I asked her if she was a Christian, and she said, "Yes, I go to church and do the best I can." I told her going to church was a good thing, but to have Jesus in your heart and home is a better one.

She wanted to see Jim, so we went round to where he was working. There he was up four stories laying front brick. I watched him, so did his wife. Finally I put my hands like a trumpet and called, "Hello, Jim!" Jim looked down, seeing me, and then looking at the woman and children a moment he dropped everything, and to watch that man come down that ladder was a sight. He rushed over, threw his arms around his wife, then took the little girls in his arm, and what joy there was! There was no more work that day.

Jim showed her the saloons he used to get drunk in, and he did not forget to show the place where he was converted, and on that very spot we all had a nice little prayer-meeting, and as a finale, Mrs. Jim took Jesus, saying, "If He did all that for Jim, I want Him too."

They are back in Syracuse, living happily. Jim has a class of boys in the Sunday-school and is a deacon in the church. I had the pleasure of eating dinner in their home. I often get a letter from Jim, telling of God's goodness. He says he will never forget the fight he made for the pants or his friend Danny Ranney.




Chapter IX

Prodigal Sons


A Cesspool

The Bowery has always been a notorious thoroughfare. Twenty years ago there were few places in the world that for crime, vice and degradation could be compared with it. Many changes for the better have taken place in the last few years, however. Following the Lexow Commission investigation, scores of the worst haunts of wickedness were closed and vice became less conspicuous. The Bowery, however, still maintains its individuality as a breeding-place of crime. It is still the cesspool for all things bad. From all over the world they come to the Bowery. The lodging-houses give them cheap quarters, from 7 cents to 50 cents per night. These places shelter 30,000 to 40,000 men and boys nightly, to breathe a fetid and polluted air. Those who have not the price -- and God knows they are many -- homeless and weary, "about ready to die," sleep in hallways, empty trucks, any place for a lie-down.

Some of the lodging-houses are fairly respectable and run on a good scale, and others are the resort of the lowest kind of human outcasts. On one floor, the air poisoned beyond description, the beds dirty, will be found over a hundred men, of all classes, from the petty thief to the Western train-wrecker, loafers, drug-fiends, perhaps a one-time college man, who through the curse of drink has got there. But they are not all bad on the Bowery. No one not knowing the conditions can imagine what a large class there is who would work if they could get it, but once down it's hard to get up. A few weeks of this life wrecks them and makes old men of them. No one but God can help them, and most of them go down to early graves unknown.


A Remarkable Drunkard

I knew once one of the best lawyers of his day, living here a little off Chatham Square, in a lodging-house, brought there through rum. I've known men, lawyers, coming to see this man and getting his opinion on legal matters. He had many such visitors in his room, but he wasn't worth anything unless he was about half full of whiskey. These men would know that. They would bring a couple bottles of the stuff, as though for a social time, and then ask him questions pertaining to the case in hand. Then he would imagine himself the lawyer of old days, and plead as he saw the case, and he was right nine times out of ten! Oh, what a future that man had thrown away for the Devil's stuff, rum! Those lawyers would go away with advice from that man worth thousands of dollars, bought with a few bottles of whiskey. He told me he had left his wife and family to save them from shame. He has sons and daughters in good standing. They never see him want for anything and pay his room-rent yearly, only he must not go near them.


Forgiving For Christ's Sake

Where I am located at this writing, at the Squirrel Inn, No. 131 Bowery, is a grand place for my work. I come in touch with all classes, and when I see a man or a boy that I think will stick, I rig him up, put a front on him and back him until he gets work. I wish I had more clothes so I could help more men, but at least I can give them a handshake, a kind word, and a prayer, and that, by God's grace, can work wonders for the poor fellows. There's not a man or boy comes in that I do not see, and I mingle with them and get their hard-luck stories, also their good-luck ones. Sitting there at my desk, I glance down the room, and I can tell at a glance the newcomers and the regulars. I can tell what has brought them there.

Over at one of the tables trying to read sat one day a man about fifty, his clothes worn and threadbare, but wearing a collar, and that's a good sign. I beckoned him to come over to me and I pointed to a chair, telling him to sit down. If that chair could only speak, what a tale it could tell of the men who have sat there and told their life stories!

I asked him how he came to be there, and he told me the same old story that can be summed up in one word -- drink! He came from up the State, at one time owned a farm outside of Oswego, and was living happily. He was a church member and bore a good name. "I used to take an odd drink, but always thought I could do without it," said he. "Eighteen years ago I lost my wife and to drown my sorrow I got drunk. I had never been intoxicated before, and I kept at it for over three months, and when I began to come to myself, I was told that I had to get out of my home. I couldn't understand it, but I was told I had sold my farm and everything I owned for a paltry $200 to a saloon-keeper, who I thought was my dearest friend!

"That happened eighteen years ago, and I've been pretty near all over the world since then, sometimes hungry, sometimes in pretty good shape, but I'll never forget that saloon-keeper. I'll see him again, and he will pay for what he did!"

I gave that man a ticket for lodging and a couple of meals. We talked about his early life, and I asked why he didn't start out and be a Christian and not harbor a grudge; to let God punish that saloon-keeper. I told him I'd been through something like the same experience, a man whose word I trusted selling me some Harbor Chart stock and making me think he was doing me a good turn, and I lost several hundred dollars. That was in the years when I first started to be a Christian. I had the hardest time to forgive this man, but thank God I did!

I reasoned with that man day after day and saw that the light was breaking in his heart. Weeks went on, and he came to a point where he took Jesus as his guide and friend, and to-day he is a fine Christian gentleman. I have had him testifying in the church to the power of Christ to save a man. He tells me he has forgiven that saloon-man for Christ's sake.


Saved On The Threshold Of Vice

One afternoon about 5 o'clock I was sitting at my desk at the Mission Room when I noticed among the men who came there to read and rest and perhaps take a nap, a young man, a boy rather, clean and wearing good clothes. I looked at him a moment and thought, "He has got into the wrong place." I spoke to him, as is my habit, and asked him what he was doing there. I brought him over and got him to sit down in that old chair where so many confessions are made to me and said kindly, "Well, what's your story?" I thought of my own boy, and my heart went out to this young fellow.

He said, "You are Mr. Ranney. I've often heard about you, and I'm glad to see you now." He told me how he had given up his job on Eighth Avenue around 125th Street the day before. He had had a "run in," as he called it, at home, and had determined to get out. His mother had married a second time, and his stepfather and he could not agree on a single thing. He loved his mother, but could not stand the stepfather. He had drawn his pay at the jewelry store where he was working and had spent the night before at a hotel uptown, intending to look for a job the next day.

He had risen at 8 A. M. intending to get work before his eight dollars was all gone. Well, the money was burning a hole in his pocket. He wanted to see a show and he came down on the Bowery and got into a cheap vaudeville show, and quite enjoyed himself. "I came out of that show," he said, "and went into a restaurant to eat, and when I went to pay the cashier I did not have a cent in my pocket. The boss of the place said that was an old story. He was not there to feed people for nothing. I said I had been robbed or lost my money somehow, but he wouldn't believe me. He wanted his twenty cents, or he would have me arrested. Oh, he was mad for fair, Mr. Ranney. He got me by my coat-collar and shook me and said I was a thief, and he finished up by kicking me through the door, and here I am down on the Bowery homeless."

Another young fellow gone wrong! Could I help him? I urged him to go back home, but he didn't want to. The night before was pay-night, and he was always expected to give in his share towards the home expenses, and now here was his money all gone. What could he do?

I took him around the room and pointed out the hard cases there, wretched, miserable specimens of men, and asked him if he wanted to be like them, as he surely would if he went on in the course he was starting. He said, "Indeed I don't!" "Well, then," I said, "take my advice and go home. Be a man and face the music. It will mean a scolding from your father, but take it. Tell them both that you will make up the money as soon as you get work, and that you are going to be obedient and good from now on."

At last he said he would go if I would go with him, but I couldn't that night, for I had a meeting to address. I told him I would give him a lodging for the night, and we would go up to Washington Heights the next day. I put him in about as tough a lodging as I could get, for I wanted him to realize the life he would drift into, told him to meet me at one o'clock the next day, and said good-night to him.

The next day I met him; we had something to eat, and I asked him how he had slept. "Oh," he said, "it was something awful! I could not sleep any, there was such a cursing and drinking and scrapping. Oh, I wish I was home!"

We went up to Washington Heights, around 165th Street, and found the place. We got there about six o'clock. I went in and knocked at the door, which opened very quickly. The mother and father came forward; they had been crying, I could see that. "Oh, has anything happened to my boy!" she cried, when I asked if she had a son. "Tell me quick, for God's sake!" I told them that Eddie was all right, and I called to him. He came in, and like a manly boy, after kissing his mother, he turned to his stepfather and said, "Forgive me; I'll be a better boy and I'll make everything all right when I get a job. This is Mr. Ranney, the Bowery missionary." I went in and was asked to stay for supper, and we had an earnest talk, leading to the father giving up beer. What he was going to drink for supper was thrown into the sink. I see these people occasionally, and they are doing well.


The Prodigal Son On The Bowery

Here is a picture story of a boy who left home and took his journey to the "far country." It is a true story.

Away up in northern New York there is a rich man whose family consists of a wife, two sons and a daughter, all good church members. It is of the younger boy I want to speak. He is a little wayward, but good at heart, and would do anything to help any one.

Now, there has lately come back from New York a young man who has started the drink habit. This man is telling all about New York, what a grand place it is, and, if a fellow had a little money, he could make a fortune. He succeeds in arousing the fancies of this young boy, and he believes all the fellow says. People up the State look on a man as sort of a hero because he has been to New York.

Tom thinks he would like to go to the city, and when he gets home he broaches the subject to his mother. He says, "I'll get a job and make a man of myself." The mother tells him he had better stay at home and perhaps later on he would have a chance to start a business in the village where he was born. No, nothing but New York will do for him. He teases his father and mother nearly to death, until his father says, "Well, my boy, if you will, you will." Then he gives him a couple hundred dollars and a letter to a merchant whom he knows.

Tom packs his valise and is all ready to start. I can see the mother putting a Testament into her boy's hand and telling him to read it once a day and be sure to write home often. Oh, he promises all right, and is anxious to get away in a hurry. I can see them in the railroad station when the mother takes him to her bosom and kisses him. There's a dry choking in the father's throat when he bids him good-by -- and then the train is off!

Now, Tom has a chum in New York, so at the first station at which they stop he gets off and sends a telegram to his friend, saying: "Ed, I'm coming on the 2.30 train. Meet me at the Grand Central Station." You may be sure Ed meets him at the station -- Ed is not working -- and he gives him the hello and the glad hand. He takes Tom's grip and they start for the hotel. I can see them going into a saloon and having a couple of beers, then going to the hotel, getting a room and supper, and having a good time at the theatre and elsewhere.

Time goes on. Two hundred doesn't last long. I can see Ed shaking Tom when the money is running low. I can see Tom counting the little he has left and going to a furnished room at $1.50 a week. Tom is beginning to think and worry a bit. He has lost the letter to the merchant his father gave him, and he doesn't know where to find him. No wonder he is down in the mouth! He looks for work, but can't get anything to do.

Now, all he has to do is to write home and tell his father the facts, and he will send back a railroad ticket. But Tom is proud, and he hasn't reached the point where, like the prodigal, he says, "I will arise and go to my father." No, he has not as yet reached the end of his rope. I can see him pawning the watch and chain given him by his parents. This tides him over for a little while. When that money is gone, his overcoat goes, and, in fact, everything he has is gone.

He goes down and down, and finally reaches the Bowery, where they all go in the end. He is down and out, without a cent in his clothes, walking the streets night after night -- -"carrying the banner." Sometimes he slips into a saloon where they have free lunch and picks up a piece of bread here and a piece of cheese there. Sometimes he is lucky to fill in on a beef stew, but very seldom.

Now, if that isn't living on husks, I don't know what you call it! His clothes are getting filthy and he is in despair. How he wishes he had never left home! He hasn't a friend in the big city, and he doesn't know which way to turn. He says, "I'll write home." But no, he is too proud. He wants to go home the same as he left it. And the longer he waits the worse he will be. No one grows any better, either bodily or morally, by being on the Bowery. So the quicker they go to some other place the better.

But the Bowery draws men by its own strange attraction. They get into the swing of its life, and find the company that misery loves. God knows there's plenty of it there! I've seen men that you could not drive from the Bowery. But when a man takes Jesus as his guide he wants to search for better grounds.

Well, Tom had hit the pace that kills. And one night -- about five years ago -- there wandered into the Mission where I was leading a meeting a young man with pale cheeks and a look of utter despair on his face, looking as though he hadn't had a square meal in many a day. It was Tom. I didn't know him then. There are so many such cases on the Bowery one gets used to them. But I took particular notice of this young man. He sat down and listened to the services, and when the invitation was given to those who wanted to lead better lives he put up his hand.

Now there was something striking about his face, and I took to him. I thought of my own life and dreaded the future for him. I spoke to him, gained his confidence by degrees, and he told me his story as written in the preceding pages.

Here was a prodigal just as bad as the one in the Bible story. Well, he was converted that night and took Jesus as his helper. He told me all about his home, mother, and friends who had enough and to spare. The servants had a better time and more to eat than he. "Tom," I said, "why don't you go home?" "Oh, Mr. Ranney," he said, "I wish I could, but I want to go back a little better than I am now." And God knows he was in bad shape; the clothes he had on you couldn't sell to a rag-man; in fact, he had nothing!

I pitied the poor fellow from my heart. I was interested. I got his father's address and sat down and wrote him a letter telling him about his son's condition, etc. In a few days I received a letter from his father inclosing a check for $10, and saying, "Don't let my son starve; do all you can for him, but don't let him know his father is doing this."

Can't you see plainly the conditions? Our Father in heaven stands ready at all times to help, but we must do something -- meet the conditions. Tom's father was ready to forgive and take him back, but he wanted Tom to make the surrender.

I looked after Tom to a certain extent, but I wanted him to learn his lesson. There were times when he walked the streets and went hungry. I corresponded with his father and told him how his son was getting along. I got Tom a job washing dishes in a restaurant -- the Bowery's main employment -- at $2.50 per week, and he stuck.

I watched him closely. He would come to the Mission nearly every night and would stand up and testify to God's goodness. He was coming on finely. Many's the talk we would have together about home. The tears would come to his eyes and he would say, "Oh, if I ever go home I'll be such a different boy! Do you think father will forgive me, Mr. Ranney?"

Well, eight months went on, and I thought it was time to get him off the Bowery -- he had had his lesson. So I wrote his father, and he sent the necessary cash for clothes, railroad ticket, etc. And one night I said, "Tom, would you like to go home?" You can imagine Tom's answer! I took him out and bought him clothes, got back his watch and chain from the pawnbroker, and went with him to the Grand Central Station. I got his ticket, put him on the train, said "Good-by and God bless you!" and Tom was bound for home.

I receive a letter from him every month or so. I have visited his home and have been entertained right royally by his father and mother. I visited Tom last summer, and we did have a grand time fishing, boating, driving, etc. I asked him, "Do you want to go back to New York, Tom?" and he smiled and said, "Not for mine!" If any one comes from New York and happens to say it's a grand place to make your fortune, Tom says, "New York is a grand place to keep away from." You couldn't pull him away from home with a team of oxen.

"He arose and went to his father." Tom fed on husks. He learned his lesson -- not too dearly learned, because it was a lasting one. He is now a man; he goes to church and Sunday-school, where he teaches a class of boys. Once in a while he rings in his own experience when he was a prodigal on the Bowery and far from God, and God's loving-kindness to him.

There are other boys on the Bowery from just as good families as Tom's -- college men some of them -- who are without hope and without God's friendship or man's. What can you and I do for them?


Last Words

I have married again, and have a good sweet Christian as companion, and we have a little girl just beginning to walk. I'm younger, happier, and a better man in mind and body than I was twenty years ago. I've a good home and know that all good things are for those that trust.

I remember one night, when I was going home with my wife, I met a policeman who had arrested me once. He had caught me dead to rights -- with the goods. After awaiting trial I got off on a technical point. I said, "Helen, let me introduce you to the policeman that arrested me one time." He had changed some; his hair was getting gray. He knew me, and when I told him I was a missionary, he said, "God bless you, Reilly" (that's the name I went under), "and keep you straight! You did cause us fellows a lot of trouble in those days."

Indeed I did cause trouble! There wasn't a man under much closer watch than I was twenty years ago. Just one incident will illustrate this and show what a change God brings about in a man's life when he is soundly converted. It was in 1890 that a pal of mine and I were told of a place in Atlantic City where there was any amount of silverware, etc., in a wealthy man's summer home, so we undertook to go there and see if we could get any of the good things that were in the house. We reached the city with our kit of tools, and my pal went and hid them a little way from the station, waiting till night, as we did not want to carry them around with us. Tom said, "Dan, I'm hungry; I'll go and see what I can get in a bakery." We were not very flush and could not afford anything great in the way of a dinner. Off he went, and I was to wait till he came back.

I sat down in the waiting-room, when a man came up and sat down beside me, giving me a good-day. "Nice weather," said he. I said, "Yes." Said he, "How's little old New York?" "All right," I answered. "Have you got your ticket back?" said he. I thought he was a little familiar, and I said, "It's none of your business." He was as cool as could be. "Oh, yes," he said, "it is my business," and turning the lapel of his coat he held a Pinkerton badge under my nose, at the same time saying, "The game's called, and I know you. Where's the tools?" I told him I did not have any. "The only thing that saves you," said he. "Now you get out of here when that next train goes, or there will be a little trouble." My pal came in at this time, and I winked at him to say nothing. He understood. We took that train all right, and lost our tools.

I never saw Atlantic City again until 1908, when I was asked to speak at the Y. M. C. A. I told this story in my talk. I've been back four times; I've been entertained at one of the best hotels there, the Chalfonte, for a week at a time. What a change! Twenty years ago, when I was in the Devil's employ, run out of town; now, redeemed by God, an invited guest in that same place. See what God can do for a man!

It's a hard thing to close this record of the grace of God in my life, for I feel as though I was leaving a lot of friends. If at any time you are on the Bowery -- not down and out -- and want to see me, why, call at No. 131, the Squirrel Inn Mission and Reading Room, and you'll find a hearty welcome.

<eob>

Frank's Campaign

Or

The Farm And The Camp

By

Horatio Alger, Jr.



Chapter I. The War Meeting

The Town Hall in Rossville stands on a moderate elevation overlooking the principal street. It is generally open only when a meeting has been called by the Selectmen to transact town business, or occasionally in the evening when a lecture on temperance or a political address is to be delivered. Rossville is not large enough to sustain a course of lyceum lectures, and the townspeople are obliged to depend for intellectual nutriment upon such chance occasions as these. The majority of the inhabitants being engaged in agricultural pursuits, the population is somewhat scattered, and the houses, with the exception of a few grouped around the stores, stand at respectable distances, each encamped on a farm of its own.

One Wednesday afternoon, toward the close of September, 1862, a group of men and boys might have been seen standing on the steps and in the entry of the Town House. Why they had met will best appear from a large placard, which had been posted up on barns and fences and inside the village store and postoffice.

It ran as follows:

War Meeting!

The citizens of Rossville are invited to meet at the Town Hall, on Wednesday, September 24, at 3 P. M. to decide what measures shall be taken toward raising the town's quota of twenty-five men, under the recent call of the President of the United States. All patriotic citizens, who are in favor of sustaining the free institutions transmitted to us by our fathers, are urgently invited to be present.

The Hon. Solomon Stoddard is expected to address the meeting.

Come one, come all.


At the appointed hour one hundred and fifty men had assembled in the hall. They stood in groups, discussing the recent call and the general management of the war with that spirit of independent criticism which so eminently characterizes the little democracies which make up our New England States.

"The whole thing has been mismanaged from the first," remarked a sapient-looking man with a gaunt, cadaverous face, addressing two listeners. "The Administration is corrupt; our generals are either incompetent or purposely inefficient. We haven't got an officer that can hold a candle to General Lee. Abraham Lincoln has called for six hundred thousand men. What'll he do with 'em when he gets 'em? Just nothing at all. They'll melt away like snow, and then he'll call for more men. Give me a third of six hundred thousand, and I'll walk into Richmond in less'n thirty days."

A quiet smile played over the face of one of the listeners. With a slight shade of irony in his voice he said, "If such are your convictions, Mr. Holman, I think it a great pity that you are not in the service. We need those who have clear views of what is required in the present emergency. Don't you intend to volunteer?"

"I!" exclaimed the other with lofty scorn. "No, sir; I wash my hands of the whole matter. I ain't clear about the justice of warring upon our erring brethren at all. I have no doubt they would be inclined to accept overtures of peace if accompanied with suitable concessions. Still, if war must be waged, I believe I could manage matters infinitely better than Lincoln and his cabinet have done."

"Wouldn't it be well to give them the benefit of your ideas on the subject?" suggested the other quietly.

"Ahem!" said Mr. Holman, a little suspiciously.

"What do you mean, Mr. Frost?"

"Only this, that if, like you, I had a definite scheme, which I thought likely to terminate the war, I should feel it my duty to communicate it to the proper authorities, that they might take it into consideration."

"It wouldn't do any good," returned Holman, still a little suspicious that he was quietly laughed at. "They're too set in their own ways to be changed."

At this moment there was a sharp rap on the table, and a voice was heard, saying, "The meeting will please come to order."

The buzz of voices died away; and all eyes were turned toward the speaker's stand.

"It will be necessary to select a chairman to preside over your deliberations," was next heard. "Will any one nominate?"

"I nominate Doctor Plunkett," came from a man in the corner.

The motion was seconded, and a show of hands resulted in favor of the nominee.

A gentlemanly-looking man with a pleasant face advanced to the speaker's stand, and with a bow made a few remarks to this effect:

"Fellow citizens: This is new business to me, as you are doubtless aware. My professional engagements have not often allowed me to take part in the meetings which from time to time you have held in this hall. On the present occasion, however, I felt it to be my duty, and the duty of every loyal citizen, to show by his presence how heartily he approves the object which has called us together. The same consideration will not suffer me to decline the unexpected responsibility which you have devolved upon me. Before proceeding farther, I would suggest that a clerk will be needed to complete the organization."

A young man was nominated and elected without opposition.

Doctor Plunkett again addressed the meeting: "It is hardly necessary," he said, "to remind you of the object which has brought us together. Our forces in the field need replenishing. The Rebellion has assumed more formidable proportions than we anticipated. It is quite clear that we cannot put it down with one hand. We shall need both. Impressed with this conviction, President Lincoln has made an extraordinary levy upon the country. He feels that it is desirable to put down the Rebellion as speedily as possible, and not suffer it to drag through a series of years. But he cannot work single-handed. The loyal States must give their hearty cooperation. Our State, though inferior in extent and population to some others, has not fallen behind in loyal devotion. Nor, I believe, will Rossville be found wanting in this emergency. Twenty-five men have been called for. How shall we get them? This is the question which we are called upon to consider. I had hoped the Honorable Solomon Stoddard would be here to address you; but I regret to learn that a temporary illness will prevent his doing so. I trust that those present will not be backward in expressing their opinions."

Mr. Holman was already on his feet. His speech consisted of disconnected remarks on the general conduct of the war, mingled with severe denunciation of the Administration.

He had spoken for fifteen minutes in this strain, when the chairman interfered --  -- 

"Your remarks are out of order, Mr. Holman. They are entirely irrelevant to the question."

Holman wiped his cadaverous features with a red silk pocket-handkerchief, and inquired, sarcastically, "Am I to understand that freedom of speech is interdicted in this hall?"

"Freedom of speech is in order," said the chairman calmly, "provided the speaker confines himself to the question under discussion. You have spoken fifteen minutes without once touching it."

"I suppose you want me to praise the Administration," said Holman, evidently thinking that he had demolished the chairman. He looked around to observe what effect his shot had produced.

"That would be equally out of order," ruled the presiding officer. "We have not assembled to praise or to censure the Administration, but to consider in what manner we shall go to work to raise our quota."

Holman sat down with the air of a martyr.

Mr. Frost rose next. It is unnecessary to report his speech. It was plain, practical, and to the point. He recommended that the town appropriate a certain sum as bounty money to volunteers. Other towns had done so, and he thought with good reason. It would undoubtedly draw in recruits more rapidly.

A short, stout, red-faced man, wearing gold spectacles, rose hastily.

"Mr. Chairman," he commenced, "I oppose that suggestion. I think it calculated to work serious mischief. Do our young men need to be hired to fight for their country? I suppose that is what you call patriotism. For my part, I trust the town will have too much good sense to agree to any such proposition. The consequence of it would be to plunge us into debt, and increase our taxes to a formidable amount."

It may be remarked that Squire Haynes, the speaker, was the wealthiest man in town, and, of course, would be considerably affected by increased taxation. Even now he never paid his annual tax-bill without an inward groan, feeling that it was so much deducted from the sum total of his property.

Mr. Frost remained standing while Squire Haynes was speaking, and at the close continued his speech:

"Squire Haynes objects that my proposition, if adopted, will make our taxes heavier. I grant it: but how can we expect to carry on this gigantic war without personal sacrifices? If they only come in the form of money, we may account ourselves fortunate. I take it for granted that there is not a man here present who does not approve the present war -- who does not feel that we are waging it for good and sufficient reasons."

Here Mr. Holman moved uneasily in his seat, and seemed on the point of interrupting the speaker, but for some reason forbore.

"Such being the case, we cannot but feel that the burden ought to fall upon the entire community, and not wholly upon any particular portion. The heaviest sacrifices must undoubtedly be made by those who leave their homes and peril life and limb on the battlefield. When I propose that you should lighten that sacrifice so far as it lies in your power, by voting them a bounty, it is because I consider that money will compensate them for the privations they must encounter and the perils they will incur. For that, they must look to the satisfaction that will arise from the feeling that they have responded to their country's call, and done something to save from ruin the institutions which our fathers transmitted as a sacred trust to their descendants. Money cannot pay for loss of life or limb. But some of them leave families behind. It is not right that these families should suffer because the fathers have devoted themselves to the sacred cause of liberty. When our soldiers go forth, enable them to feel that their wives and children shall not lack for the necessaries of life. The least that those who are privileged to stay at home can do is to tax their purses for this end."

"Mr. Chairman," said Squire Haynes sarcastically, "I infer that the last speaker is intending to enlist."

Mr. Frost's face flushed at this insinuation.

"Squire Haynes chooses to impute to me interested motives. I need enter into no defense before an audience to whom I am well known. I will only inquire whether interested motives have nothing to do with his opposition to voting bounties to our soldiers?"

This was such a palpable hit that Squire Haynes winced under it, and his red face turned redder as he saw the smiles of those about him.

"Impudent puppy!" he muttered to himself; "he seems to forget that I have a mortgage of eight hundred dollars on his farm. When the time comes to foreclose it, I will show him no mercy. I'll sell him out, root and branch!"

Mr. Frost could not read the thoughts that were passing through the mind of his creditor. They might have given him a feeling of uneasiness, but would not in the least have influenced his action. He was a man loyal to his own convictions of duty, and no apprehension of personal loss would have prevented his speaking in accordance with what he felt to be right.

The considerations which had been urged were so reasonable that the voters present, with very little opposition, voted to pay one hundred and fifty dollars to each one who was willing to enlist as one of the town's quota. A list was at once opened, and after the close of the meeting four young men came forward and put down their names, amid the applause of the assembly.

"I wanted to do it before," said John Drake, one of the number, to Mr. Frost, "but I've got a wife and two little children dependent upon me for support. I couldn't possibly support them out of my thirteen dollars a month, even with the State aid. But your motion has decided me. I could do better by staying at home, even with that; but that isn't the question. I want to help my country in this hour of her need; and now that my mind is at ease about my family, I shall cheerfully enter the service."

"And I know of no one who will make a better soldier!" said Mr. Frost heartily.



Chapter II. The Prize

A few rods distant from the Town Hall, but on the opposite side of the street, stood the Rossville Academy. It had been for some years under the charge of James Rathburn, A. M., a thorough scholar and a skilful teacher. A large part of his success was due to his ability in making the ordinary lessons of the schoolroom interesting to his scholars.

Some forty students attended the academy, mostly from the town of Rossville. Mr. Rathburn, however, received a few boarders into his family.

There were three classes in the Latin language; but the majority of those who had taken it up stopped short before they had gone beyond the Latin Reader. One class, however, had commenced reading the Aeneid of Virgil, and was intending to pursue the full course of preparation for college; though in regard to one member of the class there was some doubt whether he would be able to enter college. As this boy is to be our hero we will take a closer look at him.

Frank Frost is at this time in his sixteenth year. He is about the medium size, compactly made, and the healthful color in his cheeks is good evidence that he is not pursuing his studies at the expense of his health. He has dark chestnut hair, with a slight wave, and is altogether a fine-looking boy.

At a desk behind him sits John Haynes, the son of Squire Haynes, introduced in our last chapter. He is nearly two years older than Frank, and about as opposite to him in personal appearance as can well be imagined. He has a thin face, very black hair is tall of his age, and already beginning to feel himself a young man. His manner is full of pretension. He never forgets that his father is the richest man in town, and can afford to give him advantages superior to those possessed by his schoolfellows. He has a moderate share of ability but is disinclined to work hard. His affectation of Superiority makes him as unpopular among his schoolfellows as Frank is popular.

These two boys, together with Henry Tufts, constitute the preparatory class of Rossville Academy. Henry is mild in his manners, and a respectable student, but possesses no positive character. He comes from a town ten miles distant, and boards with the principal. Frank, though the youngest of the three, excels the other two in scholarship. But there is some doubt whether he will be able to go to college. His father is in moderate circumstances, deriving a comfortable subsistence from a small farm, but is able to lay by a very small surplus every year, and this he feels it necessary to hold in reserve for the liquidation of the mortgage held by Squire Haynes. Frank's chance of attaining what he covets-a college education-seems small; but he is resolved at least to prepare for college, feeling that even this will constitute a very respectable education.

The reader is introduced to the main schoolroom of the Rossville Academy on the morning of the day of which the war meeting takes place.

At nine o'clock the bell rang, and the scholars took their seats. After the preliminary devotional exercise, Mr. Rathburn, instead of calling up the first class at once, paused a moment, and spoke as follows:

"Scholars, I need not remind you that on the first day of the term, with the design of encouraging you to aim at improvement in English composition, I offered two prizes-one for the best essay written by a boy over fourteen years of age; the other for the best composition by any one under that age. It gives me pleasure to state that in most of those submitted to me I recognize merit, and I should be glad if it were in my power to give three times as many prizes. Those of you, however, who are unsuccessful will feel repaid by the benefit you have yourselves derived from the efforts you have made for another end."

During this address, John Haynes looked about him with an air of complacency and importance. He felt little doubt that his own essay on the "Military Genius of Napoleon" would win the prize. He did not so much care for this, except for the credit it would give him. But his father, who was ambitious for him, had promised him twenty-five dollars if he succeeded, and he had already appropriated this sum in imagination. He had determined to invest it in a handsome boat which he had seen for sale in Boston on his last visit to that city.

"After careful consideration," continued the teacher, "I have decided that the prize should be adjudged to an essay entitled 'The Duties of Boys on the Present National Crisis,' written by Frank Frost."

There was a general clapping of hands at this announcement. Frank was a general favorite, and even his disappointed rivals felt a degree of satisfaction in feeling that he had obtained the prize.

There was one exception, however. John Haynes turned pale, and then red, with anger and vexation. He scowled darkly while the rest of the boys were applauding, and persuaded himself that he was the victim of a great piece of injustice.

Frank's face flushed with pleasure, and his eyes danced with delight. He had made a great effort to succeed, and he knew that at home they would be very happy to hear that the prize had been awarded to him.

"Frank Frost will come forward," said Mr. Rathburn.

Frank left his seat, and advanced modestly. Mr. Rathburn placed in his hand a neat edition of Whittier's Poem's in blue and gold.

"Let this serve as an incentive to renewed effort," he said.

The second prize was awarded to one of the girls. As she has no part in our story, we need say nothing more on this point.

At recess, Frank's desk was surrounded by his schoolmates, who were desirous of examining the prize volumes. All expressed hearty good-will, congratulating him on his success, with the exception of John Haynes.

"You seem mighty proud of your books, Frank Frost," said he with a sneer. "We all know that you're old Rathburn's favorite. It didn't make much difference what you wrote, as long as you were sure of the prize."

"For shame, John Haynes!" exclaimed little Harvey Grover impetuously. "You only say that because you wanted the prize yourself, and you're disappointed."

"Disappointed!" retorted John scornfully. "I don't want any of old Rathburn's sixpenny books. I can buy as many as I please. If he'd given 'em to me, I should have asked him to keep 'em for those who needed 'em more."

Frank was justly indignant at the unfriendly course which John chose to pursue, but feeling that it proceeded from disappointed rivalry, he wisely said nothing to increase his exasperation. He put the two books carefully away in his desk, and settled himself quietly to his day's lessons.

It was not until evening that John and his father met. Both had been chafed -- the first by his disappointment, the second by the failure of his effort to prevent the town's voting bounties to volunteers. In particular he was incensed with Mr. Frost, for his imputation of interested motives, although it was only in return for a similar imputation brought against himself.

"Well, father, I didn't get the prize," commenced John, in a discontented voice.

"So much the worse for you," said his father coldly. "You might have gained it if you had made an effort."

"No, I couldn't. Rathburn was sure to give it to his favorite."

"And who is his favorite?" questioned Squire Haynes, not yet siding with his son.

"Frank Frost, to be sure."

"Frank Frost!" repeated the squire, rapidly wheeling round to his son's view of the matter. His dislike of the father was so great that it readily included the son. "What makes you think he is the teacher's favorite?"

"Oh, Rathburn is always praising him for something or other. All the boys know Frank Frost is his pet. You won't catch him praising me, if I work ever so hard."

John did not choose to mention that he had not yet tried this method of securing the teacher's approval.

"Teachers should never have favorites," said the squire dogmatically. "It is highly detrimental to a teacher's influence, and subversive of the principles of justice. Have you got your essay with you, John?"

"Yes, sir."

"You may sit down and read it to me, and if I think it deserving, I will take care that you sha'n't lose by the teacher's injustice."

John readily obeyed. He hurried up to his chamber, and, opening his writing-desk, took out a sheet of foolscap, three sides of which were written over. This he brought down-stairs with him. He began to hope that he might get the boat after all.

The squire, in dressing-gown and slippers, sat in a comfortable armchair, while John in a consequential manner read his rejected essay. It was superficial and commonplace, and abundantly marked with pretension, but to the squire's warped judgment it seemed to have remarkable merit.

"It does you great credit, John," said he emphatically. "I don't know what sort of an essay young Frost wrote, but I venture to say it was not as good. If he's anything like his father, he is an impertinent jackanapes."

John pricked up his ears, and listened attentively.

"He grossly insulted me at the town meeting to-day, and I sha'n't soon forget it. It isn't for his interest to insult a man who has the power to annoy him that I possess."

"Haven't you got a mortgage on his farm?"

"Yes, and at a proper time I shall remind him of it. But to come back to your own affairs. What was the prize given to young Frost?"

"A blue-and-gold copy of Whittier's Poems, in two volumes."

"Plain binding, I suppose."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. The next time I go to Boston, I will buy you the same thing bound in calf. I don't intend that you shall suffer by your teacher's injustice."

"It wasn't so much the prize that I cared for," said John, who felt like making the most of his father's favorable mood, "but you know you promised me twenty-five dollars if I gained it."

"And as you have been defrauded of it, I will give you thirty instead," said the squire promptly.

John's eyes sparkled with delight. "Oh, thank you, sir!" he said. "I wouldn't change places with Frank Frost now for all his prize."

"I should think not, indeed," said the squire pompously. "Your position as the son of a poor farmer wouldn't be quite so high as it is now."

As he spoke he glanced complacently at the handsome furniture which surrounded him, the choice engravings which hung on the walls, and the full-length mirror in which his figure was reflected. "Ten years from now Frank Frost will be only a common laborer on his father's farm -- that is," he added significantly, "if his father manages to keep it; while you, I hope, will be winning distinction at the bar."

Father and son were in a congenial mood that evening, and a common hatred drew them more closely together than mutual affection had ever done. They were very much alike -- both cold, calculating, and selfish. The squire was indeed ambitious for his son, but could hardly be said to love him, since he was incapable of feeling a hearty love for any one except himself.

As for John, it is to be feared that he regarded his father chiefly as one from whom he might expect future favors. His mother had been a good, though not a strong-minded woman, and her influence might have been of advantage to her son; but unhappily she had died when John was in his tenth year, and since then he had become too much like his father.



Chapter III. Frank At Home

Mr. Frost's farm was situated about three-quarters of a mile from the village. It comprised fifty acres, of which twenty were suitable for tillage, the remainder being about equally divided between woodland and pasture.

Mr. Frost had for some years before his marriage been a painter, and had managed to save up from his earnings not far from a thousand dollars. Thinking, however, that farming would be more favorable to health, he purchased his fifty-acre farm for twenty-eight hundred dollars, payable one thousand down, and the rest remaining on mortgage. At the date of our story he had succeeded in paying up the entire amount within eight hundred dollars, a mortgage for that amount being held by Squire Haynes. He had not been able to accomplish this without strict economy, in which his wife had cheerfully aided him.

But his family had grown larger and more expensive. Besides Frank, who was the oldest, there were now three younger children -- Alice, twelve years of age; Maggie, ten; and Charlie, seven.

The farmhouse was small but comfortable, and the family had never been tempted to sigh for a more costly or luxurious home. They were happy and contented, and this made their home attractive.

On the evening succeeding that of the war meeting, Frank was seated in the common sitting-room with his father and mother. There was a well-worn carpet on the floor, a few plain chairs were scattered about the room, and in the corner ticked one of the old-fashioned clocks such as used to be the pride of our New England households. In the center of the room stood a round table, on which had been set a large kerosene-lamp, which diffused a cheerful light about the apartment.

On a little table, over which hung a small mirror, were several papers and magazines. Economical in most things, Mr. Frost was considered by many of his neighbors extravagant in this. He subscribed regularly for Harper's Magazine and Weekly, a weekly agricultural paper, a daily paper, and a child's magazine.

"I don't see how you can afford to buy so much reading-matter," said a neighbor, one day. "It must cost you a sight of money. As for me, I only take a weekly paper, and I think I shall have to give that up soon."

"All my papers and magazines cost me in a year, including postage, is less than twenty dollars," said Mr. Frost quietly. "A very slight additional economy in dress -- say three dollars a year to each of us will pay that. I think my wife would rather make her bonnet wear doubly as long than give up a single one of our papers. When you think of the comparative amount of pleasure given by a paper that comes to you fifty-two times in a year, and a little extra extravagance in dress, I think you will decide in favor of the paper."

"But when you've read it, you haven't anything to show for your money."

"And when clothes are worn out you may say the same of them. But we value both for the good they have done, and the pleasure they have afforded. I have always observed that a family where papers and magazines are taken is much more intelligent and well informed than where their bodies are clothed at the expense of their minds. Our daily paper is the heaviest item; but I like to know what is passing in the world, and, besides, I think I more than defray the expense by the knowledge I obtain of the markets. At what price did you sell your apples last year?"

"At one dollar and seventy-five cents per barrel."

"And I sold forty barrels at two dollars per barrel. I found from my paper that there was reason to expect an increase in the price, and held on. By so doing I gained ten dollars, which more than paid the expense of my paper for the year. So even in a money way I was paid for my subscription. No, neighbor, though I have good reason to economize, I don't care to economize in that direction. I want my children to grow up intelligent citizens. Let me advise you, instead of stopping your only paper, to subscribe for two or three more."

"I don't know," was the irresolute reply. "It was pretty lucky about the apples; but it seems a good deal to pay. As for my children, they don't get much time to read. They've got to earn their livin', and that ain't done by settin' down and readin'."

"I am not so sure of that," said Mr. Frost. "Education often enables a man to make money."

The reader may have been surprised at the ease with which Mr. Frost expressed himself in his speech at the war meeting. No other explanation is required than that he was in the habit of reading, every day, well-selected newspapers. "A man is known by the company he keeps."

"So you gained the prize, Frank?" said his father approvingly. "I am very glad to hear it. It does you great credit. I hope none were envious of your success."

"Most of the boys seemed glad of it," was the reply; "but John Haynes was angry because he didn't get it himself. He declared that I succeeded only because I was a favorite with Mr. Rathburn."

"I am afraid he has not an amiable disposition. However, we must remember that his home influences haven't been the best. His mother's death was unfortunate for him."

"I heard at the store that you and Squire Haynes had a discussion at the war meeting," said Frank inquiringly. "How was it, father?"

"It was on the question of voting a bounty to our volunteers. I felt that such a course would be only just. The squire objected on the ground that our taxes would be considerably increased."

"And how did the town vote?"

"They sustained my proposition, much to the squire's indignation. He doesn't seem to feel that any sacrifices ought to be expected of him."

"What is the prospect of obtaining the men, father?"

"Four have already enlisted, but twenty-one are still required. I fear there will be some difficulty in obtaining the full number. In a farming town like ours the young men are apt to go off to other places as soon as they are old enough; so that the lot must fall upon some who have families."

Frank sat for some minutes gazing thoughtfully into the wood-fire that crackled in the fireplace.

"I wish I was old enough to go, father," he said, at length.

"I wish you were," said his father earnestly. "Not that it wouldn't be hard to send you out into the midst of perils; but our duty to our country ought to be paramount to our personal preferences."

"There's another reason," he said, after awhile, "why I wish you were older. You could take my place on the farm, and leave me free to enlist. I should have no hesitation in going. I have not forgotten that my grandfather fought at Bunker Hill."

"I know, father," said Frank, nodding; "and that's his musket that hangs up in your room, isn't it?"

"Yes; it was his faithful companion for three years. I often think with pride of his services. I have been trying to think all day whether I couldn't make some arrangement to have the farm carried on in my absence; but it is very hard to obtain a person in whom I could confide."

"If I were as good a manager as some," said Mrs. Frost, with a smile, "I would offer to be your farmer; but I am afraid that, though my intentions would be the best, things would go on badly under my administration."

"You have enough to do in the house, Mary," said her husband. "I should not wish you to undertake the additional responsibility, even if you were thoroughly competent. I am afraid I shall have to give up the idea of going."

Mr. Frost took up the evening paper. Frank continued to look thoughtfully into the fire, as if revolving something in his mind. Finally he rose, and lighting a candle went up to bed. But he did not go to sleep for some time. A plan had occurred to him, and he was considering its feasibility.

"I think I could do it," he said, at last, turning over and composing himself to sleep. "I'll speak to father the first thing to-morrow morning."



Chapter IV. Frank Makes A Proposition

When Frank woke the next morning the sun was shining into his window. He rubbed his eyes and tried to think what it was that occupied his mind the night before. It came to him in a moment, and jumping out of bed, he dressed himself with unusual expedition.

Hurrying down-stairs, he found his mother in the kitchen, busily engaged in getting breakfast.

"Where's father?" he asked.

"He hasn't come in from the barn yet, Frank," his mother answered. "You can have your breakfast now, if you are in a hurry to get to studying."

"Never mind, just now, mother," returned Frank. "I want to speak to father about something."

Taking his cap from the nail in the entry where it usually hung, Frank went out to the barn. He found that his father was nearly through milking.

"Is breakfast ready?" asked Mr. Frost, looking up. "Tell your mother she needn't wait for me."

"It isn't ready yet," said Frank. "I came out because I want to speak to you about something very particular."

"Very well, Frank, Go on."

"But if you don't think it a good plan, or think that I am foolish in speaking of it, don't say anything to anybody."

Mr. Frost looked at Frank in some little curiosity.

"Perhaps," he said, smiling, "like our neighbor Holman, you have formed a plan for bringing the war to a close."

Frank laughed. "I am not quite so presumptuous," he said. "You remember saying last night, that if I were old enough to take charge of the farm, you would have no hesitation in volunteering?"

"Yes."

"Don't you think I am old enough?" asked Frank eagerly.

"Why, you are only fifteen, Frank," returned his father, in surprise.

"I know it, but I am strong enough to do considerable work."

"It isn't so much that which is required. A man could easily be found to do the hardest of the work. But somebody is needed who understands farming, and is qualified to give directions. How much do you know of that?"

"Not much at present," answered Frank modestly, "but I think I could learn easily. Besides, there's Mr. Maynard, who is a good farmer, could advise me whenever I was in doubt, and you could write home directions in your letters."

"That is true," said Mr. Frost thoughtfully. "I will promise to give it careful consideration. But have you thought that you will be obliged to give up attending school."

"Yes, father."

"And, of course, that will put you back; your class-mates will get in advance of you."

"I have thought of that, father, and I shall be very sorry for it. But I think that is one reason why I desire the plan."

"I don't understand you, Frank," said his father, a little puzzled.

"You see, father, it would require a sacrifice on my part, and I should feel glad to think I had an opportunity of making a sacrifice for the sake of my country."

"That's the right spirit, Frank," said his father approvingly. "That's the way my grandfather felt and acted, and it's the way I like to see my son feel. So it would be a great sacrifice to me to leave you all."

"And to us to be parted from you, father," said Frank.

"I have no doubt of it, my dear boy," said his father kindly. "We have always been a happy and united family, and, please God, we always shall be. But this plan of yours requires consideration. I will talk it over with your mother and Mr. Maynard, and will then come to a decision."

"I was afraid you would laugh at me," said Frank.

"No," said his father, "it was a noble thought, and does you credit. I shall feel that, whatever course I may think it wisest to adopt."

The sound of a bell from the house reached them. This meant breakfast. Mr. Frost had finished milking, and with a well-filled pail in either hand, went toward the house.

"Move the milking:-stool, Frank," he said, looking behind him, "or the cow will kick it over."

Five minutes later they were at breakfast.

"I have some news for you, Mary," said Mr. Frost, as he helped his wife to a sausage.

"Indeed?" said she, looking up inquiringly.

"Some one has offered to take charge of the farm for me, in case I wish to go out as a soldier."

"Who is it?" asked Mrs. Frost, with strong interest.

"A gentleman with whom you are well -- I may say intimately acquainted," was the smiling response.

"It isn't Mr. Maynard?"

"No. It is some one that lives nearer than he."

"How can that be? He is our nearest neighbor."

"Then you can't guess?"

"No. I am quite mystified."

"Suppose I should say that it is your oldest son?"

"What, Frank?" exclaimed Mrs. Frost, turning from her husband to her son, whose flushed face indicated how anxious he was about his mother's favorable opinion.

"You have hit it."

"You were not in earnest, Frank?" said Mrs. Frost inquiringly.

"Ask father."

"I think he was. He certainly appeared to be."

"But what does Frank know about farming?"

"I asked him that question myself. He admitted that he didn't know much at present, but thought that, with Mr. Maynard's advice, he might get along."

Mrs. Frost was silent a moment. "It will be a great undertaking," she said, at last; "but if you think you can trust Frank, I will do all I can to help him. I can't bear to think of having you go, yet I am conscious that this is a feeling which I have no right to indulge at the expense of my country."

"Yes," said her husband seriously. "I feel that I owe my country a service which I have no right to delegate to another, as long as I am able to discharge it myself. I shall reflect seriously upon Frank's proposition."

There was no more said at this time. Both Frank and his parents felt that it was a serious matter, and not to be hastily decided.

After breakfast Frank went up-stairs, and before studying his Latin lesson, read over thoughtfully the following passage in his prize essay on "The Duties of American Boys at the Present Crisis:"

"Now that so large a number of our citizens have been withdrawn from their families and their ordinary business to engage in putting down this Rebellion, it becomes the duty of the boys to take their places as far as they are able to do so. A boy cannot wholly supply the place of a man, but he can do so in part. And where he is not called on to do this, he can so conduct himself that his friends who are absent may feel at ease about him. He ought to feel willing to give up some pleasures, if by so doing he can help to supply the places of those who are gone. If he does this voluntarily, and in the right spirit, he is just as patriotic as if he were a soldier in the field."

"I didn't think," thought Frank, "when I wrote this, how soon my words would come back to me. It isn't much to write the words. The thing is to stand by them. If father should decide to go, I will do my best, and then, when the Rebellion is over, I shall feel that I did something, even if It wasn't much, toward putting it down."

Frank put his essay carefully away in a bureau drawer in which he kept his clothes, and, spreading open his Latin lexicon, proceeded to prepare his lesson in the third book of Virgil's Aeneid.



Chapter V. Mr. Rathburn Makes A Speech

Frank's seat in the schoolroom was directly in front of that occupied by John Haynes. Until the announcement of the prize John and he had been on friendly terms. They belonged to the same class in Latin, and Frank had often helped his classmate through a difficult passage which he had not the patience to construe for himself. Now, however, a coolness grew up between them, originating with John. He felt envious of Frank's success; and this feeling brought with it a certain bitterness which found gratification in anything which he had reason to suppose would annoy Frank.

On the morning succeeding the distribution of the prizes, Frank arrived at the schoolhouse a few minutes before the bell rang. John, with half a dozen other boys, stood near the door.

John took off his hat with mock deference. "Make way for the great prize essayist, gentlemen!" he said. "The modern Macaulay is approaching."

Frank colored with annoyance. John did not fail to notice this with pleasure. He was sorry, however, that none of the other boys seemed inclined to join in the demonstration. In fact, they liked Frank much the better of the two.

"That isn't quite fair, John," said Frank, in a low voice.

"I am always glad to pay my homage to distinguished talent," John proceeded, in the same tone. "I feel how presumptuous I was in venturing to compete with a gentleman of such genius!"

"Do you mean to insult me?" asked Frank, growing angry.

"Oh, dear, no! I am only expressing my high opinion of your talents!"

"Let him alone, John!" said Dick Jones, "It isn't his fault that the teacher awarded the prize to him instead of you."

"I hope you don't think I care for that!" said John, snapping his fingers. "He's welcome to his rubbishing books; they don't amount to much, anyway. I don't believe they cost more than two dollars at the most. If you'd like to see what I got for my essay, I'll show you."

John pulled out his portemonnaie, and unrolled three new and crisp bank-notes of ten dollars each.

"I think that's pretty good pay," he said, looking about him triumphantly. "I don't care how many prizes Rathburn chooses to give his favorite. I rather think I can get along without them."

John's face was turned toward the door, otherwise he would have observed the approach of the teacher, and spoken with more caution. But it was too late. The words had been spoken above his ordinary voice, and were distinctly heard by the teacher. He looked sharply at John Haynes, whose glance fell before his, but without a word passed into the schoolroom.

"See if you don't get a blowing-up, John," said Dick Jones.

"What do I care!" said John, but in a tone too subdued to be heard by any one else. "It won't do Rathburn any harm to hear the truth for once in his life."

"Well, I'm glad I'm not in your place, that's all!" replied Dick.

"You're easily frightened!" rejoined John, with a sneer.

Nevertheless, as he entered the schoolroom, and walked with assumed bravado to his seat in the back part of the room, he did not feel quite so comfortable as he strove to appear. As he glanced stealthily at the face of the teacher, who looked unusually stern and grave, he could not help thinking, "I wonder whether he will say anything about it."

Mr. Rathburn commenced in the usual manner; but after the devotional exercises were over, he paused, and, after a brief silence, during which those who had heard John's words listened with earnest attention, spoke as follows:

"As I approached the schoolroom this morning I chanced to catch some words which I presume were not intended for my ear. If I remember rightly they were, 'I don't care how many prizes Rathburn gives his favorite!' There were several that heard them, so that I can be easily corrected if I have made any mistake. Now I will not affect to misunderstand the charge conveyed by these words. I am accused of assigning the prizes, or at least, one of them, yesterday, not with strict regard to the merit of the essays presented, but under the influence of partiality. If this is the real feeling of the speaker, I can only say that I am sorry he should have so low an opinion of me. I do not believe the scholars generally entertain any such suspicion. Though I may err in judgment, I think that most of you will not charge me with anything more serious. If you ask me whether a teacher has favorites, I say that he cannot help having them. He cannot help making a difference between the studious on the one hand, and the indolent and neglectful on the other. But in a matter like this I ask you to believe me when I say that no consideration except that of merit is permitted to weigh. The boy who made this charge is one of my most advanced scholars, and has no reason to believe that he would be treated with unfairness. I do not choose to say any more on this subject, except that I have decided to offer two similar prizes for the two best compositions submitted within the next four weeks. I shall assign them to the best of my judgment, without regard to the scholarship of the writer."

Mr. Rathburn spoke in a quiet, dignified manner, which convinced all who heard him of his fairness. I say all, because even John Haynes was persuaded against his own will, though he did not choose to acknowledge it. He had a dogged obstinacy which would not allow him to retract what he had once said. There was an unpleasant sneer on his face while the teacher was speaking, which he did not attempt to conceal.

"The class in Virgil," called Mr. Rathburn.

This class consisted of Frank Frost, John Haynes, and Henry Tufts. John rose slowly from his seat, and advanced to the usual place, taking care to stand as far from Frank as possible.

"You may commence, John," said the teacher.

It was unfortunate for John that he had been occupied, first, by thoughts of his rejected essay, and afterward by thoughts of the boat which he proposed to buy with the thirty dollars of which he had become possessed, so that he had found very little time to devote to his Latin. Had he been on good terms with Frank, he would have asked him to read over the lesson, which, as he was naturally quick, would have enabled him to get off passably. But, of course, under the circumstances, this was not to be thought of. So he stumbled through two or three sentences, in an embarrassed manner. Mr. Rathburn at first helped him along. Finding, however, that he knew little or nothing of the lesson, he quietly requested Frank to read, saying, "You don't seem so well prepared as usual, John."

Frank translated fluently and well, his recitation forming a very favorable contrast to the slipshod attempt of John. This John, in a spirit of unreasonableness, magnified into a grave offense, and a desire to "show off" at his expense.

"Trying to shine at my expense," he muttered. "Well, let him! Two or three years hence, when I am in college, perhaps things may be a little different."

Frank noticed his repellent look, and it made him feel uncomfortable. He was a warm-hearted boy, and wanted to be on good terms with everybody. Still, he could not help feeling that in the present instance he had nothing to reproach himself with.

John went back to his seat feeling an increased irritation against Frank. He could not help seeing that he was more popular with his schoolmates than himself, and, of course, this, too, he considered a just cause of offense against him.

While he was considering in what way he could slight Frank, the thought of the boat he was about to purchase entered his mind. He brightened up at once, for this suggested something. He knew how much boys like going out upon the water. At present there was no boat on the pond. His would hold six or eight boys readily. He would invite some of the oldest boys to accompany him on his first trip, carefully omitting Frank Frost. The slight would be still more pointed because Frank was his classmate.

When the bell rang for recess he lost no time in carrying out the scheme he had thought of.

"Dick," he called out to Dick Jones, "I am expecting my boat up from Boston next Tuesday, and I mean to go out in her Wednesday afternoon. Wouldn't you like to go with me?"

"With all the pleasure in life," said Dick, "and thank you for the invitation."

"How many will she hold?"

"Eight or ten, I expect. Bob Ingalls, would you like to go, too?"

The invitation was eagerly accepted. John next approached Henry Tufts, who was speaking with Frank Frost.

Without even looking at the latter, he asked Henry if he would like to go.

"Very much," was the reply.

"Then I will expect you," he said. He turned on his heel and walked off without taking any notice of Frank.

Frank blushed in spite of himself.

"Don't he mean to invite you?" asked Henry, in surprise.

"It appears not," said Frank.

"It's mean in him, then," exclaimed Henry; "I declare, I've a great mind not to go."

"I hope you will go," said Frank hastily. "You will enjoy it. Promise me you will go."

"Would you really prefer to have me?"

"I should be very sorry if you didn't."

"Then I'll go; but I think he's mean in not asking you, for all that."



Chapter VI. Mr. Frost Makes Up His Mind

"Well, Frank," said his father at supper-time, "I've been speaking to Mr. Maynard this afternoon about your plan."

"What did he say?" asked Frank, dropping his knife and fork in his eagerness.

"After he had thought a little, he spoke of it favorably. He said that, being too old to go himself, he should be glad to do anything in his power to facilitate my going, if I thought it my duty to do so."

"Didn't he think Frank rather young for such an undertaking?" asked Mrs. Frost doubtfully.

"Yes, he did; but still he thought with proper advice and competent assistance he might get along. For the first, he can depend upon Mr. Maynard and myself; as for the second, Mr. Maynard suggested a good man, who is seeking a situation as farm laborer."

"Is it anybody in this town?" asked Frank.

"No, it is a man from Brandon, named Jacob Carter. Mr. Maynard says he is honest, industrious, and used to working on a farm. I shall write to him this evening."

"Then you have decided to go!" exclaimed Frank and his mother in concert.

"It will depend in part upon the answer I receive from this man Carter. I shall feel if he agrees to come, that I can go with less anxiety."

"How we shall miss you!" said his wife, in a subdued tone.

"And I shall miss you quite as much. It will be a considerable sacrifice for all of us. But when my country has need of me, you will feel that I cannot honorably stay at home. As for Frank, he may regard me as his substitute."

"My substitute!" repeated Frank, in a questioning tone.

"Yes, since but for you, taking charge of the farm in my absence, I should not feel that I could go."

Frank looked pleased. It made him feel that he was really of some importance. Boys, unless they are incorrigibly idle, are glad to be placed in posts of responsibility. Frank, though very modest, felt within himself unused powers and undeveloped capacities, which he knew must be called out by the unusual circumstances in which he would be placed. The thought, too, that he would be serving his country, even at home, filled him with satisfaction.

After a pause, Mr. Frost said: "There is one point on which I still have some doubts. As you are all equally interested with myself, I think it proper to ask your opinion, and shall abide by your decision."

Frank and his mother listened with earnest attention.

"You are aware that the town has decided to give a bounty of one hundred and fifty dollars to such as may volunteer toward filling the quota. You may remember, also, that although the town passed the vote almost unanimously, it was my proposition, and supported by a speech of mine."

"Squire Haynes opposed it, I think you said, father."

"Yes, and intimated that I urged the matter from interested motives. He said he presumed I intended to enlist."

"As if that sum would pay a man for leaving his home and incurring the terrible risks of war!" exclaimed Mrs. Frost, looking indignant.

"Very likely he did not believe it himself; but he was irritated with me, and it is his habit to impute unworthy motives to those with whom he differs. Aside from this, however, I shall feel some delicacy in availing myself of a bounty which I was instrumental in persuading the town to vote. Though I feel that I should be perfectly justified in so doing, I confess that I am anxious not to put myself in such a position as to hazard any loss of good opinion on the part of my friends in town."

"Then don't take it," said Mrs. Frost promptly.

"That's what I say, too, father," chimed in Frank.

"Don't decide too hastily," said Mr. Frost. "Remember that in our circumstances this amount of money would be very useful. Although Frank will do as well as any boy of his age, I do not expect him to make the farm as profitable as I should do, partly on account of my experience being greater, and partly because I should be able to accomplish more work than he. One hundred and fifty dollars would procure many little comforts which otherwise you may have to do without."

"I know that," said Mrs. Frost quickly. "But do you think I should enjoy them, if there were reports circulated, however unjustly, to your prejudice? Besides, I shall know that the comforts at the camp must be fewer than you would enjoy at home. We shall not wish to fare so much better than you."

"Do you think with your mother, Frank?" asked Mr. Frost.

"I think mother is right," said Frank, proud of having his opinion asked. He was secretly determined, in spite of what his father had said, to see if he could not make the farm as profitable as it would be under his father's management.

Mr. Frost seemed relieved by his wife's expression of opinion. "Then," said he, "I will accept your decision as final. I felt that it should be you, and not myself, who should decide it. Now my mind will be at ease, so far as that goes."

"You will not enlist at once, father?" asked Frank.

"Not for three or four weeks. I shall wish to give you some special instructions before I go, so that your task may be easier."

"Hadn't I better leave school at once?"

"You may finish this week out. However, I may as well begin my instructions without delay. I believe you have never learned to milk."

"No, sir."

"Probably Carter will undertake that. Still, it will be desirable that you should know how, in case he gets sick. You may come out with me after supper and take your first lesson."

Frank ran for his hat with alacrity. This seemed like beginning in earnest. He accompanied his father to the barn, and looked with new interest at the four cows constituting his father's stock.

"I think we will begin with this one," said his father, pointing to a red-and-white heifer. "She is better-natured than the others, and, as I dare say your fingers will bungle a little at first, that is a point to be considered."

If any of my boy readers has ever undertaken the task of milking for the first time, he will appreciate Frank's difficulties. When he had seen his father milking, it seemed to him extremely easy. The milk poured out in rich streams, almost without an effort. But under his inexperienced fingers none came. He tugged away manfully, but with no result.

"I guess the cow's dry," said he at last, looking up in his father's face.

Mr. Frost in reply drew out a copious stream.

"I did the same as you," said Frank, mystified, "and none came."

"You didn't take hold right," said his father, "and you pressed at the wrong time. Let me show you."

Before the first lesson was over Frank had advanced a little in the art of milking, and it may as well be said here that in the course of a week or so he became a fair proficient, so that his father even allowed him to try Vixen, a cow who had received this name from the uncertainty of her temper. She had more than once upset the pail with a spiteful kick when it was nearly full. One morning she upset not only the pail, but Frank, who looked foolish enough as he got up covered with milk.

Frank also commenced reading the Plowman, a weekly agricultural paper which his father had taken for years. Until now he had confined his readings in it to the selected story on the fourth page. Now, with an object in view, he read carefully other parts of the paper. He did this not merely in the first flush of enthusiasm, but with the steady purpose of qualifying himself to take his father's place.

"Frank is an uncommon boy," said Mr. Frost to his wife, not without feelings of pride, one night, when our hero had retired to bed. "I would trust him with the farm sooner than many who are half a dozen years older."



Chapter VII. Like Father, Like Son

"Well, father, I've got some news for you," said John Haynes, as he entered his father's presence, two or three days later.

"What is it, John?" inquired the squire, laying down a copy of the New York Herald, which he had been reading.

"Who do you think has enlisted?"

"I do not choose to guess," said his father coldly. "If you feel disposed to tell me, you may do so."

John looked somewhat offended at his father's tone, but he was anxious to tell the news. "Frost's going to enlist," he said shortly.

"Indeed!" said the squire, with interest. "How did you hear?"

"I heard him say so himself, just now, in the store."

"I expected it," said Squire Haynes, with a sneer. "I understood his motives perfectly in urging the town to pay an enormous bounty to volunteers. He meant to line his own pockets at the public expense."

"He says that he doesn't mean to accept the bounty," continued John, in a tone which indicated a doubt whether Mr. Frost was in earnest.

"Did you hear him say that?" asked Squire Haynes abruptly.

"Yes, I heard him say so to Mr. Morse."

"Perhaps he means it, and perhaps he doesn't. If he don't take it, it is because he is afraid of public opinion. What's he going to do about the farm, while he is gone?"

"That is the strangest part of it," said John. "I don't believe you could guess who is to be left in charge of it."

"I don't choose to guess. If you know, speak out."

John bit his lip resentfully.

"It's that conceited jackanapes of his -- Frank Frost."

"Do you mean that he is going to leave that boy to carry on the farm?" demanded Squire Haynes, in surprise.

"Yes."

"Well, all I can say is that he's more of a fool than I took him to be."

"Oh, he thinks everything of Frank," said John bitterly. "He'll be nominating him for representative next."

The squire winced a little. He had been ambitious to represent the town in the legislature, and after considerable wire-pulling had succeeded in obtaining the nomination the year previous. But it is one thing to be nominated and another to be elected. So the squire had found, to his cost. He had barely obtained fifty votes, while his opponent had been elected by a vote of a hundred and fifty. All allusions, therefore, recalling his mortifying defeat were disagreeable to him.

"On the whole, I don't know but I'm satisfied," he said, recurring to the intelligence John had brought. "So far as I am concerned, I am glad he has made choice of this boy."

"You don't think he is competent?" asked John, in surprise.

"For that very reason I am glad he has been selected," said the squire emphatically. "I take it for granted that the farm will be mismanaged, and become a bill of expense, instead of a source of revenue. It's pretty certain that Frost won't be able to pay the mortgage when it comes due. I can bid off the farm for a small sum additional and make a capital bargain. It will make a very good place for you to settle down upon, John."

"Me!" said John disdainfully. "You don't expect me to become a plodding farmer, I trust. I've got talent for something better than that, I should hope."

"No," said the squire, "I have other news for you. Still, you could hire a farmer to carry it on for you, and live out there in the summer."

"Well, perhaps that would do," said John, thinking that it would sound well for him, even if he lived in the city, to have a place in the country. "When does the mortgage come due, father?"

"I don't remember the exact date. I'll look and see."

The squire drew from a closet a box hooped with iron, and evidently made for security. This was his strong-box, and in this he kept his bonds, mortgages, and other securities.

He selected a document tied with red ribbon, and examined it briefly.

"I shall have the right to foreclose the mortgage on the first of next July," he said.

"I hope you will do it then. I should like to see them Frosts humbled."

"THEM Frosts! Don't you know anything more about English grammar, John?"

"Those Frosts, then. Of course, I know; but a feller can't always be watching his words."

"I desire you never again to use the low word 'feller,'" said the squire, who, as the reader will see, was more particular about grammatical accuracy than about some other things which might be naturally supposed to be of higher importance.

"Well," said John sulkily, "anything you choose."

"As to the mortgage," proceeded Squire Haynes, "I have no idea they will be able to lift it. I feel certain that Frost won't himself have the money at command, and I sha'n't give him any grace, or consent to a renewal. He may be pretty sure of that."

"Perhaps he'll find somebody to lend him the money."

"I think not. There are those who would be willing, but I question whether there is any such who could raise the money at a moment's warning. By the way, you need not mention my purpose in this matter to any one. If it should leak out, Mr. Frost might hear of it, and prepare for it."

"You may trust me for that, father," said John, very decidedly; "I want to see Frank Frost's proud spirit humbled. Perhaps he'll feel like putting on airs after that."

From the conversation which has just been chronicled it will be perceived that John was a worthy son of his father; and, though wanting in affection and cordial good feeling, that both were prepared to join hands in devising mischief to poor Frank and his family. Let us hope that the intentions of the wicked may be frustrated.



Chapter VIII. Discouraged And Encouraged

In a small village like Rossville news flies fast. Even the distinctions of social life do not hinder an interest being felt in the affairs of each individual. Hence it was that Mr. Frost's determination to enlist became speedily known, and various were the comments made upon his plan of leaving Frank in charge of the farm. That they were not all favorable may be readily believed. Country people are apt to criticize the proceedings of their neighbors with a greater degree of freedom than is common elsewhere.

As Frank was on his way to school on Saturday morning, his name was called by Mrs. Roxana Mason, who stood in the doorway of a small yellow house fronting on the main street.

"Good morning, Mrs. Mason," said Frank politely, advancing to the gate in answer to her call.

"Is it true what I've heard about your father's going to the war, Frank Frost?" she commenced.

"Yes, Mrs. Mason; he feels it his duty to go."

"And what's to become of the farm? Anybody hired it?"

"I am going to take charge of it," said Frank modestly.

"You!" exclaimed Mrs. Roxana, lifting both hands in amazement; "why, you're nothing but a baby!"

"I'm a baby of fifteen," said Frank good-humoredly, though his courage was a little dampened by her tone.

"What do you know about farming?" inquired the lady, in a contemptuous manner. "Your father must be crazy!"

"I shall do my best, Mrs. Mason," said Frank quietly, but with heightened color. "My father is willing to trust me; and as I shall have Mr. Maynard to look to for advice, I think I can get along."

"The idea of putting a boy like you over a farm!" returned Mrs. Roxana, in an uncompromising tone. "I did think your father had more sense. It's the most shiftless thing I ever knew him to do. How does your poor mother feel about it?"

"She doesn't seem as much disturbed about it as you do, Mrs. Mason," said Frank, rather impatiently; for he felt that Mrs. Mason had no right to interfere in his father's arrangements.

"Well, well, we'll see!" said Mrs. Roxana, shaking her head significantly. "If you'll look in your Bible, you'll read about 'the haughty spirit that goes before a fall.' I'm sure I wish you well enough. I hope that things'll turn out better'n they're like to. Tell your mother I'll come over before long and talk with her about it."

Frank inwardly hoped that Mrs. Roxana wouldn't put herself to any trouble to call, but politeness taught him to be silent.

Leaving Mrs. Mason's gate, he kept on his way to school, but had hardly gone half a dozen rods before he met an old lady, whose benevolent face indicated a very different disposition from that of the lady he had just parted with.

"Good morning, Mrs. Chester," said Frank cordially, recognizing one of his mother's oldest friends.

"Good morning, my dear boy," was the reply. "I hear your father is going to the war."

"Yes," said Frank, a little nervously, not knowing but Mrs. Chester would view the matter in the same way as Mrs. Mason, though he felt sure she would express herself less disagreeably.

"And I hear that you are going to try to make his place good at home."

"I don't expect to make his place good, Mrs. Chester," said Frank modestly, "but I shall do as well as I can."

"I have no doubt of it, my dear boy," said the old lady kindly. "You can do a great deal, too. You can help your mother by looking out for your brothers and sisters, as well as supplying your father's place on the farm."

"I am glad you think I can make myself useful," said Frank, feeling relieved. "Mrs. Mason has just been telling me that I am not fit for the charge, and that discouraged me a little."

"It's a great responsibility, no doubt, to come on one so young," said the old lady, "but it's of God's appointment. He will strengthen your hands, if you will only ask Him. If you humbly seek His guidance and assistance, you need not fear to fail."

"Yes," said Frank soberly, "that's what I mean to do."

"Then you will feel that you are in the path of duty. You'll be serving your country just as much as if you went yourself."

"That's just the way I feel, Mrs. Chester," exclaimed Frank eagerly. "I want to do something for my country."

"You remind me of my oldest brother," said the old lady thoughtfully. "He was left pretty much as you are. It was about the middle of the Revolutionary war, and the army needed recruits. My father hesitated, for he had a small family depending on him for support. I was only two years old at the time, and there were three of us. Finally my brother James, who was just about your age, told my father that he would do all he could to support the family, and father concluded to go. We didn't have a farm, for father was a carpenter. My brother worked for neighboring farmers, receiving his pay in corn and vegetables, and picked up what odd jobs he could. Then mother was able to do something; so we managed after a fashion. There were times when we were brought pretty close to the wall, but God carried us through. And by and by father came safely home, and I don't think he ever regretted having left us. After awhile the good news of peace came, and he felt that he had been abundantly repaid for all the sacrifices he had made in the good cause."

Frank listened to this narrative with great interest. It yielded him no little encouragement to know that another boy, placed in similar circumstances, had succeeded, and he just felt that he would have very much less to contend against than the brother of whom Mrs. Chester spoke.

"Thank you for telling me about your brother Mrs. Chester," he said. "It makes me feel more as if things would turn out well. Won't you come over soon and see us? Mother is always glad to see you."

"Thank you, Frank; I shall certainly do so. I hope I shall not make you late to school."

"Oh, no; I started half an hour early this morning."

Frank had hardly left Mrs. Chester when he heard a quick step behind him. Turning round, he perceived that it was Mr. Rathburn, his teacher.

"I hurried to come up with you, Frank," he said, smiling. "I understand that I am to lose you from school."

"Yes, sir," answered Frank. "I am very sorry to leave, for I am very much interested in my studies; but I suppose, sir, you have heard what calls me away."

"Your father has made up his mind to enlist."

"Yes, sir."

"And you are to superintend the farm in his absence?"

"Yes, sir. I hope you do not think me presumptuous in undertaking such a responsibility?"

He looked up eagerly into Mr. Rathburn's face, for he had a great respect for his judgment. But he saw nothing to discourage him. On the contrary, he read cordial sympathy and approval.

"Far from it," answered the teacher, with emphasis. "I think you deserving of great commendation, especially if, as I have heard, the plan originated with you, and was by you suggested to your father."

"Yes, sir."

The teacher held out his hand kindly. "It was only what I should have expected of you," he said. "I have not forgotten your essay. I am glad to see that you not only have right ideas of duty, but have, what is rarer, the courage and self-denial to put them in practice."

These words gave Frank much pleasure, and his face lighted up.

"Shall you feel obliged to give up your studies entirely?" asked his teacher.

"I think I shall be able to study some in the evening."

"If I can be of any assistance to you in any way, don't hesitate to apply. If you should find any stumbling-blocks in your lessons, I may be able to help you over them."

By this time they had come within sight of the schoolhouse.

"There comes the young farmer," said John Haynes, in a tone which was only subdued lest the teacher should hear him, for he had no disposition to incur another public rebuke.

A few minutes later, when Frank was quietly seated at his desk, a paper was thrown from behind, lighting upon his Virgil, which lay open before him. There appeared to be writing upon it, and with some curiosity he opened and read the following:

"What's the price of turnips?"

It was quite unnecessary to inquire into the authorship. He felt confident it was written by John Haynes. The latter, of course, intended it as an insult, but Frank did not feel much disturbed. As long as his conduct was approved by such persons as his teacher and Mrs. Chester, he felt he could safely disregard the taunts and criticisms of others. He therefore quietly let the paper drop to the floor, and kept on with his lesson.

John Haynes perceived that he had failed in his benevolent purpose of disturbing Frank's tranquillity, and this, I am sorry to say, only increased the dislike he felt for him. Nothing is so unreasonable as anger, nothing so hard to appease. John even felt disposed to regard as an insult the disposition which Frank had made of his insulting query.

"The young clodhopper's on his dignity," he muttered to himself. "Well, wait a few months, and see if he won't sing a different tune."

Just then John's class was called up, and his dislike to Frank was not diminished by the superiority of his recitation. The latter, undisturbed by John's feelings, did not give a thought to him, but reflected with a touch of pain that this must be his last Latin recitation in school for a long time to come.



Chapter IX. The Last Evening At Home

Three weeks passed quickly. October had already reached its middle point. The glory of the Indian summer was close at hand. Too quickly the days fled for the little family at the farm, for they knew that each brought nearer the parting of which they could not bear to think.

Jacob Carter, who had been sent for to do the heavy work on the farm, had arrived. He was a man of forty, stout and able to work, but had enjoyed few opportunities of cultivating his mind. Though a faithful laborer, he was destitute of the energy and ambition which might ere this have placed him in charge of a farm of his own. In New England few arrive at his age without achieving some position more desirable and independent than that of farm laborer. However, he looked pleasant and good-natured, and Mr. Frost accounted himself fortunate in securing his services.

The harvest had been got in, and during the winter months there would not be so much to do as before. Jacob, therefore, "hired out" for a smaller compensation, to be increased when the spring work came in.

Frank had not been idle. He had accompanied his father about the farm, and received as much practical instruction in the art of farming as the time would admit. He was naturally a quick learner, and now felt impelled by a double motive to prepare himself as well as possible to assume his new responsibilities. His first motive was, of course, to make up his father's loss to the family, as far as it was possible for him to do so, but he was also desirous of showing Mrs. Roxana Mason and other ill-boding prophets that they had underrated his abilities.

The time came when Mr. Frost felt that he must leave his family. He had enlisted from preference in an old regiment, already in Virginia, some members of which had gone from Rossville. A number of recruits were to be forwarded to the camp on a certain day, and that day was now close at hand.

Let me introduce the reader to the farmhouse on the last evening for many months when they would be able to be together. They were all assembled about the fireplace. Mr. Frost sat in an armchair, holding Charlie in his lap -- the privileged place of the youngest. Alice, with the air of a young woman, sat demurely by her father's side on a cricket, while Maggie stood beside him, with one hand resting on his knee. Frank sat quietly beside his mother, as if already occupying the place which he was in future to hold as her counselor and protector.

Frank and his mother looked sober. They had not realized fully until this evening what it would be to part with the husband and father -- how constantly they would miss him at the family meal and in the evening circle. Then there was the dreadful uncertainty of war. He might never return, or, if spared for that, it might be with broken constitution or the loss of a limb.

"If it hadn't been for me," Frank could not help thinking, "father would not now be going away. He would have stayed at home, and I could still go to school. It would have made a great difference to us, and the loss of one man could not affect the general result."

A moment after his conscience rebuked him for harboring so selfish a thought.

"The country needs him more even than we do," he said to himself. "It will be a hard trial to have him go, but it is our duty."

"Will my little Charlie miss me when I am gone?" asked Mr. Frost of the chubby-faced boy who sat with great, round eyes peering into the fire, as if he were deeply engaged in thought.

"Won't you take me with you, papa?" asked Charlie.

"What could you do if you were out there, my little boy?" asked the father, smiling.

"I'd shoot great big rebel with my gun," said Charlie, waxing valiant.

"Your gun's only a wooden one," said Maggie, with an air of superior knowledge. "You couldn't kill a rebel with that."

"I'd kill 'em some," persisted Charlie earnestly, evidently believing that a wooden gun differed from others not in kind, but in degree.

"But suppose the rebels should fire at you," said Frank, amused. "What would you do then, Charlie?"

Charlie looked into the fire thoughtfully for a moment, as if this contingency had not presented itself to his mind until now. Suddenly his face brightened up, and he answered. "I'd run away just as fast as I could."

All laughed at this, and Frank said: "But that wouldn't be acting like a brave soldier, Charlie. You ought to stay and make the enemy run."

"I wouldn't want to stay and be shooted," said Charlie ingenuously.

"There are many older than Charlie," said Mr. Frost, smiling, "who would doubtless sympathize entirely with him in his objection to being shooted, though they might not be quite so ready to make confession as he has shown himself. I suppose you have heard the couplet:

"'He who fights and runs away May live to fight another day.'"


"Pray don't speak about shooting," said Mrs. Frost, with a shudder. "It makes me feel nervous."

"And to-night we should only admit pleasant thoughts," said her husband. "Who is going to write me letters when I am gone?"

"I'll write to you, father," said Alice.

"And so will I," said Maggie.

"I, too," chimed in Charlie.

"Then, if you have so many correspondents already engaged, you will hardly want to hear from Frank and myself," said his wife, smiling.

"The more the better. I suspect I shall find letters more welcome than anything else. You must also send me papers regularly. I shall have many hours that will pass heavily unless I have something to read."

"I'll mail you Harper's Weekly regularly, shall I, father?" asked Frank.

"Yes, I shall be glad enough to see it. Then, there is one good thing about papers -- after enjoying them myself, I can pass them round to others. There are many privations that I must make up my mind to, but I shall endeavor to make camp-life as pleasant as possible to myself and others."

"I wish you were going out as an officer," said Mrs. Frost. "You would have more indulgences."

"Very probably I should. But I don't feel inclined to wish myself better off than others. I am: willing to serve my country in any capacity in which I can be of use. Thank Heaven, I am pretty strong and healthy, and better fitted than many to encounter the fatigues and exposures which are the lot of the private."

"How early must you start to-morrow, father?" inquired Frank.

"By daylight. I must be in Boston by nine o'clock, and you know it is a five-mile ride to the depot. I shall want you to carry me over."

"Will there be room for me?" asked Mrs. Frost. "I want to see the last of you."

"I hope you won't do that for a long time to come," said Mr. Frost, smiling.

"You know what I mean, Henry."

"Oh, yes, there will be room. At any rate, we will make room for you. And now it seems to me it is time for these little folks to go to bed. Charlie finds it hard work to keep his eyes open."

"Oh, papa, papa, not yet, not yet," pleaded the children; and with the thought that it might be many a long day before he saw their sweet young faces again, the father suffered them to have their way.

After the children had gone to bed Frank and his father and mother sat up for a long time. Each felt that there was much to be said, but no one of them felt like saying much then. Thoughts of the approaching separation swallowed up all others. The thought kept recurring that to-morrow would see them many miles apart, and that many a long to-morrow must pass before they would again be gathered around the fire.

"Frank," said his father, at length, "I have deposited in the Brandon Bank four hundred dollars, about half of which I have realized from crops sold this season. This you will draw upon as you have need, for grocery bills, to pay Jacob, etc. For present purposes I will hand you fifty dollars, which I advise you to put under your mother's care."

As he finished speaking, Mr. Frost drew from his pocketbook a roll of bills and handed them to Frank.

Frank opened his portemonnaie and deposited the money therein.

He had never before so large a sum of money in his possession, and although he knew it was not to be spent for his own benefit -- at least, no considerable part of it -- he felt a sense of importance and even wealth in being the custodian of so much money. He felt that his father had confidence in him, and that he was in truth going to be his representative.

"A part of the money which I have in the bank," continued his father, "has been saved up toward the payment of the mortgage on the farm."

"When does it come due, father?"

"On the first of July of next year."

"But you won't be prepared to meet it at that time?"

"No, but undoubtedly Squire Haynes will be willing to renew it. I always pay the interest promptly, and he knows it is secured by the farm, and therefore a safe investment. By the way, I had nearly forgotten to say that there will be some interest due on the first of January. Of course, you are authorized to pay it just as if you were myself."

"How much will it be?"

"Twenty-four dollars -- that is, six months' interest at six per cent. on eight hundred dollars."

"I wish the farm were free from encumbrance," said Frank.

"So do I; and if Providence favors me it shall be before many years are past. But in farming one can't expect to lay by money quite as fast as in some other employments."

The old clock in the corner here struck eleven.

"We mustn't keep you up too late the last night, Henry," said Mrs. Frost. "You will need a good night's sleep to carry you through to-morrow."

Neither of the three closed their eyes early that night. Thoughts of the morrow were naturally in their minds. At last all was still. Sleep -- God's beneficent messenger -- wrapped their senses in oblivion, and the cares and anxieties of the morrow were for a time forgotten.



Chapter X. Little Pomp

There was a hurried good-by at the depot.

"Kiss the children for me, Mary," said her husband.

"You will write very soon?" pleaded Mrs. Frost.

"At the very first opportunity."

"All aboard!" shouted the conductor.

With a shrill scream the locomotive started.

Frank and his mother stood on the platform watching the receding train till it was quite out of sight, and then in silence our young hero assisted his mother into the carryall and turned the horse's head homeward.

It was one of those quiet October mornings, when the air is soft and balmy as if a June day had found its way by mistake into the heart of autumn. The road wound partly through the woods. The leaves were still green and abundant. Only one or two showed signs of the coming change, which in the course of a few weeks must leave them bare and leafless.

"What a beautiful day!" said Frank, speaking the words almost unconsciously.

"Beautiful indeed!" responded his mother. "On such a day as this the world seems too lovely for war and warlike passions to be permitted to enter it. When men might be so happy, why need they stain their hands with each other's blood?"

Frank was unprepared for an answer. He knew that it was his father's departure which led his mother to speak thus. He wished to divert her mind, if possible.

Circumstances favored his design.

They had accomplished perhaps three-quarters of the distance home when, as they were passing a small one-story building by the roadside, a shriek of pain was heard, and a little black boy came running out of the house, screaming in affright: "Mammy's done killed herself. She's mos' dead!"

He ran out to the road and looked up at Mrs. Frost, as if to implore assistance.

"That's Chloe's child," said Mrs. Frost. "Stop the horse, Frank; I'll get out and see what has happened."

Chloe, as Frank very well knew, was a colored woman, who until a few months since had been a slave in Virginia. Finally she had seized a favorable opportunity, and taking the only child which the cruel slave system had left her, for the rest had been sold South, succeeded in making her way into Pennsylvania. Chance had directed her to Rossville, where she had been permitted to occupy, rent free, an old shanty which for some years previous had been uninhabited. Here she had supported herself by taking in washing and ironing. This had been her special work on the plantation where she had been born and brought up, and she was therefore quite proficient in it. She found no difficulty in obtaining work enough to satisfy the moderate wants of herself and little Pomp.

The latter was a bright little fellow, as black as the ace of spades, and possessing to the full the mercurial temperament of the Southern negro. Full of fun and drollery, he attracted plenty of attention when he came into the village, and earned many a penny from the boys by his plantation songs and dances.

Now, however, he appeared in a mood entirely different, and it was easy to see that he was much frightened.

"What's the matter, Pomp?" asked Frank, as he brought his horse to a standstill.

"Mammy done killed herself," he repeated, wringing his hands in terror.

A moan from the interior of the house seemed to make it clear that something had happened.

Mrs. Frost pushed the door open and entered.

Chloe had sunk down on the floor and was rocking back and forth, holding her right foot in both hands, with an expression of acute pain on her sable face. Beside her was a small pail, bottom upward.

Mrs. Frost was at no loss to conjecture the nature of the accident which had befallen her. The pail had contained hot water, and its accidental overturn had scalded poor Chloe.

"Are you much hurt, Chloe?" asked Mrs. Frost sympathizingly.

"Oh, missus, I's most dead," was the reply, accompanied by a groan. "'Spect I sha'n't live till mornin'. Dunno what'll become of poor Pomp when I'se gone."

Little Pomp squeezed his knuckles into his eyes and responded with an unearthly howl.

"Don't be too much frightened, Chloe," said Mrs. Frost soothingly. "You'll get over it sooner than you think. How did the pail happen to turn over?"

"Must have been de debbel, missus. I was kerryin' it just as keerful, when all at once it upsot."

This explanation, though not very luminous to her visitor, appeared to excite a fierce spirit of resentment against the pail in the mind of little Pomp.

He suddenly rushed forward impetuously and kicked the pail with all the force he could muster.

But, alas for poor Pomp! His feet were unprotected by shoes, and the sudden blow hurt him much more than the pail. The consequence was a howl of the most distressing nature.

Frank had started forward to rescue Pomp from the consequences of his precipitancy, but too late. He picked up the little fellow and, carrying him out, strove to soothe him.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Frost examined Chloe's injuries. They were not so great as she had anticipated. She learned on inquiry that the water had not been scalding hot. There was little doubt that with proper care she would recover from her injuries in a week or ten days. But in the meantime it would not do to use the foot.

"What shall I do, missus?" groaned Chloe. "I ain't got nothin' baked up. 'Pears like me and Pomp must starve."

"Not so bad as that, Chloe," said Mrs. Frost, with a reassuring smile. "After we have you on the bed we will take Pomp home with us, and give him enough food to last you both a couple of days. At the end of that time, or sooner, if you get out, you can send him up again."

Chloe expressed her gratitude warmly, and Mrs. Frost, calling in Frank's assistance, helped the poor woman to a comfortable position on the bed, which fortunately was in the corner of the same room. Had it been upstairs, the removal would have been attended with considerable difficulty as well as pain to Chloe.

Pomp, the acuteness of whose pain had subsided, looked on with wondering eyes while Frank and Mrs. Frost "toted" his mother onto the bed, as he expressed it.

Chloe accepted, with wondering gratitude, the personal attentions of Mrs. Frost, who bound up the injured foot with a softness of touch which brought no pain to the sufferer.

"You ain't too proud, missus, to tend to a poor black woman," she said. "Down Souf dey used to tell us dat everybody looked down on de poor nigger and lef' 'em to starve an' die if dey grow sick."

"They told you a great many things that were not true, Chloe," said Mrs. Frost quietly. "The color of the skin ought to make no difference where we have it in our power to render kind offices."

"Do you believe niggers go to de same heaven wid w'ite folks, missus?" asked Chloe, after a pause.

"Why should they not? They were made by the same God."

"I dunno, missus," said Chloe. "I hopes you is right."

"Do you think you can spare Pomp a little while to go home with us?"

"Yes, missus. Here you, Pomp," she called, "you go home wid dis good lady, and she'll gib you something for your poor sick mudder. Do you hear?"

"I'se goin' to ride?" said Pomp inquiringly.

"Yes," said Frank good-naturedly.

"Hi, hi, dat's prime!" ejaculated Pomp, turning a somersault in his joy.

"Scramble in, then, and we'll start."

Pomp needed no second invitation. He jumped into the carriage, and was more leisurely followed by Frank and his mother.

It was probably the first time that Pomp had ever been in a covered carriage, and consequently the novelty of his situation put him in high spirits.

He was anxious to drive, and Frank, to gratify him, placed the reins in his hands. His eyes sparkling with delight, and his expanded mouth showing a full set of ivories, Pomp shook the reins in glee, shouting out, "Hi, go along there, you ol' debble!"

"Pomp, you mustn't use that word," said Mrs. Frost reprovingly.

"What word, missus?" demanded Pomp innocently.

"The last word you used," she answered.

"Don't 'member what word you mean, missus," said Pomp. "Hi, you debble!"

"That's the word?"

"Not say 'debble'?" said Pomp wonderingly. "Why not, missus?"

"It isn't a good word."

"Mammy says 'debble.' She calls me little debble when I run away, and don't tote in de wood."

"I shall tell her not to use it. It isn't a good word for anybody to use."

"Hope you'll tell her so, missus," said Pomp, grinning and showing his teeth. "Wheneber she calls me little debble she pulls off her shoe and hits me. Hurts like de debble. Mebbe she won't hit me if you tell her not to say 'debble.'"

Mrs. Frost could hardly forbear laughing. She managed, however, to preserve a serious countenance while she said, "You must take care to behave well, and then she won't have to punish you."

It is somewhat doubtful whether Pomp heard this last remark. He espied a pig walking by the side of the road, and was seized with a desire to run over it. Giving the reins a sudden twitch, he brought the carriage round so that it was very near upsetting in a gully.

Frank snatched the reins in time to prevent this catastrophe.

"What did you do that for, Pomp?" he said quickly.

"Wanted to scare de pig," exclaimed Pomp, laughing. "Wanted to hear him squeal."

"And so you nearly tipped us over."

"Didn't mean to do dat, Mass' Frank. 'Pears like I didn't think."

Mrs. Frost was too much alarmed by this narrow escape to consent to Pomp's driving again, and for the moment felt as if she should like to usurp his mother's privilege of spanking him. But the little imp looked so unconscious of having done anything wrong that her vexation soon passed away.

In half an hour Pomp was on his way back, laden with a basketful of provisions for his sick mother and himself.



Chapter XI. Punishing A Bully

It was fortunate for Mrs. Frost that she was so soon called upon to think for others. It gave her less time to grieve over her husband's absence, which was naturally a severe trial to her. As for Frank, though the harvest was gathered in, there were plenty of small jobs to occupy his attention. He divided with Jacob the care of the cows, and was up betimes in the morning to do his share of the milking. Then the pigs and chickens must be fed every day, and this Frank took entirely into his own charge. Wood, also, must be prepared for the daily wants of the house, and this labor he shared with Jacob.

In the afternoon, however, Frank usually had two or three hours at his own disposal, and this, in accordance with a previous determination, he resolved to devote to keeping up his studies. He did not expect to make the same progress that he would have done if he had been able to continue at school, but it was something to feel that he was not remaining stationary.

Frank resolved to say nothing to his classmates about his private studies. They would think he was falling far behind, and at some future time he would surprise them.

Still, there were times when he felt the need of a teacher. He would occasionally encounter difficulties which he found himself unable to surmount without assistance. At such times he thought of Mr Rathburn's kind offer. But his old teacher lived nearly a mile distant, and he felt averse to troubling him, knowing that his duties in school were arduous.

Occasionally he met some of his schoolmates. As nearly all of them were friendly and well-disposed to him, this gave him pleasure, and brought back sometimes the wish that he was as free as they. But this wish was almost instantly checked by the thought that he had made a sacrifice for his country's sake.

A few days after the incident narrated in the last chapter, Frank was out in the woods not far from Chloe's cottage, collecting brushwood, to be afterward carried home, when his attention was called to an altercation, one of the parties in which he readily recognized as little Pomp. To explain how it came about, we shall have to go back a little.

Pomp was returning from Mrs. Frost's, swinging a tin kettle containing provisions for his mother and himself, when all at once he met John Haynes, who was coming from the opposite direction.

Now, John was something of a bully, and liked to exercise authority over the boys who were small enough to render the attempt a safe one. On the present occasion he felt in a hectoring mood.

"I'll have some fun out of the little nigger," he said to himself, as he espied Pomp.

Pomp approached, swinging his pail as before, and whistling a plantation melody.

"What have you got there, Pomp?" asked John.

"I'se got a pail," said Pomp independently. "Don't yer know a pail when you see him?"

"I know an impudent little nigger when I see him," retorted John, not overpleased with the answer. "Come here directly, and let me see what you've got in your pail."

"I ain't got noffin for you," said Pomp defiantly.

"We'll see about that," said John. "Now, do you mean to come here or not? I'm going to count three, and I'll give you that time to decide. One -- two -- three!"

Pomp apparently had no intention of complying with John's request. He had halted about three rods from him, and stood swinging his pail, meanwhile watching John warily.

"I see you want me to come after you," said John angrily.

He ran toward Pomp, but the little contraband dodged him adroitly, and got on the other side of a tree.

Opposition only stimulated John to new efforts. He had become excited in the pursuit, and had made up his mind to capture Pomp, who dodged in and out among the trees with such quickness and dexterity that John was foiled for a considerable time. The ardor of his pursuit and its unexpected difficulty excited his anger. He lost sight of the fact that Pomp was under no obligation to comply with his demand. But this is generally the way with tyrants, who are seldom careful to keep within the bounds of justice and reason.

"Just let me catch you, you little rascal, and I will give you the worst licking you ever had," John exclaimed, with passion.

"Wait till you catch me," returned Pomp, slipping, eel-like, from his grasp.

But Pomp, in dodging, had now come to an open space, where he was at a disadvantage. John was close upon him, when suddenly he stood stock-still, bending his back so as to obtain a firm footing. The consequence was that his too ardent pursuer tumbled over him, and stretched his length upon the ground.

Unfortunately for Pomp, John grasped his leg in falling, and held it by so firm a grip that he was unable to get free. In the moment of his downfall John attained his object.

"Now I've got you," he said, white with passion, "and I'm going to teach you a lesson."

Clinging to Pomp with one hand, he drew a stout string from his pocket with the other, and secured the hands of the little contraband, notwithstanding his efforts to escape.

"Le' me go, you debble," he said, using a word which had grown familiar to him on the plantation.

There was a cruel light in John's eyes which augured little good to poor Pomp. Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he loosened the cord, and taking the boy carried him, in spite of his kicking and screaming, to a small tree, around which he clasped his hands, which he again confined with cords.

He then sought out a stout stick, and divested it of twigs.

Pomp watched his preparations with terror. Too well he knew what they meant. More than once he had seen those of his own color whipped on the plantation. Unconsciously, he glided into the language which he would have used there.

"Don't whip me, Massa John," he whimpered in terror. "For the lub of Heaven, lef me be. I ain't done noffin' to you."

"You'd better have thought of that before," said John, his eyes blazing anew with vengeful light. "If I whip you, you little black rascal, it's only because you richly deserve it."

"I'll nebber do so again," pleaded Pomp, rolling his eyes in terror. Though what it was he promised not to do the poor little fellow would have found it hard to tell.

It would have been as easy to soften the heart of a nether millstone as that of John Haynes.

By the time he had completed his preparations, and whirled his stick in the air preparatory to bringing it down with full force on Pomp's back, rapid steps were heard, and a voice asked, "What are you doing there, John Haynes?"

John looked round, and saw standing near him Frank Frost, whose attention had been excited by what he had heard of Pomp's cries.

"Save me, save me, Mass' Frank," pleaded poor little Pomp.

"What has he tied you up there for, Pomp?"

"It's none of your business, Frank Frost," said John passionately.

"I think it's some of my business," said Frank coolly, "when I find you playing the part of a Southern overseer. You are not in Richmond, John Haynes, and you'll get into trouble if you undertake to act as if you were."

"If you say much more, I'll flog you too!" screamed John, beside himself with excitement and rage.

Frank had not a particle of cowardice in his composition. He was not fond of fighting, but he felt that circumstances made it necessary for him to do so now. He did not easily lose his temper, and this at present gave him the advantage over John.

"You are too excited to know what you are talking about," he said coolly. "Pomp, why has he tied you up?"

Pomp explained that John had tried to get his pail from him. He closed by imploring "Mass' Frank" to prevent John from whipping him.

"He shall not whip you, Pomp," said Frank quietly. As he spoke he stepped to the tree and faced John intrepidly.

John, in a moment of less passion, would not have ventured to attack a boy so near his own size. Like all bullies, he was essentially a coward, but now his rage got the better of his prudence.

"I'll flog you both!" he exclaimed hoarsely, and sprang forward with upraised stick.

Frank was about half a head shorter than John, and was more than a year younger, but he was stout and compactly built; besides, he was cool and collected, and this is always an advantage.

Before John realized what had happened, his stick had flown from his hand, and he was forcibly pushed back, so that he narrowly escaped falling to the ground.

"Gib it to him, Mass' Frank!" shouted little Pomp. "Gib it to him!"

This increased John's exasperation. By this time he was almost foaming at the mouth.

"I'll kill you, Frank Frost," he exclaimed, this time rushing at him without a stick.

Frank had been in the habit of wrestling for sport with the boys of his own size. In this way he had acquired a certain amount of dexterity in "tripping up." John, on the contrary, was unpractised. His quick temper was so easily roused that other boys had declined engaging in friendly contests with him, knowing that in most cases they would degenerate into a fight.

John rushed forward, and attempted to throw Frank by the strength of his arms alone. Frank eluded his grasp, and, getting one of his legs around John's, with a quick movement tripped him up. He fell heavily upon his back.

"This is all foolish, John," said Frank, bending over his fallen foe. "What are you fighting for? The privilege of savagely whipping a poor little fellow less than half your age?"

"I care more about whipping you, a cursed sight!" said John, taking advantage of Frank's withdrawing his pressure to spring to his feet. "You first, and him afterward!"

Again he threw himself upon Frank; but again coolness and practice prevailed against blind fury and untaught strength, and again he lay prostrate.

By this time Pomp had freed himself from the string that fettered his wrists, and danced in glee round John Haynes, in whose discomfiture he felt great delight.

"You'd better pick up your pail and run home," said Frank. He was generously desirous of saving John from further humiliation. "Will you go away quietly if I will let you up, John?" he asked.

"No, d --  --  you!" returned John, writhing, his face almost livid with passion.

"I am sorry," said Frank, "for in that case I must continue to hold you down."

"What is the trouble, boys?" came from an unexpected quarter.

It was Mr. Maynard, who, chancing to pass along the road, had been attracted by the noise of the struggle.

Frank explained in a few words.

"Let him up, Frank," said the old man. "I'll see that he does no further harm."

John rose to his feet, and looked scowlingly from one to the other, as if undecided whether he had not better attack both.

"You've disgraced yourself, John Haynes," said the old farmer scornfully. "So you would turn negro-whipper, would you? Your talents are misapplied here at the North. Brutality isn't respectable here, my lad. You'd better find your way within the rebel lines, and then perhaps you can gratify your propensity for whipping the helpless."

"Some day I'll be revenged on you for this," said John, turning wrathfully upon Frank. "Perhaps you think I don't mean it, but the day will come when you'll remember what I say."

"I wish you no harm, John," said Frank composedly, "but I sha'n't stand by and see you beat a boy like Pomp."

"No," said the farmer sternly; "and if ever I hear of your doing it, I'll horsewhip you till you beg for mercy. Now go home, and carry your disgrace with you."

Mr. Maynard spoke contemptuously, but with decision, and pointed up the road.

With smothered wrath John obeyed his order, because he saw that it would not be safe to refuse.

"I'll come up with him yet," he muttered to himself, as he walked quietly toward home. "If he doesn't rue this day, my name isn't John Haynes."

John did not see fit to make known the circumstances of his quarrel with Frank, feeling, justly, that neither his design nor the result would reflect any credit upon himself. But his wrath was none the less deep because he brooded over it in secret. He would have renewed his attempt upon Pomp, but there was something in Mr. Maynard's eye which assured him that his threat would be carried out. Frank, solicitous for the little fellow's safety, kept vigilant watch over him for some days, but no violence was attempted. He hoped John had forgotten his threats.



Chapter XII. A Letter From The Camp

The little family at the Frost farm looked forward with anxious eagerness to the first letter from the absent father.

Ten days had elapsed when Frank was seen hurrying up the road with something in his hand.

Alice saw him first, and ran in, exclaiming, "Mother, I do believe Frank has got a letter from father. He is running up the road."

Mrs. Frost at once dropped her work, no less interested than her daughter, and was at the door just as Frank, flushed with running, reached the gate.

"What'll you give me for a letter?" he asked triumphantly.

"Give it to me quick," said Mrs. Frost. "I am anxious to learn whether your father is well."

"I guess he is, or he wouldn't have written such a long letter."

"How do you know it's long?" asked Alice. "You haven't read it."

"I judge from the weight. There are two stamps on the envelope. I was tempted to open it, but, being directed to mother, I didn't venture."

Mrs. Frost sat down, and the children gathered round her, while she read the following letter:

"CAMP  --  --  --  -- , Virginia.

"DEAR MARY: When I look about me, and consider the novelty and strangeness of my surroundings, I can hardly realize that it is only a week since I sat in our quiet sitting-room at the farm, with you and our own dear ones around me. I will try to help your imagination to a picture of my present home.

"But first let me speak of my journey hither.

"It was tedious enough, traveling all day by rail. Of course, little liberty was allowed us. Military discipline is rigid, and must be maintained. Of its necessity we had a convincing proof at a small station between Hartford and New Haven. One of our number, who, I accidentally learned, is a Canadian, and had only been tempted to enlist by the bounty, selected a seat by the door of the car. I had noticed for some time that he looked nervous and restless, as if he had something on his mind.

"At one of our stopping-places -- a small, obscure station -- he crept out of the door, and, as he thought, unobserved, dodged behind a shed, thinking, no doubt, that the train would go off without him. But an officer had his eye upon him, and a minute afterward he was ignominiously brought back and put under guard. I am glad to say that his case inspired no sympathy. To enlist, obtain a bounty, and then attempt to evade the service for which the bounty was given, is despicable in the extreme. I am glad to know that no others of our company had the least desire to follow this man's example.

"We passed through New York, Philadelphia, and Washington, but I can give you little idea of either of these cities. The time we passed in each was mostly during the hours of darkness, when there was little opportunity of seeing anything.

"In Washington I was fortunate enough to see our worthy President. We were marching down Pennsylvania Avenue at the time. On the opposite side of the street we descried a very tall man, of slender figure, walking thoughtfully along, not appearing to notice what was passing around him.

"The officer in command turned and said: 'Boys, look sharp. That is Abraham Lincoln, across the way.'

"Of course, we all looked eagerly toward the man of whom we had heard so much.

"I could not help thinking how great a responsibility rests upon this man -- to how great an extent the welfare and destinies of our beloved country depend upon his patriotic course.

"As I noticed his features, which, plain as they are, bear the unmistakable marks of a shrewd benevolence, and evince also, as I think, acute and original powers of mind, I felt reassured. I could not help saying to myself: 'This man is at least honest, and if he does not carry us in safety through this tremendous crisis, it will not be for the lack of an honest determination to do his duty.'

"And now let me attempt to give you a picture of our present situation, with some account of the way we live.

"Our camp may appropriately be called 'Hut Village.' Imagine several avenues lined with square log huts, surmounted by tent-coverings. The logs are placed transversely, and are clipped at the ends, so as to fit each other more compactly. In this way the interstices are made much narrower than they would otherwise be. These, moreover, are filled in with mud, which, as you have probably heard, is a staple production of Virginia. This is a good protection against the cold, though it does not give our dwellings a very elegant appearance.

"Around most of our huts shallow trenches are dug, to carry off the water, thus diminishing the dampness. Most of the huts are not floored, but mine, fortunately, is an exception to the general rule. My comrades succeeded in obtaining some boards somewhere, and we are a little in advance of our neighbors in this respect.

"Six of us are lodged in a tent. It is pretty close packing, but we don't stand upon ceremony here. My messmates seem to be pleasant fellows. I have been most attracted to Frank Grover; a bright young fellow of eighteen. He tells me that he is an only son, and his mother is a widow.

"'Wasn't your mother unwilling to have you come out here?' I asked him one day.

"'No,' he answered, 'not unwilling. She was only sorry for the necessity. When I told her that I felt it to be my duty, she told me at once to go. She said she would never stand between me and my country.'

"'You must think of her often,' I said.

"'All the time,' he answered seriously, a thoughtful expression stealing over his young face. 'I write to her twice a week regular, and sometimes oftener. For her sake I hope my life may be spared to return.'

"'I hope so, too,' I answered warmly. Then after a minute's silence, I added from some impulse: 'Will you let me call you Frank? I have a boy at home, not many years younger than you. His name is Frank also -- it will seem to remind me of him.'

"'I wish you would,' he answered, his face lighting up with evident pleasure. 'Everybody calls me Frank at home, and I am tired of being called Grover.'

"So our compact was made. I shall feel a warm interest in this brave boy, and I fervently hope that the chances of war will leave him unscathed.

"I must give you a description of Hiram Marden, another of our small company, a very different kind of person from Frank Grover. But it takes all sorts of characters to make an army, as well as a world, and Marden is one of the oddities. Imagine a tall young fellow, with a thin face, lantern jaws, and long hair 'slicked' down on either side. Though he may be patriotic, he was led into the army from a different cause. He cherished an attachment for a village beauty, who did not return his love. He makes no concealment of his rebuff, but appears to enjoy discoursing in a sentimental way upon his disappointment. He wears such an air of meek resignation when he speaks of his cruel fair one that the effect is quite irresistible, and I find it difficult to accord him that sympathy which his unhappy fate demands. Fortunately for him, his troubles, deep-seated as they are, appear to have very little effect upon his appetite. He sits down to his rations with a look of subdued sorrow upon his face, and sighs frequently between the mouthfuls. In spite of this, however, he seldom leaves anything upon his tin plate, which speaks well for his appetite, since Uncle Sam is a generous provider, and few of us do full justice to our allowance.

"You may wonder how I enjoy soldier's fare. I certainly do long sometimes for the good pumpkin and apple pies which I used to have at home, and confess that a little apple sauce would make my hardtack a little more savory. I begin to appreciate your good qualities as a housekeeper, Mary, more than ever. Pies can be got of the sutler, but they are such poor things that I would rather do without than eat them, and I am quite sure they would try my digestion sorely.

"There is one very homely esculent which we crave in the camp -- I mean the onion. It is an excellent preventive of scurvy, a disease to which our mode of living particularly exposes us. We eat as many as we can get, and should be glad of more. Tell Frank he may plant a whole acre of them. They will require considerable care, but even in a pecuniary way they will pay. The price has considerably advanced since the war began, on account of the large army demand, and will doubtless increase more.

"As to our military exercises, drill, etc., we have enough to occupy our time well. I see the advantage of enlisting in a veteran regiment. I find myself improving very rapidly. Besides my public company drill, I am getting my young comrade, Frank Grover, who has been in the service six months, to give me some private lessons. With the help of these, I hope to pass muster creditably before my first month is out.

"And now, my dear Mary, I must draw my letter to a close. In the army we are obliged to write under difficulties. I am writing this on my knapsack for a desk, and that is not quite so easy as a table. The constrained position in which I am forced to sit has tired me, and I think I will go out and 'limber' myself a little. Frank, who has just finished a letter to his mother, will no doubt join me. Two of my comrades are sitting close by, playing euchre. When I joined them I found they were in the habit of playing for small stakes, but I have succeeded in inducing them to give up a practice which might not unlikely lead to bad results.

"In closing, I need not tell you how much and how often I think of you all. I have never before been separated from you, and there are times when my longing to be with you again is very strong. You must make up for your absence by frequent and long letters. Tell me all that is going on. Even trifles will serve to amuse us here.

"Tell Frank to send me Harper's Weekly regularly. Two or three times a week I should like to have a daily paper forwarded. Every newspaper that finds its way into camp goes the rounds, and its contents are eagerly devoured.

"I will write you again very soon. The letters I write and receive from home will be one of my principal sources of pleasure. God bless you all, is the prayer of your affectionate husband and father,

"Henry Frost."


It is hardly necessary to say that this letter was read with eager interest. That evening all the children, including little Charlie, were busy writing letters to the absent father. I have not room to print them all, but as this was Charlie's first epistolary effort, it may interest some of my youthful readers to see it. The mistakes in spelling will be excused on the score of Charlie's literary inexperience. This is the way it commenced:


"DEER FARTHER: I am sorry you hav to live in a log hous stuck up with mud. I shud think the mud wood cum off on your close. I am wel and so is Maggie. Frank is agoin to make me a sled -- a real good one. I shal cal it the egle. I hope we shal soon hav sum sno. It will be my berth day next week. I shal be seven years old. I hope you cum back soon. Good nite.

"from CHARLIE."


Charlie was so proud of his letter that he insisted on having it enclosed in a separate envelope and mailed by itself -- a request which was complied with by his mother.



Chapter XIII. Mischief On Foot

As may be supposed, John Haynes was deeply incensed with Frank Frost for the manner in which he had foiled him in his attack upon Pomp. He felt that in this whole matter he had appeared by no means to advantage. After all his boasting, he had been defeated by a boy younger and smaller than himself. The old grudge which he had against Frank for the success gained over him at school increased and added poignancy to his mortification. He felt that he should never be satisfied until he had "come up" with Frank in some way. The prospect of seeing him ejected from the farm was pleasant, but it was too far off. John did not feel like waiting so long for the gratification of his revengeful feelings. He resolved in the meantime to devise some method of injuring or annoying Frank.

He could not at once think of anything feasible. Several schemes flitted across his mind, but all were open to some objection. John did not care to attempt anything which would expose him, if discovered, to a legal punishment. I am afraid this weighed more with him than the wrong or injustice of his schemes.

At last it occurred to him that Mr. Frost kept a couple of pigs. To let them out secretly at night would be annoying to Frank, as they would probably stray quite a distance, and thus a tedious pursuit would be made necessary. Perhaps they might never be found, in which case John felt that he should not grieve much.

Upon this scheme John finally settled as the one promising the most amusement to himself and annoyance to his enemy, as he chose to regard Frank. He felt quite averse, however, to doing the work himself. In the first place, it must be done by night, and he could not absent himself from the house at a late hour without his father's knowledge. Again, he knew there was a risk of being caught, and it would not sound very well if noised abroad that the son of Squire Haynes had gone out by night and let loose a neighbor's pigs.

He cast about in his mind for a confederate, and after awhile settled upon a boy named Dick Bumstead.

This Dick had the reputation of being a scape-grace and a ne'er-do-well. He was about the age of John Haynes, but had not attended school for a couple of years, and, less from want of natural capacity than from indolence, knew scarcely more than a boy of ten. His father was a shoemaker, and had felt obliged to keep his son at home to assist him in the shop. He did not prove a very efficient assistant, however, being inclined to shirk duty whenever he could.

It was upon this boy that John Haynes fixed as most likely to help him in his plot. On his way home from school the next afternoon, he noticed Dick loitering along a little in advance.

"Hold on, Dick," he called out, in a friendly voice, at the same time quickening his pace.

Dick turned in some surprise, for John Haynes had a foolish pride, which had hitherto kept him very distant toward those whom he regarded as standing lower than himself in the social scale.

"How are you, John?" he responded, putting up the knife with which he had been whittling.

"All right. What are you up to nowadays?"

"Working in the shop," said Dick, shrugging his shoulders. "I wish people didn't wear shoes, for my part. I've helped make my share. Pegging isn't a very interesting operation."

"No," said John, with remarkable affability. "I shouldn't think there'd be much fun in it."

"Fun! I guess not. For my part, I'd be willing to go barefoot, if other people would, for the sake of getting rid of pegging."

"I suppose you have some time to yourself, though, don't you?"

"Precious little. I ought to be in the shop now. Father sent me down to the store for some awls, and he'll be fretting because I don't get back. I broke my awl on purpose," said Dick, laughing, "so as to get a chance to run out a little while."

"I suppose your father gives you some of the money that you earn, doesn't he?' inquired John.

"A few cents now and then; that's all. He says everything is so high nowadays that it takes all we can both of us earn to buy food and clothes. So if a fellow wants a few cents now and then to buy a cigar, he can't have 'em."

John was glad to hear this. He felt that he could the more readily induce Dick to assist him in his plans.

"Dick!" he said abruptly, looking round to see that no one was within hearing-distance, "wouldn't you like to earn a two-dollar bill?"

"For myself?" inquired Dick.

"Certainly."

"Is there much work in it?" asked indolent Dick cautiously.

"No, and what little there is will be fun."

"Then I'm in for it. That is, I think I am. What is it?"

"You'll promise not to tell?" said John.

"Honor bright."

"It's only a little practical joke that I want to play upon one of the boys."

"On who?" asked Dick, unmindful of his grammar.

"On Frank Frost."

"Frank's a pretty good fellow. It isn't going to hurt him any, is it?"

"Oh, no, of course not."

"Because I wouldn't want to do that. He's always treated me well."

"Of course he has. It's only a little joke, you know."

"Oh, well, if it's a joke, just count me in. Fire away, and let me know what you want done."

"You know that Frank, or his father, keeps pigs?"

"Yes."

"I want you to go some night -- the sooner the better -- and let them out, so that when morning comes the pigs will be minus, and Master Frank will have a fine chase after them."

"Seems to me," said Dick, "that won't be much of a joke."

"Then I guess you never saw a pig-chase. Pigs are so contrary that if you want them to go in one direction they are sure to go in another. The way they gallop over the ground, with their little tails wriggling behind them, is a caution."

"But it would be a great trouble to Frank to get them back."

"Oh, well, you could help him, and so get still more fun out of it, he not knowing, of course, that you had anything to do with letting them out."

"And that would take me out of the shop for a couple of hours," said Dick, brightening at the thought.

"Of course," said John; "so you would get a double advantage. Come, what do you say?"

"Well, I don't know," said Dick, wavering. "You'd pay me the money down on the nail, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," said John. "I'll show you the bill now."

He took from his pocketbook a two-dollar greenback, and displayed it to Dick.

"You could buy cigars enough with this to last you some time," he said insinuatingly.

"So I could. I declare, I've a good mind to take up your offer."

"You'd better. It's a good one."

"But why don't you do it yourself?" asked Dick, with sudden wonder.

"Because father's very strict," said John glibly, "and if I should leave the house at night, he'd be sure to find it out."

"That's where I have the advantage. I sleep downstairs, and can easily slip out of the window, without anybody's being the wiser."

"Just the thing. Then you agree?"

"Yes, I might as well. Are you particular about the night?"

"No, take your choice about that. Only the sooner the better."

The two boys separated, John feeling quite elated with his success.



Chapter XIV. A Raid Upon The Pig-Pen

The more Dick thought of the enterprise which he had undertaken, the more he disliked it. He relished fun as much as any one, but he could not conceal from himself that he would be subjecting Frank to a great deal of trouble and annoyance. As he had told John, Frank had always treated him well, and this thought made the scheme disagreeable to him.

Still, John had promised him two dollars for his co-operation, and this, in his circumstances, was an important consideration. Unfortunately, Dick had contracted a fondness for smoking -- a habit which his scanty supply of pocket-money rarely enabled him to indulge. This windfall would keep him in cigars for some time. It was this reflection which finally turned the wavering scale of Dick's irresolution, and determined him to embrace John's offer.

The moon was now at the full, and the nights were bright and beautiful. Dick decided that it would be best to defer the accomplishment of his purpose till later in the month, when darker nights would serve as a screen, and render detection more difficult.

By and by a night came which he thought suitable. A few stars were out, but they gave only a faint glimmer of light, not more than was necessary.

Dick went to bed at nine o'clock, as usual. By an effort he succeeded in keeping awake, feeling that if he once yielded to drowsiness, he should probably sleep on till morning. At half-past nine all in the house were abed. It was not till eleven, however, that Dick felt it safe to leave the house. He dressed himself expeditiously and in silence, occasionally listening to see if he could detect any sound in the room above, where his parents slept. Finally he raised the window softly, and jumped out. He crept out to the road, and swiftly bent his steps toward Mr. Frost's house.

As this was not more than a third of a mile distant, a very few minutes sufficed to bring him to his destination. Dick's feelings were not the most comfortable. Though he repeatedly assured himself that it was only fun he was engaged in, he felt very much like a burglar about to enter a house.

Arrived before the farmhouse, he looked cautiously up to the windows, but could see no light burning.

"The coast is clear," he thought. "I wish it were all over, and I were on my way home."

Dick had not reconnoitered thoroughly. There was a light burning in a window at the other end of the house.

The pig-pen was a small, rough, unpainted building, with a yard opening from it. Around the yard was a stone wall, which prevented the pigs from making their escape. They were now, as Dick could with difficulty see, stretched out upon the floor of the pen, asleep.

Dick proceeded to remove a portion of the stones forming the wall. It was not very easy or agreeable work, the stones being large and heavy. At length he effected a gap which he thought would be large enough for the pigs to pass through. He next considered whether it would be better to disturb the slumbers of the pigs by poking them with a hoe, or wait and let them find out the avenue of escape in the morning. He finally decided to stir them up. He accordingly went round to the door and, seizing a hoe, commenced punching one of the pigs vigorously.

The pig whose slumbers were thus rudely disturbed awoke with a loud grunt, and probably would have looked astonished and indignant if nature had given him the power of expressing such emotions.

"Get out, there, you lazy beast," exclaimed Dick.

The pig, as was perhaps only natural under the circumstances, seemed reluctant to get up, and was by no means backward in grunting his discontent. Dick was earnestly engaged in overcoming his repugnance to locomotion, when he was startled by hearing the door of the building, which he had carefully closed, open slowly. Looking up hastily, the hoe still in his hand, his dismayed glance fell upon Frank Frost, entering with a lantern.

A half-exclamation of surprise and dismay escaped him. This called the attention of Frank, who till that moment was unsuspicious of Dick's presence.

"Dick Bumstead!" he exclaimed, as soon as he recognized the intruder. "What brings you here at this time of night?"

"A mean errand, Frank," returned Dick, with a wholesome feeling of shame. He had made up his mind to a confession.

"You didn't come here to -- to --  -- " Here Frank stopped short.

"No, not to steal. I ain't quite so mean as that comes to. I come to let out your pigs, so that in the morning you would have a long chase after them."

"But what could put such a thing into your head, Dick?" asked Frank, in great surprise.

"I thought it would be a good joke."

"It wouldn't have been much of a joke to me," said Frank.

"No; and to tell the truth it wouldn't have been to me. The fact is, and I don't mind telling it, that I should never have thought of such a thing if somebody else hadn't put it into my head."

"Somebody else?"

"Yes; I'd a little rather not tell who that somebody is, for I don't believe he would like to have you know."

"Why didn't he come himself?" asked Frank. "It seems to me he's been making a catspaw of you."

"A catspaw?"

"Yes, haven't you read the story? A monkey wanted to draw some chestnuts out of the hot ashes, but, feeling a decided objection to burning his own paws in the operation, drew a cat to the fire and thrust her paw in."

"I don't know but it's been so in my case," said Dick. "I didn't want to do it, and that's a fact. I felt as mean as could be when I first came into your yard to-night. But he offered me two dollars to do it, and it's so seldom I see money that it tempted me."

Frank looked puzzled. "I don't see," he said thoughtfully, "how anybody should think it worth while to pay two dollars for such a piece of mischief."

"Perhaps he don't like you, and wanted to plague you," suggested Dick.

The thought at once flashed upon Frank that John Haynes must be implicated. He was the only boy who was likely to have two dollars to invest in this way, and the suggestion offered by Dick of personal enmity was sufficient to supply a motive for his action.

"I believe I know who it is, now, Dick," he said quietly. "However, I won't ask you to tell me. There is one boy in the village who thinks he has cause of complaint against me, though I have never intentionally injured him."

"What shall you do about it, Frank?" asked Dick, a little awkwardly, for he did not want his own agency made public.

"Nothing," answered Frank. "I would rather take no notice of it."

"At any rate, I hope you won't think hard of me," said Dick. "You have always treated me well, and I didn't want to trouble you. But the money tempted me. I meant to buy cigars with it."

"You don't smoke, Dick?"

"Yes, when I get a chance."

"I wouldn't if I were you. It isn't good for boys like you and me. It is an expensive habit, and injurious, too."

"I don't know but you are right, Frank," said Dick candidly.

"I know I am. You can leave off now, Dick, better than when you are older."

At this moment a voice was heard from the house, calling "Frank!"

"I came out for some herbs," said Frank hurriedly. "Jacob isn't very well, and mother is going to make him some herb tea. I won't mention that I have seen you."

"All right. Thank you, Frank."

A minute later Frank went into the house, leaving Dick by himself.

"Now," thought Dick, "I must try to remedy the mischief I have done. I'm afraid I've got a job before me."

He went round to the gap in the wall, and began to lay it again as well as he could. In lifting the heavy stones he began to realize how much easier it is to make mischief than to repair damages afterward. He pulled and tugged, but it took him a good half-hour, and by that time he felt very tired.

"My clothes must be precious dirty," he said to himself. "At any rate, my hands are. I wonder where the pump is. But then it won't do to pump; it'll make too much noise. Oh, here's some water in the trough."

Dick succeeded in getting some of the dirt off his hands, which he dried on his handkerchief. Then with a feeling of relief, he took the road toward home.

Although he may be said to have failed most signally in his design, he felt considerably better than if he had succeeded.

"Frank's a good fellow," he said to himself. "Some boys would have been mad, and made a great fuss. But he didn't seem angry at all, not even with John Haynes, and did all he could to screen me. Well I'm glad I didn't succeed."

Dick reached home without any further mischance, and succeeded in crawling in at the window without making any sound loud enough to wake up his parents.

The next day John, who had been informed of his intention to make the attempt the evening previous, contrived to meet him.

"Well, Dick," he said eagerly, "what success last night?"

"None at all," answered Dick.

"Didn't you try?"

"Yes."

"What prevented your succeeding, then?"

"Frank came out to get some herbs to make tea for the hired man, and so caught me."

"You didn't tell him who put you up to it?" said John apprehensively.

"No," said Dick coolly; "I don't do such things."

"That's good," said John, relieved. "Was he mad?"

"No, he didn't make any fuss. He asked what made me do it, and I told him somebody else put it into my head."

"You did! I thought you said you didn't."

"I didn't tell who that somebody was, but Frank said he could guess."

"He can't prove it," said John hastily.

"I don't think he'll try," said Dick. "The fact is, John, Frank's a good fellow, and if you want to get anybody to do him any mischief hereafter, you'd better not apply to me."

"I don't know as he's any better than other boys," said John, sneering. He did not enjoy hearing Frank's praises.

"He's better than either of us, I'm sure of that," said Dick decidedly.

"Speak for yourself, Dick Bumstead," said John haughtily. "I wouldn't lower myself by a comparison with him. He's only a laborer, and will grow up a clodhopper."

"He's my friend, John Haynes," said Dick stoutly, "and if you've got anything else to say against him, you'll oblige me by going farther off."

John left in high dudgeon.

That day, to his father's surprise, Dick worked with steady industry, and did not make a single attempt to shirk.



Chapter XV. Pomp Behaves Badly

The village of Rossville was distant about five miles from the long line of railway which binds together with iron bands the cities of New York and Boston. Only when the wind was strongly that way could the monotonous noise of the railway-train be heard, as the iron monster, with its heavy burden, sped swiftly on its way.

Lately a covered wagon had commenced running twice a day between Rossville and the railway-station at Wellington. It was started at seven in the morning, in time to meet the early trains, and again at four, in order to receive any passengers who might have left the city in the afternoon.

Occupying a central position in the village stood the tavern -- a two-story building, with a long piazza running along the front. Here an extended seat was provided, on which, when the weather was not too inclement, the floating population of the village, who had plenty of leisure, and others when their work was over for the day, liked to congregate, and in neighborly chat discuss the affairs of the village, or the nation, speculating perchance upon the varying phases of the great civil contest, which, though raging hundreds of miles away, came home to the hearts and hearths of quiet Rossville and every other village and hamlet in the land.

The driver of the carriage which made its daily journeys to and fro from the station had received from his parents the rather uncommon name of Ajax, not probably from any supposed resemblance to the ancient Grecian hero, of whom it is doubtful whether his worthy progenitor had ever heard. He had been at one time a driver on a horse-car in New York, but had managed to find his way from the busy hum of the city to quiet Rossville, where he was just in time for an employment similar to the one he had given up.

One day, early in November, a young man of slight figure, apparently not far from twenty-five years of age, descended from the cars at the Wellington station and, crossing the track, passed through the small station-house to the rear platform.

"Can you tell me," he inquired of a bystander, "whether there is any conveyance between this place and Rossville?"

"Yes, sir," was the reply. "That's the regular carriage, and here's the driver. Ajax, here's a passenger for you."

"I have a trunk on the other side," said the young man, addressing the driver. "If you wild go round with me, we will bring it here."

"All right, sir," said Ajax, in a businesslike way.

The trunk was brought round and placed on the rack behind the wagon. It was a large black trunk, securely bound with brass bands, and showed marks of service, as if it had been considerably used. Two small strips of paper pasted on the side bore the custom-house marks of Havre and Liverpool. On one end was a large card, on which, written in large, bold letters, was the name of the proprietor, Henry Morton.

In five minutes the "express" got under way. The road wound partly through the woods. In some places the boughs, bending over from opposite sides, nearly met. At present the branches were nearly destitute of leaves, and the landscape looked bleak. But in the summer nothing could be more charming.

From his seat, beside Ajax, Henry Morton regarded attentively the prominent features of the landscape. His survey was interrupted by a question from the driver.

"Are you calc'latin' to make a long stay in our village?" inquired Ajax, with Yankee freedom.

"I am not quite certain. It is possible that I may."

"There isn't much goin' on in winter."

"No, I suppose not."

After a few minutes' pause, he inquired, "Can you tell me if there is a gentleman living in the village named Haynes?"

"I expect you mean Squire Haynes," said Ajax.

"Very probably he goes by that name. He was formerly a lawyer."

"Yes, that's the man. Do you know him?"

"I have heard of him," said the young man, non-committally.

"Then you ain't going to stop there?"

An expression of repugnance swept over the young man's face, as he hastily answered in the negative.

By this time they had come to a turn in the road. This brought them in view of Chloe's cottage. Little Pomp was on all fours, hunting for nuts among the fallen leaves under the shagbark-tree.

Under the influence of some freakish impulse, Pomp suddenly jumped to his feet and, whirling his arms aloft, uttered a wild whoop. Startled by the unexpected apparition, the horses gave a sudden start, and nearly succeeded in overturning the wagon.

"Massy on us!" exclaimed an old lady on the back seat, suddenly flinging her arms round young Morton's neck, in the height of her consternation.

"All right, marm," said Ajax reassuringly, after a brief but successful conflict with the horses. "We sha'n't go over this time. I should like to give that little black imp a good shaking."

"Oh, I've lost my ban'box, with my best bunnit," hastily exclaimed the old lady. "Le' me get out and find it. It was a present from my darter, Cynthy Ann, and I wouldn't lose it for a kingdom."

In truth, when prompted by her apprehension to cling to the young man in front for protection, Mrs. Payson had inadvertently dropped the bandbox out of the window, where it met with an unhappy disaster. The horse, quite unconscious of the damage he was doing, had backed the wagon in such a manner that one of the wheels passed directly over it.

When Ajax picked up the mutilated casket, which, with the jewel it contained, had suffered such irreparable injury, and restored it to its owner, great was the lamentation. Rachel weeping for her children could hardly have exhibited more poignant sorrow.

"Oh, it's sp'ilt!" groaned the old lady. "I can never wear it arter this. And it cost four dollars and sixty-two cents and a half without the ribbon. Oh, deary me!"

Then, suddenly waxing indignant with the author of the mischief, she put her head out of the window, and, espying Pomp on the other side of the stone wall, looking half-repentant and half-struck with the fun of the thing, she shook her fist at him, exclaiming, "Oh, you little sarpint, ef I only had you here, I'd w'ip you till you couldn't stan'."

Pomp was so far from being terrified by this menace that he burst into a loud guffaw. This, of course, added fuel to the flame of the old lady's wrath, and filled her with thoughts of immediate vengeance. Her sympathy with the oppressed black race was at that moment very small.

"Jest lend me your w'ip, driver," said she, "an' I'll l'arn that sassy imp to make fun of his elders."

Ajax, whose sense of humor was tickled by the old lady's peculiarities, quietly took her at her word, and coming round to the side opened the door of the carriage.

"There, ma'am," said he, extending the whip. "Don't spare him. He deserves a flogging."

Mrs. Payson, her eyes flashing from beneath her glasses with a vengeful light, seized the proffered whip with alacrity, and jumped out of the wagon with a lightness which could hardly have been anticipated of one of her age.

"Now, look out," she said, brandishing the whip in a menacing way. "I'll git pay for that bunnit in one way, ef I don't in another."

Pomp maintained his position on the other side of the wall. He waited till the old lady was fairly over, and then commenced running. The old lady pursued with vindictive animosity, cracking the whip in a suggestive manner. Pomp doubled and turned in a most provoking way. Finally he had recourse to a piece of strategy. He had flung himself, doubled up in a ball, at the old lady's feet, and she, unable to check her speed, fell over him, clutching at the ground with her outstretched hands, from which the whip had fallen.

"Hi, hi!" shrieked Pomp, with a yell of inconceivable delight, as he watched the signal downfall of his adversary. Springing quickly to his feet, he ran swiftly away.

"Good for you, you old debble!" he cried from a safe distance.

Henry Morton, though he found it difficult to restrain his laughter, turned to Ajax and said, "I think it's time we interfered. If you'll overtake the little black boy and give him a shaking up, just to keep him out of mischief hereafter, I'll go and help the old lady."

Ajax started on his errand. Pomp, now really alarmed, strove to escape from this more formidable adversary, but in vain. He was destined to receive a summary castigation.

Meanwhile, the young man approached Mrs. Payson.

"I hope you're not much hurt, madam," said he respectfully.

"I expect about every bone in my body's broke," she groaned.

Raising her to her feet, it became manifest that the damage was limited to a pair of hands begrimed by contact with the earth. Nevertheless, the old lady persisted that "something or 'nother was broke. She didn't feel quite right inside."

"I shouldn't keer so much," she added, "ef I'd caught that aggravatin' boy. I'd go fifty miles to see him hung. He'll die on the gallows, jest as sure's I stan' here."

At this moment a shrill cry was heard, which could proceed from no one but Pomp.

"Golly, Mass' Jack, don't hit so hard. Couldn't help it, sure."

"You'll have to help it the next time, you little rascal!" responded Ajax.

"Le' me go. I hope to be killed if I ever do it ag'in," pleaded Pomp, dancing about in pain.

"I hope you gin it to him," said the old lady, as the driver reappeared.

Ajax smiled grimly. "I touched him up a little," he said.

"Oh, my poor bunnit!" groaned Mrs. Payson, once more, as her eyes fell upon the crushed article. "What will Cynthy Ann say?"

"Perhaps a milliner can restore it for you," suggested Henry Morton, with an attempt at consolation.

The old lady shook her head disconsolately. "It's all jammed out of shape," she said dismally, "an' the flowers is all mashed up. Looks as ef an elephant had trodden on to it."

"As you are the only one of us that has suffered," said the young man politely, "I think it only fair that your loss should be lightened. Will you accept this toward making it good?"

He drew from his portemonnaie a five-dollar greenback, as he spoke, and offered it to Mrs. Payson.

"Are you in airnest?" inquired the old lady dubiously.

"Quite so."

"You ain't robbin' yourself, be you?" asked Mrs. Payson, with a look of subdued eagerness lighting up her wrinkled face.

"Oh, no; I can spare it perfectly well."

"Then I'll take it," she responded, in evident gratification, "an' I'm sure I'm much obleeged to you. I'm free to confess that you're a gentleman sech as I don't often meet with. I wouldn't take it on no account, only the loss is considerable for me, and Cynthy Ann, she would have been disapp'inted if so be as I hadn't worn the bunnit. I'd like to know who it is that I'm so much obligated to."

Henry Morton drew a card from his card-case and handed it with a bow to Mrs. Payson.

"What's that?" asked the old lady.

"My card."

"Le's see, where's my specs?" said Mrs. Payson, fumbling in her pocket. "Oh, I've got 'em on. So your name's Herod. What made 'em call you that?"

"Henry, madam -- Henry Morton."

"Well, so 'tis, I declare. You ain't related to Nahum Morton, of Gilead, be you; he that was put into the State's prison for breakin' open the Gilead Bank?"

An amused smile overspread the young man's face.

"I never had any relatives sent to the State's prison," he answered; "though I think it quite possible that some of them may have deserved it."

"Jest so," assented the old lady. "There's a good deal of iniquity that never comes to light. I once know'd a woman that killed her husband with the tongs, and nobody ever surmised it; though everybody thought it strange that he should disappear so suddint. Well, this woman on her death-bed owned up to the tongs in a crazy fit that she had. But the most cur'us part of it," the old lady added rather illogically, "was, that the man was livin' all the while, and it was all his wife's fancy that she'd struck him with the tongs."

By this time the "express" had rumbled into the main street of Rossville, and the old lady had hardly completed her striking illustration of the truth, that murder will out, before they had drawn up in front of the tavern.

"Ain't you a-goin' to carry me to my darter's house?" she inquired with solicitude. "I can't walk noway."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Ajax, "directly, just as soon as this gentleman's got out, and they've taken the mail."

He tossed the mail-bag to a small boy who stood on the piazza in waiting to receive it, and then, whipping up his horses, speedily conveyed Mrs. Payson to her destination.

"He's a very nice, obleeging young man," said the old lady, referring to Henry Morton. "I wonder ef his mother was a Bent. There's old Micajah Bent's third daughter, Roxana Jane, married a Morton, or it might have been a Moulton. Ever see him afore?"

"No, ma'am. Here you are."

"So I be! and there's Reuben at the gate. How are ye all? Jest take this carpetbag, will ye, and I'll give you a cent some time or 'nother."

Reuben did not appear much elated by this promise. It had been made too many times without fulfilment.

The old lady having reached her destination, we take leave of her for the present, promising to resume her acquaintance in subsequent chapters.



Chapter XVI. Frank Makes A Friend

Henry Morton rose with the sun. This was not so early as may be supposed, for already November had touched its middle point, and the tardy sun did not make its appearance till nearly seven o'clock. As he passed through the hall he noticed that breakfast was not quite ready.

"A little walk will sharpen my appetite," he thought. He put on his hat, and, passing through the stable-yard at the rear, climbed over a fence and ascended a hill which he had observed from his chamber window. The sloping sides, which had not yet wholly lost their appearance of verdure, were dotted with trees, mostly apple-trees.

"It must be delightful in summer," said the young man, as he looked thoughtfully about him.

The hill was by no means high, and five minutes' walk brought him to the summit. From this spot he had a fine view of the village which lay at his feet embowered in trees. A narrow river wound like a silver thread through the landscape. Groups of trees on either bank bent over as if to see themselves reflected in the rapid stream. At one point a dam had been built across from bank to bank, above which the river widened and deepened, affording an excellent skating-ground for the boys in the cold days of December and January. A whirring noise was heard. The grist-mill had just commenced its work for the day. Down below the dam the shallow water eddied and whirled, breaking in fleecy foam over protuberant rocks which lay in the river-bed.

The old village church with its modest proportions occupied a knoll between the hill and the river. It was girdled about with firs intermingled with elms. Near-by was a small triangular common, thickly planted with trees, each facing a separate street. Houses clustered here and there. Comfortable buildings they were, but built evidently rather for use than show. The architect had not yet come to the assistance of the village carpenter.

Seen in the cheering light of the rising sun, Henry Morton could not help feeling that a beautiful picture was spread out before him.

"After all," he said thoughtfully, "we needn't go abroad for beauty, when we can find so much of it at our own doors. Yet, perhaps the more we see of the beautiful, the better we are fitted to appreciate it in the wonderful variety of its numberless forms."

He slowly descended the hill, but in a different direction. This brought him to the road that connected the village with North Rossville, two miles distant.

Coming from a different direction, a boy reached the stile about the same time with himself, and both clambered over together.

"It is a beautiful morning," said the young man courteously.

"Yes, sir," was the respectful answer. "Have you been up looking at the view?"

"Yes -- and to get an appetite for breakfast. And you?"

Frank Frost -- for it was he -- laughed. "Oh, I am here on quite a different errand," he said. "I used to come here earlier in the season to drive the cows to pasture. I come this morning to carry some milk to a neighbor who takes it of us. She usually sends for it, but her son is just now sick with the measles."

"Yet I think you cannot fail to enjoy the pleasant morning, even if you are here for other purposes."

"I do enjoy it very much," said Frank. "When I read of beautiful scenery in other countries, I always wish that I could visit them, and see for myself."

"Perhaps you will some day."

Frank smiled, and shook his head incredulously. "I am afraid there is not much chance of it," he said.

"So I thought when I was of your age," returned Henry Morton.

"Then you have traveled?" said Frank, looking interested.

"Yes. I have visited most of the countries of Europe."

"Have you been in Rome?" inquired Frank.

"Yes. Are you interested in Rome?"

"Who could help it, sir? I should like to see the Capitol, and the Via Sacra, and the Tarpeian Rock, and the Forum -- and, in fact, Rome must be full of objects of interest. Who knows but I might tread where Cicero, and Virgil, and Caesar had trodden before me?"

Henry Morton looked at the boy who stood beside him with increased interest. "I see you are quite a scholar," he said. "Where did you learn about all these men and places?"

"I have partly prepared for college," answered Frank; "but my father went to the war some weeks since, and I am staying at home to take charge of the farm, and supply his place as well as I can."

"It must have been quite a sacrifice to you to give up your studies?" said his companion.

"Yes, sir, it was a great sacrifice; but we must all of us sacrifice something in these times. Even the boys can do something for their country."

"What is your name?" asked Henry Morton, more and more pleased with his chance acquaintance. "I should like to become better acquainted with you."

Frank blushed, and his expressive face showed that he was gratified by the compliment.

"My name is Frank Frost," he answered, "and I live about half a mile from here."

"And I am Henry Morton. I am stopping temporarily at the hotel. Shall you be at leisure this evening, Frank?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I should be glad to receive a call from you. I have no acquaintances, and perhaps we may help each other to make the evening pass pleasantly. I have some pictures collected abroad, which I think you might like to look at."

"I shall be delighted to come," said Frank, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.

By this time they had reached the church, which was distant but a few rods from the hotel. They had just turned the corner of the road, when the clang of a bell was heard.

"I suppose that is my breakfast-bell," said the young man. "It finds me with a good appetite. Good morning, Frank. I will expect you, then, this evening."

Frank returned home, feeling quite pleased with his invitation.

"I wish," thought he, "that I might see considerable of Mr. Morton. I could learn a great deal from him, he has seen so much."

His road led him past the house of Squire Haynes. John was sauntering about the yard with his hands in his pockets.

"Good morning, John," said Frank, in a pleasant voice.

John did not seem inclined to respond to this politeness. On seeing Frank he scowled, and without deigning to make a reply turned his back and went into the house. He had not forgotten the last occasion on which they had met in the woods, when Frank defeated his cruel designs upon poor Pomp. There was not much likelihood that he would forget it very soon.

"I can't understand John," thought Frank. "The other boys will get mad and get over it before the next day; John broods over it for weeks. I really believe he hates me. But, of course, I couldn't act any differently. I wasn't going to stand by and see Pomp beaten. I should do just the same again."

The day wore away, and in the evening Frank presented himself at the hotel, and inquired for Mr. Morton. He was ushered upstairs, and told to knock at the door of a room in the second story.

His knock was answered by the young man in person, who shook his hand with a pleasant smile, and invited him in.

"I am glad to see you, Frank," he said, very cordially.

"And I am much obliged to you for inviting me, Mr. Morton."

They sat down together beside the table, and conversed on a variety of topics. Frank had numberless questions to ask about foreign scenes and countries, all of which were answered with the utmost readiness. Henry Morton brought out a large portfolio containing various pictures, some on note-paper, representing scenes in different parts of Europe.

The evening wore away only too rapidly for Frank. He had seldom passed two hours so pleasantly. At half-past nine, he rose, and said half-regretfully, "I wish you were going to live in the village this winter, Mr. Morton."

The young man smiled. "Such is my intention, Frank," he said quietly.

"Shall you stay?" said Frank joyfully. "I suppose you will board here?"

"I should prefer a quieter boarding-place. Can you recommend one?"

Frank hesitated.

"Where," continued Mr. Morton, "I could enjoy the companionship of an intelligent young gentleman of your age?"

"If we lived nearer the village," Frank began, and stopped abruptly.

"Half a mile would be no objection to me. As I don't think you will find it unpleasant, Frank, I will authorize you to offer your mother five dollars a week for a room and a seat at her table."

"I am quite sure she would be willing, Mr. Morton, but I am afraid we should not live well enough to suit you. And I don't think you ought to pay so much as five dollars a week."

"Leave that to me, Frank. My main object is to obtain a pleasant home; and that I am sure I should find at your house."

"Thank you, sir," said Frank; "I will mention it to my mother, and let you know in the course of to-morrow."



Chapter XVII. A Shade Of Mystery

Frank found little difficulty in persuading his mother to accept young Morton's proposition. From her son's description she felt little doubt that he would be a pleasant addition to the family circle, while his fund of information would make him instructive as well as agreeable.

There was another consideration besides which determined her to take him. Five dollars a week would go a great way in housekeeping, or, rather, as their income from other sources would probably be sufficient for this, she could lay aside the entire amount toward paying the mortgage held by Squire Haynes. This plan occurred simultaneously to Frank and his mother.

"I should certainly feel myself to blame if I neglected so good an opportunity of helping your father," said Mrs. Frost.

"Suppose we don't tell him, mother," suggested Frank; "but when he gets home surprise him with the amount of our savings."

"No," said Mrs. Frost, after a moment's thought, "your father will be all the better for all the good news we can send him. It will make his life more tolerable."

Frank harnessed his horse to a light wagon and drove down to the tavern.

Henry Morton was sitting on the piazza, as the day was unusually-warm, with a book in his hand.

"Well," he said, looking up with a smile, "I hope you have come for me."

"That is my errand, Mr. Morton," answered Frank. "If your trunk is already packed, we will take it along with us."

"It is quite ready. If you will come up and help me downstairs with it, I will settle with the landlord and leave at once."

This was speedily arranged, and the young man soon occupied a seat beside Frank.

Arrived at the farmhouse, Frank introduced the new boarder to his mother.

"I hope we shall be able to make you comfortable," said Mrs. Frost, in a hospitable tone.

"I entertain no doubt of it," he said politely. "I am easy to suit, and I foresee that Frank and I will become intimate friends."

"He was very urgent to have you come. I am not quite sure whether it would have been safe for me to refuse."

"I hope he will be as urgent to have me stay. That will be a still higher compliment."

"Here is the room you are to occupy, Mr. Morton," said Mrs. Frost, opening a door at the head of the front stairs.

It was a large square room, occupying the front eastern corner of the house. The furniture was neat and comfortable, though not pretentious.

"I like this," said the young man, surveying his new quarters with an air of satisfaction. "The sun will find me out in the morning."

"Yes, it will remain with you through the forenoon. I think you will find the room warm and comfortable. But whenever you get tired of it you will be welcome downstairs."

"That is an invitation of which I shall be only too glad to avail myself. Now, Frank, if you will be kind enough to help me upstairs with my trunk."

The trunk was carried up between them, and placed in a closet.

"I will send for a variety of articles from the city to make my room look social and cheerful," said Mr. Morton. "I have some books and engravings in Boston, which I think will contribute to make it so."

A day or two later, two large boxes arrived, one containing pictures, the other books. Of the latter there were perhaps a hundred and fifty, choice and well selected.

Frank looked at them with avidity.

"You shall be welcome to use them as freely as you like," said the owner -- an offer which Frank gratefully accepted.

The engravings were tastefully framed in black walnut. One represented one of Raphael's Madonnas. Another was a fine photograph, representing a palace in Venice. Several others portrayed foreign scenes. Among them was a street scene in Rome. An entire family were sitting in different postures on the portico of a fine building, the man with his swarthy features half-concealed under a slouch hat, the woman holding a child in her lap, while another, a boy with large black eyes, leaned his head upon her knees.

"That represents a Roman family at home," explained Henry Morton.

"At home!"

"Yes, it is the only home they have. They sleep wherever night finds them, sheltering themselves from the weather as well as they can."

"But how do they get through the winter? should think they would freeze."

"Nature has bestowed upon Italy a mild climate, so that, although they may find the exposure at this season disagreeable, they are in no danger of freezing."

There was another engraving which Frank looked at curiously. It represented a wagon laden with casks of wine, and drawn by an ox and a donkey yoked together. Underneath was a descriptive phrase, "Caro di vino."

"You don't see such teams in this country," said Mr. Morton, smiling. "In Italy they are common enough. In the background you notice a priest with a shovel-hat, sitting sideways on a donkey. Such a sight is much more common there than that of a man on horseback. Indeed, this stubborn animal is found very useful in ascending and descending mountains, being much surer-footed than the horse. I have ridden down steep descents along the verge of a precipice where it would have been madness to venture on horseback, but I felt the strongest confidence in the donkey I bestrode."

Frank noticed a few Latin books in the collection. "Do you read Latin, Mr. Morton?" he inquired.

"Yes, with tolerable ease. If I can be of any assistance to you in carrying on your Latin studies, it will afford me pleasure to do so."

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Morton. I tried to go on with it by myself, but every now and then I came to a difficult sentence which I could not make out."

"I think we can overcome the difficulties between us. At any rate, we will try. Have no hesitation in applying to me."

Before closing this chapter, I think it necessary to narrate a little incident which served to heighten the interest with which Frank regarded his new friend, though it involved the latter in a shadow of mystery.

Mrs. Frost did not keep what in New England is denominated "help." Being in good health, she performed the greater part of her household tasks unassisted. When washing and house-cleaning days came, however, she obtained outside assistance. For this purpose she engaged Chloe to come twice a week, on Monday and Saturday, not only because in this way she could help the woman to earn a living, but also because she found her a valuable and efficient assistant.

Henry Morton became a member of the little household at the farm on Thursday, and two days later Chloe came as usual to "clean house."

The young man was standing in the front yard as Chloe, with a white turban on her head, for she had not yet laid aside her Southern mode of dress, came from the street by a little path which led to the back door. Her attention was naturally drawn to the young man. No sooner did she obtain a full view of him, than she stopped short and exclaimed with every appearance of surprise, "Why, Mass' Richard, who'd'a' thought to see you here. You look just like you used to do, dat's a fac'. It does my old eyes good to see you."

Henry Morton turned suddenly.

"What, Chloe!" he exclaimed in equal surprise. "What brings you up here? I thought you were miles away, in Virginia."

"So I was, Mass' Richard. But Lor' bless you, when de Linkum sogers come, I couldn't stay no longer. I took and runned away."

"And here you are, then."

"Yes, Mass' Richard, here I is, for sure."

"How do you like the North, Chloe?"

"Don't like it as well as de Souf. It's too cold," and Chloe shivered.

"But you would rather be here than there?"

"Yes, Mass' Richard. Here I own myself. Don't have no oberseer to crack his whip at me now. I'se a free woman now, and so's my little Pomp."

The young man smiled at the innocent mistake.

"Pomp is your little boy, I suppose, Chloe."

"Yes, Mass' Richard."

"Is he a good boy?"

"He's as sassy as de debble," said Chloe emphatically. "I don't know what's goin' to 'come of dat boy. He's most worried my life out."

"Oh, he'll grow better as he grows older. Don't trouble yourself about him. But, Chloe, there's one favor I am going to ask of you."

"Yes, Mass' Richard."

"Don't call me by my real name. For some reasons, which I can't at present explain, I prefer to be known as Henry Morton, for some months to come. Do you think you can remember to call me by that name?"

"Yes, Mass' -- Henry," said Chloe, looking perplexed.

Henry Morton turned round to meet the surprised looks of Frank and his mother.

"My friends," he said, "I hope you will not feel distrustful of me, when I freely acknowledge to you that imperative reasons compel me for a time to appear under a name not my own. Chloe and I are old acquaintances, but I must request her to keep secret for a time her past knowledge concerning me. I think," he added with a smile, "that she would have nothing to say that would damage me. Some time you shall know all. Are you satisfied?"

"Quite so," said Mrs. Frost. "I have no doubt you have good and sufficient reason."

"I will endeavor to justify your confidence," said Henry Morton, an expression of pleasure lighting up his face.



Chapter XVIII. Thanksgiving At The Farm

The chill November days drew to a close. The shrill winds whistled through the branches of the trees, and stirred the leaves which lay in brown heaps upon the ground. But at the end of the month came Thanksgiving -- the farmer's Harvest Home. The fruits of the field were in abundance but in many a home there were vacant chairs, never more, alas! to be filled. But he who dies in a noble cause leaves sweet and fragrant memories behind, which shall ever after make it pleasant to think of him.

Thanksgiving morning dawned foggy and cold. Yet there is something in the name that warms the heart and makes the dullest day seem bright. The sunshine of the heart more than compensates for the absence of sunshine without.

Frank had not been idle.

The night before he helped Jacob kill a turkey and a pair of chickens, and seated on a box in the barn they had picked them clean in preparation for the morrow.

Within the house, too, might be heard the notes of busy preparation. Alice, sitting in a low chair, was busily engaged in chopping meat for mince pies. Maggie sat near her paring pumpkins, for a genuine New England Thanksgiving cannot be properly celebrated without pumpkin pies. Even little Charlie found work to do in slicing apples.

By evening a long row of pies might be seen upon the kitchen dresser. Brown and flaky they looked, fit for the table of a prince. So the children thought as they surveyed the attractive array, and felt that Thanksgiving, come as often as it might, could never be unwelcome.

Through the forenoon of Thanksgiving day the preparations continued. Frank and Mr. Morton went to the village church, where an appropriate service was held by Reverend Mr. Apthorp. There were but few of the village matrons present. They were mostly detained at home by housewifely cares, which on that day could not well be delegated to other hands.

"Mr. Morton," said Frank, as they walked leisurely home, "did you notice how Squire Haynes stared at you this morning?"

Mr. Morton looked interested. "Did he?" he asked. "I did not notice."

"Yes, he turned halfround, and looked at you with a puzzled expression, as if he thought he had seen you somewhere before, but could not recall who you were."

"Perhaps I reminded him of some one he has known in past years," said the young man quietly. "We sometimes find strange resemblances in utter strangers."

"I think he must have felt quite interested," pursued Frank, "for he stopped me after church, and inquired who you were."

"Indeed!" said Henry Morton quietly. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him your name, and mentioned that you were boarding with us."

"What then? Did he make any further inquiries?"

"He asked where you came from."

"He seemed quite curious about me. I ought to feel flattered. And what did you reply?"

"I told him I did not know -- that I only knew that part of your life had been passed in Europe. I heard him say under his breath, 'It is singular.'"

"Frank," said Mr. Morton, after a moment's thought, "I wish to have Squire Haynes learn as little of me as possible. If, therefore, he should ask you how I am employed, you say that I have come here for the benefit of my health. This is one of my motives, though not the principal one."

"I will remember," said Frank. "I don't think he will say much to me, however. He has a grudge against father, and his son does not like me. I am sorry that father is compelled to have some business relations with the squire."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, he holds a mortgage on our farm for eight hundred dollars. It was originally more, but it has been reduced to this. He will have the right to foreclose on the first of July."

"Shall you have the money ready for him at that time?"

"No; we may have half enough, perhaps. I am sometimes troubled when I think of it. Father feels confident, however, that the squire will not be hard upon us, but will renew the mortgage."

Henry Morton looked very thoughtful, but said nothing.

They had now reached the farmhouse.

Dinner was already on the table. In the center, on a large dish, was the turkey, done to a turn. It was flanked by the chickens on a smaller dish. These were supported by various vegetables, such as the season supplied. A dish of cranberry sauce stood at one end of the table, and at the opposite end a dish of apple sauce.

"Do you think you can carve the turkey, Mr. Morton?" asked Mrs. Frost.

"I will at least make the attempt."

"I want the wish-bone, Mr. Morton," said Maggie.

"No, I want it," said Charlie.

"You shall both have one," said the mother. "Luckily each of the chickens is provided with one."

"I know what I am going to wish," said Charlie, nodding his head with decision.

"Well, Charlie, what is it?" asked Frank.

"I shall wish that papa may come home safe."

"And so will I," said Maggie.

"I wish he might sit down with us to-day," said Mrs. Frost, with a little sigh. "He has never before been absent from us on Thanksgiving day."

"Was he well when you last heard from him?"

"Yes, but hourly expecting orders to march to join the army in Maryland. I am afraid he won't get as good a Thanksgiving dinner as this."

"Two years ago," said Mr. Morton, "I ate my Thanksgiving dinner in Amsterdam."

"Do they have Thanksgiving there, Mr. Morton?" inquired Alice.

"No, they know nothing of our good New England festival. I was obliged to order a special dinner for myself. I don't think you would have recognized plum pudding under the name which they gave it."

"What was it?" asked Frank curiously.

"Blom buden was the name given on the bill."

"I can spell better than that," said Charlie.

"We shall have to send you out among the Dutchmen as a schoolmaster plenipotentiary," said Frank, laughing. "I hope the 'blom buden' was good in spite of the way it was spelt."

"Yes, it was very good."

"I don't believe it beat mother's," said Charlie.

"At your present rate of progress, Charlie, you won't leave room for any," said Frank.

"I wish I had two stomachs," said Charlie, looking regretfully at the inviting delicacies which tempted him with what the French call the embarrassment of riches.

"Well done, Charlie!" laughed his mother.

Dinner was at length over. Havoc and desolation reigned upon the once well-filled table.

In the evening, as they all sat together round the table, Maggie climbed on Mr. Morton's knee and petitioned for a story.

"What shall it be about?" he asked.

"Oh, anything."

"Let me think a moment," said the young man.

He bent his eyes thoughtfully upon the wood-fire that crackled in the wide-open fireplace, and soon signified that he was ready to begin.

All the children gathered around him, and even Mrs. Frost, sitting quietly at her knitting, edged her chair a little nearer, that she, too, might listen to Mr. Morton's story. As this was of some length, we shall devote to it a separate chapter.



Chapter XIX. The Wonderful Transformation

"My story," commenced Mr. Morton, "is rather a remarkable one in some respects; and I cannot vouch for its being true. I shall call it 'The Wonderful Transformation.'

"Thomas Tubbs was a prosperous little tailor, and for forty years had been a resident of the town of Webbington, where he had been born and brought up. I have called him little, and you will agree with me when I say that, even in high-heeled boots, which he always wore, he measured only four feet and a half in height.

"In spite, however, of his undersize, Thomas had succeeded in winning the hand of a woman fifteen inches taller than himself. If this extra height had been divided equally between them, possibly they might have attracted less observation. As it was, when they walked to church, the top of the little tailor's beaver just about reached the shoulders of Mrs. Tubbs. Nevertheless, they managed to live very happily together, for the most part, though now and then, when Thomas was a little refractory, his better half would snatch him up bodily, and, carrying him to the cellar, lock him up there. Such little incidents only served to spice their domestic life, and were usually followed by a warm reconciliation.

"The happy pair had six children, all of whom took after their mother, and promised to be tall; the oldest boy, twelve years of age, being already taller than his father, or, rather, he would have been but for the tall hat and high-heeled boots.

"Mr. Tubbs was a tailor, as I have said. One day there came into his shop a man attired with extreme shabbiness. Thomas eyed him askance.

"'Mr. Tubbs,' said the stranger, 'as you perceive, I am out at the elbows. I would like to get you to make me up a suit of clothes.'

"'Ahem!' coughed Thomas, and glanced upward at a notice affixed to the door, 'Terms, Cash.'

"The stranger's eye followed the direction of Mr. Tubbs'. He smiled.

"'I frankly confess,' he said, 'that I shall not be able to pay immediately, but, if I live, I will pay you within six months.'

"'How am I to feel sure of that?' asked the tailor, hesitating.

"'I pledge my word,' was the reply. 'You see, Mr. Tubbs, I have been sick for some time past, and that, of course, has used up my money. Now, thank Providence, I am well again, and ready to go to work. But I need clothes, as you see, before I have the ability to pay for them.'

"'What's your name?' asked Thomas.

"'Oswald Rudenheimer,' was the reply.

"'A foreigner?'

"'As you may suppose. Now, Mr. Tubbs, what do you say? Do you think you can trust me?'

"Thomas examined the face of his visitor. He looked honest, and the little tailor had a good deal of confidence in the excellence of human nature.

"'I may be foolish,' he said at last, 'but I'll do it.'

"'A thousand thanks!' said the stranger. 'You sha'n't repent of it.'

"The cloth was selected, and Thomas set to work. In three days the suit was finished, and Thomas sat in his shop waiting for his customer. At last he came, but what a change! He was splendidly dressed. The little tailor hardly recognized him.

"'Mr. Tubbs,' said he, 'you're an honest man and a good fellow. You trusted me when I appeared penniless, but I deceived you. I am really one of the genii, of whom, perhaps, you have read, and lineally descended from those who guarded Solomon's seal. Instead of making you wait for your pay, I will recompense you on the spot, either in money or --  -- '

"'Or what? asked the astonished tailor.

"'Or I will grant the first wish that may be formed in your mind. Now choose.'

"Thomas did not take long to choose. His charge would amount to but a few dollars, while he might wish for a million. He signified his decision.

"'Perhaps you have chosen wisely,' said his visitor. 'But mind that you are careful about your wish. You may wish for something you don't want.'

"'No fear of that,' said the tailor cheerfully.

"'At any rate, I will come this way six months hence, and should you then wish to be released from the consequences of your wish, and to receive instead the money stipulated as the price of the suit, I will give you the chance.'

"Of course, Thomas did not object, though he considered it rather a foolish proposition.

"His visitor disappeared, and the tailor was left alone. He laid aside his work. How could a man be expected to work who had only to wish, and he could come into possession of more than he could earn in a hundred or even a thousand years?

"'I might as well enjoy myself a little,' thought Mr. Tubbs. 'Let me see. I think there is a show in the village to-day. I'll go to it.'

"He accordingly slipped on his hat and went out, somewhat to the surprise of his wife, who concluded that her husband must be going out on business.

"Thomas Tubbs wended his way to the marketplace. He pressed in among the people, a crowd of whom had already assembled to witness the show. I cannot tell you what the show was. I am only concerned in telling you what Thomas Tubbs saw and did; and, to tell the plain truth, he didn't see anything at all. He was wedged in among people a foot or two taller than himself. Now, it is not pleasant to hear all about you laughing heartily and not even catch a glimpse of what amuses them so much. Thomas Tubbs was human, and as curious as most people. Just as a six-footer squeezed in front of him he could not help framing, in his vexation, this wish:

"'Oh, dear! I wish I were ten feet high!'

"Luckless Thomas Tubbs! Never had he framed a more unfortunate wish. On the instant he shot up from an altitude of four feet six to ten feet. Fortunately his clothes expanded proportionally. So, instead of being below the medium height, he was raised more than four feet above it.

"Of course, his immediate neighbors became aware of the gigantic presence, though they did not at all recognize its identity with the little tailor, Thomas Tubbs.

"At once there was a shout of terror. The crowd scattered in all directions, forgetting the spectacle at which, the moment before, they had been laughing heartily, and the little tailor, no longer little, was left alone in the market-place.

"'Good heavens!' he exclaimed in bewilderment, stretching out his brawny arm, nearly five feet in length, and staring at it in ludicrous astonishment, 'who'd have thought that I should ever be so tall?'

"To tell the truth, the little man -- I mean Mr. Tubbs -- at first rather enjoyed his new magnitude. He had experienced mortification so long on account of his diminutive stature, that he felt a little exhilarated at the idea of being able to look down on those to whom he had hitherto felt compelled to look up. It was rather awkward to have people afraid of him. As he turned to leave the square, for the exhibitor of the show had run off in the general panic, he could see people looking at him from third-story windows, and pointing at him with outstretched fingers and mouths agape.

"'Really,' thought Thomas Tubbs, 'I never expected to be such an object of interest. I think I'll go home.'

"His house was a mile off, but so large were his strides that five minutes carried him to it.

"Now Mrs. Tubbs was busy putting the dinner on the table, and wondering why her husband did not make his appearance. She was fully determined to give him a scolding in case his delay was so great as to cause the dinner to cool. All at once she heard a bustle at the door. Looking into the entry, she saw a huge man endeavoring to make his entrance into the house. As the portal was only seven feet in height, it was not accomplished without a great deal of twisting and squirming.

"Mrs. Tubbs turned pale.

"'What are you trying to do, you monster?' she faltered.

"'I have come home to dinner, Mary,' was the meek reply.

"'Come home to dinner!' exclaimed Mrs. Tubbs, aghast. 'Who in the name of wonder are you, you overgrown brute?'

"'Who am I? asked the giant, smiling feebly, for he began to feel a little queer at this reception from the wife with whom he had lived for fifteen years. 'Ha! ha! don't you know your own husband -- your Tommy?'

"'My husband!' exclaimed Mrs. Tubbs, astonished at the fellow's impudence. 'You, don't mean to say that you are my husband?'

"'Of course I am,' said Thomas.

"'Then,' said Mrs. Tubbs, 'I would have you know that my husband is a respectable little man, not half your size.'

"'Oh, dear!' thought Thomas. 'Well, here's a kettle of fish; my own wife won't own me!'

"'So I was,' he said aloud. 'I was only four feet six; but I've -- I've grown.'

"'Grown!' Mrs. Tubbs laughed hysterically. 'That's a likely story, when it's only an hour since my husband went into the street as short as ever. I only wish he'd come in, I do, to expose your imposition.'

"'But I have grown, Mary,' said Tubbs piteously. 'I was out in the crowd, and I couldn't see what was going on, and so I wished I was ten feet high; and, before I knew it, I was as tall as I am now.'

"'No doubt,' said Mrs. Tubbs incredulously, 'As to that, all I've got to say is, that you'd better wish yourself back again, as I sha'n't own you as my husband till you do!'

"'Really,' thought Mr. Tubbs, 'this is dreadful! What can I do!'

"Just then one of his children ran into the room.

"'Johnny, come to me,' said his father imploringly. 'Come to your father.'

"'My father!' said Johnny, shying out of the room. 'You ain't my father. My father isn't as tall as a tree.'

"'You see how absurd your claim is,' said Mrs. Tubbs. 'You'll oblige me by leaving the house directly.'

"'Leave the house -- my house!' said Tubbs.

"'If you don't, I'll call in the neighbors,' said the courageous woman.

"'I don't believe they'd dare to come,' said Tubbs, smiling queerly at the recollection of what a sensation his appearance had made.

"'Won't you go?'

"'At least you'll let me have some dinner. I am 'most famished.'

"'Dinner!" said Mrs. Tubbs, hesitating. 'I don't think there's enough in the house. However, you can sit down to the table.'

"Tubbs attempted to sit down on a chair, but his weight was so great that it was crushed beneath him. Finally, he was compelled to sit on the floor, and even then his stature was such that his head rose to the height of six feet.

"What an enormous appetite he had, too! The viands on the table seemed nothing. He at first supplied his plate with the usual quantity; but as the extent of his appetite became revealed to him, he was forced to make away with everything on the table. Even then he was hungry.

"'Well, I declare,' thought Mrs. Tubbs, in amazement, 'it does take an immense quantity to keep him alive!'

"Tubbs rose from the table, and, in doing so, hit his head a smart whack against the ceiling. Before leaving the house he turned to make a last appeal to his wife, who, he could not help seeing, was anxious to have him go.

"'Won't you own me, Mary?' he asked. 'It isn't my fault that I am so big.'

"'Own you!' exclaimed his wife. 'I wouldn't own you for a mint of money. You'd eat me out of house and home in less than a week.'

"'I don't know but I should,' said Mr. Tubbs mournfully. 'I don't see what gives me such an appetite. I'm hungry now.'

"'Hungry, after you've eaten enough for six!' exclaimed his wife, aghast. 'Well, I never!'

"'Then you won't let me stay, Mary?'

"'No, no.'

"With slow and sad strides Thomas Tubbs left the house. The world seemed dark enough to the poor fellow. Not only was he disowned by his wife and children, but he could not tell how he should ever earn enough to keep him alive, with the frightful appetite which he now possessed. 'I don't know,' he thought, 'but the best way is to drown myself at once.' So he walked to the river, but found it was not deep enough to drown him.

"As he emerged from the river uncomfortably wet, he saw a man timidly approaching him. It proved to be the manager of the show.

"'Hello!' said he hesitatingly.

"'Hello!' returned Tubbs disconsolately.

"'Would you like to enter into a business engagement with me?'

"'Of what sort?' asked Tubbs, brightening up.

"'To be exhibited,' was the reply. 'You're the largest man living in the world. We could make a pretty penny together.'

"Tubbs was glad enough to accept this proposition, which came to him like a plank to a drowning man. Accordingly an agreement was made that, after deducting expenses, he should share profits with the manager.

"It proved to be a great success. From all quarters people flocked to see the great prodigy, the wonder of the world, as he was described in huge posters. Scientific men wrote learned papers in which they strove to explain his extraordinary height, and, as might be expected, no two assigned the same cause.

"At the end of six months Tubbs had five thousand dollars as his share of the profits. But after all he was far from happy. He missed the society of his wife and children, and shed many tears over his separation from them.

"At the end of six months his singular customer again made his appearance.

"'It seems to me you've altered some since I last saw you,' he said, with a smile.

"'Yes,' said Tubbs dolefully.

"'You don't like the change, I judge?'

"'No,' said Tubbs. 'It separates me from my wife and children, and that makes me unhappy.'

"'Would you like to be changed back again!'

"'Gladly,' was the reply.

"Presto! the wonderful giant was changed back into the little tailor. No sooner was this effected than he returned post-haste to Webbington. His wife received him with open arms.

"'Oh, Thomas,' she exclaimed, 'how could you leave us so? On the day of your disappearance a huge brute of a man came here and pretended to be you, but I soon sent him away.'

"Thomas wisely said nothing, but displayed his five thousand dollars. There was great joy in the little dwelling. Thomas Tubbs at once took a larger shop, and grew every year in wealth and public esteem. The only way in which he did not grow was in stature; but his six months' experience as a giant had cured him of any wish of that sort. The last I heard of him was his election to the legislature."

"That's a bully story," said Charlie, using a word which he had heard from older boys. "I wish I was a great tall giant."

"What would you do if you were, Charlie?"

"I'd go and fight the rebels," said Charlie manfully.



Chapter XX. Pomp's Education Commences

In the season of leisure from farm work which followed, Frank found considerable time for study. The kind sympathy and ready assistance given by Mr. Morton made his task a very agreeable one, and his progress for a time was as rapid as if he had remained at school.

He also assumed the office of teacher, having undertaken to give a little elementary instruction to Pomp. Here his task was beset with difficulties. Pomp was naturally bright, but incorrigibly idle. His activity was all misdirected and led him into a wide variety of mischief. He had been sent to school, but his mischievous propensities had so infected the boys sitting near him that the teacher had been compelled to request his removal.

Three times in the week, during the afternoon, Pomp came over to the farm for instruction. On the first of these occasions we will look in upon him and his teacher.

Pomp is sitting on a cricket by the kitchen fire. He has a primer open before him at the alphabet. His round eyes are fixed upon the page as long as Frank is looking at him, but he requires constant watching. His teacher sits near-by, with a Latin dictionary resting upon a light stand before him, and a copy of Virgil's Aeneid in his hand.

"Well, Pomp, do you think you know your lesson?" he asks.

"Dunno, Mass' Frank; I reckon so."

"You may bring your book to me, and I will try you."

Pomp rose from his stool and sidled up to Frank with no great alacrity.

"What's that letter, Pomp?" asked the young teacher, pointing out the initial letter of the alphabet.

Pomp answered correctly.

"And what is the next?"

Pomp shifted from one foot to the other, and stared vacantly out of the window, but said nothing.

"Don't you know?"

"'Pears like I don't 'member him, Mass' Frank."

Here Frank had recourse to a system of mnemonics frequently resorted to by teachers in their extremity.

"What's the name of the little insect that stings people sometimes, Pomp?"

"Wasp, Mass' Frank," was the confident reply.

"No, I don't mean that. I mean the bee."

"Yes, Mass' Frank."

"Well, this is B."

Pomp looked at it attentively, and, after a pause, inquired, "Where's him wings, Mass' Frank?"

Frank bit his lips to keep from laughing. "I don't mean that this is a bee that makes honey," he explained, "only it has the same name. Now do you think you can remember how it is called?" "Bumblebee!" repeated Pomp triumphantly.

Pomp's error was corrected, and the lesson proceeded.

"What is the next letter?" asked Frank, indicating it with the point of his knife-blade.

"X," answered the pupil readily.

"No, Pomp," was the dismayed reply. "It is very different from X."

"Dat's him name at school," said Pomp positively.

"No, Pomp, you are mistaken. That is X, away down there."

"Perhaps him change his name," suggested Pomp.

"No. The letters never change their names. I don't think you know your lesson, Pomp. just listen to me while I tell you the names of some of the letters, and try to remember them."

When this was done, Pomp was directed to sit down on the cricket, and study his lesson for twenty Minutes, at the end of which he might again recite.

Pomp sat down, and for five minutes seemed absorbed in his book. Then, unfortunately, the cat walked into the room, and soon attracted the attention of the young student. He sidled from his seat so silently that Frank did not hear him. He was soon made sensible that Pomp was engaged in some mischief by hearing a prolonged wail of anguish from the cat.

Looking up, he found that his promising pupil had tied her by the leg to a chair, and under these circumstances was amusing himself by pinching her tail.

"What are you doing there, Pomp?" he asked quickly.

Pomp scuttled back to his seat, and appeared to be deeply intent upon his primer.

"Ain't doin' noffin', Mass' Frank," he answered innocently.

"Then how came the cat tied to that chair?"

"'Spec' she must have tied herself."

"Come, Pomp, you know better than that. You know cats can't tie themselves. Get up immediately and unfasten her."

Pomp rose with alacrity, and undertook to release puss from the thraldom of which she had become very impatient. Perhaps she would have been quite as well off if she had been left to herself. The process of liberation did not appear to be very agreeable, judging from the angry mews which proceeded from her. Finally, in her indignation against Pomp for some aggressive act, she scratched him sharply.

"You wicked old debble!" exclaimed Pomp wrathfully.

He kicked at the cat; but she was lucky enough to escape, and ran out of the room as fast as her four legs could carry her.

"Big ugly debble!" muttered Pomp, watching the blood ooze from his finger.

"What's the matter, Pomp?"

"Old cat scratch me."

"And what did you do to her, Pomp? I am afraid you deserved your scratch."

"Didn't do noffin', Mass' Frank," said Pomp virtuously.

"I don't think you always tell the truth, Pomp."

"Can't help it, Mass' Frank. 'Spec' I've got a little debble inside of me."

"What do you mean, Pomp! What put that idea in your head?"

"Dat's what mammy says. Dat's what she al'ays tells me."

"Then," said Frank, "I think it will be best to whip it out of you. Where's my stick?"

"Oh, no, Mass' Frank," said Pomp, in alarm; "I'll be good, for sure."

"Then sit down and get your lesson."

Again Pomp assumed his cricket. Before he had time to devise any new mischief, Mrs. Frost came to the head of the stairs and called Frank.

Frank laid aside his books, and presented himself at the foot of the stairs.

"I should like your help a few minutes. Can you leave your studies?"

"Certainly, mother."

Before going up, he cautioned Pomp to study quietly, and not get into any mischief while he was gone. Pomp promised very readily.

Frank had hardly got upstairs before his pupil rose from the cricket, and began to look attentively about him. His first proceeding was to, hide his primer carefully in Mrs. Frost's work-basket, which lay on the table. Then, looking curiously about him, his attention was drawn to the old-fashioned clock that stood in the corner.

Now, Pomp's curiosity had been strongly excited by this clock. It was not quite clear to him how the striking part was effected. Here seemed to be a favorable opportunity for instituting an investigation. Pomp drew his cricket to, the clock, and, opening it, tried to reach up to the face. But he was not yet high enough. He tried a chair, and still required a greater elevation. Espying Frank's Latin dictionary, he pressed that into service.

By and by Frank and his mother heard the clock striking an unusual number of times.

"What is the matter with the clock?" inquired Mrs. Frost.

"I don't know," said Frank unsuspiciously.

"It has struck ten times, and it is only four o' clock."

"I wonder if Pomp can have got at it," said Frank, with a sudden thought.

He ran downstairs hastily.

Pomp heard him coming, and in his anxiety to escape detection, contrived to lose his balance and fall to the floor. As he fell, he struck the table, on which a pan of sour milk had been placed, and it was overturned, deluging poor Pomp with the unsavory fluid.

Pomp shrieked and kicked most energetically. His appearance, as he picked himself up, was ludicrous in the extreme. His sable face was plentifully besprinkled with clotted milk, giving him the appearance of a negro who is coming out white in spots. The floor was swimming in milk. Luckily the dictionary had fallen clear of it, and so escaped.

"Is this the way you study?" demanded Frank, as sternly as his sense of the ludicrous plight in which he found Pomp would permit.

For once Pomp's ready wit deserted him. He had nothing to say.

"Go out and wash yourself."

Pomp came back rather shamefaced, his face restored to its original color.

"Now, where is your book?"

Pomp looked about him, but, as he took good care not to look where he knew his book to be, of course he did not find it.

"I 'clare, Mass' Frank, it done lost," he at length asserted.

"How can it be lost when you had it only a few minutes ago?"

"I dunno," answered Pomp stolidly.

"Have you been out of the room?"

Pomp answered in the negative.

"Then it must be somewhere here."

Frank went quietly to the corner of the room and took therefrom a stick.

"Now, Pomp," he said, "I will give you just two minutes to find the book in. If you don't find it, I shall have to give you a whipping."

Pomp looked at his teacher to see if he was in earnest. Seeing that he was, he judged it best to find the book.

Looking into the work-box, he said innocently: "I 'clare to gracious, Mass' Frank, if it hasn't slipped down yere. Dat's mi'ty cur's, dat is."

"Pomp, sit down," said Frank. "I am going to talk to you seriously. What makes you tell so many lies?"

"Dunno any better," replied Pomp, grinning.

"Yes, you do, Pomp. Doesn't your mother tell you not to lie?"

"Lor', Mass' Frank, she's poor ignorant nigger. She don't know nuffin'."

"You mustn't speak so of your mother. She brings you up as well as she knows how. She has to work hard for you, and you ought to love her."

"So I do, 'cept when she licks me."

"If you behave properly she won't whip you. You'll grow up a 'poor, ignorant nigger' yourself, if you don't study."

"Shall I get white, Mass' Frank, if I study?" asked Pomp, showing a double row of white teeth.

"You were white enough just now," said Frank, smiling.

"Yah, yah!" returned Pomp, who appreciated the joke.

"Now, Pomp," Frank continued seriously, "if you will learn your lesson in fifteen minutes I will give you a piece of gingerbread."

"I'll do it, Mass' Frank," said Pomp promptly.

Pomp was very fond of gingerbread, as Frank very well knew. In the time specified the lesson was got, and recited satisfactorily.

As Pomp's education will not again be referred to, it may be said that when Frank had discovered how to manage him, he learned quite rapidly. Chloe, who was herself unable to read, began to look upon Pomp with a new feeling of respect when she found that he could read stories in words of one syllable, and the "lickings" of which he complained became less frequent. But his love of fun still remained, and occasionally got him into trouble, as we shall hereafter have occasion to see.



Chapter XXI. The Battle Of Fredericksburg

About the middle of December came the sad tragedy of Fredericksburg, in which thousands of our gallant soldiers yielded up their lives in a hard, unequal struggle, which brought forth nothing but mortification and disaster.

The first telegrams which appeared in the daily papers brought anxiety and bodings of ill to many households. The dwellers at the farm were not exempt. They had been apprised by a recent letter that Mr. Frost's regiment now formed a part of the grand army which lay encamped on the eastern side of the Rappahannock. The probability was that he was engaged in the battle. Frank realized for the first time to what peril his father was exposed, and mingled with the natural feeling which such a thought was likely to produce was the reflection that, but for him, his father would have been in safety at home.

"Did I do right?" Frank asked himself anxiously, the old doubt recurring once more.

Then, above the selfish thought of peril to him and his, rose the consideration of the country's need, and Frank said to himself, "I have done right -- whatever happens. I feel sure of that."

Yet his anxiety was by no means diminished, especially when, a day or two afterward, tidings of the disaster came to hand, only redeemed by the masterly retreat across the river, in which a great army, without the loss of a single gun, ambulance, or wagon, withdrew from the scene of a hopeless struggle, under the very eyes of the enemy, yet escaping discovery.

One afternoon Frank went to the post-office a little after the usual time. As he made his way through a group at the door, he notice compassionate glances directed toward him.

His heart gave a sudden bound.

"Has anything happened to my father?" he inquired, with pale face. "Have any of you heard anything?"

"He is wounded, Frank," said the nearest bystander.

"Show it to me," said Frank.

In the evening paper, which was placed in his hands, he read a single line, but of fearful import: "Henry Frost, wounded." Whether the wound was slight or serious, no intimation was given.

Frank heaved a sigh of comparative relief. His father was not dead, as he at first feared. Yet he felt that the suspense would be a serious trial. He did not know how to tell his mother. She met him at the gate. His serious face and lagging steps revealed the truth, exciting at first apprehensions of something even more serious.

For two days they remained without news. Then came a letter from the absent father, which wonderfully lightened all their hearts. The fact that he was able to write a long letter with his own hand showed plainly that his wound must be a trifling one. The letter ran thus:


"DEAR MARY: I fear that the report of my wound will reach you before this letter comes to assure you that it is a mere scratch, and scarcely worth a thought. I cannot for an instant think of it, when I consider how many of our poor fellows have been mown down by instant death, or are now lying with ghastly wounds on pallets in the hospital. We have been through a fearful trial, and the worst thought is that our losses are not compensated by a single advantage.

"Before giving you an account of it from the point of view of a private soldier, let me set your mind at rest by saying that my injury is only a slight flesh-wound in the arm, which will necessitate my carrying it in a sling for a few days; that is all.

"Early on the morning of Thursday, the 10th inst., the first act in the great drama commenced with laying the pontoon bridges over which our men were to make their way into the rebel city. My own division was to cross directly opposite the city. All honor to the brave men who volunteered to lay the bridges. It was a trying and perilous duty. On the other side, in rifle-pits and houses at the brink of the river, were posted the enemy's sharpshooters, and these at a given signal opened fire upon our poor fellows who were necessarily unprotected. The firing was so severe and deadly, and impossible to escape from, that for the time we were obliged to desist. Before anything could be effected it became clear that the sharpshooters must be dislodged.

"Then opened the second scene.

"A deluge of shot and shell from our side of the river rained upon the city, setting some buildings on fire, and severely damaging others. It was a most exciting spectacle to us who watched from the bluffs, knowing that ere long we must make the perilous passage and confront the foe, the mysterious silence of whose batteries inspired alarm, as indicating a consciousness of power.

"The time of our trial came at length.

"Toward the close of the afternoon General Howard's division, to which I belong, crossed the pontoon bridge whose building had cost us more than one gallant soldier. The distance was short, for the Rappahannock at this point is not more than a quarter of a mile wide. In a few minutes we were marching through the streets of Fredericksburg. We gained possession of the lower streets, but not without some street fighting, in which our brigade lost about one hundred in killed and wounded.

"For the first time I witnessed violent death. The man marching by my side suddenly reeled, and, pressing his hand to his breast, fell forward. Only a moment before he had spoken to me, saying, 'I think we are going to have hot work.' Now he was dead, shot through the heart. I turned sick with horror, but there was no time to pause. We must march on, not knowing that our turn might not come next. Each of us felt that he bore his life in his hand.

"But this was soon over, and orders came that we should bivouac for the night. You will not wonder that I lay awake nearly the whole night. A night attack was possible, and the confusion and darkness would have made it fearful. As I lay awake I could not help thinking how anxious you would feel if you had known where I was.

"So closed the first day.

"The next dawned warm and pleasant. In the quiet of the morning it seemed hard to believe that we were on the eve of a bloody struggle. Discipline was not very strictly maintained. Some of our number left the ranks and ransacked the houses, more from curiosity than the desire to pillage.

"I went down to the bank of the river, and took a look at the bridge which it had cost us so much trouble to throw across. It bore frequent marks of the firing of the day previous.

"At one place I came across an old negro, whose white head and wrinkled face indicated an advanced age. Clinging to him were two children, of perhaps four and six years of age, who had been crying.

"'Don't cry, honey,' I heard him say soothingly, wiping the tears from the cheeks of the youngest with a coarse cotton handkerchief.

"'I want mama,' said the child piteously.

"A sad expression came over the old black's face.

"'What is the matter?' I asked, advancing toward him.

"'She is crying for her mother,' he said.

"'Is she dead?'

"'Yes, sir; she'd been ailing for a long time, and the guns of yesterday hastened her death.'

"'Where did you live?'

"'In that house yonder, sir.'

"'Didn't you feel afraid when we fired on the town?'

"'We were all in the cellar, sir. One shot struck the house, but did not injure it much.'

"'You use very good language,' I could not help saying.

"'Yes, sir; I have had more advantages than most of -- of my class.' These last words he spoke rather bitterly. 'When I was a young man my master amused himself with teaching me; but he found I learned so fast that he stopped short. But I carried it on by myself.'

"'Didn't you find that difficult?'

"'Yes, sir; but my will was strong. I managed to get books, now one way, now another. I have read considerable, sir.'

"This he said with some pride.

"'Have you ever read Shakespeare?'

"'In part, sir; but I never could get hold of "Hamlet." I have always wanted to read that play.'

"I drew him out, and was astonished at the extent of his information, and the intelligent judgment which he expressed.

"'I wonder that, with your acquirements, you should have been content to remain in a state of slavery.'

"'Content!' he repeated bitterly. 'Do you think I have been content? No, sir. Twice I attempted to escape. Each time I was caught, dragged back, and cruelly whipped. Then I was sold to the father of these little ones. He treated me so well, and I was getting so old, that I gave up the idea of running away.'

"'And where is he now?'

"'He became a colonel in the Confederate service, and was killed at Antietam. Yesterday my mistress died, as I have told you.'

"'And are you left in sole charge of these little children?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Have they no relatives living?'

"'Their uncle lives in Kentucky. I shall try to carry them there.'

"'But you will find it hard work. You have only to cross the river, and in our lines you will be no longer a slave.'

"'I know it, sir. Three of my children have got their freedom, thank God, in that way. But I can't leave these children.'

"I looked down at them. They were beautiful children. The youngest was a girl, with small features, dark hair, and black eyes. The boy, of six, was pale and composed, and uttered no murmur. Both clung confidently to the old negro.

"I could not help admiring the old man, who could resist the prospect of freedom, though he had coveted it all his life, in order to remain loyal to his trust. I felt desirous of drawing him out on the subject of the war.

"'What do you think of this war?' I asked.

"He lifted up his hand, and in a tone of solemnity, said, 'I think it is the cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night, that's going to draw us out of our bondage into the Promised Land.'

"I was struck by his answer.

"'Do many of you -- I mean of those who have not enjoyed your advantages of education -- think so?'

"'Yes, sir; we think it is the Lord's doings, and it is marvelous in our eyes. It's a time of trial and of tribulation; but it isn't a-going to last. The children of Israel were forty years in the wilderness, and so it may be with us. The day of deliverance will come.'

"At this moment the little girl began again to cry, and he addressed himself to soothe her.

"This was not the only group I encountered. Some women had come, down to the river with children half-bereft of their senses -- some apparently supposing that we should rob or murder them. The rebel leaders and newspapers have so persistently reiterated these assertions, that they have come to believe them.

"The third day was unusually lovely, but our hearts were too anxious to admit of our enjoying it. The rebels were entrenched on heights behind the town. It was necessary that these should be taken, and about noon the movement commenced. Our forces marched steadily across the intervening plain. The rebels reserved their fire till we were half-way across, and then from all sides burst forth the deadly fire. We were completely at their mercy. Twenty men in my own company fell dead or wounded, among them the captain and first lieutenant. Of what followed I can give you little idea. I gave myself up for lost. A desperate impulse enabled me to march on to what seemed certain destruction. All at once I felt a sensation of numbness in my left arm, and looking down, I saw that the blood was trickling from it.

"But I had little time to think of myself. Hearing a smothered groan, I looked round, and saw Frank Grover, pale and reeling.

"'I'm shot in the leg,' he said. 'Don't leave me here. Help me along, and I will try to keep up with you.'

"The poor lad leaned upon me, and we staggered forward. But not for long. A stone wall stared us in the face. Here rebel sharpshooters had been stationed, and they opened a galling fire upon us. We returned it, but what could we do? We were compelled to retire, and did so in good order, but unfortunately not until the sharpshooters had picked off some of our best men.

"Among the victims was the poor lad whom I assisted. A second bullet struck him in the heart. He uttered just one word, 'mother,' and fell. Poor boy, and poor mother! He seemed to have a premonition of his approaching death, and requested me the day previous to take charge of his effects, and send them with his love and a lock of his hair to his mother if anything should befall him. This request I shall at once comply with. I have succeeded in getting the poor fellow's body brought to camp, where it will be decently buried, and have cut from his head two brown locks, one for his mother, and one for myself.

"At last we got back with ranks fearfully diminished. Many old familiar faces were gone -- the faces of those now lying stiff and stark in death. More were groaning with anguish in the crowded hospital. My own wound was too trifling to require much attention. I shall have to wear a sling for a few days perhaps.

"There is little more to tell. Until Tuesday evening we maintained our position in daily expectation of an attack. But none was made. This was more fortunate for us. I cannot understand what withheld the enemy from an assault.

"On Tuesday suddenly came the order to re-cross the river. It was a stormy and dreary night, and so, of course, favorable to our purpose. The maneuver was executed in silence, and with commendable expedition. The rebels appeared to have no suspicion of General Burnside's intentions. The measured beat of our double quick was drowned by the fury of the storm, and with minds relieved, though bodies drenched, we once more found ourselves with the river between us and our foes. Nothing was left behind.

"Here we are again, but not all of us. Many a brave soldier has breathed his last, and lies under the sod. 'God's ways are dark, but soon or late they touch the shining hills of day.' So sings our own Whittier, and so I believe, in spite of the sorrowful disaster which we have met with. It is all for the best if we could but see it.

"Our heavy losses of officers have rendered some new appointments necessary. Our second lieutenant has been made captain. The orderly sergeant and second sergeant are now our lieutenants, and the line of promotion has even reached me. I am a corporal.

"I have been drawn into writing a very long letter, and I must now close, with the promise of writing again very soon. After I have concluded, I must write to poor Frank Grover's mother. May God comfort her, for she has lost a boy of whom any mother might feel proud.

"With love to the children, I remain, as ever, your affectionate husband. HENRY FROST."


"How terrible it must have been," said Mrs. Frost, with a shudder, as she folded up the letter and laid it down. "We ought indeed to feel thankful that your father's life was spared."

"If I were three years older, I might have been in the battle," thought Frank.



Chapter XXII. Frank Broaches A New Plan

For some time Frank had been revolving in his mind the feasibility of a scheme which he hoped to be able to carry into execution. It was no less than this -- to form a military company among the boys, which should be organized and drilled in all respects like those composed of older persons. He did not feel like taking any steps in the matter till he had consulted with some one in whose judgment he had confidence.

One evening he mentioned his plan to Mr. Morton.

"It is a capital idea, Frank," said the young man, with warm approval. "If I can be of service to you in this matter, it will afford me much pleasure."

"There is one difficulty," suggested Frank. "None of us boys know anything about military tactics, and we shall need instruction to begin with; but where we are to find a teacher I am sure I can't tell."

"I don't think you will have to look far," said Mr. Morton, with a smile.

"Are you acquainted with the manual?" asked Frank eagerly.

"I believe so. You see you have not yet got to the end of my accomplishments. I shall be happy to act as your drill-master until some one among your number is competent to take my place. I can previously give you some private lessons, if you desire it."

"There's nothing I should like better, Mr. Morton," said Frank joyfully.

"Have you got a musket in the house, then? We shall get along better with one."

"There's one in the attic."

"Very well; if you will get it, we can make a beginning now."

Frank went in search of the musket; but in his haste tumbled down the attic stairs, losing his grasp of the musket, which fell down with a clatter.

Mrs. Frost, opening the door of her bedroom in alarm, saw Frank on his back with the musket lying across his chest.

"What's the matter?" she asked, not a little startled.

Frank got up rubbing himself and looking rather foolish.

"Nothing, mother; only I was in a little too much of a hurry."

"What are you going to do with that musket, Frank?"

"Mr. Morton is going to teach me the manual, that is all, mother."

"I suppose the first position is horizontal," said his mother, with a smile.

"I don't like that position very well," returned Frank, with a laugh. "I prefer the perpendicular."

Under his friend's instructions, Frank progressed rapidly. At the end of the third lesson, Mr. Morton said, "You are nearly as competent to give instructions now as I am. There are some things, however, that cannot be learned alone. You had better take measures to form your company."

Frank called upon Mr. Rathburn, the principal of the academy, and after communicating his plan, which met with the teacher's full approval, arranged to have notice given of a meeting of the boys immediately after the afternoon session.

On Thursday afternoon when the last class had recited, previous to ringing the bell, which was a signal that school was over, Mr. Rathburn gave this brief notice:

"I am requested to ask the boys present to remain in their seats, and in which I think they will all feel interested."

Looks of curiosity were interchanged among the boys, and every one thought, "What's coming now?"

At this moment a modest knock was heard, and Mr. Rathburn, going to the door, admitted Frank. He quietly slipped into the nearest seat.

"Your late schoolfellow, Frank Frost," proceeded Mr. Rathburn, "has the merit of originating the plan to which I have referred, and he is no doubt prepared to unfold it to you."

Mr. Rathburn put on his hat and coat, and left the schoolroom. After his departure Frank rose and spoke modestly, thus:

"Boys, I have been thinking for some time past that we were not doing all that we ought in this crisis, which puts in such danger the welfare of our country. If anything, we boys ought to feel more deeply interested than our elders, for while they will soon pass off the stage we have not yet reached even the threshold of manhood. You will ask me what we can do. Let me remind you that when the war broke out the great want was, not of volunteers, but of men trained to military exercises. Our regiments were at first composed wholly of raw recruits. In Europe, military instruction is given as a matter of course; and in Germany, and perhaps other countries, young men are obliged to serve for a time in the army.

"I think we ought to profit by the lessons of experience. However the present war may turn out, we cannot be certain that other wars will not at some time break out. By that time we shall have grown to manhood, and the duty of defending our country in arms will devolve upon us. Should that time come, let it not find us unprepared. I propose that we organize a military company among the boys, and meet for drill at such times as we may hereafter agree upon. I hope that any who feel interested in the matter will express their opinions freely."

Frank sat down, and a number of the boys testified their approbation by stamping with their feet.

John Haynes rose, with a sneer upon his face.

"I would humbly inquire, Mr. Chairman, for you appear to have assumed that position, whether you intend to favor us with your valuable services as drillmaster."

Frank rose, with a flushed face.

"I am glad to be reminded of one thing, which I had forgotten," he said. "As this is a meeting for the transaction of business, it is proper that it should be regularly organized. Will some one nominate a chairman?"

"Frank Frost!" exclaimed half a dozen voices.

"I thank you for the nomination," said Frank, "but as I have something further to communicate to the meeting, it will be better to select some one else."

"I nominate Charles Reynolds," said one voice.

"Second the motion," said another.

"Those who are in favor of Charles Reynolds, as chairman of this meeting, will please signify it in the usual manner," said Frank.

Charles Reynolds, being declared duly elected, advanced to the teacher's chair.

"Mr. Chairman," said Frank, "I will now answer the question just put to me. I do not propose to offer my services as drill-master, but I am authorized to say that a gentleman whom you have all seen, Mr. Henry Morton, is willing to give instruction till you are sufficiently advanced to get along without it."

John Haynes, who felt disappointed at not having been called upon to preside over the meeting, determined to make as much trouble as possible.

"How are we to know that this Morton is qualified to give instruction?" he asked, looking round at the boys.

"The gentleman is out of order. He will please address his remarks to the Chair, and not to the audience," said the presiding officer.

"I beg pardon, Mr. Chairman," said John mockingly. "I forgot how tenacious some people are of their brief authority."

"Order! order!" called half a dozen voices.

"The gentleman will come to order," said the chairman firmly, "and make way for others unless he can treat the Chair with proper respect."

"Mr. Chairman," said Frank, rising, "I will mention, for the general information, that Mr. Morton has acted as an officer of militia, and that I consider his offer a kind one, since it will take up considerable of his time and put him to some trouble."

"I move that Mr. Morton's offer be accepted, with thanks," said Henry Tufts.

The motion was seconded by Tom Wheeler, and carried unanimously, with the exception of one vote. John Haynes sat sullenly in his seat and took no part in it.

"Who shall belong to the company?" asked the chairman. "Shall a fixed age be required?"

"I move that the age be fixed at eleven," said Robert Ingalls.

This was objected to as too young, and twelve was finally fixed upon.

John Haynes moved not to admit any one who did not attend the academy. Of course, this would exclude Frank, and his motion was not seconded.

It was finally decided to admit any above the age of twelve who desired it, but the boys reserved to themselves the right of rejecting any who should conduct himself in a manner to bring disgrace upon them.

"Mr. Chairman," said Frank, "in order to get under way as soon as possible, I have written down an agreement to which those who wish to join our proposed company can sign their names. If anybody can think of anything better, I shall be glad to have it adopted instead of this."

He handed a sheet of paper to the chairman, who read from it the following form of agreement: "We, the subscribers, agree to form a boys' volunteer company, and to conform to the regulations which may hereafter be made for its government."

"If there is no objection, we will adopt this form, and subscribe our names," said the chairman.

The motion for adoption being carried, the boys came up one by one and signed their names.

John Haynes would have held back, but for the thought that he might be elected an officer of the new company.

"Is there any further business to come before the meeting?" inquired the presiding officer.

"The boys at Webbington had a company three or four years ago," said Joe Barry, "and they used wooden guns."

"Wooden guns!" exclaimed Wilbur Summerfield disdainfully. "You won't catch me training round town with a wooden gun."

"I would remind the last three gentlemen that their remarks should be addressed to the Chair," said the presiding officer. "Of course, I don't care anything about it, but I think you would all prefer to have the meeting conducted properly."

"That's so!" exclaimed several boys.

"Then," said the chairman, "I shall call to order any boy who addresses the meeting except through me."

"Mr. Chairman," said Frank, rising, "as to the wooden guns, I quite agree with the last speaker. It would seem too much like boy's play, and we are too much in earnest for that. I have thought of an arrangement which can be made if the Selectmen will give their consent. Ten or fifteen years ago, longer than most of us can remember, as my father has told me, there was a militia company in Rossville, whose arms were supplied and owned by the town. When the company was disbanded the muskets went back to the town, and I believe they are now kept in the basement of the Town Hall. I presume that we can have the use of them on application. I move that a committee be appointed to lay the matter before the Selectmen and ask their permission."

His motion was agreed to.

"I will appoint John Haynes to serve on that committee," said the chairman, after a pause.

This was a politic appointment, as Squire Haynes was one of the Selectmen, and would be gratified at the compliment paid to his son.

"I accept the duty," said John, rising, and speaking in a tone of importance.

"Is there any other business to come before the meeting?"

"I should like to inquire, Mr. Chairman, when our first meeting will take place, and where is it to be?" asked Herbert Metcalf.

"I will appoint as a committee to make the necessary arrangements, Frank Frost, Tom Wheeler, and Robert Ingalls. Due notice will be given in school of the time and place selected, and a written notice will also be posted up in the postoffice."

"Would it not be well, Mr. Chairman," suggested Frank, "to circulate an invitation to other boys not present to-day to join the company? The larger our number, the more interest will be felt. I can think of quite a number who would be valuable members. There are Dick Bumstead, and William Chamberlain, and many others."

At the sound of Dick Bumstead's name John Haynes looked askance at Frank, but for the moment the thought of Dick's agency in the affair of the pig-pen had escaped his recollection, and he looked quite unconscious of any indirect reference to it.

"Will you make a motion to that effect?"

"Yes, if necessary."

"Is the motion seconded?"

"Second it," said Moses Rogers.

"I will appoint Wilbur Summerfield and Moses Rogers on that committee," said the chairman.

"I move that the meeting adjourn ipse dixit," said Sam Davis, bringing out the latter phrase with considerable emphasis.

A roar of laughter followed which shook the schoolhouse to the very rafters, and then a deafening clamor of applause. The proposer sat down in confusion.

"What are you laughing at?" he burst forth indignantly.

"Mr. Chairman," said Henry Tufts, struggling with his laughter, "I second the gentleman's motion, all except the Latin."

The motion was carried in spite of the manner in which it was worded, and the boys formed little groups, and began eagerly to discuss the plan which had been proposed. Frank had reason to feel satisfied with the success of his suggestion. Several of the boys came up to him and expressed their pleasure that he had brought the matter before them.

"I say, Frank," said Robert Ingalls, "We'll have a bully company."

"Yes," said Wilbur Summerfield, "if John Haynes belongs to it. He's a bully, and no mistake."

"What's that you are saying about me?" blustered John Haynes, who caught a little of what was said.

"Listeners never hear anything good of themselves," answered Wilbur.

"Say that again, Wilbur Summerfield," said John menacingly.

"Certainly, if it will do you any good. I said that you were a bully, John Haynes; and there's not a boy here that doesn't know it to be true."

"Take care!" said John, turning white with passion.

"While I'm about it, there's something more I want to say," continued Wilbur undauntedly. "Yesterday you knocked my little brother off his sled and sent him home crying. If you do it again, you will have somebody else to deal with."

John trembled with anger. It would have done him good to "pitch into" Wilbur, but the latter looked him in the face so calmly and resolutely that discretion seemed to him the better part of valor, and with an oath he turned away.

"I don't know what's got into John Haynes," said Wilbur. "I never liked him, but now he seems to be getting worse and worse every day."



Chapter XXIII. Pomp Takes Mrs. Payson Prisoner

Old Mrs. Payson, who arrived in Rossville at the same time with Henry Morton, had been invited by her daughter, "Cynthy Ann," to pass the winter, and had acquiesced without making any very strenuous objections. Her "bunnit," which she had looked upon as "sp'ilt," had been so far restored by a skilful milliner that she was able to wear it for best. As this restoration cost but one dollar and a half out of the five which had been given her by young Morton, she felt very well satisfied with the way matters had turned out. This did not, however, by any means diminish her rancor against Pomp, who had been the mischievous cause of the calamity.

"Ef I could only get hold on him," Mrs. Payson had remarked on several occasions to Cynthy Ann, "I'd shake the mischief out of him, ef I died for't the very next minute."

Mrs. Payson was destined to meet with a second calamity, which increased, if possible, her antipathy to the "young imp."

Being of a social disposition, she was quite in the habit of dropping in to tea at different homes in the village. Having formerly lived in Rossville, she was acquainted with nearly all the townspeople, and went the rounds about once in two weeks.

One afternoon she put her knitting into a black work-bag, which she was accustomed to carry on her arm, and, arraying herself in a green cloak and hood, which had served her for fifteen years, she set out to call on Mrs. Thompson.

Now, the nearest route to the place of her destination lay across a five-acre lot. The snow lay deep upon the ground, but the outer surface had become so hard as, without difficulty, to bear a person of ordinary weight.

When Mrs. Payson came up to the bars, she said to herself, "'Tain't so fur to go across lots. I guess I'll ventur'."

She let down a bar and, passing through, went on her way complacently. But, alas, for the old lady's peace of mind! She was destined to come to very deep grief.

That very afternoon Pomp had come over to play with Sam Thompson, and the two, after devising various projects of amusement, had determined to make a cave in the snow. They selected a part of the field where it had drifted to the depth of some four or five feet. Beginning at a little distance, they burrowed their way into the heart of the snow, and excavated a place about four feet square by four deep, leaving the upper crust intact, of course, without its ordinary strength.

The two boys had completed their task, and were siting down in their subterranean abode, when the roof suddenly gave way, and a visitor entered in the most unceremonious manner.

The old lady had kept on her way unsuspiciously, using as a cane a faded blue umbrella, which she carried invariably, whatever the weather.

When Mrs. Payson felt herself sinking, she uttered a loud shriek and waved her arms aloft, brandishing her umbrella in a frantic way. She was plunged up to her armpits in the snow, and was, of course, placed in a very unfavorable position for extricating herself.

The two boys were at first nearly smothered by the descent of snow, but when the first surprise was over they recognized their prisoner. I am ashamed to say that their feeling was that of unbounded delight, and they burst into a roar of laughter. The sound, indistinctly heard, terrified the old lady beyond measure, and she struggled frantically to escape, nearly poking out Pomp's eye with the point of her umbrella.

Pomp, always prompt to repel aggression, in return, pinched her foot.

"Massy sakes! Where am I?" ejaculated the affrighted old lady. "There's some wild crittur down there. Oh, Cynthy Ann, ef you could see your marm at this moment!"

She made another vigorous flounder, and managed to kick Sam in the face. Partly as a measure of self-defense, he seized her ankle firmly.

"He's got hold of me!" shrieked the old lady "Help! help! I shall be murdered."

Her struggles became so energetic that the boys soon found it expedient to evacuate the premises. They crawled out by the passage they had made, and appeared on the surface of the snow.

The old lady presented a ludicrous appearance. Her hood had slipped off, her spectacles were resting on the end of her nose, and she had lost her work-bag. But she clung with the most desperate energy to the umbrella, on which apparently depended her sole hope of deliverance.

"Hi yah!" laughed Pomp, as he threw himself back on the snow and began to roll about in an ecstasy of delight.

Instantly Mrs. Payson's apprehensions changed to furious anger.

"So it's you, you little varmint, that's done this. Jest le' me get out, and I'll whip you so you can't stan'. See ef I don't."

"You can't get out, missus; yah, yah!" laughed Pomp. "You's tied, you is, missus."

"Come an' help me out, this minute!" exclaimed the old lady, stamping her foot.

"Lor', missus, you'll whip me. You said you would."

"So I will, I vum," retorted the irate old lady, rather undiplomatically. "As true as I live, I'll whip you till you can't stan'."

As she spoke, she brandished her umbrella in a menacing manner.

"Den, missus, I guess you'd better stay where you is."

"Oh, you imp. See ef I don't have you put in jail. Here, you, Sam Thompson, come and help me out. Ef you don't, I'll tell your mother, an' she'll give you the wust lickin' you ever had. I'm surprised at you."

"You won't tell on me, will you?" said Sam, irresolutely.

"I'll see about it," said the old lady, in a politic tone.

She felt her powerlessness, and that concession must precede victory.

"Then, give me the umbrella," said Sam, who evidently distrusted her.

"You'll run off with it," said Mrs. Payson suspiciously.

"No, I won't."

"Well, there 'tis."

"Come here, Pomp, and help me," said Sam.

Pomp held aloof.

"She'll whip me," he said, shaking his head. "She's an old debble."

"Oh, you -- you sarpint!" ejaculated the old lady, almost speechless with indignation.

"You can run away as soon as she gets out," suggested Sam.

Pomp advanced slowly and warily, rolling his eyes in indecision.

"Jest catch hold of my hands, both on ye," said Mrs. Payson, "an' I'll give a jump."

These directions were followed, and the old lady rose to the surface, when, in an evil hour, intent upon avenging herself upon Pomp, she made a clutch for his collar. In doing so she lost her footing and fell back into the pit from which she had just emerged. Her spectacles dropped off and, falling beneath her, were broken.

She rose, half-provoked and half-ashamed of her futile attempt. It was natural that neither of these circumstances should effect an improvement in her temper.

"You did it a purpose," she said, shaking her fist at Pomp, who stood about a rod off, grinning at her discomfiture. "There, I've gone an' broke my specs, that I bought two years ago, come fall, of a pedler. I'll make you pay for 'em."

"Lor', missus, I ain't got no money," said Pomp. "Nebber had none."

Unfortunately for the old lady, it was altogether probable that Pomp spoke the truth this time.

"Three and sixpence gone!" groaned Mrs. Payson. "Fust my bunnit, an' then my specs. I'm the most unfort'nit' crittur. Why don't you help me, Sam Thompson, instead of standin' and gawkin' at me?" she suddenly exclaimed, glaring at Sam.

"I didn't know as you was ready," said Sam. "You might have been out before this, ef you hadn't let go. Here, Pomp, lend a hand." Pomp shook his head decisively.

"Don't catch dis chile again," he said. "I'm goin' home. Ole woman wants to lick me."

Sam endeavored to persuade Pomp, but he was deaf to persuasion. He squatted down on the snow, and watched the efforts his companion made to extricate the old lady. When she was nearly out he started on a run, and was at a safe distance before Mrs. Payson was in a situation to pursue him.

The old lady shook herself to make sure that no bones were broken. Next, she sent Sam down into the hole to pick up her bag, and then, finding, on a careful examination, that she had recovered everything, even to the blue umbrella, fetched the astonished Sam a rousing box on the ear.

"What did you do that for?" he demanded in an aggrieved tone.

"'Taint half as much as you deserve," said the old lady. "I'm goin' to your house right off, to tell your mother what you've been a-doin'. Ef you was my child, I'd beat you black and blue."

"I wish I'd left you down there," muttered Sam.

"What's that?" demanded Mrs. Payson sharply. "Don't you go to bein' sassy. It'll be the wuss for ye. You'll come to the gallows some time, ef you don't mind your p's and q's. I might 'ave stayed there till I died, an' then you'd have been hung."

"What are, you jawing about?" retorted Sam. "How could I know you was comin'?"

"You know'd it well enough," returned the old lady. "You'll bring your mother's gray hairs with sorrer to the grave."

"She ain't got any gray hairs," said Sam doggedly.

"Well, she will have some, ef she lives long enough. I once know'd a boy just like you, an' he was put in jail for stealin'."

"I ain't a-goin to stay and be jawed that way," said Sam. "You won't catch me pulling you out of a hole again. I wouldn't have you for a grandmother for all the world. Tom Baldwin told me, only yesterday, that you was always a-hectorin' him."

Tom Baldwin was the son of Cynthy Ann, and consequently old Mrs. Payson's grandson.

"Did Tom Baldwin tell you that?" demanded the old lady abruptly, looking deeply incensed.

"Yes, he did."

"Well, he's the ungratefullest cub that I ever sot eyes on," exclaimed his indignant grandmother. "Arter all I've done for him. I'm knittin' a pair of socks for him this blessed minute. But he sha'n't have 'em. I'll give 'em to the soldiers, I vum. Did he say anything else?"

"Yes, he said he should be glad when you were gone."

"I'll go right home and tell Cynthy Ann," exclaimed Mrs. Payson, "an' if she don't w'ip him I will. I never see such a bad set of boys as is growin' up. There ain't one on 'em that isn't as full of mischief as a nut is of meat. I'll come up with them, as true as I live."

Full of her indignation, Mrs. Payson gave up her proposed call on Mrs. Thompson, and, turning about, hurried home to lay her complaint before Cynthy Ann.

"I'm glad she's gone," said Sam, looking after her, as with resolute steps she trudged along, punching the snow vigorously with the point of her blue cotton umbrella. "I pity Tom Baldwin; if I had such a grandmother as that, I'd run away to sea. That's so!"



Chapter XXIV. A Chapter From Hardee

A few rods east of the post-office, on the opposite side of the street, was a two-story building used as an engine-house, The second story consisted of a hall used for company meetings. This the fire company obligingly granted to the boys as a drill-room during the inclement season, until the weather became sufficiently warm to drill out of doors.

On the Monday afternoon succeeding the preliminary meeting at the academy, about thirty boys assembled in this hall, pursuant to a notice which had been given at school and posted up at the tavern and post-office.

At half-past two Frank entered, accompanied by Mr. Morton.

Some of the boys were already acquainted with him, and came up to speak. He had a frank, cordial way with boys, which secured their favor at first sight.

"Well, boys," said he pleasantly, "I believe I am expected to make soldiers of you."

"Yes, sir," said Charles Reynolds respectfully: "I hope we shall learn readily and do credit to your instructions."

"I have no fear on that score," was the reply. "Perhaps you may have some business to transact before we commence our lessons. If so, I will sit down a few minutes and wait till you are ready."

A short business meeting was held, organized as before.

John Haynes reported that he had spoken to his father, and the question of allowing the boys the use of the muskets belonging to the town would be acted upon at the next meeting of the Selectmen. Squire Haynes thought that the request would be granted.

"What are we going to do this afternoon?" asked Robert Ingalls.

"I can answer that question, Mr. Chairman," said Henry Morton. "We are not yet ready for muskets. I shall have to drill you first in the proper position of a soldier, and the military step. Probably it will be a week before I shall wish to place muskets into your hands. May I inquire how soon there will be a meeting of the Selectmen?"

John Haynes announced that the next meeting would be held in less than a week.

"Then there will be no difficulty as to the muskets," said Mr. Morton.

Wilbur Summerfield reported that he had extended an invitation to boys not connected with the academy to join the company. Several were now present. Dick Bumstead, though not able to attend that day, would come to the next meeting. He thought they would be able to raise a company of fifty boys.

This report was considered very satisfactory.

Tom Wheeler arose and inquired by what name the new company would be called.

"I move," said Robert Ingalls, "that we take the name of the Rossville Home Guards."

"If the enemy should invade Rossville, you'd be the first to run," sneered John Haynes.

"Not unless I heard it before you," was the quick reply.

There was a general laugh, and cries of "Bully for you, Bob!" were heard.

"Order!" cried the chairman, pounding the table energetically. "Such disputes cannot be allowed. I think we had better defer obtaining a name for our company till we find how well we are likely to succeed."

This proposal seemed to be acquiesced in by the boys generally. The business meeting terminated, and Mr. Morton was invited to commence his instructions.

"The boys will please form themselves in a line," said the teacher, in a clear, commanding voice.

This was done.

The positions assumed were, most of them, far from military. Some stood with their legs too far apart, others with one behind the other, some with the shoulders of unequal height. Frank alone stood correctly, thanks to the private instructions he had received.

"Now, boys," said Mr. Morton, "when I say 'attention!' you must all look at me and follow my directions implicitly. Attention and subordination are of the first importance to a soldier. Let me say, to begin with, that, with one exception, you are all standing wrong."

Here there was a general shifting of positions. Robert Ingalls, who had been standing with his feet fifteen inches apart, suddenly brought them close together in a parallel position. Tom Wheeler, who had been resting his weight mainly on the left foot, shifted to the right. Moses Rogers, whose head was bent over so as to watch his feet, now threw it so far back that he seemed to be inspecting the ceiling. Frank alone remained stationary.

Mr. Morton smiled at the changes elicited by his remarks, and proceeded to give his first command.

"Heels on the same line!" he ordered.

All the boys turned their heads, and there was a noisy shuffling of feet.

"Quit crowding, Tom Baldwin!" exclaimed Sam Rivers in an audible tone.

"Quit crowding, yourself," was the reply. "You've got more room than I, now."

"Silence in the ranks!" said the instructor authoritatively. "Frank Frost, I desire you to see that the boys stand at regular distances." This was accomplished.

"Turn out your feet equally, so as to form a right angle with each other. So."

Mr. Morton illustrated his meaning practically. This was very necessary, as some of the boys had very confused ideas as to what was meant by a right angle.

After some time this order was satisfactorily carried out.

"The knees must be straight. I see that some are bent, as if the weight of the body were too much for them. Not too stiff! Rivers, yours are too rigid. You couldn't walk a mile in that way without becoming very tired. There, that is much better. Notice my position."

The boys, after adjusting their positions, looked at the rest to see how they had succeeded.

"Don't look at each other," said Mr. Morton. "If you do you will be certain to make blunders. I notice that some of you are standing with one shoulder higher than the other. The shoulders should be square, and the body should be erect upon the hips. Attention! So!"

"Very well. Haynes, you are trying to stand too upright. You must not bend backward. All, incline your bodies a little forward. Frank Ingalls is standing correctly."

"I don't think that's very soldierly," said John Haynes, who felt mortified at being corrected, having flattered himself that he was right and the rest were wrong.

"A soldier shouldn't be round-shouldered, or have a slouching gait," said the instructor quietly; "but you will find when you come to march that the opposite extreme is attended with great inconvenience and discomfort. Until then you must depend upon my assurance."

Mr. Morton ran his eye along the line, and observed that most of the boys were troubled about their arms. Some allowed them to hang in stiff rigidity by their sides. One, even, had his clasped behind his back. Others let theirs dangle loosely, swinging now hither, now thither.

He commented upon these errors, and added, "Let your arms hang naturally, with the elbows near the body, the palm of the hand a little turned to the front, the little finger behind the seam of the pantaloons. This you will find important when you come to drill with muskets. You will find that it will economize space by preventing your occupying more room than is necessary. Frank, will you show Sam Rivers and John Haynes how to hold their hands?"

"You needn't trouble yourself," said John haughtily, but in too low a voice, as he supposed, for Mr. Morton to hear. "I don't want a clodhopper to teach me."

Frank's face flushed slightly, and without a word he passed John and occupied himself with showing Sam Rivers, who proved more tractable.

"No talking in the ranks!" said Mr. Morton, in a tone of authority. "If any boy wishes to ask any explanation of me he may do so, but it is a breach of discipline to speak to each other."

"My next order will be, 'Faces to the front!'" he resumed, after a pause. "Nothing looks worse than to see a file of men with heads turned in various directions. The eyes should be fixed straight before you, striking the ground at about fifteen paces forward."

It required some time to have this direction properly carried out. Half an hour had now passed, and some of the boys showed signs of weariness.

"I will now give you a little, breathing-spell for ten minutes," said Mr. Morton. "After this we will resume our exercises."

The boys stretched their limbs, and began to converse in an animated strain about the lesson which they had just received.

At the expiration of ten minutes the lesson was resumed, and some additional directions were given.

It will not be necessary for us to follow the boys during the remainder of the lesson. Most of them made very creditable progress, and the line presented quite a different appearance at the end of the exercise from what it had at the commencement.

"I shall be prepared to give you a second lesson on Saturday afternoon," announced Mr. Morton. "In the meantime it will be well for you to remember what I have said, and if you should feel inclined to practice by yourselves, it will no doubt make your progress more rapid."

These remarks were followed by a clapping of hands on the part of the boys -- a demonstration of applause which Mr. Morton acknowledged by a bow and a smile.

"Well, how do you like it?" asked Frank Frost of Robert Ingalls.

"Oh, it's bully fun!" returned Bob enthusiastically. "I feel like a hero already."

"You're as much of one now, Bob, as you'll ever be," said Wilbur good-naturedly.

"I wouldn't advise you to be a soldier," retorted Bob. "You're too fat to run, and would be too frightened to fight."

"I certainly couldn't expect to keep up with those long legs of yours, Bob," said Wilbur, laughing.

The boys dispersed in excellent humor, fully determined to persevere in their military exercises.



Chapter XXV. Election Of Officers

For the six weeks following, Mr. Morton gave lessons twice a week to the boys. At the third lesson they received their muskets, and thenceforth drilled with them. A few, who had not been present at the first two lessons, and were consequently ignorant of the positions, Mr. Morton turned over to Frank, who proved an efficient and competent instructor.

At the end of the twelfth lesson, Mr. Morton, after giving the order "Rest!" addressed the boys as follows:

"Boys, we have now taken twelve lessons together. I have been very much gratified by the rapid improvement which you have made, and feel that it is due quite as much to your attention as to any instructions of mine. I can say with truth that I have known companies of grown men who have made less rapid progress than you.

"The time has now come when I feel that I can safely leave you to yourselves, There are those among you who are competent to carry on the work which I have commenced. It will be desirable for you at once to form a company organization. As there are but fifty on your muster-roll, being about half the usual number, you will not require as many officers. I recommend the election of a captain, first and second lieutenants, three sergeants and three corporals. You have already become somewhat accustomed to company drill, so that you will be able to go on by yourselves under the guidance of your officers. If any doubtful questions should arise, I shall always be happy to give you any information or assistance in my power.

"And now, boys, I will bid you farewell in my capacity of instructor, but I need not say that I shall continue to watch with interest your progress in the military art."

Here Mr. Morton bowed, and sat down.

After the applause which followed his speech had subsided, there was a silence and hush of expectation among the boys, after which Charles Reynolds rose slowly, and, taking from the seat beside him a package, advanced toward Mr. Morton and made a brief speech of presentation, having been deputed by the boys to perform that duty.

"MR MORTON: I stand here in behalf of the boys present, who wish to express to you their sense of your kindness in giving them the course of lessons which has just ended. We have taken up much of your time, and no doubt have tried your patience more than once. If we have improved, as you were kind enough to say, we feel that it is principally owing to our good fortune in having so skilful a teacher. We wish to present you some testimonial of the regard which we have for you, and accordingly ask your acceptance of this copy of 'Abbott's Life of Napoleon.' We should have been glad to give you something more valuable, but we are sure you will value the gift for other reasons than its cost."

Here Charles Reynolds sat down, and all eyes were turned toward Mr. Morton. It was evident that he was taken by surprise. It was equally evident that he was much gratified by this unexpected token of regard.

He rose and with much feeling spoke as follows:

"My dear boys, for you must allow me to call you so, I can hardly tell you how much pleasure your kind gift has afforded me. It gives me the assurance, which indeed, I did not need, that you are as much my friends as I am yours. The connection between us has afforded me much pleasure and satisfaction. In training you to duties which patriotism may hereafter devolve upon you, though I pray Heaven that long before that time our terrible civil strife may be at an end, I feel that I have helped you to do something to show your loyal devotion to the country which we all love and revere." Here there was loud applause. "If you were a few years older, I doubt not that your efforts would be added to those of your fathers and brothers who are now encountering the perils and suffering the privations of war. And with a little practise I am proud to say that you would not need to be ashamed of the figure you would cut in the field.

"I have little more to say. I recognize a fitness in the selection of the work which you have given me. Napoleon is without doubt the greatest military genius which our modern age has produced. Yet he lacked one very essential characteristic of a good soldier. He was more devoted to his own selfish ends than to the welfare of his country. I shall value your gift for the good wishes that accompany it, and the recollection of this day will be among my pleasantest memories."

Mr. Morton here withdrew in the midst of hearty applause.

When he had left the hall a temporary organization for business purposes was at once effected. Wilbur Summerfield was placed in the chair, and the meeting proceeded at once to an election of officers.

For a week or two past there had been considerable private canvassing among the boys. There were several who would like to have been elected captain, and a number of others who, though not aspiring so high, hoped to be first or second lieutenants. Among the first class was John Haynes. Like many persons who are unpopular, he did not seem to be at all aware of the extent of his unpopularity.

But there was another weighty reason why the choice of the boys would never have fallen upon him. Apart from his unpopularity, he was incompetent for the posts to which he aspired. Probably there were not ten boys in the company who were not more proficient in drill than he. This was not owing to any want of natural capacity, but to a feeling that he did not require much instruction and a consequent lack of attention to the directions of Mr. Morton. He had frequently been corrected in mistakes, but always received the correction with sullenness and impatience. He felt in his own mind that he was much better fitted to govern than to obey, forgetting in his ambition that it is those only who have first learned to obey who are best qualified to rule others.

Desirious of ingratiating himself with the boys, and so securing their votes, he had been unusually amiable and generous during the past week. At the previous lesson he had brought half a bushel of apples, from which he had requested the boys to help themselves freely. By this means he hoped to attain the object of his ambition.

Squire Haynes, too, was interested in the success of his son.

"If they elect you captain, John," he promised, "I will furnish you money enough to buy a handsome sash and sword."

Besides John, there were several others who cherished secret hopes of success. Among these were Charles Reynolds and Wilbur Summerfield. As for Frank Frost, though he had thought little about it, he could not help feeling that he was among those best qualified for office, though he would have been quite content with either of the three highest offices, or even with the post of orderly sergeant.

Among those who had acquitted themselves with the greatest credit was our old friend Dick Bumstead, whom we remember last as concerned in rather a questionable adventure. Since that time his general behavior had very much changed for the better. Before, he had always shirked work when it was possible. Now he exhibited a steadiness and industry which surprised no less than it gratified his father.

This change was partly owing to his having given up some companions who had done him no good, and, instead, sought the society of Frank. The energy and manliness exhibited by his new friend, and the sensible views which he took of life and duty, had wrought quite a revolution in Dick's character. He began to see that if he ever meant to accomplish anything he must begin now. At Frank's instance he had given up smoking, and this cut off one of the temptations which had assailed him. Gradually the opinion entertained of Dick in the village as a ne'er-do-well was modified, and he had come to be called as one of the steady and reliable boys -- a reputation not to, be lightly regarded.

In the present election Dick did not dream that he could have any interest. While he had been interested in the lessons, and done his best, he felt that his previous reputation would injure his chance, and he had made up his mind that he should have to serve in the ranks. This did not trouble him, for Dick, to his credit be it said, was very free from jealousy, and had not a particle of envy in his composition. He possessed so many good qualities that it would have been a thousand pities if he had kept on in his former course.

"You will bring in your votes for captain," said the chairman.

Tom Wheeler distributed slips of paper among the boys, and there was forthwith a plentiful show of pencils.

"Are the votes all in?" inquired the chairman, a little later. "If so, we will proceed to count them."

There was a general hush of expectation while Wilbur Summerfield, the chairman, and Robert Ingalls, the secretary of the meeting, were counting the votes. John Haynes, was evidently nervous, and fidgeted about, anxious to learn his fate.

At length the count was completed, and Wilbur, rising, announced it as follows:

Whole number of votes...... 49 Necessary for a choice..... 25 Robert Ingalls.............. 2 votes John Haynes................. 2 " Wilbur Summerfield.......... 4 " Moses Rogers................ 4 " Charles Reynolds........... 10 " Frank Frost................ 27 "


"Gentlemen, I have the pleasure of announcing that you have made choice of Frank Frost as your captain."

Frank rose amid a general clapping of hands, and, with heightened color but modest self-possession, spoke as follows "Boys, I thank you very much for this proof of your confidence. All I can say is that I will endeavor to deserve it. I shall no doubt make some mistakes, but I feel sure that you will grant me your indulgence, and not expect too much of my inexperience."

This speech was regarded with favor by all except John Haynes, who would rather have had any one else elected, independent of his own disappointment, which was great.

"You will now prepare your votes for first lieutenant," said the presiding officer.

It will be noticed that two votes were cast for John Haynes. One of these was thrown by a competitor, who wished to give his vote to some one who stood no possible chance of succeeding, and accordingly selected John on account of his well-known unpopularity. This vote, therefore, was far from being a compliment. As for the other vote, John Haynes himself best knew by whom it was cast.

The boys began to prepare their votes for first lieutenant.

John brightened up a little. He felt that it would be something to gain this office. But when the result of the balloting was announced it proved that he had but a single vote.

There were several scattering votes. The two prominent candidates were Dick Bumstead, who received eight votes, and Charles Reynolds, who received thirty-two, and was accordingly declared elected.

No one was more surprised by this announcement than Dick. He felt quite bewildered, not having the slightest expectation of being a candidate. He was almost tempted to believe that the votes had only been cast in jest.

But Dick was destined to a still greater surprise. At the next vote, for second lieutenant, there were five scattering votes. Then came ten for Wilbur Summerfield, and Richard Bumstead led off with thirty-four, and was accordingly declared elected.

"Speech! speech!" exclaimed half a dozen, vociferously.

Dick looked a little confused, and tried to escape the call. But the boys were determined to have him up, and he was finally compelled to rise, looking and feeling rather awkward But his natural good sense and straightforwardness came to his aid, and he acquitted himself quite creditably.

This was Dick's speech:

"Boys, I don't know how to make speeches, and I s'pose you know that as well as I do. I hardly knew who was meant when Richard Bumstead's name was mentioned, having always been called Dick, but if it means me, all I can say is, that I am very much obliged to you for the unexpected honor. One reason why I did not expect to be elected to any office was because I ain't as good a scholar as most of you. I am sure there are a great many of you who would make better officers than I, but I don't think there's any that will try harder to do well than I shall."

Here Dick sat down, very much astonished to find that he had actually made a speech. His speech was modest, and made a favorable impression, as was shown by the noisy stamping of feet and shouts of "Bully for you, Dick!" "You're a trump!" and other terms in which boys are wont to signify their approbation.

Through all this John Haynes looked very much disgusted, and seemed half-decided upon leaving the room. He had some curiosity, however, to learn who would be elected to the subordinate offices, and so remained. He had come into the room with the determination not to accept anything below a lieutenancy, but now made up his mind not to reject the post of orderly sergeant if it should be offered to him. The following list of officers, however will show that he was allowed no choice in the matter:

Captain, Frank Frost. First Lieutenant, Charles Reynolds. Second Lieutenant, Richard Bumstead. Orderly Sergeant, Wilbur Summerfield. Second Sergeant, Robert Ingalls. Third Sergeant, Moses Rogers. First Corporal, Tom Wheeler. Second Corporal, Joseph Barry. Third Corporal, Frank Ingalls.


The entire list of officers was now read and received with applause. If there were some who were disappointed, they acquiesced good-naturedly, with one exception.

When the applause had subsided, John Haynes rose and, in a voice trembling with passion, said:

"Mr. Chairman, I wish to give notice to all present that I resign my place as a member of this company. I don't choose to serve under such officers as you have chosen to-day. I don't think they are fit to have command."

Here there was a general chorus of hisses, drowning John's voice completely. After glancing about him a moment in speechless fury, he seized his hat, and left the room in indignant haste, slamming the door after him.

"He's a mean fellow!" said Frank Ingalls. "I suppose he expected to be captain."

"Shouldn't wonder," said Sam Rivers. "Anyhow, he's a fool to make such a fuss about it. As for me," he added, with a mirthful glance, "I am just as much disappointed as he is. When I came here this afternoon I expected I should be elected captain, and I'd got my speech all ready, but now I'm sorry that it will have to be wasted."

There was a general burst of laughter, for Sam Rivers, whom everybody liked for his good nature, was incorrigibly awkward, and had made a larger number of blunders, probably, than any other member of the company.

"Give us the speech, Sam," said Bob Ingalls.

"Yes, don't let it be wasted."

"Speech! speech!" cried Joseph Barry.

"Very well, gentlemen, if you desire it."

Sam drew from his pocket a blank piece of paper, and pretended to read the following speech, which he made up on the spur of the moment.

"Ahem! gentlemen," he commenced, in a pompous tone, assuming an air of importance; "I am deeply indebted to you for this very unexpected honor."

"Oh, very," said one of the boys near.

"I feel that you have done yourself credit in your selection."

Here there was a round of applause.

"I am sorry that some of you are still very awkward, but I hope under my excellent discipline to make veterans of you in less than no time."

"Good for you!"

"You cannot expect me to remain long with you, as I am now in the line of promotion, and don't mean to stop short of a brigadier. But as long as I am your captain I hope you will appreciate your privileges."

Sam's speech was followed by a chorus of laughter, in which he joined heartily himself.

As for John's defection, nobody seemed to regret it much. It was generally felt that the company would have no difficulty in getting along without him.



Chapter XXVI. The Rebel Trap

ON the first of April Frank received the following letter from his father. It was the more welcome because nearly a month had elapsed since anything had been received, and the whole family had become quite anxious:


"Dear Frank," the letter commenced, "you are no doubt feeling anxious on account of my long silence. You will understand the cause of it when I tell you that since the date of my last letter I have been for a fortnight in the enemy's hands as a prisoner. Fortunately, I have succeeded in effecting my escape. You will naturally be interested to learn the particulars.

"Three weeks since, a lady occupying an estate about five miles distant from our camp waited on our commanding officer and made an urgent request to have a few soldiers detailed as a guard to protect her and her property from molestation and loss. Our colonel was not at first disposed to grant her request, but finally acceded to it, rather reluctantly, declaring that it was all nonsense. I was selected, with five other men, to serve as a guard. Mrs. Roberts -- for this was her name -- appeared quite satisfied to find her request granted, and drove slowly home under our escort.

"On arriving, we found a mansion in the old Virginia style, low in elevation, broad upon the ground, and with a piazza extending along the front. Surrounding it was a good-sized plantation. At a little distance from the house was a row of negro huts. These were mostly vacant, the former occupants having secured their freedom by taking refuge within our lines.

"As sergeant in command -- you must know that I have been promoted -- I inquired of Mrs. Roberts what danger she apprehended. Her answers were vague and unsatisfactory. However, she seemed disposed to treat me very civilly, and at nine o'clock invited the whole party into the house to partake of a little refreshment. This invitation was very welcome to soldiers who had not for months partaken of anything better than camp fare. It was all the more acceptable because outside a cold rain was falling, and the mod was deep and miry.

"In the dining-room we found a plentiful meal spread, including hot coffee, hot corn bread, bacon, and other viands. We were not, however, destined to take our supper in peace. As I was drinking my second cup of coffee I thought I heard a noise outside, and remarked it to Mrs. Roberts.

"'It is only the wind, sergeant,' said she, indifferently.

"It was not long before I became convinced that it was something more serious. I ordered my men to stand to their arms, in spite of the urgent protestations of the old lady, and marched them out upon the lawn, just in time to be confronted by twenty or thirty men on horseback, clad in the rebel uniform.

"Resistance against such odds would have been only productive of useless loss of life, and with my little force I was compelled to surrender myself a prisoner.

"Of course, I no longer doubted that we were the victims of a trick, and had been lured by Mrs. Roberts purposely to be made prisoners. If I had had any doubts on the subject, her conduct would have dissipated them. She received our captors with open arms. They stepped into our places as guests, and the house was thrown open to them. Our arms were taken from us, our hands pinioned, and a scene of festivity ensued. A cask of wine was brought up from the cellar, and the contents freely distributed among the rebels, or gray backs, as we call them here.

"Once, as Mrs. Roberts passed through the little room where we were confined, I said, 'Do you consider this honorable conduct, madam, to lure us here by false representations, and then betray us to our enemies?'

"'Yes, I do!' said she hotly. 'What business have you to come down here and lay waste our territory? There is no true Southern woman but despises you heartily, and would do as much as I have, and more, too. You've got my son a prisoner in one of your Yankee prisons. When I heard that he was taken, I swore to be revenged, and I have kept my word. I've got ten for one, though he's worth a hundred such as you!'

"So saying, she swept out of the room, with a scornful look of triumph in her eyes. The next day, as I afterward learned, she sent word to our colonel that her house had been unexpectedly attacked by a large party of the rebels, and that we had been taken prisoners. Her complicity was suspected, but was not proved till our return to the camp. Of course, a further guard, which she asked for, to divert suspicion, was refused.

"Meanwhile we were carried some twenty miles across the river, and confined in a building which had formerly been used as a storehouse.

"The place was dark and gloomy. There were some dozen others who shared our captivity. Here we had rather a doleful time. We were supplied with food three times a day; but the supply was scanty, and we had meat but once in two days. We gathered that it was intended to send us to Richmond; but from day to day there was a delay in doing so. We decided that our chance of escape would be much better then than after we reached the rebel capital. We, therefore, formed a plan for defeating the intentions of our captors.

"Though the building assigned to us as a prison consisted of two stories, we were confined in the lower part. This was more favorable to our designs. During the night we busied ourselves in loosening two of the planks of the flooring, so that we could remove them at any time. Then lowering two of our number into the cellar, we succeeded in removing enough of the stone foundation to allow the escape of one man at a time through the aperture. Our arrangements were hastened by the assignment of a particular day on which we were to be transferred from our prison, and conveyed to Richmond. Though we should have been glad to enter the city under some circumstances, we did not feel very desirous of going as prisoners of war.

"On the night selected we waited impatiently till midnight. Then, as silently as possible, we removed the planking, and afterwards the stones of the basement wall, and crept through one by one. All this was effected so noiselessly that we were all out without creating any alarm. We could hear the measured tramp of the sentinel, as he paced up and down in front of the empty prison. We pictured to ourselves his surprise when he discovered, the next morning, that we escaped under his nose without his knowing it!

"I need not dwell upon the next twenty-four hours. The utmost vigilance was required to elude the rebel pickets. At last, after nearly twenty hours, during which we had nothing to eat, we walked into camp, exhausted with hunger and fatigue, to the great joy of our comrades from whom we had been absent a fortnight.

"On receiving information of the manner in which we had been captured, our commanding officer at once despatched me with a detachment of men to arrest Mrs. Roberts and her daughter. Her surprise and dismay at seeing me whom she supposed safe in Richmond were intense. She is still under arrest.

"I suppose our campaign will open as soon as the roads are dried up. The mud in Virginia is much more formidable than at the North, and presents an insuperable, perhaps I should say an unfathomable, obstacle to active operations. I hope General Grant will succeed in taking Vicksburg. The loss of that important stronghold would be a great blow to the rebels.

"You ask me, in your last letter, whether I see much of the contrabands. I have talked with a considerable number. One, a very intelligent fellow, had been very much trusted by his master, and had accompanied him to various parts of the South. I asked him the question: 'Is it true that there are a considerable number of slaves who would prefer to remain in their present condition to becoming free?'

"'Nebber see any such niggers, massa,' he answered, shaking his head decisively. 'We all want to be free. My old massa treated me kindly, but I'd a left him any minute to be my own man.'

"I hope the time will soon come, when, from Canada to the Gulf, there will not be a single black who is not his own man. We in the army are doing what we can, but we must be backed up by those who stay at home. My own feeling is that slavery has received its death-blow. It may continue to live for some years, but it has fallen from its pomp and pride of place. It is tottering to its fall. What shall be done with the negroes in the transition state will be a problem for statesmen to consider. I don't think we need fear the consequences of doing right, and on this subject there can be no doubt of what is right; The apparent insensibility and brutish ignorance which we find among some of the slaves will wear away under happier influences.

"There is a little fellow of perhaps a dozen years who comes into our camp and runs of errands and does little services for the men. Yesterday morning he came to my tent, and with a grin, said to me, 'De ol' man died last night.'

"'What, your father?' I inquired in surprise.

"'Yes, massa,' with another grin: 'Goin' to tote him off dis mornin'.'

"As he only lived a quarter of a mile off, I got permission to go over to the house, or cabin, where Scip's father had lived.

"The outer door was open, and I entered without knocking. A woman was bending over a washtub at the back part of the room. I looked around me for the body, but could see no indication of anything having happened out of the ordinary course.

"I thought it possible that Scip had deceived me, and accordingly spoke to the woman, inquiring if she was Scip's mother.

"She replied in the affirmative.

"'And where is his father?' I next inquired.

"'Oh, he's done dead,' she said, continuing her washing.

"'When did he die?'

"'Las' night, massa.'

"'And where is the body?'

"'Toted off, massa, very first t'ing dis mornin'.'

"In spite of this case of apparent insensibility, the negro's family attachments are quite as warm naturally as our own. They have little reason, indeed, to mourn over the loss of a husband or father, since, in most cases, it is the only portal to the freedom which they covet. The separation of families, too, tends, of course, to weaken family ties. While I write these words I cannot help recalling our own happy home, and longing for an hour, if not more, of your society. I am glad that you find Mr. Morton so agreeable an inmate. You ought to feel quite indebted him for his assistance in your studies. I am glad you have formed a boy's company. It is very desirable that the elements of military science should be understood even by boys, since upon them must soon devolve the defense of their country from any blows that may be directed against her, whether by foes from within or enemies from abroad.

"The coming season will be a busy one with you. When you receive this letter it will be about time for you to begin to plow whatever land is to be planted. As I suggested in my first letter from camp, I should like you to devote some space-perhaps half an acre-to the culture of onions. We find them very useful for promoting health in the army. They are quite high on account of the largely increased demand, so that it will be a good crop for financial reasons."

(Here followed some directions with regard to the spring planting, which we omit, as not likely to interest our readers.) The letter ended thus:

"It is nearly time for me to mail this letter, and it is already much longer than I intended to write. May God keep you all in health and happiness is the fervent wish of

"Your affectionate father,

"Henry Frost."


The intelligence that their father had been a prisoner made quite a sensation among the children. Charlie declared that Mrs. Roberts was a wicked woman, and he was glad she was put in prison -- an expression of joy in which the rest fully participated.



Chapter XXVII. Pomp's Light Infantry Tactics

Little Pomp continued to pursue his studies under Frank as a teacher. By degrees his restlessness diminished, and, finding Frank firm in exacting a certain amount of study before he would dismiss him, he concluded that it was best to study in earnest, and so obtain the courted freedom as speedily as possible. Frank had provided for his use a small chair, which he had himself used when at Pomp's age, but for this the little contraband showed no great liking. He preferred to throw himself on a rug before the open fire-place, and, curling up, not unlike a cat, began to pore over his primer.

Frank often looked up from his own studies and looked down with an amused glance at little Pomp's coal-back face and glistening eyes riveted upon the book before him. There was no lack of brightness or intelligence in the earnest face of his young pupil. He seemed to be studying with all his might. In a wonderfully short time he would uncoil himself, and, coming to his teacher, would say, "I guess I can say it, Mass' Frank."

Finding how readily Pomp learned his lessons, Frank judiciously lengthened them, so that, in two or three months, Pomp could read words of one syllable with considerable ease, and promised very soon to read as well as most boys of his age.

Frank also took considerable pains to cure Pomp of his mischievous propensities, but this he found a more difficult task than teaching him to read. Pomp had an innate love of fun which seemed almost irrepressible, and his convictions of duty sat too lightly upon him to interfere very seriously with its gratification. One adventure into which he was led came near having serious consequences.

Pomp, in common with other village boys of his age, had watched with considerable interest the boys 'company, as they drilled publicly or paraded through the main street, and he had conceived a strong desire to get hold of a musket, to see if he, too, could not go through with the manual.

Frank generally put his musket carefully away, only bringing it out when it was needful. One morning, however, he had been out on a hunting-expedition, and on his return left the musket in the corner of the shed.

Pomp espied it when he entered the house, and resolved, if possible, to take temporary possession of it after his lesson was over. Having this in view, he worked with an uncommon degree of industry, and in less time than usual had learned and said his lesson.

"Very well, Pomp," said his teacher approvingly. "You have worked unusually well to-day. If you keep on you will make quite a scholar some day."

"I's improvin', isn't I?" inquired Pomp, with an appearance of interest.

"Yes, Pomp, you have improved rapidly. By and by you can teach your mother how to read."

"She couldn't learn, Mass' Frank. She's poor ignorant nigger."

"You shouldn't speak so of your mother, Pomp. She's a good mother to you, and works hard to earn money to support you."

"Yes, Mass' Frank," said Pomp, who was getting impatient to go. "I guess I'll go home and help her."

Frank thought that what he had said was producing a good effect. He did not know the secret of Pomp's haste.

Pomp left the room, and, proceeding to the wood-shed, hastily possessed himself of the musket. In a stealthy manner he crept with it through a field behind the house, until he got into the neighboring woods.

He found it a hard tug to carry the gun, which was heavier than those made at the present day. At length he reached an open space in the woods, only a few rods from the road which led from the farmhouse, past the shanty occupied by old Chloe. As this road was not much traveled, Pomp felt pretty safe from discovery, and accordingly here it was that he halted, and made preparations to go through the manual.

"It begins dis yer way," said Pomp, after a little reflection.

Grasping the musket with one hand he called out in an important tone:

"'Tention, squab!"

For the benefit of the uninitiated it may be explained that Pomp meant "Attention, squad!"

"S'port arms!"

Pomp found it considerably easier to give the word of command than to obey it. With some difficulty he succeeded in accomplishing this movement, and proceeded with the manual, with several original variations which would have astonished a military instructor.

Meanwhile, though Pomp did not realize it, he was exposing himself to considerable danger. The gun had been loaded with buckshot in the morning, and the charge had not been withdrawn.

It seemed to be the lot of poor Mrs. Payson to suffer fright or disaster whenever she encountered Pomp, and this memorable afternoon was to make no exception to the rule.

"Cynthy Ann," she said to her daughter, in the afternoon, "I guess I'll go and spend the arternoon with Mis' Forbes. I hain't been to see her for nigh a month, and I calc'late she'll be glad to see me. Besides, she ginerally bakes Thursdays, an' mos' likely she'll have some hot gingerbread. I'm partic'larly fond of gingerbread, an' she does know how to make it about the best of anybody I know on. You needn't wait supper for me, Cynthy Ann, for ef I don't find Mis' Forbes to home I'll go on to Mis' Frost's."

Mrs. Payson put on her cloak and hood, and, armed with the work-bag and the invariable blue cotton umbrella, sallied out. Mrs. Forbes lived at the distance of a mile, but Mrs. Payson was a good walker for a woman of her age, and less than half an hour brought her to the door of the brown farmhouse in which Mrs. Forbes lived.

She knocked on the door with the handle of her umbrella. The summons was answered by a girl of twelve.

"How dy do, Betsy?" said Mrs. Payson. "Is your ma'am to home?"

"No, she's gone over to Webbington to spend two or three days with Aunt Prudence."

"Then she won't be home to tea," said Mrs. Payson, considerably disappointed.

"No, ma'am, I don't expect her before to-morrow."

"Well, I declare for't, I am disapp'inted," said the old lady regretfully. "I've walked a mile on puppus to see her. I'm most tuckered out."

"Won't you step in and sit down?"

"Well, I don't keer ef I do a few minutes. I feel like to drop. Do you do the cooking while you maam's gone?"

"No, she baked up enough to last before she went away."

"You hain't got any gingerbread in the house?" asked Mrs. Payson, with subdued eagerness. "I always did say Mis' Forbes beat the world at makin' gingerbread."

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Payson, but we ate the last for supper last night."

"Oh, dear!" sighed the old lady, "I feel sort of faint -- kinder gone at the stomach. I didn't have no appetite at dinner, and I s'pose it don't agree with me walkin' so fur on an empty stomach."

"Couldn't you eat a piece of pie?" asked Betsy sympathizingly.

"Well," said the old lady reflectively, "I don't know but I could eat jest a bite. But you needn't trouble yourself. I hate to give trouble to anybody."

"Oh, it won't be any trouble," said Betsy cheerfully.

"And while you're about it," added Mrs. Payson, "ef you have got any of that cider you give me when I was here before, I don't know but I could worry down a little of it."

"Yes, we've got plenty. I'll bring it in with the pie."

"Well," murmured the old lady, "I'll get something for my trouble. I guess I'll go and take supper at Mis' Frost's a'terward."

Betsy brought in a slice of apple and one of pumpkin pie, and set them down before the old lady. In addition she brought a generous mug of cider.

The old lady's eyes brightened, as she saw this substantial refreshment.

"You're a good gal, Betsy," she said in the overflow of her emotions. "I was saying to my darter yesterday that I wish all the gals round here was as good and considerate as you be."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Payson," said Betsy modestly. "I ain't any better than girls generally."

"Yes, you be. There's my granddarter, Jane, ain't so respectful as she'd arter be to her old grandma'am. I often tell her that when she gets to have children of her own, she'll know what tis to be a pilgrim an' a sojourner on the arth without nobody to consider her feelin's. Your cider is putty good." Here the old lady took a large draft, and set down the mug with a sigh of satisfaction. "It's jest the thing to take when a body's tired. It goes to the right spot. Cynthy Ann's husband didn't have none made this year. I wonder ef your ma would sell a quart or two of it."

"You can have it and welcome, Mrs. Payson."

"Can I jest as well as not? Well, that's kind. But I didn't expect you to give it to me."

"Oh, we have got plenty."

"I dunno how I can carry it home," said the lady hesitatingly. "I wonder ef some of your folks won't be going up our way within a day or two."

"We will send it. I guess father'll be going up to-morrow."

"Then ef you can spare it you might send round a gallon, an' ef there's anything to pay I'll pay for it."

This little business arrangement being satisfactorily adjusted, and the pie consumed, Mrs. Payson got up and said she must be going.

"I'm afraid you haven't got rested yet, Mrs. Payson."

"I ain't hardly," was the reply; "but I guess I shall stop on the way at Mis' Frost's. Tell your ma I'll come up an' see her ag'in afore long."

"Yes, ma'am."

"An' you won't forget to send over that cider?"

"No, ma'am."

"I'm ashamed to trouble ye, but their ain't anybody over to our house that I can send. There's Tom grudges doin' anything for his old grandma'am. A'ter all that I do for him, too! Good-by!"

The old lady set out on her way to Mrs. Frost's.

Her road lay through the woods, where an unforeseen danger lay in wait for her.

Meanwhile Pomp was pursuing military science under difficulties. The weight of the musket made it very awkward for him to handle. Several times he got out of patience with it, and apostrophized it in terms far from complimentary. At last, in one of his awkward maneuvers, he accidentally pulled the trigger. Instantly there was a loud report, followed by a piercing shriek from the road. The charge had entered old Mrs. Payson's umbrella and knocked it out of her hand. The old lady fancied herself hit, and fell backward, kicking energetically, and screaming "murder" at the top of her lungs.

The musket had done double execution. It was too heavily loaded, and as it went off, 'kicked,' leaving Pomp, about as scared as the old lady, sprawling on the ground.

Henry Morton was only a few rods off when he heard the explosion. He at once ran to the old lady's assistance, fancying her hurt. She shrieked the louder on his approach, imagining that he was a robber, and had fired at her.

"Go away!" she cried, in affright. "I ain't got any money. I'm a poor, destitute widder!"

"What do you take me for?" inquired Mr. Morton, somewhat amazed at this mode of address.

"Ain't you a highwayman?" asked the old lady.

"If you look at me close I think you will be able to answer that question for yourself."

The old lady cautiously rose to a sitting posture, and, mechanically adjusting her spectacles, took a good look at the young man.

"Why, I declare for it, ef it ain't Mr. Morton! I thought 'twas you that fired at me."

"I hope you are not hurt," said Mr. Morton, finding a difficulty in preserving his gravity.

"I dunno," said the old lady dubiously, pulling up her sleeve, and examining her arm. "I don't see nothin'; but I expect I've had some injury to my inards. I feel as ef I'd had a shock somewhere. Do you think he'll fire again?" she asked, with a sudden alarm.

"You need not feel alarmed," was the soothing reply. "It was no doubt an accident."

Turning suddenly, he espied Pomp peering from behind a tree, with eyes and mouth wide open. The little contraband essayed a hasty flight; but Mr. Morton, by a masterly flank movement, came upon him, and brought forward the captive kicking and struggling.

"Le' me go!" said Pomp. "I ain't done noffin'!"

"Didn't you fire a gun at this lady?"

"No," said Pomp boldly. "Wish I may be killed ef I did!"

"I know 'twas you -- you -- you imp!" exclaimed Mrs. Payson, in violent indignation. "I seed you do it. You're the wust boy that ever lived, and you'll be hung jest as sure as I stan' here!"

"How did it happen, Pomp?" asked Mr. Morton quietly.

"It jest shooted itself!" said Pomp, in whom the old lady's words inspired a vague feeling of alarm. "I 'clare to gracious, Mass' Morton, it did!"

"Didn't you have the gun in your hand, Pomp? Where did you get it?"

"I jest borrered it of Mass' Frank, to play sojer a little while," said Pomp reluctantly.

"Does he know that you have got it?"

"I 'clare I done forgot to tell him," said Pomp reluctantly.

"Will you promise never to touch it again?"

"Don't want to!" ejaculated Pomp, adding spitefully, "He kick me over!"

"I'm glad on't," said the old lady emphatically, with a grim air of satisfaction. "That'll l'arn you not to fire it off at your elders ag'in. I've a great mind to box your ears, and sarve you right, too."

Mrs. Payson advanced, to effect her purpose; but Pomp was wary, and, adroitly freeing himself from Mr. Morton's grasp, butted at the old lady with such force that she would have fallen backward but for the timely assistance of Mr. Morton, who sprang to her side. Her bag fell to the ground, and she struggled to regain her lost breath.

"Oh!" groaned the old lady, gasping for breath, "he's mos' knocked the breath out of me. I sha'n't live long a'ter such a shock. I'm achin' all over. Why did you let him do it?"

"He was too quick for me, Mrs. Payson. I hope you feel better."

"I dunno as I shall ever feel any better," said Mrs. Payson gloomily. "If Cynthy Ann only knew how her poor old ma'am had been treated! I dunno as I shall live to get home!"

"Oh, yes, you will," said the young man cheerfully, "and live to see a good many years more. Would you like to have me attend you home?"

"I ain't got strength to go so fur," said Mrs. Payson, who had not given up her plan of taking tea out. "I guess I could go as fur as Mis' Frost's, an' mebbe some on you will tackle up an' carry me back to Cynthy Ann's a'ter tea."

Arrived at the farmhouse, Mrs. Payson indulged in a long detail of grievances; but it was observed that they did not materially affect her appetite at tea.

The offending musket was found by Frank under a tree, where Pomp had dropped it when it went off.



Chapter XXVIII. John Haynes Has A Narrow Escape

John Haynes found the time hang heavily upon his hand after his withdrawal from the boys' volunteer company. All the boys with whom he had been accustomed to associate belonged to it, and in their interest could talk of nothing else. To him, on the contrary, it was a disagreeable subject. In the pleasant spring days the company came out twice a week, and went through company drill on the Common, under the command of Frank, or Captain Frost, as he was now called.

Had Frank shown himself incompetent, and made himself ridiculous by blunders, it would have afforded John satisfaction. But Frank, thorough in all things, had so carefully prepared himself for his duties that he never made a mistake, and always acquitted himself so creditably and with such entire self-possession, that his praises were in every mouth.

Dick Bumstead, too, manifested an ambition to fill his second lieutenancy, to which, so much to his own surprise, he had been elected, in such a manner as to justify the company in their choice. In this he fully succeeded. He had become quite a different boy from what he was when we first made his acquaintance. He had learned to respect himself, and perceived with great satisfaction that he was generally respected by the boys. He no longer attempted to shirk his work in the shop, and his father now spoke of him with complacency, instead of complaint as formerly.

"Yes," said he one day, "Dick's a good boy. He was always smart, but rather fly-a-way. I couldn't place any dependence upon him once, but it is not so now. I couldn't wish for a better boy. I don't know what has come over him, but I hope it'll last."

Dick happened to overhear his father speaking thus to a neighbor, and he only determined, with a commendable feeling of pride, that the change that had given his father so much pleasure should last. It does a boy good to know that his efforts are appreciated. In this case it had a happy effect upon Dick, who, I am glad to say, kept his resolution.

It has been mentioned that John was the possessor of a boat. Finding one great source of amusement cut off, and being left very much to himself, he fell back upon this, and nearly every pleasant afternoon he might be seen rowing on the river above the dam. He was obliged to confine himself to this part of the river, since, in the part below the dam, the water was too shallow.

There is one great drawback, however, upon the pleasure of owning a rowboat. It is tiresome to row single-handed after a time. So John found it, and, not being overfond of active exertion, he was beginning to get weary of this kind of amusement when all at once a new plan was suggested to him. This was, to rig up a mast and sail, and thus obviate the necessity of rowing.

No sooner had this plan suggested itself than he hastened to put it into execution. His boat was large enough to bear a small mast, so there was no difficulty on that head. He engaged the village carpenter to effect the desired change. He did not choose to consult his father on the subject, fearing that he might make some objection either on score of safety or expense, while he had made up his mind to have his own way.

When it was finished, and the boat with its slender mast and white sail floated gently on the quiet bosom of the stream, John's satisfaction was unbounded.

"You've got a pretty boat," said Mr. Plane, the carpenter. "I suppose you know how to manage it?" he added inquiringly.

"Yes," answered John carelessly, "I've been in a sailboat before to-day."

Mr. Plane's doubts were set at rest by John's confident manner, and he suppressed the caution which he had intended to give him. It made little difference, however, for John was headstrong, and would have been pretty certain to disregard whatever he might say.

It was true that this was not the first time John had been in a sailboat; but if not the first, it was only the second. The first occasion had been three years previous, and at that time he had had nothing to do with the management of the boat -- a very important matter. It was in John's nature to be over-confident, and he thought he understood merely from observation exactly how a boat ought to be managed. As we shall see, he found out his mistake.

The first day after his boat was ready John was greatly disappointed that there was no wind. The next day, as if to make up for it, the wind was very strong. Had John possessed a particle of prudence he would have seen that it was no day to venture out in a sailboat. But he was not in the habit of curbing his impatience, and he determined that he would not wait till another day. He declared that it was a mere "capful of wind," and would be all the better for the purpose.

"It's a tip-top wind. Won't it make my boat scud," he said to himself exultantly, as he took his place, and pushed off from shore.

Henry Morton had been out on a walk, and from the summit of a little hill near the river-bank espied John pushing off in his boat.

"He'll be sure to capsize," thought the young man in alarm. "Even if he is used to a sailboat he is very imprudent to put out in such a wind; I will hurry down and save him if I can."

He hurried to the bank of the river, reaching it out of breath.

John was by this time some distance out. The wind had carried him along finely, the boat scudding, as he expressed it. He was congratulating himself on the success of his trial trip, when all at once a flaw struck the boat. Not being a skillful boatman he was wholly unprepared for it, and the boat upset.

Struggling in terror and confusion, John struck out for the shore. But he was not much of a swimmer, and the suddenness of the accident had unnerved him, and deprived him of his self-possession. The current of the river was rapid, and he would inevitably have drowned but for the opportune assistance of Mr. Morton.

The young man had no sooner seen the boat capsize, than he flung off his coat and boots, and, plunging into the river, swam vigorously toward the imperiled boy.

Luckily for John, Mr. Morton was, though of slight frame, muscular, and an admirable swimmer. He reached him just as John's strokes were becoming feebler and feebler; he was about to give up his unequal struggle with the waves.

"Take hold of me," he said. "Have courage, and I will save you."

John seized him with the firm grip of a drowning person, and nearly prevented him from striking out. But Mr. Morton's strength served him in good stead; and, notwithstanding the heavy burden, he succeeded in reaching the bank in safety, though with much exhaustion.

John no sooner reached the bank than he fainted away. The great danger which he had just escaped, added to his own efforts, had proved too much for him.

Mr. Morton, fortunately knew how to act in such emergencies. By the use of the proper remedies, he was fortunately brought to himself, and his preserver offered to accompany him home. John still felt giddy, and was glad to accept Mr. Morton's offer. He knew that his father would be angry with him for having the boat fitted up without his knowledge, especially as he had directed Mr. Plane to charge it to his father's account. Supposing that Squire Haynes approved, the carpenter made no objections to doing so. But even the apprehension of his father's anger was swallowed up by the thought of the great peril from which he had just escaped, and the discomfort of the wet clothes which he had on.

Mr. Morton, too, was completely wet through, with the exception of his coat, and but for John's apparent inability to go home alone, would at once have returned to his boarding-house to exchange his wet clothes for dry ones.

It so happened that Squire Haynes was sitting at a front window, and saw Mr. Morton and his son as they entered the gate and came up the graveled walk. He had never met Mr. Morton, and was surprised now at seeing him in John's company. He had conceived a feeling of dislike to the young man, for which he could not account, while at the same time he felt a strong curiosity to know more of him.

When they came nearer, he perceived the drenched garments, and went to the door himself to admit them.

"What's the matter, John?" he demanded hastily, with a contraction of the eyebrows.

"I'm wet!" said John shortly.

"It is easy to see that. But how came you so wet?"

"I've been in the river," answered John, who did not seem disposed to volunteer any particulars of his adventure.

"How came you there?"

"Your son's boat capsized," explained Mr. Morton; "and, as you will judge from my appearance, I jumped in after him. I should advise him to change his clothing, or he will be likely to take cold."

Squire Haynes looked puzzled.

"I don't see how a large rowboat like his could capsize," he said; "he must have been very careless."

"It was a sailboat," explained John, rather reluctantly.

"A sailboat! Whose?"

"Mine."

"I don't understand at all."

"I had a mast put in, and a sail rigged up, two or three days since," said John, compelled at last to explain.

"Why did you do this without my permission?" demanded the squire angrily.

"Perhaps," said Mr. Morton quietly, "it will be better to postpone inquiries until your son has changed his clothes."

Squire Haynes, though somewhat irritated by this interference, bethought himself that it would be churlish not to thank his son's preserver.

"I am indebted to you, sir," he said, "for your agency in saving the life of this rash boy. I regret that you should have got wet."

"I shall probably experience nothing more than temporary inconvenience."

"You have been some months in the village, I believe, Mr. Morton. I trust you will call at an early day, and enable me to follow up the chance which has made us acquainted."

"I seldom make calls," said Mr. Morton, in a distant tone. "Yet," added he, after a pause, "I may have occasion to accept your invitation some day. Good morning, sir."

"Good morning," returned the squire, looking after him with an expression of perplexity.

"He boards at the Frosts', doesn't he, John?" asked Squire Haynes, turning to his son.

"Yes, sir."

"There's something in his face that seems familiar," mused the squire absently. "He reminds me of somebody, though I can't recall who."

It was not long before the squire's memory was refreshed, and he obtained clearer information respecting the young man, and the errand which had brought him to Rossville. When that information came, it was so far from pleasing that he would willingly have postponed it indefinitely.



Chapter XXIX. Mr. Morton's Story

The planting-season was over. For a month Frank had worked industriously, in conjunction with Jacob Carter. His father had sent him directions so full and minute, that he was not often obliged to call upon Farmer Maynard for advice. The old farmer proved to be very kind and obliging. Jacob, too, was capable and faithful, so that the farm work went on as well probably as if Mr. Frost had been at home.

One evening toward the middle of June, Frank walked out into the fields with Mr. Morton. The corn and potatoes were looking finely. The garden vegetables were up, and to all appearance doing well. Frank surveyed the scene with a feeling of natural pride.

"Don't you think I would make a successful farmer, Mr. Morton?" he asked.

"Yes, Frank; and more than this, I think you will be likely to succeed in any other vocation you may select."

"I am afraid you're flattering me, Mr. Morton."

"Such is not my intention, Frank, but I like to award praise where I think it due. I have noticed in you a disposition to be faithful to whatever responsibility is imposed upon you, and wherever I see that I feel no hesitation in predicting a successful career."

"Thank you," said Frank, looking very much pleased with the compliment. "I try to be faithful. I feel that father has trusted me more than it is usual to trust boys of my age, and I want to show myself worthy of his confidence."

"You are fortunate in having a father, Frank," said the young man, with a shade of sadness in his voice. "My father died before I was of your age."

"Do you remember him?" inquired Frank, with interest.

"I remember him well. He was always kind to me. I never remember to have received a harsh word from him. It is because he was so kind and indulgent to me that I feel the more incensed against a man who took advantage of his confidence to defraud him, or, rather, me, through him."

"You have never mentioned this before, Mr. Morton."

"No. I have left you all in ignorance of much of my history. This morning, if it will interest you, I propose to take you into my confidence."

The eagerness with which Frank greeted this proposal showed that for him the story would have no lack of interest.

"Let us sit down under this tree," said Henry Morton, pointing to a horse-chestnut, whose dense foliage promised a pleasant shelter from the sun's rays.

They threw themselves upon the grass, and he forthwith commenced his story.

"My father was born in Boston, and, growing up, engaged in mercantile pursuits. He was moderately successful, and finally accumulated fifty thousand dollars. He would not have stopped there, for he was at the time making money rapidly, but his health became precarious, and his physician required him absolutely to give up business. The seeds of consumption, which probably had been lurking for years in his system, had begun to show themselves unmistakably, and required immediate attention.

"By the advice of his physician he sailed for the West India Islands, hoping that the climate might have a beneficial effect upon him. At that time I was twelve years old, and an only child. My mother had died some years before, so that I was left quite alone in the world. I was sent for a time to Virginia, to my mother's brother, who possessed a large plantation and numerous slaves. Here I remained for six months. You will remember that Aunt Chloe recognized me at first sight. You will not be surprised at this when I tell you that she was my uncle's slave, and that as a boy I was indebted to her for many a little favor which she, being employed in the kitchen, was able to render me. As I told you at the time, my real name is not Morton. It will not be long before you understand the reason of my concealment.

"My father had a legal adviser, in whom he reposed a large measure of confidence, though events showed him to be quite unworthy of it. On leaving Boston he divided his property, which had been converted into money, into two equal portions. One part he took with him. The other he committed to the lawyer's charge. So much confidence had he in this man's honor, that he did not even require a receipt. One additional safeguard he had, however. This was the evidence of the lawyer's clerk, who was present on the occasion of the deposit.

"My father went to the West Indies, but the change seemed only to accelerate the progress of his malady. He lingered for a few months and then died. Before his death he wrote two letters, one to my uncle and one to myself. In these he communicated the fact of his having deposited twenty-five thousand dollars with his lawyer. He mentioned incidentally the presence of the lawyer's clerk at the time. I am a little surprised that he should have done it, as not the faintest suspicion of the lawyer's good faith had entered his thoughts.

"On receiving this letter my uncle, on my behalf, took measures to claim this sum, and for this purpose came to Boston. Imagine his surprise and indignation when the lawyer positively denied having received any such deposit and called upon him, to prove it. With great effrontery he declared that it was absurd to suppose that my father would have entrusted him with any such sum without a receipt for it. This certainly looked plausible, and I acknowledge that few except my father, who never trusted without trusting entirely, would have acted so imprudently.

"'Where is the clerk who was in your office at the time?" inquired my uncle.

The lawyer looked somewhat discomposed at this question.

"'Why do you ask?' he inquired abruptly.

"'Because,' was the reply, 'his evidence is very important to us. My brother states that he was present when the deposit was made.'

"'I don't know where he is,' said the lawyer. 'He was too dissipated to remain in my office, and I accordingly discharged him.'

"My uncle suspected that the clerk had been bribed to keep silence, and for additional security sent off to some distant place.

"Nothing could be done. Strong as our suspicions, and absolute as was our conviction of the lawyer's guilt, we had no recourse. But from that time I devoted my life to the exposure of this man. Fortunately I was not without means. The other half of my father's property came to me; and the interest being considerably more than I required for my support, I have devoted the remainder to, prosecuting inquiries respecting the missing clerk. Just before I came to Rossville, I obtained a clue which I have since industriously followed up.

"Last night I received a letter from my agent, stating that he had found the man -- that he was in a sad state of destitution, and that he was ready to give his evidence."

"Is the lawyer still living?" inquired Frank.

"He is."

"What a villain he must be."

"I am afraid he is, Frank."

"Does he still live in Boston?"

"No. After he made sure of his ill-gotten gains, he removed into the country, where he built him a fine house. He has been able to live a life of leisure; but I doubt if he has been as happy as he would have been had he never deviated from the path of rectitude."

"Have you seen him lately?" asked Frank.

"I have seen him many times within the last few months," said the young man, in a significant tone.

Frank jumped to his feet in surprise. "You don't mean --  -- " he said, as a sudden suspicion of the truth dawned upon his mind.

"Yes," said Mr. Morton deliberately, "I do mean that the lawyer who defrauded my father lives in this village. You know him well as Squire Haynes."

"I can hardly believe it," said Frank, unable to conceal his astonishment. "Do you think he knows who you are?"

"I think he has noticed my resemblance to my father. If I had not assumed a different name he would have been sure to detect me. This would have interfered with my plans, as he undoubtedly knew the whereabouts of his old clerk, and would have arranged to remove him, so as to delay his discovery, perhaps indefinitely. Here is the letter I received last night. I will read it to you."

The letter ran as follows:

"I have at length discovered the man of whom I have so long been in search. I found him in Detroit. He had recently removed thither from St. Louis. He is very poor, and, when I found him, was laid up with typhoid fever in a mean lodging-house. I removed him to more comfortable quarters, supplied him with relishing food and good medical assistance. Otherwise I think he would have died. The result is, that he feels deeply grateful to me for having probably saved his life. When I first broached the idea of his giving evidence against his old employer, I found him reluctant to do so -- not from any attachment he bore him, but from a fear that he would be held on a criminal charge for concealing a felony. I have undertaken to assure him, on your behalf, that he shall not be punished if he will come forward and give his evidence unhesitatingly. I have finally obtained his promise to, do so.

"We shall leave Detroit day after to-morrow, and proceed to New England by way of New York. Can you meet me in New York on the 18th inst.? You can, in that case, have an interview with this man Travers; and it Will be well to obtain his confession, legally certified, to guard against any vacillation of purpose on his part. I have no apprehension of it, but it is as well to be certain."

This letter was signed by Mr. Morton's agent.

"I was very glad to get that letter, Frank," said his companion. "I don't think I care so much for the money, though that is not to be despised, since it will enable me to do more good than at present I have it in my power to do. But there is one thing I care for still more, and that is, to redeem my father's memory from reproach. In the last letter he ever wrote he made a specific statement, which this lawyer declares to be false. The evidence of his clerk will hurl back the falsehood upon himself."

"How strange it is, Mr. Morton," exclaimed Frank, "that you should have saved the life of a son of the man who has done so much to injure you!"

"Yes, that gives me great satisfaction. I do not wish Squire Haynes any harm, but I am determined that justice shall be done. Otherwise than that, if I can be of any service to him, I shall not refuse."

"I remember now," said Frank, after a moment's pause, "that, on the first Sunday you appeared at church, Squire Haynes stopped me to inquire who you were."

"I am thought to look much as my father did. He undoubtedly saw the resemblance. I have often caught his eyes fixed upon me in perplexity when he did not know that I noticed him. It is fourteen years since my father died. Retribution has been slow, but it has come at last."

"When do you go on to New York?" asked Frank, recalling the agent's request.

"I shall start to-morrow morning. For the present I will ask you to keep what I have said a secret even from your good mother. It is as well not to disturb Squire Haynes in his fancied security until we are ready to overwhelm him with our evidence."

"How long shall you be absent, Mr. Morton?"

"Probably less than a week. I shall merely say that I have gone on business. I trust to your discretion to say nothing more."

"I certainly will not," said Frank. "I am very much obliged to you for having told me first."

The two rose from their grassy seats, and walked slowly back to the farmhouse.



Chapter XXX. Frank Calls On Squire Haynes

The next morning Mr. Morton was a passenger by the early stage for Webbington, where he took the train for Boston. Thence he was to proceed to New York by the steamboat train.

"Good-by, Mr. Morton," said Frank, waving his cap as the stage started. "I hope you'll soon be back."

"I hope so, too; good-by."

Crack went the whip, round went the wheels. The horses started, and the stage rumbled off, swaying this way and that, as if top-heavy.

Frank went slowly back to the house, feeling quite lonely. He had become so accustomed to Mr. Morton's companionship that his departure left a void which he hardly knew how to fill.

As he reflected upon Mr. Morton's story he began to feel an increased uneasiness at the mortgage held by Squire Haynes upon his father's farm. The time was very near at hand -- only ten days off -- when the mortgage might be foreclosed, and but half the money was in readiness.

Perhaps, however, Squire Haynes had no intention of foreclosing. If so, there was no occasion for apprehension. But about this he felt by no means certain.

He finally determined, without consulting his mother, to make the squire a visit and inquire frankly what he intended to do. The squire's answer would regulate his future proceedings.

It was Frank's rule -- and a very good one, too -- to do at once whatever needed to be done. He resolved to lose no time in making his call.

"Frank," said his mother, as he entered the house, "I want you to go down to the store some time this forenoon, and get me half a dozen pounds of sugar."

"Very well, mother, I'll go now. I suppose it won't make any difference if I don't come back for an hour or two."

"No, that will be in time."

Mrs. Frost did not ask Frank where he was going. She had perfect faith in him, and felt sure that he would never become involved in anything discreditable.

Frank passed through the village without stopping at the store. He deferred his mother's errand until his return. Passing up the village street, he stopped before the fine house of Squire Haynes. Opening the gate he walked up the graveled path and rang the bell.

A servant-girl came to the door.

"Is Squire Haynes at home?" inquired Frank.

"Yes, but he's eating breakfast."

"Will he be through soon?"

"Shure and I think so."

"Then I will step in and wait for him."

"Who shall I say it is?"

"Frank Frost."

Squire Haynes had just passed his cup for coffee when Bridget entered and reported that Frank Frost was in the drawing-room and would like to see him when he had finished his breakfast.

"Frank Frost!" repeated the squire, arching his eyebrows. "What does he want, I wonder?"

"Shure he didn't say," said Bridget.

"Very well."

"He is captain of the boys' company, John, isn't he?" asked the squire.

"Yes," said John sulkily. "I wish him joy of his office. I wouldn't have anything to do with such a crowd of ragamuffins."

Of course the reader understands that this was "sour grapes" on John's part.

Finishing his breakfast leisurely, Squire Haynes went into the room where Frank was sitting patiently awaiting him.

Frank rose as he entered.

"Good morning, Squire Haynes," he said, politely rising as he spoke.

"Good morning," said the squire coldly. "You are an early visitor."

If this was intended for a rebuff, Frank did not choose to take any notice of it.

"I call on a little matter of business, Squire Haynes," continued Frank.

"Very well," said the squire, seating himself in a luxurious armchair, "I am ready to attend to you."

"I believe you hold a mortgage on our farm."

Squire Haynes started. The thought of Frank's real business had not occurred to him. He had hoped that nothing would have been said in relation to the mortgage until he was at liberty to foreclose, as he wished to take the Frosts unprepared. He now resolved, if possible, to keep Frank in ignorance of his real purpose, that he might not think it necessary to prepare for his attack.

"Yes," said he indifferently; "I hold quite a number of mortgages, and one upon your father's farm among them."

"Isn't the time nearly run out?" asked Frank anxiously.

"I can look if you desire it," said the squire, in the same indifferent tone.

"I should be glad if you would."

"May I ask why you are desirous of ascertaining the precise date?" asked the squire. "Are you intending to pay off the mortgage?"

"No, sir," said Frank. "We are not prepared to do so at present."

Squire Haynes felt relieved. He feared for a moment that Mr. Frost had secured the necessary sum, and that he would be defeated in his wicked purpose.

He drew out a large number of papers, which he rather ostentatiously scattered about the table, and finally came to the mortgage.

"The mortgage comes due on the first of July," he said.

"Will it be convenient for you to renew it, Squire Haynes?" asked Frank anxiously. "Father being absent, it would be inconvenient for us to obtain the amount necessary to cancel it. Of course, I shall be ready to pay the interest promptly."

"Unless I should have sudden occasion for the money," said the squire, "I will let it remain. I don't think you need feel any anxiety on the subject."

With the intention of putting Frank off his guard, Squire Haynes assumed a comparatively gracious tone. This, in the case of any other man, would have completely reassured Frank. But he had a strong distrust of the squire, since the revelation of his character made by his friend Mr. Morton.

"Could you tell me positively?" he asked, still uneasy. "It is only ten days now to the first of July, and that is little enough to raise the money in."

"Don't trouble yourself," said the squire. "I said unless I had sudden occasion for the money, because unforeseen circumstances might arise. But as I have a considerable sum lying at the bank, I don't anticipate anything of the kind."

"I suppose you will give me immediate notice, should it be necessary. We can pay four hundred dollars now. So, if you please, the new mortgage can be made out for half the present amount."

"Very well," said the squire carelessly. "Just as you please as to that. Still, as you have always paid my interest regularly, I consider the investment a good one, and have no objection to the whole remaining."

"Thank you, sir," said Frank, rising to go.

Frank took his hat, and, bowing to the squire, sought the front door. His face wore a perplexed expression. He hardly knew what to think about the interview he had just had.

"Squire Haynes talks fair enough," he soliloquized; "and, perhaps, he means what he says. If it hadn't been for what Mr. Morton told me, I should have confidence in him. But a man who will betray a trust is capable of breaking his word to me. I think I'll look round a little, and see if I can't provide for the worse in case it comes."

Just after Frank left the house, John entered his father's presence.

"What did Frank Frost want of you, father?" he asked.

"He came about the mortgage."

"Did he want to pay it?"

"No, he wants me to renew it."

"Of course you refused."

"Of course I did no such thing. Do you think I am a fool?"

"You don't mean to say that you agreed to renew it?" demanded John, in angry amazement.

Squire Haynes rather enjoyed John's mystification.

"Come," said he, "I'm afraid you'll never make a lawyer if you're not sharper than that comes to. Never reveal your plans to your adversary. That's an important principle. If I had refused, he would have gone to work, and in ten days between now and the first of July, he'd have managed in some way to scrape together the eight hundred dollars. He's got half of it now."

"What did you tell him, then?"

"I put him off by telling him not to trouble himself -- that I would not foreclose the mortgage unless I had unexpected occasion for the money."

"Yes, I see," said John, his face brightening at the anticipated disaster to the Frosts. "You'll take care that there shall be some sudden occasion."

"Yes," said the squire complacently. "I'll have a note come due, which I had not thought about, or something of the kind."

"Oh, that'll be bully."

"Don't use such low words, John. I have repeatedly requested you to be more careful about your language. By the way, your teacher told me yesterday that you are not doing as well now as formerly."

"Oh, he's an old muff. Besides, he's got a spite against me. I should do a good deal better at another school."

"We'll see about that. But I suspect he's partly right."

"Well, how can a feller study when he knows the teacher is determined to be down upon him?"

"'Feller!' I am shocked at hearing you use that word. 'Down upon him,' too!"

"Very well; let me go where I won't hear such language spoken."

It would have been well if Squire Haynes had been as much shocked by bad actions as by low language.

This little disagreement over, they began again to anticipate with pleasure the effect of the squire's premeditated blow upon the Frosts.

"We'll come up with 'em?" said John, with inward exultation.

Meanwhile, though the squire was entirely unconscious of it, there was a sword hanging over his own head.



Chapter XXXI. Squire Haynes Springs His Trap

As intimated in the last chapter, Frank determined to see if he could not raise the money necessary to pay off the mortgage in case it should be necessary to do so.

Farmer Maynard was a man in very good circumstances. He owned an excellent farm, which yielded more than enough to support his family. Probably he had one or two thousand dollars laid aside.

"I think he will help me," Frank said to himself, "I'll go to him."

He went to the house, and was directed to the barn. There he found the farmer engaged in mending a hoe-handle, which had been broken, by splicing it.

He unfolded his business. The farmer listened attentively to his statement.

"You say the squire as much as told you that he would renew the mortgage?"

"Yes."

"Well, I wouldn't trouble myself then; I've no doubt he'll do it."

"He said, unless he should have some sudden occasion for the money."

"All right. He is a prudent man, and don't want to bind himself. That is all. You know the most unlikely things may happen; but I don't believe the squire'll want the money. He's got plenty in the bank."

"But if he should?"

"Then he'll wait, or take part. I suppose you can pay part."

"Yes, half."

"Then I guess there won't be any chance of anything going wrong."

"If there should," persisted Frank, "could you lend us four hundred dollars to make up the amount?"

"I'd do it in a minute, Frank, but I hain't got the money by me. What money I have got besides the farm is lent out in notes. Only last week I let my brother-in-law have five hundred dollars, and that leaves me pretty short."

"Perhaps somebody else will advance the money," said Frank, feeling a little discouraged at the result of his first application.

"Yes, most likely. But I guess you won't need any assistance. I look upon it as certain that the mortgage will be renewed. Next fall I shall have the money, and if the squire wants to dispose of the mortgage, I shall be ready to take it off his hands."

Frank tried to feel that he was foolish in apprehending trouble from Squire Haynes, but he found it impossible to rid himself of a vague feeling of uneasiness.

He made application to another farmer -- an intimate friend of his father's -- but he had just purchased and paid for a five-acre lot adjoining his farm, and that had stripped him of money. He, too, bade Frank lay aside all anxiety, and assured him that his fears were groundless.

With this Frank had to be content.

"Perhaps I am foolish," he said to himself. "I'll try to think no more about it."

He accordingly returned to his usual work, and, not wishing to trouble his mother to no purpose, resolved not to impart his fears to her. Another ground of relief suggested itself to him. Mr. Morton would probably be back on the 27th of June. Such, at least, was his anticipation when he went away. There was reason to believe that he would be both ready and willing to take up the mortgage, if needful. This thought brought back Frank's cheerfulness.

It was somewhat dashed by the following letter which he received a day or two later from his absent friend. It was dated New York, June 25, 1863. As will appear from its tenor, it prepared Frank for a further delay in Mr. Morton's arrival.


"DEAR FRANK: I shall not be with you quite as soon as I intended. I hope, however, to return a day or two afterward at latest. My business is going on well, and I am assured of final success. Will you ask your mother if she can accommodate an acquaintance of mine for a day or two? I shall bring him with me from New York, and shall feel indebted for the accommodation.

"Your true friend,

"Henry Morton."


Frank understood at once that the acquaintance referred to must be the clerk, whose evidence was so important to Mr. Morton's case. Being enjoined to secrecy, however, he, of course, felt that he was not at liberty to mention this.

One day succeeded another until at length the morning of the thirtieth of June dawned. Mr. Morton had not yet arrived; but, on the other hand, nothing had been heard from Squire Haynes.

Frank began to breathe more freely. He persuaded himself that he had been foolishly apprehensive. "The squire means to renew the mortgage," he said to himself hopefully.

He had a talk with his mother, and she agreed that it would be well to pay the four hundred dollars they could spare, and have a new mortgage made out for the balance. Frank accordingly rode over to Brandon in the forenoon, and withdrew from the bank the entire sum there deposited to his father's credit. This, with money which had been received from Mr. Morton in payment of his board, made up the requisite amount.

About four o'clock in the afternoon, as Mrs. Frost was sewing at a front window, she exclaimed to Frank, who was making a kite for his little brother Charlie, "Frank, there's Squire Haynes coming up the road."

Frank's heart gave an anxious bound.

"Is he coming here?" he asked, with anxiety.

"Yes," said Mrs. Frost, after a moment's pause. Frank turned pale with apprehension.

A moment afterward the huge knocker was heard to sound, and Mrs. Frost, putting down her work, smoothed her apron and went to the door.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Frost," said the squire, lifting his hat.

"Good afternoon, Squire Haynes. Won't you walk in?"

"Thank you; I will intrude for a few minutes. How do you do?" he said, nodding to Frank as he entered.

"Pretty well, thank you, sir," said Frank nervously.

The squire, knowing the odium which would attach to the course he had settled upon, resolved to show the utmost politeness to the family he was about to injure, and justify his action by the plea of necessity.

"Take a seat, Squire Haynes," said Mrs. Frost "You'll find this rocking-chair more comfortable.'

"I am very well seated, thank you. I cannot stop long. I have merely called on a matter of business."

"About the mortgage?" interrupted Frank, who could keep silence no longer.

"Precisely so. I regret to say that I have urgent occasion for the money, and shall be unable to renew it."

"We have got four hundred dollars," said Mrs. Frost, "which we are intending to pay."

"I am sorry to say that this will not answer my purpose."

"Why did you not let us know before?" asked Frank abruptly.

"Frank!" said his mother reprovingly.

"It was only this morning that the necessity arose. I have a note due which must be paid."

"We are not provided with the money, Squire Haynes," said Mrs. Frost. "if, however, you will wait a few days, we can probably raise it among our friends."

"I regret to say that this will not do," said the squire, "I would gladly postpone the matter. The investment has been satisfactory to me, but necessity knows no law."

Frank was about to burst out with some indignant exclamation, but his mother, checking him, said: "I think there is little chance of our being able to pay you to-morrow. May I inquire what course you propose to take?"

"It will be my painful duty to foreclose the mortgage."

"Squire Haynes," said Frank boldly, "haven't you intended to foreclose the mortgage all along? Hadn't you decided about it when I called upon you ten days ago?"

"What do you mean by your impertinence, sir?" demanded the squire, giving vent to his anger.

"Just what I say. I believe you bear a grudge against my father, and only put me off the other day in order to prevent my being able to meet your demands to-morrow. What do you suppose we can do in less than twenty-four hours?"

"Madam!" said the squire, purple with rage, "do you permit your son to insult me in this manner?"

"I leave it to your conscience, Squire Haynes, whether his charges are not deserved. I do not like to think ill of any man, but your course is very suspicious."

"Madam," said Squire Haynes, now thoroughly enraged, "you are a woman, and can say what you please; but as for this young rascal, I'll beat him within an inch of his life if I ever catch him out of your presence."

"He is under the protection of the laws," said Mrs. Frost composedly, "which you, being a lawyer, ought to understand."

"I'll have no mercy on you. I'll sell you up root and branch," said Squire Haynes, trembling with passion, and smiting the floor with his cane.

"At all events the house is ours to-day," returned Mrs. Frost, with dignity, "and I must request you to leave us in quiet possession of it."

The squire left the house in undignified haste, muttering threats as he went.

"Good, mother!" exclaimed Frank admiringly. "You turned him out capitally. But," he added, an expression of dismay stealing over his face, "what shall we do?"

"We must try to obtain a loan," said Mrs. Frost, "I will go and see Mr. Sanger, while you go to Mr. Perry. Possibly they may help us. There is no time to be lost."

An hour afterward Frank and his mother returned, both disappointed. Mr. Sanger and Mr. Perry both had the will to help but not the ability. There seemed no hope left save in Mr. Morton. At six o'clock the stage rolled up to the gate.

"Thank Heaven! Mr. Morton has come!" exclaimed Frank eagerly.

Mr. Morton got out of the stage, and with him a feeble old man, or such he seemed, whom the young man assisted to alight. They came up the gravel walk together.

"How do you do, Frank?" he said, with a cheerful smile.

"We are in trouble," said Frank. "Squire Haynes is going to foreclose the mortgage to-morrow."

"Never mind!" said Mr. Morton. "We will be ready for him. He can't do either of us any more mischief, Frank. His race is about run."

A heavy weight seemed lifted from Frank's heart. For the rest of the day he was in wild spirits. He asked no questions of Mr. Morton. He felt a firm confidence that all would turn out for the best.



Chapter XXXII. Turning The Tables

The next morning Mr. Morton made inquiries of Frank respecting the mortgage. Frank explained that a loan of four hundred dollars would enable him to cancel it.

"That is very easily arranged, then," said Henry Morton.

He opened his pocketbook and drew out four crisp new United States notes, of one hundred dollars each.

"There, Frank," said he; "that will loosen the hold Squire Haynes has upon you. I fancy he will find it a little more difficult to extricate himself from my grasp."

"How can I ever thank you, Mr. Morton?" said Frank, with emotion.

"It gives me great pleasure to have it in my power to be of service to you, Frank," said his friend kindly.

"We will have a mortgage made out to you," continued Frank.

"Not without my consent, I hope," said Mr. Morton, smiling.

Frank looked puzzled.

"No, Frank," resumed Mr. Morton, "I don't care for any security. You may give me a simple acknowledgment of indebtedness, and then pay me at your leisure."

Frank felt with Justice that Mr. Morton was acting very generously, and he was more than ever drawn to him.

So passed the earlier hours of the forenoon.

About eleven o'clock Squire Haynes was observed approaching the house. His step was firm and elastic, as if he rejoiced in the errand he was upon. Again he lifted the knocker, and sounded a noisy summons. It was in reality a summons to surrender.

The door was opened again by Mrs. Frost, who invited the squire to enter. He did so, wondering at her apparent composure.

"They can't have raised the money," thought he apprehensively. "No, I am sure the notice was too short."

Frank was in the room, but Squire Haynes did not deign to notice him, nor did Frank choose to make advances. Mrs. Frost spoke upon indifferent subjects, being determined to force Squire Haynes to broach himself the business that had brought him to the farm.

Finally, clearing his throat, he said: "Well, madam, are you prepared to cancel the mortgage which I hold upon your husband's farm?"

"I hope," said Mrs. Frost, "you will give us time. It is hardly possible to obtain so large a sum in twenty-four hours."

"They haven't got it," thought the squire exultingly.

"As to that," he said aloud, "you've had several years to get ready in."

"Have you no consideration? Remember my husband's absence, and I am unacquainted with business."

"I have already told you," said the squire hastily, "that I require the money. I have a note to pay, and --  -- "

"Can you give us a week?"

"No, I must have the money at once."

"And if we cannot pay?"

"I must foreclose."

"Will that give you the money any sooner? I suppose you would have to advertise the farm for sale before you could realize anything, and I hardly think that car be accomplished sooner than a week hence."

"The delay is only a subterfuge on your part," said the squire hotly. "You would be no better prepared at the end of a week than you are now."

"No, perhaps not," said Mrs. Frost quietly.

"And yet you ask me to wait," said the squire indignantly. "Once for all, let me tell you that all entreaties are vain. My mind is made up to foreclose, and foreclose I will."

"Don't be too sure of that," interrupted Frank, with a triumphant smile.

"Ha, young impudence!" exclaimed the squire, wheeling round. "Who's to prevent me, I should like to know?"

"I am," said Frank boldly.

The squire fingered his cane nervously. He was very strongly tempted to lay it on our hero's back. But he reflected that the power was in his hands, and that he was sure of his revenge.

"You won't gain anything by your impudence," he said loftily. "I might have got you a place, out of pity to your mother, if you had behaved differently. I need a boy to do odd jobs about the house, and I might have offered the place to you."

"Thank you for your kind intentions," said Frank, "but I fear the care of this farm will prevent my accepting your tempting offer."

"The care of the farm!" repeated the squire angrily. "Do you think I will delegate it to you?"

"I don't see what you have to do about it," said Frank.

"Then you'll find out," roared the squire. "I shall take immediate possession, and require you to leave at once."

"Then I suppose we had better pay the mortgage, mother," said Frank.

"Pay the mortgage! You can't do it," said the squire exultingly.

"Have you the document with you?" inquired Mrs. Frost.

"Yes, madam."

"Name the amount due on it."

"With interest eight hundred and twenty-four dollars."

"Frank, call in Mr. Morton as a witness."

Mr. Morton entered.

"Now, Frank, you may count out the money."

"What!" stammered the squire, in dismay, "can you pay it."

"We can."

"Why didn't you tell me so in the first place?" demanded Squire Haynes, his wrath excited by his bitter disappointment.

"I wished to ascertain whether your course was dictated by necessity or a desire to annoy and injure us. I can have no further doubt about it."

There was no help for it. Squire Haynes was compelled to release his hold upon the Frost Farm, and pocket his money. He had never been so sorry to receive money before.

This business over, he was about to beat a hurried retreat, when he was suddenly arrested by a question from Henry Morton.

"Can you spare me a few minutes, Squire Haynes?"

"I am in haste, sir."

"My business is important, and has already been too long delayed."

"Too long delayed?"

"Yes, it has waited twelve years."

"I don't understand you, sir," said the squire.

"Perhaps I can assist you. You know me as Henry Morton. That is not my real name."

"An alias!" sneered the squire in a significant tone.

"Yes, I had my reasons," returned the young man, unmoved.

"I have no doubt of it."

Henry Morton smiled, but did not otherwise notice the unpleasant imputation.

"My real name is Richard Waring."

Squire Haynes started violently and scrutinized the young man closely through his spectacles. His vague suspicions were confirmed.

"Do you wish to know my business with you?"

The squire muttered something inaudible.

"I demand the restitution of the large sum of money entrusted to you by my father, just before his departure to the West Indies -- a sum of which you have been the wrongful possessor for twelve years."

"Do you mean to insult me?" exclaimed the squire, bold in the assurance that the sole evidence of his fraud was undiscovered.

"Unless you comply with my demand I shall proceed against you legally, and you are enough of a lawyer to understand the punishment meted out to that description of felony."

"Pooh, pooh! Your threats won't avail you," said the squire contemptuously. "Your plan is a very clumsy one. Let me suggest to you, young man, that threats for the purpose of extorting money are actionable."

"Do you doubt my identity?"

"You may very probably be the person you claim to be, but that won't save you."

"Very well. You have conceded one point."

He walked quietly to the door of the adjoining room, opened it, and in a distinct voice called "James Travers."

At the sound of this name Squire Haynes sank into a chair, ashy pale.

A man, not over forty, but with seamed face, hair nearly white, and a form evidently broken with ill health, slowly entered.

Squire Haynes beheld him with dismay.

"You see before you, Squire Haynes, a man whose silence has been your safeguard for the last twelve years. His lips are now unsealed. James Travers, tell us what you know of the trust reposed in this man by my father."

"No, no," said the squire hurriedly. "It -- it is enough. I will make restitution."

"You have done wisely," said Richard Waring. (We must give him his true name.) "When will you be ready to meet me upon this business?"

"To-morrow," muttered the squire.

He left the house with the air of one who has been crushed by a sudden blow.

The pride of the haughty had been laid low, and retribution, long deferred, had come at last.

Numerous and hearty were the congratulations which Mr. Morton -- I mean Mr. Waring -- received upon his new accession of property.

"I do not care so much for that," he said, "but my father's word has been vindicated. My mind is now at peace."

There was more than one happy heart at the farm that night. Mr. Waring had accomplished the great object of his life; and as for Frank and his mother, they felt that the black cloud which had menaced their happiness had been removed, and henceforth there seemed prosperous days in store. To cap the climax of their happiness, the afternoon mail brought a letter from Mr. Frost, in which he imparted the intelligence that he had been promoted to a second lieutenancy.

"Mother," said Frank, "you must be very dignified now, You are an officer's wife."



Chapter XXXIII. Conclusion

The restitution which Squire Haynes was compelled to make stripped him of more than half his property. His mortification and chagrin was so great that he determined to remove from Rossville. He gave no intimation where he was going, but it is understood that he is now living in the vicinity of Philadelphia, in a much more modest way than at Rossville.

To anticipate matters a little, it may be said that John was recently examined for college, but failed so signally that he will not again make the attempt. He has shown a disposition to be extravagant, which, unless curbed, will help him run through his father's diminished property at a rapid rate whenever it shall come into his possession.

The squire's handsome house in Rossville was purchased by Henry Morton -- I must still be allowed to call him thus, though not his real name. He has not yet taken up his residence there, but there is reason to believe that ere long there will be a Mrs. Morton to keep him company therein.

Not long since, as he and Frank lay stretched out beneath a thick-branching oak in the front yard at the farm, Mr. Morton turned to our hero and said, "Are you meaning to go to college when your father comes home, Frank?"

Frank hesitated.

"I have always looked forward to it," he said, "but lately I have been thinking that I shall have to give up the idea."

"Why so?"

"Because it is so expensive that my father cannot, in justice to his other children, support me through a four years' course. Besides, you know, Mr. Morton, we are four hundred dollars in your debt."

"Should you like very much to go to college, Frank?"

"Better than anything else in the world."

"Then you shall go."

Frank looked up in surprise.

"Don't you understand me?" said Mr. Morton.

"I mean that I will defray your expenses through college."

Frank could hardly believe his ears.

"You would spend so much money on me!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Why, it will cost a thousand dollars."

"Very well, I can afford it," said Mr. Morton. "But perhaps you object to the plan."

"How good you are to me!" said Frank, impulsively seizing his friend's hand. "What have I done to deserve so much kindness?"

"You have done your duty, Frank, at the sacrifice of your inclinations. I think you ought to be rewarded. God has bestowed upon me more than I need. I think he intends that I shall become his almoner. If you desire to express your gratitude, you can best do it by improving the advantages which will be opened to you."

Frank hastened to his mother to communicate his brilliant prospects. Her joy was scarcely less than his.

"Do not forget, Frank," she said, "who it is that has raised up this friend for you. Give Him the thanks."

There was another whose heart was gladdened when this welcome news reached him in his tent beside the Rappahannock. He felt that while he was doing his duty in the field, God was taking better care of his family than he could have done if he remained at home.

Before closing this chronicle I must satisfy the curiosity of my readers upon a few points in which they may feel interested.

The Rossville Guards are still in existence, and Frank is still their captain. They have already done escort duty on several occasions, and once they visited Boston, and marched up State Street with a precision of step which would have done no discredit to veteran soldiers.

Dick Bumstead's reformation proved to be a permanent one. He is Frank's most intimate friend, and with his assistance is laboring to remedy the defects of his early education. He has plenty of ability, and, now that he has turned over a new leaf, I have no hesitation in predicting for him a useful and honorable career.

Old Mrs. Payson has left Rossville, much to the delight of her grandson Sam, who never could get along with his grandmother. She still wears for best the "bunnit" presented her by Cynthy Ann, which, notwithstanding its mishap, seems likely to last her to the end of her natural life. She still has a weakness for hot gingerbread and mince pie, and, though she is turned of seventy, would walk a mile any afternoon with such an inducement.

Should any of my readers at any time visit the small town of Sparta, and encounter in the street a little old lady dressed in a brown cloak and hood, and firmly grasping in her right hand a faded blue cotton umbrella, they may feel quite certain that they are in the presence of Mrs. Mehitabel Payson, relict of Jeremiah Payson, deceased.

Little Pomp has improved very much both in his studies and his behavior. He now attends school regularly, and is quite as far advanced as most boys of his age. Though he is not entirely cured of his mischievous propensities, he behaves "pretty well, considering," and is a great deal of company to old Chloe, to whom he reads stories in books lent him by Frank and others. Chloe is amazingly proud of Pomp, whom she regards as a perfect prodigy of talent.

"Lor' bress you, missus," she remarked to Mrs. Frost one day, "he reads jest as fast as I can talk. He's an awful smart boy, dat Pomp."

"Why don't you let him teach you to read, Chloe?"

"Oh, Lor', missus, I couldn't learn, nohow. I ain't got no gumption. I don't know noffin'."

"Why couldn't you learn as well as Pomp?"

"Dat ar boy's a gen'us, missus. His fader was a mighty smart nigger, and Pomp's took arter him."

Chloe's conviction of her own inferiority and Pomp's superior ability seemed so rooted that Mrs. Frost finally gave up her persuasions. Meanwhile, as Chloe is in good health and has abundance of work, she has no difficulty in earning a comfortable subsistence for herself and Pomp. As soon as Pomp is old enough, Frank will employ him upon the farm.

While I am writing these lines intelligence has just been received from Frank's substitute at the seat of war. He has just been promoted to a captaincy. In communicating this he adds: "You may tell Frank that I am now his equal in rank, though his commission bears an earlier date. I suppose, therefore, I must content myself with being Captain Frost, Jr. I shall be very glad when the necessities of the country will permit me to lay aside the insignia of rank and, returning to Rossville, subside into plain Henry Frost again. If you ask me when this is to be, I can only say that it depends on the length of our struggle. I am enlisted for the war, and I mean to see it through! Till that time Frank must content himself with acting as my substitute at home. I am so well pleased with his management of the farm that I am convinced it is doing as well as if I were at home to superintend it in person. Express to Mr. Waring my gratitude for the generous proposal he has made to Frank. I feel that words are inadequate to express the extent of our obligations to him."


Some years have passed since the above letter was written. The war is happily over, and Captain Frost has returned home with an honorable record of service. Released from duty at home, Frank has exchanged the farm for the college hall, and he is now approaching graduation, one of the foremost scholars in his class. He bids fair to carry out the promise of his boyhood, and in the more varied and prolonged campaign which manhood opens before him we have reason to believe that he will display equal fidelity and gain an equal success.

<eob>

When London Burned

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter I

Fatherless


Lad stood looking out of the dormer window in a scantily furnished attic in the high-pitched roof of a house in Holborn, in September 1664. Numbers of persons were traversing the street below, many of them going out through the bars, fifty yards away, into the fields beyond, where some sports were being held that morning, while country people were coming in with their baskets from the villages of Highgate and Hampstead, Tyburn and Bayswater. But the lad noted nothing that was going on; his eyes were filled with tears, and his thoughts were in the little room behind him; for here, coffined in readiness for burial, lay the body of his father.

Sir Aubrey Shenstone had not been a good father in any sense of the word. He had not been harsh or cruel, but he had altogether neglected his son. Beyond the virtues of loyalty and courage, he possessed few others. He had fought, as a young man, for Charles, and even among the Cavaliers who rode behind Prince Rupert was noted for reckless bravery. When, on the fatal field of Worcester, the last hopes of the Royalists were crushed, he had effected his escape to France and taken up his abode at Dunkirk. His estates had been forfeited; and after spending the proceeds of his wife's jewels and those he had carried about with him in case fortune went against the cause for which he fought, he sank lower and lower, and had for years lived on the scanty pension allowed by Louis to the King and his adherents.

Sir Aubrey had been one of the wild, reckless spirits whose conduct did much towards setting the people of England against the cause of Charles. He gambled and drank, interlarded his conversation with oaths, and despised as well as hated the Puritans against whom he fought. Misfortune did not improve him; he still drank when he had money to do so, gambled for small sums in low taverns with men of his own kind, and quarrelled and fought on the smallest provocation. Had it not been for his son he would have taken service in the army of some foreign Power; but he could not take the child about with him, nor could he leave it behind.

Sir Aubrey was not altogether without good points. He would divide his last crown with a comrade poorer than himself. In the worst of times he was as cheerful as when money was plentiful, making a joke of his necessities and keeping a brave face to the world.

Wholly neglected by his father, who spent the greater portion of his time abroad, Cyril would have fared badly indeed had it not been for the kindness of Lady Parton, the wife of a Cavalier of very different type to Sir Aubrey. He had been an intimate friend of Lord Falkland, and, like that nobleman, had drawn his sword with the greatest reluctance, and only when he saw that Parliament was bent upon overthrowing the other two estates in the realm and constituting itself the sole authority in England. After the execution of Charles he had retired to France, and did not take part in the later risings, but lived a secluded life with his wife and children. The eldest of these was of the same age as Cyril; and as the latter's mother had been a neighbour of hers before marriage, Lady Parton promised her, on her death-bed, to look after the child, a promise that she faithfully kept.

Sir John Parton had always been adverse to the association of his boy with the son of Sir Aubrey Shenstone; but he had reluctantly yielded to his wife's wishes, and Cyril passed the greater portion of his time at their house, sharing the lessons Harry received from an English clergyman who had been expelled from his living by the fanatics of Parliament. He was a good and pious man, as well as an excellent scholar, and under his teaching, aided by the gentle precepts of Lady Parton, and the strict but kindly rule of her husband, Cyril received a training of a far better kind than he would ever have been likely to obtain had he been brought up in his father's house near Norfolk. Sir Aubrey exclaimed sometimes that the boy was growing up a little Puritan, and had he taken more interest in his welfare would undoubtedly have withdrawn him from the healthy influences that were benefiting him so greatly; but, with the usual acuteness of children, Cyril soon learnt that any allusion to his studies or his life at Sir John Parton's was disagreeable to his father, and therefore seldom spoke of them.

Sir Aubrey was never, even when under the influence of his potations, unkind to Cyril. The boy bore a strong likeness to his mother, whom his father had, in his rough way, really loved passionately. He seldom spoke even a harsh word to him, and although he occasionally expressed his disapproval of the teaching he was receiving, was at heart not sorry to see the boy growing up so different from himself; and Cyril, in spite of his father's faults, loved him. When Sir Aubrey came back with unsteady step, late at night, and threw himself on his pallet, Cyril would say to himself, "Poor father! How different he would have been had it not been for his misfortunes! He is to be pitied rather than blamed!" And so, as years went on, in spite of the difference between their natures, there had grown up a sort of fellowship between the two; and of an evening sometimes, when his father's purse was so low that he could not indulge in his usual stoup of wine at the tavern, they would sit together while Sir Aubrey talked of his fights and adventures.

"As to the estates, Cyril," he said one day, "I don't know that Cromwell and his Roundheads have done you much harm. I should have run through them, lad -- I should have diced them away years ago -- and I am not sure but that their forfeiture has been a benefit to you. If the King ever gets his own, you may come to the estates; while, if I had had the handling of them, the usurers would have had such a grip on them that you would never have had a penny of the income."

"It doesn't matter, father," the boy replied. "I mean to be a soldier some day, as you have been, and I shall take service with some of the Protestant Princes of Germany; or, if I can't do that, I shall be able to work my way somehow."

"What can you work at, lad?" his father said, contemptuously.

"I don't know yet, father; but I shall find some work to do."

Sir Aubrey was about to burst into a tirade against work, but he checked himself. If Cyril never came into the estates he would have to earn his living somehow.

"All right, my boy. But do you stick to your idea of earning your living by your sword; it is a gentleman's profession, and I would rather see you eating dry bread as a soldier of fortune than prospering in some vile trading business."

Cyril never argued with his father, and he simply nodded an assent and then asked some question that turned Sir Aubrey's thoughts on other matters.

The news that Monk had declared for the King, and that Charles would speedily return to take his place on his father's throne, caused great excitement among the Cavaliers scattered over the Continent; and as soon as the matter was settled, all prepared to return to England, in the full belief that their evil days were over, and that they would speedily be restored to their former estates, with honours and rewards for their many sacrifices.

"I must leave you behind for a short time, Cyril," his father said to the boy, when he came in one afternoon. "I must be in London before the King arrives there, to join in his welcome home, and for the moment I cannot take you; I shall be busy from morning till night. Of course, in the pressure of things at first it will be impossible for the King to do everything at once, and it may be a few weeks before all these Roundheads can be turned out of the snug nests they have made for themselves, and the rightful owners come to their own again. As I have no friends in London, I should have nowhere to bestow you, until I can take you down with me to Norfolk to present you to our tenants, and you would be grievously in my way; but as soon as things are settled I will write to you or come over myself to fetch you. In the meantime I must think over where I had best place you. It will not matter for so short a time, but I would that you should be as comfortable as possible. Think it over yourself, and let me know if you have any wishes in the matter. Sir John Parton leaves at the end of the week, and ere another fortnight there will be scarce another Englishman left at Dunkirk."

"Don't you think you can take me with you, father?"

"Impossible," Sir Aubrey said shortly. "Lodgings will be at a great price in London, for the city will be full of people from all parts coming up to welcome the King home. I can bestow myself in a garret anywhere, but I could not leave you there all day. Besides, I shall have to get more fitting clothes, and shall have many expenses. You are at home here, and will not feel it dull for the short time you have to remain behind."

Cyril said no more, but went up, with a heavy heart, for his last day's lessons at the Partons'. Young as he was, he was accustomed to think for himself, for it was but little guidance he received from his father; and after his studies were over he laid the case before his master, Mr. Felton, and asked if he could advise him. Mr. Felton was himself in high spirits, and was hoping to be speedily reinstated in his living. He looked grave when Cyril told his story.

"I think it is a pity that your father, Sir Aubrey, does not take you over with him, for it will assuredly take longer to bring all these matters into order than he seems to think. However, that is his affair. I should think he could not do better for you than place you with the people where I lodge. You know them, and they are a worthy couple; the husband is, as you know, a fisherman, and you and Harry Parton have often been out with him in his boat, so it would not be like going among strangers. Continue your studies. I should be sorry to think that you were forgetting all that you have learnt. I will take you this afternoon, if you like, to my friend, the Curé of St. Ursula. Although we differ on religion we are good friends, and should you need advice on any matters he will give it to you, and may be of use in arranging for a passage for you to England, should your father not be able himself to come and fetch you."

Sir Aubrey at once assented to the plan when Cyril mentioned it to him, and a week later sailed for England; Cyril moving, with his few belongings, to the house of Jean Baudoin, who was the owner and master of one of the largest fishing-boats in Dunkirk. Sir Aubrey had paid for his board and lodgings for two months.

"I expect to be over to fetch you long before that, Cyril," he had said, "but it is as well to be on the safe side. Here are four crowns, which will furnish you with ample pocket-money. And I have arranged with your fencing-master for you to have lessons regularly, as before; it will not do for you to neglect so important an accomplishment, for which, as he tells me, you show great aptitude."

The two months passed. Cyril had received but one letter from his father. Although it expressed hopes of his speedy restoration to his estates, Cyril could see, by its tone, that his father was far from satisfied with the progress he had made in the matter. Madame Baudoin was a good and pious woman, and was very kind to the forlorn English boy; but when a fortnight over the two months had passed, Cyril could see that the fisherman was becoming anxious. Regularly, on his return from the fishing, he inquired if letters had arrived, and seemed much put out when he heard that there was no news. One day, when Cyril was in the garden that surrounded the cottage, he heard him say to his wife, -- 

"Well, I will say nothing about it until after the next voyage, and then if we don't hear, the boy must do something for his living. I can take him in the boat with me; he can earn his victuals in that way. If he won't do that, I shall wash my hands of him altogether, and he must shift for himself. I believe his father has left him with us for good. We were wrong in taking him only on the recommendation of Mr. Felton. I have been inquiring about his father, and hear little good of him."

Cyril, as soon as the fisherman had gone, stole up to his little room. He was but twelve years old, and he threw himself down on his bed and cried bitterly. Then a thought struck him; he went to his box, and took out from it a sealed parcel; on it was written, "To my son. This parcel is only to be opened should you find yourself in great need, Your Loving Mother." He remembered how she had placed it in his hands a few hours before her death, and had said to him, -- 

"Put this away, Cyril. I charge you let no one see it. Do not speak of it to anyone -- not even to your father. Keep it as a sacred gift, and do not open it unless you are in sore need. It is for you, and you alone. It is the sole thing that I have to leave you; use it with discretion. I fear that hard times will come upon you."

Cyril felt that his need could hardly be sorer than it was now, and without hesitation he broke the seals, and opened the packet. He found first a letter directed to himself. It began, -- 

"MY DARLING CYRIL, -- I trust that it will be many years before you open this parcel and read these words. I have left the enclosed as a parting gift to you. I know not how long this exile may last, or whether you will ever be able to return to England. But whether you do or not, it may well be that the time will arrive when you may find yourself in sore need. Your father has been a loving husband to me, and will, I am sure, do what he can for you; but he is not provident in his habits, and may not, after he is left alone, be as careful in his expenditure as I have tried to be. I fear then that the time will come when you will be in need of money, possibly even in want of the necessaries of life. All my other trinkets I have given to him; but the one enclosed, which belonged to my mother, I leave to you. It is worth a good deal of money, and this it is my desire that you shall spend upon yourself. Use it wisely, my son. If, when you open this, you are of age to enter the service of a foreign Prince, as is, I know, the intention of your father, it will provide you with a suitable outfit. If, as is possible, you may lose your father by death or otherwise while you are still young, spend it on your education, which is the best of all heritages. Should your father be alive when you open this, I pray you not to inform him of it. The money, in his hands, would last but a short time, and might, I fear, be wasted. Think not that I am speaking or thinking hardly of him. All men, even the best, have their faults, and his is a carelessness as to money matters, and a certain recklessness concerning them; therefore, I pray you to keep it secret from him, though I do not say that you should not use the money for your common good, if it be needful; only, in that case, I beg you will not inform him as to what money you have in your possession, but use it carefully and prudently for the household wants, and make it last as long as may be. My good friend, Lady Parton, if still near you, will doubtless aid you in disposing of the jewels to the best advantage. God bless you, my son! This is the only secret I ever had from your father, but for your good I have hidden this one thing from him, and I pray that this deceit, which is practised for your advantage, may be forgiven me. YOUR LOVING MOTHER."

It was some time before Cyril opened the parcel; it contained a jewel-box in which was a necklace of pearls. After some consideration he took this to the Curé of St. Ursula, and, giving him his mother's letter to read, asked him for his advice as to its disposal.

"Your mother was a thoughtful and pious woman," the good priest said, after he had read the letter, "and has acted wisely in your behalf. The need she foresaw might come, has arisen, and you are surely justified in using her gift. I will dispose of this trinket for you; it is doubtless of considerable value. If it should be that your father speedily sends for you, you ought to lay aside the money for some future necessity. If he does not come for some time, as may well be -- for, from the news that comes from England, it is like to be many months before affairs are settled -- then draw from it only such amounts as are needed for your living and education. Study hard, my son, for so will you best be fulfilling the intentions of your mother. If you like, I will keep the money in my hands, serving it out to you as you need it; and in order that you may keep the matter a secret, I will myself go to Baudoin, and tell him that he need not be disquieted as to the cost of your maintenance, for that I have money in hand with which to discharge your expenses, so long as you may remain with him."

The next day the Curé informed Cyril that he had disposed of the necklace for fifty louis. Upon this sum Cyril lived for two years.

Things had gone very hardly with Sir Aubrey Shenstone. The King had a difficult course to steer. To have evicted all those who had obtained possession of the forfeited estates of the Cavaliers would have been to excite a deep feeling of resentment among the Nonconformists. In vain Sir Aubrey pressed his claims, in season and out of season. He had no powerful friends to aid him; his conduct had alienated the men who could have assisted him, and, like so many other Cavaliers who had fought and suffered for Charles I., Sir Aubrey Shenstone found himself left altogether in the cold. For a time he was able to keep up a fair appearance, as he obtained loans from Prince Rupert and other Royalists whom he had known in the old days, and who had been more fortunate than himself; but the money so obtained lasted but a short time, and it was not long before he was again in dire straits.

Cyril had from the first but little hope that his father would recover his estates. He had, shortly before his father left France, heard a conversation between Sir John Parton and a gentleman who was in the inner circle of Charles's advisers. The latter had said, -- 

"One of the King's great difficulties will be to satisfy the exiles. Undoubtedly, could he consult his own inclinations only, he would on his return at once reinstate all those who have suffered in their estates from their loyalty to his father and himself. But this will be impossible. It was absolutely necessary for him, in his proclamation at Breda, to promise an amnesty for all offences, liberty of conscience and an oblivion as to the past, and he specially says that all questions of grants, sales and purchases of land, and titles, shall be referred to Parliament. The Nonconformists are at present in a majority, and although it seems that all parties are willing to welcome the King back, you may be sure that no Parliament will consent to anything like a general disturbance of the possessors of estates formerly owned by Royalists. In a vast number of cases, the persons to whom such grants were made disposed of them by sale to others, and it would be as hard on them to be ousted as it is upon the original proprietors to be kept out of their possession. Truly it is a most difficult position, and one that will have to be approached with great judgment, the more so since most of those to whom the lands were granted were generals, officers, and soldiers of the Parliament, and Monk would naturally oppose any steps to the detriment of his old comrades.

"I fear there will be much bitter disappointment among the exiles, and that the King will be charged with ingratitude by those who think that he has only to sign an order for their reinstatement, whereas Charles will have himself a most difficult course to steer, and will have to govern himself most circumspectly, so as to give offence to none of the governing parties. As to his granting estates, or dispossessing their holders, he will have no more power to do so than you or I. Doubtless some of the exiles will be restored to their estates; but I fear that the great bulk are doomed to disappointment. At any rate, for a time no extensive changes can be made, though it may be that in the distance, when the temper of the nation at large is better understood, the King will be able to do something for those who suffered in the cause.

"It was all very well for Cromwell, who leant solely on the Army, to dispense with a Parliament, and to govern far more autocratically than James or Charles even dreamt of doing; but the Army that supported Cromwell would certainly not support Charles. It is composed for the most part of stern fanatics, and will be the first to oppose any attempt of the King to override the law. No doubt it will erelong be disbanded; but you will see that Parliament will then recover the authority of which Cromwell deprived it; and Charles is a far wiser man than his father, and will never set himself against the feeling of the country. Certainly, anything like a general reinstatement of the men who have been for the last ten years haunting the taverns of the Continent is out of the question; they would speedily create such a revulsion of public opinion as might bring about another rebellion. Hyde, staunch Royalist as he is, would never suffer the King to make so grievous an error; nor do I think for a moment that Charles, who is shrewd and politic, and above all things a lover of ease and quiet, would think of bringing such a nest of hornets about his ears."

When, after his return to England, it became evident that Sir Aubrey had but small chance of reinstatement in his lands, his former friends began to close their purses and to refuse to grant further loans, and he was presently reduced to straits as severe as those he had suffered during his exile. The good spirits that had borne him up so long failed now, and he grew morose and petulant. His loyalty to the King was unshaken; Charles had several times granted him audiences, and had assured him that, did it rest with him, justice should be at once dealt to him, but that he was practically powerless in the matter, and the knight's resentment was concentrated upon Hyde, now Lord Clarendon, and the rest of the King's advisers. He wrote but seldom to Cyril; he had no wish to have the boy with him until he could take him down with him in triumph to Norfolk, and show him to the tenants as his heir. Living from hand to mouth as he did, he worried but little as to how Cyril was getting on.

"The lad has fallen on his feet somehow," he said, "and he is better where he is than he would be with me. I suppose when he wants money he will write and say so, though where I should get any to send to him I know not. Anyhow, I need not worry about him at present."

Cyril, indeed, had written to him soon after the sale of the necklace, telling him that he need not distress himself about his condition, for that he had obtained sufficient money for his present necessities from the sale of a small trinket his mother had given him before her death, and that when this was spent he should doubtless find some means of earning his living until he could rejoin him. His father never inquired into the matter, though he made a casual reference to it in his next letter, saying that he was glad Cyril had obtained some money, as it would, at the moment, have been inconvenient to him to send any over.

Cyril worked assiduously at the school that had been recommended to him by the Curé, and at the end of two years he had still twenty louis left. He had several conversations with his adviser as to the best way of earning his living.

"I do not wish to spend any more, Father," he said, "and would fain keep this for some future necessity."

The Curé agreed with him as to this, and, learning from his master that he was extremely quick at figures and wrote an excellent hand, he obtained a place for him with one of the principal traders of the town. He was to receive no salary for a year, but was to learn book-keeping and accounts. Although but fourteen, the boy was so intelligent and zealous that his employer told the Curé that he found him of real service, and that he was able to entrust some of his books entirely to his charge.

Six months after entering his service, however, Cyril received a letter from his father, saying that he believed his affairs were on the point of settlement, and therefore wished him to come over in the first ship sailing. He enclosed an order on a house at Dunkirk for fifty francs, to pay his passage. His employer parted with him with regret, and the kind Curé bade him farewell in terms of real affection, for he had come to take a great interest in him.

"At any rate, Cyril," he said, "your time here has not been wasted, and your mother's gift has been turned to as much advantage as even she can have hoped that it would be. Should your father's hopes be again disappointed, and fresh delays arise, you may, with the practice you have had, be able to earn your living in London. There must be there, as in France, many persons in trade who have had but little education, and you may be able to obtain employment in keeping the books of such people, who are, I believe, more common in England than here. Here are the sixteen louis that still remain; put them aside, Cyril, and use them only for urgent necessity."

Cyril, on arriving in London, was heartily welcomed by his father, who had, for the moment, high hopes of recovering his estates. These, however, soon faded, and although Sir Aubrey would not allow it, even to himself, no chance remained of those Royalists, who had, like him, parted with their estates for trifling sums, to be spent in the King's service, ever regaining possession of them.

It was not long before Cyril perceived that unless he himself obtained work of some sort they would soon be face to face with actual starvation. He said nothing to his father, but started out one morning on a round of visits among the smaller class of shopkeepers, offering to make up their books and write out their bills and accounts for a small remuneration. As he had a frank and pleasant face, and his foreign bringing up had given him an ease and politeness of manner rare among English lads of the day, it was not long before he obtained several clients. To some of the smaller class of traders he went only for an hour or two, once a week, while others required their bills and accounts to be made out daily. The pay was very small, but it sufficed to keep absolute want from the door. When he told his father of the arrangements he had made, Sir Aubrey at first raged and stormed; but he had come, during the last year or two, to recognise the good sense and strong will of his son, and although he never verbally acquiesced in what he considered a degradation, he offered no actual opposition to a plan that at least enabled them to live, and furnished him occasionally with a few groats with which he could visit a tavern.

So things had gone on for more than a year. Cyril was now sixteen, and his punctuality, and the neatness of his work, had been so appreciated by the tradesmen who first employed him, that his time was now fully occupied, and that at rates more remunerative than those he had at first obtained. He kept the state of his resources to himself, and had no difficulty in doing this, as his father never alluded to the subject of his work. Cyril knew that, did he hand over to him all the money he made, it would be wasted in drink or at cards; consequently, he kept the table furnished as modestly as at first, and regularly placed after dinner on the corner of the mantel a few coins, which his father as regularly dropped into his pocket.

A few days before the story opens, Sir Aubrey had, late one evening, been carried upstairs, mortally wounded in a brawl; he only recovered consciousness a few minutes before his death.

"You have been a good lad, Cyril," he said faintly, as he feebly pressed the boy's hand; "far better than I deserve to have had. Don't cry, lad; you will get on better without me, and things are just as well as they are. I hope you will come to your estates some day; you will make a better master than I should ever have done. I hope that in time you will carry out your plan of entering some foreign service; there is no chance here. I don't want you to settle down as a city scrivener. Still, do as you like, lad, and unless your wishes go with mine, think no further of service."

"I would rather be a soldier, father. I only undertook this work because I could see nothing else."

"That is right, my boy, that is right. I know you won't forget that you come of a race of gentlemen."

He spoke but little after that. A few broken words came from his lips that showed that his thoughts had gone back to old times. "Boot and saddle," he murmured. "That is right. Now we are ready for them. Down with the prick-eared knaves! God and King Charles!" These were the last words he spoke.

Cyril had done all that was necessary. He had laid by more than half his earnings for the last eight or nine months. One of his clients, an undertaker, had made all the necessary preparations for the funeral, and in a few hours his father would be borne to his last resting-place. As he stood at the open window he thought sadly over the past, and of his father's wasted life. Had it not been for the war he might have lived and died a country gentleman. It was the war, with its wild excitements, that had ruined him. What was there for him to do in a foreign country, without resource or employment, having no love for reading, but to waste his life as he had done? Had his wife lived it might have been different. Cyril had still a vivid remembrance of his mother, and, though his father had but seldom spoken to him of her, he knew that he had loved her, and that, had she lived, he would never have given way to drink as he had done of late years.

To his father's faults he could not be blind; but they stood for nothing now. He had been his only friend, and of late they had been drawn closer to each other in their loneliness; and although scarce a word of endearment had passed between them, he knew that his father had cared for him more than was apparent in his manner.

A few hours later, Sir Aubrey Shenstone was laid to rest in a little graveyard outside the city walls. Cyril was the only mourner; and when it was over, instead of going back to his lonely room, he turned away and wandered far out through the fields towards Hampstead, and then sat himself down to think what he had best do. Another three or four years must pass before he could try to get service abroad. When the time came he should find Sir John Parton, and beg him to procure for him some letter of introduction to the many British gentlemen serving abroad. He had not seen him since he came to England. His father had met him, but had quarrelled with him upon Sir John declining to interest himself actively to push his claims, and had forbidden Cyril to go near those who had been so kind to him.

The boy had felt it greatly at first, but he came, after a time, to see that it was best so. It seemed to him that he had fallen altogether out of their station in life when the hope of his father's recovering his estates vanished, and although he was sure of a kindly reception from Lady Parton, he shrank from going there in his present position. They had done so much for him already, that the thought that his visit might seem to them a sort of petition for further benefits was intolerable to him.

For the present, the question in his mind was whether he should continue at his present work, which at any rate sufficed to keep him, or should seek other employment. He would greatly have preferred some life of action, -- something that would fit him better to bear the fatigues and hardships of war, -- but he saw no prospect of obtaining any such position.

"I should be a fool to throw up what I have," he said to himself at last. "I will stick to it anyhow until some opportunity offers; but the sooner I leave it the better. It was bad enough before; it will be worse now. If I had but a friend or two it would not be so hard; but to have no one to speak to, and no one to think about, when work is done, will be lonely indeed."

At any rate, he determined to change his room as soon as possible. It mattered little where he went so that it was a change. He thought over various tradesmen for whom he worked. Some of them might have an attic, he cared not how small, that they might let him have in lieu of paying him for his work. Even if they never spoke to him, it would be better to be in a house where he knew something of those downstairs, than to lodge in one where he was an utter stranger to all. He had gone round to the shops where he worked, on the day after his father's death, to explain that he could not come again until after the funeral, and he resolved that next morning he would ask each in turn whether he could obtain a lodging with them.

The sun was already setting when he rose from the bank on which he had seated himself, and returned to the city. The room did not feel so lonely to him as it would have done had he not been accustomed to spending the evenings alone. He took out his little hoard and counted it. After paying the expenses of the funeral there would still remain sufficient to keep him for three or four months should he fall ill, or, from any cause, lose his work. He had one good suit of clothes that had been bought on his return to England, -- when his father thought that they would assuredly be going down almost immediately to take possession of the old Hall, -- and the rest were all in fair condition.

The next day he began his work again; he had two visits to pay of an hour each, and one of two hours, and the spare time between these he filled up by calling at two or three other shops to make up for the arrears of work during the last few days.

The last place he had to visit was that at which he had the longest task to perform. It was at a ship-chandler's in Tower Street, a large and dingy house, the lower portion being filled with canvas, cordage, barrels of pitch and tar, candles, oil, and matters of all sorts needed by ship-masters, including many cannon of different sizes, piles of balls, anchors, and other heavy work, all of which were stowed away in a yard behind it. The owner of this store was a one-armed man. His father had kept it before him, but he himself, after working there long enough to become a citizen and a member of the Ironmongers' Guild, had quarrelled with his father and had taken to the sea. For twenty years he had voyaged to many lands, principally in ships trading in the Levant, and had passed through a great many adventures, including several fights with the Moorish corsairs. In the last voyage he took, he had had his arm shot off by a ball from a Greek pirate among the Islands. He had long before made up his differences with his father, but had resisted the latter's entreaties that he should give up the sea and settle down at the shop; on his return after this unfortunate voyage he told him that he had come home to stay.

"I shall be able to help about the stores after a while," he said, "but I shall never be the man I was on board ship. It will be hard work to take to measuring out canvas and to weighing iron, after a free life on the sea, but I don't so much mind now I have had my share of adventures; though I dare say I should have gone on for a few more years if that rascally ball had not carried away my arm. I don't know but that it is best as it is, for the older I got the harder I should find it to fall into new ways and to settle down here."

"Anyhow, I am glad you are back, David," his father said.

"You are forty-five, and though I don't say it would not have been better if you had remained here from the first, you have learnt many things you would not have learnt here. You know just the sort of things that masters of ships require, and what canvas and cables and cordage will suit their wants. Besides, customers like to talk with men of their own way of thinking, and sailors more, I think, than other men. You know, too, most of the captains who sail up the Mediterranean, and may be able to bring fresh custom into the shop. Therefore, do not think that you will be of no use to me. As to your wife and child, there is plenty of room for them as well as for you, and it will be better for them here, with you always at hand, than it would be for them to remain over at Rotherhithe and only to see you after the shutters are up."

Eight years later Captain Dave, as he was always called, became sole owner of the house and business. A year after he did so he was lamenting to a friend the trouble that he had with his accounts.

"My father always kept that part of the business in his own hands," he said, "and I find it a mighty heavy burden. Beyond checking a bill of lading, or reading the marks on the bales and boxes, I never had occasion to read or write for twenty years, and there has not been much more of it for the last fifteen; and although I was a smart scholar enough in my young days, my fingers are stiff with hauling at ropes and using the marling-spike, and my eyes are not so clear as they used to be, and it is no slight toil and labour to me to make up an account for goods sold. John Wilkes, my head shopman, is a handy fellow; he was my boatswain in the Kate, and I took him on when we found that the man who had been my father's right hand for twenty years had been cheating him all along. We got on well enough as long as I could give all my time in the shop; but he is no good with the pen -- all he can do is to enter receipts and sales.

"He has a man under him, who helps him in measuring out the right length of canvas and cables or for weighing a chain or an anchor, and knows enough to put down the figures; but that is all. Then there are the two smiths and the two apprentices; they don't count in the matter. Robert Ashford, the eldest apprentice, could do the work, but I have no fancy for him; he does not look one straight in the face as one who is honest and above board should do. I shall have to keep a clerk, and I know what it will be -- he will be setting me right, and I shall not feel my own master; he will be out of place in my crew altogether. I never liked pursers; most of them are rogues. Still, I suppose it must come to that."

"I have a boy come in to write my bills and to make up my accounts, who would be just the lad for you, Captain Dave. He is the son of a broken-down Cavalier, but he is a steady, honest young fellow, and I fancy his pen keeps his father, who is a roystering blade, and spends most of his time at the taverns. The boy comes to me for an hour, twice a week; he writes as good a hand as any clerk and can reckon as quickly, and I pay him but a groat a week, which was all he asked."

"Tell him to come to me, then. I should want him every day, if he could manage it, and it would be the very thing for me."

"I am sure you would like him," the other said; "he is a good-looking young fellow, and his face speaks for him without any recommendation. I was afraid at first that he would not do for me; I thought there was too much of the gentleman about him. He has good manners, and a gentle sort of way. He has been living in France all his life, and though he has never said anything about his family -- indeed he talks but little, he just comes in and does his work and goes away -- I fancy his father was one of King Charles's men and of good blood."

"Well, that doesn't sound so well," the sailor said, "but anyhow I should like to have a look at him."

"He comes to me to-morrow at eleven and goes at twelve," the man said, "and I will send him round to you when he has done."

Cyril had gone round the next morning to the ships' store.

"So you are the lad that works for my neighbour Anderson?" Captain Dave said, as he surveyed him closely. "I like your looks, lad, but I doubt whether we shall get on together. I am an old sailor, you know, and I am quick of speech and don't stop to choose my words, so if you are quick to take offence it would be of no use your coming to me."

"I don't think I am likely to take offence," Cyril said quietly; "and if we don't get on well together, sir, you will only have to tell me that you don't want me any longer; but I trust you will not have often the occasion to use hard words, for at any rate I will do my best to please you."

"You can't say more, lad. Well, let us have a taste of your quality. Come in here," and he led him into a little room partitioned off from the shop. "There, you see," and he opened a book, "is the account of the sales and orders yesterday; the ready-money sales have got to be entered in that ledger with the red cover; the sales where no money passed have to be entered to the various customers or ships in the ledger. I have made out a list -- here it is -- of twelve accounts that have to be drawn out from that ledger and sent in to customers. You will find some of them are of somewhat long standing, for I have been putting off that job. Sit you down here. When you have done one or two of them I will have a look at your work, and if that is satisfactory we will have a talk as to what hours you have got disengaged, and what days in the week will suit you best."

It was two hours before Captain Dave came in again. Cyril had just finished the work; some of the accounts were long ones, and the writing was so crabbed that it took him some time to decipher it.

"Well, how are you getting on, lad?" the Captain asked.

"I have this moment finished the last account."

"What! Do you mean to say that you have done them all! Why, it would have taken me all my evenings for a week. Now, hand me the books; it is best to do things ship-shape."

He first compared the list of the sales with the entries, and then Cyril handed him the twelve accounts he had drawn up. Captain David did not speak until he had finished looking through them.

"I would not have believed all that work could have been done in two hours," he said, getting up from his chair. "Orderly and well written, and without a blot. The King's secretary could not have done better! Well, now you have seen the list of sales for a day, and I take it that be about the average, so if you come three times a week you will always have two days' sales to enter in the ledger. There are a lot of other books my father used to keep, but I have never had time to bother myself about them, and as I have got on very well so far, I do not see any occasion for you to do so, for my part it seems to me that all these books are only invented by clerks to give themselves something to do to fill up their time. Of course, there won't be accounts to send out every day. Do you think with two hours, three times a week, you could keep things straight?"

"I should certainly think so, sir, but I can hardly say until I try, because it seems to me that there must be a great many items, and I can't say how long it will take entering all the goods received under their proper headings; but if the books are thoroughly made up now, I should think I could keep them all going."

"That they are not," Captain David said ruefully; "they are all horribly in arrears. I took charge of them myself three years ago, and though I spend three hours every evening worrying over them, they get further and further in arrears. Look at those files over there," and he pointed to three long wires, on each of which was strung a large bundle of papers; "I am afraid you will have to enter them all up before you can get matters into ship-shape order. The daily sale book is the only one that has been kept up regularly."

"But these accounts I have made up, sir? Probably in those files there are many other goods supplied to the same people."

"Of course there are, lad, though I did not think of it before. Well, we must wait, then, until you can make up the arrears a bit, though I really want to get some money in."

"Well, sir, I might write at the bottom of each bill 'Account made up to,' and then put in the date of the latest entry charged."

"That would do capitally, lad -- I did not think of that. I see you will be of great use to me. I can buy and sell, for I know the value of the goods I deal in; but as to accounts, they are altogether out of my way. And now, lad, what do you charge?"

"I charge a groat for two hours' work, sir; but if I came to you three times a week, I would do it for a little less."

"No, lad, I don't want to beat you down; indeed, I don't think you charge enough. However, let us say, to begin with, three groats a week."

This had been six weeks before Sir Aubrey Shenstone's death; and in the interval Cyril had gradually wiped off all the arrears, and had all the books in order up to date, to the astonishment of his employer.



Chapter II

A Change For The Better


"I am glad to see you again, lad," Captain David said, when Cyril entered his shop. "I have been thinking of the news you gave me last week, and the mistress and I have been talking it over. Where are you lodging?"

"I have been lodging until now in Holborn," Cyril replied; "but I am going to move."

"Yes; that is what we thought you would be doing. It is always better to make a change after a loss. I don't want to interfere in your business, lad, but have you any friends you are thinking of going to?"

"No, sir; I do not know a soul in London save those I work for."

"That is bad, lad -- very bad. I was talking it over with my wife, and I said that maybe you were lonely. I am sure, lad, you are one of the right sort. I don't mean only in your work, for as for that I would back you against any scrivener in London, but I mean about yourself. It don't need half an eye to see that you have not been brought up to this sort of thing, though you have taken to it so kindly, but there is not one in a thousand boys of your age who would have settled down to work and made their way without a friend to help them as you have done; it shows that there is right good stuff in you. There, I am so long getting under weigh that I shall never get into port if I don't steer a straight course. Now, my ideas and my wife's come to this: if you have got no friends you will have to take a lodging somewhere among strangers, and then it would be one of two things -- you would either stop at home and mope by yourself, or you would go out, and maybe get into bad company. If I had not come across you I should have had to employ a clerk, and he would either have lived here with us or I should have had to pay him enough to keep house for himself. Now in fact you are a clerk; for though you are only here for six hours a week -- you do all the work there is to do, and no clerk could do more. Well, we have got an attic upstairs which is not used, and if you like to come here and live with us, my wife and I will make you heartily welcome."

"Thank you, indeed," Cyril said warmly. "It is of all things what I should like; but of course I should wish to pay you for my board. I can afford to do so if you will employ me for the same hours as at present."

"No, I would not have that, lad; but if you like we can reckon your board against what I now pay you. We feed John Wilkes and the two apprentices, and one mouth extra will make but little difference. I don't want it to be a matter of obligation, so we will put your board against the work you do for me. I shall consider that we are making a good bargain."

"It is your pleasure to say so, sir, but I cannot tell you what a load your kind offer takes off my mind. The future has seemed very dark to me."

"Very well. That matter is settled, then. Come upstairs with me and I will present you to my wife and daughter; they have heard me speak of you so often that they will be glad to see you. In the first place, though, I must ask you your name. Since you first signed articles and entered the crew I have never thought of asking you."

"My name is Cyril, sir -- Cyril Shenstone."

His employer nodded and at once led the way upstairs. A motherly looking woman rose from the seat where she was sitting at work, as they entered the living-room.

"This is my Prince of Scriveners, Mary, the lad I have often spoken to you about. His name is Cyril; he has accepted the proposal we talked over last night, and is going to become one of the crew on board our ship."

"I am glad to see you," she said to Cyril, holding out her hand to him. "I have not met you before, but I feel very grateful to you. Till you came, my husband was bothered nearly out of his wits; he used to sit here worrying over his books, and writing from the time the shop closed till the hour for bed, and Nellie and I dared not to say as much as a word. Now we see no more of his books, and he is able to go out for a walk in the fields with us as he used to do before."

"It is very kind of you to say so, Mistress," Cyril said earnestly; "but it is I, on the contrary, who am deeply grateful to you for the offer Captain Dave has been good enough to make me. You cannot tell the pleasure it has given me, for you cannot understand how lonely and friendless I have been feeling. Believe me, I will strive to give you as little trouble as possible, and to conform myself in all ways to your wishes."

At this moment Nellie Dowsett came into the room. She was a pretty girl some eighteen years of age.

"This is Cyril, your father's assistant, Nellie," her mother said.

"You are welcome, Master Cyril. I have been wanting to see you. Father has been praising you up to the skies so often that I have had quite a curiosity to see what you could be like."

"Your father is altogether too good, Mistress Nellie, and makes far more of my poor ability than it deserves."

"And is he going to live with us, mother?" Nellie asked.

"Yes, child; he has accepted your father's offer."

Nellie clapped her hands.

"That is good," she said. "I shall expect you to escort me out sometimes, Cyril. Father always wants me to go down to the wharf to look at the ships or to go into the fields; but I want to go sometimes to see the fashions, and there is no one to take me, for John Wilkes always goes off to smoke a pipe with some sailor or other, and the apprentices are stupid and have nothing to say for themselves; and besides, one can't walk alongside a boy in an apprentice cap."

"I shall be very happy to, Mistress, when my work is done, though I fear that I shall make but a poor escort, for indeed I have had no practice whatever in the esquiring of dames."

"I am sure you will do very well," Nellie said, nodding approvingly. "Is it true that you have been in France? Father said he was told so."

"Yes; I have lived almost all my life in France."

"And do you speak French?"

"Yes; I speak it as well as English."

"It must have been very hard to learn?"

"Not at all. It came to me naturally, just as English did."

"You must not keep him any longer now, Nellie; he has other appointments to keep, and when he has done that, to go and pack up his things and see that they are brought here by a porter. He can answer some more of your questions when he comes here this evening."

Cyril returned to Holborn with a lighter heart than he had felt for a long time. His preparations for the move took him but a short time, and two hours later he was installed in a little attic in the ship-chandler's house. He spent half-an-hour in unpacking his things, and then heard a stentorian shout from below, -- 

"Masthead, ahoy! Supper's waiting."

Supposing that this hail was intended for himself, he at once went downstairs. The table was laid. Mistress Dowsett took her seat at the head; her husband sat on one side of her, and Nellie on the other. John Wilkes sat next to his master, and beyond him the elder of the two apprentices. A seat was left between Nellie and the other apprentice for Cyril.

"Now our crew is complete, John," Captain Dave said. "We have been wanting a supercargo badly."

"Ay, ay, Captain Dave, there is no doubt we have been short-handed in that respect; but things have been more ship-shape lately."

"That is so, John. I can make a shift to keep the vessel on her course, but when it comes to writing up the log, and keeping the reckoning, I make but a poor hand at it. It was getting to be as bad as that voyage of the Jane in the Levant, when the supercargo had got himself stabbed at Lemnos."

"I mind it, Captain -- I mind it well. And what a trouble there was with the owners when we got back again!"

"Yes, yes," the Captain said; "it was worse work than having a brush with a Barbary corsair. I shall never forget that day. When I went to the office to report, the three owners were all in.

"'Well, Captain Dave, back from your voyage?' said the littlest of the three. 'Made a good voyage, I hope?'

"First-rate, says I, except that the supercargo got killed at Lemnos by one of them rascally Greeks.

"'Dear, dear,' said another of them -- he was a prim, sanctimonious sort -- 'Has our brother Jenkins left us?'

"I don't know about his leaving us, says I, but we left him sure enough in a burying-place there.

"'And how did you manage without him?'

"I made as good a shift as I could, I said. I have sold all the cargo, and I have brought back a freight of six tons of Turkey figs, and four hundred boxes of currants. And these two bags hold the difference.

"'Have you brought the books with you, Captain?'

"Never a book, said I. I have had to navigate the ship and to look after the crew, and do the best I could at each port. The books are on board, made out up to the day before the supercargo was killed, three months ago; but I have never had time to make an entry since.

"They looked at each other like owls for a minute or two, and then they all began to talk at once. How had I sold the goods? had I charged the prices mentioned in the invoice? what percentage had I put on for profit? and a lot of other things. I waited until they were all out of breath, and then I said I had not bothered about invoices. I knew pretty well the prices such things cost in England. I clapped on so much more for the expenses of the voyage and a fair profit. I could tell them what I had paid for the figs and the currants, and for some bags of Smyrna sponges I had bought, but as to the prices I had charged, it was too much to expect that I could carry them in my head. All I knew was I had paid for the things I had bought, I had paid all the port dues and other charges, I had advanced the men one-fourth of their wages each month, and I had brought them back the balance.

"Such a hubbub you never heard. One would have thought they would have gone raving mad. The sanctimonious partner was the worst of the lot. He threatened me with the Lord Mayor and the Aldermen, and went on till I thought he would have had a fit.

"Look here, says I, at last, I'll tell you what I will do. You tell me what the cargo cost you altogether, and put on so much for the hire of the ship. I will pay you for them and settle up with the crew, and take the cargo and sell it. That is a fair offer. And I advise you to keep civil tongues in your heads, or I will knock them off and take my chance before the Lord Mayor for assault and battery.

"With that I took off my coat and laid it on a bench. I reckon they saw that I was in earnest, and they just sat as mum as mice. Then the little man said, in a quieter sort of voice, -- 

"'You are too hasty, Captain Dowsett. We know you to be an honest man and a good sailor, and had no suspicion that you would wrong us; but no merchant in the City of London could hear that his business had been conducted in such a way as you have carried it through without for a time losing countenance. Let us talk the matter over reasonably and quietly.'

"That is just what I am wanting, I said; and if there hasn't been reason and quiet it is from no fault of mine.

"'Well, please to put your coat on again, Captain, and let us see how matters stand!'

"Then they took their ink-horns and pens, and, on finding out what I had paid for the figs and other matters, they reckoned them up; then they put down what I said was due to the sailors and the mate and myself; then they got out some books, and for an hour they were busy reckoning up figures; then they opened the bags and counted up the gold we had brought home. Well, when they had done, you would hardly have known them for the same men. First of all, they went through all their calculations again to be sure they had made no mistake about them; then they laid down their pens, and the sanctimonious man mopped the perspiration from his face, and the others smiled at each other. Then the biggest of the three, who had scarcely spoken before, said, -- 

"'Well, Captain Dowsett, I must own that my partners were a little hasty. The result of our calculations is that the voyage has been a satisfactory one, I may almost say very satisfactory, and that you must have disposed of the goods to much advantage. It has been a new and somewhat extraordinary way of doing business, but I am bound to say that the result has exceeded our expectations, and we trust that you will command the Jane for many more voyages.'

"Not for me, says I. You can hand me over the wages due to me, and you will find the Jane moored in the stream just above the Tower. You will find her in order and shipshape; but never again do I set my foot on board her or on any other vessel belonging to men who have doubted my honesty.

"Nor did I. I had a pretty good name among traders, and ten days later I started for the Levant again in command of a far smarter vessel than the Jane had ever been."

"And we all went with you, Captain," John Wilkes said, "every man jack of us. And on her very next voyage the Jane was captured by the Algerines, and I reckon there are some of the poor fellows working as slaves there now; for though Blake did blow the place pretty nigh out of water a few years afterwards, it is certain that the Christian slaves handed over to him were not half those the Moors had in their hands."

"It would seem, Captain Dowsett, from your story, that you can manage very well without a supercargo?" Cyril said quietly.

"Ay, lad; but you see that was a ready-money business. I handed over the goods and took the cash; there was no accounts to be kept. It was all clear and above board. But it is a different thing in this ship altogether, when, instead of paying down on the nail for what they get, you have got to keep an account of everything and send in all their items jotted down in order. Why, Nellie, your tongue seems quieter than usual."

"You have not given me a chance, father. You have been talking ever since we sat down to table."

Supper was now over. The two apprentices at once retired. Cyril would have done the same, but Mistress Dowsett said, -- 

"Sit you still, Cyril. The Captain says that you are to be considered as one of the officers of the ship, and we shall be always glad to have you here, though of course you can always go up to your own room, or go out, when you feel inclined."

"I have to go out three times a week to work," Cyril said; "but all the other evenings I shall be glad indeed to sit here, Mistress Dowsett. You cannot tell what a pleasure it is to me to be in an English home like this."

It was not long before John Wilkes went out.

"He is off to smoke his pipe," the Captain said. "I never light mine till he goes. I can't persuade him to take his with me; he insists it would not be manners to smoke in the cabin."

"He is quite right, father," Nellie said. "It is bad enough having you smoke here. When mother's friends or mine come in they are well-nigh choked; they are not accustomed to it as we are, for a respectable London citizen does not think of taking tobacco."

"I am a London citizen, Nellie, but I don't set up any special claim to respectability. I am a sea-captain, though that rascally Greek cannon-ball and other circumstances have made a trader of me, sorely against my will; and if I could not have my pipe and my glass of grog here I would go and sit with John Wilkes in the tavern at the corner of the street, and I suppose that would not be even as respectable as smoking here."

"Nellie doesn't mean, David, that she wants you to give up smoking; only she thinks that John is quite right to go out to take his pipe. And I must say I think so too. You know that when you have sea-captains of your acquaintance here, you always send the maid off to bed and smoke in the kitchen."

"Ay, ay, my dear, I don't want to turn your room into a fo'castle. There is reason in all things. I suppose you don't smoke, Master Cyril?"

"No, Captain Dave, I have never so much as thought of such a thing. In France it is the fashion to take snuff, but the habit seemed to me a useless one, and I don't think that I should ever have taken to it."

"I wonder," Captain Dave said, after they had talked for some time, "that after living in sight of the sea for so long your thoughts never turned that way."

"I cannot say that I have never thought of it," Cyril said. "I have thought that I should greatly like to take foreign voyages, but I should not have cared to go as a ship's boy, and to live with men so ignorant that they could not even write their own names. My thoughts have turned rather to the Army; and when I get older I think of entering some foreign service, either that of Sweden or of one of the Protestant German princes. I could obtain introductions through which I might enter as a cadet, or gentleman volunteer. I have learnt German, and though I cannot speak it as I can French or English, I know enough to make my way in it."

"Can you use your sword, Cyril?" Nellie Dowsett asked.

"I have had very good teaching," Cyril replied, "and hope to be able to hold my own."

"Then you are not satisfied with this mode of life?" Mistress Dowsett said.

"I am satisfied with it, Mistress, inasmuch as I can earn money sufficient to keep me. But rather than settle down for life as a city scrivener, I would go down to the river and ship on board the first vessel that would take me, no matter where she sailed for."

"I think you are wrong," Mistress Dowsett said gravely. "My husband tells me how clever you are at figures, and you might some day get a good post in the house of one of our great merchants."

"Maybe it would be so," Cyril said; "but such a life would ill suit me. I have truly a great desire to earn money: but it must be in some way to suit my taste."

"And why do you want to earn a great deal of money, Cyril?" Nellie laughed, while her mother shook her head disapprovingly.

"I wish to have enough to buy my father's estate back again," he said, "and though I know well enough that it is not likely I shall ever do it, I shall fight none the worse that I have such a hope in my mind."

"Bravo, lad!" Captain Dave said. "I knew not that there was an estate in the case, though I did hear that you were the son of a Royalist. It is a worthy ambition, boy, though if it is a large one 'tis scarce like that you will get enough to buy it back again."

"It is not a very large one," Cyril said. "'Tis down in Norfolk, but it was a grand old house -- at least, so I have heard my father say, though I have but little remembrance of it, as I was but three years old when I left it. My father, who was Sir Aubrey Shenstone, had hoped to recover it; but he was one of the many who sold their estates for far less than their value in order to raise money in the King's service, and, as you are aware, none of those who did so have been reinstated, but only those who, having had their land taken from them by Parliament, recovered them because their owners had no title-deeds to show, save the grant of Parliament that was of no effect in the Courts. Thus the most loyal men -- those who sold their estates to aid the King -- have lost all, while those that did not so dispossess themselves in his service are now replaced on their land."

"It seems very unfair," Nellie said indignantly.

"It is unfair to them, assuredly, Mistress Nellie. And yet it would be unfair to the men who bought, though often they gave but a tenth of their value, to be turned out again unless they received their money back. It is not easy to see where that money could come from, for assuredly the King's privy purse would not suffice to pay all the money, and equally certain is it that Parliament would not vote a great sum for that purpose."

"It is a hard case, lad -- a hard case," Captain Dave said, as he puffed the smoke from his pipe. "Now I know how you stand, I blame, you in no way that you long more for a life of adventure than to settle down as a city scrivener. I don't think even my wife, much as she thinks of the city, could say otherwise."

"It alters the case much," Mistress Dowsett said. "I did not know that Cyril was the son of a Knight, though it was easy enough to see that his manners accord not with his present position. Still there are fortunes made in the city, and no honest work is dishonouring even to a gentleman's son."

"Not at all, Mistress," Cyril said warmly. "'Tis assuredly not on that account that I would fain seek more stirring employment; but it was always my father's wish and intention that, should there be no chance of his ever regaining the estate, I should enter foreign service, and I have always looked forward to that career."

"Well, I will wager that you will do credit to it, lad," Captain Dave said. "You have proved that you are ready to turn your hand to any work that may come to you. You have shown a manly spirit, my boy, and I honour you for it; and by St. Anthony I believe that some day, unless a musket-ball or a pike-thrust brings you up with a round turn, you will live to get your own back again."

Cyril remained talking for another two hours, and then betook himself to bed. After he had gone, Mistress Dowsett said, after a pause, -- 

"Do you not think, David, that, seeing that Cyril is the son of a Knight, it would be more becoming to give him the room downstairs instead of the attic where he is now lodged?"

The old sailor laughed.

"That is woman-kind all over," he said. "It was good enough for him before, and now forsooth, because the lad mentioned, and assuredly in no boasting way, that his father had been a Knight, he is to be treated differently. He would not thank you himself for making the change, dame. In the first place, it would make him uncomfortable, and he might make an excuse to leave us altogether; and in the second, you may be sure that he has been used to no better quarters than those he has got. The Royalists in France were put to sore shifts to live, and I fancy that he has fared no better since he came home. His father would never have consented to his going out to earn money by keeping the accounts of little city traders like myself had it not been that he was driven to it by want. No, no, wife; let the boy go on as he is, and make no difference in any way. I liked him before, and I like him all the better now, for putting his gentlemanship in his pocket and setting manfully to work instead of hanging on the skirts of some Royalist who has fared better than his father did. He is grateful as it is -- that is easy to see -- for our taking him in here. We did that partly because he proved a good worker and has taken a lot of care off my shoulders, partly because he was fatherless and alone. I would not have him think that we are ready to do more because he is a Knight's son. Let the boy be, and suffer him to steer his ship his own course. If, when the time comes, we can further his objects in any way we will do it with right good will. What do you think of him, Nellie?" he asked, changing the subject.

"He is a proper young fellow, father, and I shall be well content to go abroad escorted by him instead of having your apprentice, Robert Ashford, in attendance on me. He has not a word to say for himself, and truly I like him not in anyway."

"He is not a bad apprentice, Nellie, and John Wilkes has but seldom cause to find fault with him, though I own that I have no great liking myself for him; he never seems to look one well in the face, which, I take it, is always a bad sign. I know no harm of him; but when his apprenticeship is out, which it will be in another year, I shall let him go his own way, for I should not care to have him on the premises."

"Methinks you are very unjust, David. The lad is quiet and regular in his ways; he goes twice every Sunday to the Church of St. Alphage, and always tells me the texts of the sermons."

The Captain grunted.

"Maybe so, wife; but it is easy to get hold of the text of a sermon without having heard it. I have my doubts whether he goes as regularly to St. Alphage's as he says he does. Why could he not go with us to St. Bennet's?"

"He says he likes the administrations of Mr. Catlin better, David. And, in truth, our parson is not one of the stirring kind."

"So much the better," Captain Dave said bluntly. "I like not these men that thump the pulpit and make as if they were about to jump out head foremost. However, I don't suppose there is much harm in the lad, and it may be that his failure to look one in the face is not so much his fault as that of nature, which endowed him with a villainous squint. Well, let us turn in; it is past nine o'clock, and high time to be a-bed."

Cyril seemed to himself to have entered upon a new life when he stepped across the threshold of David Dowsett's store. All his cares and anxieties had dropped from him. For the past two years he had lived the life of an automaton, starting early to his work, returning in the middle of the day to his dinner, -- to which as often as not he sat down alone, -- and spending his evenings in utter loneliness in the bare garret, where he was generally in bed long before his father returned. He blamed himself sometimes during the first fortnight of his stay here for the feeling of light-heartedness that at times came over him. He had loved his father in spite of his faults, and should, he told himself, have felt deeply depressed at his loss; but nature was too strong for him. The pleasant evenings with Captain Dave and his family were to him delightful; he was like a traveller who, after a cold and cheerless journey, comes in to the warmth of a fire, and feels a glow of comfort as the blood circulates briskly through his veins. Sometimes, when he had no other engagements, he went out with Nellie Dowsett, whose lively chatter was new and very amusing to him. Sometimes they went up into Cheapside, and into St. Paul's, but more often sallied out of the city at Aldgate, and walked into the fields. On these occasions he carried a stout cane that had been his father's, for Nellie tried in vain to persuade him to gird on a sword.

"You are a gentleman, Cyril," she would argue, "and have a right to carry one."

"I am for the present a sober citizen, Mistress Nellie, and do not wish to assume to be of any other condition. Those one sees with swords are either gentlemen of the Court, or common bullies, or maybe highwaymen. After nightfall it is different; for then many citizens carry their swords, which indeed are necessary to protect them from the ruffians who, in spite of the city watch, oftentimes attack quiet passers-by; and if at any time I escort you to the house of one of your friends, I shall be ready to take my sword with me. But in the daytime there is no occasion for a weapon, and, moreover, I am full young to carry one, and this stout cane would, were it necessary, do me good service, for I learned in France the exercise that they call the bâton, which differs little from our English singlestick."

While Cyril was received almost as a member of the family by Captain Dave and his wife, and found himself on excellent terms with John Wilkes, he saw that he was viewed with dislike by the two apprentices. He was scarcely surprised at this. Before his coming, Robert Ashford had been in the habit of escorting his young mistress when she went out, and had no doubt liked these expeditions, as a change from the measuring out of ropes and weighing of iron in the store. Then, again, the apprentices did not join in the conversation at table unless a remark was specially addressed to them; and as Captain Dave was by no means fond of his elder apprentice, it was but seldom that he spoke to him. Robert Ashford was between eighteen and nineteen. He was no taller than Cyril, but it would have been difficult to judge his age by his face, which had a wizened look; and, as Nellie said one day, in his absence, he might pass very well for sixty.

It was easy enough for Cyril to see that Robert Ashford heartily disliked him; the covert scowls that he threw across the table at meal-time, and the way in which he turned his head and feigned to be too busy to notice him as he passed through the shop, were sufficient indications of ill-will. The younger apprentice, Tom Frost, was but a boy of fifteen; he gave Cyril the idea of being a timid lad. He did not appear to share his comrade's hostility to him, but once or twice, when Cyril came out from the office after making up the accounts of the day, he fancied that the boy glanced at him with an expression of anxiety, if not of terror.

"If it were not," Cyril said to himself, "that Tom is clearly too nervous and timid to venture upon an act of dishonesty, I should say that he had been pilfering something; but I feel sure that he would not attempt such a thing as that, though I am by no means certain that Robert Ashford, with his foxy face and cross eyes, would not steal his master's goods or any one else's did he get the chance. Unless he were caught in the act, he could do it with impunity, for everything here is carried on in such a free-and-easy fashion that any amount of goods might be carried off without their being missed."

After thinking the matter over, he said, one afternoon when his employer came in while he was occupied at the accounts, -- 

"I have not seen anything of a stock-book, Captain Dave. Everything else is now straight, and balanced up to to-day. Here is the book of goods sold, the book of goods received, and the ledger with the accounts; but there is no stock-book such as I find in almost all the other places where I work."

"What do I want with a stock-book?" Captain Dave asked.

"You cannot know how you stand without it," Cyril replied. "You know how much you have paid, and how much you have received during the year; but unless you have a stock-book you do not know whether the difference between the receipts and expenditure represents profit, for the stock may have so fallen in value during the year that you may really have made a loss while seeming to make a profit."

"How can that be?" Captain Dave asked. "I get a fair profit on every article."

"There ought to be a profit, of course," Cyril said; "but sometimes it is found not to be so. Moreover, if there is a stock-book you can tell at any time, without the trouble of opening bins and weighing metal, how much stock you have of each article you sell, and can order your goods accordingly."

"How would you do that?"

"It is very simple, Captain Dave," Cyril said. "After taking stock of the whole of the goods, I should have a ledger in which each article would have a page or more to itself, and every day I should enter from John Wilkes's sales-book a list of the goods that have gone out, each under its own heading. Thus, at any moment, if you were to ask how much chain you had got in stock I could tell you within a fathom. When did you take stock last?"

"I should say it was about fifteen months since. It was only yesterday John Wilkes was saying we had better have a thorough overhauling."

"Quite time, too, I should think, Captain Dave. I suppose you have got the account of your last stock-taking, with the date of it?"

"Oh, yes, I have got that;" and the Captain unlocked his desk and took out an account-book. "It has been lying there ever since. It took a wonderful lot of trouble to do, and I had a clerk and two men in for a fortnight, for of course John and the boys were attending to their usual duties. I have often wondered since why I should have had all that trouble over a matter that has never been of the slightest use to me."

"Well, I hope you will take it again, sir; it is a trouble, no doubt, but you will find it a great advantage."

"Are you sure you think it needful, Cyril?"

"Most needful, Captain Dave. You will see the advantage of it afterwards."

"Well, if you think so, I suppose it must be done," the Captain said, with a sigh; "but it will be giving you a lot of trouble to keep this new book of yours."

"That is nothing, sir. Now that I have got all the back work up it will be a simple matter to keep the daily work straight. I shall find ample time to do it without any need of lengthening my hours."

Cyril now set to work in earnest, and telling Mrs. Dowsett he had some books that he wanted to make up in his room before going to bed, he asked her to allow him to keep his light burning.

Mrs. Dowsett consented, but shook her head and said he would assuredly injure his health if he worked by candle light.

Fortunately, John Wilkes had just opened a fresh sales-book, and Cyril told him that he wished to refer to some particulars in the back books. He first opened the ledger by inscribing under their different heads the amount of each description of goods kept in stock at the last stock-taking, and then entered under their respective heads all the sales that had been made, while on an opposite page he entered the amount purchased. It took him a month's hard work, and he finished it on the very day that the new stock-taking concluded.



Chapter III

A Thief Somewhere


Two days after the conclusion of the stock-taking, Cyril said, after breakfast was over, -- 

"Would it trouble you, Captain Dave, to give me an hour up here before you go downstairs to the counting-house. I am free for two hours now, and there is a matter upon which I should like to speak to you privately."

"Certainly, lad," the old sailor said, somewhat surprised. "We shall be quiet enough here, as soon as the table is cleared. My dame and Nellie will be helping the maid do up the cabins, and will then be sallying out marketing."

When the maid had cleared the table, Cyril went up to his room and returned with a large ledger and several smaller books.

"I have, for the last month, Captain Dave, been making up this stock-book for my own satisfaction."

"Bless me, lad, why have you taken all that trouble? This accounts, then, for your writing so long at night, for which my dame has been quarrelling with you!"

"It was interesting work," Cyril said quietly. "Now, you see, sir," he went on, opening the big ledger, "here are the separate accounts under each head. These pages, you see, are for heavy cables for hawsers; of these, at the date of the last stock-taking, there were, according to the book you handed to me, five hundred fathoms in stock. These are the amounts you have purchased since. Now, upon the other side are all the sales of this cable entered in the sales-book. Adding them together, and deducting them from the other side, you will see there should remain in stock four hundred and fifty fathoms. According to the new stock-taking there are four hundred and thirty-eight. That is, I take it, as near as you could expect to get, for, in the measuring out of so many thousand fathoms of cable during the fifteen months between the two stock-takings, there may well have been a loss of the twelve fathoms in giving good measurement."

"That is so," Captain Dave said. "I always say to John Wilkes, 'Give good measurement, John -- better a little over than a little under.' Nothing can be clearer or more satisfactory."

Cyril closed the book.

"I am sorry to say, Captain Dave, all the items are not so satisfactory, and that I greatly fear that you have been robbed to a considerable amount."

"Robbed, lad!" the Captain said, starting up from his chair. "Who should rob me? Not John Wilkes, I can be sworn! Not the two apprentices for a surety, for they never go out during the day, and John keeps a sharp look-out upon them, and the entrance to the shop is always locked and barred after work is over, so that none can enter without getting the key, which, as you know, John always brings up and hands to me as soon as he has fastened the door! You are mistaken, lad, and although I know that your intentions are good, you should be careful how you make a charge that might bring ruin to innocent men. Carelessness there may be; but robbery! No; assuredly not."

"I have not brought the charge without warrant, Captain Dave," Cyril said gravely, "and if you will bear with me for a few minutes, I think you will see that there is at least something that wants looking into."

"Well, it is only fair after the trouble you have taken, lad, that I should hear what you have to say; but it will need strong evidence indeed to make me believe that there has been foul play."

"Well, sir," Cyril said, opening the ledger again, "in the first place, I would point out that in all the heavy articles, such as could not conveniently be carried away, the tally of the stock-takers corresponds closely with the figures in this book. In best bower anchors the figures are absolutely the same and, as you have seen, in heavy cables they closely correspond. In the large ship's compasses, the ship's boilers, and ship's galleys, the numbers tally exactly. So it is with all the heavy articles; the main blocks are correct, and all other heavy gear. This shows that John Wilkes's book is carefully kept, and it would be strange indeed if heavy goods had all been properly entered, and light ones omitted; but yet when we turn to small articles, we find that there is a great discrepancy between the figures. Here is the account, for instance, of the half-inch rope. According to my ledger, there should be eighteen hundred fathoms in stock, whereas the stock-takers found but three hundred and eighty. In two-inch rope there is a deficiency of two hundred and thirty fathoms, in one-inch rope of six hundred and twenty. These sizes, as you know, are always in requisition, and a thief would find ready purchasers for a coil of any of them. But, as might be expected, it is in copper that the deficiency is most serious. Of fourteen-inch bolts, eighty-two are short, of twelve-inch bolts a hundred and thirty, of eight-inch three hundred and nine; and so on throughout almost all the copper stores. According to your expenditure and receipt-book, Captain Dave, you have made, in the last fifteen months, twelve hundred and thirty pounds; but according to this book your stock is less in value, by two thousand and thirty-four pounds, than it should have been. You are, therefore, a poorer man than you were at the beginning of this fifteen months' trading, by eight hundred and four pounds."

Captain Dave sat down in his chair, breathing hard. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the drops of perspiration from his forehead.

"Are you sure of this, boy?" he said hoarsely. "Are you sure that you have made no mistake in your figures?"

"Quite sure," Cyril said firmly. "In all cases in which I have found deficiencies I have gone through the books three times and compared the figures, and I am sure that if you put the books into the hands of any city accountant, he will bear out my figures."

For a time Captain Dave sat silent.

"Hast any idea," he said at last, "how this has come about?"

"I have none," Cyril replied. "That John Wilkes is not concerned in it I am as sure as you are; and, thinking the matter over, I see not how the apprentices could have carried off so many articles, some heavy and some bulky, when they left the shop in the evening, without John Wilkes noticing them. So sure am I, that my advice would be that you should take John Wilkes into your confidence, and tell him how matters stand. My only objection to that is that he is a hasty man, and that I fear he would not be able to keep his countenance, so that the apprentices would remark that something was wrong. I am far from saying that they have any hand in it; it would be a grievous wrong to them to have suspicions when there is no shadow of evidence against them; but at any rate, if this matter is to be stopped and the thieves detected, it is most important that they should have, if they are guilty, no suspicion that they are in any way being watched, or that these deficiencies have been discovered. If they have had a hand in the matter they most assuredly had accomplices, for such goods could not be disposed of by an apprentice to any dealer without his being sure that they must have been stolen."

"You are right there, lad -- quite right. Did John Wilkes know that I had been robbed in this way he would get into a fury, and no words could restrain him from falling upon the apprentices and beating them till he got some of the truth out of them."

"They may be quite innocent," Cyril said. "It may be that the thieves have discovered some mode of entry into the store either by opening the shutters at the back, or by loosening a board, or even by delving up under the ground. It is surely easier to believe this than that the boys can have contrived to carry off so large a quantity of goods under John Wilkes's eye."

"That is so, lad. I have never liked Robert Ashford, but God forbid that I should suspect him of such crime only because his forehead is as wrinkled as an ape's, and Providence has set his eyes crossways in his head. You cannot always judge a ship by her upper works; she may be ugly to the eye and yet have a clear run under water. Still, you can't help going by what you see. I agree with you that if we tell John Wilkes about this, those boys will know five minutes afterwards that the ship is on fire; but if we don't tell him, how are we to get to the bottom of what is going on?"

"That is a difficult question, but a few days will not make much difference, when we know that it has been going on for over a year, and may, for aught we know, have been going on much longer. The first thing, Captain Dave, is to send these books to an accountant, for him to go through them and check my figures."

"There is no need for that, lad. I know how careful you are, and you cannot have gone so far wrong as all this."

"No, sir, I am sure that there is no mistake; but, for your own sake as well as mine, it were well that you should have the signature of an accountant to the correctness of the books. If you have to lay the matter before the magistrates, they would not take my testimony as to your losses, and might even say that you were rash in acting upon the word of a boy like myself, and you might then be obliged to have the accounts made up anew, which would cost you more, and cause much delay in the process; whereas, if you put in your books and say that their correctness is vouched for by an accountant, no question would arise on it; nor would there be any delay now, for while the books are being gone into, we can be trying to get to the bottom of the matter here."

"Ay, ay, it shall be done, Master Cyril, as you say. But for the life of me I don't see how we are to get at the bottom of the ship to find out where she is leaking!"

"It seems to me that the first thing, Captain Dave, is to see to the warehouse. As we agreed that the apprentices cannot have carried out all these goods under John Wilkes's eye, and cannot have come down night after night through the house, the warehouse must have been entered from without. As I never go in there, it would be best that you should see to this matter yourself. There are the fastenings of the shutters in the first place, then the boardings all round. As for me, I will look round outside. The window of my room looks into the street, but if you will take me to one of the rooms at the back we can look at the surroundings of the yard, and may gather some idea whether the goods can have been passed over into any of the houses abutting on it, or, as is more likely, into the lane that runs up by its side."

The Captain led the way into one of the rooms at the back of the house, and opening the casement, he and Cyril leaned out. The store occupied fully half the yard, the rest being occupied by anchors, piles of iron, ballast, etc. There were two or three score of guns of various sizes piled on each other. A large store of cannon-ball was ranged in a great pyramid close by. A wall some ten feet high separated the yard from the lane Cyril had spoken of. On the left, adjoining the warehouse, was the yard of the next shop, which belonged to a wool-stapler. Behind were the backs of a number of small houses crowded in between Tower Street and Leadenhall Street.

"I suppose you do not know who lives in those houses, Captain Dave?"

"No, indeed. The land is not like the sea. Afloat, when one sees a sail, one wonders what is her nationality, and whither she is bound, and still more whether she is an honest trader or a rascally pirate; but here on land, one scarcely gives a thought as to who may dwell in the houses round."

"I will walk round presently," Cyril said, "and gather, as far as I can, who they are that live there; but, as I have said, I fancy it is over that wall and into the alley that your goods have departed. The apprentices' room is this side of the house, is it not?"

"Yes; John Wilkes sleeps in the room next to yours, and the door opposite to his is that of the lads' room."

"Do the windows of any of the rooms look into that lane?"

"No; it is a blank wall on that side."

"There is the clock striking nine," Cyril said, starting. "It is time for me to be off. Then you will take the books to-day, Captain Dave?"

"I will carry them off at once, and when I return will look narrowly into the fastenings of the two windows and door from the warehouse into the yard; and will take care to do so when the boys are engaged in the front shop."

When his work was done, Cyril went round to the houses behind the yard, and he found that they stood in a small court, with three or four trees growing in the centre, and were evidently inhabited by respectable citizens. Over the door of one was painted, "Joshua Heddings, Attorney"; next to him was Gilbert Gushing, who dealt in jewels, silks, and other precious commodities from the East; next to him was a doctor, and beyond a dealer in spices. This was enough to assure him that it was not through such houses as these that the goods had been carried.

Cyril had not been back at the mid-day meal, for his work that day lay up by Holborn Bar, where he had two customers whom he attended with but half an hour's interval between the visits, and on the days on which he went there he was accustomed to get something to eat at a tavern hard by.

Supper was an unusually quiet meal. Captain Dave now and then asked John Wilkes a question as to the business matters of the day, but evidently spoke with an effort. Nellie rattled on as usual; but the burden of keeping up the conversation lay entirely on her shoulders and those of Cyril. After the apprentices had left, and John Wilkes had started for his usual resort, the Captain lit his pipe. Nellie signed to Cyril to come and seat himself by her in the window that projected out over the street, and enabled the occupants of the seats at either side to have a view up and down it.

"What have you been doing to father, Cyril?" she asked, in low tones; "he has been quite unlike himself all day. Generally when he is out of temper he rates everyone heartily, as if we were a mutinous crew, but to-day he has gone about scarcely speaking; he hasn't said a cross word to any of us, but several times when I spoke to him I got no answer, and it is easy to see that he is terribly put out about something. He was in his usual spirits at breakfast; then, you know, he was talking with you for an hour, and it does not take much guessing to see that it must have been something that passed between you that has put him out. Now what was it?"

"I don't see why you should say that, Mistress Nellie. It is true we did have a talk together, and he examined some fresh books I have been making out and said that he was mightily pleased with my work. I went away at nine o'clock, and something may have occurred to upset him between that and dinner."

"All which means that you don't mean to tell me anything about it, Master Cyril. Well, then, you may consider yourself in my black books altogether," she said petulantly.

"I am sorry that you should say so," he said. "If it were true that anything that I had said to him had ruffled him, it would be for him to tell you, and not for me."

"Methinks I have treated Robert Ashford scurvily, and I shall take him for my escort to see His Majesty attend service at St. Paul's to-morrow."

Cyril smiled.

"I think it would be fair to give him a turn, Mistress, and I am glad to see that you have such a kind thought."

Nellie rose indignantly, and taking her work sat down by the side of her mother.

"It is a fine evening," Cyril said to Captain Dave, "and I think I shall take a walk round. I shall return in an hour."

The Captain understood, by a glance Cyril gave him, that he was going out for some purpose connected with the matter they had in hand.

"Ay, ay, lad," he said. "It is not good for you to be sitting moping at home every evening. I have often wondered before that you did not take a walk on deck before you turned in. I always used to do so myself."

"I don't think there is any moping in it, Captain Dave," Cyril said, with a laugh. "If you knew how pleasant the evenings have been to me after the life I lived before, you would not say so."

Cyril's only object in going out, however, was to avoid the necessity of having to talk with Dame Dowsett and Nellie. His thoughts were running on nothing but the robbery, and he had found it very difficult to talk in his usual manner, and to answer Nellie's sprightly sallies. It was dark already. A few oil lamps gave a feeble light here and there. At present he had formed no plan whatever of detecting the thieves; he was as much puzzled as the Captain himself as to how the goods could have been removed. It would be necessary, of course, to watch the apprentices, but he did not think that anything was likely to come out of this. It was the warehouse itself that must be watched, in order to discover how the thieves made an entry. His own idea was that they got over the wall by means of a rope, and in some way managed to effect an entry into the warehouse. The apprentices could hardly aid them unless they came down through the house.

If they had managed to get a duplicate key of the door leading from the bottom of the stairs to the shop, they could, of course, unbar the windows, and pass things out -- that part of the business would be easy; but he could not believe that they would venture frequently to pass down through the house. It was an old one, and the stairs creaked. He himself was a light sleeper; he had got into the way of waking at the slightest sound, from the long watches he had had for his father's return, and felt sure that he should have heard them open their door and steal along the passage past his room, however quietly they might do it. He walked up the Exchange, then along Cheapside as far as St. Paul's, and back. Quiet as it was in Thames Street there was no lack of animation elsewhere. Apprentices were generally allowed to go out for an hour after supper, the regulation being that they returned to their homes by eight o'clock. Numbers of these were about. A good many citizens were on their way home after supping with friends. The city watch, with lanterns, patrolled the streets, and not infrequently interfered in quarrels which broke out among the apprentices. Cyril felt more solitary among the knots of laughing, noisy lads than in the quiet streets, and was glad to be home again. Captain Dave himself came down to open the door.

"I have just sent the women to bed," he said. "The two boys came in five minutes ago. I thought you would not be long."

"I did not go out for anything particular," Cyril said; "but Mistress Nellie insisted that there was something wrong with you, and that I must know what it was about, so, feeling indeed indisposed to talk, I thought it best to go out for a short time."

"Yes, yes. Women always want to know, lad. I have been long enough at sea, you may be sure, to know that when anything is wrong, it is the best thing to keep it from the passengers as long as you can."

"You took the books away this morning, Captain Dave?" Cyril asked as they sat down.

"Ay, lad, I took them to Master Skinner, who bears as good a reputation as any accountant in the city, and he promised to take them in hand without loss of time; but I have been able to do nothing here. John, or one or other of the boys, was always in the warehouse, and I have had no opportunity of examining the door and shutters closely. When the house is sound asleep we will take a lantern and go down to look at them. I have been thinking that we must let John Wilkes into this matter; it is too much to bear on my mind by myself. He is my first mate, you see, and in time of danger, the first mate, if he is worth anything, is the man the captain relies on for help."

"By all means tell him, then," Cyril said. "I can keep books, but I have no experience in matters like this, and shall be very glad to have his opinion and advice."

"There he is -- half-past eight. He is as punctual as clockwork."

Cyril ran down and let John in.

"The Captain wants to speak to you," he said, "before you go up to bed."

John, after carefully bolting the door, followed him upstairs.

"I have got some bad news for you, John. There, light your pipe again, and sit down. My good dame has gone off to bed, and we have got the cabin to ourselves."

John touched an imaginary hat and obeyed orders.

"The ship has sprung a bad leak, John. This lad here has found it out, and it is well he did, for unless he had done so we should have had her foundering under our feet without so much as suspecting anything was going wrong."

The sailor took his newly-lighted pipe from between his lips and stared at the Captain in astonishment.

"Yes, it is hard to believe, mate, but, by the Lord Harry, it is as I say. There is a pirate about somewhere, and the books show that, since the stock-taking fifteen months ago, he has eased the craft of her goods to the tune of two thousand pounds and odd."

John Wilkes flung his pipe on to the table with such force that it shivered into fragments.

"Dash my timbers!" he exclaimed. "Who is the man? You only give me the orders, sir, and I am ready to range alongside and board him."

"That is what we have got to find out, John. That the goods have gone is certain, but how they can have gone beats us altogether."

"Do you mean to say, Captain, that they have stolen them out of the place under my eyes and me know nothing about it? It can't be, sir. There must be some mistake. I know naught about figures, save enough to put down the things I sell, but I don't believe as a thing has gone out of the shop unbeknown to me. That yarn won't do for me, sir," and he looked angrily at Cyril.

"It is true enough, John, for all that. The books have been balanced up. We knew what was in stock fifteen months ago, and we knew from your sale-book what has passed out of the shop, and from your entry-book what has come in. We know now what there is remaining. We find that in bulky goods, such as cables and anchors and ships' boilers and suchlike, the accounts tally exactly, but in the small rope, and above all in the copper, there is a big shrinkage. I will read you the figures of some of them."

John's face grew longer and longer as he heard the totals read.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" he said, when the list was concluded. "I could have sworn that the cargo was right according to the manifest. Well, Captain, all I can say is, if that 'ere list be correct, the best thing you can do is to send me adrift as a blind fool. I have kept my tallies as correct as I could, and I thought I had marked down every package that has left the ship, and here they must have been passing out pretty nigh in cart-loads under my very eyes, and I knew nothing about it."

"I don't blame you, John, more than I blame myself. I am generally about on deck, and had no more idea that the cargo was being meddled with than you had. I have been wrong in letting matters go on so long without taking stock of them and seeing that it was all right; but I never saw the need for it. This is what comes of taking to a trade you know nothing about; we have just been like two children, thinking that it was all plain and above board, and that we had nothing to do but to sell our goods and to fill up again when the hold got empty. Well, it is of no use talking over that part of the business. What we have got to do is to find out this leak and stop it. We are pretty well agreed, Cyril and me, that the things don't go out of the shop by daylight. The question is, how do they go out at night?"

"I always lock up the hatches according to orders, Captain."

"Yes, I have no doubt you do, John; but maybe the fastenings have been tampered with. The only way in which we see it can have been managed is that someone has been in the habit of getting over the wall between the yard and the lane, and then getting into the warehouse somehow. It must have been done very often, for if the things had been taken in considerable quantities you would have noticed that the stock was short directly the next order came in. Now I propose we light these two lanterns I have got here, and that we go down and have a look round the hold."

Lighting the candles, they went downstairs. The Captain took out the key and turned the lock. It grated loudly as he did so.

"That is a noisy lock," Cyril said.

"It wants oiling," John replied. "I have been thinking of doing it for the last month, but it has always slipped out of my mind."

"At any rate," Cyril said, "it is certain that thieves could not have got into the shop this way, for the noise would have been heard all over the house."

The door between the shop and the warehouse was next unlocked. The fastenings of the shutters and doors were first examined; there was no sign of their having been tampered with. Each bolt and hasp was tried, and the screws examined. Then they went round trying every one of the stout planks that formed the side; all were firm and in good condition.

"It beats me altogether," the Captain said, when they had finished their examination. "The things cannot walk out of themselves; they have got to be carried. But how the fellows who carry them get in is more than I can say. There is nowhere else to look, is there, John?"

"Not that I can see, Captain."

They went to the door into the shop, and were about to close it, when Cyril said, -- 

"Some of the things that are gone are generally kept in here, Captain -- the rope up to two inch, for example, and a good deal of canvas, and most of the smaller copper fittings; so that, whoever the thief is, he must have been in the habit of coming in here as well as into the warehouse."

"That is so, lad. Perhaps they entered from this side."

"Will you hold the lantern here, John?" Cyril said.

The sailor held the lantern to the lock.

"There are no scratches nor signs of tools having been used here," Cyril said, examining both the lock and the door-post. "Whether the thief came into the warehouse first, or not, he must have had a key."

The Captain nodded.

"Thieves generally carry a lot of keys with them, Cyril; and if one does not quite fit they can file it until it does."

The shutters of the shop window and its fastenings, and those of the door, were as secure as those of the warehouse, and, completely puzzled, the party went upstairs again.

"There must be some way of getting in and out, although we can't find it," Captain Dave said. "Things can't have gone off by themselves."

"It may be, Captain," John Wilkes said, "that some of the planks may be loose."

"But we tried them all, John."

"Ay, they seem firm enough, but it may be that one of them is wedged in, and that when the wedges are taken out it could be pulled off."

"I think you would have noticed it, John. If there was anything of that sort it must be outside. However, we will take a good look round the yard to-morrow. The warehouse is strongly built, and I don't believe that any plank could be taken off and put back again, time after time, without making a noise that would be heard in the house. What do you think, Cyril?"

"I agree with you, Captain Dave. How the thieves make an entry I can't imagine, but I don't believe that it is through the wall of the warehouse. I am convinced that the robberies must have been very frequent. Had a large amount been taken at a time, John Wilkes would have been sure to notice it. Then, again, the thieves would not come so often, and each time for a comparatively small amount of booty, unless it could be managed without any serious risk or trouble. However, now that we do know that they come, we shall have, I should think, very little difficulty in finding out how it is done."

"You may warrant we will keep a sharp look-out," John Wilkes said savagely. "If the Captain will give me the use of a room at the back of the house, you may be sure I shan't close an eye till I have got to the bottom of the matter. I am responsible for the cargo below, and if I had kept as sharp an eye on the stores as I ought to have done, this would not have happened. Only let me catch them trying to board, and I will give them such a reception that I warrant me they will sheer off with a bullet or two in them. I have got that pair of boarding pistols, and a cutlass, hung up over my bed."

"You must not do that, John," the Captain said. "It isn't a matter of beating off the pirates by pouring a broadside into them. Maybe you might cripple them, more likely they would make off, and we want to capture them. Therefore, I say, let us watch, and find out how they do it. When we once know that, we can lay our plans for capturing them the next time they come. I will take watch and watch with you."

"Well, if it goes on long, Captain, I won't say no to that; but for to-night anyhow I will sit up alone."

"Very well, let it be so, John. But mind, whatever you see, you keep as still as a mouse. Just steal to my room in your stockinged feet directly you see anything moving. Open the door and say, 'Strange sail in sight!' and I will be over at your window in no time. And now, Cyril, you and I may as well turn in."

The night passed quietly.

"You saw nothing, I suppose, John?" the Captain said next morning, after the apprentices had gone down from breakfast.

"Not a thing, Captain."

"Now we will go and have a look in the yard. Will you come, Cyril?"

"I should like to come," Cyril replied, "but, as I have never been out there before, had you not better make some pretext for me to do so. You might say, in the hearing of the apprentices, 'We may as well take the measurements for that new shed we were talking about, and see how much boarding it will require.' Then you can call to me out from the office to come and help you to measure."

"Then you still think the apprentices are in it?" John Wilkes asked sharply.

"I don't say I think so, John. I have nothing against them. I don't believe they could come down at night without being heard; I feel sure they could not get into the shop without that stiff bolt making a noise. Still, as it is possible they may be concerned in the matter, I think that, now we have it in good train for getting to the bottom of it, it would be well to keep the matter altogether to ourselves."

"Quite right," Captain Dave said approvingly. "When you suspect treachery, don't let a soul think that you have got such a matter in your mind, until you are in a position to take the traitor by the collar and put a pistol to his ear. That idea of yours is a very good one; I will say something about the shed to John this morning, and then when you go down to the counting-house after dinner I will call to you to come out to the yard with us."

After dinner, Captain Dave went with Cyril into the counting-house.

"We had an order in this morning for a set of ship's anchors, and John and I have been in the yard looking them out; we looked over the place pretty sharply, as you may be sure, but as far as we could see the place is as solid as when it was built, fifty years ago, by my father."

The Captain went out into the store, and ten minutes afterwards re-entered the shop and shouted, -- 

"Come out here, Cyril, and lend a hand. We are going to take those measurements. Bring out your ink-horn, and a bit of paper to put them down as we take them."

The yard was some sixty feet long by twenty-five broad, exclusive of the space occupied by the warehouse. This, as Cyril had observed from the window above, did not extend as far as the back wall; but on walking round there with the two men, he found that the distance was greater than he had expected, and that there was a space of some twenty feet clear.

"This is where we are thinking of putting the shed," the Captain said in a loud voice.

"But I see that you have a crane and door into the loft over the warehouse there," Cyril said, looking up.

"We never use that now. When my father first began business, he used to buy up old junk and such-like stores, and store them up there, but it didn't pay for the trouble; and, besides, as you see, he wanted every foot of the yard room, and of course at that time they had to leave a space clear for the carts to come up from the gate round here, so it was given up, and the loft is empty now."

Cyril looked up at the crane. It was swung round so as to lie flat against the wooden shutters. The rope was still through the block, and passed into the loft through a hole cut at the junction of the shutters.

They now measured the space between the warehouse and the wall, the Captain repeating the figures, still in a loud voice; then they discussed the height of the walls, and after some argument between the Captain and John Wilkes agreed that this should be the same as the rest of the building. Still talking on the subject, they returned through the warehouse, Cyril on the way taking a look at the massive gate that opened into the lane. In addition to a heavy bar it had a strong hasp, fastened by a great padlock. The apprentices were busy at work coiling up some rope when they passed by.

"When we have knocked a door through the end there, John," Captain Dave said, "it will give you a deal more room, and you will be able to get rid of all these cables and heavy dunnage, and to have matters more ship-shape here."

While they had been taking the measurements, all three had carefully examined the wall of the warehouse.

"There is nothing wrong there, Cyril," his employer said, as, leaving John Wilkes in the warehouse, they went through the shop into the little office.

"Certainly nothing that I could see, Captain Dave. I did not before know the loft had any opening to the outside. Of course I have seen the ladder going up from the warehouse to that trap-door; but as it was closed I thought no more of it."

"I don't suppose anyone has been up there for years, lad. What, are you thinking that someone might get in through those shutters? Why, they are twenty feet from the ground, so that you would want a long ladder, and when you got up there you would find that you could not open the shutters. I said nobody had been up there, but I did go up myself to have a look round when I first settled down here, and there is a big bar with a padlock."

Cyril thought no more about it, and after supper it was arranged that he and Captain Dave should keep watch by turns at the window of the room that had been now given to John Wilkes, and that the latter should have a night in his berth, as the Captain expressed it. John Wilkes had made some opposition, saying that he would be quite willing to take his watch.

"You will just obey orders, John," the Captain said. "You have had thirty-six hours off the reel on duty, and you have got to be at work all day to-morrow again. You shall take the middle watch to-morrow night if you like, but one can see with half an eye that you are not fit to be on the lookout to-night. I doubt if any of us could see as far as the length of the bowsprit. It is pretty nearly pitch dark; there is not a star to be seen, and it looked to me, when I turned out before supper, as if we were going to have a storm."



Chapter IV

Captured


It was settled that Cyril was to take the first watch, and that the Captain should relieve him at one o'clock. At nine, the family went to bed. A quarter of an hour later, Cyril stole noiselessly from his attic down to John Wilkes's room. The door had been left ajar, and the candle was still burning.

"I put a chair by the window," the sailor said, from his bed, "and left the light, for you might run foul of something or other in the dark, though I have left a pretty clear gangway for you."

Cyril blew out the candle, and seated himself at the window. For a time he could see nothing, and told himself that the whole contents of the warehouse might be carried off without his being any the wiser.

"I shall certainly see nothing," he said to himself; "but, at least, I may hear something."

So saying, he turned the fastening of the casement and opened it about half an inch. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he was able to make out the line of the roof of the warehouse, which was some three or four feet below the level of his eyes, and some twenty feet away on his left. The time passed slowly. He kept himself awake by thinking over the old days in France, the lessons he had learnt with his friend, Harry Parton, and the teaching of the old clergyman.

He heard the bell of St. Paul's strike ten and eleven. The last stroke had scarcely ceased to vibrate when he rose to his feet suddenly. He heard, on his left, a scraping noise. A moment later it ceased, and then was renewed again. It lasted but a few seconds; then he heard an irregular, shuffling noise, that seemed to him upon the roof of the warehouse. Pressing his face to the casement, he suddenly became aware that the straight line of the ridge was broken by something moving along it, and a moment later he made out a second object, just behind the first. Moving with the greatest care, he made his way out of the room, half closed the door behind him, crossed the passage, and pushed at a door opposite.

"Captain Dave," he said, in a low voice, "get up at once, and please don't make a noise."

"Ay, ay, lad."

There was a movement from the bed, and a moment later the Captain stood beside him.

"What is it, lad?" he whispered.

"There are two figures moving along on the ridge of the roof of the warehouse. I think it is the apprentices. I heard a slight noise, as if they were letting themselves down from their window by a rope. It is just over that roof, you know."

There was a rustling sound as the Captain slipped his doublet on.

"That is so. The young scoundrels! What can they be doing on the roof?"

They went to the window behind. Just as they reached it there was a vivid flash of lightning. It sufficed to show them a figure lying at full length at the farther end of the roof; then all was dark again, and a second or two later came a sharp, crashing roar of thunder.

"We had better stand well back from the window," Cyril whispered. "Another flash might show us to anyone looking this way."

"What does it mean, lad? What on earth is that boy doing there? I could not see which it was."

"I think it is Ashford," Cyril said. "The figure in front seemed the smaller of the two."

"But where on earth can Tom have got to?"

"I should fancy, sir, that Robert has lowered him so that he can get his feet on the crane and swing it outwards; then he might sit down on it and swing himself by the rope into the loft if the doors are not fastened inside. Robert, being taller, would have no difficulty in lowering himself -- There!" he broke off, as another flash of lightning lit up the sky. "He has gone, now; there is no one on the roof."

John Wilkes was by this time standing beside them, having started up at the first flash of lightning.

"Do you go up, John, into their room," the Captain said. "I think there can be no doubt that these fellows on the roof are Ashford and Frost, but it is as well to be able to swear to it."

The foreman returned in a minute or two.

"The room is empty, Captain; the window is open, and there is a rope hanging down from it. Shall I cast it adrift?"

"Certainly not, John. We do not mean to take them tonight, and they must be allowed to go back to their beds without a suspicion that they have been watched. I hope and trust that it is not so bad as it looks, and that the boys have only broken out from devilry. You know, boys will do things of that sort just because it is forbidden."

"There must be more than that," John Wilkes said. "If it had been just after they went to their rooms, it might be that they went to some tavern or other low resort, but the town is all asleep now."

They again went close to the window, pushed the casement a little more open, and stood listening there. In two or three minutes there was a very slight sound heard.

"They are unbolting the door into the yard," John Wilkes whispered. "I would give a month's pay to be behind them with a rope's end."

Half a minute later there was a sudden gleam of light below, and they could see the door open. The light disappeared again, but they heard footsteps; then they saw the light thrown on the fastening to the outer gate, and could make out that two figures below were applying a key to the padlock. This was taken off and laid down; then the heavy wooden bar was lifted, and also laid on the ground. The gate opened as if pushed from the other side. The two figures went out; the sound of a low murmur of conversation could be heard; then they returned, the gate was closed and fastened again, they entered the warehouse, the light disappeared, and the door was closed.

"That's how the things went, John."

"Ay, ay, sir," the foreman growled.

"As they were undoing the gate, the light fell on a coil of rope they had set down there, and a bag which I guess had copper of some kind in it. They have done us cleverly, the young villains! There was not noise enough to wake a cat. They must have had every bolt and hinge well oiled."

"We had better close the casement now, sir, for as they come back along the ridge they will be facing it, and if a flash of lightning came they would see that it was half open, and even if they did not catch sight of our faces they would think it suspicious that the window should be open, and it might put them on their guard."

"Yes; and we may as well turn in at once, John. Like enough when they get back they will listen for a bit at their door, so as to make sure that everything is quiet before they turn in. There is nothing more to see now. Of course they will get in as they got out. You had better turn in as you are, Cyril; they may listen at your door."

Cyril at once went up to his room, closed the door, placed a chair against it, and then lay down on his bed. He listened intently, and four or five minutes later thought that he heard a door open; but he could not be sure, for just at that moment heavy drops began to patter down upon the tiles. The noise rose louder and louder until he could scarce have heard himself speak. Then there was a bright flash and the deep rumble of the thunder mingled with the sharp rattle of the raindrops overhead. He listened for a time to the storm, and then dropped off to sleep.

Things went on as usual at breakfast the next morning. During the meal, Captain Dave gave the foreman several instructions as to the morning's work.

"I am going on board the Royalist," he said. "John Browning wants me to overhaul all the gear, and see what will do for another voyage or two, and what must be new. His skipper asked for new running rigging all over, but he thinks that there can't be any occasion for its all being renewed. I don't expect I shall be in till dinner-time, so anyone that wants to see me must come again in the afternoon."

Ten minutes later, Cyril went out, on his way to his work. Captain Dave was standing a few doors away.

"Before I go on board the brig, lad, I am going up to the Chief Constable's to arrange about this business. I want to get four men of the watch. Of course, it may be some nights before this is tried again, so I shall have the men stowed away in the kitchen. Then we must keep watch, and as soon as we see those young villains on the roof, we will let the men out at the front door. Two will post themselves this end of the lane, and two go round into Leadenhall Street and station themselves at the other end. When the boys go out after supper we will unlock the door at the bottom of the stairs into the shop, and the door into the warehouse. Then we will steal down into the shop and listen there until we hear them open the door into the yard, and then go into the warehouse and be ready to make a rush out as soon as they get the gate open. John will have his boatswain's whistle ready, and will give the signal. That will bring the watch up, so they will be caught in a trap."

"I should think that would be a very good plan, Captain Dave, though I wish that it could have been done without Tom Frost being taken. He is a timid sort of boy, and I have no doubt that he has been entirely under the thumb of Robert."

"Well, if he has he will get off lightly," the Captain said. "Even if a boy is a timid boy, he knows what will be the consequences if he is caught robbing his master. Cowardice is no excuse for crime, lad. The boys have always been well treated, and though I dare say Ashford is the worst of the two, if the other had been honest he would not have seen him robbing me without letting me know."

For six nights watch was kept without success. Every evening, when the family and apprentices had retired to rest, John Wilkes went quietly downstairs and admitted the four constables, letting them out in the morning before anyone was astir. Mrs. Dowsett had been taken into her husband's confidence so far as to know that he had discovered he had been robbed, and was keeping a watch for the thieves. She was not told that the apprentices were concerned in the matter, for Captain Dave felt sure that, however much she might try to conceal it, Robert Ashford would perceive, by her looks, that something was wrong.

Nellie was told a day or two later, for, although ignorant of her father's nightly watchings, she was conscious from his manner, and that of her mother, that something was amiss, and was so persistent in her inquiries, that the Captain consented to her mother telling her that he had a suspicion he was being robbed, and warning her that it was essential that the subject must not be in any way alluded to.

"Your father is worrying over it a good deal, Nellie, and it is better that he should not perceive that you are aware of it. Just let things go on as they were."

"Is the loss serious, mother?"

"Yes; he thinks that a good deal of money has gone. I don't think he minds that so much as the fact that, so far, he doesn't know who the people most concerned in it may be. He has some sort of suspicion in one quarter, but has no clue whatever to the men most to blame."

"Does Cyril know anything about it?" Nellie asked suddenly.

"Yes, he knows, my dear; indeed, it was owing to his cleverness that your father first came to have suspicions."

"Oh! that explains it," Nellie said. "He had been talking to father, and I asked what it was about and he would not tell me, and I have been very angry with him ever since."

"I have noticed that you have been behaving very foolishly," Mrs. Dowsett said quietly, "and that for the last week you have been taking Robert with you as an escort when you went out of an evening. I suppose you did that to annoy Cyril, but I don't think that he minded much."

"I don't think he did, mother," Nellie agreed, with a laugh which betrayed a certain amount of irritation. "I saw that he smiled, two or three evenings back, when I told Robert at supper that I wanted him to go out with me, and I was rarely angry, I can tell you."

Cyril had indeed troubled himself in no way about Nellie's coolness; but when she had so pointedly asked Robert to go with her, he had been amused at the thought of how greatly she would be mortified, when Robert was haled up to the Guildhall for robbing her father, at the thought that he had been accompanying her as an escort.

"I rather hope this will be our last watch, Captain Dave," he said, on the seventh evening.

"Why do you hope so specially to-night, lad?"

"Of course I have been hoping so every night. But I think it is likely that the men who take the goods come regularly once a week; for in that case there would be no occasion for them to meet at other times to arrange on what night they should be in the lane."

"Yes, that is like enough, Cyril; and the hour will probably be the same, too. John and I will share your watch to-night, so as to be ready to get the men off without loss of time."

Cyril had always taken the first watch, which was from half-past nine till twelve. The Captain and Wilkes had taken the other watches by turns.

As before, just as the bell finished striking eleven, the three watchers again heard through the slightly open casement the scraping noise on the left. It had been agreed that they should not move, lest the sound should be heard outside. Each grasped the stout cudgel he held in his hand, and gazed at the roof of the warehouse, which could now be plainly seen, for the moon was half full and the sky was clear. As before, the two figures went along, and this time they could clearly recognise them. They were both sitting astride of the ridge tiles, and moved themselves along by means of their hands. They waited until they saw one after the other disappear at the end of the roof, and then John Wilkes quietly stole downstairs. The four constables had been warned to be specially wakeful.

"They are at it again to-night," John said to them, as he entered. "Now, do you two who go round into Leadenhall Street start at once, but don't take your post at the end of the lane for another five or six minutes. The thieves outside may not have come up at present. As you go out, leave the door ajar; in five minutes you others should stand ready. Don't go to the corner, but wait in the doorway below until you hear the whistle. They will be only fifteen or twenty yards up the lane, and would see you if you took up your station at the corner; but the moment you hear the whistle, rush out and have at them. We shall be there before you will."

John went down with the last two men, entered the shop, and stood there waiting until he should be joined by his master. The latter and Cyril remained at the window until they saw the door of the warehouse open, and then hurried downstairs. Both were in their stockinged feet, so that their movements should be noiseless.

"Come on, John; they are in the yard," the Captain whispered; and they entered the warehouse and went noiselessly on, until they stood at the door. The process of unbarring the gate was nearly accomplished. As it swung open, John Wilkes put his whistle to his lips and blew a loud, shrill call, and the three rushed forward. There was a shout of alarm, a fierce imprecation, and three of the four figures at the gate sprang at them. Scarce a blow had been struck when the two constables ran up and joined in the fray. Two men fought stoutly, but were soon overpowered. Robert Ashford, knife in hand, had attacked John Wilkes with fury, and would have stabbed him, as his attention was engaged upon one of the men outside, had not Cyril brought his cudgel down sharply on his knuckles, when, with a yell of pain, he dropped the knife and fled up the lane. He had gone but a short distance, however, when he fell into the hands of the two constables, who were running towards him. One of them promptly knocked him down with his cudgel, and then proceeded to bind his hands behind him, while the other ran on to join in the fray. It was over before he got there, and his comrades were engaged in binding the two robbers. Tom Frost had taken no part in the fight. He stood looking on, paralysed with terror, and when the two men were overpowered he fell on his knees beseeching his master to have mercy on him.

"It is too late, Tom," the Captain said. "You have been robbing me for months, and now you have been caught in the act you will have to take your share in the punishment. You are a prisoner of the constables here, and not of mine, and even if I were willing to let you go, they would have their say in the matter. Still, if you make a clean breast of what you know about it, I will do all I can to get you off lightly; and seeing that you are but a boy, and have been, perhaps, led into this, they will not be disposed to be hard on you. Pick up that lantern and bring it here, John; let us see what plunder, they were making off with."

There was no rope this time, but a bag containing some fifty pounds' weight of brass and copper fittings. One of the constables took possession of this.

"You had better come along with us to the Bridewell, Master Dowsett, to sign the charge sheet, though I don't know whether it is altogether needful, seeing that we have caught them in the act; and you will all three have to be at the Court to-morrow at ten o'clock."

"I will go with you," the Captain said; "but I will first slip in and put my shoes on; I brought them down in my hand and shall be ready in a minute. You may as well lock up this gate again, John. I will go out through the front door and join them in the lane." As he went into the house, John Wilkes closed the gate and put up the bar, then took up the lantern and said to Cyril, -- 

"Well, Master Cyril, this has been a good night's work, and mighty thankful I am that we have caught the pirates. It was a good day for us all when you came to the Captain, or they might have gone on robbing him till the time came that there was nothing more to rob; and I should never have held up my head again, for though the Captain would never believe that I had had a hand in bringing him to ruin, other people would not have thought so, and I might never have got a chance of proving my innocence. Now we will just go to the end of the yard and see if they did manage to get into the warehouse by means of that crane, as you thought they did."

They found that the crane had been swung out just far enough to afford a foot-hold to those lowering themselves on to it from the roof. The door of the loft stood open.

"Just as you said. You could not have been righter, not if you had seen them at it. And now I reckon we may as well lock up the place again, and turn in. The Captain has got the key of the front door, and we will leave the lantern burning at the bottom of the stairs."

Cyril got up as soon as he heard a movement in the house, and went down to the shop, which had been already opened by John Wilkes.

"It seems quiet here, without the apprentices, John. Is there any way in which I can help?"

"No, thank you, sir. We shan't be moving the goods about till after breakfast, and then, no doubt, the Captain will get an extra man in to help me. I reckon he will have to get a neighbour in to give an eye to the place while we are all away at the Court."

"I see there is the rope still hanging from their window," Cyril said, as he went out into the yard.

"I thought it best to leave it there," John Wilkes replied, "and I ain't been up into the loft either. It is best to leave matters just as they were. Like enough, they will send an officer down from the Court to look at them."

When the family assembled at breakfast, Mrs. Dowsett was looking very grave. The Captain, on the other hand, was in capital spirits. Nellie, as usual, was somewhat late.

"Where is everybody?" she asked in surprise, seeing that Cyril alone was in his place with her father and mother.

"John Wilkes is downstairs, looking after the shop, and will come up and have his breakfast when we have done," her father replied.

"Are both the apprentices out, then?" she asked.

"The apprentices are in limbo," the Captain said grimly.

"In limbo, father! What does that mean?"

"It means that they are in gaol, my dear."

Nellie put down the knife and fork that she had just taken up.

"Are you joking, father?"

"Very far from it, my dear; it is no joke to any of us -- certainly not to me, and not to Robert Ashford, or Tom Frost. They have been robbing me for the last year, and, for aught I know, before that. If it had not been for Master Cyril it would not have been very long before I should have had to put my shutters up."

"But how could they rob you, father?"

"By stealing my goods, and selling them, Nellie. The way they did it was to lower themselves by a rope from their window on to the roof of the warehouse, and to get down at the other end on to the crane, and then into the loft. Then they went down and took what they had a fancy to, undid the door, and went into the yard, and then handed over their booty to the fellows waiting at the gate for it. Last night we caught them at it, after having been on the watch for ten days."

"That is what I heard last night, then," she said. "I was woke by a loud whistle, and then I heard a sound of quarrelling and fighting in the lane. I thought it was some roysterers going home late. Oh, father, it is dreadful to think of! And what will they do to them?"

"It is a hanging matter," the Captain said; "it is not only theft, but mutiny. No doubt the judges will take a lenient view of Tom Frost's case, both on the ground of his youth, and because, no doubt, he was influenced by Ashford; but I would not give much for Robert's chances. No doubt it will be a blow to you, Nellie, for you seem to have taken to him mightily of late."

Nellie was about to give an emphatic contradiction, but as she remembered how pointedly she had asked for his escort during the last few days, she flushed up, and was silent.

"It is terrible to think of," she said, after a pause. "I suppose this is what you and Cyril were consulting about, father. I have to ask your pardon, Master Cyril, for my rudeness to you; but of course I did not think it was anything of consequence, or that you could not have told me if you had wished to do so."

"You need not beg my pardon, Mistress Nellie. No doubt you thought it churlish on my part to refuse to gratify your curiosity, and I am not surprised that you took offence. I knew that when you learned how important it was to keep silence over the matter, that you would acquit me of the intention of making a mystery about nothing."

"I suppose you knew, mother?" Nellie asked.

"I knew that your father believed that he was being robbed, Nellie, and that he was keeping watch for some hours every night, but I did not know that he suspected the apprentices. I am glad that we did not, for assuredly we should have found it very hard to school our faces so that they should not guess that aught was wrong."

"That was why we said nothing about it, Nellie. It has been as much as I have been able to do to sit at table, and talk in the shop as usual, with boys I knew were robbing me; and I know honest John Wilkes must have felt it still more. But till a week ago we would not believe that they had a hand in the matter. It is seven nights since Cyril caught them creeping along the roof, and called me to the window in John Wilkes's room, whence he was watching the yard, not thinking the enemy was in the house."

"And how did you come to suspect that robbery was going on, Cyril?"

"Simply because, on making up the books, I found there was a great deficiency in the stores."

"That is what he was doing when he was sitting up at night, after you were in bed, Miss Nellie," her father said. "You may thank your stars that he took a berth in this ship, for the scoundrels would have foundered her to a certainty, if he had not done so. I tell you, child, he has saved this craft from going to the bottom. I have not said much to him about it, but he knows that I don't feel it any the less."

"And who were the other men who were taken, father?"

"That I can't tell you, Nellie. I went to the Bridewell with them, and as soon as I saw them safely lodged there I came home. They will be had up before the Lord Mayor this morning, and then I dare say I shall know all about them. Now I must go and take my watch below, and let John Wilkes come off duty."

"Why, John, what is the matter?" Mrs. Dowsett said, when the foreman entered.

"Nothing worth speaking of, Mistress. I got a clip over the eye from one of the pirates we were capturing. The thing mattered nothing, one way or the other, but it might have cost me my life, because, for a moment, it pretty well dazed me. That young villain, Bob, was just coming at me with his knife, and I reckon it would have gone hard with me if Master Cyril here hadn't, just in the nick of time, brought his stick down on Robert's knuckles, and that so sharply that the fellow dropped his knife with a yell, and took to his heels, only to fall into the hands of two of the watch coming from the other end of the lane. You did me a good turn, lad, and if ever I get the chance of ranging up alongside of you in a fray, you may trust me to return it."

He held out his hand to Cyril, and gave a warm grip to the hand the latter laid in it.

"It is a rum start, Mistress," John went on, as he sat down to his meal, "that two old hands like the Captain and I were sailing on, not dreaming of hidden rocks or sand-banks, when this lad, who I used to look upon as a young cockerel who was rather above his position, should come forward and have saved us all from shipwreck."

"It is indeed, John," his mistress said earnestly, "and I thank God indeed that He put the thought into the minds of Captain Dave and myself to ask him to take up his abode with us. It seemed to us then that we were doing a little kindness that would cost us nothing, whereas it has turned out the saving of us."

"Dear, dear!" Nellie, who had been sitting with a frown on her pretty face, said pettishly. "What a talk there will be about it all, and how Jane Greenwood and Martha Stebbings and the rest of them will laugh at me! They used to say they wondered how I could go about with such an ugly wretch behind me, and of course I spoke up for him and said that he was an honest knave and faithful; and now it turns out that he is a villain and a robber. I shall never hear the last of him."

"You will get over that, Nellie," her mother said severely. "It would be much better if, instead of thinking of such trifles, you would consider how sad a thing it is that two lads should lose their character, and perhaps their lives, simply for their greed of other people's goods. I could cry when I think of it. I know that Robert Ashford has neither father nor mother to grieve about him, for my husband's father took him out of sheer charity; but Tom's parents are living, and it will be heart-breaking indeed to them when they hear of their son's misdoings."

"I trust that Captain Dave will get him off," Cyril said. "As he is so young he may turn King's evidence, and I feel sure that he did not go willingly into the affair. I have noticed many times that he had a frightened look, as if he had something on his mind. I believe that he acted under fear of the other."

As soon as John Wilkes had finished his breakfast he went with Captain Dave and Cyril to the Magistrates' Court at the Guildhall. Some other cases were first heard, and then the apprentices, with the two men who had been captured in the lane, were brought in and placed in the dock. The men bore marks that showed they had been engaged in a severe struggle, and that the watch had used their staves with effect. One was an elderly man with shaggy grey eyebrows; the other was a very powerfully built fellow, who seemed, from his attire, to follow the profession of a sailor. Tom Frost was sobbing bitterly. One of Robert Ashford's hands was bandaged up. As he was placed in the dock he cast furtive glances round with his shifty eyes, and as they fell upon Cyril an expression of deadly hate came over his face. The men of the watch who had captured them first gave their evidence as to finding them in the act of robbery, and testified to the desperate resistance they had offered to capture. Captain Dave then entered the witness-box, and swore first to the goods that were found on them being his property, and then related how, it having come to his knowledge that he was being robbed, he had set a watch, and had, eight days previously, seen his two apprentices getting along the roof, and how they had come out from the warehouse door, had opened the outer gate, and had handed over some goods they had brought out to persons unknown waiting to receive them.

"Why did you not stop them in their commission of the theft?" the Alderman in the Chair asked.

"Because, sir, had I done so, the men I considered to be the chief criminals, and who had doubtless tempted my apprentices to rob me, would then have made off. Therefore, I thought it better to wait until I could lay hands on them also, and so got four men of the watch to remain in the house at night."

Then he went on to relate how, after watching seven nights, he had again seen the apprentices make their way along the roof, and how they and the receivers of their booty were taken by the watch, aided by himself, his foreman, and Master Cyril Shenstone, who was dwelling in his house.

After John Wilkes had given his evidence, Cyril went into the box and related how, being engaged by Captain David Dowsett to make up his books, he found, upon stock being taken, that there was a deficiency to the amount of many hundreds of pounds in certain stores, notably such as were valuable without being bulky.

"Is anything known as to the prisoners?" the magistrate asked the officer of the city watch in charge of the case.

"Nothing is known of the two boys, your honour; but the men are well known. The elder, who gave the name of Peter Johnson, is one Joseph Marner; he keeps a marine shop close to the Tower. For a long time he has been suspected of being a receiver of stolen goods, but we have never been able to lay finger on him before. The other man has, for the last year, acted as his assistant in the shop; he answers closely to the description of a man, Ephraim Fowler, who has long been wanted. This man was a seaman in a brig trading to Yarmouth. After an altercation with the captain he stabbed him, and then slew the mate who was coming to his assistance; then with threats he compelled the other two men on board to let him take the boat. When they were off Brightlingsea he rowed away, and has not been heard of since. If you will remand them, before he comes up again I hope to find the men who were on board, and see if they identify him. We are in possession of Joseph Marner's shop, and have found large quantities of goods that we have reason to believe are the proceeds of these and other robberies."

After the prisoners had left the dock, Captain Dave went up to the officer.

"I believe," he said, "that the boy has not voluntarily taken part in these robberies, but has been led away, or perhaps obliged by threats to take part in them; he may be able to give you some assistance, for maybe these men are not the only persons to whom the stolen goods have been sold, and he may be able to put you on the track of other receivers."

"The matter is out of my hands now," the officer said, "but I will represent what you say in the proper quarter; and now you had better come round with me; you may be able to pick out some of your property. We only made a seizure of the place an hour ago. I had all the men who came in on duty this morning to take a look at the prisoners. Fortunately two or three of them recognised Marner, and you may guess we lost no time in getting a search warrant and going down to his place. It is the most important capture we have made for some time, and may lead to the discovery of other robberies that have been puzzling us for months past. There is a gang known as the Black Gang, but we have never been able to lay hands on any of their leaders, and such fellows as have been captured have refused to say a word, and have denied all knowledge of it. There have been a number of robberies of a mysterious kind, none of which have we been able to trace, and they have been put down to the same gang. The Chief Constable is waiting for me there, and we shall make a thorough search of the premises, and it is like enough we shall come across some clue of importance. At any rate, if we can find some of the articles stolen in the robberies I am speaking of, it will be a strong proof that Marner is one of the chiefs of the gang, and that may lead to further discoveries."

"You had better come with us, John," Captain Dave said. "You know our goods better than I do myself. Will you come, Cyril?"

"I should be of no use in identifying the goods, sir, and I am due in half an hour at one of my shops."

The search was an exhaustive one. There was no appearance of an underground cellar, but on some of the boards of the shop being taken up, it was found that there was a large one extending over the whole house. This contained an immense variety of goods. In one corner was a pile of copper bolts that Captain Dave and John were able to claim at once, as they bore the brand of the maker from whom they obtained their stock. There were boxes of copper and brass ship and house fittings, and a very large quantity of rope, principally of the sizes in which the stock had been found deficient; but to these Captain Dave was unable to swear. In addition to these articles the cellar contained a number of chests, all of which were found to be filled with miscellaneous articles of wearing apparel -- rolls of silk, velvet, cloth, and other materials -- curtains, watches, clocks, ornaments of all kinds, and a considerable amount of plate. As among these were many articles which answered to the descriptions given of goods that had been stolen from country houses, the whole were impounded by the Chief Constable, and carried away in carts. The upper part of the house was carefully searched, the walls tapped, wainscotting pulled down, and the floors carefully examined. Several hiding-places were found, but nothing of any importance discovered in them.

"I should advise you," the Chief Constable said to Captain Dave, "to put in a claim for every article corresponding with those you have lost. Of course, if anyone else comes forward and also puts in a claim, the matter will have to be gone into, and if neither of you can absolutely swear to the things, I suppose you will have to settle it somehow between you. If no one else claims them, you will get them all without question, for you can swear that, to the best of your knowledge and belief, they are yours, and bring samples of your own goods to show that they exactly correspond with them. I have no doubt that a good deal of the readily saleable stuff, such as ropes, brass sheaves for blocks, and things of that sort, will have been sold, but as it is clear that there is a good deal of your stuff in the stock found below, I hope your loss will not be very great. There is no doubt it has been a splendid find for us. It is likely enough that we shall discover among those boxes goods that have been obtained from a score of robberies in London, and likely enough in the country. We have arrested three men we found in the place, and two women, and may get from some of them information that will enable us to lay hands on some of the others concerned in these robberies."



Chapter V

Kidnapped


That afternoon Captain Dave went down to the Bridewell, and had an interview with Tom Frost, in the presence of the Master of the prison.

"Well, Tom, I never expected to have to come to see you in a place like this."

"I am glad I am here, master," the boy said earnestly, with tears in his eyes. "I don't mind if they hang me; I would rather anything than go on as I have been doing. I knew it must come, and whenever I heard anyone walk into the shop I made sure it was a constable. I am ready to tell everything, master; I know I deserve whatever I shall get, but that won't hurt me half as much as it has done, having to go on living in the house with you, and knowing I was helping to rob you all along."

"Anything that you say must be taken down," the officer said; "and I can't promise that it will make any difference in your sentence."

"I do not care anything about that; I am going to tell the truth."

"Very well, then, I will take down anything you say. But wait a minute."

He went to the door of the room and called.

"Is the Chief Constable in?" he asked a man who came up. "If he is, ask him to step here."

A minute later the Chief Constable came in.

"This prisoner wishes to make a confession, Master Holmes. I thought it best that you should be here. You can hear what he says then, and it may help you in your inquiry. Besides, you may think of questions on points he may not mention; he understands that he is speaking entirely of his own free will, and that I have given him no promise whatever that his so doing will alter his sentence, although no doubt it will be taken into consideration."

"Quite so," the constable said. "This is not a case where one prisoner would be ordinarily permitted to turn King's evidence against the others, because, as they were caught in the act, no such evidence is necessary. We know all about how the thing was done, and who did it."

"I want to tell how I first came to rob my master," the boy said. "I never thought of robbing him. When I came up to London, my father said to me, 'Whatever you do, Tom, be honest. They say there are rogues up in London; don't you have anything to do with them.' One evening, about a year ago I went out with Robert, and we went to a shop near the wall at Aldgate. I had never been there before, but Robert knew the master, who was the old man that was taken in the lane. Robert said the man was a relation of his father's, and had been kind to him. We sat down and talked for a time, and then Robert, who was sitting close to me, moved for something, and put his hand against my pocket.

"'Hullo!' he said; 'what have you got there?'

"'Nothing,' I said.

"'Oh, haven't you?' and he put his hand in my pocket, and brought out ten guineas. 'Hullo!' he said; 'where did you get these? You told me yesterday you had not got a groat. Why, you young villain, you must have been robbing the till!'

"I was so frightened that I could not say anything, except that I did not know how they came there and I could swear that I had not touched the till. I was too frightened to think then, but I have since thought that the guineas were never in my pocket at all, but were in Robert's hand.

"'That won't do, boy,' the man said. 'It is clear that you are a thief. I saw Robert take them from your pocket, and, as an honest man, it is my duty to take you to your master and tell him what sort of an apprentice he has. You are young, and you will get off with a whipping at the pillory, and that will teach you that honesty is the best policy.'

"So he got his hat and put it on, and took me by the collar as if to haul me out into the street. I went down on my knees to beg for mercy, and at last he said that he would keep the matter quiet if I would swear to do everything that Robert told me; and I was so frightened that I swore to do so.

"For a bit there wasn't any stealing, but Robert used to take me out over the roof, and we used to go out together and go to places where there were two or three men, and they gave us wine. Then Robert proposed that we should have a look through the warehouse. I did not know what he meant, but as we went through he filled his pockets with things and told me to take some too. I said I would not. Then he threatened to raise the alarm, and said that when Captain Dave came down he should say he heard me get up to come down by the rope on to the warehouse, and that he had followed me to see what I was doing, and had found me in the act of taking goods, and that, as he had before caught me with money stolen from the till, as a friend of his could testify, he felt that it was his duty to summon you at once. I know I ought to have refused, and to have let him call you down, but I was too frightened. At last I agreed to do what he told me, and ever since then we have been robbing you."

"What have you done with the money you got for the things?" the constable asked.

"I had a groat sometimes," the boy said, "but that is all. Robert said first that I should have a share, but I said I would have nothing to do with it. I did as he ordered me because I could not help it. Though I have taken a groat or two sometimes, that is all I have had."

"Do you know anything about how much Robert had?"

"No, sir; I never saw him paid any money. I supposed that he had some because he has said sometimes he should set up a shop for himself, down at some seaport town, when he was out of his apprenticeship; but I have never seen him with any money beyond a little silver. I don't know what he used to do when we had given the things to the men that met us in the lane. I used always to come straight back to bed, but generally he went out with them. I used to fasten the gate after him, and he got back over the wall by a rope. Most times he didn't come in till a little before daybreak."

"Were they always the same men that met you in the lane?"

"No, sir. The master of the shop was very seldom there. The big man has come for the last three or four months, and there were two other men. They used to be waiting for us together until the big man came, but since then one or other of them came with him, except when the master of the shop was there himself."

"Describe them to me."

The boy described them as well as he could.

"Could you swear to them if you saw them?"

"I think so. Of course, sometimes it was moonlight, and I could see their faces well; and besides, the light of the lantern often fell upon their faces."

The constable nodded.

"The descriptions answer exactly," he said to Captain Dave, "to the two men we found in the shop. The place was evidently the headquarters of a gang of thieves."

"Please, sir," the boy said, "would you have me shut up in another place? I am afraid of being with the others. They have sworn they will kill me if I say a word, and when I get back they will ask me who I have seen and what I have said."

Captain Dave took the other two men aside.

"Could you not let the boy come home with me?" he said. "I believe his story is a true one. He has been terrified into helping that rascal, Robert Ashford. Of course he himself was of no good to them, but they were obliged to force him into it, as otherwise he would have found out Robert's absences and might have reported them to me. I will give what bail you like, and will undertake to produce him whenever he is required."

"I could not do that myself," the constable said, "but I will go round to the Court now with the boy's confession, and I have no doubt the Alderman will let him go. But let me give you a word of advice: don't let him stir out of the house after dark. We have no doubt that there is a big gang concerned in this robbery, and the others of which we found the booty at the receiver's. They would not know how much this boy could tell about them, but if he went back to you they would guess that he had peached. If he went out after dark, the chances would be against his ever coming back again. No, now I think of it, I am sure you had better let him stay where he is. The Master will put him apart from the others, and make him comfortable. You see, at present we have no clue as to the men concerned in the robberies. You may be sure that they are watching every move on our part, and if they knew that this boy was out, they might take the alarm and make off."

"Well, if you think so, I will leave him here."

"I am sure that it would be the best plan."

"You will make him comfortable, Master Holroyd?"

"Yes; you need not worry about him, Captain Dowsett."

They then turned to the boy.

"You will be moved away from the others, Tom," Captain Dave said, "and Mr. Holroyd has promised to make you comfortable."

"Oh, Captain Dave," the boy burst out, "will you forgive me? I don't mind being punished, but if you knew how awfully miserable I have been all this time, knowing that I was robbing you while you were so kind to me, I think you would forgive me."

"I forgive you, Tom," Captain Dave said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I hope that this will be a lesson to you, all your life. You see all this has come upon you because you were a coward. If you had been a brave lad you would have said, 'Take me to my master.' You might have been sure that I would have heard your story as well as theirs, and I don't think I should have decided against you under the circumstances. It was only your word against Robert's; and his taking you to this man's, and finding the money in your pocket in so unlikely a way, would certainly have caused me to have suspicions. There is nothing so bad as cowardice; it is the father of all faults. A coward is certain to be a liar, for he will not hesitate to tell any falsehood to shelter him from the consequences of a fault. In your case, you see, cowardice has made you a thief; and in some cases it might drive a man to commit a murder. However, lad, I forgive you freely. You have been weak, and your weakness has made you a criminal; but it has been against your own will. When all this is over, I will see what can be done for you. You may live to be an honest man and a good citizen yet."

Two days later Cyril was returning home late in the evening after being engaged longer than usual in making up a number of accounts for one of his customers. He had come through Leadenhall Street, and had entered the lane where the capture of the thieves had been made, when he heard a footstep behind him. He turned half round to see who was following him, when he received a tremendous blow on the head which struck him senseless to the ground.

After a time he was dimly conscious that he was being carried along. He was unable to move; there was something in his mouth that prevented him from calling out, and his head was muffled in a cloak. He felt too weak and confused to struggle. A minute later he heard a voice, that sounded below him, say, -- 

"Have you got him?"

"I have got him all right," was the answer of the man who was carrying him.

Then he felt that he was being carried down some stairs.

Someone took him, and he was thrown roughly down; then there was a slight rattling noise, followed by a regular sound. He wondered vaguely what it was, but as his senses came back it flashed upon him; it was the sound of oars; he was in a boat. It was some time before he could think why he should be in a boat. He had doubtless been carried off by some of the friends of the prisoners', partly, perhaps, to prevent his giving evidence against them, partly from revenge for the part he had played in the discovery of the crime.

In a few minutes the sound of oars ceased, and there was a bump as the boat struck against something hard. Then he was lifted up, and someone took hold of him from above. He was carried a few steps and roughly thrust in somewhere. There was a sound of something heavy being thrown down above him, and then for a long time he knew nothing more.

When he became conscious again, he was able, as he lay there, to come to a distinct conclusion as to where he was. He had been kidnapped, carried off, taken out in a boat to some craft anchored in the river, and was now in the hold. He felt almost suffocated. The wrap round his head prevented his breathing freely, the gag in his mouth pressed on his tongue, and gave him severe pain, while his head ached acutely from the effects of the blow.

The first thing to do was, if possible, to free his hands, so as to relieve himself from the gag and muffling. An effort or two soon showed him that he was but loosely bound. Doubtless the man who had attacked him had not wasted much time in securing his arms, believing that the blow would be sufficient to keep him quiet until he was safe on board ship. It was, therefore, without much difficulty that he managed to free one of his hands, and it was then an easy task to get rid of the rope altogether. The cloak was pulled from his face, and, feeling for his knife, he cut the lashings of the gag and removed it from his mouth. He lay quiet for a few minutes, panting from his exhaustion. Putting up his hand he felt a beam about a foot above his body. He was, then, in a hold already stored with cargo. The next thing was to shift his position among the barrels and bales upon which he was lying, until he found a comparatively level spot. He was in too great pain to think of sleep; his head throbbed fiercely, and he suffered from intense thirst.

From time to time heavy footsteps passed overhead. Presently he heard a sudden rattling of blocks, and the flapping of a sail. Then he noticed that there was a slight change in the level of his position, and knew that the craft was under way on her voyage down the river.

It seemed an immense time to him before he saw a faint gleam of light, and edging himself along, found himself again under the hatchway, through a crack in which the light was shining. It was some hours before the hatch was lifted off, and he saw two men looking down.

"Water!" he said. "I am dying of thirst."

"Bring a pannikin of water," one of the men said, "but first give us a hand, and we will have him on deck."

Stooping down, they took Cyril by the shoulders and hoisted him out.

"He is a decent-looking young chap," the speaker went on. "I would have seen to him before, if I had known him to be so bad. Those fellows didn't tell us they had hurt him. Here is the water, young fellow. Can you sit up to drink it?"

Cyril sat up and drank off the contents of the pannikin.

"Why, the back of your head is all covered with blood!" the man who had before spoken said. "You must have had an ugly knock?"

"I don't care so much for that," Cyril replied. "It's the gag that hurt me. My tongue is so much swollen I can hardly speak."

"Well, you can stay here on deck if you will give me your promise not to hail any craft we may pass. If you won't do that I must put you down under hatches again."

"I will promise that willingly," Cyril said; "the more so that I can scarce speak above a whisper."

"Mind, if you as much as wave a hand, or do anything to bring an eye on us, down you go into the hold again, and when you come up next time it will be to go overboard. Now just put your head over the rail, and I will pour a few buckets of water over it. I agreed to get you out of the way, but I have got no grudge against you, and don't want to do you harm."

Getting a bucket with a rope tied to the handle, he dipped it into the river, and poured half-a-dozen pailfuls over Cyril's head. The lad felt greatly refreshed, and, sitting down on the deck, was able to look round. The craft was a coaster of about twenty tons burden. There were three men on deck besides the man who had spoken to him, and who was evidently the skipper. Besides these a boy occasionally put up his head from a hatchway forward. There was a pile of barrels and empty baskets amidship, and the men presently began to wash down the decks and to tidy up the ropes and gear lying about. The shore on both sides was flat, and Cyril was surprised at the width of the river. Behind them was a small town, standing on higher ground.

"What place is that?" he asked a sailor who passed near him.

"That is Gravesend."

A few minutes afterwards the boy again put his head out of the hatchway and shouted, -- 

"Breakfast!"

"Can you eat anything, youngster?" the skipper asked Cyril.

"No, thank you, my head aches too much; and my mouth is so sore I am sure I could not get anything down."

"Well, you had best lie down, then, with your head on that coil of rope; I allow you did not sleep much last night."

In a few minutes Cyril was sound asleep, and when he awoke the sun was setting.

"You have had a good bout of it, lad," the skipper said, as he raised himself on his elbow and looked round. "How are you feeling now?"

"A great deal better," Cyril said, as he rose to his feet.

"Supper will be ready in a few minutes, and if you can manage to get a bit down it will do you good."

"I will try, anyhow," Cyril said. "I think that I feel hungry."

The land was now but a faint line on either hand. A gentle breeze was blowing from the south-west, and the craft was running along over the smooth water at the rate of three or four miles an hour. Cyril wondered where he was being taken to, and what was going to be done with him, but determined to ask no questions. The skipper was evidently a kind-hearted man, although he might be engaged in lawless business, but it was as well to wait until he chose to open the subject.

As soon as the boy hailed, the captain led the way to the hatchway. They descended a short ladder into the fo'castle, which was low, but roomy. Supper consisted of boiled skate -- a fish Cyril had never tasted before -- oaten bread, and beer. His mouth was still sore, but he managed to make a hearty meal of fish, though he could not manage the hard bread. One of the men was engaged at the helm, but the other two shared the meal, all being seated on lockers that ran round the cabin. The fish were placed on an earthenware dish, each man cutting off slices with his jack-knife, and using his bread as a platter. Little was said while the meal went on; but when they went on deck again, the skipper, having put another man at the tiller, while the man released went forward to get his supper, said, -- 

"Well, I think you are in luck, lad."

Cyril opened his eyes in surprise.

"You don't think so?" the man went on. "I don't mean that you are in luck in being knocked about and carried off, but that you are not floating down the river at present instead of walking the deck here. I can only suppose that they thought your body might be picked up, and that it would go all the harder with the prisoners, if it were proved that you had been put out of the way. You don't look like an informer either!"

"I am not an informer," Cyril said indignantly. "I found that my employer was being robbed, and I aided him to catch the thieves. I don't call that informing. That is when a man betrays others engaged in the same work as himself."

"Well, well, it makes no difference to me," the skipper said. "I was engaged by a man, with whom I do business sometimes, to take a fellow who had been troublesome out of the way, and to see that he did not come back again for some time. I bargained that there was to be no foul play; I don't hold with things of that sort. As to carrying down a bale of goods sometimes, or taking a few kegs of spirits from a French lugger, I see no harm in it; but when it comes to cutting throats, I wash my hands of it. I am sorry now I brought you off, though maybe if I had refused they would have put a knife into you, and chucked you into the river. However, now that I have got you I must go through with it. I ain't a man to go back from my word, and what I says I always sticks to. Still, I am sorry I had anything to do with the business. You look to me a decent young gentleman, though your looks and your clothes have not been improved by what you have gone through. Well, at any rate, I promise you that no harm shall come to you as long as you are in my hands."

"And how long is that likely to be, captain?"

"Ah! that is more than I can tell you. I don't want to do you harm, lad, and more than that, I will prevent other people from doing you harm as long as you are on board this craft. But more than that I can't say. It is likely enough I shall have trouble in keeping that promise, and I can't go a step farther. There is many a man who would have chucked you overboard, and so have got rid of the trouble altogether, and of the risk of its being afterwards proved that he had a hand in getting you out of the way."

"I feel that, captain," Cyril said, "and I thank you heartily for your kind treatment of me. I promise you that if at any time I am set ashore and find my way back to London, I will say no word which can get you into trouble."

"There is Tom coming upon deck. You had better turn in. You have had a good sleep, but I have no doubt you can do with some more, and a night's rest will set you up. You take the left-hand locker. The boy sleeps on the right hand, and we have bunks overhead."

Cyril was soon soundly asleep, and did not wake when the others turned in. He was alone in the cabin when he opened his eyes, but the sun was shining brightly through the open hatchway. He sprang up and went on deck. The craft was at anchor. No land could be seen to the south, but to the north a low shore stretched away three or four miles distant. There was scarcely a breath of wind.

"Well, you have had a good sleep, lad," the captain said. "You had best dip that bucket overboard and have a wash; you will feel better after it. Now, boy, slip down and get your fire going; we shall be ready for breakfast as soon as it is ready for us."

Cyril soused his head with the cold water, and felt, as the captain had said, all the better for it, for the air in the little cabin was close and stuffy, and he had felt hot and feverish before his wash.

"The wind died out, you see," the captain said, "and we had to anchor when tide turned at two o'clock. There is a dark line behind us, and as soon as the wind reaches us, we will up anchor. The force of the tide is spent."

The wind, however, continued very light, and the vessel did little more than drift with the tide, and when it turned at two o'clock they had to drop anchor again close under some high land, on the top of which stood a lofty tower.

"That is a land-mark," the captain said. "There are some bad sands outside us, and that stands as a mark for vessels coming through."

Cyril had enjoyed the quiet passage much. The wound at the back of his head still smarted, and he had felt disinclined for any exertion. More than once, in spite of the good allowance of sleep he had had, he dozed off as he sat on the deck with his back against the bulwark, watching the shore as they drifted slowly past it, and wondering vaguely, how it would all end. They had been anchored but half an hour when the captain ordered the men to the windlass.

"There is a breeze coming, lads," he said; "and even if it only lasts for an hour, it will take us round the head and far enough into the bay to get into the tide running up the rivers."

The breeze, however, when it came, held steadily, and in two hours they were off Harwich; but on coming opposite the town they turned off up the Orwell, and anchored, after dark, at a small village some six miles up the river.

"If you will give me your word, lad, that you will not try to escape, and will not communicate with anyone who may come off from the shore, I will continue to treat you as a passenger; but if not, I must fasten you up in the cabin, and keep a watch over you."

"I will promise, captain. I should not know where to go if I landed. I heard you say, 'There is Harwich steeple,' when we first came in sight of it, but where that is I have no idea, nor how far we are from London. As I have not a penny in my pocket, I should find it well-nigh impossible to make my way to town, which may, for aught I know, be a hundred miles away; for, in truth, I know but little of the geography of England, having been brought up in France, and not having been out of sight of London since I came over."

Just as he was speaking, the splash of an oar was heard close by.

"Up, men," the captain said in a low tone to those in the fo'castle. "Bring up the cutlasses. Who is that?" he called, hailing the boat.

"Merry men all," was the reply.

"All right. Come alongside. You saw our signal, then?"

"Ay, ay, we saw it; but there is an officer with a boat-load of sailors ashore from the King's ship at Harwich. He is spending the evening with the revenue captain here, and we had to wait until the two men left in charge of the boat went up to join their comrades at the tavern. What have you got for us?"

"Six boxes and a lot of dunnage, such as cables, chains, and some small anchors."

"Well, you had better wait for an hour before you take the hatches off. You will hear the gig with the sailors row past soon. The tide has begun to run down strong, and I expect the officer won't be long before he moves. As soon as he has gone we will come out again. We shall take the goods up half a mile farther. The revenue man on that beat has been paid to keep his eyes shut, and we shall get them all stored in a hut, a mile away in the woods, before daybreak. You know the landing-place; there will be water enough for us to row in there for another two hours."

The boat rowed away to the shore, which was not more than a hundred yards distant. A little later they heard a stir on the strand, then came the sound of oars, and two minutes later a boat shot past close to them, and then, bearing away, rowed down the river.

"Now, lads," the captain said, "get the hatches off. The wind is coming more offshore, which is all the better for us, but do not make more noise than you can help."

The hatches were taken off, and the men proceeded to get up a number of barrels and bales, some sail-cloth being thrown on the deck to deaden the sound. Lanterns, passed down into the hold, gave them light for their operations.

"This is the lot," one of the sailors said presently.

Six large boxes were then passed up and put apart from the others. Then followed eight or ten coils of rope, a quantity of chain, some kedge anchors, a number of blocks, five rolls of canvas, and some heavy bags that, by the sound they made when they were laid down, Cyril judged to contain metal articles of some sort. Then the other goods were lowered into the hold and the hatches replaced. The work had scarcely concluded when the boat again came alongside, this time with four men on board. Scarcely a word was spoken as the goods were transferred to the boat.

"You will be going to-morrow?" one of the men in the boat asked.

"Yes, I shall get up to Ipswich on the top of the tide -- that is, if I don't stick fast in this crooked channel. My cargo is all either for Ipswich or Aldborough. Now let us turn in," as the boatmen made their way up the river. "We must be under way before daylight, or else we shall not save the tide down to-morrow evening. I am glad we have got that lot safely off. I always feel uncomfortable until we get rid of that part of the cargo. If it wasn't that it paid better than all the rest together I would not have anything to do with it."

Cyril was very glad to lie down on the locker, while the men turned into their berths overhead. He had not yet fully recovered from the effects of the blow he had received, but in spite of the aching of his head he was soon sound asleep. It seemed to him that he had scarcely closed his eyes when he was roused by the captain's voice, -- 

"Tumble up, lads. The light is beginning to show."

Ten minutes later they were under way. The breeze had almost died out, and after sailing for some two miles in nearly a straight course, the boat was thrown over, two men got into it, and, fastening a rope to the ketch's bow, proceeded to tow her along, the captain taking the helm.

To Cyril's surprise, they turned off almost at right angles to the course they had before been following, and made straight for the opposite shore. They approached it so closely that Cyril expected that in another moment the craft would take ground, when, at a shout from the captain, the men in the boat started off parallel with the shore, taking the craft's head round. For the next three-quarters of an hour they pursued a serpentine course, the boy standing in the chains and heaving the lead continually. At last the captain shouted, -- "You can come on board now, lads. We are in the straight channel at last." Twenty minutes later they again dropped their anchor opposite a town of considerable size.

"That is Ipswich, lad," the captain said. "It is as nasty a place to get into as there is in England, unless you have got the wind due aft."

The work of unloading began at once, and was carried on until after dark.

"That is the last of them," the captain said, to Cyril's satisfaction. "We can be off now when the tide turns, and if we hadn't got clear to-night we might have lost hours, for there is no getting these people on shore to understand that the loss of a tide means the loss of a day, and that it is no harder to get up and do your work at one hour than it is at another. I shall have a clean up, now, and go ashore. I have got your promise, lad, that you won't try to escape?"

Cyril assented. Standing on the deck there, with the river bank but twenty yards away, it seemed hard that he should not be able to escape. But, as he told himself, he would not have been standing there if it had not been for that promise, but would have been lying, tightly bound, down in the hold.

Cyril and the men were asleep when the captain came aboard, the boy alone remaining up to fetch him off in the boat when he hailed.

"There is no wind, captain," Cyril said, as the anchor was got up.

"No, lad, I am glad there is not. We can drop down with the tide and the boat towing us, but if there was a head wind we might have to stop here till it either dropped or shifted. I have been here three weeks at a spell. I got some news ashore," he went on, as he took his place at the helm, while the three men rowed the boat ahead. "A man I sometimes bring things to told me that he heard there had been an attempt to rescue the men concerned in that robbery. I heard, before I left London, it was likely that it would be attempted."

There were a lot of people concerned in that affair, one way and another, and I knew they would move heaven and earth to get them out, for if any of them peached there would be such a haul as the constables never made in the city before. Word was passed to the prisoners to be ready, and as they were being taken from the Guildhall to Newgate there was a sudden rush made. The constables were not caught napping, and there was a tough fight, till the citizens ran out of their shops and took part with them, and the men, who were sailors, watermen, 'longshore-men, and rascals of all sorts, bolted.

"But two of the prisoners were missing. One was, I heard, an apprentice who was mixed up in the affair, and no one saw him go. They say he must have stooped down and wriggled away into the crowd. The other was a man they called Black Dick; he struck down two constables, broke through the crowd, and got clean away. There is a great hue and cry, but so far nothing has been heard of them. They will be kept in hiding somewhere till there is a chance of getting them through the gates or on board a craft lying in the river. Our men made a mess of it, or they would have got them all off. I hear that they are all in a fine taking that Marner is safely lodged in Newgate with the others taken in his house; he knows so much that if he chose to peach he could hang a score of men. Black Dick could tell a good deal, but he wasn't in all the secrets, and they say Marner is really the head of the band and had a finger in pretty nigh every robbery through the country. All those taken in his place are also in Newgate, and they say the constables are searching the city like ferrets in a rabbit-warren, and that several other arrests have been made."

"I am not sorry the apprentice got away," Cyril said. "He is a bad fellow, there is no doubt, and, by the look he gave me, he would do me harm if he got a chance, but I suppose that is only natural. As to the other man, he looked to me to be a desperate villain, and he also gave me so evil a look that, though he was in the dock with a constable on either side of him, I felt horribly uncomfortable, especially when I heard what sort of man he was."

"What did they say of him?"

"They said they believed he was a man named Ephraim Fowler, who had murdered the skipper and mate of a coaster and then went off in the boat."

"Is that the man? Then truly do I regret that he has escaped. I knew both John Moore, the master, and George Monson, the mate, and many a flagon of beer we have emptied together. If I had known the fellow's whereabouts, I would have put the constables on his track. I am heartily sorry now, boy, that I had a hand in carrying you off, though maybe it is best for you that it has been so. If I hadn't taken you someone else would, and more than likely you would not have fared so well as you have done, for some of them would have saved themselves all further trouble and risk, by chucking you overboard as soon as they were well out of the Pool."

"Can't you put me ashore now, captain?"

"No, boy; I have given my word and taken my money, and I am not one to fail to carry out a bargain because I find that I have made a bad one. They have trusted me with thousands of pounds' worth of goods, and I have no reason to complain of their pay, and am not going to turn my back on them now they have got into trouble; besides, though I would trust you not to round upon me, I would not trust them. If you were to turn up in London they would know that I had sold them, and Marner would soon hear of it. There is a way of getting messages to a man even in prison. Then you may be sure that, if he said nothing else, he would take good care to let out that I was the man who used to carry their booty away, sometimes to quiet places on the coast, and sometimes across to Holland, and the first time I dropped anchor in the Pool I should find myself seized and thrown into limbo. No, lad; I must carry out my agreement -- which is that I am not to land you in England, but that I am to take you across to Holland or elsewhere -- the elsewhere meaning that if you fall overboard by the way there will be no complaints as to the breach of the agreement. That is, in fact, what they really meant, though they did not actually put it into words. They said, 'We have a boy who is an informer, and has been the means of Marner being seized and his place broken up, and there is no saying that a score of us may not get a rope round our necks. In consequence, we want him carried away. What you do with him is nothing to us so long as he don't set foot in England again.' 'Will Holland suit you? I am going across there,' I said, 'after touching at Ipswich and Aldborough.' 'It would be much safer for you and everyone else if it happen that he falls over before he gets there. However, we will call it Holland.'"

"Then if I were to fall overboard," Cyril said, with a smile, "you would not be breaking your agreement, captain? I might fall overboard to-night, you know."

"I would not advise it, lad. You had much better stay where you are. I don't say I mightn't anchor off Harwich, and that if you fell overboard you couldn't manage to swim ashore, but I tell you I would not give twopence for your life when you got back to London. It is to the interest of a score of men to keep Marner's mouth shut. They have shown their willingness to help him as far as they could, by getting you out of the way, and if you got back they would have your life the first time you ventured out of doors after dark; they would be afraid Marner would suppose they had sold him if you were to turn up at his trial, and as like as not he would round on the whole lot. Besides, I don't think it would be over safe for me the first time I showed myself in London afterwards, for, though I never said that I would do it, I have no doubt they reckoned that I should chuck you overboard, and if you were to make your appearance in London they would certainly put it down that I had sold them. You keep yourself quiet, and I will land you in Holland, but not as they would expect, without a penny or a friend; I will put you into good hands, and arrange that you shall be sent back again as soon as the trial is over."

"Thank you very much, captain. I have no relations in London, and no friends, except my employer, Captain David Dowsett, and by this time he will have made up his mind that I am dead, and it won't make much difference whether I return in four or five days or as many weeks."



Chapter VI

A Narrow Escape


The Eliza, for this Cyril, after leaving Ipswich, learnt was her name, unloaded the rest of her cargo at Aldborough, and then sailed across to Rotterdam. The skipper fulfilled his promise by taking Cyril to the house of one of the men with whom he did business, and arranging with him to board the boy until word came that he could safely return to England. The man was a diamond-cutter, and to him packets of jewellery and gems that could not be disposed of in England had often been brought over by the captain. The latter had nothing to do with the pecuniary arrangements, which were made direct by Marner, and he had only to hand over the packets and take back sums of money to England.

"You understand," the captain said to Cyril, "that I have not said a word touching the matter for which you are here. I have only told him that it had been thought it was as well you should be out of England for a time. Of course, he understood that you were wanted for an affair in which you had taken part; but it matters not what he thinks. I have paid him for a month's board for you, and here are three pounds, which will be enough to pay for your passage back if I myself should not return. If you do not hear from me, or see the Eliza, within four weeks, there is no reason why you should not take passage back. The trial will be over by that time, and as the members of the gang have done their part in preventing you from appearing, I see not why they should have further grudge against you."

"I cannot thank you too much for your kindness, captain. I trust that when I get back you will call at Captain Dowsett's store in Tower Street, so that I may see you and again thank you; I know that the Captain himself will welcome you heartily when I tell him how kindly you have treated me. He will be almost as glad as I shall myself to see you. I suppose you could not take him a message or letter from me now?"

"I think not, lad. It would never do for him to be able to say at the trial that he had learnt you had been kidnapped. They might write over here to the Dutch authorities about you. There is one thing further. From what I heard when I landed yesterday, it seems that there is likely to be war between Holland and England."

"I heard a talk of it in London," Cyril said, "but I do not rightly understand the cause, nor did I inquire much about the matter."

"It is something about the colonies, and our taxing their goods, but I don't rightly understand the quarrel, except that the Dutch think, now that Blake is gone and our ships for the most part laid up, they may be able to take their revenge for the lickings we have given them. Should there be war, as you say you speak French as well as English, I should think you had best make your way to Dunkirk as a young Frenchman, and from there you would find no difficulty in crossing to England."

"I know Dunkirk well, captain, having indeed lived there all my life. I should have no difficulty in travelling through Holland as a French boy."

"If there is a war," the captain said, "I shall, of course, come here no more; but it may be that you will see me at Dunkirk. French brandy sells as well as Dutch Schiedam, and if I cannot get the one I may perhaps get the other; and there is less danger in coming to Dunkirk and making across to Harwich than there is in landing from Calais or Nantes on the south coast, where the revenue men are much more on the alert than they are at Harwich."

"Are you not afraid of getting your boat captured? You said it was your own."

"Not much, lad. I bring over a regular cargo, and the kegs are stowed away under the floor of the cabin, and I run them at Pin-mill -- that is the place we anchored the night before we got to Ipswich. I have been overhauled a good many times, but the cargo always looks right, and after searching it for a bit, they conclude it is all regular. You see, I don't bring over a great quantity -- fifteen or twenty kegs is as much as I can stow away -- and it is a long way safer being content with a small profit than trying to make a big one."

Cyril parted with regret from the captain, whose departure had been hastened by a report that war might be declared at any moment, in which case the Eliza might have been detained for a considerable time. He had, therefore, been working almost night and day to get in his cargo, and Cyril had remained on board until the last moment. He had seen the diamond dealer but once, and hoped that he should not meet him often, for he felt certain that awkward questions would be asked him. This man was in the habit of having dealings with Marner, and had doubtless understood from the captain that he was in some way connected with his gang; and were he to find out the truth he would view him with the reverse of a friendly eye. He had told him that he was to take his meals with his clerk, and Cyril hoped, therefore, that he should seldom see him.

He wandered about the wharf until it became dark. Then he went in and took supper with the clerk. As the latter spoke Dutch only, there was no possibility of conversation. Cyril was thinking of going up to his bed when there was a ring at the bell. The clerk went to answer it, leaving the door open as he went out, and Cyril heard a voice ask, in English, if Herr Schweindorf was in. The clerk said something in Dutch.

"The fool does not understand English, Robert," the man said.

"Tell him," he said, in a louder voice, to the clerk, "that two persons from England -- England, you understand -- who have only just arrived, want to see him on particular business. There, don't be blocking up the door; just go and tell your master what I told you."

He pushed his way into the passage, and the clerk, seeing that there was nothing else to do, went upstairs.

A minute later he came down again, and made a sign for them to follow him. As they went up Cyril stole out and looked after them. The fact that they had come from England, and that one of them was named Robert, and that they had business with this man, who was in connection with Marner, had excited his suspicions, but he felt a shiver of fear run through him as he recognised the figures of Robert Ashford and the man who was called Black Dick. He remembered the expression of hatred with which they had regarded him in the Court, and felt that his danger would be great indeed did they hear that he was in Rotterdam. A moment's thought convinced him that they would almost certainly learn this at once from his host. The letter would naturally mention that the captain had left a lad in his charge who was, as he believed, connected with them. They would denounce him as an enemy instead of a friend. The diamond merchant would expel him from his house, terrified at the thought that he possessed information as to his dealings with this band in England; and once beyond the door he would, in this strange town, be at the mercy of his enemies. Cyril's first impulse was to run back into the room, seize his cap, and fly. He waited, however, until the clerk came down again; then he put his cap carelessly on his head.

"I am going for a walk," he said, waving his hand vaguely.

The man nodded, went with him to the door, and Cyril heard him put up the bar after he had gone out. He walked quietly away, for there was no fear of immediate pursuit.

Black Dick had probably brought over some more jewels to dispose of, and that business would be transacted, before there would be any talk of other matters. It might be a quarter of an hour before they heard that he was an inmate of the house; then, when they went downstairs with the dealer, they would hear that he had gone out for a walk and would await his return, so that he had two or three hours at least before there would be any search.

It was early yet. Some of the boats might be discharging by torchlight. At any rate, he might hear of a ship starting in the morning. He went down to the wharf. There was plenty of bustle here; boats were landing fish, and larger craft were discharging or taking in cargo; but his inability to speak Dutch prevented his asking questions. He crossed to the other side of the road. The houses here were principally stores or drinking taverns. In the window of one was stuck up, "English and French Spoken Here." He went inside, walked up to the bar, and called for a glass of beer in English.

"You speak English, landlord?" he asked, as the mug was placed before him.

The latter nodded.

"I want to take passage either to England or to France," he said. "I came out here but a few days ago, and I hear that there is going to be trouble between the two countries. It will therefore be of no use my going on to Amsterdam. I wish to get back again, for I am told that if I delay I may be too late. I cannot speak Dutch, and therefore cannot inquire if any boat will be sailing in the morning for England or Dunkirk. I have acquaintances in Dunkirk, and speak French, so it makes no difference to me whether I go there or to England."

"My boy speaks French," the landlord said, "and if you like he can go along the port with you. Of course, you will give him something for his trouble?"

"Willingly," Cyril said, "and be much obliged to you into the bargain."

The landlord left the bar and returned in a minute with a boy twelve years old.

"He does not speak French very well," he said, "but I dare say it will be enough for your purpose. I have told him that you want to take ship to England, or that, if you cannot find one, to Dunkirk. If that will not do, Ostend might suit you. They speak French there, and there are boats always going between there and England."

"That would do; though I should prefer the other."

"There would be no difficulty at any other time in getting a boat for England, but I don't know whether you will do so now. They have been clearing off for some days, and I doubt if you will find an English ship in port now, though of course there may be those who have been delayed for their cargo."

Cyril went out with the boy, and after making many inquiries learnt that there was but one English vessel still in port. However, Cyril told his guide that he would prefer one for Dunkirk if they could find one, for if war were declared before the boat sailed, she might be detained. After some search they found a coasting scow that would sail in the morning.

"They will touch at two or three places," the boy said to Cyril, after a talk with the captain; "but if you are not in a hurry, he will take you and land you at Dunkirk for a pound -- that is, if he finds food; if you find food he will take you for eight shillings. He will start at daybreak."

"Tell him that I agree to his price. I don't want the trouble of getting food. As he will be going so early, I will come on board at once. I will get my bundle, and will be back in half an hour."

He went with the boy to one of the sailors' shops near, bought a rough coat and a thick blanket, had them wrapped up into a parcel, and then, after paying the boy, went on board.

As he expected, he found there were no beds or accommodation for passengers, so he stretched himself on a locker in the cabin, covered himself with his blanket, and put the coat under his head for a pillow. His real reason for choosing this craft in preference to the English ship was that he thought it probable that, when he did not return to the house, it would at once be suspected that he had recognised the visitors, and was not going to return at all. In that case, they might suspect that he would try to take passage to England, and would, the first thing in the morning, make a search for him on board any English vessels that might be in the port.

It would be easy then for them to get him ashore, for the diamond merchant might accuse him of theft, and so get him handed over to him. Rather than run that risk, he would have started on foot had he not been able to find a native craft sailing early in the morning. Failing Dunkirk and Ostend, he would have taken a passage to any other Dutch port, and run his chance of getting a ship from there. The great point was to get away from Rotterdam.

The four men forming the crew of the scow returned late, and by their loud talk Cyril, who kept his eyes closed, judged that they were in liquor. In a short time they climbed up into their berths, and all was quiet. At daybreak they were called up by the captain. Cyril lay quiet until, by the rippling of the water against the side, he knew that the craft was under way. He waited a few minutes, and then went up on deck. The scow, clumsy as she looked, was running along fast before a brisk wind, and in an hour Rotterdam lay far behind them.

The voyage was a pleasant one. They touched at Dordrecht, at Steenbergen on the mainland, and Flushing, staying a few hours in each place to take in or discharge cargo. After this, they made out from the Islands, and ran along the coast, putting into Ostend and Nieuport, and, four days after starting, entered the port of Dunkirk.

Cyril did not go ashore at any of the places at which they stopped. It was possible that war might have been declared with England, and as it might be noticed that he was a foreigner he would in that case be questioned and arrested. As soon, therefore, as they neared a quay, he went down to the cabin and slept until they got under way again. The food was rough, but wholesome; it consisted entirely of fish and black bread; but the sea air gave him a good appetite, and he was in high spirits at the thought that he had escaped from danger and was on his way back again. At Dunkirk he was under the French flag, and half an hour after landing had engaged a passage to London on a brig that was to sail on the following day. The voyage was a stormy one, and he rejoiced in the possession of his great-coat, which he had only bought in order that he might have a packet to bring on board the scow, and so avoid exciting any suspicion or question as to his being entirely unprovided with luggage.

It was three days before the brig dropped anchor in the Pool. As soon as she did so, Cyril hailed a waterman, and spent almost his last remaining coin in being taken to shore. He was glad that it was late in the afternoon and so dark that his attire would not be noticed. His clothes had suffered considerably from his capture and confinement on board the Eliza, and his great-coat was of a rough appearance that was very much out of character in the streets of London. He had, however, but a short distance to traverse before he reached the door of the house. He rang at the bell, and the door was opened by John Wilkes.

"What is it?" the latter asked. "The shop is shut for the night, and I ain't going to open for anyone. At half-past seven in the morning you can get what you want, but not before."

"Don't you know me, John?" Cyril laughed. The old sailor stepped back as if struck with a blow.

"Eh, what?" he exclaimed. "Is it you, Cyril? Why, we had all thought you dead! I did not know you in this dim light and in that big coat you have got on. Come upstairs, master. Captain Dave and the ladies will be glad indeed to see you. They have been mourning for you sadly, I can tell you."

Cyril took off his wrap and hung it on a peg, and then followed John upstairs.

"There, Captain Dave," the sailor said, as he opened the door of the sitting-room. "There is a sight for sore eyes! -- a sight you never thought you would look on again."

For a moment Captain Dave, his wife, and daughter stared at Cyril as if scarce believing their eyes. Then the Captain sprang to his feet.

"It's the lad, sure enough. Why, Cyril," he went on, seizing him by the hand, and shaking it violently, "we had never thought to see you alive again; we made sure that those pirates had knocked you on the head, and that you were food for fishes by this time. There has been no comforting my good wife; and as to Nellie, if it had been a brother she had lost, she could not have taken it more hardly."

"They did knock me on the head, and very hard too, Captain Dave. If my skull hadn't been quite so thick, I should, as you say, have been food for fishes before now, for that is what they meant me for, and there is no thanks to them that I am here at present. I am sorry that you have all been made so uncomfortable about me."

"We should have been an ungrateful lot indeed if we had not, considering that in the first place you saved us from being ruined by those pirates, and that it was, as we thought, owing to the services you had done us that you had come to your end."

"But where have you been, Master Cyril?" Nellie broke in. "What has happened to you? We have been picturing all sorts of horrors, mother and I. That evil had befallen you we were sure, for we knew that you would not go away of a sudden, in this fashion, without so much as saying goodbye. We feared all the more when, two days afterwards, the wretches were so bold as to attack the constables, and to rescue Robert Ashford and another from their hands. Men who would do this in broad daylight would surely hesitate at nothing."

"Let him eat his supper without asking further questions, Nellie," her father said. "It is ill asking one with victuals before him to begin a tale that may, for aught I know, last an hour. Let him have his food, lass, and then I will light my pipe, and John Wilkes shall light his here instead of going out for it, and we will have the yarn in peace and comfort. It spoils a good story to hurry it through. Cyril is here, alive and well; let that content you for a few minutes."

"If I must, I must," Nellie said, with a little pout. "But you should remember, father, that, while you have been all your life having adventures of some sort, this is the very first that I have had; for though Cyril is the one to whom it befell, it is all a parcel with the robbery of the house and the capture of the thieves."

"When does the trial come off, Captain Dave?"

"It came off yesterday. Marner is to be hung at the end of the week. He declared that he was but in the lane by accident when two lads opened the gate. He and the man with him, seeing that they were laden with goods, would have seized them, when they themselves were attacked and beaten down. But this ingenuity did not save him. Tom Frost had been admitted as King's evidence, and testified that Marner had been several times at the gate with the fellow that escaped, to receive the stolen goods. Moreover, there were many articles among those found at his place that I was able to swear to, besides the proceeds of over a score of burglaries. The two men taken in his house will have fifteen years in gaol. The women got off scot-free; there was no proof that they had taken part in the robberies, though there is little doubt they knew all about them."

"But how did they prove the men were concerned?"

"They got all the people whose property had been found there, and four of these, on seeing the men in the yard at Newgate, were able to swear to them as having been among those who came into their rooms and frightened them well-nigh to death. It was just a question whether they should be hung or not, and there was some wonder that the Judge let them escape the gallows."

"And what has become of Tom?"

"They kept Tom in the prison till last night. I saw him yesterday, and I am sure the boy is mighty sorry for having been concerned in the matter, being, as I truly believe, terrified into it. I had written down to an old friend of mine who has set up in the same way as myself at Plymouth. Of course I told him all the circumstances, but assured him, that according to my belief, the boy was not so much to blame, and that I was sure the lesson he had had, would last him for life; so I asked him to give Tom another chance, and if he did so, to keep the knowledge of this affair from everyone. I got his answer yesterday morning, telling me to send him down to him; he would give him a fair trial, and if he wasn't altogether satisfied with him, would then get him a berth as ship's boy. So, last night after dark, he was taken down by John Wilkes, and put on board a coaster bound for Plymouth. I would have taken him back here, but after your disappearance I feared that his life would not be safe; for although they had plenty of other cases they could have proved against Marner, Tom's evidence brought this business home to him."

Captain Dave would not allow Cyril to begin his story until the table had been cleared and he and John Wilkes had lighted their pipes. Then Cyril told his adventure, the earlier part of which elicited many exclamations of pity from Dame Dowsett and Mistress Nellie, and some angry ejaculations from the Captain when he heard that Black Dick and Robert Ashford had got safely off to Holland.

"By St. Anthony, lad," he broke out, when the story was finished, "you had a narrow escape from those villains at Rotterdam. Had it chanced that you were out at the time they came, I would not have given a groat for your life. By all accounts, that fellow Black Dick is a desperate villain. They say that they had got hold of evidence enough against him to hang a dozen men, and it seems that there is little doubt that he was concerned in several cases, where, not content with robbing, the villain had murdered the inmates of lonely houses round London. He had good cause for hating you. It was through you that he had been captured, and had lost his share in all that plunder at Marner's. Well, I trust the villain will never venture to show his face in London again; but there is never any saying. I should like to meet that captain who behaved so well to you, and I will meet him too, and shake him by the hand and tell him that any gear he may want for that ketch of his, he is free to come in here to help himself. There is another thing to be thought of. I must go round in the morning to the Guildhall and notify the authorities that you have come back. There has been a great hue and cry for you. They have searched the thieves' dens of London from attic to cellar; there have been boats out looking for your body; and on the day after you were missing they overhauled all the ships in the port. Of course the search has died out now, but I must go and tell them, and you will have to give them the story of the affair."

"I shan't say a word that will give them a clue that will help them to lay hands on the captain. He saved my life, and no one could have been kinder than he was. I would rather go away for a time altogether, for I don't see how I am to tell the story without injuring him."

"No; it is awkward, lad. I see that, even if you would not give them the name of the craft, they might find out what vessels went into Ipswich on that morning, and also the names of those that sailed from Rotterdam on the day she left."

"It seems to me, Captain, that the only way will be for me to say the exact truth, namely, that I gave my word to the captain that I would say naught of the matter. I could tell how I was struck down, and how I did not recover consciousness until I found myself in a boat, and was lifted on board a vessel and put down into the hold, and was there kept until morning. I could say that when I was let out I found we were far down the river, that the captain expressed great regret when he found that I had been hurt so badly, that he did everything in his power for me, and that after I had been some days on board the ship he offered to land me in Holland, and to give me money to pay my fare back here if I would give him my word of honour not to divulge his name or the name of the ship, or that of the port at which he landed me. Of course, they can imprison me for a time if I refuse to tell, but I would rather stay in gaol for a year than say aught that might set them upon the track of Captain Madden. It was not until the day he left me in Holland that I knew his name, for of course the men always called him captain, and so did I."

"That is the only way I can see out of it, lad. I don't think they will imprison you after the service you have done in enabling them to break up this gang, bring the head of it to justice, and recover a large amount of property."

So indeed, on their going to the Guildhall next morning, it turned out. The sitting Alderman threatened Cyril with committal to prison unless he gave a full account of all that had happened to him, but Captain Dowsett spoke up for him, and said boldly that instead of punishment he deserved honour for the great service he had done to justice, and that, moreover, if he were punished for refusing to keep the promise of secrecy he had made, there was little chance in the future of desperate men sparing the lives of those who fell into their hands. They would assuredly murder them in self-defence if they knew that the law would force them to break any promise of silence they might have made. The Magistrate, after a consultation with the Chief Constable, finally came round to this view, and permitted Cyril to leave the Court, after praising him warmly for the vigilance he had shown in the protection of his employer's interests. He regretted that he had not been able to furnish them with the name of a man who had certainly been, to some extent, an accomplice of those who had assaulted him, but this was not, however, so much to be regretted, since the man had done all in his power to atone for his actions.

"There is no further information you can give us, Master Cyril?"

"Only this, your worship: that on the day before I left Holland, I caught sight of the two persons who had escaped from the constables. They had just landed."

"I am sorry to hear it," the Alderman said. "I had hoped that they were still in hiding somewhere in the City, and that the constables might yet be able to lay hands on them. However, I expect they will be back again erelong. Your ill-doer is sure to return here sooner or later, either with the hope of further gain, or because he cannot keep away from his old haunts and companions. If they fall into the hands of the City Constables, I will warrant they won't escape again."

He nodded to Cyril, who understood that his business was over and left the Court with Captain Dave.

"I am not so anxious as the Alderman seemed to be that Black Dick and Robert Ashford should return to London, Captain Dave."

"No; I can understand that, Cyril. And even now that you know they are abroad, it would be well to take every precaution, for the others whose business has been sorely interrupted by the capture of that villain Marner may again try to do you harm. No doubt other receivers will fill his place in time, but the loss of a ready market must incommode them much. Plate they can melt down themselves, and I reckon they would have but little difficulty in finding knaves ready to purchase the products of the melting-pot; but it is only a man with premises specially prepared for it who will buy goods of all kinds, however bulky, without asking questions about them."

Cyril was now in high favour with Mistress Nellie, and whenever he was not engaged when she went out he was invited to escort her.

One day he went with her to hear a famous preacher hold forth at St. Paul's. Only a portion of the cathedral was used for religious services; the rest was utilised as a sort of public promenade, and here people of all classes met -- gallants of the Court, citizens, their wives and daughters, idlers and loungers, thieves and mendicants.

As Nellie walked forward to join the throng gathered near the pulpit, Cyril noticed a young man in a Court suit, standing among a group who were talking and laughing much louder than was seemly, take off his plumed hat, and make a deep bow, to which she replied by a slight inclination of the head, and passed on with somewhat heightened colour.

Cyril waited until the service was over, when, as he left the cathedral with her, he asked, -- 

"Who was that ruffler in gay clothes, who bowed so deeply to you, Mistress Nellie? -- that is, if there is no indiscretion in my asking."

"I met him in a throng while you were away," she said, with an attempt at carelessness which he at once detected. "There was a great press, and I well-nigh fainted, but he very courteously came to my assistance, and brought me safely out of the crowd."

"And doubtless you have seen him since, Mistress?"

Nellie tossed her head.

"I don't see what right you have to question me, Master Cyril?"

"No right at all," Cyril replied good-temperedly, "save that I am an inmate of your father's house, and have received great kindness from him, and I doubt if he would be pleased if he knew that you bowed to a person unknown to him and unknown, I presume, to yourself, save that he has rendered you a passing service."

"He is a gentleman of the Court, I would have you know," she said angrily.

"I do not know that that is any great recommendation if the tales one hears about the Court are true," Cyril replied calmly. "I cannot say I admire either his companions or his manners, and if he is a gentleman he should know that if he wishes to speak to an honest citizen's daughter it were only right that he should first address himself to her father."

"Heigh ho!" Nellie exclaimed, with her face flushed with indignation. "Who made you my censor, I should like to know? I will thank you to attend to your own affairs, and to leave mine alone."

"The affairs of Captain Dave's daughter are mine so long as I am abroad with her," Cyril said firmly. "I am sorry to displease you, but I am only doing what I feel to be my duty. Methinks that, were John Wilkes here in charge of you, he would say the same, only probably he would express his opinion as to yonder gallant more strongly than I do;" he nodded in the direction of the man, who had followed them out of the cathedral, and was now walking on the other side of the street and evidently trying to attract Nellie's attention.

Nellie bit her lips. She was about to answer him passionately, but restrained herself with a great effort.

"You are mistaken in the gentleman, Cyril," she said, after a pause; "he is of a good family, and heir to a fine estate."

"Oh, he has told you as much as that, has he? Well, Mistress Nellie, it may be as he says, but surely it is for your father to inquire into that, when the gentleman comes forward in due course and presents himself as a suitor. Fine feathers do not always make fine birds, and a man may ruffle it at King Charles's Court without ten guineas to shake in his purse."

At this moment the young man crossed the street, and, bowing deeply to Nellie, was about to address her when Cyril said gravely, -- 

"Sir, I am not acquainted with your name, nor do I know more about you save that you are a stranger to this lady's family. That being so, and as she is at present under my escort, I must ask you to abstain from addressing her."

"You insolent young varlet!" the man said furiously. "Had I a cane instead of a sword I would chastise you for your insolence."

"That is as it may be," Cyril said quietly. "That sort of thing may do down at Whitehall, but if you attempt to make trouble here in Cheapside you will very speedily find yourself in the hands of the watch."

"For Heaven's sake, sir," Nellie said anxiously, as several passers-by paused to see what was the matter, "do not cause trouble. For my sake, if not for your own, pray leave me."

"I obey you, Mistress," the man said again, lifting his hat and bowing deeply. "I regret that the officiousness of this blundering varlet should have mistaken my intentions, which were but to salute you courteously."

So saying, he replaced his hat, and, with a threatening scowl at Cyril, pushed his way roughly through those standing round, and walked rapidly away.

Nellie was very pale, and trembled from head to foot.

"Take me home, Cyril," she murmured.

He offered her his arm, and he made his way along the street, while his face flushed with anger at some jeering remarks he heard from one or two of those who looked on at the scene. It was not long before Nellie's anger gained the upper hand of her fears.

"A pretty position you have placed me in, with your interference!"

"You mean, I suppose, Mistress Nellie, a pretty position that man placed you in, by his insolence. What would Captain Dave say if he heard that his daughter had been accosted by a Court gallant in the streets?"

"Are you going to tell him?" she asked, removing her hand sharply from his arm.

"I have no doubt I ought to do so, and if you will take my advice you will tell him yourself as soon as you reach home, for it may be that among those standing round was someone who is acquainted with both you and your father; and you know as well as I do what Captain Dave would say if it came to his ears in such fashion."

Nellie walked for some time in silence. Her anger rose still higher against Cyril at the position in which his interference had placed her, but she could not help seeing that his advice was sound. She had indeed met this man several times, and had listened without chiding to his protestations of admiration and love. Nellie was ambitious. She had been allowed to have her own way by her mother, whose sole companion she had been during her father's absence at sea. She knew that she was remarkably pretty, and saw no reason why she, like many another citizen's daughter, should not make a good match. She had readily given the man her promise to say nothing at home until he gave her leave to do so, and she had been weak, enough to take all that he said for gospel. Now she felt that, at any rate, she must smooth matters over and put it so that as few questions as possible should be asked. After a long pause, then, she said, -- 

"Perhaps you are right, Cyril. I will myself tell my father and mother. I can assure you that I had no idea I should meet him to-day."

This Cyril could readily believe, for certainly she would not have asked him to accompany her if she had known. However, he only replied gravely, -- 

"I am glad to hear that you will tell them, Mistress Nellie, and trust that you will take them entirely into your confidence."

This Nellie had no idea of doing; but she said no further word until they reached home.



Chapter VII

Saved From A Villain


"I find that I have to give you thanks for yet another service, Cyril," Captain Dave said heartily, when they met the next morning. "Nellie tells me a young Court gallant had the insolence to try to address her yesterday in Cheapside, on her way back from St. Paul's, that you prevented his doing so, and that there was quite a scene in the street. If I knew who he was I would break his sconce for him, were he Rochester himself. A pretty pass things have come to, when a citizen's daughter cannot walk home from St. Paul's without one of these impudent vagabonds of the Court venturing to address her! Know you who he was?"

"No; I have never seen the fellow before, Captain Dave. I do know many of the courtiers by sight, having, when we first came over, often gone down to Whitehall with my father when he was seeking to obtain an audience with the King; but this man's face is altogether strange to me."

"Well, well! I will take care that Nellie shall not go abroad again except under her mother's escort or mine. I know, Cyril, that she would be as safe under your charge as in ours, but it is better that she should have the presence of an older person. It is not that I doubt your courage or your address, lad, but a ruffling gallant of this sort would know naught of you, save that you are young, and besides, did you interfere, there might be a scene that would do serious harm to Nellie's reputation."

"I agree with you thoroughly, Captain Dave," Cyril said warmly. "It will be far better that you or Mrs. Dowsett should be by her side as long as there is any fear of further annoyance from this fellow. I should ask nothing better than to try a bout with him myself, for I have been right well taught how to use my sword; but, as you say, a brawl in the street is of all things to be avoided."

Three or four weeks passed quietly. Nellie seldom went abroad; when she did so her mother always accompanied her if it were in the daytime, and her father whenever she went to the house of any friend after dusk.

Cyril one day caught sight of the gallant in Tower Street, and although he was on his way to one of his customers, he at once determined to break his appointment and to find out who the fellow was. The man sauntered about looking into the shops for full half an hour, but it was apparent to Cyril that he paid little attention to their contents, and was really waiting for someone. When the clock struck three he started, stamped his foot angrily on the ground, and, walking away rapidly to the stairs of London Bridge, took a seat in a boat, and was rowed up the river.

Cyril waited until he had gone a short distance, and then hailed a wherry rowing two oars.

"You see that boat over there?" he said. "I don't wish to overtake it at present. Keep a hundred yards or so behind it, but row inshore so that it shall not seem that you are following them."

The men obeyed his instructions until they had passed the Temple; then, as the other boat still kept in the middle of the stream, Cyril had no doubt that it would continue its course to Westminster.

"Now stretch to your oars," he said to the watermen. "I want to get to Westminster before the other boat, and to be well away from the stairs before it comes up."

The rest of the journey was performed at much greater speed, and Cyril alighted at Westminster while the other boat was some three or four hundred yards behind. Paying the watermen, he went up the stairs, walked away fifty or sixty yards, and waited until he saw the man he was following appear. The latter walked quietly up towards Whitehall and entered a tavern frequented by young bloods of the Court. Cyril pressed his hat down over his eyes. His dress was not the same as that in which he had escorted Nellie to the cathedral, and he had but small fear of being recognised.

When he entered he sat down at a vacant table, and, having ordered a stoup of wine, looked round. The man had joined a knot of young fellows like himself, seated at a table. They were dissipated-looking blades, and were talking loudly and boisterously.

"Well, Harvey, how goes it? Is the lovely maiden we saw when we were with you at St. Paul's ready to drop into your arms?"

"Things are going on all right," Harvey said, with an air of consciousness; "but she is watched by two griffins, her father and mother. 'Tis fortunate they do not know me by sight, and I have thus chances of slipping a note in her hand when I pass her. I think it will not be long before you will have to congratulate me."

"She is an heiress and only daughter, is she not, honest John?" another asked.

"She is an only child, and her father bears the reputation of doing a good business; but as to what I shall finally do, I shall not yet determine. As to that, I shall be guided by circumstances."

"Of course, of course," the one who had first spoken said.

Cyril had gained the information he required. The man's name was John Harvey, and Nellie was keeping up a clandestine correspondence with him. Cyril felt that were he to listen longer he could not restrain his indignation, and, without touching the wine he had paid for, he hastily left the tavern.

As he walked towards the city, he was unable to decide what he had better do. Were he to inform Captain Dave of what he had heard there would be a terrible scene, and there was no saying what might happen. Still, Nellie must be saved from falling into the hands of this fellow, and if he abstained from telling her father he must himself take steps to prevent the possibility of such a thing taking place. The more he thought of it the more he felt of the heavy responsibility it would be. Anxious as he was to save Nellie from the anger of her father, it was of far greater consequence to save her from the consequences of her own folly. At last he resolved to take John Wilkes into his counsels. John was devoted to his master, and even if his advice were not of much value, his aid in keeping watch would be of immense service. Accordingly, that evening, when John went out for his usual pipe after supper, Cyril, who had to go to a trader in Holborn, followed him out quickly and overtook him a few yards from the door.

"I want to have a talk with you, John."

"Ay, ay, sir. Where shall it be? Nothing wrong, I hope? That new apprentice looks to me an honest sort of chap, and the man we have got in the yard now is an old mate of mine. He was a ship's boy on board the Dolphin twenty-five years back, and he sailed under the Captain till he left the sea. I would trust that chap just as I would myself."

"It is nothing of that sort, John. It is another sort of business altogether, and yet it is quite as serious as the last. I have got half an hour before I have to start to do those books at Master Hopkins'. Where can we have a talk in a quiet place where there is no chance of our being overheard?"

"There is a little room behind the bar at the place I go to, and I have no doubt the landlord will let us have it, seeing as I am a regular customer."

"At any rate we can see, John. It is too cold for walking about talking here; and, besides, I think one can look at a matter in all lights much better sitting down than one can walking about."

"That is according to what you are accustomed to," John said, shaking his head. "It seems to me that I can look further into the innards of a question when I am walking up and down the deck on night watch with just enough wind aloft to take her along cheerful, and not too much of it, than I can at any other time; but then, you see, that is just what one is accustomed to. This is the place."

He entered a quiet tavern, and, nodding to five or six weather-beaten-looking men, who were sitting smoking long pipes, each with a glass of grog before him, went up to the landlord, who formed one of the party. He had been formerly the master of a trader, and had come into the possession of the tavern by marriage with its mistress, who was still the acting head of the establishment.

"We have got a piece of business we want to overhaul, Peter. I suppose we can have that cabin in yonder for a bit?"

"Ay, ay. There is a good fire burning. You will find pipes on the table. You will want a couple of glasses of grog, of course?"

John nodded, and then led the way into the little snuggery at the end of the room. It had a glass door, so that, if desired, a view could be obtained of the general room, but there was a curtain to draw across this. There was a large oak settle on either side of the fire, and there was a table, with pipes and a jar of tobacco standing between them.

"This is a tidy little crib," John said, as he seated himself and began to fill a pipe. "There is no fear of being disturbed here. There has been many a voyage talked over and arranged in this 'ere room. They say that Blake himself, when the Fleet was in the river, would drop in here sometimes, with one of his captains, for a quiet talk."

A minute later a boy entered and placed two steaming glasses of grog on the table. The door closed after him, and John said, -- 

"Now you can get under way, Master Cyril. You have got a fair course now, and nothing to bring you up."

"It is a serious matter, John. And before I begin, I must tell you that I rely on your keeping absolute silence as to what I am going to tell you."

"That in course," John said, as he lifted his glass to his lips. "You showed yourself a first-rate pilot in that last job, and I am content to sail under you this time without asking any questions as to the ship's course, and to steer according to orders."

Cyril told the story, interrupted frequently by angry ejaculations on the part of the old bo'swain.

"Dash my wig!" he exclaimed, when Cyril came to an end. "But this is a bad business altogether, Master Cyril. One can engage a pirate and beat him off if the crew is staunch, but when there is treason on board ship, it makes it an awkward job for those in command."

"The question is this, John: ought we to tell the Captain, or shall we try to take the affair into our own hands, and so to manage it that he shall never know anything about it?"

The sailor was silent for a minute or two, puffing his pipe meditatively.

"I see it is an awkward business to decide," he said. "On one side, it would pretty nigh kill Captain Dave to know that Mistress Nellie has been steering wild and has got out of hand. She is just the apple of his eye. Then, on the other hand, if we undertook the job without telling him, and one fine morning we was to find out she was gone, we should be in a mighty bad fix, for the Captain would turn round and say, 'Why didn't you tell me? If you had done so, I would have locked her up under hatches, and there she would be, safe now.'"

"That is just what I see, and it is for that reason I come to you. I could not be always on the watch, but I think that you and I together would keep so sharp a look-out that we might feel pretty sure that she could not get away without our knowledge."

"We could watch sharply enough at night, Master Cyril. There would be no fear of her getting away then without our knowing it. But how would it be during the day? There am I in the shop or store from seven in the morning until we lock up before supper-time. You are out most of your time, and when you are not away, you are in the office at the books, and she is free to go in and out of the front door without either of us being any the wiser."

"I don't think he would venture to carry her off by daylight," Cyril said. "She never goes out alone now, and could scarcely steal away unnoticed. Besides, she would know that she would be missed directly, and a hue and cry set up. I should think she would certainly choose the evening, when we are all supposed to be in bed. He would have a chair waiting somewhere near; and there are so often chairs going about late, after city entertainments, that they would get off unnoticed. I should say the most dangerous time is between nine o'clock and midnight. She generally goes off to bed at nine or soon after, and she might very well put on her hood and cloak and steal downstairs at once, knowing that she would not be missed till morning. Another dangerous time would be when she goes out to a neighbour's. The Captain always takes her, and goes to fetch her at nine o'clock, but she might make some excuse to leave quite early, and go off in that way."

"That would be awkward, Mr. Cyril, for neither you nor I could be away at supper-time without questions being asked. It seems to me that I had better take Matthew into the secret. As he don't live in the house he could very well watch wherever she is, till I slip round after supper to relieve him, and he could watch outside here in the evening till either you or I could steal downstairs and take his place. You can count on him keeping his mouth shut just as you can on me. The only thing is, how is he to stop her if he finds her coming out from a neighbour's before the Captain has come for her?"

"If he saw her coming straight home he could follow her to the door without being noticed, John, but if he found her going some other way he must follow her till he sees someone speak to her, and must then go straight up and say, 'Mistress Dowsett, I am ready to escort you home.' If she orders him off, or the man she meets threatens him, as is like enough, he must say, 'Unless you come I shall shout for aid, and call upon passers-by to assist me'; and, rather than risk the exposure, she would most likely return with him. Of course, he would carry with him a good heavy cudgel, and choose a thoroughfare where there are people about to speak to her, and not an unfrequented passage, for you may be sure the fellow would have no hesitation in running him through if he could do so without being observed."

"Matthew is a stout fellow," John Wilkes said, "and was as smart a sailor as any on board till he had his foot smashed by being jammed by a spare spar that got adrift in a gale, so that the doctors had to cut off the leg under the knee, and leave him to stump about on a timber toe for the rest of his life. I tell you what, Master Cyril: we might make the thing safer still if I spin the Captain a yarn as how Matthew has strained his back and ain't fit to work for a bit; then I can take on another hand to work in the yard, and we can put him on watch all day. He might come on duty at nine o'clock in the morning, and stop until I relieve him as soon as supper is over. Of course, he would not keep opposite the house, but might post himself a bit up or down the street, so that he could manage to keep an eye on the door."

"That would be excellent," Cyril said. "Of course, at the supper-hour he could go off duty, as she could not possibly leave the house between that time and nine o'clock. You always come in about that hour, and I hear you go up to bed. When you get there, you should at once take off your boots, slip downstairs again with them, and go quietly out. I often sit talking with Captain Dave till half-past nine or ten, but directly I can get away I will come down and join you. I think in that way we need feel no uneasiness as to harm coming from our not telling Captain Dave, for it would be impossible for her to get off unnoticed. Now that is all arranged I must be going, for I shall be late at my appointment unless I hurry."

"Shall I go round and begin my watch at once, Master Cyril?".

"No, there is no occasion for that. We know that he missed her to-day, and therefore can have made no appointment; and I am convinced by what he said to the fellows he met, that matters are not settled yet. However, we will begin to-morrow. You can take an opportunity during the day to tell Matthew about it, and he can pretend to strain his back in the afternoon, and you can send him away. He can come round again next morning early, and when the Captain comes down you can tell him that you find that Matthew will not be able to work for the present, and ask him to let you take another man on until he can come back again."

Cyril watched Nellie closely at meal-times and in the evening for the next few days. He thought that he should be certain to detect some slight change in her manner, however well she might play her part, directly she decided on going off with this man. She would not dream that she was suspected in any way, and would therefore be the less cautious. Matthew kept watch during the day, and followed if she went out with her father to a neighbour's, remaining on guard outside the house until John Wilkes relieved him as soon as he had finished his supper. If she remained at home in the evening John went out silently, after his return at his usual hour, and was joined by Cyril as soon as Captain Dave said good-night and went in to his bedroom. At midnight they re-entered the house and stole up to their rooms, leaving their doors open and listening attentively for another hour before they tried to get to sleep.

On the sixth morning Cyril noticed that Nellie was silent and abstracted at breakfast-time. She went out marketing with her mother afterwards, and at dinner her mood had changed. She talked and laughed more than usual. There was a flush of excitement on her cheeks, and he drew the conclusion that in the morning she had not come to an absolute decision, but had probably given an answer to the man during the time she was out with her mother, and that she felt the die was now cast.

"Pass the word to Matthew to keep an extra sharp watch this afternoon and to-morrow, John. I think the time is close at hand," he said, as they went downstairs together after dinner.

"Do you think so? Well, the sooner the better. It is trying work, this here spying, and I don't care how soon it is over. I only hope it will end by our running down this pirate and engaging him."

"I hope so too, John. I feel it very hard to be sitting at table with her and Captain Dave and her mother, and to know that she is deceiving them."

"I can't say a word for her," the old sailor said, shaking his head. "She has as good parents as a girl could want to have. They would give their lives for her, either of them, cheerful, and there she is thinking of running away from them with a scamp she knows nothing of and has probably never spoken with for an hour. I knew her head was a bit turned with young fellows dangling after her, and by being noticed by some of the Court gallants at the last City ball, and by being made the toast by many a young fellow in City taverns -- 'Pretty Mistress Nellie Dowsett'; but I did not think her head was so turned that she would act as she is doing. Well, well, we must hope that this will be a lesson, Master Cyril, that she will remember all her life."

"I hope so, John, and I trust that we shall be able to manage it all so that the matter will never come to her parents' ears."

"I hope so, and I don't see why it should. The fellow may bluster, but he will say nothing about it because he would get into trouble for trying to carry off a citizen's daughter."

"And besides that, John, -- which would be quite as serious in the eyes of a fellow of this sort, -- he would have the laugh against him among all his companions for having been outwitted in the City. So I think when he finds the game is up he will be glad enough to make off without causing trouble."

"Don't you think we might give him a sound thrashing? It would do him a world of good."

"I don't think it would do a man of that sort much good, John, and he would be sure to shout, and then there would be trouble, and the watch might come up, and we should all get hauled off together. In the morning the whole story would be known, and Mistress Nellie's name in the mouth of every apprentice in the City. No, no; if he is disposed to go off quietly, by all means let him go."

"I have no doubt that you are right, Master Cyril, but it goes mightily against the grain to think that a fellow like that is to get off with a whole skin. However, if one should fall foul of him some other time, one might take it out of him."

Captain Dave found Cyril but a bad listener to his stories that evening, and, soon after nine, said he should turn in.

"I don't know what ails you to-night, Cyril," he said. "Your wits are wool-gathering, somewhere. I don't believe that you heard half that last story I was telling you."

"I heard it all, sir; but I do feel a little out of sorts this evening."

"You do too much writing, lad. My head would be like to go to pieces if I were to sit half the hours that you do at a desk."

When Captain Dave went into his room, Cyril walked upstairs and closed his bedroom door with a bang, himself remaining outside. Then he took off his boots, and, holding them in his hand, went noiselessly downstairs to the front door. The lock had been carefully oiled, and, after putting on his boots again, he went out.

"You are right, Master Cyril, sure enough," John Wilkes said when he joined him, fifty yards away from the house. "It is to-night she is going to try to make off. I thought I had best keep Matthew at hand, so I bid him stop till I came out, then sent him round to have a pint of ale at the tavern, and when he came back told him he had best cruise about, and look for signs of pirates. He came back ten minutes ago, and told me that a sedan chair had just been brought to the other end of the lane. It was set down some thirty yards from Fenchurch Street. There were the two chairmen and three fellows wrapped up in cloaks."

"That certainly looks like action, John. Well, I should say that Matthew had better take up his station at the other end of the lane, there to remain quiet until he hears an uproar at the chair; then he can run up to our help if we need it. We will post ourselves near the door. No doubt Harvey, and perhaps one of his friends, will come and wait for her. We can't interfere with them here, but must follow and come up with her just before they reach the chair. The further they are away from the house the better. Then if there is any trouble Captain Dave will not hear anything of it."

"That will be a good plan of operations," John agreed. "Matthew is just round the next corner. I will send him to Fenchurch Street at once."

He went away, and rejoined Cyril in two or three minutes. They then went along towards the house, and took post in a doorway on the other side of the street, some thirty yards from the shop. They had scarcely done so, when they heard footsteps, and presently saw two men come along in the middle of the street. They stopped and looked round.

"There is not a soul stirring," one said. "We can give the signal."

So saying, he sang a bar or two of a song popular at the time, and they then drew back from the road into a doorway and waited.

Five minutes later, Cyril and his fellow-watcher heard a very slight sound, and a figure stepped out from Captain Dowsett's door. The two men crossed at once and joined her. A few low words were spoken, and they moved away together, and turned up the lane.

As soon as they disappeared from sight, Cyril and John Wilkes issued out. The latter had produced some long strips of cloth, which he wound round both their boots, so as, he said, to muffle the oars. Their steps, therefore, as they followed, were almost noiseless. Walking fast, they came up to the three persons ahead of them just as they reached the sedan chair. The two chairmen were standing at the poles, and a third man was holding the door open with his hat in his hand.

"Avast heaving, mates!" John Wilkes said. "It seems to me as you are running this cargo without proper permits."

Nellie gave a slight scream on hearing the voice, while the man beside her stepped forward, exclaiming furiously:

"S" death, sir! who are you, and what are you interfering about?"

"I am an honest man I hope, master. My name is John Wilkes, and, as that young lady will tell you, I am in the employ of her father."

"Then I tell you, John Wilkes, or John the Devil, or whatever your name maybe, that if you don't at once take yourself off, I will let daylight into you," and he drew his sword, as did his two companions.

John gave a whistle, and the wooden-legged man was heard hurrying up from Fenchurch Street.

"Cut the scoundrel down, Penrose," Harvey exclaimed, "while I put the lady into the chair."

The man addressed sprang at Wilkes, but in a moment his Court sword was shivered by a blow from the latter's cudgel, which a moment later fell again on his head, sending him reeling back several paces.

"Stay, sir, or I will run you through," Cyril said, pricking Harvey sharply in the arm as he was urging Nellie to enter the chair.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" the other exclaimed, in a tone of fury. "My boy of Cheapside! Well, I can spare a moment to punish you."

"Oh, do not fight with him, my lord!" Nellie exclaimed.

"My lord!" Cyril laughed. "So he has become a lord, eh?"

Then he changed his tone.

"Mistress Nellie, you have been deceived. This fellow is no lord. He is a hanger-on of the Court, one John Harvey, a disreputable blackguard whom I heard boasting to his boon-companions of his conquest. I implore you to return home as quietly as you went. None will know of this."

He broke off suddenly, for, with an oath, Harvey rushed at him. Their swords clashed, there was a quick thrust and parry, and then Harvey staggered back with a sword-wound through the shoulder, dropping his sword to the ground.

"Your game is up, John Harvey," Cyril said. "Did you have your deserts I would pass my sword through your body. Now call your fellows off, or it will be worse for them."

"Oh, it is not true? Surely it cannot be true?" Nellie cried, addressing Harvey. "You cannot have deceived me?"

The fellow, smarting with pain, and seeing that the game was up, replied with a savage curse.

"You may think yourself lucky that you are only disabled, you villain!" Cyril said, taking a step towards him with his sword menacingly raised. "Begone, sir, before my patience is exhausted, or, by heaven! it will be your dead body that the chairmen will have to carry away."

"Disabled or not," John Wilkes exclaimed, "I will have a say in the matter;" and, with a blow with his cudgel, he stretched Harvey on the ground, and belaboured him furiously until Cyril dragged him away by force. Harvey rose slowly to his feet.

"Take yourself off, sir," Cyril said. "One of your brave companions has long ago bolted; the other is disarmed, and has his head broken. You may thank your stars that you have escaped with nothing worse than a sword-thrust through your shoulder, and a sound drubbing. Hanging would be a fit punishment for knaves like you. I warn you, if you ever address or in any way molest this lady again, you won't get off so easily."

Then he turned and offered his arm to Nellie, who was leaning against the wall in a half-fainting state. Not a word was spoken until they emerged from the lane.

"No one knows of this but ourselves, Mistress Nellie, and you will never hear of it from us. Glad indeed I am that I have saved you from the misery and ruin that must have resulted from your listening to that plausible scoundrel. Go quietly upstairs. We will wait here till we are sure that you have gone safely into your room; then we will follow. I doubt not that you are angry with me now, but in time you will feel that you have been saved from a great danger."

The door was not locked. He lifted the latch silently, and held the door open for her to pass in. Then he closed it again, and turned to the two men who followed them.

"This has been a good night's work, John."

"That has it. I don't think that young spark will be coming after City maidens again. Well, it has been a narrow escape for her. It would have broken the Captain's heart if she had gone in that way. What strange things women are! I have always thought Mistress Nellie as sensible a girl as one would want to see. Given a little over-much, perhaps, to thinking of the fashion of her dress, but that was natural enough, seeing how pretty she is and how much she is made of; and yet she is led, by a few soft speeches from a man she knows nothing of, to run away from home, and leave father, and mother, and all. Well, Matthew, lad, we sha'n't want any more watching. You have done a big service to the master, though he will never know it. I know I can trust you to keep a stopper on your jaws. Don't you let a soul know of this -- not even your wife."

"You trust me, mate," the man replied. "My wife is a good soul, but her tongue runs nineteen to the dozen, and you might as well shout a thing out at Paul's Cross as drop it into her ear. I think my back will be well enough for me to come to work again to-morrow," he added, with a laugh.

"All right, mate. I shall be glad to have you again, for the chap who has been in your place is a landsman, and he don't know a marling-spike from an anchor. Good-night, mate."

"Well, Master Cyril," he went on, as the sailor walked away, "I don't think there ever was such a good wind as that which blew you here. First of all you saved Captain Dave's fortune, and now you save his daughter. I look on Captain Dave as being pretty nigh the same as myself, seeing as I have been with him man and boy for over thirty years, and I feel what you have done for him just as if you had done it for me. I am only a rough sailor-man, and I don't know how to put it in words, but I feel just full up with a cargo of thankfulness."

"That is all right," Cyril said, holding out his hand, which John Wilkes shook with a heartiness that was almost painful. "Captain Dave offered me a home when I was alone without a friend in London, and I am glad indeed that I have been able to render him service in return. I myself have done little enough, though I do not say that the consequences have not been important. It has been just taking a little trouble and keeping a few watches -- a thing not worth talking about one way or the other. I hope this will do Mistress Nellie good. She is a nice girl, but too fond of admiration, and inclined to think that she is meant for higher things than to marry a London citizen. I think to-night's work will cure her of that. This fellow evidently made himself out to her to be a nobleman of the Court. Now she sees that he is neither a nobleman nor a gentleman, but a ruffian who took advantage of her vanity and inexperience, and that she would have done better to have jumped down the well in the yard than to have put herself in his power. Now we can go up to bed. There is no more probability of our waking the Captain than there has been on other nights; but mind, if we should do so, you stick to the story we agreed on, that you thought there was someone by the gate in the lane again, and so called me to go down with you to investigate, not thinking it worth while to rouse up the Captain on what might be a false alarm."

Everything remained perfectly quiet as they made their way upstairs to their rooms as silently as possible.

"Where is Nellie?" Captain Dave asked, when they assembled at breakfast.

"She is not well," his wife replied, "I went to her room just now and found that she was still a-bed. She said that she had a bad headache, and I fear that she is going to have a fever, for her face is pale and her eyes red and swollen, just as if she had been well-nigh crying them out of her head; her hands are hot and her pulse fast. Directly I have had breakfast I shall make her some camomile tea, and if that does not do her good I shall send for the doctor."

"Do so, wife, without delay. Why, the girl has never ailed a day for years! What can have come to her?"

"She says it is only a bad headache -- that all she wants is to be left alone."

"Yes, yes; that is all very well, but if she does not get better soon she must be seen to. They say that there were several cases last week of that plague that has been doing so much harm in foreign parts, and if that is so it behoves us to be very careful, and see that any illness is attended to without delay."

"I don't think that there is any cause for alarm," his wife said quietly. "The child has got a headache and is a little feverish, but there is no occasion whatever for thinking that it is anything more. There is nothing unusual in a girl having a headache, but Nellie has had such good health that if she had a prick in the finger you would think it was serious."

"By the way, John," Captain Dave said suddenly, "did you hear any noise in the lane last night? Your room is at the back of the house, and you were more likely to have heard it than I was. I have just seen one of the watch, and he tells me that there was a fray there last night, for there is a patch of blood and marks of a scuffle. It was up at the other end. There is some mystery about it, he thinks, for he says that one of his mates last night saw a sedan chair escorted by three men turn into the lane from Fenchurch Street just before ten o'clock, and one of the neighbours says that just after that hour he heard a disturbance and a clashing of swords there. On looking out, he saw something dark that might have been a chair standing there, and several men engaged in a scuffle. It seemed soon over, and directly afterwards three people came down the lane this way. Then he fancied that someone got into the chair, which was afterwards carried out into Fenchurch Street."

"I did hear something that sounded like a quarrel or a fray," John Wilkes said, "but there is nothing unusual about that. As everything was soon quiet again, I gave no further thought to it."

"Well, it seems a curious affair, John. However, it is the business of the City watch and not mine, so we need not bother ourselves about it. I am glad to see you have got Matthew at work again this morning. He tells me that he thinks he has fairly got over that sprain in his back."



Chapter VIII

The Captain's Yarn


Mindful of the fact that this affair had added a new enemy to those he had acquired by the break-up of the Black Gang, Cyril thought it as well to go round and give notice to the two traders whose books he attended to in the evening, that unless they could arrange for him to do them in the daytime he must give up the work altogether. Both preferred the former alternative, for they recognised the advantage they had derived from his work, and that at a rate of pay for which they could not have obtained the services of any scrivener in the City.

It was three or four days before Nellie Dowsett made her appearance at the general table.

"I can't make out what ails the girl," her mother said, on the previous evening. "The fever speedily left her, as I told you, but she is weak and languid, and seems indisposed to talk."

"She will soon get over that, my dear," Captain Dave said. "Girls are not like men. I have seen them on board ship. One day they are laughing and fidgeting about like wild things, the next day they are poor, woebegone creatures. If she gets no better in a few days, I will see when my old friend, Jim Carroll, is starting in his brig for Yarmouth, and will run down with her myself -- and of course with you, wife, if you will go -- and stay there a few days while he is unloading and filling up again. The sea-air will set her up again, I warrant."

"Not at this time of year," Dame Dowsett said firmly. "With these bitter winds it is no time for a lass to go a-sailing; and they say that Yarmouth is a great deal colder than we are here, being exposed to the east winds."

"Well, well, Dame, then we will content ourselves with a run in the hoy down to Margate. If we choose well the wind and tide we can start from here in the morning and maybe reach there late in the evening, or, if not, the next morning to breakfast. Or if you think that too far we will stop at Sheerness, where we can get in two tides easily enough if the wind be fair."

"That would be better, David; but it were best to see how she goes on. It may be, as you say, that she will shortly gain her strength and spirits again."

It was evident, when Nellie entered the room at breakfast-time the next morning, that her mother's reports had not been exaggerated. She looked, indeed, as if recovering from a severe illness, and when she said good-morning to her father her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears.

"Tut, tut, lass! This will never do. I shall soon hardly own you for my Nellie. We shall have to feed you up on capons and wine, child, or send you down to one of the baths for a course of strengthening waters."

She smiled faintly, and then turning, gave her hand to Cyril. As she did so, a slight flush of colour came into her cheeks.

"I am heartily glad to see you down again, Mistress Nellie," he said, "and wish you a fair and speedy recovery."

"I shall be better presently," she replied, with an effort. "Good-morning, John."

"Good-morning, Mistress Nellie. Right glad are we to see you down again, for it makes but a dull table without your merry laugh to give an edge to our appetites."

She sat down now, and the others, seeing that it was best to let her alone for a while, chatted gaily together.

"There is no talk in the City but of the war, Cyril," the Captain said presently. "They say that the Dutch make sure of eating us up, but they won't find it as easy a job as they fancy. The Duke of York is to command the Fleet. They say that Prince Rupert will be second. To my mind they ought to have entrusted the whole matter to him. He proved himself as brave a captain at sea as he was on land, and I will warrant he would lead his ships into action as gallantly as he rode at the head of his Cavaliers on many a stricken field. The ships are fitting out in all haste, and they are gathering men at every sea-port. I should say they will have no lack of hands, for there are many ships laid up, that at other times trade with Holland, and Dantzic, and Dunkirk, and many a bold young sailor who will be glad to try whether he can fight as stoutly against the Dutch under York and Rupert as his father did under Blake."

"For my part," Cyril said, "I cannot understand it; for it seems to me that the English and Dutch have been fighting for the last year. I have been too busy to read the Journal, and have not been in the way of hearing the talk of the coffeehouses and taverns; but, beyond that it is some dispute about the colonies, I know little of the matter."

"I am not greatly versed in it myself, lad. Nellie here reads the Journal, and goes abroad more than any of us, and should be able to tell us something about it. Now, girl, can't you do something to set us right in this matter, for I like not to be behind my neighbours, though I am such a stay-at-home, having, as I thank the Lord, much happiness here, and no occasion to go out to seek it."

"There was much discourse about it, father, the evening I went to Dame King's. There were several gentlemen there who had trade with the East, and one of them held shares in the English Company trading thither. After supper was over, they discoursed more fully on the matter than was altogether pleasing to some of us, who would much rather that, as we had hoped, we might have dancing or singing. I could see that Dame King herself was somewhat put out that her husband should have, without her knowing of his intention, brought in these gentlemen. Still, the matter of their conversation was new to us, and we became at last so mightily interested in it that we listened to the discourse without bemoaning ourselves that we had lost the amusement we looked for. I know I wished at the time that you had been there. I say not that I can repeat all that I heard, but as I had before read some of the matters spoken of in the Journal, I could follow what the gentlemen said more closely. Soon after the coming of the King to the throne the friendship between us and the Spaniards, that had been weakened during the mastership of Cromwell, was renewed, and they gave our ships many advantages at their ports, while, on the other hand, they took away the privileges the Dutch had enjoyed there, and thus our commerce with Spain increased, while that of the Dutch diminished."

"That is certainly true, Nellie," her father said. "We have three ships sailing through the Mediterranean now to one that sailed there ten years ago, and doubtless the Dutch must have suffered by the increase in our trade."

"Then he said that, as we had obtained the Island of Bombay in the East Indies and the City of Tangier in Africa as the dowry of the Queen, and had received the Island of Poleron for our East India Company by the treaty with Holland, our commerce everywhere increased, and raised their jealousy higher and higher. There was nothing in this of which complaint could be made by the Dutch Government, but nevertheless they gave encouragement to their East and West India Companies to raise trouble. Their East India Company refused to hand over the Island, and laid great limitations as to the places at which our merchants might trade in India. The other Company acted in the same manner, and lawlessly took possession of Cape Coast Castle, belonging to our English Company.

"The Duke of York, who was patron and governor of our African Company, sent Sir Robert Holmes with four frigates to Guinea to make reprisals. He captured a place from the Dutch and named it James's Fort, and then, proceeding to the river Gambia, he turned out the Dutch traders there and built a fort. A year ago, as the Dutch still held Cape Coast Castle, Sir Robert was sent out again with orders to take it by force, and on the way he overhauled a Dutch ship and found she carried a letter of secret instructions from the Dutch Government to the West India Company to take the English Fort at Cormantin. Seeing that the Hollanders, although professing friendship, were thus treacherously inclined, he judged himself justified in exceeding the commission he had received, and on his way south he touched at Cape Verde. There he first captured two Dutch ships and then attacked their forts on the Island of Gorse and captured them, together with a ship lying under their guns.

"In the fort he found a great quantity of goods ready to be shipped. He loaded his own vessels, and those that he had captured, with the merchandise, and carried it to Sierra Leone. Then he attacked the Dutch fort of St. George del Mena, the strongest on the coast, but failed there; but he soon afterwards captured Cape Coast Castle, though, as the gentlemen said, a mightily strong place. Then he sailed across to America, and, as you know, captured the Dutch Settlements of New Netherlands, and changed the name into that of New York. He did this not so much out of reprisal for the misconduct of the Dutch in Africa, but because the land was ours by right, having been discovered by the Cabots and taken possession of in the name of King Henry VII., and our title always maintained until the Dutch seized it thirty years ago.

"Then the Dutch sent orders to De Ruyter, who commanded the fleet which was in the Mediterranean, to sail away privately and to make reprisals on the Coast of Guinea and elsewhere. He first captured several of our trading forts, among them that of Cormantin, taking great quantities of goods belonging to our Company; he then sailed to Barbadoes, where he was beaten off by the forts. Then he captured twenty of our ships off Newfoundland, and so returned to Holland, altogether doing damage, as the House of Commons told His Majesty, to the extent of eight hundred thousand pounds. All this time the Dutch had been secretly preparing for war, which they declared in January, which has forced us to do the same, although we delayed a month in hopes that some accommodation might be arrived at. I think, father, that is all that he told us, though there were many details that I do not remember."

"And very well told, lass, truly. I wonder that your giddy head should have taken in so much matter. Of course, now you tell them over, I have heard these things before -- the wrong that the Dutch did our Company by seizing their post at Cape Coast, and the reprisals that Sir Robert Holmes took upon them with our Company's ships -- but they made no great mark on my memory, for I was just taking over my father's work when the first expedition took place. At any rate, none can say that we have gone into this war unjustly, seeing that the Dutch began it, altogether without cause, by first attacking our trading posts."

"It seems to me, Captain Dave," John Wilkes said, "that it has been mighty like the war that our English buccaneers waged against the Spaniards in the West Indies, while the two nations were at peace at home."

"It is curious," Cyril said, "that the trouble begun in Africa should have shifted to the other side of the Atlantic."

"Ay, lad; just as that first trouble was at last fought out in the English Channel, off the coast of France, so this is likely to be decided in well-nigh the same waters."

"The gentlemen, the other night, were all of opinion," Nellie said, "that the matter would never have come to such a head had it not been that De Witt, who is now the chief man in Holland, belongs to the French party there, and has been urged on by King Louis, for his own interest, to make war with us."

"That may well be, Nellie. In all our English wars France has ever had a part either openly or by intrigues. France never seems to be content with attending to her own business, but is ever meddling with her neighbours', and, if not fighting herself, trying to set them by the ears against each other. If I were a bit younger, and had not lost my left flipper, I would myself volunteer for the service. As for Master Cyril here, I know he is burning to lay aside the pen and take to the sword."

"That is so, Captain Dave. As you know, I only took up the pen to keep me until I was old enough to use a sword. I have been two years at it now, and I suppose it will be as much longer before I can think of entering the service of one of the Protestant princes; but as soon as I am fit to do so, I shall get an introduction and be off; but I would tenfold rather fight for my own country, and would gladly sail in the Fleet, though I went but as a ship's boy."

"That is the right spirit, Master Cyril," John Wilkes exclaimed. "I would go myself if the Captain could spare me and they would take such a battered old hulk."

"I couldn't spare you, John," Captain Dave said. "I have been mighty near making a mess of it, even with you as chief mate, and I might as well shut up shop altogether if you were to leave me. I should miss you, too, Cyril," he went on, stretching his arm across the table to shake hands with the lad. "You have proved a real friend and a true; but were there a chance of your going as an officer, I would not balk you, even if I could do so. It is but natural that a lad of spirit should speak and think as you do; besides, the war may not last for long, and when you come back, and the ships are paid off, you would soon wipe off the arrears of work, and get the books into ship-shape order. But, work or no work, that room of yours will always stand ready for you while I live, and there will always be a plate for you on this table."

"Thank you, Captain Dave. You always overrate my services, and forget that they are but the consequence of the kindness that you have shown to me. But I have no intention of going. It was but a passing thought. I have but one friend who could procure me a berth as a volunteer, and as it is to him I must look for an introduction to some foreign prince, I would not go to him twice for a favour, especially as I have no sort of claim on his kindness. To go as a cabin boy would be to go with men under my own condition, and although I do not shirk hard work and rough usage, I should not care for them in such fashion. Moreover, I am doing work which, even without your hospitality, would suffice to keep me comfortably, and if I went away, though but for a month, I might find that those for whom I work had engaged other assistance. Spending naught, I am laying by money for the time when I shall have to travel at my own expense and to provide myself necessaries, and, maybe, to keep myself for a while until I can procure employment. I have the prospect that, by the end of another two years, I shall have gathered a sufficient store for all my needs, and I should be wrong to throw myself out of employment merely to embark on an adventure, and so to make a break, perhaps a long one, in my plans."

"Don't you worry yourself on that score," Captain Dave said warmly, and then checked himself. "It will be time to talk about that when the time comes. But you are right, lad. I like a man who steadfastly holds on the way he has chosen, and will not turn to the right or left. There is not much that a man cannot achieve if he keeps his aim steadily in view. Why, Cyril, if you said you had made up your mind to be Lord Mayor of London, I would wager that you would some day be elected."

Cyril laughed.

"I shall never set my eyes in that direction, nor do I think the thing I have set myself to do will ever be in my power -- that is, to buy back my father's estate; but so long as I live I shall keep that in view."

"More unlikely things have happened, lad. You have got first to rise to be a General; then, what with your pay and your share in the sack of a city or two, and in other ways, you may come home with a purse full enough even for that. But it is time for us to be going down below. Matthew will think that we have forgotten him altogether."

Another fortnight passed. Nellie had, to a considerable extent, recovered from the shock that she had suffered, but her manner was still quiet and subdued, her sallies were less lively, and her father noticed, with some surprise, that she no longer took any great interest in the gossip he retailed of the gay doings of the Court.

"I can't think what has come over the girl," he said to his wife. "She seems well in health again, but she is changed a good deal, somehow. She is gentler and softer. I think she is all the better for it, but I miss her merry laugh and her way of ordering things about, as if her pleasure only were to be consulted."

"I think she is very much improved," Mrs. Dowsett said decidedly; "though I can no more account for it than you can. She never used to have any care about the household, and now she assists me in my work, and is in all respects dutiful and obedient, and is not for ever bent upon gadding about as she was before. I only hope it will continue so, for, in truth, I have often sighed over the thought that she would make but a poor wife for an honest citizen."

"Tut, tut, wife. It has never been as bad as that. Girls will be girls, and if they are a little vain of their good looks, that will soften down in time, when they get to have the charge of a household. You yourself, dame, were not so staid when I first wooed you, as you are now; and I think you had your own little share of vanity, as was natural enough in the prettiest girl in Plymouth."

When Nellie was in the room Cyril did his best to save her from being obliged to take part in the conversation, by inducing Captain Dave to tell him stories of some of his adventures at sea.

"You were saying, Captain Dave, that you had had several engagements with the Tunis Rovers," he said one evening. "Were they ever near taking you?"

"They did take me once, lad, and that without an engagement; but, fortunately, I was not very long a prisoner. It was not a pleasant time though, John, was it?"

"It was not, Captain Dave. I have been in sore danger of wreck several times, and in three big sea-fights; but never did I feel so out of heart as when I was lying, bound hand and foot, on the ballast in the hold of that corsair. No true sailor is afraid of being killed; but the thought that one might be all one's life a slave among the cruel heathen was enough to take the stiffness out of any man's courage."

"But how was it that you were taken without an engagement, Captain Dave? And how did you make your escape?"

"Well, lad, it was the carelessness of my first mate that did it; but as he paid for his fault with his life let us say naught against him. He was a handsome, merry young fellow, and had shipped as second mate, but my first had died of fever in the Levant, and of course he got the step, though all too young for the responsibility. We had met with some bad weather when south of Malta, and had had a heavy gale for three days, during which time we lost our main topmast, and badly strained the mizzen. The weather abated when we were off Pantellaria, which is a bare rock rising like a mountain peak out of the sea, and with only one place where a landing can be safely effected. As the gale had blown itself out, and it was likely we should have a spell of settled weather, I decided to anchor close in to the Island, and to repair damages.

"We were hard at work for two days. All hands had had a stiff time of it, and the second night, having fairly repaired damages, I thought to give the crew a bit of a rest, and, not dreaming of danger, ordered that half each watch might remain below. John Wilkes was acting as my second mate. Pettigrew took the first watch; John had the middle watch; and then the other came up again. I turned out once or twice, but everything was quiet -- we had not seen a sail all day. There was a light breeze blowing, but no chance of its increasing, and as we were well sheltered in the only spot where the anchorage was good, I own that I did not impress upon Pettigrew the necessity for any particular vigilance. Anyhow, just as morning was breaking I was woke by a shout. I ran out on deck, but as I did so there was a rush of dark figures, and I was knocked down and bound before I knew what had happened. As soon as I could think it over, it was clear enough. The Moor had been coming into the anchorage, and, catching sight of us in the early light, had run alongside and boarded us.

"The watch, of course, must have been asleep. There was not a shot fired nor a drop of blood shed, for those on deck had been seized and bound before they could spring to their feet, and the crew had all been caught in their bunks. It was bitter enough. There was the vessel gone, and the cargo, and with them my savings of twenty years' hard work, and the prospect of slavery for life. The men were all brought aft and laid down side by side. Young Pettigrew was laid next to me.

"'I wish to heaven, captain,' he said, 'you had got a pistol and your hand free, and would blow out my brains for me. It is all my fault, and hanging at the yard-arm is what I deserve. I never thought there was the slightest risk -- not a shadow of it -- and feeling a bit dozy, sat down for five minutes' caulk. Seeing that, no doubt the men thought they might do the same; and this is what has come of it. I must have slept half an hour at least, for there was no sail in sight when I went off, and this Moor must have come round the point and made us out after that.'

"The corsair was lying alongside of us, her shrouds lashed to ours. There was a long jabbering among the Moors when they had taken off our hatches and seen that we were pretty well full up with cargo; then, after a bit, we were kicked, and they made signs for us to get on our feet and to cross over into their ship. The crew were sent down into the forward hold, and some men went down with them to tie them up securely. John Wilkes, Pettigrew, and myself were shoved down into a bit of a place below the stern cabin. Our legs were tied, as well as our arms. The trap was shut, and there we were in the dark. Of course I told Pettigrew that, though he had failed in his duty, and it had turned out badly, he wasn't to be blamed as if he had gone to sleep in sight of an enemy.

"'I had never given the Moors a thought myself,' I said, 'and it was not to be expected that you would. But no sailor, still less an officer, ought to sleep on his watch, even if his ship is anchored in a friendly harbour, and you are to blame that you gave way to drowsiness. Still, even if you hadn't, it might have come to the same thing in the long run, for the corsair is a large one, and might have taken us even if you had made her out as she rounded the point.'

"But, in spite of all I could say to cheer him, he took it to heart badly, and was groaning and muttering to himself when they left us in the dark, so I said to him, -- 

"'Look here, lad, the best way to retrieve the fault you have committed is to try and get us out of the scrape. Set your brains to work, and let us talk over what had best be done. There is no time to be lost, for with a fair wind they can run from here to Tunis in four-and-twenty hours, and once there one may give up all hope. There are all our crew on board this ship. The Moor carried twice as many men as we do, but we may reckon they will have put more than half of them on board our barque; they don't understand her sails as well as they do their own, and will therefore want a strong prize crew on board.'

"'I am ready to do anything, captain,' the young fellow said firmly. 'If you were to give me the word, I would get into their magazine if I could, and blow the ship into the air.'

"'Well, I don't know that I will give you that order, Pettigrew. To be a heathen's slave is bad, but, at any rate, I would rather try that life for a bit than strike my colours at once. Now let us think it over. In the first place we have to get rid of these ropes; then we have to work our way forward to the crew; and then to get on deck and fight for it. It is a stiff job, look at it which way one will, but at any rate it will be better to be doing something -- even if we find at last that we can't get out of this dog-kennel -- than to lie here doing nothing.'

"After some talk, we agreed that it was not likely the Moors would come down to us for a long time, for they might reckon that we could hold on without food or water easy enough until they got to Tunis; having agreed as to that point, we set to work to get our ropes loose. Wriggling wouldn't do it, though we tried until the cords cut into our flesh.

"At last Pettigrew said, -- 

"'What a fool I am! I have got my knife hanging from a lanyard round my neck. It is under my blouse, so they did not notice it when they turned my pockets out.'

"It was a long job to get at that knife. At last I found the string behind his neck, and, getting hold of it with my teeth, pulled till the knife came up to his throat. Then John got it in his teeth, and the first part of the job was done. The next was easy enough. John held the handle of the knife in his teeth and Pettigrew got hold of the blade in his, and between them they made a shift to open it; then, after a good deal of trouble, Pettigrew shifted himself till he managed to get the knife in his hands. I lay across him and worked myself backwards and forwards till the blade cut through the rope at my wrist; then, in two more minutes, we were free. Then we felt about, and found that the boarding between us and the main hold was old and shaky, and, with the aid of the knife and of our three shoulders, we made a shift at last to wrench one of the boards from its place.

"Pettigrew, who was slightest, crawled through, and we soon got another plank down. The hold was half full of cargo, which, no doubt, they had taken out of some ship or other. We made our way forward till we got to the bulkhead, which, like the one we had got through, was but a make-shift sort of affair, with room to put your fingers between the planks. So we hailed the men and told them how we had got free, and that if they didn't want to work all their lives as slaves they had best do the same. They were ready enough, you may be sure, and, finding a passage between the planks wider in one place than the rest, we passed the knife through to them, and told them how to set about cutting the rope. They were a deal quicker over it than we had been, for in our place there had been no height where we could stand upright, but they were able to do so. Two men, standing back to back and one holding the knife, made quick work of cutting the rope.

"We had plenty of strength now, and were not long in getting down a couple of planks. The first thing was to make a regular overhaul of the cargo -- as well as we could do it, without shifting things and making a noise -- to look for weapons or for anything that would come in handy for the fight. Not a thing could we find, but we came upon a lot of kegs that we knew, by their feel, were powder. If there had been arms and we could have got up, we should have done it at once, trusting to seize the ship before the other could come up to her help. But without arms it would be madness to try in broad daylight, and we agreed to wait till night, and to lie down again where we were before, putting the ropes round our legs again and our hands behind our backs, so that, if they did look in, everything should seem secure.

"'We shall have plenty of time,' one of the sailors said, 'for they have coiled a big hawser down on the hatch.'

"When we got back to our lazaret, we tried the hatch by which we had been shoved down, but the three of us couldn't move it any more than if it had been solid stone. We had a goodish talk over it, and it was clear that the hatchway of the main hold was our only chance of getting out; and we might find that a tough job.

"'If we can't do it in any other way,' Pettigrew said, 'I should say we had best bring enough bales and things to fill this place up to within a foot of the top; then on that we might put a keg of powder, bore a hole in it, and make a slow match that would blow the cabin overhead into splinters, while the bales underneath it would prevent the force of the explosion blowing her bottom out.'

"We agreed that, if the worst came to the worst, we would try this, and having settled that, went back to have a look at the main hatch. Feeling about round it, we found the points of the staple on which the hatchway bar worked above; they were not fastened with nuts as they would have been with us, but were simply turned over and clinched. We had no means of straightening them out, but we could cut through the woodwork round them. Setting to work at that, we took it by turns till we could see the light through the wood; then we left it to finish after dark. All this time we knew we were under sail by the rippling of the water along the sides. The men on board were evidently in high delight at their easy capture, and kicked up so much noise that there was no fear of their hearing any slight stir we made below.

"Very carefully we brought packages and bales under the hatchway, till we built up a sort of platform about four feet below it. We reckoned that, standing as thick as we could there, and all lifting together, we could make sure of hoisting the hatchway up, and could then spring out in a moment.

"Pettigrew still stuck to his plan, and talked us into carrying it out, both under the fore and aft hatches, pointing out that the two explosions would scare the crew out of their wits, that some would be killed, and many jump overboard in their fright. We came to see that the scheme was really a good one, so set all the crew to carry out the business, and they, working with stockinged feet, built up a platform under their hatch, as well as in our den aft. Then we made holes in two of the kegs of powder, and, shaking a little out, damped it, and rubbed it into two strips of cotton. Putting an end of a slow match into each of the holes, we laid the kegs in their places and waited.

"We made two other fuses, so that a man could go forward, and another aft, to fire them both together. Two of the men were told off for this job, and the rest of us gathered under the main hatch, for we had settled now that if we heard them making any move to open the hatches we would fire the powder at once, whatever hour it was. In order to be ready, we cut deeper into the woodwork round the staple till there was but the thickness of a card remaining, and we could tell by this how light it was above.

"It don't take long to tell you, but all this had taken us a good many hours; and so baked were we by the heat down below, and parched by thirst, that it was as much as I could do to persuade the men to wait until nightfall. At last we saw the light in the cut fade and darken. Again the men wanted to be at work, but I pointed out that if we waited till the crew had laid down on the deck, we might carry it through without losing a life, but if they were all awake, some of them would be sure to come at us with their weapons, and, unarmed as we were, might do us much harm. Still, though I succeeded in keeping the men quiet, I felt it was hard work to put a stopper on my own impatience.

"At last even John here spoke up for action.

"'I expect those who mean to sleep are off by this time,' he said. 'As to reckoning upon them all going off, there ain't no hope of it; they will sit and jabber all night. They have made a good haul, and have taken a stout ship with a full hold, and five-and-twenty stout slaves, and that without losing a man. There won't be any sleep for most of them. I reckon it is two bells now. I do think, Captain, we might as well begin, for human nature can't stand this heat and thirst much longer.'

"'All right, John,' I said. 'Now, lads, remember that when the first explosion comes -- for we can't reckon on the two slow matches burning just the same time -- we all heave together till we find the hatch lifts; then, when the second comes, we chuck it over and leap out. If you see a weapon, catch it up, but don't waste time looking about, but go at them with your fists. They will be scared pretty well out of their senses, and you will not be long before you all get hold of weapons of some sort. Now, Pettigrew, shove your blade up through the wood and cut round the staple. Now, Jack Brown, get out that tinder-box you said you had about you, and get a spark going.'

"Three or four clicks were heard as the sailor struck his flint against the steel lid of the tinder-box.

"'All right, yer honour,' he said, 'I have got the spark.'

"Then the two hands we had given the slow matches to, lit them at the tinder-box, and went fore and aft, while as many of the rest of us as could crowded under the hatch.

"'Are you ready, fore and aft?' I asked.

"The two men hailed in reply.

"'Light the matches, then, and come here.'

"I suppose it was not above a minute, but it seemed ten before there was a tremendous explosion aft. The ship shook from stem to stern. There was a moment's silence, and then came yells and screams mixed with the sound of timbers and wreckage falling on the deck.

"'Now lift,' I said. 'But not too high. That is enough -- she is free. Wait for the other.'

"There was a rush of feet overhead as the Moors ran forward. Then came the other explosion.

"'Off with her, lads!' I shouted, and in a moment we flung the hatch off and leapt out with a cheer. There was no fighting to speak of. The officers had been killed by the first explosion under their cabin, and many of the men had either been blown overboard or lay crushed under the timber and wreckage.

"The second explosion had been even more destructive, for it happened just as the crew, in their terror, had rushed forward. Many of those unhurt had sprung overboard at once, and as we rushed up most of the others did the same. There was no difficulty about arms, for the deck was strewn with weapons. Few of us, however, stopped to pick one up, but, half mad with rage and thirst, rushed forward at the Moors. That finished them; and before we got to them the last had sprung overboard. There was a rush on the part of the men to the scuttle butt.

"'Take one drink, lads,' I shouted, 'and then to the buckets.'

"It took us a quarter of an hour's hard work to put out the flames, and it was lucky the powder had blown so much of the decks up that we were enabled to get at the fire without difficulty, and so extinguish it before it got any great hold.

"As soon as we had got it out I called a muster. There was only one missing; -- it was Pettigrew, he being the first to leap out and rush aft. There had been but one shot fired by the Moors. One fellow, as he leapt on to the rail, drew his pistol from his belt and fired before he sprang overboard. In the excitement and confusion no one had noticed whether the shot took effect, for two or three men had stumbled and fallen over fragments of timber or bodies as we rushed aft. But now we searched, and soon came on the poor young fellow. The ball had struck him fair on the forehead, and he had fallen dead without a word or a cry.

"There was, however, no time to grieve. We had got to re-capture the barque, which had been but a cable's length away when we rushed on deck; while we had been fighting the fire she had sailed on, regardless of the shrieks and shouts of the wretches who had sprung overboard from us. But she was still near us; both vessels had been running before the wind, for I had sent John Wilkes to the tiller the moment that we got possession of the corsair, and the barque was but about a quarter of a mile ahead.

"The wind was light, and we were running along at four knots an hour. The Moors on board the Kate had, luckily, been too scared by the explosion to think of getting one of the guns aft and peppering us while we were engaged in putting out the fire; and indeed, they could not have done us much harm if they had, for the high fo'castle hid us from their view.

"As soon as we had found Pettigrew's body and laid it on the hatch we had thrown off, I went aft to John.

"'Are we gaining on her, John?'

"'No; she has drawn away a little. But this craft is not doing her best. I expect they wanted to keep close to the barque, and so kept her sheets in. If you square the sails, captain, we shall soon be upon her.'

"That was quickly done, and then the first thing was to see that the men were all armed. We could have got a gun forward, but I did not want to damage the Kate, and we could soon see that we were closing on her. We shoved a bag of musket-balls into each cannon, so as to sweep her decks as we came alongside, for we knew that her crew was a good deal stronger than we were. Still, no one had any doubt as to the result, and it was soon evident that the Moors had got such a scare from the fate of their comrades that they had no stomach for fighting.

"'They are lowering the boats,' John shouted.

"'All the better,' I said. 'They would fight like rats caught in a trap if we came up to them, and though we are men enough to capture her, we might lose half our number.'

"As soon as the boats reached the water they were all pulled up to the starboard side, and then the helm was put down, and the barque came round till she was broadside on to us.

"'Down with your helm, John Wilkes!' I shouted. 'Hard down, man!'

"John hesitated, for he had thought that I should have gone round to the other side of her and so have caught all the boats; but, in truth, I was so pleased at the thought of getting the craft back again that I was willing to let the poor villains go, since they were of a mind to do so without giving us trouble. We had punished them enough, and the shrieks and cries of those left behind to drown were ringing in my ears then. So we brought the corsair up quietly by the side of the Kate, lashed her there, and then, with a shout of triumph, sprang on board the old barky.

"Not a Moor was left on board. The boats were four or five hundred yards away, rowing at the top of their speed. The men would have run to the guns, but I shouted, -- 

"'Let them go, lads. We have punished them heavily enough; we have taken their ship, and sent half of them to Eternity. Let them take the tale back to Tunis how a British merchantman re-captured their ship. Now set to work to get some of the sail off both craft, and then, when we have got things snug, we will splice the main brace and have a meal.'

"There is no more to tell. We carried the rover into Gibraltar and sold her and her cargo there. It brought in a good round sum, and, except for the death of Pettigrew, we had no cause to regret the corsair having taken us by surprise that night off Pantellaria."

"That was an exciting business, indeed, Captain Dave," Cyril said, when the Captain brought his story to a conclusion. "If it had not been for your good fortune in finding those kegs of powder, and Pettigrew's idea of using them as he did, you and John might now, if you had been alive, have been working as slaves among the Moors."

"Yes, lad. And not the least lucky thing was that Pettigrew's knife and Jack Brown's tinder-box had escaped the notice of the Moors. Jack had it in an inside pocket sewn into his shirt so as to keep it dry. It was a lesson to me, and for the rest of the time I was at sea I always carried a knife, with a lanyard round my neck, and stowed away in an inside pocket of my shirt, together with a tinder-box. They are two as useful things as a sailor can have about him, for, if cast upon a desert shore after a wreck, a man with a knife and tinder-box may make shift to live, when, without them, he and his comrades might freeze to death."



Chapter IX

The Fire In The Savoy


The next evening John Wilkes returned after an absence of but half an hour.

"Why, John, you can but have smoked a single pipe! Did you not find your cronies there?"

"I hurried back, Captain, because a man from one of the ships in the Pool landed and said there was a great light in the sky, and that it seemed to him it was either a big fire in the Temple, or in one of the mansions beyond the walls; so methought I would come in and ask Cyril if he would like to go with me to see what was happening."

"I should like it much, John. I saw a great fire in Holborn just after I came over from France, and a brave sight it was, though very terrible; and I would willingly see one again."

He took his hat and cloak and was about to be off, when Captain Dave called after him, -- 

"Buckle on your sword, lad, and leave your purse behind you. A fire ever attracts thieves and cut-throats, who flock round in hopes of stealing something in the confusion. Besides, as I have told you before, you should never go out after dark without your sword, even were it but to cross the road."

Cyril ran upstairs to his room, buckled on his weapon, and ran down again.

"The Captain is right," John Wilkes said, as he joined him at the door. "After your two adventures, it would be folly for you to go out unarmed."

"Oh, I expect they have forgotten about me long ago," Cyril laughed lightly.

"I don't know," John Wilkes said seriously. "As to Marner's gang, I think that there is not much fear from them, unless that young rascal Robert and the scoundrel who was with him have returned from Holland; and that they are not likely to do for some time to come. But it would not be in human nature if the man you call John Harvey should take his defeat without trying to pay you back for that wound you gave him, for getting Mistress Nellie out of his hands, and for making him the laughing-stock of his comrades. I tell you that there is scarce an evening that I have gone out but some fellow passes me before I have gone twenty yards, and, as he brushes my sleeve, turns his head to look at me. But yesternight I said to one who so behaved, 'Look here, mate, this is not the first time you have run against me. I warn you that if it happens again I will crack your head with my cudgel.' The fellow went off, muttering and grumbling, but I have no doubt that he and the others, for it certainly was not always the same man, were watching for you. To-night there was no one about, or, if there was, he did not come near me, and it may be that, finding you never leave the house after nightfall, they have decided to give it up for the present. But I thought I heard a footfall lower down the street, just as we came out of the house, and it is like enough that we are followed now."

"At any rate, they would scarce attack two of us, John, and I should not mind if they did. It is a stab in the back that I am afraid of more than an open quarrel."

"You may have a better swordsman to deal with next time. The fellow himself would scarcely care to cross swords with you again, but he would have no difficulty in getting half-a-dozen cut-throats from the purlieus of the Temple or Westminster, professional bullies, who are ready to use their swords to those who care to purchase them, and who would cut a throat for a few crowns, without caring a jot whose throat it was. Some of these fellows are disbanded soldiers. Some are men who were ruined in the wars. Some are tavern bullies -- broken men, reckless and quarrelsome gamblers so long as they have a shilling in their pockets, but equally ready to take to the road or to rob a house when their pockets are empty."

By this time they had passed the Exchange into Cheapside. Many people were hurrying in the same direction and wondering where the fire was. Presently one of the Fire Companies, with buckets, ladders, and axes, passed them at a run. Even in Cheapside the glow in the sky ahead could be plainly seen, but it was not until they passed St. Paul's and stood at the top of Ludgate Hill that the flames, shooting up high in the air, were visible. They were almost straight ahead.

"It must be at the other end of Fleet Street," Cyril said, as they broke into a run.

"Farther than that, lad. It must be one of the mansions along the Strand. A fire always looks closer than it is. I have seen a ship in flames that looked scarce a mile away, and yet, sailing with a brisk wind, it took us over an hour to come up to it."

The crowd became thicker as they approached Temple Bar. The upper windows of the houses were all open, and women were leaning out looking at the sight. From every lane and alley men poured into the street and swelled the hurrying current. They passed through the Bar, expecting to find that the fire was close at hand. They had, however, some distance farther to go, for the fire was at a mansion in the Savoy. Another Fire Company came along when they were within a hundred yards of the spot.

"Join in with them," Cyril said; and he and John Wilkes managed to push their way into the ranks, joining in the shout, "Way there, way! Make room for the buckets!"

Aided by some of the City watch the Company made its way through the crowd, and hurried down the hill from the Strand into the Savoy. A party of the King's Guard, who had just marched up, kept back the crowd, and, when once in the open space, Cyril and his companion stepped out from the ranks and joined a group of people who had arrived before the constables and soldiers had come up.

The mansion from which the fire had originated was in flames from top to bottom. The roof had fallen in. Volumes of flame and sparks shot high into the air, threatening the safety of several other houses standing near. The Fire Companies were working their hand-pumps, throwing water on to the doors and woodwork of these houses. Long lines of men were extended down to the edge of the river and passed the buckets backwards and forwards. City officials, gentlemen of the Court, and officers of the troops, moved to and fro shouting directions and superintending the work. From many of the houses the inhabitants were bringing out their furniture and goods, aided by the constables and spectators.

"It is a grand sight," Cyril said, as, with his companion, he took his place in a quiet corner where a projecting portico threw a deep shadow.

"It will soon be grander still. The wind is taking the sparks and flames westwards, and nothing can save that house over there. Do you see the little jets of flame already bursting through the roof?"

"The house seems empty. There is not a window open."

"It looks so, Cyril, but there may be people asleep at the back. Let us work round and have a look from behind."

They turned down an alley, and in a minute or two came out behind the house. There was a garden and some high trees, but it was surrounded by a wall, and they could not see the windows.

"Here, Cyril, I will give you a hoist up. If you stand on my shoulders, you can reach to the top of the wall and pull yourself up. Come along here to where that branch projects over. That's it. Now drop your cloak, and jump on to my back. That is right. Now get on to my shoulders."

Cyril managed to get up.

"I can just touch the top, but I can't get my fingers on to it."

"Put your foot on my head. I will warrant it is strong enough to bear your weight."

Cyril did as he was told, grasped the top of the wall, and, after a sharp struggle, seated himself astride on it. Just as he did so, a window in a wing projecting into the garden was thrown open, and a female voice uttered a loud scream for help. There was light enough for Cyril to see that the lower windows were all barred. He shouted back, -- 

"Can't you get down the staircase?"

"No; the house is full of smoke. There are some children here. Help! Help!" and the voice rose in a loud scream again.

Cyril dropped down into the roadway by the side of John Wilkes.

"There are some women and children in there, John. They can't get out. We must go round to the other side and get some axes and break down the door."

Snatching up his cloak, he ran at full speed to his former position, followed by Wilkes. The roof of the house was now in flames. Many of the shutters and window-frames had also caught fire, from the heat. He ran up to two gentlemen who seemed to be directing the operations.

"There are some women and children in a room at the back of that house," he said. "I have just been round there to see. They are in the second storey, and are crying for help."

"I fear the ladders are too short."

"I can tie two or three of them together," Wilkes said. "I am an old sailor and can answer for the knots."

The firemen were already dashing water on the lower windows of the front of the house. A party with axes were cutting at the door, but this was so massive and solid that it resisted their efforts. One of the gentlemen went down to them. At his orders eight or ten men seized ladders. Cyril snatched some ropes from a heap that had been thrown down by the firemen, and the party, with one of the gentlemen, ran round to the back of the house. Two ladders were placed against the wall. John Wilkes, running up one of them, hauled several of the others up, and lowered them into the garden.

The flames were now issuing from some of the upper windows. Cyril dropped from the wall into the garden, and, running close up to the house, shouted to three or four women, who were screaming loudly, and hanging so far out that he thought they would fall, that help was at hand, and that they would be speedily rescued. John Wilkes rapidly tied three of the short ladders together. These were speedily raised, but it was found that they just reached the window. One of the firemen ran up, while John set to work to prepare another long ladder. As there was no sign of life at any other window he laid it down on the grass when finished.

"If you will put it up at the next window," Cyril said, "I will mount it. The woman said there were children in the house, and possibly I may find them. Those women are so frightened that they don't know what they are doing."

One woman had already been got on to the other ladder, but instead of coming down, she held on tightly, screaming at the top of her voice, until the fireman with great difficulty got up by her side, wrenched her hands from their hold, threw her across his shoulder, and carried her down.

The room was full of smoke as Cyril leapt into it, but he found that it was not, as he had supposed, the one in which the women at the next window were standing. Near the window, however, an elderly woman was lying on the floor insensible, and three girls of from eight to fourteen lay across her. Cyril thrust his head out of the window.

"Come up, John," he shouted. "I want help."

He lifted the youngest of the girls, and as he got her out of the window, John's head appeared above the sill.

"Take her down quick, John," he said, as he handed the child to him. "There are three others. They are all insensible from the smoke."

Filling his lungs with fresh air, he turned into the blinding smoke again, and speedily reappeared at the window with another of the girls. John was not yet at the bottom; he placed her with her head outside the window, and was back with the eldest girl by the time Wilkes was up again. He handed her to him, and then, taking the other, stepped out on to the ladder and followed Wilkes down.

"Brave lad!" the gentleman said, patting him on the shoulder. "Are there any more of them?"

"One more -- a woman, sir. Do you go up, John. I will follow, for I doubt whether I can lift her by myself."

He followed Wilkes closely up the ladder. There was a red glow now in the smoke. Flames were bursting through the door. John was waiting at the window.

"Which way, lad? There is no seeing one's hand in the smoke."

"Just in front, John, not six feet away. Hold your breath."

They dashed forward together, seized the woman between them, and, dragging her to the window, placed her head and shoulders on the sill.

"You go first, John. She is too heavy for me," Cyril gasped.

John stumbled out, half suffocated, while Cyril thrust his head as far as he could outside the window.

"That is it, John; you take hold of her shoulder, and I will help you get her on to your back."

Between them they pushed her nearly out, and then, with Cyril's assistance, John got her across his shoulders. She was a heavy woman, and the old sailor had great difficulty in carrying her down. Cyril hung far out of the window till he saw him put his foot on the ground; then he seized a rung of the ladder, swung himself out on to it, and was soon down.

For a time he felt confused and bewildered, and was conscious that if he let go the ladder he should fall. He heard a voice say, "Bring one of those buckets of water," and directly afterwards, "Here, lad, put your head into this," and a handful of water was dashed into his face. It revived him, and, turning round, he plunged his head into a bucket that a man held up for him. Then he took a long breath or two, pressed the water from his hair, and felt himself again. The women at the other window had by this time been brought down. A door in the garden wall had been broken down with axes, and the women and girls were taken away to a neighbouring house.

"There is nothing more to do here," the gentlemen said. "Now, men, you are to enter the houses round about. Wherever a door is fastened, break it in. Go out on to the roofs with buckets, put out the sparks as fast as they fall. I will send some more men to help you at once." He then put his hand on Cyril's shoulder, and walked back with him to the open space.

"We have saved them all," he said to the other gentleman who had now come up, "but it has been a close touch, and it was only by the gallantry of this young gentleman and another with him that the lives of three girls and a woman were rescued. I think all the men that can be spared had better go round to the houses in that direction. You see, the wind is setting that way, and the only hope of stopping the progress of the fire is to get plenty of men with buckets out on the roofs and at all the upper windows."

The other gentleman gave the necessary orders to an officer.

"Now, young sir, may I ask your name?" the other said to Cyril.

"Cyril Shenstone, sir," he replied respectfully; for he saw that the two men before him were persons of rank.

"Shenstone? I know the name well. Are you any relation of Sir Aubrey Shenstone?"

"He was my father, sir."

"A brave soldier, and a hearty companion," the other said warmly. "He rode behind me scores of times into the thick of the fight. I am Prince Rupert, lad."

Cyril doffed his hat in deep respect. His father had always spoken of the Prince in terms of boundless admiration, and had over and over again lamented that he had not been able to join the Prince in his exploits at sea.

"What has become of my old friend?" the Prince asked.

"He died six months ago, Prince."

"I am sorry to hear it. I did hear that, while I was away, he had been suing at Court. I asked for him, but could get no tidings of his whereabouts. But we cannot speak here. Ask for me to-morrow at Whitehall. Do you know this gentleman?"

"No, sir, I have not the honour."

"This is the Duke of Albemarle, my former enemy, but now my good friend. You will like the lad no worse, my Lord, because his father more than once rode with me into the heart of your ranks."

"Certainly not," the Duke said. "It is clear that the son will be as gallant a gentleman as his father was before him, and, thank God! it is not against Englishmen that he will draw his sword. You may count me as your friend, sir, henceforth."

Cyril bowed deeply and retired, while Prince Rupert and the Duke hurried away again to see that the operations they had directed were properly carried out.



Chapter X

How John Wilkes Fought The Dutch


After leaving Prince Rupert, Cyril returned to John Wilkes, who was standing a short distance away.

"John! John!" he said eagerly, as he joined him. "Who do you think those gentlemen are?"

"I don't know, lad. It is easy to see that they are men of importance by the way they order everyone about."

"The one who went with us to the garden is Prince Rupert; the other is the Duke of Albemarle. And the Prince has told me to call upon him to-morrow at Whitehall."

"That is a stroke of luck, indeed, lad, and right glad am I that I took it into my head to fetch you out to see the fire. But more than that, you have to thank yourself, for, indeed, you behaved right gallantly. You nearly had the Prince for your helper, for just before I went up the ladder the last time he stepped forward and said to me, 'You must be well-nigh spent, man. I will go up this time.' However, I said that I would finish the work, and so, without more ado, I shook off the hand he had placed on my arm, and ran up after you. Well, it is a stroke of good fortune to you, lad, that you should have shown your courage under his eye -- no one is more able to appreciate a gallant action. This may help you a long way towards bringing about the aim you were talking about the other night, and I may live to see you Sir Cyril Shenstone yet."

"You can see me that now," Cyril said, laughing. "My father was a baronet, and therefore at his death I came into the title, though I am not silly enough to go about the City as Sir Cyril Shenstone when I am but a poor clerk. It will be time enough to call myself 'Sir' when I see some chance of buying back our estate, though, indeed, I have thought of taking the title again when I embark on foreign service, as it may help me somewhat in obtaining promotion. But do not say anything about it at home. I am Cyril Shenstone, and have been fortunate enough to win the friendship of Captain Dave, and I should not be so comfortable were there any change made in my position in the family. A title is an empty thing, John, unless there are means to support it, and plain Cyril Shenstone suits my position far better than a title without a guinea in my purse. Indeed, till you spoke just now, I had well-nigh forgotten that I have the right to call myself 'Sir.'"

They waited for two hours longer. At the end of that time four mansions had been burnt to the ground, but the further progress of the flames had been effectually stayed. The crowd had already begun to scatter, and as they walked eastward the streets were full of people making their way homeward. The bell of St. Paul's was striking midnight as they entered. The Captain and his family had long since gone off to bed.

"This reminds one of that last business," John whispered, as they went quietly upstairs.

"It does, John. But it has been a pleasanter evening in every way than those fruitless watches we kept in the street below."

The next morning the story of the fire was told, and excited great interest.

"Who were the girls you saved, Cyril?" Nellie asked.

"I don't know. I did not think of asking to whom the house belonged, nor, indeed, was there anyone to ask. Most of the people were too busy to talk to, and the rest were spectators who had, like ourselves, managed to make their way in through the lines of the soldiers and watch."

"Were they ladies?"

"I really don't know," Cyril laughed. "The smoke was too thick to see anything about them, and I should not know them if I met them to-day; and, besides, when you only see a young person in her nightdress, it is hard to form any opinion as to her rank."

Nellie joined in the laugh.

"I suppose not, Cyril. It might make a difference to you, though. Those houses in the Savoy are almost all the property of noblemen, and you might have gained another powerful friend if they had been the daughters of one."

"I should not think they were so," Cyril said. "There seemed to be no one else in the house but three maid servants and the woman who was in the room with them. I should say the family were all away and the house left in charge of servants. The woman may have been a housekeeper, and the girls her children; besides, even had it been otherwise, it was merely by chance that I helped them out. It was John who tied the ladders together and who carried the girls down, one by one. If I had been alone I should only have had time to save the youngest, for I am not accustomed to running up and down ladders, as he is, and by the time I had got her down it would have been too late to have saved the others. Indeed, I am not sure that we did save them; they were all insensible, and, for aught I know, may not have recovered from the effects of the smoke. My eyes are smarting even now."

"And so you are to see Prince Rupert to-day, Cyril?" Captain Dave said. "I am afraid we shall be losing you, for he will, I should say, assuredly appoint you to one of his ships if you ask him."

"That would be good fortune indeed," Cyril said. "I cannot but think myself that he may do so, though it would be almost too good to be true. Certainly he spoke very warmly, and, although he may not himself have the appointment of his officers, a word from him at the Admiralty would, no doubt, be sufficient. At any rate, it is a great thing indeed to have so powerful a friend at Court. It may be that, at the end of another two years, we may be at war with some other foreign power, and that I may be able to enter our own army instead of seeking service abroad. If not, much as I should like to go to sea to fight against the Dutch, service in this Fleet would be of no real advantage to me, for the war may last but for a short time, and as soon as it is over the ships will be laid up again and the crews disbanded."

"Ay, but if you find the life of a sailor to your liking, Cyril, you might do worse than go into the merchant service. I could help you there, and you might soon get the command of a trader. And, let me tell you, it is a deal better to walk the decks as captain than it is to be serving on shore with twenty masters over you; and there is money to be made, too. A captain is always allowed to take in a certain amount of cargo on his own account; that was the way I scraped together money enough to buy my own ship at last, and to be master as well as owner, and there is no reason why you should not do the same."

"Thank you, Captain Dave. I will think it over when I find out whether I like a sea life, but at present it seems to me that my inclinations turn rather towards the plan that my father recommended, and that, for the last two years, I have always had before me. You said, the other day, you had fought the Dutch, John?"

"Ay, ay, Master Cyril; but, in truth, it was from no wish or desire on my part that I did so. I had come ashore from Captain Dave's ship here in the Pool, and had been with some of my messmates who had friends in Wapping and had got three days' leave ashore, as the cargo we expected had not come on board the ship. We had kept it up a bit, and it was latish when I was making my way down to the stairs. I expect that I was more intent on making a straight course down the street than in looking about for pirates, when suddenly I found myself among a lot of men. One of them seized me by the arm.

"'Hands off, mate!' says I, and I lifted my fist to let fly at him, when I got a knock at the back of the head. The next thing I knew was, I was lying in the hold of a ship, and, as I made out presently, with a score of others, some of whom were groaning, and some cursing.

"'Hullo, mates!' says I. 'What port is this we are brought up in?'

"'We are on board the Tartar,' one said.

"I knew what that meant, for the Tartar was the receiving hulk where they took the pressed men.

"The next morning, without question asked, we were brought up on deck, tumbled into a small sloop, and taken down to Gravesend, and there put, in batches of four or five, into the ships of war lying there. It chanced that I was put on board Monk's flagship the Resolution. And that is how it was I came to fight the Dutch."

"What year was that in, John?"

"'53 -- in May it was. Van Tromp, at that time, with ninety-eight ships of war, and six fire-ships, was in the Downs, and felt so much Master of the Sea that he sailed in and battered Dover Castle."

"Then you were in the fight of the 2nd of June?"

"Ay; and in that of the 31st of July, which was harder still."

"Tell me all about it, John."

"Lor' bless you, sir, there is nothing to tell as far as I was concerned. I was at one of the guns on the upper deck, but I might as well have been down below for anything I saw of it. It was just load and fire, load and fire. Sometimes, through the clouds of smoke, one caught a sight of the Dutchman one was firing at; more often one didn't. There was no time for looking about, I can tell you, and if there had been time there was nothing to see. It was like being in a big thunderstorm, with thunderbolts falling all round you, and a smashing and a grinding and a ripping that would have made your hair stand on end if you had only had time to think of it. But we hadn't time. It was 'Now then, my hearties, blaze away! Keep it up, lads! The Dutchmen have pretty near had enough of it!' And then, at last, 'They are running, lads. Run in your guns, and tend the sails.' And then a cheer as loud as we could give -- which wasn't much, I can tell you, for we were spent with labour, and half choked with powder, and our tongues parched up with thirst."

"How many ships had you?"

"We had ninety-five war-ships, and five fire-ships, so the game was an equal one. They had Tromp and De Ruyter to command them, and we had Monk and Deane. Both Admirals were on board our ship, and in the very first broadside the Dutch fired a chain-shot, and pretty well cut Admiral Deane in two. I was close to him at the time. Monk, who was standing by his side, undid his own cloak in a moment, threw it over his comrade, and held up his hand to the few of us that had seen what had happened, to take no notice of it.

"It was a good thing that Deane and Monk were on board the same ship. If it had not been so, Deane's flag would have been hauled down and all the Fleet would have known of his death, which, at the commencement of the fight, would have greatly discouraged the men.

"They told me, though I know naught about it, that Rear-Admiral Lawson charged with the Blue Squadron right through the Dutch line, and so threw them into confusion. However, about three o'clock, the fight having begun at eleven, Van Tromp began to draw off, and we got more sail on the Resolution and followed them for some hours, they making a sort of running fight of it, till one of their big ships blew up, about nine in the evening, when they laid in for shore. Blake came up in the night with eighteen ships. The Dutch tried to draw off, but at eight o'clock we came up to them, and, after fighting for four hours, they hauled off and ran, in great confusion, for the flats, where we could not follow them, and so they escaped to Zeeland. We heard that they had six of their best ships sunk, two blown up and eleven taken, but whether it was so or not I knew not, for, in truth, I saw nothing whatever of the matter.

"We sailed to the Texel, and there blocked in De Ruyter's squadron of twenty-five large ships, and we thought that there would be no more fighting, for the Dutch had sent to England to ask for terms of peace. However, we were wrong, and, to give the Dutchmen their due, they showed resolution greater than we gave them credit for, for we were astonished indeed to hear, towards the end of July, that Van Tromp had sailed out again with upwards of ninety ships.

"On the 29th they came in view, and we sailed out to engage them, but they would not come to close quarters, and it was seven at night before the Resolution, with some thirty other ships, came up to them and charged through their line. By the time we had done that it was quite dark, and we missed them altogether and sailed south, thinking Van Tromp had gone that way; but, instead, he had sailed north, and in the morning we found he had picked up De Ruyter's fleet, and was ready to fight. But we had other things to think of besides fighting that day, for the wind blew so hard that it was as much as we could do to keep off the shore, and if the gale had continued a good part of the ships would have left their bones there. However, by nightfall the gale abated somewhat, and by the next morning the sea had gone down sufficient for the main deck ports to be opened. So the Dutch, having the weather gauge, sailed down to engage us.

"I thought it rough work in the fight two months before, but it was as nothing to this. To begin with, the Dutch fire-ships came down before the wind, and it was as much as we could do to avoid them. They did, indeed, set the Triumph on fire, and most of the crew jumped overboard; but those that remained managed to put out the flames.

"Lawson, with the Blue Squadron, began the fighting, and that so briskly, that De Ruyter's flagship was completely disabled and towed out of the fight. However, after I had seen that, our turn began, and I had no more time to look about. I only know that ship after ship came up to engage us, seeming bent upon lowering Monk's flag. Three Dutch Admirals, Tromp, Evertson, and De Ruyter, as I heard afterwards, came up in turn. We did not know who they were, but we knew they were Admirals by their flags, and pounded them with all our hearts; and so good was our aim that I myself saw two of the Admirals' flags brought down, and they say that all three of them were lowered. But you may guess the pounding was not all on our side, and we suffered very heavily.

"Four men were hurt at the gun I worked, and nigh half the crew were killed or wounded. Two of our masts were shot away, many of our guns disabled, and towards the end of the fight we were towed out of the line. How the day would have gone if Van Tromp had continued in command of the Dutch, I cannot say, but about noon he was shot through the body by a musket-ball, and this misfortune greatly discouraged the Dutchmen, who fight well as long as things seem to be going their way, but lose heart very easily when they think the matter is going against them.

"By about two o'clock the officers shouted to us that the Dutch were beginning to draw off, and it was not long before they began to fly, each for himself, and in no sort of order. Some of our light frigates, that had suffered less than the line-of-battle ships, followed them until the one Dutch Admiral whose flag was left flying, turned and fought them till two or three of our heavier ships came up and he was sunk.

"We could see but little of the chase, having plenty of work, for, had a gale come on, our ship, and a good many others, would assuredly have been driven ashore, in the plight we were in. Anyhow, at night their ships got into the Texel, and our vessels, which had been following them, anchored five or six leagues out, being afraid of the sands. Altogether we had burnt or sunk twenty-six of their ships of war, while we lost only two frigates, both of which were burnt by their fire-ships.

"As it was certain that they would not come out for some time again, and many of our ships being unfit for further contention until repaired, we returned to England, and I got my discharge and joined Captain Dave again a fortnight later, when his ship came up the river.

"Monk is a good fighter, Master Cyril, and should have the command of the Fleet instead of, as they say, the Duke of York. Although he is called General, and not Admiral, he is as good a sea-dog as any of them, and he can think as well as fight.

"Among our ships that day were several merchantmen that had been taken up for the service at the last moment and had guns slapped on board, with gunners to work them. Some of them had still their cargoes in the hold, and Monk, thinking that it was likely the captains would think more of saving their ships and goods than of fighting the Dutch, changed the captains all round, so that no man commanded his own vessel. And the consequence was that, as all admitted, the merchantmen were as willing to fight as any, and bore themselves right stoutly.

"Don't you think, Master Cyril, if you go with the Fleet, that you are going to see much of what goes on. It will be worse for you than it was for me, for there was I, labouring and toiling like a dumb beast, with my mind intent upon working the gun, and paying no heed to the roar and confusion around, scarce even noticing when one beside me was struck down. You will be up on the poop, having naught to do but to stand with your hand on your sword hilt, and waiting to board an enemy or to drive back one who tries to board you. You will find that you will be well-nigh dazed and stupid with the din and uproar."

"It does not sound a very pleasant outlook, John," Cyril laughed. "However, if I ever do get into an engagement, I will think of what you have said, and will try and prevent myself from getting either dazed or stupid; though, in truth, I can well imagine that it is enough to shake anyone's nerves to stand inactive in so terrible a scene."

"You will have to take great care of yourself, Cyril," Nellie said gravely.

Captain Dave and John Wilkes both burst into a laugh.

"How is he to take care of himself, Nellie?" her father said. "Do you suppose that a man on deck would be any the safer were he to stoop down with his head below the rail, or to screw himself up on the leeward side of a mast? No, no, lass; each man has to take his share of danger, and the most cowardly runs just as great a risk as the man who fearlessly exposes himself."



Chapter XI

Prince Rupert


The next day Cyril went down to breakfast in what he had often called, laughingly, his Court suit. This suit he had had made for him a short time before his father's death, to replace the one he had when he came over, that being altogether outgrown. He had done so to please Sir Aubrey, who had repeatedly expressed his anxiety that Cyril should always be prepared to take advantage of any good fortune that might befall him. This was the first time he had put it on.

"Well, truly you look a pretty fellow, Cyril," the Captain said, as he entered. "Don't you think so, Nellie?"

The girl nodded.

"I don't know that I like him better than in his black suit, father. But he looks very well."

"Hullo, lass! This is a change of opinion, truly! For myself I care not one jot for the fashion of a man's clothes, but I had thought that you always inclined to gay attire, and Cyril now would seem rather to belong to the Court than to the City."

"If it had been any other morning, father, I might have thought more of Cyril's appearance; but what you were telling us but now of the continuance of the Plague is so sad, that mourning, rather than Court attire, would seem to be the proper wear."

"Is the Plague spreading fast, then, Captain Dave?"

"No; but it is not decreasing, as we had hoped it would do. From the beginning of December the deaths rose steadily until the end of January. While our usual death-rate is under three hundred it went to four hundred and seventy-four. Then the weather setting in very severe checked it till the end of February, and we all hoped that the danger was over, and that we should be rid of the distemper before the warm weather set in; but for the last fortnight there has been a rise rather than a fall -- not a large one, but sufficient to cause great alarm that it will continue until warm weather sets in, and may then grow into terrible proportions. So far, there has been no case in the City, and it is only in the West that it has any hold, the deaths being altogether in the parishes of St. Giles's, St. Andrew's, St. Bride's, and St. James's, Clerkenwell. Of course, there have been cases now and then for many years past, and nine years ago it spread to a greater extent than now, and were we at the beginning of winter instead of nearing summer there would be no occasion to think much of the matter; but, with the hot weather approaching, and the tales we hear of the badness of the Plague in foreign parts one cannot but feel anxious."

"And they say, too, that there have been prophecies of grievous evils in London," Nellie put in.

"We need not trouble about that," her father replied. "The Anabaptists prophesied all sorts of evils in Elizabeth's time, but naught came of it. There are always men and women with disordered minds, who think that they are prophets, and have power to see further into the future than other people, but no one minds them or thinks aught of their wild words save at a time like the present, when there is a danger of war or pestilence. You remember Bill Vokes, John?"

"I mind him, yer honour. A poor, half-crazed fellow he was, and yet a good seaman, who would do his duty blow high or blow low. He sailed six voyages with us, Captain."

"And never one of them without telling the crew that the ship would never return to port. He had had dreams about it, and the black cat had mewed when he left home, and he saw the three magpies in a tree hard by when he stepped from the door, and many other portents of that kind. The first time he well-nigh scared some of the crew, but after the first voyage -- from which we came back safely, of course -- they did but laugh at him; and as in all other respects he was a good sailor, and a willing fellow, I did not like to discharge him, for, once the men found out that his prophecies came to naught, they did no harm, and, indeed, they afforded them much amusement. Just as it is on board a ship, so it is elsewhere. If our vessel had gone down that first voyage, any man who escaped drowning would have said that Bill Vokes had not been without reason in his warnings, and that it was nothing less than flying in the face of Providence, to put to sea when the loss of the ship had been so surely foretold. So, on shore, the fools or madmen who have dreams and visions are not heeded when times are good, and men's senses sound, whereas, in troubled times, men take their ravings to heart. If all the scatterbrains had a good whipping at the pillory it would be well, both for them and for the silly people who pay attention to their ravings."

A few minutes later, Cyril took a boat to the Whitehall steps, and after some delay was shown up to Prince Rupert's room.

"None the worse for your exertions yester-even, young gentleman, I hope?" the Prince said, shaking hands with him warmly.

"None, sir. The exertion was not great, and it was but the inconvenience of the smoke that troubled me in any way."

"Have you been to inquire after the young ladies who owe their lives to you?"

"No, sir; I know neither their names nor their condition, nor, had I wished it, could I have made inquiries, for I know not whither they were taken."

"I sent round early this morning," the Prince said, "and heard that they were as well as might be expected after the adventure they went through. And now tell me about yourself, and what you have been doing. 'Tis one of the saddest things to me, since I returned to England, that so many good men who fought by my side have been made beggars in the King's service, and that I could do naught for them. 'Tis a grievous business, and yet I see not how it is to be mended. The hardest thing is, that those who did most for the King's service are those who have suffered most deeply. None of those who were driven to sell their estates at a fraction of their value, in order to raise money for the King's treasury or to put men into the field, have received any redress. It would need a vast sum to buy back all their lands, and Parliament would not vote money for that purpose; nor would it be fair to turn men out of the estates that they bought and paid for. Do you not think so?" he asked suddenly, seeing, by the lad's face, that he was not in agreement with him.

"No, sir; it does not seem to me that it would be unfair. These men bought the lands for, as you say, but a fraction of their value; they did so in the belief that Parliament would triumph, and their purchase was but a speculation grounded on that belief. They have had the enjoyment of the estates for years, and have drawn from them an income which has, by this time, brought them in a sum much exceeding that which they have adventured, and it does not seem to me that there would be any hardship whatever were they now called upon to restore them to their owners. 'Tis as when a man risks his money in a venture at sea. If all goes as he hopes he will make a great profit on his money. If the ship is cast away or taken by pirates, it is unfortunate, but he has no reason to curse his ill-luck if the ship had already made several voyages which have more than recouped the money he ventured."

"Well and stoutly argued!" the Prince said approvingly. "But you must remember, young sir, that the King, on his return, was by no means strongly seated on the throne. There was the Army most evilly affected towards him; there were the Puritans, who lamented the upset of the work they or their fathers had done. All those men who had purchased the estates of the Royalists had families and friends, and, had these estates been restored to their rightful owners, there might have been an outbreak that would have shaken the throne again. Many would have refused to give up possession, save to force; and where was the force to come from? Even had the King had troops willing to carry out such a measure, they might have been met by force, and had blood once been shed, none can say how the trouble might have spread, or what might have been the end of it. And now, lad, come to your own fortunes."

Cyril briefly related the story of his life since his return to London, stating his father's plan that he should some day take foreign service.

"You have shown that you have a stout heart, young sir, as well as a brave one, and have done well, indeed, in turning your mind to earn your living by such talents as you have, rather than in wasting your time in vain hopes and in ceaseless importunities for justice. It may be that you have acted wisely in thinking of taking service on the Continent, seeing that we have no Army; and when the time comes, I will further your wishes to the utmost of my power. But in the meantime there is opportunity for service at home, and I will gladly appoint you as a Volunteer in my own ship. There are many gentlemen going with me in that capacity, and it would be of advantage to you, if, when I write to some foreign prince on your behalf, I can say that you have fought under my eye."

"Thank you greatly, Prince. I have been wishing, above all things, that I could join the Fleet, and it would be, indeed, an honour to begin my career under the Prince of whom I heard so often from my father."

Prince Rupert looked at his watch.

"The King will be in the Mall now," he said. "I will take you across and present you to him. It is useful to have the entrée at Court, though perhaps the less you avail yourself of it the better."

So saying, he rose, put on his hat, and, throwing his cloak over his shoulder, went across to the Mall, asking questions of Cyril as he went, and extracting from him a sketch of the adventure of his being kidnapped and taken to Holland.

Presently they arrived at the spot where the King, with three or four nobles and gentlemen, had been playing. Charles was in a good humour, for he had just won a match with the Earl of Rochester.

"Well, my grave cousin," he said merrily, "what brings you out of your office so early? No fresh demands for money, I hope?"

"Not at present. And indeed, it is not to you that I should come on such a quest, but to the Duke of York."

"And he would come to me," said the King; "so it is the same thing."

"I have come across to present to your Majesty a very gallant young gentleman, who yesterday evening, at the risk of his life, saved the three daughters of the Earl of Wisbech from being burned at the fire in the Savoy, where his Lordship's mansion was among those that were destroyed. I beg to present to your Majesty Sir Cyril Shenstone, the son of the late Sir Aubrey Shenstone, a most gallant gentleman, who rode under my banner in many a stern fight in the service of your royal father."

"I knew him well," the King said graciously, "but had not heard of his death. I am glad to hear that his son inherits his bravery. I have often regretted deeply that it was out of my power to requite, in any way, the services Sir Aubrey rendered, and the sacrifices he made for our House."

His brow clouded a little, and he looked appealingly at Prince Rupert.

"Sir Cyril Shenstone has no more intention of asking for favours than I have, Charles," the latter said. "He is going to accompany me as a Volunteer against the Dutch, and if the war lasts I shall ask for a better appointment for him."

"That he shall have," the King said warmly. "None have a better claim to commissions in the Navy and Army than sons of gentlemen who fought and suffered in the cause of our royal father. My Lords," he said to the little group of gentlemen, who had been standing a few paces away while this conversation had been going on, "I would have you know Sir Cyril Shenstone, the son of a faithful adherent of my father, and who, yesterday evening, saved the lives of the three daughters of My Lord of Wisbech in the fire at the Savoy. He is going as a Volunteer with my cousin Rupert when he sails against the Dutch."

The gentlemen all returned Cyril's salute courteously.

"He will be fortunate in beginning his career under the eyes of so brave a Prince," the Earl of Rochester said, bowing to Prince Rupert.

"It would be well if you all," the latter replied bluntly, "were to ship in the Fleet for a few months instead of wasting your time in empty pleasures."

The Earl smiled. Prince Rupert's extreme disapproval of the life at Court was well known.

"We cannot all be Bayards, Prince, and most of us would, methinks, be too sick at sea to be of much assistance, were we to go. But if the Dutchmen come here, which is not likely -- for I doubt not, Prince, that you will soon send them flying back to their own ports -- we shall all be glad to do our best to meet them when they land."

The Prince made no reply, but, turning to the King, said, -- 

"We will not detain you longer from your game, Cousin Charles. I have plenty to do, with all the complaints as to the state of the ships, and the lack of stores and necessaries."

"Remember, I shall be glad to see you at my levées, Sir Cyril," the King said, holding out his hand. "Do not wait for the Prince to bring you, for if you do you will wait long."

Cyril doffed his hat, raised the King's hand to his lips, then, with a deep bow and an expression of thanks, followed Prince Rupert, who was already striding away.

"You might have been better introduced," the Prince said when he overtook him. "Still it is better to be badly introduced than to have no introduction at all. I am too old for the flippancies of the Court. You had better show yourself there sometimes; you will make friends that may be useful. By the way, I have not your address, and it may be a fortnight or more before the Henrietta is ready to take her crew on board." He took out his tablet and wrote down the address. "Come and see me if there is anything you want to ask me. Do not let the clerks keep you out with the pretence that I am busy, but send up your name to me, and tell them that I have ordered it shall be taken up, however I may be engaged."

Having no occasion for haste, Cyril walked back to the City after leaving Prince Rupert. A great change had taken place in his fortunes in the last twenty-four hours. Then he had no prospects save continuing his work in the City for another two years, and even after that time he foresaw grave difficulties in the way of his obtaining a commission in a foreign army; for Sir John Parton, even if ready to carry out the promise he had formerly made him, might not have sufficient influence to do so. Now he was to embark in Prince Rupert's own ship. He would be the companion of many other gentlemen going out as Volunteers, and, at a bound, spring from the position of a writer in the City to that occupied by his father before he became involved in the trouble between King and Parliament. He was already admitted to Court, and Prince Rupert himself had promised to push his fortunes abroad.

And yet he felt less elated than he would have expected from his sudden change. The question of money was the cloud that dulled the brightness of his prospects. As a Volunteer he would receive no pay, and yet he must make a fair show among the young noblemen and gentlemen who would be his companions. Doubtless they would be victualled on board, but he would have to dress well and probably pay a share in the expenses that would be incurred for wine and other things on board. Had it not been for the future he would have been inclined to regret that he had not refused the tempting offer; but the advantages to be gained by Prince Rupert's patronage were so large that he felt no sacrifice would be too great to that end -- even that of accepting the assistance that Captain Dave had more than once hinted he should give him. It was just the dinner-hour when he arrived home.

"Well, Cyril, I see by your face that the Prince has said nothing in the direction of your wishes," Captain Dave said, as he entered.

"Then my face is a false witness, Captain Dave, for Prince Rupert has appointed me a Volunteer on board his own ship."

"I am glad, indeed, lad, heartily glad, though your going will be a heavy loss to us all. But why were you looking so grave over it?"

"I have been wondering whether I have acted wisely in accepting it," Cyril said. "I am very happy here, I am earning my living, I have no cares of any sort, and I feel that it is a very serious matter to make a change. The Prince has a number of noblemen and gentlemen going with him as Volunteers, and I feel that I shall be out of my element in such company. At the same time I have every reason to be thankful, for Prince Rupert has promised that he will, after the war is over, give me introductions which will procure me a commission abroad."

"Well, then, it seems to me that things could not look better," Captain Dave said heartily. "When do you go on board?"

"The Prince says it may be another fortnight; so that I shall have time to make my preparations, and warn the citizens I work for, that I am going to leave them."

"I should say the sooner the better, lad. You will have to get your outfit and other matters seen to. Moreover, now that you have been taken under Prince Rupert's protection, and have become, as it were, an officer on his ship -- for gentlemen Volunteers, although they have no duties in regard to working the ship, are yet officers -- it is hardly seemly that you should be making up the accounts of bakers and butchers, ironmongers, and ship's storekeepers."

"The work is honest, and I am in no way ashamed of it," Cyril said; "but as I have many things to see about, I suppose I had better give them notice at once. Prince Rupert presented me to the King to-day, and His Majesty requested me to attend at Court, which I should be loath to do, were it not that the Prince urged upon me that it was of advantage that I should make myself known."

"One would think, Master Cyril, that this honour which has suddenly befallen you is regarded by you as a misfortune," Mrs. Dowsett said, laughing. "Most youths would be overjoyed at such a change in their fortune."

"It would be all very pleasant," Cyril said, "had I the income of my father's estate at my back; but I feel that I shall be in a false position, thus thrusting myself among men who have more guineas in their pockets than I have pennies. However, it seems that the matter has been taken out of my own hands, and that, as things have turned out, so I must travel. Who would have thought, when John Wilkes fetched me out last night to go to the fire, it would make an alteration in my whole life, and that such a little thing as climbing up a ladder and helping to get three girls out of a room full of smoke -- and John Wilkes did the most difficult part of the work -- was to change all my prospects?"

"There was a Providence in it, Cyril," Mrs. Dowsett said gently. "Why, else, should you have gone up that ladder, when, to all seeming, there was no one there. The maids were so frightened, John says, that they would never have said a word about there being anyone in that room, and the girls would have perished had you not gone up. Now as, owing to that, everything has turned out according to your wishes, it would be a sin not to take advantage of it, for you may be sure that, as the way has thus been suddenly opened to you, so will all other things follow in due course."

"Thank you, madam," Cyril said simply. "I had not thought of it in that light, but assuredly you are right, and I will not suffer myself to be daunted by the difficulties there may be in my way."

John Wilkes now came in and sat down to the meal. He was vastly pleased when he heard of the good fortune that had befallen Cyril.

"It seems to me," Cyril said, "that I am but an impostor, and that at least some share in the good luck ought to have fallen to you, John, seeing that you carried them all down the ladder."

"I have carried heavier bales, many a time, much longer distances than that -- though I do not say that the woman was not a tidy weight, for, indeed, she was; but I would have carried down ten of them for the honour I had in being shaken by the hand by Prince Rupert, as gallant a sailor as ever sailed a ship. No, no; what I did was all in a day's work, and no more than lifting anchors and chains about in the storehouse. As for honours, I want none of them. I am moored in a snug port here, and would not leave Captain Dave if they would make a Duke of me."

Nellie had said no word of congratulation to Cyril, but as they rose from dinner, she said, in low tones, -- 

"You know I am pleased, and hope that you will have all the good fortune you deserve."

Cyril set out at once to make a round of the shops where he worked. The announcement that he must at once terminate his connection with them, as he was going on board the Fleet, was everywhere received with great regret.

"I would gladly pay double," one said, "rather than that you should go, for, indeed, it has taken a heavy load off my shoulders, and I know not how I shall get on in the future."

"I should think there would be no difficulty in getting some other young clerk to do the work," Cyril said.

"Not so easy," the man replied. "I had tried one or two before, and found they were more trouble than they were worth. There are not many who write as neatly as you do, and you do as much in an hour as some would take a day over. However, I wish you good luck, and if you should come back, and take up the work again, or start as a scrivener in the City, I can promise you that you shall have my books again, and that among my friends I can find you as much work as you can get through."

Something similar was said to him at each of the houses where he called, and he felt much gratified at finding that his work had given such satisfaction.

When he came in to supper, Cyril was conscious that something had occurred of an unusual nature. Nellie's eyes were swollen with crying; Mrs. Dowsett had also evidently been in tears; while Captain Dave was walking up and down the room restlessly.

The servant was placing the things upon the table, and, just as they were about to take their seats, the bell of the front door rang loudly.

"See who it is, John," Captain Dave said. "Whoever it is seems to be in a mighty hurry."

In a minute or two John returned, followed by a gentleman. The latter paused at the door, and then said, bowing courteously, as he advanced, to Mrs. Dowsett, -- 

"I must ask pardon for intruding on your meal, madam, but my business is urgent. I am the Earl of Wisbech, and I have called to see Sir Cyril Shenstone, to offer him my heartfelt thanks for the service he has rendered me by saving the lives of my daughters."

All had risen to their feet as he entered, and there was a slight exclamation of surprise from the Captain, his wife, and daughter, as the Earl said "Sir Cyril Shenstone."

Cyril stepped forward.

"I am Cyril Shenstone, my Lord," he said, "and had the good fortune to be able, with the assistance of my friend here, John Wilkes, to rescue your daughters, though, at the time, indeed, I was altogether ignorant of their rank. It was a fortunate occurrence, but I must disclaim any merit in the action, for it was by mere accident that, mounting to the window by a ladder, I saw them lying insensible on the ground."

"Your modesty does you credit, sir," the Earl said, shaking him warmly by the hand. "But such is not the opinion of Prince Rupert, who described it to me as a very gallant action; and, moreover, he said that it was you who first brought him the news that there were females in the house, which he and others had supposed to be empty, and that it was solely owing to you that the ladders were taken round."

"Will you allow me, my Lord, to introduce to you Captain Dowsett, his wife, and daughter, who have been to me the kindest of friends?"

"A kindness, my Lord," Captain Dave said earnestly, "that has been repaid a thousandfold by this good youth, of whose rank we were indeed ignorant until you named it. May I ask you to honour us by joining in our meal?"

"That will I right gladly, sir," the Earl said, "for, in truth, I have scarce broke my fast to-day. I was down at my place in Kent when I was awoke this morning by one of my grooms, who had ridden down with the news that my mansion in the Savoy had been burned, and that my daughters had had a most narrow escape of their lives. Of course, I mounted at once and rode to town, where I was happy in finding that they had well-nigh recovered from the effects of their fright and the smoke. Neither they nor the nurse who was with them could give me any account of what had happened, save that they had, as they supposed, become insensible from the smoke. When they recovered, they found themselves in the Earl of Surrey's house, to which it seems they had been carried. After inquiry, I learned that the Duke of Albemarle and Prince Rupert had both been on the scene directing operations. I went to the latter, with whom I have the honour of being well acquainted, and he told me the whole story, saying that had it not been for Sir Cyril Shenstone, my daughters would certainly have perished. He gave credit, too, to Sir Cyril's companion, who, he said, carried them down the ladder, and himself entered the burning room the last time, to aid in bringing out the nurse, who was too heavy for the rescuer of my daughters to lift. Save a cup of wine and a piece of bread, that I took on my first arrival, I have not broken my fast to-day."

Then he seated himself on a chair that Cyril had placed for him between Mrs. Dowsett and Nellie.

Captain Dave whispered to John Wilkes, who went out, and returned in two or three minutes with three or four flasks of rare Spanish wine which the Captain had brought back on his last voyage, and kept for drinking on special occasions. The dame always kept an excellent table, and although she made many apologies to the Earl, he assured her that none were needed, for that he could have supped no better in his own house.

"I hear," he said presently to Cyril, "that you are going out as a Volunteer in Prince Rupert's ship. My son is also going with him, and I hope, in a day or two, to introduce him to you. He is at present at Cambridge, but, having set his mind on sailing with the Prince, I have been fain to allow him to give up his studies. I heard from Prince Rupert that you had recently been kidnapped and taken to Holland. He gave me no particulars, nor did I ask them, being desirous of hurrying off at once to express my gratitude to you. How was it that such an adventure befell you -- for it would hardly seem likely that you could have provoked the enmity of persons capable of such an outrage?"

"It was the result of his services to me, my Lord," Captain Dave said. "Having been a sea-captain, I am but a poor hand at accounts; but, having fallen into this business at the death of my father, it seemed simple enough for me to get on without much book-learning. I made but a bad shape at it; and when Master Shenstone, as he then called himself, offered to keep my books for me, it seemed to me an excellent mode of saving myself worry and trouble. However, when he set himself to making up the accounts of my stock, he found that I was nigh eight hundred pounds short; and, setting himself to watch, discovered that my apprentices were in alliance with a band of thieves, and were nightly robbing me. We caught them and two of the thieves in the act. One of the latter was the receiver, and on his premises the proceeds of a great number of robberies were found, and there was no doubt that he was the chief of a notorious gang, called the 'Black Gang,' which had for a long time infested the City and the surrounding country. It was to prevent Sir Cyril from giving evidence at the trial that he was kidnapped and sent away. He was placed in the house of a diamond merchant, to whom the thieves were in the habit of consigning jewels; and this might well have turned out fatal to him, for to the same house came my elder apprentice and one of the men captured with him -- a notorious ruffian -- who had been rescued from the constables by a gang of their fellows, in open daylight, in the City. These, doubtless, would have compassed his death had he not happily seen them enter the house, and made his escape, taking passage in a coaster bound for Dunkirk, from which place he took another ship to England. Thus you see, my Lord, that I am indebted to him for saving me from a further loss that might well have ruined me."

He paused, and glanced at Nellie, who rose at once, saying to the Earl, -- 

"I trust that your Lordship will excuse my mother and myself. My father has more to tell you; at least, I should wish him to do so."

Then, taking her mother's hand, she curtsied deeply, and they left the room together.

"Such, my Lord, as I have told you, is the service, so far as I knew till this afternoon, Sir Cyril Shenstone has rendered me. That was no small thing, but it is very little to what I know now that I am indebted to him. After he went out I was speaking with my wife on money matters, desiring much to be of assistance to him in the matter of the expedition on which he is going. Suddenly my daughter burst into tears and left the room. I naturally bade my wife follow her and learn what ailed her. Then, with many sobs and tears, she told her mother that we little knew how much we were indebted to him. She said she had been a wicked girl, having permitted herself to be accosted several times by a well-dressed gallant, who told her that he was the Earl of Harwich, who had professed great love for her, and urged her to marry him privately.

"He was about to speak to her one day when she was out under Master Cyril's escort. The latter interfered, and there was well-nigh a fracas between them. Being afraid that some of the lookers-on might know her, and bring the matter to our ears, she mentioned so much to us, and, in consequence, we did not allow her to go out afterwards, save in the company of her mother. Nevertheless, the man continued to meet her, and, as he was unknown to her mother, passed notes into her hand. To these she similarly replied, and at last consented to fly with him. She did so at night, and was about to enter a sedan chair in the lane near this house when they were interrupted by the arrival of Master Shenstone and my friend John Wilkes. The former, it seems, had his suspicions, and setting himself to watch, had discovered that she was corresponding with this man -- whom he had found was not the personage he pretended to be, but a disreputable hanger-on of the Court, one John Harvey -- and had then kept up an incessant watch, with the aid of John Wilkes, outside the house at night, until he saw her come out and join the fellow with two associates, when he followed her to the chair they had in readiness for her.

"There was, she says, a terrible scene. Swords were drawn. John Wilkes knocked down one of the men, and Master Shenstone ran John Harvey through the shoulder. Appalled now at seeing how she had been deceived, and how narrowly she had escaped destruction, she returned with her rescuers to the house, and no word was ever said on the subject until she spoke this afternoon. We had noticed that a great change had come over her, and that she seemed to have lost all her tastes for shows and finery, but little did we dream of the cause. She said that she could not have kept the secret much longer in any case, being utterly miserable at the thought of how she had degraded herself and deceived us.

"It was a sad story to have to hear, my Lord, but we have fully forgiven her, having, indeed, cause to thank God both for her preservation and for the good that this seems to have wrought in her. She had been a spoilt child, and, being well-favoured, her head had been turned by flattery, and she indulged in all sorts of foolish dreams. Now she is truly penitent for her folly. Had you not arrived, my Lord, I should, when we had finished our supper, have told Master Shenstone that I knew of this vast service he has rendered us -- a service to which the other was as nothing. That touched my pocket only; this my only child's happiness. I have told you the story, my Lord, by her consent, in order that you might know what sort of a young fellow this gentleman who has rescued your daughter is. John, I thank you for your share in this matter," and, with tears in his eyes, he held out his hand to his faithful companion.

"I thank you deeply, Captain Dowsett, for having told me this story," the Earl said gravely. "It was a painful one to tell, and I feel sure that the circumstance will, as you say, be of lasting benefit to your daughter. It shows that her heart is a true and loyal one, or she would not have had so painful a story told to a stranger, simply that the true character of her preserver should be known. I need not say that it has had the effect she desired of raising Sir Cyril Shenstone highly in my esteem. Prince Rupert spoke of him very highly and told me how he had been honourably supporting himself and his father, until the death of the latter. Now I see that he possesses unusual discretion and acuteness, as well as bravery. Now I will take my leave, thanking you for the good entertainment that you have given me. I am staying at the house of the Earl of Surrey, Sir Cyril, and I hope that you will call to-morrow morning, in order that my daughters may thank you in person."

Captain Dave and Cyril escorted the Earl to the door and then returned to the chamber above.



Chapter XII

New Friends


On arriving at the room upstairs, Captain Dave placed his hand on Cyril's shoulder and said:

"How can I thank you, lad, for what you have done for us?"

"By saying nothing further about it, Captain Dave. I had hoped that the matter would never have come to your ears, and yet I rejoice, for her own sake, that Mistress Nellie has told you all. I thought that she would do so some day, for I, too, have seen how much she has been changed since then, and though it becomes me not to speak of one older than myself, I think that the experience has been for her good, and, above all, I am rejoiced to find that you have fully forgiven her, for indeed I am sure that she has been grievously punished."

"Well, well, lad, it shall be as you say, for indeed I am but a poor hand at talking, but believe me that I feel as grateful as if I could express myself rightly, and that the Earl of Wisbech cannot feel one whit more thankful to you for having saved the lives of his three children than I do for your having saved my Nellie from the consequences of her own folly. There is one thing that you must let me do -- it is but a small thing, but at present I have no other way of showing what I feel: you must let me take upon myself, as if you had been my son, the expenses of this outfit of yours. I was talking of the matter, as you may have guessed by what I said to the Earl, when Nellie burst into tears; and if I contemplated this when I knew only you had saved me from ruin, how much more do I feel it now that you have done this greater thing? I trust that you will not refuse me and my wife this small opportunity of showing our gratitude. What say you, John Wilkes?"

"I say, Captain Dave, that it is well spoken, and I am sure Master Cyril will not refuse your offer."

"I will not, Captain Dave, providing that you let it be as a loan that I may perhaps some day be enabled to repay you. I feel that it would be churlish to refuse so kind an offer, and it will relieve me of the one difficulty that troubled me when the prospects in all other respects seemed so fair."

"That is right, lad, and you have taken a load off my mind. You have not acted quite fairly by us in one respect, Master Cyril!"

"How is that?" Cyril asked in surprise.

"In not telling us that you were Sir Cyril Shenstone, and in letting us put you up in an attic, and letting you go about as Nellie's escort, as if you had been but an apprentice."

Cyril laughed.

"I said that my father was Sir Aubrey Shenstone, though I own that I did not say so until I had been here some time; but the fact that he was a Baronet and not a Knight made little difference. It was a friendless lad whom you took in and gave shelter to, Captain Dave, and -- it mattered not whether he was plain Cyril or Sir Cyril. I had certainly no thought of taking my title again until I entered a foreign army, and indeed it would have been a disservice to me here in London. I should have cut but a poor figure asking for work and calling myself Sir Cyril Shenstone. I should have had to enter into all sorts of explanations before anyone would have believed me, and I don't think that, even with you, I should have been so comfortable as I have been."

"Well, at any rate, no harm has been done," Captain Dave said; "but I think you might have told me."

"If I had, Captain Dave, you would assuredly have told your wife and Mistress Nellie; and it was much more pleasant for me that things should be as they were."

"Well, perhaps you were right, lad. And I own that I might not have let you work at my books, and worry over that robbery, had I known that you were of a station above me."

"That you could never have known," Cyril said warmly. "We have been poor ever since I can remember. I owed my education to the kindness of friends of my mother, and in no way has my station been equal to that of a London trader like yourself. As to the title, it was but a matter of birth, and went but ill with an empty purse and a shabby doublet. In the future it may be useful, but until now, it has been naught, and indeed worse than naught, to me."

The next morning when Cyril went into the parlour he found that Nellie was busy assisting the maid to lay the table. When the latter had left the room, the girl went up to Cyril and took his hand.

"I have never thanked you yet," she said. "I could not bring myself to speak of it, but now that I have told them I can do so. Ever since that dreadful night I have prayed for you, morning and evening, and thanked God for sending you to my rescue. What a wicked girl you must have thought me -- and with reason! But you could not think of me worse than I thought of myself. Now that my father and mother have forgiven me I shall be different altogether. I had before made up my mind to tell them. Still, it did not seem to me that I should ever be happy again. But now that I have had the courage to speak out, and they have been so good to me, a great weight is lifted off my mind, and I mean to learn to be a good housewife like my mother, and to try to be worthy, some day, of an honest man's love."

"I am sure you will be," Cyril said warmly. "And so, Mistress Nellie, it has all turned out for the best, though it did not seem so at one time."

At this moment Captain Dave came in. "I am glad to see you two talking together as of old," he said. "We had thought that there must be some quarrel between you, for you had given up rating him, Nellie. Give her a kiss, Cyril; she is a good lass, though she has been a foolish one. Nay, Nellie, do not offer him your cheek -- it is the fashion to do that to every idle acquaintance. Kiss him heartily, as if you loved him. That is right, lass. Now let us to breakfast. Where is your mother? She is late."

"I told her that I would see after the breakfast in future, father, and I have begun this morning -- partly because it is my duty to take the work off her hands, and partly because I wanted a private talk with Sir Cyril."

"I won't be called Sir Cyril under this roof," the lad said, laughing. "And I warn you that if anyone calls me so I will not answer. I have always been Cyril with you all, and I intend to remain so to the end, and you must remember that it is but a few months that I have had the right to the title, and was never addressed by it until by Prince Rupert. I was for the moment well nigh as much surprised as you were last night."

An hour later Cyril again donned his best suit, and started to pay his visit to the Earl. Had he not seen him over-night, he would have felt very uncomfortable at the thought of the visit; but he had found him so pleasant and friendly, and so entirely free from any air of pride or condescension, that it seemed as if he were going to meet a friend. He was particularly struck with the manner in which he had placed Captain Dave and his family at their ease, and got them to talk as freely and naturally with him as if he had been an acquaintance of long standing. It seemed strange to him to give his name as Sir Cyril Shenstone to the lackeys at the door, and he almost expected to see an expression of amusement on their faces. They had, however, evidently received instructions respecting him, for he was without question at once ushered into the room in which the Earl of Wisbech and his daughters were sitting.

The Earl shook him warmly by the hand, and then, turning to his daughters, said, -- 

"This is the gentleman to whom you owe your lives, girls. Sir Cyril, these are my daughters -- Lady Dorothy, Lady Bertha, and Lady Beatrice. It seems somewhat strange to have to introduce you, who have saved their lives, to them; but you have the advantage of them, for you have seen them before, but they have not until now seen your face."

Each of the girls as she was named made a deep curtsey, and then presented her cheek to be kissed, as was the custom of the times.

"They are somewhat tongue-tied," the Earl said, smiling, as the eldest of the three cast an appealing glance to him, "and have begged me to thank you in their names, which I do with all my heart, and beg you to believe that their gratitude is none the less deep because they have no words to express it. They generally have plenty to say, I can assure you, and will find their tongues when you are a little better acquainted."

"I am most happy to have been of service to you, ladies," Cyril said, bowing deeply to them. "I can hardly say that I have the advantage your father speaks of, for in truth the smoke was so thick, and my eyes smarted so with it, that I could scarce see your faces."

"Their attire, too, in no way helped you," the Earl said, with a laugh, "for, as I hear, their costume was of the slightest. I believe that Dorothy's chief concern is that she did not have time to attire herself in a more becoming toilette before the smoke overpowered her."

"Now, father," the girl protested, with a pretty colour in her cheeks, "you know I have never said anything of the sort, though I did say that I wished I had thrown a cloak round me. It is not pleasant, whatever you may think, to know that one was handed down a ladder in one's nightdress."

"I don't care about that a bit," Beatrice said; "but you did not say, father, that it was a young gentleman, no older than Sydney, who found us and carried us out. I had expected to see a great big man."

"I don't think I said anything about his age, Beatrice, but simply told you that I had found out that it was Sir Cyril Shenstone that had saved you."

"Is the nurse recovering, my Lord?"

"She is still in bed, and the doctor says she will be some time before she quite recovers from the fright and shock. They were all sleeping in the storey above. It was Dorothy who first woke, and, after waking her sisters, ran into the nurse's room, which was next door, and roused her. The silly woman was so frightened that she could do nothing but stand at the window and scream until the girls almost dragged her away, and forced her to come downstairs. The smoke, however, was so thick that they could get no farther than the next floor; then, guided by the screams of the other servants, they opened a door and ran in, but, as you know, it was not the room into which the women had gone. The nurse fell down in a faint as soon as she got in. The girls, as it seems, dragged her as far as they could towards the window, but she was too heavy for them; and as they had not shut the door, the smoke poured in and overpowered them, and they fell beside her. The rest you know. She is a silly woman, and she has quite lost my confidence by her folly and cowardice, but she has been a good servant, and the girls, all of whom she nursed, were fond of her. Still, it is evident that she is not to be trusted in an emergency, and it was only because the girls' governess is away on a visit to her mother that she happened to be left in charge of them. Now, young ladies, you can leave us, as I have other matters to talk over with Sir Cyril."

The three girls curtsied deeply, first to their father, and then to Cyril, who held the door for them to pass out.

"Now, Sir Cyril," the Earl said, as the door closed behind them, "we must have a talk together. You may well believe that, after what has happened, I look upon you almost as part of my family, and that I consider you have given me the right to look after your welfare as if you were a near relation of my own; and glad I am to have learned yesterday evening that you are, in all respects, one whom I might be proud indeed to call a kinsman. Had you been a cousin of mine, with parents but indifferently off in worldly goods, it would have been my duty, of course, to push you forward and to aid you in every way to make a proper figure on this expedition. I think that, after what has happened, I have equally the right to do so, and what would have been my duty, had you been a relation, is no less a duty, and will certainly be a great gratification to me to do now. You understand me, do you not? I wish to take upon myself all the charges connected with your outfit, and to make you an allowance, similar to that which I shall give to my son, for your expenses on board ship. All this is of course but a slight thing, but, believe me, that when the expedition is over it will be my pleasure to help you forward to advancement in any course which you may choose."

"I thank you most heartily, my Lord," Cyril said, "and would not hesitate to accept your help in the present matter, did I need it. However, I have saved some little money during the past two years, and Captain Dowsett has most generously offered me any sum I may require for my expenses, and has consented to allow me to take it as a loan to be repaid at some future time, should it be in my power to do so. Your offer, however, to aid me in my career afterwards, I most thankfully accept. My idea has always been to take service under some foreign prince, and Prince Rupert has most kindly promised to aid me in that respect; but after serving for a time at sea I shall be better enabled to judge than at present as to whether that course is indeed the best, and I shall be most thankful for your counsel in this and all other matters, and feel myself fortunate indeed to have obtained your good will and patronage."

"Well, if it must be so, it must," the Earl said. "Your friend Captain Dowsett seems to me a very worthy man. You have placed him under an obligation as heavy as my own, and he has the first claim to do you service. In this matter, then, I must be content to stand aside, but on your return from sea it will be my turn, and I shall be hurt and grieved indeed if you do not allow me an opportunity of proving my gratitude to you. As to the career you speak of, it is a precarious one. There are indeed many English and Scotch officers who have risen to high rank and honour in foreign service; but to every one that so succeeds, how many fall unnoticed, and lie in unmarked graves, in well-nigh every country in Europe? Were you like so many of your age, bent merely on adventure and pleasure, the case would be different, but it is evident that you have a clear head for business, that you are steady and persevering, and such being the case, there are many offices under the Crown in which you might distinguish yourself and do far better than the vast majority of those who sell their swords to foreign princes, and become mere soldiers of fortune, fighting for a cause in which they have no interest, and risking their lives in quarrels that are neither their own nor their country's.

"However, all this we can talk over when you come back after having, as I hope, aided in destroying the Dutch Fleet. I expect my son up to-morrow, and trust that you will accompany him to the King's levée, next Monday. Prince Rupert tells me that he has already presented you to the King, and that you were well received by him, as indeed you had a right to be, as the son of a gentleman who had suffered and sacrificed much in the Royal cause. But I will take the opportunity of introducing you to several other gentlemen who will sail with you. On the following day I shall be going down into Kent, and shall remain there until it is time for Sydney to embark. If you can get your preparations finished by that time, I trust that you will give us the pleasure of your company, and will stay with me until you embark with Sydney. In this way you will come to know us better, and to feel, as I wish you to feel, as one of the family."

Cyril gratefully accepted the invitation, and then took his leave.

Captain Dave was delighted when he heard the issue of his visit to the Earl.

"I should never have forgiven you, lad, if you had accepted the Earl's offer to help you in the matter of this expedition. It is no great thing, and comes well within my compass, and I should have been sorely hurt had you let him come between us; but in the future I can do little, and he much. I have spoken to several friends who are better acquainted with public affairs than I am, and they all speak highly of him. He holds, for the most part, aloof from Court, which is to his credit seeing how matters go on there; but he is spoken of as a very worthy gentleman and one of merit, who might take a prominent part in affairs were he so minded. He has broad estates in Kent and Norfolk, and spends the greater part of his life at one or other of his country seats. Doubtless, he will be able to assist you greatly in the future."

"I did not like to refuse his offer to go down with him to Kent," Cyril said, "though I would far rather have remained here with you until we sail."

"You did perfectly right, lad. It will cut short your stay here but a week, and it would be madness to refuse the opportunity of getting to know him and his family better. The Countess died three years ago, I hear, and he has shown no disposition to take another wife, as he might well do, seeing he is but a year or two past forty, and has as pleasant a face and manner as I have ever seen. He is not the sort of man to promise what he will not perform, Cyril, and more than ever do I think that it was a fortunate thing for you that John Wilkes fetched you to that fire in the Savoy. And now, lad, you have no time to lose. You must come with me at once to Master Woods, the tailor, in Eastcheap, who makes clothes not only for the citizens but for many of the nobles and gallants of the Court. In the first place, you will need a fitting dress for the King's levée; then you will need at least one more suit similar to that you now wear, and three for on board ship and for ordinary occasions, made of stout cloth, but in the fashion; then you must have helmet, and breast - and back-pieces for the fighting, and for these we will go to Master Lawrence, the armourer, in Cheapside. All these we will order to-day in my name, and put them down in your account to me. As to arms, you have your sword, and there is but a brace of pistols to be bought. You will want a few things such as thick cloaks for sea service; for though I suppose that Volunteers do not keep their watch, you may meet with rains and heavy weather, and you will need something to keep you dry."

They sallied out at once. So the clothes were ordered, and the Court suit, with the best of the others promised by the end of the week; the armour was fitted on and bought, and a stock of fine shirts with ruffles, hose, and shoes, was also purchased. The next day Sydney Oliphant, the Earl's son, called upon Cyril. He was a frank, pleasant young fellow, about a year older than Cyril. He was very fond of his sisters, and expressed in lively terms his gratitude for their rescue.

"This expedition has happened in the nick of time for me," he said, when, in accordance with his invitation, Cyril and he embarked in the Earl's boat in which he had been rowed to the City, "for I was in bad odour with the authorities, and was like, erelong, to have been sent home far less pleasantly; and although the Earl, my father, is very indulgent, he would have been terribly angry with me had it been so. To tell you the truth, at the University we are divided into two sets -- those who read and those who don't -- and on joining I found myself very soon among the latter. I don't think it was quite my fault, for I naturally fell in with companions whom I had known before, and it chanced that some of these were among the wildest spirits in the University.

"Of course I had my horses, and, being fond of riding, I was more often in the saddle than in my seat in the college schools. Then there were constant complaints against us for sitting up late and disturbing the college with our melodies, and altogether we stood in bad odour with the Dons; and when they punished us we took our revenge by playing them pranks, until lately it became almost open war, and would certainly have ended before long in a score or more of us being sent down. I should not have minded that myself, but it would have grieved the Earl, and I am not one of the new-fashioned ones who care naught for what their fathers may say. He has been praising you up to the skies this morning, I can tell you -- I don't mean only as to the fire but about other things -- and says he hopes we shall be great friends, and I am sure I hope so too, and think so. He had been telling me about your finding out about their robbing that good old sea-captain you live with, and how you were kidnapped afterwards, and sent to Holland; and how, in another adventure, although he did not tell me how that came about, you pricked a ruffling gallant through the shoulder; so that you have had a larger share of adventure, by a great deal, than I have. I had expected to see you rather a solemn personage, for the Earl told me you had more sense in your little finger than I had in my whole body, which was not complimentary to me, though I dare say it is true."

"Now, as a rule, they say that sensible people are very disagreeable; but I hope I shall not be disagreeable," Cyril laughed, "and I am certainly not aware that I am particularly sensible."

"No, I am sure you won't be disagreeable, but I should have been quite nervous about coming to see you if it had not been for the girls. Little Beatrice told me she thought you were a prince in disguise, and had evidently a private idea that the good fairies had sent you to her rescue. Bertha said that you were a very proper young gentleman, and that she was sure you were nice. Dorothy didn't say much, but she evidently approved of the younger girls' sentiments, so I felt that you must be all right, for the girls are generally pretty severe critics, and very few of my friends stand at all high in their good graces. What amusement are you most fond of?"

"I am afraid I have had very little time for amusements," Cyril said. "I was very fond of fencing when I was in France, but have had no opportunity of practising since I came to England. I went to a bull-bait once, but thought it a cruel sport."

"I suppose you go to a play-house sometimes?"

"No; I have never been inside one. A good deal of my work has been done in the evening, and I don't know that the thought ever occurred to me to go. I know nothing of your English sports, and neither ride nor shoot, except with a pistol, with which I used to be a good shot when I was in France."

They rowed down as low as Greenwich, then, as the tide turned, made their way back; and by the time Cyril alighted from the boat at London Bridge stairs the two young fellows had become quite intimate with each other.

Nellie looked with great approval at Cyril as he came downstairs in a full Court dress. Since the avowal she had made of her fault she had recovered much of her brightness. She bustled about the house, intent upon the duties she had newly taken up, to the gratification of Mrs. Dowsett, who protested that her occupation was gone.

"Not at all, mother. It is only that you are now captain of the ship, and have got to give your orders instead of carrying them out yourself. Father did not pull up the ropes or go aloft to furl the sails, while I have no doubt he had plenty to do in seeing that his orders were carried out. You will be worse off than he was, for he had John Wilkes, and others, who knew their duty, while I have got almost everything to learn."

Although her cheerfulness had returned, and she could again be heard singing snatches of song about the house, her voice and manner were gentler and softer, and Captain Dave said to Cyril, -- 

"It has all turned out for the best, lad. The ship was very near wrecked, but the lesson has been a useful one, and there is no fear of her being lost from want of care or good seamanship in future. I feel, too, that I have been largely to blame in the matter. I spoilt her as a child, and I spoilt her all along. Her mother would have kept a firmer hand upon the helm if I had not always spoken up for the lass, and said, 'Let her have her head; don't check the sheets in too tautly.' I see I was wrong now. Why, lad, what a blessing it is to us all that it happened when it did! for if that fire had been but a month earlier, you would probably have gone away with the Earl, and we should have known nothing of Nellie's peril until we found that she was gone."

"Sir Cyril -- no, I really cannot call you Cyril now," Nellie said, curtseying almost to the ground after taking a survey of the lad, "your costume becomes you rarely; and I am filled with wonder at the thought of my own stupidity in not seeing all along that you were a prince in disguise. It is like the fairy tales my old nurse used to tell me of the king's son who went out to look for a beautiful wife, and who worked as a scullion in the king's palace without anyone suspecting his rank. I think fortune has been very hard upon me, in that I was born five years too soon. Had I been but fourteen instead of nineteen, your Royal Highness might have cast favourable eyes upon me."

"But then, Mistress Nellie," Cyril said, laughing, "you would be filled with grief now at the thought that I am going away to the wars."

The girl's face changed. She dropped her saucy manner and said earnestly, -- 

"I am grieved, Cyril; and if it would do any good I would sit down and have a hearty cry. The Dutchmen are brave fighters, and their fleet will be stronger than ours; and there will be many who sail away to sea who will never come back again. I have never had a brother; but it seems to me that if I had had one who was wise, and thoughtful, and brave, I should have loved him as I love you. I think the princess must always have felt somehow that the scullion was not what he seemed; and though I have always laughed at you and scolded you, I have known all along that you were not really a clerk. I don't know that I thought you were a prince; but I somehow felt a little afraid of you. You never said that you thought me vain and giddy, but I knew you did think so, and I used to feel a little malice against you; and yet, somehow, I respected and liked you all the more, and now it seems to me that you are still in disguise, and that, though you seem to be but a boy, you are really a man to whom some good fairy has given a boy's face. Methinks no boy could be as thoughtful and considerate, and as kind as you are."

"You are exaggerating altogether," Cyril said; "and yet, in what you say about my age, I think you are partly right. I have lived most of my life alone; I have had much care always on my shoulders, and grave responsibility; thus it is that I am older in many ways than I should be at my years. I would it were not so. I have not had any boyhood, as other boys have, and I think it has been a great misfortune for me."

"It has not been a misfortune for us, Cyril; it has been a blessing indeed to us all that you have not been quite like other boys, and I think that all your life it will be a satisfaction for you to know that you have saved one house from ruin, one woman from misery, and disgrace. Now it is time for you to be going; but although you are leaving us tomorrow, Cyril, I hope that you are not going quite out of our lives."

"That you may be sure I am not, Nellie. If you have reason to be grateful to me, truly I have much reason to be grateful to your father. I have never been so happy as since I have been in this house, and I shall always return to it as to a home where I am sure of a welcome -- as the place to which I chiefly owe any good fortune that may ever befall me."

The levée was a brilliant one, and was attended, in addition to the usual throng of courtiers, by most of the officers and gentlemen who were going with the Fleet. Cyril was glad indeed that he was with the Earl of Wisbech and his son, for he would have felt lonely and out of place in the brilliant throng, in which Prince Rupert's face would have been the only one with which he was familiar. The Earl introduced him to several of the gentlemen who would be his shipmates, and by all he was cordially received when the Earl named him as the gentleman who had rescued his daughters from death.

At times, when the Earl was chatting with his friends, Cyril moved about through the rooms with Sydney, who knew by appearance a great number of those present, and was able to point out all the distinguished persons of the Court to him.

"There is the Prince," he said, "talking with the Earl of Rochester. What a grave face he has now! It is difficult to believe that he is the Rupert of the wars, and the headstrong prince whose very bravery helped to lose well-nigh as many battles as he won. We may be sure that he will take us into the very thick of the fight, Cyril. Even now his wrist is as firm, and, I doubt not, his arm as strong as when he led the Cavaliers. I have seen him in the tennis-court; there is not one at the Court, though many are well-nigh young enough to be his sons, who is his match at tennis. There is the Duke of York. They say he is a Catholic, but I own that makes no difference to me. He is fond of the sea, and is never so happy as when he is on board ship, though you would hardly think it by his grave face. The King is fond of it, too. He has a pleasure vessel that is called a yacht, and so has the Duke of York, and they have races one against the other; but the King generally wins. He is making it a fashionable pastime. Some day I will have one myself -- that is, if I find I like the sea; for it must be pleasant to sail about in your own vessel, and to go wheresoever one may fancy without asking leave from any man."

When it came to his turn Cyril passed before the King with the Earl and his son. The Earl presented Sydney, who had not before been at Court, to the King, mentioning that he was going out as a Volunteer in Prince Rupert's vessel.

"That is as it should be, my Lord," the King said. "England need never fear so long as her nobles and gentlemen are ready themselves to go out to fight her battles, and to set an example to the seamen. You need not present this young gentleman to me; my cousin Rupert has already done so, and told me of the service he has rendered to your daughters. He, too, sails with the Prince, and after what happened there can be no doubt that he can stand fire well. I would that this tiresome dignity did not prevent my being of the party. I would gladly, for once, lay my kingship down and go out as one of the company to help give the Dutchmen a lesson that will teach them that, even if caught unexpectedly, the sea-dogs of England can well hold their own, though they have no longer a Blake to command them."

"I wonder that the King ventures to use Blake's name," Sydney whispered, as they moved away, "considering the indignities that he allowed the judges to inflict on the body of the grand old sailor."

"It was scandalous!" Cyril said warmly; "and I burned with indignation when I heard of it in France. They may call him a traitor because he sided with the Parliament, but even Royalists should never have forgotten what great deeds he did for England. However, though they might have dishonoured his body, they could not touch his fame, and his name will be known and honoured as long as England is a nation and when the names of the men who condemned him have been long forgotten."

After leaving the levée, Cyril went back to the City, and the next morning started on horseback, with the Earl and his son, to the latter's seat, near Sevenoaks, the ladies having gone down in the Earl's coach on the previous day. Wholly unaccustomed as Cyril was to riding, he was so stiff that he had difficulty in dismounting when they rode up to the mansion. The Earl had provided a quiet and well-trained horse for his use, and he had therefore found no difficulty in retaining his seat.

"You must ride every day while you are down here," the Earl said, "and by the end of the week you will begin to be fairly at home in the saddle. A good seat is one of the prime necessities of a gentleman's education, and if it should be that you ever carry out your idea of taking service abroad it will be essential for you, because, in most cases, the officers are mounted. You can hardly expect ever to become a brilliant rider. For that it is necessary to begin young; but if you can keep your seat under all circumstances, and be able to use your sword on horseback, as well as on foot, it will be all that is needful."

The week passed very pleasantly. Cyril rode and fenced daily with Sydney, who was surprised to find that he was fully his match with the sword. He walked in the gardens with the girls, who had now quite recovered from the effects of the fire. Bertha and Beatrice, being still children, chatted with him as freely and familiarly as they did with Sydney. Of Lady Dorothy he saw less, as she was in charge of her gouvernante, who always walked beside her, and was occupied in training her into the habits of preciseness and decorum in vogue at the time.

"I do believe, Dorothy," Sydney said, one day, "that you are forgetting how to laugh. You walk like a machine, and seem afraid to move your hands or your feet except according to rule. I like you very much better as you were a year ago, when you did not think yourself too fine for a romp, and could laugh when you were pleased. That dragon of yours is spoiling you altogether."

"That is a matter of opinion, Sydney," Dorothy said, with a deep curtsey. "When you first began to fence, I have no doubt you were stiff and awkward, and I am sure if you had always had someone by your side, saying, 'Keep your head up!' 'Don't poke your chin forward!' 'Pray do not swing your arms!' and that sort of thing, you would be just as awkward as I feel. I am sure I would rather run about with the others; the process of being turned into a young lady is not a pleasant one. But perhaps some day, when you see the finished article, you will be pleased to give your Lordship's august approval," and she ended with a merry laugh that would have shocked her gouvernante if she had heard it.



Chapter XIII

The Battle Of Lowestoft


The Earl returned with his son and Cyril to town, and the latter spent the night in the City.

"I do not know, Cyril," Captain Dave said, as they talked over his departure, "that you run much greater risk in going than do we in staying here. The Plague makes progress, and although it has not invaded the City, we can hardly hope that it will be long before it appears here. There are many evil prophecies abroad, and it is the general opinion that a great misfortune hangs over us, and they say that many have prepared to leave London. I have talked the matter over with my wife. We have not as yet thought of going, but should the Plague come heavily, it may be that we shall for a time go away. There will be no business to be done, for vessels will not come up the Thames and risk infection, nor, indeed, would they be admitted into ports, either in England or abroad, after coming from an infected place. Therefore I could leave without any loss in the way of trade. It will, of course, depend upon the heaviness of the malady, but if it becomes widespread we shall perhaps go for a visit to my wife's cousin, who lives near Gloucester, and who has many times written to us urging us to go down with Nellie for a visit to her. Hitherto, business has prevented my going, but if all trade ceases, it would be a good occasion for us, and such as may never occur again. Still, I earnestly desire that it may not arise, for it cannot do so without sore trouble and pain alighting on the City. Did the Earl tell you, Cyril, what he has done with regard to John?"

"No; he did not speak to me on the subject."

"His steward came here three days since with a gold watch and chain, as a gift from the Earl. The watch has an inscription on the case, saying that it is presented to John Wilkes from the Earl of Wisbech, as a memorial of his gratitude for the great services rendered to his daughters. Moreover, he brought a letter from the Earl saying that if John should at any time leave my service, owing to my death or retirement from business, or from John himself wishing, either from age or other reason, to leave me, he would place at his service a cottage and garden on his estate, and a pension of twenty pounds a year, to enable him to live in comfort for the remainder of his days. John is, as you may suppose, mightily pleased, for though I would assuredly never part with him as long as I live, and have by my will made provision that will keep him from want in case I die before him, it was mighty pleasant to receive so handsome a letter and offer of service from the Earl. Nellie wrote for him a letter in which he thanked the Earl for the kindness of his offer, for which, although he hoped he should never be forced to benefit from it, he was none the less obliged and grateful, seeing that he had done nothing that any other bystander would not have done, to deserve it."

Early the next morning Sydney Oliphant rode up to the door, followed by two grooms, one of whom had a led horse, and the other a sumpter-mule, which was partly laden. Captain Dave went down with Cyril to the door.

"I pray you to enter, my Lord," he said. "My wife will not be happy unless you take a cup of posset before you start. Moreover, she and my daughter desire much to see you, as you are going to sail with Sir Cyril, whom we regard as a member of our family."

"I will come up right willingly," the young noble said, leaping lightly from his horse. "If your good dame's posset is as good as the wine the Earl, my father, tells me you gave him, it must be good indeed; for he told me he believed he had none in his cellar equal to it."

He remained for a few minutes upstairs, chatting gaily, vowing that the posset was the best he had ever drank, and declaring to Nellie that he regarded as a favourable omen for his expedition that he should have seen so fair a face the last thing before starting. He shook hands with John Wilkes heartily when he came up to say that Cyril's valises were all securely packed on the horses, and then went off, promising to send Captain Dave a runnet of the finest schiedam from the Dutch Admiral's ship.

"Truly, I am thankful you came up," Cyril said, as they mounted and rode off. "Before you came we were all dull, and the Dame and Mistress Nellie somewhat tearful; Now we have gone off amidst smiles, which is vastly more pleasant."

Crossing London Bridge, they rode through Southwark, and then out into the open country. Each had a light valise strapped behind the saddle, and the servants had saddle-bags containing the smaller articles of luggage, while the sumpter-mule carried two trunks with their clothes and sea necessaries. It was late in the evening when they arrived at Chatham. Here they put up at an hotel which was crowded with officers of the Fleet, and with Volunteers like themselves.

"I should grumble at these quarters, Cyril," Sydney said, as the landlord, with many apologies, showed them into a tiny attic, which was the only place he had unoccupied, "were it not that we are going to sea to-morrow, and I suppose that our quarters will be even rougher there. However, we may have elbow-room for a time, for most of the Volunteers will not join, I hear, until the last thing before the Fleet sails, and it may be a fortnight yet before all the ships are collected. I begged my father to let me do the same, but he goes back again to-day to Sevenoaks, and he liked not the idea of my staying in town, seeing that the Plague is spreading so rapidly. I would even have stayed in the country had he let me, but he was of opinion that I was best on board -- in the first place, because I may not get news down there in time to join the Fleet before it sails, and in the second, that I might come to get over this sickness of the sea, and so be fit and able to do my part when we meet the Dutch. This was so reasonable that I could urge nothing against it; for, in truth, it would be a horrible business if I were lying like a sick dog, unable to lift my head, while our men were fighting the Dutch. I have never been to sea, and know not how I shall bear it. Are you a good sailor?"

"Yes; I used to go out very often in a fishing-boat at Dunkirk, and never was ill from the first. Many people are not ill at all, and it will certainly be of an advantage to you to be on board for a short time in quiet waters before setting out for sea."

On going downstairs, Lord Oliphant found several young men of his acquaintance among those staying in the house. He introduced Cyril to them. But the room was crowded and noisy; many of those present had drunk more than was good for them, and it was not long before Cyril told his friend that he should go up to bed.

"I am not accustomed to noisy parties, Sydney, and feel quite confused with all this talk."

"You will soon get accustomed to it, Cyril. Still, do as you like. I dare say I shall not be very long before I follow you."

The next morning after breakfast they went down to the quay, and took a boat to the ship, which was lying abreast of the dockyard. The captain, on their giving their names, consulted the list.

"That is right, gentlemen, though indeed I know not why you should have come down until we are ready to sail, which may not be for a week or more, though we shall go out from here to-morrow and join those lying in the Hope; for indeed you can be of no use while we are fitting, and would but do damage to your clothes and be in the way of the sailors. It is but little accommodation you will find on board here, though we will do the best we can for you."

"We do not come about accommodation, captain," Lord Oliphant laughed, "and we have brought down gear with us that will not soil, or rather, that cannot be the worse for soiling. There are three or four others at the inn where we stopped last night who are coming on board, but I hear that the rest of the Volunteers will probably join when the Fleet assembles in Yarmouth roads."

"Then they must be fonder of journeying on horseback than I am," the captain said. "While we are in the Hope, where, indeed, for aught I know, we may tarry but a day or two, they could come down by boat conveniently without trouble, whereas to Yarmouth it is a very long ride, with the risk of losing their purses to the gentlemen of the road. Moreover, though the orders are at present that the Fleet gather at Yarmouth, and many are already there 'tis like that it may be changed in a day for Harwich or the Downs. I pray you get your meals at your inn to-day, for we are, as you see, full of work taking on board stores. If it please you to stay and watch what is doing here you are heartily welcome, but please tell the others that they had best not come off until late in the evening, by which time I will do what I can to have a place ready for them to sleep. We shall sail at the turn of the tide, which will be at three o'clock in the morning."

Oliphant wrote a few lines to the gentlemen on shore, telling them that the captain desired that none should come on board until the evening, and having sent it off by their boatmen, telling them to return in time to take them back to dinner, he and Cyril mounted to the poop and surveyed the scene round them. The ship was surrounded with lighters and boats from the dockyards, and from these casks and barrels, boxes and cases, were being swung on board by blocks from the yards, or rolled in at the port-holes. A large number of men were engaged at the work, and as fast as the stores came on board they were seized by the sailors and carried down into the hold, the provisions piled in tiers of barrels, the powder-kegs packed in the magazine.

"'Tis like an ant-hill," Cyril said. "'Tis just as I have seen when a nest has been disturbed. Every ant seizes a white egg as big as itself, and rushes off with it to the passage below."

"They work bravely," his companion said. "Every man seems to know that it is important that the ship should be filled up by to-night. See! the other four vessels lying above us are all alike at work, and may, perhaps, start with us in the morning. The other ships are busy, too, but not as we are. I suppose they will take them in hand when they have got rid of us."

"I am not surprised that the captain does not want idlers here, for, except ourselves, every man seems to have his appointed work."

"I feel half inclined to take off my doublet and to go and help to roll those big casks up the planks."

"I fancy, Sydney, we should be much more in the way there than here. There is certainly no lack of men, and your strength and mine together would not equal that of one of those strong fellows; besides, we are learning something here. It is good to see how orderly the work is being carried on, for, in spite of the number employed, there is no confusion. You see there are three barges on each side; the upper tiers of barrels and bales are being got on board through the portholes, while the lower ones are fished up from the bottom by the ropes from the yards and swung into the waist, and so passed below; and as fast as one barge is unloaded another drops alongside to take its place."

They returned to the inn to dinner, after which they paid a visit to the victualling yard and dockyard, where work was everywhere going on. After supper they, with the other gentlemen for Prince Rupert's ship, took boat and went off together. They had learned that, while they would be victualled on board, they must take with them wine and other matters they required over and above the ship's fare. They had had a consultation with the other gentlemen after dinner, and concluded that it would be best to take but a small quantity of things, as they knew not how they would be able to stow them away, and would have opportunities of getting, at Gravesend or at Yarmouth, further stores, when they saw what things were required. They therefore took only a cheese, some butter, and a case of wine. As soon as they got on board they were taken below. They found that a curtain of sail-cloth had been hung across the main deck, and hammocks slung between the guns. Three or four lanterns were hung along the middle.

"This is all we can do for you, gentlemen," the officer who conducted them down said. "Had we been going on a pleasure trip we could have knocked up separate cabins, but as we must have room to work the guns, this cannot be done. In the morning the sailors will take down these hammocks, and will erect a table along the middle, where you will take your meals. At present, as you see, we have only slung hammocks for you, but when you all come on board there will be twenty. We have, so far, only a list of sixteen, but as the Prince said that two or three more might come at the last moment we have railed off space enough for ten hammocks on each side. We will get the place cleaned for you to-morrow, but the last barge was emptied but a few minutes since, and we could do naught but just sweep the deck down. To-morrow everything shall be scrubbed and put in order."

"It will do excellently well," one of the gentlemen said. "We have not come on board ship to get luxuries, and had we to sleep on the bare boards you would hear no grumbling."

"Now, gentlemen, as I have shown you your quarters, will you come up with me to the captain's cabin? He has bade me say that he will be glad if you will spend an hour with him there before you retire to rest."

On their entering, the captain shook hands with Lord Oliphant and Cyril.

"I must apologise, gentlemen, for being short with you when you came on board this morning; but my hands were full, and I had no time to be polite. They say you can never get a civil answer from a housewife on her washing-day, and it is the same thing with an officer on board a ship when she is taking in her stores. However, that business is over, and now I am glad to see you all, and will do my best to make you as comfortable as I can, which indeed will not be much; for as we shall, I hope, be going into action in the course of another ten days, the decks must all be kept clear, and as we have the Prince on board, we have less cabin room than we should have were we not an admiral's flagship."

Wine was placed on the table, and they had a pleasant chat. They learnt that the Fleet was now ready for sea.

"Four ships will sail with ours to-morrow," the captain said, "and the other five will be off the next morning. They have all their munitions on board, and will take in the rest of their provisions to-morrow. The Dutch had thought to take us by surprise, but from what we hear they are not so forward as we, for things have been pushed on with great zeal at all our ports, the war being generally popular with the nation, and especially with the merchants, whose commerce has been greatly injured by the pretensions and violence of the Dutch. The Portsmouth ships, and those from Plymouth, are already on their way round to the mouth of the Thames, and in a week we may be at sea. I only hope the Dutch will not be long before they come out to fight us. However, we are likely to pick up a great many prizes, and, next to fighting, you know, sailors like prize-money."

After an hour's talk the five gentlemen went below to their hammocks, and then to bed, with much laughter at the difficulty they had in mounting into their swinging cots.

It was scarce daylight when they were aroused by a great stir on board the ship, and, hastily putting on their clothes, went on deck. Already a crowd of men were aloft loosening the sails. Others had taken their places in boats in readiness to tow the ship, for the wind was, as yet, so light that it was like she would scarce have steerage way, and there were many sharp angles in the course down the river to be rounded, and shallows to be avoided. A few minutes later the moorings were cast off, the sails sheeted home, and the crew gave a great cheer, which was answered from the dockyard, and from boats alongside, full of the relations and friends of the sailors, who stood up and waved their hats and shouted good bye.

The sails still hung idly, but the tide swept the ship along, and the men in the boats ahead simply lay on their oars until the time should come to pull her head round in one direction or another. They had not long to wait, for, as they reached the sharp corner at the end of the reach, orders were shouted, the men bent to their oars, and the vessel was taken round the curve until her head pointed east. Scarcely had they got under way when they heard the cheer from the ship astern of them, and by the time they had reached the next curve, off the village of Gillingham, the other four ships had rounded the point behind them, and were following at a distance of about a hundred yards apart. Soon afterwards the wind sprang up and the sails bellied out, and the men in the boats had to row briskly to keep ahead of the ship. The breeze continued until they passed Sheerness, and presently they dropped anchor inside the Nore sands. There they remained until the tide turned, and then sailed up the Thames to the Hope, where some forty men-of-war were already at anchor.

The next morning some barges arrived from Tilbury, laden with soldiers, of whom a hundred and fifty came on board, their quarters being on the main deck on the other side of the canvas division. A cutter also brought down a number of impressed men, twenty of whom were put on board the Henrietta to complete her crew. Cyril was standing on the poop watching them come on board, when he started as his eye fell on two of their number. One was Robert Ashford; the other was Black Dick. They had doubtless returned from Holland when war was declared. Robert Ashford had assumed the dress of a sailor the better to disguise himself, and the two had been carried off together from some haunt of sailors at Wapping. He pointed them out to his friend Sydney.

"So those are the two scamps? The big one looks a truculent ruffian. Well, they can do you no harm here, Cyril. I should let them stay and do their share of the fighting, and then, when the voyage is over, if they have not met with a better death than they deserve at the hands of the Dutch, you can, if you like, denounce them, and have them handed over to the City authorities."

"That I will do, as far as the big ruffian they call Black Dick is concerned. He is a desperate villain, and for aught I know may have committed many a murder, and if allowed to go free might commit many more. Besides, I shall never feel quite safe as long as he is at large. As to Robert Ashford, he is a knave, but I know no worse of him, and will therefore let him go his way."

In the evening the other ships from Chatham came up, and the captain told them later that the Earl of Sandwich, who was in command, would weigh anchor in the morning, as the contingent from London, Chatham, and Sheerness was now complete. Cyril thought that he had never seen a prettier sight, as the Fleet, consisting of fifty men-of-war, of various sizes, and eight merchant vessels that had been bought and converted into fire-ships, got under way and sailed down the river. That night they anchored off Felixstowe, and the next day proceeded, with a favourable wind, to Yarmouth, where already a great number of ships were at anchor. So far the five Volunteers had taken their meals with the captain, but as the others would be coming on board, they were now to mess below, getting fresh meat and vegetables from the shore as they required them. As to other stores, they resolved to do nothing till the whole party arrived.

They had not long to wait, for, on the third day after their arrival, the Duke of York and Prince Rupert, with a great train of gentlemen, arrived in the town, and early the next morning embarked on board their respective ships. A council was held by the Volunteers in their quarters, three of their number were chosen as caterers, and, a contribution of three pounds a head being agreed upon, these went ashore in one of the ship's boats, and returned presently with a barrel or two of good biscuits, the carcasses of five sheep, two or three score of ducks and chickens, and several casks of wine, together with a large quantity of vegetables. The following morning the signal was hoisted on the mast-head of the Royal Charles, the Duke of York's flagship, for the Fleet to prepare to weigh anchor, and they presently got under way in three squadrons, the red under the special orders of the Duke, the white under Prince Rupert, and the blue under the Earl of Sandwich.

The Fleet consisted of one hundred and nine men-of-war and frigates, and twenty-eight fire-ships and ketches, manned by 21,006 seamen and soldiers. They sailed across to the coast of Holland, and cruised, for a few days, off Texel, capturing ten or twelve merchant vessels that tried to run in. So far, the weather had been very fine, but there were now signs of a change of weather. The sky became overcast, the wind rose rapidly, and the signal was made for the Fleet to scatter, so that each vessel should have more sea-room, and the chance of collision be avoided. By nightfall the wind had increased to the force of a gale, and the vessels were soon labouring heavily. Cyril and two or three of his comrades who, like himself, did not suffer from sickness, remained on deck; the rest were prostrate below.

For forty-eight hours the gale continued, and when it abated and the ships gradually closed up round the three admirals' flags, it was found that many had suffered sorely in the gale. Some had lost their upper spars, others had had their sails blown away, some their bulwarks smashed in, and two or three had lost their bowsprits. There was a consultation between the admirals and the principal captains, and it was agreed that it was best to sail back to England for repairs, as many of the ships were unfitted to take their place in line of battle, and as the Dutch Fleet was known to be fully equal to their own in strength, it would have been hazardous to risk an engagement. So the ketches and some of the light frigates were at once sent off to find the ships that had not yet joined, and give them orders to make for Yarmouth, Lowestoft, or Harwich. All vessels uninjured were to gather off Lowestoft, while the others were to make for the other ports, repair their damages as speedily as possible, and then rejoin at Lowestoft.

No sooner did the Dutch know that the English Fleet had sailed away than they put their fleet to sea. It consisted of one hundred and twelve men-of-war, and thirty fire-ships, and small craft manned by 22,365 soldiers and sailors. It was commanded by Admiral Obdam, having under him Tromp, Evertson, and other Dutch admirals. On their nearing England they fell in with nine ships from Hamburg, with rich cargoes, and a convoy of a thirty-four gun frigate. These they captured, to the great loss of the merchants of London.

The Henrietta had suffered but little in the storm, and speedily repaired her damages without going into port. With so much haste and energy did the crews of the injured ships set to work at refitting them, that in four days after the main body had anchored off Lowestoft, they were rejoined by all the ships that had made for Harwich and Yarmouth.

At midnight on June 2nd, a fast-sailing fishing-boat brought in the news that the Dutch Fleet were but a few miles away, sailing in that direction, having apparently learnt the position of the English from some ship or fishing-boat they had captured.

The trumpets on the admiral's ship at once sounded, and Prince Rupert and the Earl of Sandwich immediately rowed to her. They remained but a few minutes, and on their return to their respective vessels made the signals for their captains to come on board. The order, at such an hour, was sufficient to notify all that news must have been received of the whereabouts of the Dutch Fleet, and by the time the captains returned to their ships the crews were all up and ready to execute any order. At two o'clock day had begun to break, and soon from the mastheads of several of the vessels the look-out shouted that they could perceive the Dutch Fleet but four miles away. A mighty cheer rose throughout the Fleet, and as it subsided a gun from the Royal Charles gave the order to weigh anchor, and a few minutes later the three squadrons, in excellent order, sailed out to meet the enemy.

They did not, however, advance directly towards them, but bore up closely into the wind until they had gained the weather gauge of the enemy. Having obtained this advantage, the Duke flew the signal to engage. The Volunteers were all in their places on the poop, being posted near the rail forward, that they might be able either to run down the ladder to the waist and aid to repel boarders, or to spring on to a Dutch ship should one come alongside, and also that the afterpart of the poop, where Prince Rupert and the captain had taken their places near the wheel, should be free. The Prince himself had requested them so to station themselves.

"At other times, gentlemen, you are my good friends and comrades," he said, "but, from the moment that the first gun fires, you are soldiers under my orders; and I pray you take your station and remain there until I call upon you for action, for my whole attention must be given to the manoeuvring of the ship, and any movement or talking near me might distract my thoughts. I shall strive to lay her alongside of the biggest Dutchman I can pick out, and as soon as the grapnels are thrown, and their sides grind together, you will have the post of honour, and will lead the soldiers aboard her. Once among the Dutchmen, you will know what to do without my telling you."

"'Tis a grand sight, truly, Cyril," Sydney said, in a low tone, as the great fleets met each other.

"A grand sight, truly, Sydney, but a terrible one. I do not think I shall mind when I am once at it, but at present I feel that, despite my efforts, I am in a tremor, and that my knees shake as I never felt them before."

"I am glad you feel like that, Cyril, for I feel much like it myself, and began to be afraid that I had, without knowing it, been born a coward. There goes the first gun."

As he spoke, a puff of white smoke spouted out from the bows of one of the Dutch ships, and a moment later the whole of their leading vessels opened fire. There was a rushing sound overhead, and a ball passed through the main topsail of the Henrietta. No reply was made by the English ships until they passed in between the Dutchmen; then the Henrietta poured her broadsides into the enemy on either side of her, receiving theirs in return. There was a rending of wood, and a quiver through the ship. One of the upper-deck-guns was knocked off its carriage, crushing two of the men working it as it fell. Several others were hurt with splinters, and the sails pierced with holes. Again and again as she passed, did the Henrietta exchange broadsides with the Dutch vessels, until -- the two fleets having passed through each other -- she bore up, and prepared to repeat the manoeuvre.

"I feel all right now," Cyril said, "but I do wish I had something to do instead of standing here useless. I quite envy the men there, stripped to the waist, working the guns. There is that fellow Black Dick, by the gun forward; he is a scoundrel, no doubt, but what strength and power he has! I saw him put his shoulder under that gun just now, and slew it across by sheer strength, so as to bear upon the stern of the Dutchman. I noticed him and Robert looking up at me just before the first gun was fired, and speaking together. I have no doubt he would gladly have pointed the gun at me instead of at the enemy, for he knows that, if I denounce him, he will get the due reward of his crimes."

As soon as the ships were headed round they passed through the Dutch as before, and this manoeuvre was several times repeated. Up to one o'clock in the day no great advantage had been gained on either side. Spars had been carried away; there were yawning gaps in the bulwarks; portholes had been knocked into one, guns dismounted, and many killed; but as yet no vessel on either side had been damaged to an extent that obliged her to strike her flag, or to fall out of the fighting line. There had been a pause after each encounter, in which both fleets had occupied themselves in repairing damages, as far as possible, reeving fresh ropes in place of those that had been shot away, clearing the wreckage of fallen spars and yards, and carrying the wounded below. Four of the Volunteers had been struck down -- two of them mortally wounded, but after the first passage through the enemy's fleet, Prince Rupert had ordered them to arm themselves with muskets from the racks, and to keep up a fire at the Dutch ships as they passed, aiming specially at the man at the wheel. The order had been a very welcome one, for, like Cyril, they had all felt inactivity in such a scene to be a sore trial. They were now ranged along on both sides of the poop.

At one o'clock Lord Sandwich signalled to the Blue Squadron to close up together as they advanced, as before, against the enemy's line. His position at the time was in the centre, and his squadron, sailing close together, burst into the Dutch line before their ships could make any similar disposition. Having thus broken it asunder, instead of passing through it, the squadron separated, and the ships, turning to port and starboard, each engaged an enemy. The other two squadrons similarly ranged up among the Dutch, and the battle now became furious all along the line. Fire-ships played an important part in the battles of the time, and the thoughts of the captain of a ship were not confined to struggles with a foe of equal size, but were still more engrossed by the need for avoiding any fire-ship that might direct its course towards him.

Cyril had now no time to give a thought as to what was passing elsewhere. The Henrietta had ranged up alongside a Dutch vessel of equal size, and was exchanging broadsides with her. All round were vessels engaged in an equally furious encounter. The roar of the guns and the shouts of the seamen on both sides were deafening. One moment the vessel reeled from the recoil of her own guns, the next she quivered as the balls of the enemy crashed through her sides.

Suddenly, above the din, Cyril heard the voice of Prince Rupert sound like a trumpet.

"Hatchets and pikes on the starboard quarter! Draw in the guns and keep off this fire-ship."

Laying their muskets against the bulwarks, he and Sydney sprang to the mizzen-mast, and each seized a hatchet from those ranged against it. They then rushed to the starboard side, just as a small ship came out through the cloud of smoke that hung thickly around them.

There was a shock as she struck the Henrietta, and then, as she glided alongside, a dozen grapnels were thrown by men on her yards. The instant they had done so, the men disappeared, sliding down the ropes and running aft to their boat. Before the last leaped in he stooped. A flash of fire ran along the deck, there was a series of sharp explosions, and then a bright flame sprang up from the hatchways, ran up the shrouds and ropes, that had been soaked with oil and tar, and in a moment the sails were on fire. In spite of the flames, a score of men sprang on to the rigging of the Henrietta and cut the ropes of the grapnels, which, as yet -- so quickly had the explosion followed their throwing -- had scarce begun to check the way the fire-ship had on her as she came up.

Cyril, having cast over a grapnel that had fallen on the poop, looked down on the fire-ship as she drifted along. The deck, which, like everything else, had been smeared with tar, was in a blaze, but the combustible had not been carried as far as the helm, where doubtless the captain had stood to direct her course. A sudden thought struck him. He ran along the poop until opposite the stern of the fire-ship, climbed over the bulwark and leapt down on to the deck, some fifteen feet below him. Then he seized the helm and jammed it hard down. The fire-ship had still steerage way on her, and he saw her head at once begin to turn away from the Henrietta; the movement was aided by the latter's crew, who, with poles and oars, pushed her off.

The heat was terrific, but Cyril's helmet and breast-piece sheltered him somewhat; yet though he shielded his face with his arm, he felt that it would speedily become unbearable. His eye fell upon a coil of rope at his feet. Snatching it up, he fastened it to the tiller and then round a belaying-pin in the bulwark, caught up a bucket with a rope attached, threw it over the side and soused its contents over the tiller-rope, then, unbuckling the straps of his breast - and back-pieces, he threw them off, cast his helmet on the deck, blistering his hands as he did so, and leapt overboard. It was with a delicious sense of coolness that he rose to the surface and looked round. Hitherto he had been so scorched by the flame and smothered by the smoke that it was with difficulty he had kept his attention upon what he was doing, and would doubtless, in another minute, have fallen senseless. The plunge into the sea seemed to restore his faculties, and as he came up he looked eagerly to see how far success had attended his efforts.

He saw with delight that the bow of the fire-ship was thirty or forty feet distant from the side of the Henrietta and her stern half that distance. Two or three of the sails of the man-of-war had caught fire, but a crowd of seamen were beating the flames out of two of them while another, upon which the fire had got a better hold, was being cut away from its yard. As he turned to swim to the side of the Henrietta, three or four ropes fell close to him. He twisted one of these round his body, and, a minute later, was hauled up into the waist. He was saluted with a tremendous cheer, and was caught up by three or four strong fellows, who, in spite of his remonstrances, carried him up on to the poop. Prince Rupert was standing on the top of the ladder.

"Nobly done, Sir Cyril!" he exclaimed. "You have assuredly saved the Henrietta and all our lives. A minute later, and we should have been on fire beyond remedy. But I will speak more to you when we have finished with the Dutchman on the other side."



Chapter XIV

Honourable Scars


During the time that the greater part of the crew of the Henrietta had been occupied with the fire-ship, the enemy had redoubled their efforts, and as the sailors returned to their guns, the mizzen-mast fell with a crash. A minute later, a Dutch man-of-war ran alongside, fired a broadside, and grappled. Then her crew, springing over the bulwarks, poured on to the deck of the Henrietta. They were met boldly by the soldiers, who had hitherto borne no part in the fight, and who, enraged at the loss they had been compelled to suffer, fell upon the enemy with fury. For a moment, however, the weight of numbers of the Dutchmen bore them back, but the sailors, who had at first been taken by surprise, snatched up their boarding pikes and axes.

Prince Rupert, with the other officers and Volunteers, dashed into the thick of the fray, and, step by step, the Dutchmen were driven back, until they suddenly gave way and rushed back to their own ship. The English would have followed them, but the Dutch who remained on board their ship, seeing that the fight was going against their friends, cut the ropes of the grapnels, and the ships drifted apart, some of the last to leave the deck of the Henrietta being forced to jump into the sea. The cannonade was at once renewed on both sides, but the Dutch had had enough of it -- having lost very heavily in men -- and drew off from the action.

Cyril had joined in the fray. He had risen to his feet and drawn his sword, but he found himself strangely weak. His hands were blistered and swollen, his face was already so puffed that he could scarce see out of his eyes; still, he had staggered down the steps to the waist, and, recovering his strength from the excitement, threw himself into the fray.

Scarce had he done so, when a sailor next to him fell heavily against him, shot through the head by one of the Dutch soldiers. Cyril staggered, and before he could recover himself, a Dutch sailor struck at his head. He threw up his sword to guard the blow, but the guard was beaten down as if it had been a reed. It sufficed, however, slightly to turn the blow, which fell first on the side of the head, and then, glancing down, inflicted a terrible wound on the shoulder.

He fell at once, unconscious, and, when he recovered his senses, found himself laid out on the poop, where Sydney, assisted by two of the other gentlemen, had carried him. His head and shoulder had already been bandaged, the Prince having sent for his doctor to come up from below to attend upon him.

The battle was raging with undiminished fury all round, but, for the moment, the Henrietta was not engaged, and her crew were occupied in cutting away the wreckage of the mizzen-mast, and trying to repair the more important of the damages that she had suffered. Carpenters were lowered over the side, and were nailing pieces of wood over the shot-holes near the water-line. Men swarmed aloft knotting and splicing ropes and fishing damaged spars.

Sydney, who was standing a short distance away, at once came up to him.

"How are you, Cyril?"

"My head sings, and my shoulder aches, but I shall do well enough. Please get me lifted up on to that seat by the bulwark, so that I can look over and see what is going on."

"I don't think you are strong enough to sit up, Cyril."

"Oh, yes I am; besides, I can lean against the bulwark."

Cyril was placed in the position he wanted, and, leaning his arm on the bulwark and resting his head on it, was able to see what was passing.

Suddenly a tremendous explosion was heard a quarter of a mile away.

"The Dutch admiral's ship has blown up," one of the men aloft shouted, and a loud cheer broke from the crew.

It was true. The Duke of York in the Royal Charles, of eighty guns, and the Eendracht, of eighty-four, the flagship of Admiral Obdam, had met and engaged each other fiercely. For a time the Dutchmen had the best of it. A single shot killed the Earl of Falmouth, Lord Muskerry, and Mr. Boyle, three gentlemen Volunteers, who at the moment were standing close to the Duke, and the Royal Charles suffered heavily until a shot from one of her guns struck the Dutchman's magazine, and the Eendracht blew up, only five men being rescued out of the five hundred that were on board of her.

This accident in no small degree decided the issue of the engagement, for the Dutch at once fell into confusion. Four of their ships, a few hundred yards from the Henrietta, fell foul of each other, and while the crews were engaged in trying to separate them an English fire-ship sailed boldly up and laid herself alongside. A moment later the flames shot up high, and the boat with the crew of the fire-ship rowed to the Henrietta. The flames instantly spread to the Dutch men-of-war, and the sailors were seen jumping over in great numbers. Prince Rupert ordered the boats to be lowered, but only one was found to be uninjured. This was manned and pushed off at once, and, with others from British vessels near, rescued a good many of the Dutch sailors.

Still the fight was raging all round; but a short time afterwards three other of the finest ships in the Dutch Fleet ran into each other. Another of the English fire-ships hovering near observed the opportunity, and was laid alongside, with the same success as her consort, the three men-of-war being all destroyed.

This took place at some distance from the Henrietta, but the English vessels near them succeeded in saving, in their boats, a portion of the crews. The Dutch ship Orange, of seventy-five guns, was disabled after a sharp fight with the Mary, and was likewise burnt. Two Dutch vice-admirals were killed, and a panic spread through the Dutch Fleet. About eight o'clock in the evening between thirty and forty of their ships made off in a body, and the rest speedily followed. During the fight and the chase eighteen Dutch ships were taken, though some of these afterwards escaped, as the vessels to which they had struck joined the rest in the chase. Fourteen were sunk, besides those burnt and blown up. Only one English ship, the Charity, had struck, having, at the beginning of the fight been attacked by three Dutch vessels, and lost the greater part of her men, and was then compelled to surrender to a Dutch vessel of considerably greater strength that came up and joined the others. The English loss was, considering the duration of the fight, extremely small, amounting to but 250 killed, and 340 wounded. Among the killed were the Earl of Marlborough, the Earl of Portland, who was present as a Volunteer, Rear-Admiral Sampson, and Vice-Admiral Lawson, the latter of whom died after the fight, from his wounds.

The pursuit of the Dutch was continued for some hours, and then terminated abruptly, owing to a Member of Parliament named Brounker, who was in the suite of the Duke of York, giving the captain of the Royal Charles orders, which he falsely stated emanated from the Duke, for the pursuit to be abandoned. For this he was afterwards expelled the House of Commons, and was ordered to be impeached, but after a time the matter was suffered to drop.

As soon as the battle was over Cyril was taken down to a hammock below. He was just dozing off to sleep when Sydney came to him.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Cyril, but an officer tells me that a man who is mortally wounded wishes to speak to you; and from his description I think it is the fellow you call Black Dick. I thought it right to tell you, but I don't think you are fit to go to see him."

"I will go," Cyril said, "if you will lend me your arm. I should like to hear what the poor wretch has to say."

"He lies just below; the hatchway is but a few yards distant."

There had been no attempt to remove Cyril's clothes, and, by the aid of Lord Oliphant and of a sailor he called to his aid, he made his way below, and was led through the line of wounded, until a doctor, turning round, said, -- 

"This is the man who wishes to see you, Sir Cyril."

Although a line of lanterns hung from the beams, so nearly blind was he that Cyril could scarce distinguish the man's features.

"I have sent for you," the latter said faintly, "to tell you that if it hadn't been for your jumping down on to that fire-ship you would not have lived through this day's fight. I saw that you recognised me, and knew that, as soon as we went back, you would hand us over to the constables. So I made up my mind that I would run you through in the mêlée if we got hand to hand with the Dutchmen, or would put a musket-ball into you while the firing was going on. But when I saw you standing there with the flames round you, giving your life, as it seemed, to save the ship, I felt that, even if I must be hung for it, I could not bring myself to hurt so brave a lad; so there is an end of that business. Robert Ashford was killed by a gun that was knocked from its carriage, so you have got rid of us both. I thought I should like to tell you before I went that the brave action you did saved your life, and that, bad as I am, I had yet heart enough to feel that I would rather take hanging than kill you."

The last words had been spoken in a scarcely audible whisper. The man closed his eyes; and the doctor, laying his hand on Cyril's arm, said, -- 

"You had better go back to your hammock now, Sir Cyril. He will never speak again. In a few minutes the end will come."

Cyril spent a restless night. The wind was blowing strongly from the north, and the crews had hard work to keep the vessels off the shore. His wounds did not pain him much, but his hands, arms, face, and legs smarted intolerably, for his clothes had been almost burnt off him, and, refreshing as the sea-bath had been at the moment, it now added to the smarting of the wounds.

In the morning Prince Rupert came down to see him.

"It was madness of you to have joined in that mêlée, lad, in the state in which you were. I take the blame on myself in not ordering you to remain behind; but when the Dutchmen poured on board I had no thought of aught but driving them back again. It would have marred our pleasure in the victory we have won had you fallen, for to you we all owe our lives and the safety of the ship. No braver deed was performed yesterday than yours. I fear it will be some time before you are able to fight by my side again; but, at least, you have done your share, and more, were the war to last a lifetime."

Cyril was in less pain now, for the doctor had poured oil over his burns, and had wrapped up his hands in soft bandages.

"It was the thought of a moment, Prince," he said. "I saw the fire-ship had steerage way on her, and if the helm were put down she would drive away from our side, so without stopping to think about it one way or the other, I ran along to the stern, and jumped down to her tiller."

"Yes, lad, it was but a moment's thought, no doubt, but it is one thing to think, and another to execute, and none but the bravest would have ventured that leap on to the fire-ship. By to-morrow morning we shall be anchored in the river. Would you like to be placed in the hospital at Sheerness, or to be taken up to London?"

"I would rather go to London, if I may," Cyril said. "I know that I shall be well nursed at Captain Dave's, and hope, erelong, to be able to rejoin."

"Not for some time, lad -- not for some time. Your burns will doubtless heal apace, but the wound in your shoulder is serious. The doctor says that the Dutchman's sword has cleft right through your shoulder-bone. 'Tis well that it is your left, for it may be that you will never have its full use again. You are not afraid of the Plague, are you? for on the day we left town there was a rumour that it had at last entered the City."

"I am not afraid of it," Cyril said; "and if it should come to Captain Dowsett's house, I would rather be there, that I may do what I can to help those who were so kind to me."

"Just as you like, lad. Do not hurry to rejoin. It is not likely there will be any fighting for some time, for it will be long before the Dutch are ready to take the sea again after the hammering we have given them, and all there will be to do will be to blockade their coast and to pick up their ships from foreign ports as prizes."

The next morning Cyril was placed on board a little yacht, called the Fan Fan, belonging to the Prince, and sailed up the river, the ship's company mustering at the side and giving him a hearty cheer. The wind was favourable, and they arrived that afternoon in town. According to the Prince's instructions, the sailors at once placed Cyril on a litter that had been brought for the purpose, and carried him up to Captain Dowsett's.

The City was in a state of agitation. The news of the victory had arrived but a few hours before, and the church bells were all ringing, flags were flying, the shops closed, and the people in the streets. John Wilkes came down in answer to the summons of the bell.

"Hullo!" he said; "whom have we here?"

"Don't you know me, John?" Cyril said.

John gave a start of astonishment.

"By St. Anthony, it is Master Cyril! At least, it is his voice, though it is little I can see of him, and what I see in no way resembles him."

"It is Sir Cyril Shenstone," the captain of the Fan Fan, who had come with the party, said sternly, feeling ruffled at the familiarity with which this rough-looking servitor of a City trader spoke of the gentleman in his charge. "It is Sir Cyril Shenstone, as brave a gentleman as ever drew sword, and who, as I hear, saved Prince Rupert's ship from being burnt by the Dutchmen."

"He knows me," John Wilkes said bluntly, "and he knows no offence is meant. The Captain and his dame, and Mistress Nellie are all out, Sir Cyril, but I will look after you till they return. Bring him up, lads. I am an old sailor myself, and fought the Dutch under Blake and Monk more than once."

He led the way upstairs into the best of the spare rooms. Here Cyril was laid on a bed. He thanked the sailors heartily for the care they had taken of him, and the captain handed a letter to John, saying, -- 

"The young Lord Oliphant asked me to give this to Captain Dowsett, but as he is not at home I pray you to give it him when he returns."

As soon as they had gone, John returned to the bed.

"This is terrible, Master Cyril. What have they been doing to you? I can see but little of your face for those bandages, but your eyes look mere slits, your flesh is all red and swollen, your eyebrows have gone, your arms and legs are all swathed up in bandages -- Have you been blown up with gunpowder? -- for surely no wound could have so disfigured you."

"I have not been blown up, John, but I was burnt by the flames of a Dutch fire-ship that came alongside. It is a matter that a fortnight will set right, though I doubt not that I am an unpleasant-looking object at present, and it will be some time before my hair grows again."

"And you are not hurt otherwise, Master?" John asked anxiously.

"Yes; I am hurt gravely enough, though not so as to imperil my life. I have a wound on the side of my head, and the same blow, as the doctor says, cleft through my shoulder-bone."

"I had best go and get a surgeon at once," John said; "though it will be no easy matter, for all the world is agog in the streets."

"Leave it for the present, John. There is no need whatever for haste. In that trunk of mine is a bottle of oils for the burns, though most of the sore places are already beginning to heal over, and the doctor said that I need not apply it any more, unless I found that they smarted too much for bearing. As for the other wounds, they are strapped up and bandaged, and he said that unless they inflamed badly, they would be best let alone for a time. So sit down quietly, and let me hear the news."

"The news is bad enough, though the Plague has not yet entered the City."

"The Prince told me that there was a report, before he came on board at Lowestoft, that it had done so."

"No, it is not yet come; but people are as frightened as if it was raging here. For the last fortnight they have been leaving in crowds from the West End, and many of the citizens are also beginning to move. They frighten themselves like a parcel of children. The comet seemed to many a sign of great disaster."

Cyril laughed.

"If it could be seen only in London there might be something in it, but as it can be seen all over Europe, it is hard to say why it should augur evil to London especially. It was shining in the sky three nights ago when we were chasing the Dutch, and they had quite as good reason for thinking it was a sign of misfortune to them as have the Londoners."

"That is true enough," John Wilkes agreed; "though, in truth, I like not to see the' thing in the sky myself. Then people have troubled their heads greatly because, in Master Lilly's Almanack, and other books of prediction, a great pestilence is foretold."

"It needed no great wisdom for that," Cyril said, "seeing that the Plague has been for some time busy in foreign parts, and that it was here, though not so very bad, in the winter, when these books would have been written."

"Then," John Wilkes went on, "there is a man going through the streets, night and day. He speaks to no one, but cries out continually, 'Oh! the great and dreadful God!' This troubles many men's hearts greatly."

"It is a pity, John, that the poor fellow is not taken and shut up in some place where madmen are kept. Doubtless, it is some poor coward whose brain has been turned by fright. People who are frightened by such a thing as that must be poor-witted creatures indeed."

"That may be, Master Cyril, but methinks it is as they say, one fool makes many. People get together and bemoan themselves till their hearts fail them altogether. And yet, methinks they are not altogether without reason, for if the pestilence is so heavy without the walls, where the streets are wider and the people less crowded than here, it may well be that we shall have a terrible time of it in the City when it once passes the walls."

"That may well be, John, but cowardly fear will not make things any better. We knew, when we sailed out against the Dutch the other day, that very many would not see the setting sun, yet I believe there was not one man throughout the Fleet who behaved like a coward."

"No doubt, Master Cyril; but there is a difference. One can fight against men, but one cannot fight against the pestilence, and I do not believe that if the citizens knew that a great Dutch army was marching on London, and that they would have to withstand a dreadful siege, they would be moved with fear as they are now."

"That may be so," Cyril agreed. "Now, John, I think that I could sleep for a bit."

"Do so, Master, and I will go into the kitchen and see what I can do to make you a basin of broth when you awake; for the girl has gone out too. She wanted to see what was going on in the streets; and as I had sooner stay quietly at home I offered to take her place, as the shop was shut and I had nothing to do. Maybe by the time you wake again Captain Dave and the others will be back from their cruise."

It was dark when Cyril woke at the sound of the bell. He heard voices and movements without, and then the door was quietly opened.

"I am awake," he said. "You see I have taken you at your word, and come back to be patched up."

"You are heartily welcome," Mrs. Dowsett said. "Nellie, bring the light. Cyril is awake. We were sorry indeed when John told us that you had come in our absence. It was but a cold welcome for you to find that we were all out."

"There was nothing I needed, madam. Had there been, John would have done it for me."

Nellie now appeared at the door with the light, and gave an exclamation of horror as she approached the bedside.

"It is not so bad as it looks, Nellie," Cyril said. "Not that I know how it looks, for I have not seen myself in a glass since I left here; but I can guess that I am an unpleasant object to look at."

Mrs. Dowsett made a sign to Nellie to be silent.

"John told us that you were badly burned and were all wrapped up in bandages, but we did not expect to find you so changed. However, that will soon pass off, I hope."

"I expect I shall be all right in another week, save for this wound in my shoulder. As for that on my head, it is but of slight consequence. My skull was thick enough to save my brain."

"Well, Master Cyril," Captain Dave said heartily, as he entered the room with a basin of broth in his hand, and then stopped abruptly.

"Well, Captain Dave, here I am, battered out of all shape, you see, but not seriously damaged in my timbers. There, you see, though I have only been a fortnight at sea, I am getting quite nautical."

"That is right, lad -- that is right," Captain Dave said, a little unsteadily. "My dame and Nellie will soon put you into ship-shape trim again. So you got burnt, I hear, by one of those rascally Dutch fire-ships? and John tells me that the captain of the sailors who carried you here said that you had gained mighty credit for yourself."

"I did my best, as everyone did, Captain Dave. There was not a man on board the Fleet who did not do his duty, or we should never have beaten the Dutchmen so soundly."

"You had better not talk any more," Mrs. Dowsett said. "You are in my charge now, and my first order is that you must keep very quiet, or else you will be having fever come on. You had best take a little of this broth now. Nellie will sit with you while I go out to prepare you a cooling drink."

"I will take a few spoonfuls of the soup since John has taken the trouble to prepare it for me," Cyril said; "though, indeed, my lips are so parched and swollen that the cooling drink will be much more to my taste."

"I think it were best first, dame," the Captain said, "that John and I should get him comfortably into bed, instead of lying there wrapped up in the blanket in which they brought him ashore. The broth will be none the worse for cooling a bit."

"That will be best," his wife agreed. "I will fetch some more pillows, so that we can prop him up. He can swallow more comfortably so, and will sleep all the better when he lies down again."

As soon as Cyril was comfortably settled John Wilkes was sent to call in a doctor, who, after examining him, said that the burns were doing well, and that he would send in some cooling lotion to be applied to them frequently. As to the wounds, he said they had been so skilfully bandaged that it were best to leave them alone, unless great pain set in.

Another four days, and Cyril's face had so far recovered its usual condition that the swelling was almost abated, and the bandages could be removed. The peak of the helmet had sheltered it a good deal, and it had suffered less than his hands and arms. Captain Dave and John had sat up with him by turns at night, while the Dame and her daughter had taken care of him during the day. He had slept a great deal, and had not been allowed to talk at all. This prohibition was now removed, as the doctor said that the burns were now all healing fast, and that he no longer had any fear of fever setting in.

"By the way, Captain," John Wilkes said, that day, at dinner, "I have just bethought me of this letter, that was given me by the sailor who brought Cyril here. It is for you, from young Lord Oliphant. It has clean gone out of my mind till now. I put it in the pocket of my doublet, and have forgotten it ever since."

"No harm can have come of the delay, John," Captain Dave said. "It was thoughtful of the lad. He must have been sure that Cyril would not be in a condition to tell us aught of the battle, and he may have sent us some details of it, for the Gazette tells us little enough, beyond the ships taken and the names of gentlemen and officers killed. Here, Nellie, do you read it. It seems a long epistle, and my eyes are not as good as they were."

Nellie took the letter and read aloud: -- 

"'DEAR AND WORTHY SIR, -- I did not think when I was so pleasantly entertained at your house that it would befall me to become your correspondent, but so it has happened, for, Sir Cyril being sorely hurt, and in no state to tell you how the matter befell him -- if indeed his modesty would allow him, which I greatly doubt -- it is right that you should know how the business came about, and what great credit Sir Cyril has gained for himself. In the heat of the fight, when we were briskly engaged in exchanging broadsides with a Dutchman of our own size, one of their fire-ships, coming unnoticed through the smoke, slipped alongside of us, and, the flames breaking out, would speedily have destroyed us, as indeed they went near doing. The grapnels were briskly thrown over, but she had already touched our sides, and the flames were blowing across us when Sir Cyril, perceiving that she had still some way on her, sprang down on to her deck and put over the helm. She was then a pillar of flame, and the decks, which were plentifully besmeared with pitch, were all in a blaze, save just round the tiller where her captain had stood to steer her. It was verily a furnace, and it seemed impossible that one could stand there for only half a minute and live. Everyone on board was filled with astonishment, and the Prince called out loudly that he had never seen a braver deed. As the fire-ship drew away from us, we saw Sir Cyril fasten the helm down with a rope, and then, lowering a bucket over, throw water on to it; then he threw off his helmet and armour -- his clothes being, by this time, all in a flame -- and sprang into the sea, the fire-ship being now well nigh her own length from us. She had sheered off none too soon, for some of our sails were on fire, and it was with great difficulty that we succeeded in cutting them from the yards and so saving the ship.

"'All, from the Prince down, say that no finer action was ever performed, and acknowledge that we all owe our lives, and His Majesty owes his ship, to it. Then, soon after we had hauled Sir Cyril on board, the Dutchmen boarded us, and there was a stiff fight, all hands doing their best to beat them back, in which we succeeded.

"'Sir Cyril, though scarce able to stand, joined in the fray, unnoticed by us all, who in the confusion had not thought of him, and being, indeed, scarce able to hold his sword, received a heavy wound, of which, however, the doctor has all hopes that he will make a good recovery.

"'It would have done you good to hear how the whole crew cheered Sir Cyril as we dragged him on board. The Prince is mightily taken with him, and is sending him to London in his own yacht, where I feel sure that your good dame and fair daughter will do all that they can to restore him to health. As soon as I get leave -- though I do not know when that will be, for we cannot say as yet how matters will turn out, or what ships will keep the sea -- I shall do myself the honour of waiting upon you. I pray you give my respectful compliments to Mrs. Dowsett and Mistress Nellie, who are, I hope, enjoying good health.

"'Your servant to command,

"'Sydney Oliphant.'"

The tears were standing in Nellie's eyes, and her voice trembled as she read. When she finished she burst out crying.

"There!" John Wilkes exclaimed, bringing his fist down upon the table. "I knew, by what that skipper said, the lad had been doing something quite out of the way, but when I spoke to him about it before you came in he only said that he had tried his best to do his duty, just as every other man in the Fleet had done. Who would have thought, Captain Dave, that that quiet young chap, who used to sit down below making out your accounts, was going to turn out a hero?"

"Who, indeed?" the Captain said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. "Why, he wasn't more than fifteen then, and, as you say, such a quiet fellow. He used to sit there and write, and never speak unless I spoke to him. 'Tis scarce two years ago, and look what he has done! Who would have thought it? I can't finish my breakfast," he went on, getting up from his seat, "till I have gone in and shaken him by the hand."

"You had better not, David," Mrs. Dowsett said gently. "We had best say but little to him about it now. We can let him know we have heard how he came by his burns from Lord Oliphant, but do not let us make much of it. Had he wished it he would have told us himself."

Captain Dave sat down again.

"Perhaps you are right, my dear. At any rate, till he is getting strong we will not tell him what we think of him. Anyhow, it can't do any harm to tell him we know it, and may do him good, for it is clear he does not like telling it himself, and may be dreading our questioning about the affair."

Mrs. Dowsett and Nellie went into Cyril's room as soon as they had finished breakfast. Captain Dave followed them a few minutes later.

"We have been hearing how you got burnt," he began. "Your friend, Lord Oliphant, sent a letter about it by the skipper of his yacht. That stupid fellow, John, has been carrying it about ever since, and only remembered it just now, when we were at breakfast. It was a plucky thing to do, lad."

"It turned out a very lucky one," Cyril said hastily, "for it was the means of saving my life."

"Saving your life, lad! What do you mean?"

Cyril then told how Robert Ashford and Black Dick had been brought on board as impressed men, how the former had been killed, and the confession that Black Dick had made to him before dying.

"He said he had made up his mind to kill me during the fight, but that, after I had risked my life to save the Henrietta, he was ashamed to kill me, and that, rather than do so, he had resolved to take his chance of my denouncing him when he returned to land."

"There was some good in the knave, then," Captain Dave said. "Yes, it was a fortunate as well as a brave action, as it turned out."

"Fortunate in one respect, but not in another," Cyril put in, anxious to prevent the conversation reverting to the question of his bravery. "I put down this wound in my shoulder to it, for if I had been myself I don't think I should have got hurt. I guarded the blow, but I was so shaky that he broke my guard down as if I had been a child, though I think that it did turn the blow a little, and saved it from falling fair on my skull. Besides, I should have had my helmet and armour on if it had not been for my having to take a swim. So, you see, Captain Dave, things were pretty equally balanced, and there is no occasion to say anything more about them."

"We have one piece of bad news to tell you, Cyril," Mrs. Dowsett remarked, in order to give the conversation the turn which she saw he wished for. "We heard this morning that the Plague has come at last into the City. Dr. Burnet was attacked yesterday."

"That is bad news indeed, Dame, though it was not to be expected that it would spare the City. If you will take my advice, you will go away at once, before matters get worse, for if the Plague gets a hold here the country people will have nothing to do with Londoners, fearing that they will bring the infection among them."

"We shall not go until you are fit to go with us, Cyril," Nellie said indignantly.

"Then you will worry me into a fever," Cyril replied. "I am getting on well now, and as you said, when you were talking of it before, you should leave John in charge of the house and shop, he will be able to do everything that is necessary for me. If you stay here, and the Plague increases, I shall keep on worrying myself at the thought that you are risking your lives needlessly for me, and if it should come into the house, and any of you die, I shall charge myself all my life with having been the cause of your death. I pray you, for my sake as well as your own, to lose no time in going to the sister Captain Dave spoke of, down near Gloucester."

"Do not agitate yourself," Mrs. Dowsett said gently, pressing him quietly back on to the pillows from which he had risen in his excitement. "We will talk it over, and see what is for the best. It is but a solitary case yet, and may spread no further. In a few days we shall see how matters go. Things have not come to a bad pass yet."

Cyril, however, was not to be consoled. Hitherto he had given comparatively small thought to the Plague, but now that it was in the City, and he felt that his presence alone prevented the family from leaving, he worried incessantly over it.

"Your patient is not so well," the doctor said to Mrs. Dowsett, next morning. "Yesterday he was quite free from fever -- his hands were cool; now they are dry and hard. If this goes on, I fear that we shall have great trouble."

"He is worrying himself because we do not go out of town. We had, indeed, made up our minds to do so, but we could not leave him here."

"Your nursing would be valuable certainly, but if he goes on as he is he will soon be in a high fever; his wounds will grow angry and fester. While yesterday he seemed in a fair way to recovery, I should be sorry to give any favourable opinion as to what may happen if this goes on. Is there no one who could take care of him if you went?"

"John Wilkes will remain behind, and could certainly be trusted to do everything that you directed; but that is not like women, doctor."

"No, I am well aware of that; but if things go on well he will really not need nursing, while, if fever sets in badly, the best nursing may not save him. Moreover, wounds and all other ailments of this sort do badly at present; the Plague in the air seems to affect all other maladies. If you will take my advice, Dame, you will carry out your intention, and leave at once. I hear there are several new cases of the Plague today in the City, and those who can go should lose no time in doing so; but, even if not for your own sakes, I should say go for that of your patient."

"Will you speak to my husband, doctor? I am ready to do whatever is best for your patient, whom we love dearly, and regard almost as a son."

"If he were a son I should give the same advice. Yes, I will see Captain Dowsett."

Half an hour later, Cyril was told what the doctor's advice had been, and, seeing that he was bent on it, and that if they stayed they would do him more harm than good, they resolved to start the next day for Gloucestershire.



Chapter XV

The Plague


Reluctant as they were to leave Cyril, Mrs. Dowsett and her daughter speedily saw that the doctor's advice was good. Cyril did not say much, but an expression of restful satisfaction came over his face, and it was not long before he fell into a quiet sleep that contrasted strongly with the restless and fretful state in which he had passed the night.

"You see I was right, madam," the doctor said that evening. "The fever has not quite left him, but he is a different man to what he was this morning; another quiet night's rest, and he will regain the ground he has lost. I think you can go in perfect comfort so far as he is concerned. Another week and he will be up, if nothing occurs to throw him back again; but of course it will be weeks before he can use his arm."

John Wilkes had been sent off as soon as it was settled that they would go, and had bought, at Epping, a waggon and a pair of strong horses. It had a tilt, and the ladies were to sleep in it on the journey, as it was certain that, until they were far away from London, they would be unable to obtain lodgings. A man was engaged to drive them down, and a sail and two or three poles were packed in the waggon to make a tent for him and Captain Dowsett. A store of provisions was cooked, and a cask of beer, another of water, and a case of wine were also placed in. Mattresses were laid down for the ladies to sit on during the day and to sleep on at night; so they would be practically independent during the journey. Early next morning they started.

"It seems heartless to leave you, Cyril," Nellie said, as they came in to say good-bye.

"Not heartless at all," Cyril replied. "I know that you are going because I wish it."

"It is more than wishing, you tiresome boy. We are going because you have made up your mind that you will be ill if we don't. You are too weak to quarrel with now, but when we meet again, tremble, for I warn you I shall scold you terribly then."

"You shall scold me as much as you please, Nellie; I shall take it all quite patiently."

Nellie and her mother went away in tears, and Captain Dave himself was a good deal upset. They had thought the going away from home on such a long journey would be a great trial, but this was now quite lost sight of in their regret at what they considered deserting Cyril, and many were the injunctions that were given to John Wilkes before the waggon drove off. They were somewhat consoled by seeing that Cyril was undoubtedly better and brighter. He had slept all night without waking, his hands were cool, and the flush had entirely left his cheek.

"If they were starting on a voyage to the Indies they could not be in a greater taking," John Wilkes said, on returning to Cyril's bedside. "Why, I have seen the Captain go off on a six months' voyage and less said about it."

"I am heartily glad they are gone, John. If the Plague grows there will be a terrible time here. Is the shop shut?"

"Ay; the man went away two days ago, and we sent off the two 'prentices yesterday. There is naught doing. Yesterday half the vessels in the Pool cleared out on the news of the Plague having got into the City, and I reckon that, before long, there won't be a ship in the port. We shall have a quiet time of it, you and I; we shall be like men in charge of an old hulk."

Another week, and Cyril was up. All his bandages, except those on the shoulder and head, had been thrown aside, and the doctor said that, erelong, the former would be dispensed with. John had wanted to sit up with him, but as Cyril would not hear of this he had moved his bed into the same room, so that he could be up in a moment if anything was wanted. He went out every day to bring in the news.

"There is little enough to tell, Master Cyril," he said one day. "So far, the Plague grows but slowly in the City, though, indeed, it is no fault of the people that it does not spread rapidly. Most of them seem scared out of their wits; they gather together and talk, with white faces, and one man tells of a dream that his wife has had, and another of a voice that he says he has heard; and some have seen ghosts. Yesterday I came upon a woman with a crowd round her; she was staring up at a white cloud, and swore that she could plainly see an angel with a white sword, and some of the others cried that they saw it too. I should like to have been a gunner's mate with a stout rattan, and to have laid it over their shoulders, to give them something else to think about for a few hours. It is downright pitiful to see such cowards. At the corner of one street there was a quack, vending pills and perfumes that he warranted to keep away the Plague, and the people ran up and bought his nostrums by the score; I hear there are a dozen such in the City, making a fortune out of the people's fears. I went into the tavern I always use, and had a glass of Hollands and a talk with the landlord. He says that he does as good a trade as ever, though in a different way. There are no sailors there now, but neighbours come in and drink down a glass of strong waters, which many think is the best thing against the Plague, and then hurry off again. I saw the Gazette there, and it was half full of advertisements of people who said they were doctors from foreign parts, and all well accustomed to cure the Plague. They say the magistrates are going to issue notices about shutting up houses, as they do at St. Giles's, and to have watchmen at the doors to see none come in or go out, and that they are going to appoint examiners in every parish to go from house to house to search for infected persons."

"I suppose these are proper steps to take," Cyril said, "but it will be a difficult thing to keep people shut up in houses where one is infected. No doubt it would be a good thing at the commencement of the illness, but when it has once spread itself, and the very air become infected, it seems to me that it will do but little good, while it will assuredly cause great distress and trouble. I long to be able to get up myself, and to see about things."

"The streets have quite an empty aspect, so many have gone away; and what with that, and most of the shops being closed, and the dismal aspect of the people, there is little pleasure in being out, Master Cyril."

"I dare say, John. Still, it will be a change, and, as soon as I am strong enough, I shall sally out with you."

Another fortnight, and Cyril was able to do so. The Plague had still spread, but so slowly that people began to hope that the City would be spared any great calamity, for they were well on in July, and in another six weeks the heat of summer would be passed. Some of those who had gone into the country returned, more shops had been opened, and the panic had somewhat subsided.

"What do you mean to do, Master Cyril?" John Wilkes asked that evening. "Of course you cannot join the Fleet again, for it will be, as the doctor says, another two months before your shoulder-bone will have knit strongly enough for you to use your arm, and at sea it is a matter of more consequence than on land for a man to have the use of both arms. The ship may give a sudden lurch, and one may have to make a clutch at whatever is nearest to prevent one from rolling into the lee scuppers; and such a wrench as that would take from a weak arm all the good a three months' nursing had done it, and might spoil the job of getting the bone to grow straight again altogether. I don't say you are fit to travel yet, but you should be able before long to start on a journey, and might travel down into Gloucestershire, where, be sure, you will be gladly welcomed by the Captain, his dame, and Mistress Nellie. Or, should you not care for that, you might go aboard a ship. There are hundreds of them lying idle in the river, and many families have taken up their homes there, so as to be free from all risks of meeting infected persons in the streets."

"I think I shall stay here, John, and keep you company. If the Plague dies away, well and good. If it gets bad, we can shut ourselves up. You say that the Captain has laid in a great store of provisions, so that you could live without laying out a penny for a year, and it is as sure as anything can be, that when the cold weather comes on it will die out. Besides, John, neither you nor I are afraid of the Plague, and it is certain that it is fear that makes most people take it. If it becomes bad, there will be terrible need for help, and maybe we shall be able to do some good. If we are not afraid of facing death in battle, why should we fear it by the Plague. It is as noble a death to die helping one's fellow-countrymen in their sore distress as in fighting for one's country."

"That is true enough, Master Cyril, if folks did but see it so. I do not see what we could do, but if there be aught, you can depend on me. I was in a ship in the Levant when we had a fever, which, it seems to me, was akin to this Plague, though not like it in all its symptoms. Half the crew died, and, as you say, I verily believe that it was partly from the lowness of spirits into which they fell from fear. I used to help nurse the sick, and throw overboard the dead, and it never touched me. I don't say that I was braver than others, but it seemed to me as it was just as easy to take things comfortable as it was to fret over them."

Towards the end of the month the Plague spread rapidly, and all work ceased in the parishes most affected. But, just as it had raged for weeks in the Western parishes outside the City, so it seemed restricted by certain invisible lines, after it had made its entry within the walls, and while it raged in some parts others were entirely unaffected, and here shops were open, and the streets still retained something of their usual appearance. There had been great want among the poorer classes, owing to the cessation of work, especially along the riverside. The Lord Mayor, some of the Aldermen, and most other rich citizens had hastened to leave the City. While many of the clergy were deserting their flocks, and many doctors their patients, others remained firmly at their posts, and worked incessantly, and did all that was possible in order to check the spread of the Plague and to relieve the distress of the poor.

Numbers of the women were engaged as nurses. Examiners were appointed in each parish, and these, with their assistants, paid house-to-house visitations, in order to discover any who were infected; and as soon as the case was discovered the house was closed, and none suffered to go in or out, a watchman being placed before the door day and night. Two men therefore were needed to each infected house, and this afforded employment for numbers of poor. Others were engaged in digging graves, or in going round at night, with carts, collecting the dead.

So great was the dread of the people at the thought of being shut up in their houses, without communication with the world, that every means was used for concealing the fact that one of the inmates was smitten down. This was the more easy because the early stages of the disease were without pain, and people were generally ignorant that they had been attacked until within a few hours, and sometimes within a few minutes, of their death; consequently, when the Plague had once spread, all the precautions taken to prevent its increase were useless, while they caused great misery and suffering, and doubtless very much greater loss of life. For, owing to so many being shut up in the houses with those affected, and there being no escape from the infection, whole families, with the servants and apprentices, sickened and died together.

Cyril frequently went up to view the infected districts. He was not moved by curiosity, but by a desire to see if there were no way of being of use. There was not a street but many of the houses were marked with the red cross. In front of these the watchmen sat on stools or chairs lent by the inmates, or borrowed from some house whence the inhabitants had all fled. The air rang with pitiful cries. Sometimes women, distraught with terror or grief, screamed wildly through open windows. Sometimes people talked from the upper stories to their neighbours on either hand, or opposite, prisoners like themselves, each telling their lamentable tale of misery, of how many had died and how many remained.

It was by no means uncommon to see on the pavement men and women who, in the excess of despair or pain, had thrown themselves headlong down. While such sounds and sights filled Cyril with horror, they aroused still more his feelings of pity and desire to be of some use. Very frequently he went on errands for people who called down from above to him. Money was lowered in a tin dish, or other vessel, in which it lay covered with vinegar as a disinfectant. Taking it out, he would go and buy the required articles, generally food or medicine, and, returning, place them in a basket that was again lowered.

The watchmen mostly executed these commissions, but many of them were surly fellows, and, as they were often abused and cursed by those whom they held prisoners, would do but little for them. They had, moreover, an excuse for refusing to leave the door, because, as often happened, it might be opened in their absence and the inmates escape. It was true that the watchmen had the keys, but the screws were often drawn from the locks inside; and so frequently was this done that at last chains with padlocks were fastened to all the doors as soon as the watch was set over them. But even this did not avail. Many of the houses had communications at the backs into other streets, and so eluded the vigilance of the watch; while, in other cases, communications were broken through the walls into other houses, empty either by desertion or death, and the escape could thus be made under the very eye of the watchman.

Very frequently Cyril went into a church when he saw the door open. Here very small congregations would be gathered, for there was a fear on the part of all of meeting with strangers, for these might, unknown to themselves, be already stricken with the pest, and all public meetings of any kind were, for this reason, strictly forbidden. One day, he was passing a church that had hitherto been always closed, its incumbent being one of those who had fled at the outbreak of the Plague. Upon entering he saw a larger congregation than usual, some twenty or thirty people being present.

The minister had just mounted the pulpit, and was beginning his address as Cyril entered. The latter was struck with his appearance. He was a man of some thirty years of age, with a strangely earnest face. His voice was deep, but soft and flexible, and in the stillness of the almost empty church its lowest tones seemed to come with impressive power, and Cyril thought that he had never heard such preaching before. The very text seemed strange at such a time: "Rejoice ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." From most of the discourses he had heard Cyril had gone out depressed rather than inspirited. They had been pitched in one tone. The terrible scourge that raged round them was held up as a punishment sent by the wrath of God upon a sinful people, and the congregation were warned to prepare themselves for the fate, that might at any moment be theirs, by repentance and humiliation. The preacher to whom Cyril was now listening spoke in an altogether different strain.

"You are all soldiers of Christ," he said, "and now is an opportunity given to you to show that you are worthy soldiers. When the troops of a worldly monarch go into battle they do so with head erect, with proud and resolute bearing, with flashing eye, and with high courage, determined to bear aloft his banner and to crown it with victory, even though it cost them their lives. Such is the mien that soldiers of Christ should bear in the mortal strife now raging round us. Let them show the same fearlessness of death, the same high courage, the same unlimited confidence in their Leader. What matter if they die in His service? He has told them what their work should be. He has bidden them visit the sick and comfort the sorrowing. What if there be danger in the work? Did He shrink from the Cross which was to end His work of love, and is it for His followers to do so? 'Though you go down into the pit,' He has said, 'I am there also'; and with His companionship one must be craven indeed to tremble. This is a noble opportunity for holding high the banner of Christ. There is work to be done for all, and as the work is done, men should see by the calm courage, the cheerfulness, and the patience of those that do it, that they know that they are doing His work, and that they are content to leave the issue, whatever it be, in His hands."

Such was the tone in which, for half an hour, he spoke. When he had finished he offered up a prayer, gave the blessing, and then came down from the pulpit and spoke to several of the congregation. He was evidently personally known to most of them. One by one, after a few words, they left the church. Cyril remained to the last.

"I am willing to work, sir," he said, as the preacher came up, "but, so far, no work has come in my way."

"Have you father or mother, or any dependent on you?"

"No one, sir."

"Then come along with me; I lodge close by. I have eaten nothing to-day, and must keep up my strength, and I have a long round of calls to make."

"This is the first time I have seen the church open," Cyril said, as they went out.

"It is not my church, sir, nor do I belong to the Church of England; I am an Independent. But as many of the pastors have fled and left their sheep untended, so have we -- for there are others besides myself who have done so -- taken possession of their empty pulpits, none gainsaying us, and are doing what good we can. You have been in the war, I see," he went on, glancing at Cyril's arm, which was carried in a sling.

"Yes; I was at the battle of Lowestoft, and having been wounded there, came to London to stay in a friend's house till I was cured. He and his family have left, but I am living with a trusty foreman who is in charge of the house. I have a great desire to be useful. I myself have little fear of the Plague."

"That is the best of all preservatives from its ravages, although not a sure one; for many doctors who have laboured fearlessly have yet died. Have you thought of any way of being useful?"

"No, sir; that is what is troubling me. As you see, I have but the use of one arm, and I have not got back my full strength by a long way."

"Everyone can be useful if he chooses," the minister said. "There is need everywhere among this stricken, frightened, helpless people, of men of calm courage and cool heads. Nine out of ten are so scared out of their senses, when once the Plague enters the houses, as to be well-nigh useless, and yet the law hinders those who would help if they could. I am compelled to labour, not among those who are sick, but among those who are well. When one enters a house with the red cross on the door, he may leave it no more until he is either borne out to the dead-cart, or the Plague has wholly disappeared within it, and a month has elapsed. The sole exception are the doctors; they are no more exempt from spreading the infection than other men, but as they must do their work so far as they can they have free passage; and yet, so few is their number and so heavy already their losses, that not one in a hundred of those that are smitten can have their aid. Here is one coming now, one of the best -- Dr. Hodges. If you are indeed willing so to risk your life, I will speak to him. But I know not your name?"

"My name is Cyril Shenstone."

The clergyman looked at him suddenly, and would have spoken, but the doctor was now close to them.

"Ah! Mr. Wallace," he said, "I am glad to see you, and to know that, so far, you have not taken the disease, although constantly going into the worst neighbourhoods."

"Like yourself, Dr. Hodges, I have no fear of it."

"I do not say I have no fear," the doctor replied. "I do my duty so far as I can, but I do not doubt that, sooner or later, I shall catch the malady, as many of us have done already. I take such precautions as I can, but the distemper seems to baffle all precautions. My only grief is that our skill avails so little. So far we have found nothing that seems to be of any real use. Perhaps if we could attack it in the earlier stages we might be more successful. The strange nature of the disease, and the way in which it does its work well-nigh to the end, before the patient is himself aware of it, puts it out of our power to combat it. In many cases I am not sent for until the patient is at the point of death, and by the time I reach his door I am met with the news that he is dead. But I must be going."

"One moment, Dr. Hodges. This young gentleman has been expressing to me his desire to be of use. I know nothing of him save that he was one of my congregation this morning, but, as he fears not the Plague, and is moved by a desire to help his fellows in distress, I take it that he is a good youth. He was wounded in the battle of Lowestoft, and, being as ready to encounter the Plague as he was the Dutch, would now fight in the cause of humanity. Would you take him as an assistant? I doubt if he knows anything of medicine, but I think he is one that would see your orders carried out. He has no relations or friends, and therefore considers himself free to venture his life."

The doctor looked earnestly at Cyril and then raised his hat.

"Young sir," he said, "since you are willing so to venture your life, I will gladly accept your help. There are few enough clear heads in this city, God knows. As for the nurses, they are Jezebels. They have the choice of starving or nursing, and they nurse; but they neglect their patients, they rob them, and there is little doubt that in many cases they murder them, so that at the end of their first nursing they may have enough money to live on without going to another house. But I am pressed for time. Here is my card. Call on me this evening at six, and we will talk further on the matter."

Shaking hands with the minister he hurried away.

"Come as far as my lodgings," Mr. Wallace said to Cyril, "and stay with me while I eat my meal. 'Tis a diversion to one's mind to turn for a moment from the one topic that all men are speaking of.

"Your name is Shenstone. I come from Norfolk. There was a family of that name formerly had estates near my native place. One Sir Aubrey Shenstone was at its head -- a brave gentleman. I well remember seeing him when I was a boy, but he took the side of the King against the Parliament, and, as we heard, passed over with Charles to France when his cause was lost. I have not heard of him since."

"Sir Aubrey was my father," Cyril said quietly; "he died a year ago. I am his only son."

"And therefore Sir Cyril," the minister said, "though you did not so name yourself."

"It was needless," Cyril said. "I have no estates to support my title, and though it is true that, when at sea with Prince Rupert, I was called Sir Cyril, it was because the Prince had known my father, and knew that I, at his death, inherited the title, though I inherited nothing else."

They now reached the door of Mr. Wallace's lodging, and went up to his room on the first floor.

"Neglect no precaution," the minister said. "No one should throw away his life. I myself, although not a smoker, nor accustomed to take snuff, use it now, and would, as the doctors advise, chew a piece of tobacco, but 'tis too nasty, and when I tried it, I was so ill that I thought even the risk of the Plague preferable. But I carry camphor in my pockets, and when I return from preaching among people of whom some may well have the infection, I bathe my face and hands with vinegar, and, pouring some on to a hot iron, fill the room with its vapour. My life is useful, I hope, and I would fain keep it, as long as it is the Lord's will, to work in His service. As a rule, I take wine and bread before I go out in the morning, though to-day I was pressed for time, and neglected it. I should advise you always to do so. I am convinced that a full man has less chance of catching the infection than a fasting one, and that it is the weakness many men suffer from their fears, and from their loss of appetite from grief, that causes them to take it so easily. When the fever was so bad in St. Giles's, I heard that in many instances, where whole families were carried away, the nurses shut up with them were untouched with the infection, and I believe that this was because they had become hardened to the work, and ate and drank heartily, and troubled not themselves at all at the grief of those around them. They say that many of these harpies have grown, wealthy, loading themselves with everything valuable they could lay hands on in the houses of those they attended."

After the meal, in which he insisted upon Cyril joining him, was concluded, Mr. Wallace uttered a short prayer that Cyril might safely pass through the work he had undertaken.

"I trust," he said, "that you will come here frequently? I generally have a few friends here of an evening. We try to be cheerful, and to strengthen each other, and I am sure we all have comfort at these meetings."

"Thank you, I will come sometimes, sir; but as a rule I must return home, for my friend, John Wilkes, would sorely miss my company, and is so good and faithful a fellow that I would not seem to desert him on any account."

"Do as you think right, lad, but remember there will always be a welcome for you here when you choose to come."

John Wilkes was dismayed when he heard of Cyril's intention.

"Well, Master Cyril," he said, after smoking his pipe in silence for some time, "it is not for me to hinder you in what you have made up your mind to do. I don't say that if I wasn't on duty here that I mightn't go and do what I could for these poor creatures. But I don't know. It is one thing to face a deadly fever like this Plague if it comes on board your own ship, for there is no getting out of it; and as you have got to face it, why, says I, do it as a man; but as for going out of your way to put yourself in the middle of it, that is going a bit beyond me."

"Well, John, you didn't think it foolish when I went as a Volunteer to fight the Dutch. It was just the same thing, you know."

"I suppose it was," John said reluctantly, after a pause. "But then, you see, you were fighting for your country."

"Well, but in the present case I shall be fighting for my countrymen and countrywomen, John. It is awful to think of the misery that people are suffering, and it seems to me that, having nothing else to do here, it is specially my duty to put my hand to the work of helping as far as I can. The risk may, at present, be greater than it would be if I stayed at home, but if the Plague spreads -- and it looks as if all the City would presently be affected -- all will have to run the risk of contagion. There are thousands of women now who voluntarily enter the houses as nurses for a small rate of pay. Even robbers, they say, will enter and ransack the houses of the dead in search of plunder. It will be a shame indeed then if one should shrink from doing so when possibly one might do good."

"I will say nothing more against it, Master Cyril. Still, I do not see exactly what you are going to do; with one arm you could scarce hold down a raving man."

"I am not going to be a nurse, certainly, John," Cyril said, with a laugh. "I expect that the doctor wants certain cases watched. Either he may doubt the nurses, or he may want to see how some particular drug works. Nothing, so far, seems of use, but that may be partly because the doctors are all so busy that they cannot watch the patients and see, from hour to hour, how medicines act."

"When I was in the Levant, and the pest was bad there," John Wilkes said, "I heard that the Turks, when seized with the distemper, sometimes wrapped themselves up in a great number of clothes, so that they sweated heavily, and that this seemed, in some cases, to draw off the fever, and so the patient recovered."

"That seems a sensible sort of treatment, John, and worth trying with this Plague."

On calling on Dr. Hodges that afternoon, Cyril found that he had rightly guessed the nature of the work that the doctor wished him to perform.

"I can never rely upon the nurses," he said. "I give instructions with medicines, but in most cases I am sure that the instructions are never carried out. The relations and friends are too frightened to think or act calmly, too full of grief for the sick, and anxiety for those who have not yet taken the illness, to watch the changes in the patient. As to the nurses, they are often drunk the whole time they are in the house. Sometimes they fear to go near the sick man or woman; sometimes, undoubtedly, they hasten death. In most cases it matters little, for we are generally called in too late to be of any service. The poor people view us almost as enemies; they hide their malady from us in every way. Half our time, too, is wasted uselessly, for many are there who frighten themselves into the belief that they are ill, and send for us in all haste. So far, we feel that we are working altogether in the dark; none of us can see that any sort of drug avails even in the slightest degree when the malady has once got a hold. One in twenty cases may live, but why we know not. Still the fact that some do live shows that the illness is not necessarily mortal, and that, could the right remedy befound, we might yet overcome it. The first thing, however, is to try to prevent its spread. Here we have ten or more people shut up in a house with one sick person. It is a terrible necessity, for it is a sentence of death to many, if not to all. We give the nurses instructions to fumigate the room by evaporating vinegar upon hot irons, by burning spices and drugs, by sprinkling perfumes. So far, I cannot see that these measures have been of any service, but I cannot say how thoroughly they have been carried out, and I sorely need an assistant to see that the system is fairly tried. It is not necessary that he should be a doctor, but he must have influence and power over those in the house. He must be calm and firm, and he must be regarded by the people as a doctor. If you will undertake this, you must put on a wig, for you know that that is looked upon as a necessary part of a doctor's outfit by people in general. I shall introduce you as my assistant, and say that you are to be obeyed as implicitly as if I myself were present. There is another reason why you must pass as a doctor, for you would otherwise be a prisoner and unable to pass in and out. You had best wear a black suit. I will lend you one of my canes and a snuff-box, and should advise you to take snuff, even if it is not your habit, for I believe that it is good against infection, and one of the experiments I wish to try is as to what its result may be if burnt freely in the house. Are you ready to undertake this work?"

"Quite ready, sir."

"Then come round here at eight in the morning. I shall have heard by that hour from the examiners of this parish of any fresh case they have found. They begin their rounds at five o'clock."

The next day Cyril presented himself at the doctor's, dressed in black, with white ruffles to his shirt, and a flowing wig he had purchased the night before.

"Here are the cane and snuff-box," Dr. Hodges said. "Now you will pass muster very well as my assistant. Let us be off at once; for I have a long list of cases."

Cyril remained outside while Dr. Hodges went into three or four houses. Presently he came down to the door, and said to him, -- 

"This is a case where things are favourable for a first trial. It is a boy who is taken ill, and the parents, though in deep grief, seem to have some sense left."

He turned to the watchman, who had already been placed at the door. The man, who evidently knew him, had saluted respectfully when he entered the house.

"This gentleman is my assistant," he said, "and you will allow him to pass in and out just as you would myself. He is going to take this case entirely in hand, and you will regard him as being in charge here."

He then re-entered the house with Cyril, and led him to the room where the parents of the boy, and two elder sisters, were assembled.

"This is my assistant," he said, "and he has consented to take entire charge of the case, though I myself shall look in and consult with him every morning. In the first place, your son must be taken to the top storey of the house. You say that you are ready to nurse him yourselves, and do not wish that a paid nurse should be had in. I commend your determination, for the nurses are, for the most part, worse than useless, and carry the infection all over the house. But only one of you must go into the room, and whoever goes in must stay there. It is madness for all to be going in and out and exposing themselves to the infection when no good can be done. When this is the case, one or other is sure to take the malady, and then it spreads to all. Which of you will undertake the duty?"

All four at once offered themselves, and there was an earnest contest between them for the dangerous post. Dr. Hodges listened for a minute or two, and then decided upon the elder of the two sisters -- a quiet, resolute-looking girl with a healthy face.

"This young lady shall be nurse," he said. "I feel that I can have confidence in her. She looks healthy and strong, and would, methinks, best resist the malady, should she take it. I am leaving my assistant here for a time to see to the fumigation of the house. You will please see that his orders are carried out in every respect. I have every hope that if this is done the Plague will not spread further; but much must depend upon yourselves. Do not give way to grief, but encourage each other, and go about with calm minds. I see," he said, pointing to a Bible on the table, "that you know where to go for comfort and strength. The first thing is to carry the boy up to the room that we chose for him."

"I will do that," the father said.

"He had better be left in the blankets in which he is lying. Cover him completely over with them, for, above all, it is necessary that you should not inhale his breath. You had better take the head and your daughter the feet. But first see that the room upstairs is prepared."

In a few minutes the lad was transferred to the upper room, the doctor warning the others not to enter that from which he had been carried until it had been fumigated and sprinkled with vinegar.

"Now," he said to the girl who was to remain with the patient, "keep the window wide open; as there is no fireplace, keep a brazier of charcoal burning near the window. Keep the door shut, and open it only when you have need for something. Give him a portion of this medicine every half hour. Do not lean over him -- remember that his breath is a fatal poison. Put a pinch of these powdered spices into the fire every few minutes. Pour this perfume over your handkerchief, and put it over your mouth and nose whenever you approach the bed. He is in a stupor now, poor lad, and I fear that his chance of recovery is very slight; but you must remember that your own life is of value to your parents, and that it behoves you to do all in your power to preserve it, and that if you take the contagion it may spread through the house. We shall hang a sheet, soaked in vinegar, outside the door."

"We could not have a better case for a trial," he said, as he went downstairs and joined Cyril, whom he had bidden wait below. "The people are all calm and sensible, and if we succeed not here, there is small chance of our succeeding elsewhere."

The doctor then gave detailed orders as to fumigating the house, and left. Cyril saw at once that a brazier of charcoal was lighted and carried upstairs, and he called to the girl to come out and fetch it in. As soon as she had done so the sheet was hung over the door. Then he took another brazier, placed it in the room from which the boy had been carried, laid several lumps of sulphur upon it, and then left the room. All the doors of the other rooms were then thrown open, and a quantity of tobacco, spices, and herbs, were burnt on a red-hot iron at the foot of the stairs, until the house was filled with a dense smoke. Half an hour later all the windows were opened.



Chapter XVI

Father And Son


The process of fumigation had well-nigh suffocated the wife and daughter of the trader, but, as soon as the smoke cleared away, Cyril set them all to work to carry up articles of furniture to another bedroom on the top floor.

"When your daughter is released from nursing, madam," he said, "she must at once come into this room, and remain there secluded for a few days. Therefore, it will be well to make it as comfortable as possible for her. Her food must be taken up and put outside the door, so that she can take it in there without any of you going near her."

The occupation was a useful one, as it distracted the thoughts of those engaged in it from the sick room.

Cyril did not enter there. He had told the girl to call him should there be any necessity, but said, -- 

"Do not call me unless absolutely needful, if, for instance, he becomes violent, in which case we must fasten the sheets across him so as to restrain him. But it is of no use your remaining shut up there if I go in and out of the room to carry the infection to the others."

"You have hurt your arm, doctor?" the mother said, when the arrangements were all made, and they had returned to the room below.

"Yes," he said; "I met with an accident, and must, for a short time, keep my arm in a sling."

"You look young, sir, to be running these fearful perils."

"I am young," Cyril said, "and have not yet completed all my studies; but Dr. Hodges judged that I was sufficiently advanced to be able to be of service to him, not so much in prescribing as by seeing that his orders were carried out."

Every half hour he went upstairs, and inquired, through the door, as to the state of the boy.

Late in the afternoon he heard the girl crying bitterly within. He knocked, and she cried out, -- 

"He is dead, sir; he has just expired."

"Then you must think of yourself and the others," he said. "The small packet I placed on the chair contains sulphur. Close the window, then place the packet on the fire, and leave the room at once and go into the next room, which is all ready for you. There, I pray you, undress, and sponge yourself with vinegar, then make your clothes into a bundle and put them outside the door. There will be a bowl of hot broth in readiness for you there; drink that, and then go to bed at once, and keep the blankets over you and try to sleep."

He went part of the way downstairs, and, in a minute or two, heard a door open and shut, then another door shut. Knowing that the order had been carried out, he went downstairs.

"Madam," he said, "God has taken your boy. The doctor had but little hope for him. For the sake of yourself and those around you, I pray you all to bear up against the sorrow."

The mother burst into tears, and, leaving her with her husband and daughter, Cyril went into the kitchen, where the maid and an apprentice were sitting with pale faces, and bade the servant at once warm up the broth, that had already been prepared. As soon as it was ready, he carried a basin upstairs. The bundle of clothes had already been placed outside the girl's room. He took this down and put it on the kitchen fire.

"Now," he said, "take four basins up to the parlour, and do you and the boy each make a hearty meal. I think there is little fear of the Plague spreading, and your best chance of avoiding it is by keeping up your spirits and not fretting about it."

As soon as the broth had been taken into the parlour, he went in and persuaded them to eat and to take a glass of wine with it, while he himself sat down with them.

"You are all weak," he said, "for, doubtless, you have eaten nothing to-day, and you need strength as well as courage. I trust that your daughter will presently go off into a sound sleep. The last thing before you go to bed, take up with you a basin of good posset with a glass of wine in it; knock gently at her door; if she is awake, tell her to come out and take it in as soon as you have gone, but if she does not reply, do not rouse her. I can be of no further use to-night, but will return in the morning, when I hope to find all is well."

The father accompanied him to the door.

"You will of course bring the poor boy down to-night. It were best that you made some excuse to sleep in another room. Let your daughter sleep with her mother. When you go in to fetch him, be careful that you do not enter at once, for the fumes of the sulphur will scarcely have abated. As you go in, place a wet handkerchief to your mouth, and make to the window and throw it open, closing the door behind you. Sit at the window till the air is tolerable, then wrap the blankets round him and carry him downstairs when you hear the bell. After he has gone tell the servant to have a brazier lighted, and to keep up the kitchen fire. As soon as he is gone, burn on the brazier at the foot of the stairs, tobacco and spices, as we did before; then take off your clothes and burn them on the kitchen fire, and then go up to bed. You can leave the doors and windows of the rooms that are not in use open, so that the smoke may escape."

"God bless you, sir!" the man said. "You have been a comfort indeed to us, and I have good hopes that the Plague will spread no further among us."

Cyril went first to the doctor's, and reported what had taken place.

"I will go round in the morning and see how they are," he concluded, "and bring you round word before you start on your rounds."

"You have done very well indeed," the doctor said. "If people everywhere would be as calm, and obey orders as well as those you have been with, I should have good hopes that we might check the spread of the Plague; but you will find that they are quite the exception."

This, indeed, proved to be the case. In many instances, the people were so distracted with grief and fear that they ran about the house like mad persons, crying and screaming, running in and out of the sick chamber, or sitting there crying helplessly, and refusing to leave the body until it was carried out to the dead-cart. But with such cases Cyril had nothing to do, as the doctor would only send him to the houses where he saw that his instructions would be carried out.

To his great satisfaction, Cyril found that the precautions taken in the first case proved successful. Regularly, every morning, he inquired at the door, and received the answer, "All are well."

In August the Plague greatly increased in violence, the deaths rising to ten thousand a week. A dull despair had now seized the population. It seemed that all were to be swept away. Many went out of their minds. The quacks no longer drove a flourishing trade in their pretended nostrums; these were now utterly discredited, for nothing seemed of the slightest avail. Some went to the opposite extreme, and affected to defy fate. The taverns were filled again, and boisterous shouts and songs seemed to mock the dismal cries from the houses with the red cross on the door. Robberies were rife. Regardless of the danger of the pest, robbers broke into the houses where all the inmates had perished by the Plague, and rifled them of their valuables. The nurses plundered the dying. All natural affection seemed at an end.

Those stricken were often deserted by all their relatives, and left alone to perish.

Bands of reckless young fellows went through the streets singing, and, dressing up in masks, performed the dance of death. The dead were too many to be carried away in carts at night to the great pits prepared for them, but the dismal tones of the bell, and the cries of "Bring out your dead!" sounded in the streets all day. It was no longer possible to watch the whole of the infected houses. Sometimes Plague-stricken men would escape from their beds and run through the streets until they dropped dead. One such man, in the height of his delirium, sprang into the river, and, after swimming about for some time, returned to the shore, marvellously cured of his malady by the shock.

Cyril went occasionally in the evening to the lodgings of Mr. Wallace. At first he met several people gathered there, but the number became fewer every time he went. He had told the minister that he thought that it would be better for him to stay away, exposed as he was to infection, but Mr. Wallace would take no excuses on this score.

"We are all in the hands of God," he said. "The streets are full of infected people, and I myself frequently go to pray with my friends in the earliest stages of the malady. There is no longer any use in precautions. We can but all go on doing our duty until we are called away, and even among the few who gather here of an evening there may be one or more who are already smitten, though unconscious yet that their summons has come."

Among others Cyril was introduced to a Mr. and Mrs. Harvey, who were, the minister told him, from the country, but were staying in town on account of a painful family business.

"I have tried to persuade them to return home and to stay there until the Plague ceases, but they conceive it their duty to remain. They are, like myself, Independents, and are not easily to be turned from a resolution they have taken."

Cyril could easily understand that Mr. Harvey was exactly what he, from the description he had heard of them, had pictured to himself that a Roundhead soldier would be. He had a stern face, eyes deeply sunk in his head, high cheekbones, a firm mouth, and a square jaw. He wore his hair cut close. His figure was bony, and he must, as a young man, have been very powerful. He spoke in a slow, deliberate way, that struck Cyril as being the result of long effort, for a certain restless action of the fingers and the quick movement of the eye, told of a naturally impulsive and fiery disposition. He constantly used scriptural texts in the course of his speech. His wife was gentle and quiet, but it was evident that there was a very strong sympathy between them, and Cyril found, after meeting them once or twice, that he liked them far better than he thought he should do on their first introduction. This was, no doubt, partly due to the fact that Mr. Harvey frequently entered into conversation with him, and appeared to interest himself in him. He was, too, a type that was altogether new to the lad. From his father, and his father's companions, he had heard nothing good of the Puritans, but the evident earnestness of this man's nature was, to some extent, in accordance with his own disposition, and he felt that, widely as he might differ from him on all points of politics, he could not but respect him. The evenings were pleasant. As if by common consent, the conversation never turned on the Plague, but they talked of other passing events, of the trials of their friends, and of the laws that were being put in force against Nonconformists.

"What think you of these persecutions, young sir?" Mr. Harvey abruptly asked Cyril, one evening, breaking off in the midst of a general conversation.

Cyril was a little confused at the unexpected question.

"I think all persecutions for conscience' sake are wrong," he said, after a moment's pause, "and generally recoil upon the persecutors. Spain lost Holland owing to her persecution of the people. France lost great numbers of her best citizens by her laws against the Protestants. I agree with you thoroughly, that the persecution of the Nonconformists at present is a grievous error, and a cruel injustice; but, at the same time, if you will excuse my saying so, it is the natural consequence of the persecution by the Nonconformists, when they were in power, of the ministers of the Church of England. My tutor in France was an English clergyman, who had been driven from his living, like thousands of other ministers, because he would not give up his opinions. Therefore, you see, I very early was imbued with a hatred of persecution in any form. I trust that I have not spoken too boldly; but you asked for my opinion, and I was forced to give it."

"At any rate, young sir, you have spoken manfully, and I like you none the worse for it. Nor can I altogether gainsay your words. But you must remember that we had before been oppressed, and that we have been engaged in a desperate struggle for liberty of conscience."

"Which, having won for ourselves, we proceeded to deny to others," Mr. Wallace said, with a smile. "Cyril has us fairly, Mr. Harvey. We are reaping what our fathers sowed. They thought that the power they had gained was to be theirs to hold always, and they used it tyrannously, being thereby false to all their principles. It is ever the persecuted, when he attains power, who becomes the persecutor, and, hard as is the pressure of the laws now, we should never forget that we have, in our time, been persecutors, and that in defiance of the rights of conscience we had fought to achieve. Man's nature is, I fear, unchangeable. The slave longs, above all things, for freedom, but when he rises successfully against his master he, in turn, becomes a tyrant, and not infrequently a cruel and bloodthirsty one. Still, we must hope. It may be in the good days that are to come, we may reach a point when each will be free to worship in his own fashion, without any fear or hindrance, recognising the fact that each has a right to follow his own path to Heaven, without its being a subject of offence to those who walk in other ways."

One or two of the other visitors were on the point of speaking, when Mr. Wallace put a stop to further argument by fetching a Bible from his closet, and preparing for the short service of prayer with which the evening always closed.

One evening, Mr. Harvey and his wife were absent from the usual gathering.

"I feel anxious about them," Mr. Wallace said; "they have never, since they arrived in town, missed coming here at seven o'clock. The bells are usually striking the hour as they come. I fear that one or other of them may have been seized by the Plague."

"With your permission, sir, I will run round and see," Cyril said. "I know their lodging, for I have accompanied them to the door several times. It is but five minutes' walk from here. If one or other is ill I will run round to Dr. Hodges, and I am sure, at my request, he will go round at once to see them."

Cyril walked fast towards the lodging occupied by the Harveys. It was at the house of a mercer, but he and his family had, three weeks before, gone away, having gladly permitted his lodgers to remain, as their presence acted as a guard to the house. They had brought up an old servant with them, and were therefore able to dispense with other attendants. Cyril hurried along, trying, as usual, to pay as little heed as he could to the doleful cries that arose from many of the houses. Although it was still broad daylight there was scarce a soul in the streets, and those he met were, like himself, walking fast, keeping as far as possible from any one they met, so as to avoid contact.

As he neared the house he heard a woman scream. A moment later a casement was thrown open, and Mrs. Harvey's head appeared. She gave another piercing cry for help, and was then suddenly dragged back, and the casement was violently closed. Cyril had so frequently heard similar cries that he would have paid no attention to it had it come from a stranger, but he felt that Mrs. Harvey was not one to give way to wild despair, even had her husband been suddenly attacked with the Plague. Her sudden disappearance, and the closing of the casement, too, were unaccountable, unless, indeed, her husband were in a state of violent delirium. He ran to the door and flung himself against it.

"Help me to force it down," he cried to a man who was passing.

"You are mad," the man replied. "Do you not see that they have got the Plague? You may hear hundreds of such cries every day."

Cyril drew his sword, which he always carried when he went out of an evening -- for, owing to the deaths among the City watch, deeds of lawlessness and violence were constantly perpetrated -- and struck, with all his strength, with the hilt upon the fastening of the casement next the door. Several of the small panes of glass fell in, and the whole window shook. Again and again he struck upon the same spot, when the fastening gave way, and the window flew open. He sprang in at once, ran through the shop into the passage, and then upstairs. The door was open, and he nearly fell over the body of a man. As he ran into the room he heard the words, -- 

"For the last time: Will you sign the deed? You think I will not do this, but I am desperate."

As the words left his mouth, Cyril sprang forward between the man and Mr. Harvey, who was standing with his arms folded, looking steadfastly at his opponent, who was menacing him with a drawn sword. The man, with a terrible oath, turned to defend himself, repeating the oath when he saw who was his assailant.

"I let you off last time lightly, you scoundrel!" Cyril exclaimed. "This time it is your life or mine."

The man made a furious lunge at him. Cyril parried it, and would at the next moment have run him through had not Mr. Harvey suddenly thrown himself between them, hurling Cyril's antagonist to the ground.

"Put up your sword," he said to Cyril. "This man is my son; scoundrel and villain, yet still my son, even though he has raised his hand against me. Leave him to God."

Cyril had stepped a pace back in his surprise. At first he thought that Mr. Harvey's trouble had turned his brain; then it flashed across him that this ruffian's name was indeed John Harvey. The man was about to rise from the floor when Cyril again sprang forward.

"Drop that sword," he exclaimed, "or I will run you through. Now, sir," he said to Mr. Harvey, "will you draw out that pistol, whose butt projects from his pocket, or your son may do one of us mischief yet?"

That such had been the man's intention was evident from the glance of baffled rage he threw at Cyril.

"Now, sir, go," his father said sternly. "Remember that, henceforth, you are no son of mine. Did I do my duty I should hand you over to the watch -- not for your threats to me, but for the sword-thrust you have given to Joseph Edmonds, who has many times carried you on his shoulder when a child. You may compass my death, but be assured that not one farthing will you gain thereby. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.' I leave it to Him to pay it. Now go."

John Harvey rose to his feet, and walked to the door. Then he turned and shook his fist at Cyril.

"Curse you!" he said. "I will be even with you yet."

Cyril now had time to look round. His eye fell upon the figure of Mrs. Harvey, who had fallen insensible. He made a step towards her, but her husband said, "She has but fainted. This is more pressing," and he turned to the old servant. Cyril aided him in lifting the old man up and laying him on the couch.

"He breathes," said he.

"He is wounded to death," Mr. Harvey said sadly; "and my son hath done it."

Cyril opened the servant's coat.

"Here is the wound, high up on the left side. It may not touch a vital part. It bleeds freely, and I have heard that that is a good sign."

"It is so," Mr. Harvey said excitedly. "Perhaps he may yet recover. I would give all that I am worth that it might be so, and that, bad as he may be, the sin of this murder should not rest on my son's soul."

"I will run for the doctor, sir, but before I go let me help you to lift your wife. She will doubtless come round shortly, and will aid you to stanch the wound till the doctor comes."

Mrs. Harvey was indeed already showing signs of returning animation. She was placed on a couch, and water sprinkled on her face. As soon as he saw her eyes open Cyril caught up his hat and ran to Dr. Hodges. The doctor had just finished his supper, and was on the point of going out again to see some of his patients. On hearing from Cyril that a servant of some friends of his had been wounded by a robber, he put some lint and bandages in his pocket, and started with him.

"These robberies are becoming more and more frequent," he said; "and so bold and reckless are the criminals that they seem to care not a jot whether they add murder to their other crimes. Where do you say the wound is?"

Cyril pointed below his own shoulder.

"It is just about there, doctor."

"Then it may be above the upper edge of the lung. If so, we may save the man. Half an inch higher or lower will make all the difference between life and death. As you say that it was bleeding freely, it is probable that the sword has missed the lung, for had it pierced it, the bleeding would have been chiefly internal, and the hope of saving him would have been slight indeed."

When they reached the house Cyril found that Mrs. Harvey had quite recovered. They had cut open the man's clothes and her husband was pressing a handkerchief, closely folded, upon the wound.

"It is serious, but, I think, not vital," Dr. Hodges said, after examining it. "I feel sure that the sword has missed the lung."

After cutting off the rest of the man's upper garments, he poured, from a phial he had brought with him, a few drops of a powerful styptic into the wound, placed a thick pad of lint over it, and bandaged it securely. Then, giving directions that a small quantity of spirits and water should be given to the patient from time to time, and, above all things, that he should be kept perfectly quiet, he hurried away.

"Is there anything more I can do, sir?" Cyril asked Mr. Harvey.

"Nothing more. You will understand, sir, what our feelings are, and that our hearts are too full of grief and emotion for us to speak. We shall watch together to-night, and lay our case before the Lord."

"Then I will come early in the morning and see if there is aught I can do, sir. I am going back now to Mr. Wallace, who was uneasy at your absence. I suppose you would wish me to say only that I found that there was a robber in the place who, having wounded your servant, was on the point of attacking you when I entered, and that he fled almost immediately."

"That will do. Say to him that for to-night we shall be busy nursing, and that my wife is greatly shaken; therefore I would not that he should come round, but I pray him to call here in the morning."

"I will do so, sir."

Cyril went downstairs, closed the shutters of the window into which he had broken, and put up the bars, and then went out at the door, taking special pains to close it firmly behind him.

He was glad to be out of the house. He had seen many sad scenes during the last few weeks, but it seemed to him that this was the saddest of all. Better, a thousand times, to see a son stricken by the Plague than this. He walked slowly back to the minister's. He met Mr. Wallace at the door of his house.

"I was coming round," the latter said. "Of course one or other of them are stricken?"

"No, sir; it was another cause that prevented their coming. Just as I reached the house I heard a scream, and Mrs. Harvey appeared at the casement calling for help. I forced open a window and ran up. I found that a robber had entered the house. He had seriously wounded the old servant, and was on the point of attacking Mr. Harvey when I entered. Taken by surprise, the man fled almost immediately. Mrs. Harvey had fainted. At first, we thought the servant was killed, but, finding that he lived, I ran off and fetched Dr. Hodges, who has dressed the wound, and thinks that the man has a good chance of recovery. As Mrs. Harvey had now come round, and was capable of assisting her husband, they did not accept my offer to stay and do anything I could. I said I was coming to you, and Mr. Harvey asked me to say that, although they were too much shaken to see you this evening, they should be glad if you would go round to them the first thing in the morning."

"Then the robber got away unharmed?" Mr. Wallace asked.

"He was unharmed, sir. I would rather that you did not question me on the subject. Mr. Harvey will doubtless enter fully into the matter with you in the morning. We did not exchange many words, for he was greatly disturbed in spirit at the wounding of his old servant, and the scene he had gone through; and, seeing that he and his wife would rather be alone with their patient, I left almost directly after Dr. Hodges went away. However, I may say that I believe that there are private matters in the affair, which he will probably himself communicate to you."

"Then I will ask no more questions, Cyril. I am well content to know that it is not as I feared, and that the Plague had not attacked them."

"I said that I would call round in the morning, sir; but I have been thinking of it as I came along, and consider that, as you will be there, it is as well that I should not do so. I will come round here at ten o'clock, and should you not have returned, will wait until you do. I do not know that I can be of any use whatever, and do not wish to intrude there. Will you kindly say this to them, but add that should they really wish me to go, I will of course do so?"

Mr. Wallace looked a little puzzled.

"I will do as you ask me, but it seems to me that they will naturally wish to see you, seeing that, had it not been for your arrival, they might have been robbed and perhaps murdered."

"You will understand better when you have seen Mr. Harvey, sir. Now I will be making for home; it is about my usual hour, and John Wilkes will be beginning to wonder and worry about me."

To John, Cyril told the same story as to Mr. Wallace.

"But, how was it that you let the villain escape, Master Cyril? Why did you not run him through the body?"

"I had other things to think of, John. There was Mrs. Harvey lying insensible, and the servant desperately wounded, and I thought more of these than of the robber, and was glad enough, when he ran out, to be able to turn my attention to them."

"Ay, ay, that was natural enough, lad; but 'tis a pity the villain got off scot-free. Truly it is not safe for two old people to be in an empty house by themselves in these times, specially as, maybe, the houses on either side are also untenanted, and robbers can get into them and make their way along the roof, and so enter any house they like by the windows there. It was a mercy you chanced to come along. Men are so accustomed now to hear screams and calls for aid, that none trouble themselves as to such sounds. And you still feel quite well?"

"Never better, John, except for occasional twitches in my shoulder."

"It does not knit so fast as it should do," John said. "In the first place, you are always on the move; then no one can go about into infected houses without his spirits being disturbed, and of all things a calm and easy disposition is essential for the proper healing of wounds. Lastly, it is certain that when there is poison in the air wounds do not heal so quickly as at other times."

"It is going on well enough, John; indeed, I could not desire it to do better. As soon as it is fairly healed I ought to join Prince Rupert again; but in truth I do not wish to go, for I would fain see this terrible Plague come to an end before I leave; for never since the days of the Black Death, hundreds of years ago, was there so strange and terrible a malady in this country."

Mr. Wallace had returned to his house when Cyril called the next morning.

"Thinking over what you said last night, Cyril, I arrived at a pretty correct conclusion as to what had happened, though I thought not that it could be as bad as it was. I knew the object with which Mr. Harvey and his wife had come up to London, at a time when most men were fleeing from it. Their son has, ever since he came up three years ago, been a source of grievous trouble to them, as he was, indeed, for a long time previously. Some natures seem naturally to turn to evil, and this boy's was one of them. It may be that the life at home was too rigid and severe, and that he revolted against it. Certain it is that he took to evil courses and consorted with bad companions. Severity was unavailing. He would break out of the house at night and be away for days. He was drunken and dissolute.

"At last, just after a considerable sum of money had come into the house from the tenants' rents, he stole it, and went up to London. His name was not mentioned at home, though his father learnt from correspondents here that he had become a hanger-on of the Court, where, his father being a man of condition, he found friends without difficulty. He was a gambler and a brawler, and bore a bad reputation even among the riff-raff of the Court. His father learnt that he had disappeared from sight at the time the Court went to Oxford early in June, and his correspondent found that he was reported to have joined a band of abandoned ruffians, whose least crimes were those of robbery.

"When the Plague spread rapidly, Mr. Harvey and his wife determined to come up to London, to make one more effort to draw him from his evil courses. The only thing that they have been able to learn for certain was, that he was one of the performers in that wicked mockery the dance of death, but their efforts to trace him have otherwise failed.

"They had intended, if they had found him, and he would have made promises of amendment, to have given him money that would have enabled him to go over to America and begin a new life there, promising him a regular allowance to maintain him in comfort. As they have many friends over there, some of whom went abroad to settle before the Civil War broke out here, they would be able to have news how he was going on; and if they found he was living a decent life, and truly repented his past course, they would in five years have had him back again, and reinstated him as their heir.

"I knew their intentions in the matter, and have done my best to gain them news of him. I did not believe in the reformation of one who had shown himself to be of such evil spirit; but God is all-powerful, and might have led him out from the slough into which he had fallen.

"Yesterday evening, half an hour before you went there, his father and mother were astonished at his suddenly entering. He saluted them at first with ironical politeness, and said that having heard from one from the same part of the country that he had seen them in London, he had had the streets thereabouts watched, and having found where they lodged, had come to pay his respects.

"There was a reckless bravado in his manner that alarmed his mother, and it was not long before the purpose of his visit came out. He demanded that his father should at once sign a deed which he had brought drawn out in readiness, assigning to him at once half his property.

"'You have,' he said, 'far more than you can require. Living as you do, you must save three-quarters of your income, and it would be at once an act of charity, and save you the trouble of dealing with money that is of no use to you.'

"His father indignantly refused to take any such step, and then told him the plans he had himself formed for him. At this he laughed scoffingly.

"'You have the choice,' he said, 'of giving me half, or of my taking everything.' And then he swore with terrible oaths that unless his father signed the paper, that day should be his last. 'You are in my power,' he said, 'and I am desperate. Do you think that if three dead bodies are found in a house now any will trouble to inquire how they came to their end? They will be tossed into the plague-cart, and none will make inquiry about them.'

"Hearing voices raised in anger, the old servant ran in. At once the villain drew and ran at him, passing his sword through his body. Then, as if transported at the sight of the blood he had shed, he turned upon his father. It was at this moment that his mother ran to the window and called for help. He dragged her back, and as she fell fainting with horror and fear he again turned upon his father; his passion grew hotter and hotter as the latter, upbraiding him with the deed he had done, refused to sign; and there is no doubt that he would have taken his life had you not luckily ran in at this moment.

"It has truly been a terrible night for them. They have passed it in prayer, and when I went this morning were both calm and composed, though it was easy to see by their faces how they had suffered, and how much the blow has told upon them. They have determined to save their son from any further temptation to enrich himself by their deaths. I fetched a lawyer for them; and when I left Mr. Harvey was giving him instructions for drawing up his will, by which every farthing is left away from him. They request me to go to them this evening with two or three of our friends to witness it, as it is necessary in a time like this that a will should be witnessed by as many as possible, as some may be carried off by the Plague; and should all the witnesses be dead, the will might be disputed as a forgery. So the lawyer will bring his clerks with him, and I shall take four or five of our friends.

"They will return to the country as soon as their servant can be moved. Dr. Hodges came when I was there, and gives hopes that the cure will be a speedy one. We are going to place some men in the house. I have among my poorer friends two men who will be glad to establish themselves there with their wives, seeing that they will pay no rent, and will receive wages as long as Mr. Harvey remains there. There will thus be no fear of any repetition of the attempt. Mr. Harvey, on my advice, will also draw up and sign a paper giving a full account of the occurrence of last evening, and will leave this in the hands of the lawyer.

"This will be a protection to him should his son follow him into the country, as he will then be able to assure him that if he proceeds to violence suspicion will at once fall upon him, and he will be arrested for his murder. But, indeed, the poor gentleman holds but little to his life; and it was only on my representing to him that this document might be the means of averting the commission of the most terrible of all sins from the head of his son, that he agreed to sign it. I gave him your message, and he prays me to say that, deeply grateful as he and his wife are to you, not so much for the saving of their lives, as for preventing their son's soul being stained by the crime, they would indeed rather that you did not call for a time, for they are so sorely shaken that they do not feel equal to seeing you. You will not, I hope, take this amiss."

"By no means," Cyril replied; "it is but a natural feeling; and, in truth, I myself am relieved that such is their decision, for it would be well-nigh as painful to me as to them to see them again, and to talk over the subject."

"By the way, Cyril, Mr. Harvey said that when you saw his son you cried out his name, and that by the manner in which he turned upon you it was clear that he had some cause for hating you. Is this so, or was it merely his fancy?"

"It was no fancy, sir. It is not long since I thwarted his attempt to carry off the daughter of a city merchant, to whom he had represented himself as a nobleman. He was in the act of doing so, with the aid of some friends, when, accompanied by John Wilkes, I came up. There was a fray, in the course of which I ran him through the shoulder. The young lady returned home with us, and has since heartily repented of her folly. I had not seen the man since that time till I met him yesterday; but certainly the house was watched for some time, as I believe, by his associates who would probably have done me an ill turn had I gone out after nightfall."

"That explains it, Cyril. I will tell Mr. Harvey, whose mind has been much puzzled by your recognition of his son."



Chapter XVII

Smitten Down


Two days later, Cyril started at his usual hour to go to Dr. Hodges'; but he had proceeded but a few yards when a man, who was leaning against the wall, suddenly lurched forward and caught him round the neck. Thinking that the fellow had been drinking, Cyril angrily tried to shake him off. As he did so the man's hat, which had been pressed down over his eyes, fell off, and, to his astonishment, Cyril recognised John Harvey.

"You villain! What are you doing here?" he exclaimed, as he freed himself from the embrace, sending his assailant staggering back against the wall.

The man's face lit up with a look of savage exultation..

"I told you you should hear from me again," he said, "and I have kept my word. I knew the hour you went out, and I have been waiting for you. You are a doomed man. I have the Plague, and I have breathed in your face. Before twenty-four hours have passed you will be, as I am, a dying man. That is a good piece of vengeance. You may be a better swordsman than I am, but you can't fight with the Plague."

Cyril drew back in horror. As he did so, a change came over John Harvey's face, he muttered a few words incoherently, swayed backwards and forwards, and then slid to the ground in a heap. A rush of blood poured from his mouth, and he fell over dead.

Cyril had seen more than one similar death in the streets, but the horrible malignity of this man, and his sudden death, gave him a terrible shock. He felt for the moment completely unmanned, and, conscious that he was too unhinged for work, he turned and went back to the house.

"You look pale, lad," John Wilkes said, as Cyril went upstairs. "What brings you back so soon?"

"I have had rather a shock, John." And he told him of what had happened.

"That was enough to startle you, lad. I should say the best thing you could do would be to take a good strong tumbler of grog, and then lay down."

"That I will do, and will take a dose of the medicine Dr. Hodges makes everyone take when the infection first shows itself in a house. As you know, I have never had any fear of the Plague hitherto. I don't say that I am afraid of it now, but I have run a far greater risk of catching it than I have ever done before, for until now I have never been in actual contact with anyone with the disease."

After a sleep Cyril rose, and feeling himself again, went to call upon Mr. Wallace.

"I shall not come again for a few days," he said, after telling him what had happened, but without mentioning the name of John Harvey, "but I will send you a note every other day by John Wilkes. If he does not come, you will know that I have taken the malady, and in that case, Mr. Wallace, I know that I shall have your prayers for my recovery. I am sure that I shall be well cared for by John Wilkes."

"Of my prayers you maybe sure, Cyril; and, indeed, I have every faith that, should you catch the malady, you will recover from it. You have neither well-nigh frightened yourself to death, nor have you dosed yourself with drugs until nature was exhausted before the struggle began. You will, I am sure, be calm and composed, and above all you have faith in God, and the knowledge that you have done your part to carry out His orders, and to visit the sick and aid those in sorrow."

The next day Cyril was conscious of no change except that he felt a disinclination to exert himself. The next morning he had a feeling of nausea.

"I think that I am in for it, John," he said. "But at any rate it can do no harm to try that remedy you spoke of that is used in the East. First of all, let us fumigate the room. As far as I have seen, the smoke of tobacco is the best preservative against the Plague. Now do you, John, keep a bit of tobacco in your mouth."

"That I mostly do, lad."

"Well, keep a bigger bit than usual, John, and smoke steadily. Still, that will not be enough. Keep the fire burning, and an iron plate heated to redness over it. Bring that into my room from time to time, and burn tobacco on it. Keep the room full of smoke."

"I will do that," John said, "but you must not have too much of it. I am an old hand, and have many times sat in a fo'castle so full of smoke that one could scarce see one's hands, but you are not accustomed to it, and it may like enough make you sick."

"There will be no harm in that, John, so that one does not push it too far. Now, how are you going to set about this sweating process?"

"While you undress and get into bed I will get a blanket ready. It is to be dipped in boiling water, and then wrung out until it is as dry as we can get it. Then you are wrapped in that, and then rolled in five or six dry blankets to keep in the heat. You will keep in that until you feel almost weak with sweating; then I take you out and sponge you with warmish water, and then wrap you in another dry blanket."

"You had better sponge me with vinegar, John."

Cyril undressed. When he had done so he carefully examined himself, and his eye soon fell on a black spot on the inside of his leg, just above the knee. It was the well-known sign of the Plague.

"I have got it, John," he said, when the latter entered with a pile of blankets.

"Well, then, we have got to fight it, Master Cyril, and we will beat it if it is to be beaten. Now, lad, for the hot blanket."

"Lay it down on the bed, and I will wrap myself in it, and the same with the others. Now I warn you, you are not to come nearer to me than you can help, and above all you are not to lean over me. If you do, I will turn you out of the room and lock the door, and fight it out by myself. Now puff away at that pipe, and the moment you wrap me up get the room full of smoke."

John nodded.

"Don't you bother about me," he growled. "I reckon the Plague ain't going to touch such a tough old bit of seasoned mahogany as I am. Still, I will do as you tell me."

In a few minutes Cyril was in a profuse perspiration, in which even his head, which was above the blankets, shared.

"That is grand," John said complacently.

The cloud of tobacco, with which the room was soon filled, was not long in having the effect that John had predicted, and Cyril was soon violently sick, which had the effect of further increasing the perspiration.

"You must open the window and let the smoke out a bit, John," he gasped. "I can't stand any more of it."

This was done, and for another hour Cyril lay between the blankets.

"I shall faint if I lie here any longer," he said at last. "Now, John, do you go out of the room, and don't come back again until I call you. I see you have put the vinegar handy. It is certain that if this is doing me any good the blankets will be infected. You say you have got a big fire in the kitchen. Well, I shall take them myself, and hang them up in front of it, and you are not to go into the room till they are perfectly dry again. You had better light another fire at once in the parlour, and you can do any cooking there. I will keep the kitchen for my blankets."

John nodded and left the room, and Cyril at once proceeded to unroll the blankets. As he came to the last he was conscious of a strong fetid odour, similar to that he had more than once perceived in houses infected by the Plague.

"I believe it is drawing it out of me," he said to himself. "I will give it another trial presently."

He first sponged himself with vinegar, and felt much refreshed. He then wrapped himself up and lay down for a few minutes, for he felt strangely weak. Then he got up and carried the blankets into the kitchen, where a huge fire had been made up by John. He threw the one that had been next to him into a tub, and poured boiling water on it, and the others he hung on chairs round it. Then he went back to his room, and lay down and slept for half an hour. He returned to the kitchen and rearranged the blankets. When John saw him go back to his room he followed him.

"I have got some strong broth ready," he said. "Do you think that you could take a cupful?"

"Ay, and a good-sized one, John. I feel sure that the sweating has done me good, and I will have another turn at it soon. You must go at once and report that I have got it, or when the examiners come round, and find that the Plague is in the house, you will be fined, or perhaps imprisoned. Before you go there, please leave word at Dr. Hodges' that I am ill, and you might also call at Mr. Wallace's and leave the same message. Tell them, in both cases, that I have everything that I want, and trust that I shall make a good recovery."

"Ay, ay, sir; I will be off as soon as I have brought you in your broth, and will be back here in half an hour."

Cyril drank the broth, and then dozed again until John returned. When he heard his step he called out to him to bring the hot iron, and he filled the room with tobacco smoke before allowing him to enter.

"Now, John, the blankets are dry, and can be handled again, and I am ready for another cooking."

Four times that day did Cyril undergo the sweating process. By the evening he was as weak as a child, but his skin was soft and cool, and he was free from all feeling of pain or uneasiness. Dr. Hodges called half an hour after he had taken it for the last time, having only received his message when he returned late from a terrible day's work. Cyril had just turned in for the night.

"Well, lad, how are you feeling? I am so sorry that I did not get your message before."

"I am feeling very well, doctor."

"Your hand is moist and cool," Dr. Hodges said in surprise. "You must have been mistaken. I see no signs whatever of the Plague."

"There was no mistake, doctor; there were the black marks on my thighs, but I think I have pretty well sweated it out of me."

He then described the process he had followed, and said that John Wilkes had told him that it was practised in the Levant.

"Sweating is greatly used here, and I have tried it very repeatedly among my patients, and in some cases, where I had notice of the disease early, have saved them. Some bleed before sweating, but I have not heard of one who did so who recovered. In many cases the patient, from terror or from weakness of body, cannot get up the heat required, and even if they arrive at it, have not the strength to support it. In your case you lost no time; you had vital heat in plenty, and you had strength to keep up the heat in full force until you washed, as it were, the malady out of you. Henceforth I shall order that treatment with confidence when patients come to me whom I suspect to have the Plague, although it may not have as yet fully declared itself. What have you done with the blankets?"

"I would not suffer John to touch them, but carried them myself into the kitchen. The blankets next to me I throw into a tub and pour boiling water over them; the others I hang up before a huge fire, so as to be dry for the next operation. I take care that John does not enter the kitchen."

"How often have you done this?"

"Four times, and lay each time for an hour in the blankets. I feel very weak, and must have lost very many pounds in weight, but my head is clear, and I suffer no pain whatever. The marks on my legs have not spread, and seem to me less dark in colour than they were."

"Your case is the most hopeful that I have seen," Dr. Hodges said. "The system has had every advantage, and to this it owes its success. In the first place, you began it as soon as you felt unwell. Most people would have gone on for another twelve hours before they paid much attention to the first symptoms, and might not have noticed the Plague marks even when they went to bed. In the second place, you are cool and collected, and voluntarily delivered yourself to the treatment. And in the third place, which is the most important perhaps of all, you were in good health generally. You had not weakened yourself by swallowing every nostrum advertised, or wearing yourself out by vain terrors. Ninety-nine cases out of a hundred would be probably beyond the reach of help before they were conscious of illness, and be too weak to stand so severe a strain on the system as that you have undergone. Another thing is that the remedy could hardly be attempted in a house full of frightened people. There would be sure to be carelessness in the matter of the blankets, which, unless treated as you have done, would be a certain means of spreading the infection over the house. At any rate, I would continue the sweating as long as you can possibly stand it. Take nourishment in the shape of broth frequently, but in small quantity. I would do it again at midnight; 'tis well not to let the virus have time to gather strength again. I see you have faith in tobacco."

"Yes, doctor. I never let John Wilkes into the room after I have taken a bath until it is full of tobacco smoke. I have twice made myself ill with it to-day."

"Don't carry it too far, lad; for although I also believe in the virtue of the weed, 'tis a powerful poison, and you do not want to weaken yourself. Well, I see I can do nothing for you. You and your man seem to me to have treated the attack far more successfully than I should have done; for, indeed, this month very few of those attacked have recovered, whatever the treatment has been. I shall come round early tomorrow morning to see how you are going on. At present nothing can be better. Since the first outbreak, I have not seen a single case in which the patient was in so fair a way towards recovery in so short a time after the discovery of the infection."

John Wilkes at this moment came in with a basin of broth.

"This is my good friend, John Wilkes, doctor."

"You ought to be called Dr. John Wilkes," the doctor, who was one of the most famous of his time, said, with a smile, as he shook hands with him. "Your treatment seems to be doing wonders."

"It seems to me he is doing well, doctor, but I am afraid he is carrying it too far; he is so weak he can hardly stand."

"Never mind that," the doctor said; "it will be easy enough to build him up when we have once got the Plague out of him. I have told him to have another turn in the blankets at twelve o'clock to-night; it will not do to let the malady get a fresh hold of him. But don't push it too far, lad. If you begin to feel faint, stop it, even if you have not been a quarter of an hour in the blankets. Do not cover yourself up too warmly when you have done; let nature have a rest. I shall be round between eight and nine, and no doubt you will have had another bath before I come. Do not sleep in the room, Wilkes; he is sure to go off soundly to sleep, and there is no use your running any needless risk. Let his window stand open; indeed, it should always be open, except when he gets out of his blankets, or is fumigating the room. Let him have a chair by the open window, so as to get as much fresh air as possible; but be sure that he is warmly wrapped up with blankets, so as to avoid getting a chill. You might place a hand-bell by the side of his bed to-night, so that he can summons you should he have occasion."

When the doctor came next morning he nodded approvingly as soon as he felt Cyril's hand.

"Nothing could be better," he said; "your pulse is even quieter than last night. Now let me look at those spots."

"They are fainter," Cyril said.

"A great deal," Dr. Hodges said, in a tone of the greatest pleasure. "Thank God, my lad, it is dying out. Not above three or four times since the Plague began have I been able to say so. I shall go about my work with a lighter heart today, and shall order your treatment in every case where I see the least chance of its being carried out, but I cannot hope that it will often prove as successful as it has with you. You have had everything in your favour -- youth, a good constitution, a tranquil mind, an absence of fear, and a faith in God."

"And a good attendant, doctor -- don't forget that."

"No, that goes for a great deal, lad -- for a great deal. Not one nurse out of a hundred would carry out my instructions carefully; not one patient in a thousand would be able to see that they were carried out. Of course you will keep on with the treatment, but do not push it to extremes; you have pulled yourself down prodigiously, and must not go too far. Do you perceive any change in the odour when you take off the blankets?"

"Yes, doctor, a great change; I could scarcely distinguish it this morning, and indeed allowed John Wilkes to carry them out, as I don't think I myself could have walked as far as the kitchen, though it is but ten or twelve paces away. I told him to smoke furiously all the time, and to come out of the kitchen as soon as he had hung them up."

Cyril took three more baths in the course of the day, but was only able to sustain them for twenty minutes each, as by the end of that time he nearly fainted. The doctor came in late in the evening.

"The spots are gone, doctor," Cyril said.

"Then I think you may consider yourself cured, lad. Do not take the treatment again to-night; you can take it once in the morning; and then if I find the spots have not reappeared by the time I come, I shall pronounce the cure as complete, and shall begin to build you up again."

The doctor was able to give this opinion in the morning.

"I shall not come again, lad, unless you send for me, for every moment of my time is very precious, and I shall leave you in the hands of Dr. Wilkes. All you want now is nourishment; but take it carefully at first, and not too much at a time; stick to broths for the next two or three days, and when you do begin with solids do so very sparingly."

"There was a gentleman here yesterday asking about you," John Wilkes said, as Cyril, propped up in bed, sipped his broth. "It was Mr. Harvey. He rang at the bell, and I went down to the lower window and talked to him through that, for of course the watchman would not let me go out and speak to him. I had heard you speak of him as one of the gentlemen you met at the minister's, and he seemed muchly interested in you. He said that you had done him a great service, and of course I knew it was by frightening that robber away. I never saw a man more pleased than he was when I told him that the doctor thought you were as good as cured, and he thanked God very piously for the same. After he had done that, he asked me first whether you had said anything to me about him. I said that you had told me you had met him and his wife at the minister's, and that you said you had disturbed a robber you found at his house. He said, quite sharp, 'Nothing more?' 'No, not as I can think of. He is always doing good to somebody,' says I, 'and never a word would he say about it, if it did not get found out somehow. Why, he saved Prince Rupert's ship from being blown up by a fire-vessel, and never should we have known of it if young Lord Oliphant had not written to the Captain telling him all about it, and saying that it was the gallantest feat done in the battle. Then there were other things, but they were of the nature of private affairs.' 'You can tell me about them, my good man,' he said; 'I am no vain babbler; and as you may well believe, from what he did for me, and for other reasons, I would fain know as much as I can of him.' So then I told him about how you found out about the robbery and saved master from being ruined, and how you prevented Miss Nellie from going off with a rascal who pretended he was an earl."

"Then you did very wrong, John," Cyril said angrily. "I say naught about your speaking about the robbery, for that was told in open Court, but you ought not, on any account, to have said a word about Mistress Nellie's affairs."

"Well, your honour, I doubt not Mistress Nellie herself would have told the gentleman had she been in my place. I am sure he can be trusted not to let it go further. I took care to tell him what good it had done Mistress Nellie, and that good had come out of evil."

"Well, you ought not to have said anything about it, John. It may be that Mistress Nellie out of her goodness of heart might herself have told, but that is no reason why anyone else should do so. I charge you in future never to open your lips about that to anyone, no matter who. I say not that any harm will come of it in this case, for Mr. Harvey is indeed a sober and God-fearing man, and assuredly asked only because he felt an interest in me, and from no idle curiosity. Still, I would rather that he had not known of a matter touching the honour of Mistress Nellie."

"Mum's the word in future, Master Cyril. I will keep the hatches fast down on my tongue. Now I will push your bed up near the window as the doctor ordered, and then I hope you will get a good long sleep."

The Plague and the process by which it had been expelled had left Cyril so weak that it was some days before he could walk across the room. Every morning he inquired anxiously of John how he felt, and the answer was always satisfactory. John had never been better in his life; therefore, by the time Cyril was able to walk to his easy-chair by the window, he began to hope that John had escaped the infection, which generally declared itself within a day or two, and often within a few hours, of the first outbreak in a house.

A week later the doctor, who paid him a flying visit every two or three days, gave him the welcome news that he had ordered the red cross to be removed from the door, and the watchmen to cease their attendance, as the house might now be considered altogether free from infection.

The Plague continued its ravages with but slight abatement, moving gradually eastward, and Aldgate and the district lying east of the walls were now suffering terribly. It was nearly the end of September before Cyril was strong enough to go out for his first walk. Since the beginning of August some fifty thousand people had been carried off, so that the streets were now almost entirely deserted, and in many places the grass was shooting up thickly in the road. In some streets every house bore the sign of a red cross, and the tolling of the bells of the dead-carts and piteous cries and lamentations were the only sounds that broke the strange silence.

The scene was so disheartening that Cyril did not leave the house again for another fortnight. His first visit was to Mr. Wallace. The sight of a watchman at the door gave him quite a shock, and he was grieved indeed when he heard from the man that the brave minister had died a fortnight before. Then he went to Mr. Harvey's. There was no mark on the door, but his repeated knockings met with no response, and a woman, looking out from a window opposite, called to him that the house had been empty for well-nigh a month, and the people that were in it had gone off in a cart, she supposed into the country.

"There was a gentleman and lady," she said, "who seemed well enough, and their servant, who was carried down and placed in the cart. It could not have been the Plague, though the man looked as if he had been sorely ill."

The next day he called on Dr. Hodges, who had not been near him for the last month. There was no watchman at the door, and his man opened it.

"Can I see the doctor?"

"Ay, you can see him," he said; "he is cured now, and will soon be about again."

"Has he had the Plague, then?"

"That he has, but it is a week now since the watchman left."

Cyril went upstairs. The doctor was sitting, looking pale and thin, by the window.

"I am grieved indeed to hear that you have been ill, doctor," Cyril said; "had I known it I should have come a fortnight since, for I was strong enough to walk this distance then. I did indeed go out, but the streets had so sad an aspect that I shrank from stirring out again."

"Yes, I have had it," the doctor said. "Directly I felt it come on I followed your system exactly, but it had gone further with me than it had with you, and it was a week before I fairly drove the enemy out. I ordered sweating in every case, but, as you know, they seldom sent for me until too late, and it is rare that the system got a fair chance. However, in my case it was a complete success. Two of my servants died; they were taken when I was at my worst. Both were dead before I was told of it. The man you saw was the one who waited on me, and as I adopted all the same precautions you had taken with your man, he did not catch it, and it was only when he went downstairs one day and found the other two servants lying dead in the kitchen that he knew they had been ill."

"Mr. Wallace has gone, you will be sorry to hear, sir."

"I am sorry," the doctor said; "but no one was more fitted to die. He was a brave man and a true Christian, but he ran too many risks, and your news does not surprise me."

"The only other friends I have, Mr. Harvey and his wife, went out of town a month ago, taking with them their servant."

"Yes; I saw them the day before I was taken ill," the doctor said, "and told them that the man was so far out of danger that he might safely be moved. They seemed very interested in you, and were very pleased when I told them that I had now given up attending you, and that you were able to walk across the room, and would, erelong, be yourself again. I hope we are getting to the end of it now, lad. As the Plague travels East it abates in the West, and the returns for the last week show a distinct fall in the rate of mortality. There is no further East for it to go now, and I hope that in another few weeks it will have worn itself out. We are half through October, and may look for cold weather before long."

"I should think that I am strong enough to be useful again now, sir."

"I don't think you are strong enough, and I am sure I shall not give you leave to do so," the doctor said. "I can hardly say how far a first attack is a protection against a second, for the recoveries have been so few that we have scarce means of knowing, but there certainly have been cases where persons have recovered from a first attack and died from a second. Your treatment is too severe to be gone through twice, and it is, therefore, more essential that you should run no risk of infection than it was before. I can see that you are still very far from strong, and your duty now is, in the first place, to regain your health. I should say get on board a hoy and go to Yarmouth. A week in the bracing air there would do you more good than six months here. But it is useless to give you that advice, because, in the first place, no shipping comes up the river, and, even if you could get down to Yarmouth by road, no one would receive you. Still, that is what I should do myself as soon as I could get away, were it not that, in my case, I have my duties here."

"But, doctor, what you said to me surely applies to yourself also?" Cyril said, with a smile.

"I know that," the doctor said good-humouredly, "and expected it, but it is not for a doctor to choose. He is not free, like other men; he has adopted a vocation in which it is his first duty to go among the sick, whatever their ailment may be, to do all that he can for them, and if, as in the present case, he can do practically nothing else, to set them an example of calmness and fearlessness. Still, for a time, at any rate, I shall be able to go no more into houses where the Plague is raging. 'Tis more than a month since you were cured, yet you are still a mere shadow of what you were. I had a much harder fight with the enemy, and cannot walk across the room yet without William's help. Therefore, it will be a fortnight or three weeks yet before I can see patients, and much longer before I shall have strength to visit them in their houses. By that time I trust that the Plague will have very greatly abated. Thus, you see, I shall not be called upon to stand face to face with it for some time. Those who call upon me here are seldom Plague-stricken. They come for other ailments, or because they feel unwell, and are nervous lest it should be the beginning of an attack; but of late I have had very few come here. My patients are mostly of the middle class, and these have either fled or fallen victims to the Plague, or have shut themselves up in their houses like fortresses, and nothing would tempt them to issue abroad. Therefore, I expect that I shall have naught to do but to gain strength again. Come here when you will, lad, and the oftener the better. Conversation is the best medicine for both of us, and as soon as I can I will visit you. I doubt not that John Wilkes has many a story of the sea that will take our thoughts away from this sad city. Bring him with you sometimes; he is an honest fellow, and the talk of sailors so smacks of the sea that it seems almost to act as a tonic."

Cyril stayed for an hour, and promised to return on the following evening. He said, however, that he was sure John Wilkes would not accompany him.

"He never leaves the house unless I am in it. He considers himself on duty; and although, as I tell him, there is little fear of anyone breaking in, seeing how many houses with much more valuable and more portable goods are empty and deserted, he holds to his purpose, saying that, even with the house altogether empty, it would be just as much his duty to remain in charge."

"Well, come yourself, Cyril. If we cannot get this old watch-dog out I must wait until I can go to him."

"I shall be very glad to come, doctor, for time hangs heavily on my hands. John Wilkes spends hours every day in washing and scrubbing decks, as he calls it, and there are but few books in the house."

"As to that, I can furnish you, and will do so gladly. Go across to the shelves there, and choose for yourself."

"Thank you very much indeed, sir. But will you kindly choose for me? I have read but few English books, for of course in France my reading was entirely French."

"Then take Shakespeare. I hold his writings to be the finest in our tongue. I know them nearly by heart, for there is scarce an evening when I do not take him down for an hour, and reading him I forget the worries and cares of my day's work, which would otherwise often keep me from sleep. 'Tis a bulky volume, but do not let that discourage you; it is full of wit and wisdom, and of such romance that you will often find it hard to lay it down. Stay -- I have two editions, and can well spare one of them, so take the one on that upper shelf, and keep it when you have read it. There is but little difference between them, but I generally use the other, and have come to look upon it as a friend."

"Nay, sir, I will take it as a loan."

"You will do nothing of the sort. I owe you a fee, and a bumping one."

Henceforth Cyril did not find his time hang heavy on his hands. It seemed to him, as he sat at the window and read, that a new world opened to him. His life had been an eminently practical one. He had studied hard in France, and when he laid his books aside his time had been spent in the open air. It was only since he had been with Captain Dave that he had ever read for amusement, and the Captain's library consisted only of a few books of travels and voyages. He had never so much as dreamt of a book like this, and for the next few days he devoured its pages.

"You are not looking so well, Cyril," Dr. Hodges said to him abruptly one day.

"I am doing nothing but reading Shakespeare, doctor."

"Then you are doing wrong, lad. You will never build yourself up unless you take exercise."

"The streets are so melancholy, doctor, and whenever I go out I return sick at heart and in low spirits."

"That I can understand, lad. But we must think of something," and he sat for a minute or two in silence. Then he said suddenly, "Do you understand the management of a boat?"

"Yes, doctor; it was my greatest pleasure at Dunkirk to be out with the fishermen."

"That will do, then. Go down at once to the riverside. There are hundreds of boats lying idle there, for there are no passengers and no trade, and half of their owners are dead. You are sure to see some men there; having nothing else to do, some will be hanging about. Say you want to hire a boat for a couple of months or to buy one. You will probably get one for a few shillings. Get one with a sail as well as oars. Go out the first thing after breakfast, and go up or down the river as the tide or wind may suit. Take some bread and meat with you, and don't return till supper-time. Then you can spend your evenings with Shakespeare. Maybe I myself will come down and take a sail with you sometimes. That will bring the colour back into your cheeks, and make a new man of you. Would that I had thought of it before!"

Cyril was delighted with the idea, and, going down to Blackfriars, bought a wherry with a sail for a pound. Its owner was dead, but he learned where the widow lived, and effected the bargain without difficulty, for she was almost starving.

"I have bought it," he said, "because it may be that I may get it damaged or sunk; but I only need it for six weeks or two months, and at the end of that time I will give it you back again. As soon as the Plague is over there will be work for boats, and you will be able to let it, or to sell it at a fair price."

John Wilkes was greatly pleased when Cyril came back and told him what he had done.

"That is the very thing for you," he said. "I have been a thick-head not to think of it. I have been worrying for the last week at seeing you sit there and do nothing but read, and yet there seemed nothing else for you to do, for ten minutes out in the streets is enough to give one the heartache. Maybe I will go out for a sail with you myself sometimes, for there is no fear of the house being broken into by daylight."

"Not in the slightest, John. I hope that you will come out with me always. I should soon find it dull by myself, and besides, I don't think that I am strong enough yet to manage a pair of sculls for long, and one must reckon occasionally on having to row against the tide. Even if the worst happened, and anyone did break in and carry off a few things, I am sure Captain Dave would not grumble at the loss when he knew that I had wanted you to come out and help me to manage the boat, which I was ordered to use for my health's sake."

"That he wouldn't," John said heartily; "not if they stripped the house and shop of everything there was in them."



Chapter XVIII

A Stroke Of Good Fortune


Having finally disposed of John Wilkes's scruples as to leaving the house during the daytime, Cyril thenceforth went out with him every day. If the tide was in flood they rowed far up the river, and came down on the ebb. If it was running out they went down as far as it would take them. Whenever the wind was favourable they hoisted the sail; at other times, they rowed. The fresh air, and the exercise, soon did their work. Cyril at first could only take one scull, and that only for a short time, but at the end of a fortnight was able to manage both for a time, or to row with one for hours. The feeling of lassitude which had oppressed him passed away speedily, the colour came back to his cheeks, his muscles strengthened, and he began to put on flesh.

They were now in November, and needed warm garments when on the water, and John insisted on completely muffling him up whenever they hoisted the sail; but the colder weather braced him up, and he was often inclined to shout with pleasure as the wind drove the boat along before it.

It was cheering to know that others were benefiting by the change. In the week ending October 3rd the deaths officially given were 4,328, though at least another thousand must be added to this, for great numbers of deaths from the Plague were put down to other causes, and very many, especially those of infants, were never counted at all. It was said that as many people were infected as ever, but that the virulence of the disease was abated, and that, whereas in August scarce one of those attacked recovered, in October but one out of every three died of the malady.

In the second week of October, the number of deaths by the Plague was but 2,665, and only 1,250 in the third week, though great numbers were still attacked. People, however, grew careless, and ran unnecessary risks, and, in consequence, in the first week of November the number of deaths rose by 400. After this it decreased rapidly, and the people who had fled began to come back again -- the more so because it had now spread to other large cities, and it seemed that there was less danger in London, where it had spent its force, than in places where it had but lately broken out. The shops began to open again, and the streets to reassume their former appearance.

Cyril had written several times to Captain Dowsett, telling him how matters were going on, and in November, hearing that they were thinking of returning, he wrote begging them not to do so.

"Many of those who have returned have fallen sick, and died," he said. "It seems to me but a useless risk of life, after taking so much pains to avoid infection, to hurry back before the danger has altogether passed. In your case, Captain Dave, there is the less reason for it, since there is no likelihood of the shipping trade being renewed for the present. All the ports of Europe are closed to our ships, and it is like to be a long time before they lose fear of us. Even the coasting trade is lost for the present. Therefore, my advice is very strongly against your returning for some weeks. All is going on well here. I am getting quite strong again, and, by the orders of the doctor, go out with John daily for a long row, and have gained much benefit from it. John sends his respects. He says that everything is ship-shape above and below, and the craft holding well on her way. He also prays you not to think of returning at present, and says that it would be as bad seamanship, as for a captain who has made a good offing in a gale, and has plenty of sea-room, to run down close to a rocky shore under the lee, before the storm has altogether blown itself out."

Captain Dave took the advice, and only returned with his wife and Nellie a week before Christmas.

"I am glad indeed to be back," he said, after the first greetings were over. "'Twas well enough for the women, who used to help in the dairy, and to feed the fowls, and gather the eggs, and make the butter, but for me there was nothing to do, and it seemed as if the days would never come to an end."

"It was not so bad as that, father," Nellie said. "First of all, you had your pipe to smoke. Then, once a week you used to go over with the market-cart to Gloucester and to look at the shipping there, and talk with the masters and sailors. Then, on a Sunday, of course, there was church. So there were only five days each week to get through; and you know you took a good deal of interest in the horses and cows and pigs."

"I tried to take an interest in them, Nellie; but it was very hard work."

"Well, father, that is just what you were saying you wanted, and I am sure you spent hours every day walking about with the children, or telling them stories."

"Well, perhaps, when I think of it, it was not so very bad after all," Captain Dave admitted. "At any rate, I am heartily glad I am back here again. We will open the shop to-morrow morning, John."

"That we will, master. We sha'n't do much trade at present. Still, a few coasters have come in, and I hope that every day things will get better. Besides, all the vessels that have been lying in the Pool since June will want painting up and getting into trim again before they sail out of the river, so things may not be so slack after all. You will find everything in order in the store. I have had little to do but to polish up brass work and keep the metal from rusting. When do the apprentices come back again?"

"I shall write for them as soon as I find that there is something for them to do. You are not thinking of running away as soon as we come back I hope, Cyril? You said, when you last wrote, that you were fit for sea again."

"I am not thinking of going for some little time, if you will keep me, Captain Dave. There is no news of the Fleet fitting out at present, and they will not want us on board till they are just ready to start. They say that Albemarle is to command this time instead of the Duke, at which I am right glad, for he has fought the Dutch at sea many times, and although not bred up to the trade, he has shown that he can fight as steadily on sea as on land. All say the Duke showed courage and kept a firm countenance at Lowestoft, but there was certainly great slackness in the pursuit, though this, 'tis said, was not so much his fault as that of those who were over-careful of his safety. Still, as he is the heir to the throne, it is but right that he should be kept out of the fighting."

"It is like to be stern work next time, Cyril, if what I hear be true. Owing partly to all men's minds being occupied by the Plague, and partly to the great sums wasted by the King in his pleasures, nothing whatever has been done for the Fleet. Of course, the squadron at sea has taken great numbers of prizes; but the rest of the Fleet is laid up, and no new ships are being built, while they say that the Dutch are busy in all their ship-yards, and will send out a much stronger fleet this spring than that which fought us at Lowestoft. I suppose you have not heard of any of your grand friends?"

"No. I should have written to Sydney Oliphant, but I knew not whether he was at sea or at home, and, moreover, I read that most folks in the country are afraid of letters from London, thinking that they might carry contagion. Many noblemen have now returned to the West End, and when I hear that the Earl has also come back with his family it will, of course, be my duty to wait upon him, and on Prince Rupert also. But I hope the Prince will not be back yet, for he will be wanting me to go to Court again, and for this, in truth, I have no inclination, and, moreover, it cannot be done without much expense for clothes, and I have no intention to go into expenses on follies or gew-gaws, or to trench upon the store of money that I had from you, Captain Dave."

They had just finished breakfast on the day before Christmas, when one of the apprentices came up from the shop and said that one Master Goldsworthy, a lawyer in the Temple, desired to speak to Sir Cyril Shenstone. Cyril was about to go down when Captain Dave said, -- 

"Show the gentleman up, Susan. We will leave you here to him, Cyril."

"By no means," Cyril said. "I do not know him, and he can assuredly have no private business with me that you may not hear."

Mrs. Dowsett and her daughter, however, left the room. The lawyer, a grave-looking gentleman of some fifty years of age, glanced at Cyril and the Captain as he entered the room, and then advanced towards the former.

"My name is unknown to you, Sir Cyril," he said, "but it has been said that a bearer of good news needs no introduction, and I come in that capacity. I bring you, sir, a Christmas-box," and he took from a bag he carried a bundle of some size, and a letter. "Before you open it, sir, I will explain the character of its contents, which would take you some time to decipher and understand, while I can explain them in a very few words. I may tell you that I am the legal adviser of Mr. Ebenezer Harvey, of Upmead Court, Norfolk. You are, I presume, familiar with the name?"

Cyril started. Upmead Court was the name of his father's place, but with the name of its present owner he was not familiar. Doubtless, he might sometimes have heard it from his father, but the latter, when he spoke of the present possessor of the Court, generally did so as "that Roundhead dog," or "that canting Puritan."

"The Court I know, sir," he said gravely, "as having once been my father's, but I do not recall the name of its present owner, though it may be that in my childhood my father mentioned it in my hearing."

"Nevertheless, sir, you know the gentleman himself, having met him, as he tells me, frequently at the house of Mr. Wallace, who was minister of the chapel at which he worshipped, and who came up to London to minister to those sorely afflicted and needing comfort. Not only did you meet with Mr. Harvey and his wife, but you rendered to them very material service."

"I was certainly unaware," Cyril said, "that Mr. Harvey was the possessor of what had been my father's estate, but, had I known it, it would have made no difference in my feeling towards him. I found him a kind and godly gentleman whom, more than others there, was good enough to converse frequently with me, and to whom I was pleased to be of service."

"The service was of a most important nature," the lawyer said, "being nothing less than the saving of his life, and probably that of his wife. He sent for me the next morning, and then drew out his will. By that will he left to you the estates which he had purchased from your father."

Cyril gave a start of surprise, and would have spoken, but Master Goldsworthy held up his hand, and said, -- 

"Please let me continue my story to the end. This act was not the consequence of the service that you had rendered him. He had previously consulted me on the subject, and stated his intentions to me. He had met you at Mr. Wallace's, and at once recognised your name, and learnt from Mr. Wallace that you were the son of Sir Aubrey Shenstone. He studied your character, had an interview with Dr. Hodges, and learnt how fearlessly you were devoting yourself to the work of aiding those stricken with the Plague. With his own son he had reason for being profoundly dissatisfied. The young man had thrown off his authority, had become a notorious reprobate, and had, he believed, sunk down to become a companion of thieves and highwaymen. He had come up to London solely to make a last effort to save him from his evil courses and to give him a chance of reformation by sending him out to New England.

"Mr. Harvey is possessed of considerable property in addition to the estates purchased of your father, for, previous to that purchase he had been the owner of large tanneries at Norwich, which he has ever since maintained, not so much for the sake of the income he derived from them as because they afforded a livelihood to a large number of workmen. He had, therefore, ample means to leave to his son, should the latter accept his offer and reform his life, without the estates of Upmead. When he saw you, he told me his conscience was moved. He had, of course, a legal right to the estates, but he had purchased them for a sum not exceeding a fifth of their value, and he considered that in the twenty years he had held them he had drawn from them sums amply sufficient to repay him for the price he had given for them, and had received a large interest on the money in addition. He questioned, therefore, strongly whether he had any right longer to retain them.

"When he consulted me on the subject, he alluded to the fact that, by the laws of the Bible, persons who bought lands were bound to return the land to its former possessors, at the end of seven times seven years. He had already, then, made up his mind to leave that portion of his property to you, when you rendered him that great service, and at the same time it became, alas! but too evident to him that his son was hopelessly bad, and that any money whatever left to him would assuredly be spent in evil courses, and would do evil rather than good. Therefore, when I came in the morning to him he said, -- 

"'My will must be made immediately. Not one penny is to go to my son. I may be carried off to-morrow by the Plague, or my son may renew his attempt with success. So I must will it away from him at once. For the moment, therefore, make a short will bequeathing the estate of Upmead to Sir Cyril Shenstone, all my other possessions to my wife for her lifetime, and at her death also to Sir Cyril Shenstone.

"'I may alter this later on,' he said, 'but for the present I desire chiefly to place them beyond my son's reach. Please draw up the document at once, for no one can say what half an hour may bring forth to either of us. Get the document in form by this evening, when some friends will be here to witness it. Pray bring your two clerks also!'

"A few days later he called upon me again.

"'I have been making further inquiries about Sir Cyril Shenstone,' he said, 'and have learnt much concerning him from a man who is in the employment of the trader with whom he lives. What I have learnt more than confirms me in my impression of him. He came over from France, three years ago, a boy of scarce fourteen. He was clever at figures, and supported his reprobate father for the last two years of his life by keeping the books of small traders in the City. So much was he esteemed that, at his father's death, Captain Dowsett offered him a home in his house. He rewarded the kindness by making the discovery that the trader was being foully robbed, and brought about the arrest of the thieves, which incidentally led to the breaking-up of one of the worst gangs of robbers in London. Later on he found that his employer's daughter was in communication with a hanger-on of the Court, who told her that he was a nobleman. The young fellow set a watch upon her, came upon her at the moment she was about to elope with this villain, ran him through the shoulder, and took her back to her home, and so far respected her secret that her parents would never have known of it had she not, some time afterwards, confessed it to them. That villain, Mr. Goldsworthy,' he said, 'was my son! Just after that Sir Cyril obtained the good will of the Earl of Wisbech, whose three daughters he saved from being burnt to death at a fire in the Savoy. Thus, you see, this youth is in every way worthy of good fortune, and can be trusted to administer the estate of his fathers worthily and well. I wish you to draw out, at once, a deed conveying to him these estates, and rehearsing that, having obtained them at a small price, and having enjoyed them for a time long enough to return to me the money I paid for them with ample interest thereon, I now return them to him, confident that they will be in good hands, and that their revenues will be worthily spent.'

"In this parcel is the deed in question, duly signed and witnessed, together with the parchments, deeds, and titles of which he became possessed at his purchase of the estate. I may say, Sir Cyril, that I have never carried out a legal transfer with greater pleasure to myself, considering, as I do, that the transaction is alike just and honourable on his part and most creditable to yourself. He begged me to hand the deeds to you myself. They were completed two months since, but he himself suggested that I should bring them to you on Christmas Eve, when it is the custom for many to give to their friends tokens of their regard and good will. I congratulate you heartily, sir, and rejoice that, for once, merit has met with a due reward."

"I do not know, sir," Cyril replied, "how I can express my feelings of deep pleasure and gratitude at the wonderful tidings you have brought me. I had set it before me as the great object of my life, that, some day, should I live to be an old man, I might be enabled to repurchase the estate of my father's. I knew how improbable it was that I should ever be able to do so, and I can scarce credit that what seemed presumptuous even as a hope should have thus been so strangely and unexpectedly realised. I certainly do not feel that it is in any way due to what you are good enough to call my merits, for in all these matters that you have spoken of there has been nothing out of the way, or, so far as I can see, in any way praiseworthy, in what I have done. It would seem, indeed, that in all these matters, and in the saving of my life from the Plague, things have arranged themselves so as to fall out for my benefit."

"That is what Mr. Harvey feels very strongly, Sir Cyril. He has told me, over and over again, that it seemed to him that the finger of God was specially manifest in thus bringing you together, and in placing you in a position to save his life. And now I will take my leave. I may say that in all legal matters connected with the estate I have acted for Mr. Harvey, and should be naturally glad if you will continue to entrust such matters to me. I have some special facilities in the matter, as Mr. Popham, a lawyer of Norwich, is married to my daughter, and we therefore act together in all business connected with the estate, he performing what may be called the local business, while I am advised by him as to matters requiring attention here in London."

"I shall be glad indeed if you and Mr. Popham will continue to act in the same capacity for me," Cyril said warmly. "I am, as you see, very young, and know nothing of the management of an estate, and shall be grateful if you will, in all matters, act for me until I am of an age to assume the duties of the owner of Upmead."

"I thank you, Sir Cyril, and we shall, I trust, afford you satisfaction. The deed, you will observe, is dated the 29th of September, the day on which it was signed, though there have been other matters to settle. The tenants have already been notified that from that date they are to regard you as their landlord. Now that you authorise us to act for you, my son-in-law will at once proceed to collect the rents for this quarter. I may say that, roughly, they amount to seventeen hundred pounds a year, and as it may be a convenience to you to draw at once, if it so please you I will place, on Monday next, the sum of four hundred pounds to your credit with Messrs. Murchison and Graham, who are my bankers, or with any other firm you may prefer."

"With the bankers you name, by all means," Cyril said; "and I thank you heartily for so doing, for as I shall shortly rejoin the Fleet, a portion, at least, of the money will be very useful to me."

Mr. Goldsworthy took his hat.

"There is one thing further I have forgotten. Mr. Harvey requested me to say that he wished for no thanks in this matter. He regards it as an act of rightful restitution, and, although you will doubtless write to him, he would be pleased if you will abstain altogether from treating it as a gift."

"I will try to obey his wishes," Cyril said, "but it does not seem to me that it will be possible for me to abstain from any expression of gratitude for his noble act."

Cyril accompanied the lawyer to the door, and then returned upstairs.

"Now I can speak," Captain Dowsett said. "I have had hard work to keep a stopper on my tongue all this time, for I have been well-nigh bursting to congratulate you. I wish you joy, my lad," and he wrung Cyril's hand heartily, "and a pleasant voyage through life. I am as glad, ay, and a deal more glad than if such a fortune had come in my way, for it would have been of little use to me, seeing I have all that the heart of man could desire."

He ran to the door and shouted loudly for his wife and daughter.

"I have news for you both," he said, as they came in. "What do you think? Cyril, like the King, has come to his own again, and he is now Sir Cyril Shenstone, the owner of the estate of Upmead."

Both broke into exclamations of surprise and pleasure.

"How has the wonder come about?" Nellie asked, after the first congratulations were over. "What good fairy has brought this round?"

"The good fairy was the Mr. Harvey whose name Cyril once mentioned casually, and whose life, as it now appears, he saved, though he has said nothing to us about it. That gentleman was, most strangely, the man who bought the estate from his father. He, it seems, is a wealthy man, and his conscience has for some time been pricked with the thought that he had benefited too largely from the necessities of Sir Aubrey, and that, having received back from the rents all the money he paid, and goodly interest thereon, he ought to restore the estate to its former owner. Possibly he might never have acted on this thought, but he considered the circumstance that he had so strangely met Cyril here at the time of the Plague, and still more strangely that Cyril had saved his life, was a matter of more than chance, and was a direct and manifest interposition of Providence; and he has therefore made restitution, and that parcel on the table contains a deed of gift to Cyril of all his father's estates."

"He has done quite rightly," Mrs. Dowsett said warmly, "though, indeed, it is not everyone who would see matters in that light. If men always acted in that spirit it would be a better world."

"Ay, ay, wife. There are not many men who, having got the best of a bargain, voluntarily resign the profits they have made. It is pleasant to come across one who so acts, more especially when one's best friend is the gainer. Ah! Nellie, what a pity some good fairy did not tell you of what was coming! What a chance you have lost, girl! See what might have happened if you had set your cap at Cyril!"

"Indeed, it is terrible to think of," Nellie laughed. "It was hard on me that he was not five or six years older. Then I might have done it, even if my good fairy had not whispered in my ear about this fortune. Never mind. I shall console myself by looking forward to dance at his wedding -- that is, if he will send me an invitation."

"Like as not you will be getting past your dancing days by the time that comes off, Nellie. I hope that, years before then, I shall have danced at your wedding -- that is to say," he said, imitating her, "if you will send me an invitation."

"What are you going to do next, Cyril?" Captain Dave asked, when the laugh had subsided.

"I don't know, I am sure," Cyril replied. "I have not really woke up to it all yet. It will be some time before I realise that I am not a penniless young baronet, and that I can spend a pound without looking at it a dozen times. I shall have to get accustomed to the thought before I can make any plans. I suppose that one of the first things to do will be to go down to Oxford to see Prince Rupert -- who, I suppose, is with the Court, though this I can doubtless learn at the offices of the Admiralty -- and to tell him that I am ready to rejoin his ship as soon as he puts to sea again. Then I shall find out where Sydney Oliphant is, and how his family have fared in the Plague. I would fain find out what has become of the Partons, to whom, and especially to Lady Parton, I owe much. I suppose, too, I shall have to go down to Norfolk, but that I shall put off as long as I can, for it will be strange and very unpleasant at first to go down as master to a place I have never seen. I shall have to get you to come down with me, Captain Dave, to keep me in countenance."

"Not I, my lad. You will want a better introducer. I expect that the lawyer who was here will give you a letter to his son-in-law, who will, of course, place himself at your service, establishing you in your house and taking you round to your tenants."

"Oh, yes," Nellie said, clapping her hands. "And there will be fine doings, and bonfires, and arches, and all sorts of festivities. I do begin to feel how much I have missed the want of that good fairy."

"It will be all very disagreeable," Cyril said seriously; whereat the others laughed.

Cyril then went downstairs with Captain Dave, and told John Wilkes of the good fortune that had befallen him, at which he was as much delighted as the others had been.

Ten days later Cyril rode to Oxford, and found that Prince Rupert was at present there. The Prince received him with much warmth.

"I have wondered many times what had become of you, Sir Cyril," he said. "From the hour when I saw you leave us in the Fan Fan I have lost sight of you altogether. I have not been in London since, for the Plague had set in badly before the ships were laid up, and as I had naught particular to do there I kept away from it. Albemarle has stayed through it, and he and Mr. Pepys were able to do all there was to do, but I have thought of you often and wondered how you fared, and hoped to see you here, seeing that there was, as it seemed to me, nothing to keep you in London after your wounds had healed. I have spoken often to the King of the brave deed by which you saved us all, and he declared that, had it not been that you were already a baronet, he would knight you as soon as you appeared, as many of the captains and others have already received that honour; and he agreed with me that none deserved it better than yourself. Now, what has become of you all this time?"

Cyril related how he had stayed in London, had had the Plague, and had recovered from it.

"I must see about getting you a commission at once in the Navy," the Prince said, "though I fear you will have to wait until we fit out again. There will be no difficulty then, for of course there were many officers killed in the action."

Cyril expressed his thanks, adding, -- 

"There is no further occasion for me to take a commission, Prince, for, strangely enough, the owner of my father's property has just made it over to me. He is a good man, and, considering that he has already reaped large benefits by his purchase, and has been repaid his money with good interest, his conscience will no longer suffer him to retain it."

"Then he is a Prince of Roundheads," the Prince said, "and I most heartily congratulate you; and I believe that the King will be as pleased as I am. He said but the other day, when I was speaking to him of you, that it grieved him sorely that he was powerless to do anything for so many that had suffered in his cause, and that, after the bravery you had shown, he was determined to do something, and would insist with his ministers that some office should be found for you, -- though it is not an easy matter, when each of them has special friends of his own among whom to divide any good things that fall vacant. He holds a Court this evening, and I will take you with me."

The King was most gracious when the Prince again presented Cyril to him and told him of the good fortune that had befallen him.

"By my faith, Sir Cyril, you were born under a lucky star. First of all you saved my Lord of Wisbech's daughters; then, as Prince Rupert tells me, you saved him and all on board his ship from being burned; and now a miracle has well-nigh happened in your favour. I see, too, that you have the use of your arm, which the Prince doubted would ever altogether recover."

"More still, Your Majesty," the Prince said. "He had the Plague in August and recovered from it."

"I shall have to keep you about me, Sir Cyril," the King said, "as a sort of amulet to guard me against ill luck."

"I am going to take him to sea first," Prince Rupert broke in, seeing that Cyril was about to disclaim the idea of coming to Court. "I may want him to save my ship again, and I suppose he will be going down to visit his estate till I want him. You have never seen it, have you, Sir Cyril?"

"No, sir; at least not to have any remembrance of it. I naturally long to see Upmead, of which I have heard much from my father. I should have gone down at once, but I thought it my duty to come hither and report myself to you as being ready to sail again as soon as you put to sea."

"Duty first and pleasure afterwards," the King said. "I am afraid that is a little beyond me -- eh, Rupert?"

"Very much so, I should say, Cousin Charles," the Prince replied, with a smile. "However, I have no doubt Sir Cyril will not grudge us a few days before he leaves. There are several of the gentlemen who were his comrades on the Henrietta here, and they will be glad to renew their acquaintance with him, knowing, as they all do, that they owe their lives to him."

As Cyril was walking down the High Street, he saw a student coming along whose face seemed familiar to him. He looked hard at him.

"Surely you must be Harry Parton?" he said.

"That is my name, sir; though I cannot recall where I have met you. Yet there seems something familiar in your face, and still more in your voice."

"I am Cyril Shenstone."

"Why, what has become of you, Cyril?" Harry said, shaking him warmly by the hand. "I searched for you a year ago when I was in London, but could obtain no tidings whatever of you, save that you had lost your father. We are alike there, for my father died a few months after yours did."

"I am sorry indeed, Harry. I had not heard of it before. I was not, indeed, in the way of doing so, as I was working in the City and knew nothing of what was passing elsewhere."

"This is my college, Cyril. Come up to my room; there we can talk comfortably, and we have much to tell each other. How is it that you have never been near us?" he went on, when they were seated in front of a blazing fire in his room. "I know that there was some quarrel between our fathers, but when we heard of Sir Aubrey's death, both my father and mother thought that you would come to see us or would have written -- for indeed it was not until after my father's death that we paid a visit to London. It was then my mother asked me to search for you; and after great difficulty I found the quarter in which you had lived, and then from the parish register learned where your father had died. Going there, I learned that you had left the lodging directly after his death, but more than that the people could not tell me."

"I should have come to see your mother and Sir John, Harry. I know how deeply I am indebted to them, and as long as I live shall never cease to be grateful for Lady Parton's kindness to me. But I had received so much kindness that I shrank from seeming to wish to presume upon it further. I had, of course, to work for my living, and I wanted, before I recalled myself to them, to be able to say that I had not come as a beggar for further favours, but that I was making my way independently. Sooner or later I should have come, for your father once promised me that if I followed out what you remember was my plan, of entering foreign service, he would give me letters of introduction that would be useful to me. Had I that favour still to ask I could do it without shame. But more than that I would not have asked, even had I wanted bread, which, thank God! was never the case."

"I can understand your feeling, Cyril, but my mother assuredly would always have been pleased to see you. You know you were a favourite of hers."

"Had you been near town, Harry, I should certainly have come to see her and you as soon as I had fairly established myself, but I heard from my father that you had all gone away into the country soon after the unfortunate quarrel he had with Sir John, and therefore delayed taking any step for the time, and indeed did not know in what part of the country your father's estates lay. I know that he recovered them as soon as he returned."

"They had never been forfeited," Harry said. "My father retired from the struggle after Naseby, and as he had influential friends among the Puritans, there was no forfeiture of his estates, and we were therefore able, as you know, to live in comfort at Dunkirk, his steward sending over such monies as were required. And now about yourself. Your brains must have served you rarely somehow, for you are dressed in the latest fashion, and indeed I took you for a Court gallant when you accosted me."

"I have been truly fortunate, Harry, and indeed everything has turned out as if specially designed for my good, and, in a most strange and unlooked-for manner, I have just come into my father's estates again."

"I am glad indeed to hear it, Cyril. Tell me how it has all come about."

Cyril told the story of his life since he had come to London.

"You have, indeed, had strange adventures, Cyril, and, though you say little about it, you must have done something special to have gained Prince Rupert's patronage and introduction to Court; but I shall worm all that out of you some day, or get it from other lips. What a contrast your life has been to mine! Here have you been earning your living bravely, fighting in the great battle against the Dutch, going through that terrible Plague, and winning your way back to fortune, while I have been living the life of a school-boy. Our estates lie in Shropshire, and as soon as we went down there my father placed me at a school at Shrewsbury. There I remained till his death, and then, as was his special wish, entered here. I have still a year of my course to complete. I only came up into residence last week. When the summer comes I hope that you will come down to Ardleigh and stay with us; it will give my mother great pleasure to see you again, for I never see her but she speaks of you, and wonders what has become of you, and if you are still alive."

"Assuredly I will come, and that with the greatest pleasure," Cyril said, "providing only that I am not then at sea, which is, I fear, likely, as I rejoin the ship as soon as Prince Rupert takes the sea against the Dutch. However, directly we return I will write to you."

"If you do so, let it be to Ardleigh, near Shrewsbury, Shropshire. Should I be here when your letter arrives, my mother will forward it to me."



Chapter XIX

Taking Possession


Cyril stayed a week at Oxford. He greatly enjoyed the visit; and not only was he most warmly received by his former comrades on board the Henrietta, but Prince Rupert spoke so strongly in his favour to other gentlemen to whom he introduced him that he no longer felt a stranger at Court. Much of his spare time he spent with Harry Parton, and in his rooms saw something of college life, which seemed to him a very pleasant and merry one. He had ascertained, as soon as he arrived, that the Earl of Wisbech and his family were down at his estate, near the place from which he took his title, and had at once written to Sydney, from whom he received an answer on the last day of his stay at Oxford. It contained a warm invitation for him to come down to Wisbech.

"You say you will be going to Norwich to take possession of your estate. If you ride direct from Oxford, our place will be but little out of your way, therefore we shall take no excuse for your not coming to see us, and shall look for you within a week or so from the date of this. We were all delighted to get your missive, for although what you say about infection carried by letters is true enough, and, indeed there was no post out of London for months, we had begun to fear that the worst must have befallen you when no letter arrived from you in December. Still, we thought that you might not know where we were, and so hoped that you might be waiting until you could find that out. My father bids me say that he will take no refusal. Since my return he more than ever regards you as being the good genius of the family, and it is certainly passing strange that, after saving my sisters' lives from fire you should, though in so different a way, have saved me from a similar death. So set off as soon as you get this -- that is, if you can tear yourself away from the gaieties of Oxford."

Cyril had, indeed, been specially waiting for Sydney's answer, having told him that he should remain at Oxford until he received it, and on the following morning he packed his valise and rode for Wisbech, where he arrived three days' later. His welcome at the Earl's was a most cordial one. He spent a week there, at the end of which time Sydney, at his earnest request, started for Norwich with him. The Earl had insisted on Cyril's accepting a splendid horse, and behind him, on his other animal, rode a young fellow, the son of a small tenant on the Earl's estate, whom he had engaged as a servant. He had written, three days before, to Mr. Popham, telling him that he would shortly arrive, and begging him to order the two old servants of his father, whom he had, at his request, engaged to take care of the house to get two or three chambers in readiness for him, which could doubtless be easily done, as he had learnt from the deed that the furniture and all contents of the house had been included in the gift. After putting up at the inn, he went to the lawyer's. Mr. Popham, he found, had had a room prepared in readiness for him at his house, but Cyril, while thanking him for so doing, said that, as Lord Oliphant was with him, he would stay at the inn for the night.

The next morning they rode over with Mr. Popham to Upmead, which was six miles distant from the town.

"That is the house," the lawyer said, as a fine old mansion came in sight. "There are larger residences in the county, but few more handsome. Indeed, it is almost too large for the estate, but, as perhaps you know, that was at one time a good deal larger than it is at present, for it was diminished by one of your ancestors in the days of Elizabeth."

At the gate where they turned into the Park an arch of evergreens had been erected.

"You don't mean to say you let them know that I was coming home?" Cyril said, in a tone of such alarm that Lord Oliphant laughed and Mr. Popham said apologetically, -- 

"I certainly wrote to the tenants, sir, when I received your letter, and sent off a message saying that you would be here this morning. Most of them or their fathers were here in the old time, for Mr. Harvey made no changes, and I am sure they would have been very disappointed if they had not had notice that Sir Aubrey's son was coming home."

"Of course it was quite right for you to do so, Mr. Popham, but you see I am quite unaccustomed to such things, and would personally have been much more pleased to have come home quietly. Still, as you say, it is only right that the tenants should have been informed, and at any rate it will be a satisfaction to get it all over at once."

There were indeed quite a large number of men and women assembled in front of the house -- all the tenants, with their wives and families, having gathered to greet their young landlord -- and loud bursts of cheering arose as he rode up, Sydney and Mr. Popham reining back their horses a little to allow him to precede them. Cyril took off his hat, and bowed repeatedly in reply to the acclamations that greeted him. The tenants crowded round, many of the older men pressing forward to shake him by the hand.

"Welcome back to your own again, Sir Cyril!"

"I fought under your father, sir, and a good landlord he was to us all."

Such were the exclamations that rose round him until he reached the door of the mansion, and, dismounting, took his place at the top of the steps. Then he took off his hat again, and when there was silence he said, -- 

"I thank you heartily, one and all, good friends, for the welcome that you have given me. Glad indeed I am to come down to my father's home, and to be so greeted by those who knew him, and especially by those who followed him in the field in the evil days which have, we may hope, passed away for ever. You all know, perhaps, that I owe my return here as master to the noble generosity of Mr. Harvey, your late landlord, who restored me the estates, not being bound in any way to do so, but solely because he considered that he had already been repaid the money he gave for them. This may be true, but, nevertheless, there is not one man in a hundred thousand who would so despoil himself of the benefits of a bargain lawfully made, and I beg you therefore to give three cheers, as hearty as those with which you greeted me, for Mr. Harvey."

Three cheers, as long and loud as those that had before risen, responded to the appeal.

"Such a man," Cyril went on, when they subsided, "must have been a just and good landlord to you all, and I shall do my best to give you no cause for regret at the change that has come about."

He paused for a moment to speak to Mr. Popham, who stood beside him, and then went on, -- 

"I did not know whether I could ask you to drink to my health, but I learn from Mr. Popham that the cellars have been left well filled; therefore, my first orders on coming to the house of my fathers will be that a cask of wine shall be speedily broached, and that you shall be enabled to drink my health. While that is being done, Mr. Popham will introduce you to me one by one."

Another loud cheer arose, and then the tenants came forward with their wives and families.

Cyril shook hands with them all, and said a few words to each. The elder men had all ridden by his father in battle, and most of the younger ones said, as he shook hands with them, -- 

"My father fell, under Sir Aubrey, at Naseby," or "at Worcester," or in other battles.

By the time all had been introduced, a great cask of wine had been broached, and after the tenants had drunk to his health, and he had, in turn, pledged them, Cyril entered the house with Sydney and Mr. Popham, and proceeded to examine it under the guidance of the old man who had been his father's butler, and whose wife had also been a servant in Sir Aubrey's time.

"Everything is just as it was then, Sir Cyril. A few fresh articles of furniture have been added, but Mr. Harvey would have no general change made. The family pictures hang just where they did, and your father himself would scarce notice the changes."

"It is indeed a fine old mansion, Cyril," Lord Oliphant said, when they had made a tour of the house; "and now that I see it and its furniture I am even more inclined than before to admire the man who could voluntarily resign them. I shall have to modify my ideas of the Puritans. They have shown themselves ready to leave the country and cross the ocean to America, and begin life anew for conscience' sake -- that is to say, to escape persecution -- and they fought very doughtily, and we must own, very successfully, for the same reason, but this is the first time I have ever heard of one of them relinquishing a fine estate for conscience' sake."

"Mr. Harvey is indeed a most worthy gentleman," Mr. Popham said, "and has the esteem and respect of all, even of those who are of wholly different politics. Still, it may be that although he would in any case, I believe, have left this property to Sir Cyril, he might not have handed it over to him in his lifetime, had not he received so great a service at his hands."

"Why, what is this, Cyril?" Sydney said, turning upon him. "You have told us nothing whatever of any services rendered. I never saw such a fellow as you are for helping other people."

"There was nothing worth speaking of," Cyril said, much vexed.

Mr. Popham smiled.

"Most people would think it was a very great service, Lord Oliphant. However, I may not tell you what it was, although I have heard all the details from my father-in-law, Mr. Goldsworthy. They were told in confidence, and in order to enlighten me as to the relations between Mr. Harvey and Sir Cyril, and as they relate to painful family matters I am bound to preserve an absolute silence."

"I will be content to wait, Cyril, till I get you to myself. It is a peculiarity of Sir Cyril Shenstone, Mr. Popham, that he goes through life doing all sorts of services for all sorts of people. You may not know that he saved the lives of my three sisters in a fire at our mansion in the Savoy; he also performed the trifling service of saving Prince Rupert's ship and the lives of all on board, among whom was myself, from a Dutch fire-ship, in the battle of Lowestoft. These are insignificant affairs, that he would not think it worth while to allude to, even if you knew him for twenty years."

"You do not know Lord Oliphant, Mr. Popham," Cyril laughed, "or you would be aware that his custom is to make mountains out of molehills. But let us sit down to dinner. I suppose it is your forethought, Mr. Popham, that I have to thank for having warned them to make this provision? I had thought that we should be lucky if the resources of the establishment sufficed to furnish us with a meal of bread and cheese."

"I sent on a few things with my messenger yesterday evening, Sir Cyril, but for the hare and those wild ducks methinks you have to thank your tenants, who doubtless guessed that an addition to the larder would be welcome. I have no doubt that, good landlord as Mr. Harvey was, they are really delighted to have you among them again. As you know, these eastern counties were the stronghold of Puritanism, and that feeling is still held by the majority. It is only among the tenants of many gentlemen who, like your father, were devoted Royalists, that there is any very strong feeling the other way. As you heard from their lips, most of your older tenants fought under Sir Aubrey, while the fathers of the younger ones fell under his banner. Consequently, it was galling to them that one of altogether opposite politics should be their landlord, and although in every other respect they had reason to like him, he was, as it were, a symbol of their defeat, and I suppose they viewed him a good deal as the Saxons of old times regarded their Norman lords."

"I can quite understand that, Mr. Popham."

"Another feeling has worked in your favour, Sir Cyril," the lawyer went on. "It may perhaps be a relic of feudalism, but there can be no doubt that there exists, in the minds of English country folks, a feeling of respect and of something like affection for their landlords when men of old family, and that feeling is never transferred to new men who may take their place. Mr. Harvey was, in their eyes, a new man -- a wealthy one, no doubt, but owing his wealth to his own exertions -- and he would never have excited among them the same feeling as they gave to the family who had, for several hundred years, been owners of the soil."

Cyril remained for a fortnight at Upmead, calling on all the tenants, and interesting himself in them and their families. The day after his arrival he rode into Norwich, and paid a visit to Mr. Harvey. He had, in compliance to his wishes, written but a short letter of acknowledgment of the restitution of the estate, but he now expressed the deep feeling of gratitude that he entertained.

"I have only done what is right," Mr. Harvey said quietly, "and would rather not be thanked for it; but your feelings are natural, and I have therefore not checked your words. It was assuredly God's doing in so strangely bringing us together, and making you an instrument in saving our lives, and so awakening an uneasy conscience into activity. I have had but small pleasure from Upmead. I have a house here which is more than sufficient for all my wants, and I have, I hope, the respect of my townsfellows, and the affection of my workmen. At Upmead I was always uncomfortable. Such of the county gentlemen who retained their estates looked askance at me. The tenants, I knew, though they doffed their hats as I passed them, regarded me as a usurper. I had no taste for the sports and pleasures of country life, being born and bred a townsman. The ill-doing of my son cast a gloom over my life of late. I have lived chiefly here with the society of friends of my own religious and political feeling. Therefore, I have made no sacrifice in resigning my tenancy of Upmead, and I pray you say no further word of your gratitude. I have heard, from one who was there yesterday, how generously you spoke of me to your tenants, and I thank you for so doing, for it is pleasant for me to stand well in the thoughts of those whose welfare I have had at heart."

"I trust that Mrs. Harvey is in good health?" Cyril said.

"She is far from well, Cyril. The events of that night in London have told heavily upon her, as is not wonderful, for she has suffered much sorrow for years, and this last blow has broken her sorely. She mourns, as David mourned over the death of Absalom, over the wickedness of her son, but she is quite as one with me in the measures that I have taken concerning him, save that, at her earnest prayer, I have made a provision for him which will keep him from absolute want, and will leave him no excuse to urge that he was driven by poverty into crime. Mr. Goldsworthy has not yet discovered means of communicating with him, but when he does so he will notify him that he has my instructions to pay to him fifteen pounds on the first of every month, and that the offer of assistance to pay his passage to America is still open to him, and that on arriving there he will receive for three years the same allowance as here. Then if a favourable report of his conduct is forthcoming from the magistrates and deacons of the town where he takes up his residence, a correspondent of Mr. Goldsworthy's will be authorised to expend four thousand pounds on the purchase of an estate for him, and to hand to him another thousand for the due working and maintenance of the same. For these purposes I have already made provisions in my will, with proviso that if, at the end of five years after my death, no news of him shall be obtained, the money set aside for these purposes shall revert to the main provisions of the will. It may be that he died of the Plague. It may be that he has fallen, or will fall, a victim to his own evil courses and evil passions. But I am convinced that, should he be alive, Mr. Goldsworthy will be able to obtain tidings of him long before the five years have expired. And now," he said, abruptly changing the subject, "what are you thinking of doing, Sir Cyril?"

"In the first place, sir, I am going to sea again with the Fleet very shortly. I entered as a Volunteer for the war, and could not well, even if I wished it, draw back."

"They are a stiff-necked people," Mr. Harvey said. "That the Sovereigns of Europe should have viewed with displeasure the overthrow of the monarchy here was natural enough; but in Holland, if anywhere, we might have looked for sympathy, seeing that as they had battled for freedom of conscience, so had we done here; and yet they were our worst enemies, and again and again had Blake to sail forth to chastise them. They say that Monk is to command this time?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Monk is the bruised reed that pierced our hand, but he is a good fighter. And after the war is over, Sir Cyril, you will not, I trust, waste your life in the Court of the profligate King?"

"Certainly not," Cyril said earnestly. "As soon as the war is over I shall return to Upmead and take up my residence there. I have lived too hard a life to care for the gaieties of Court, still less of a Court like that of King Charles. I shall travel for a while in Europe if there is a genuine peace. I have lost the opportunity of completing my education, and am too old now to go to either of the Universities. Not too old perhaps; but I have seen too much of the hard side of life to care to pass three years among those who, no older than myself, are still as boys in their feelings. The next best thing, therefore, as it seems to me, would be to travel, and perhaps to spend a year or two in one of the great Universities abroad."

"The matter is worth thinking over," Mr. Harvey said. "You are assuredly young yet to settle down alone at Upmead, and will reap much advantage from speaking French which is everywhere current, and may greatly aid you in making your travels useful to you. I have no fear of your falling into Popish error, Sir Cyril; but if my wishes have any weight with you I would pray you to choose the schools of Leyden or Haarlem, should you enter a foreign University, for they turn out learned men and good divines."

"Certainly your wishes have weight with me, Mr. Harvey, and should events so turn out that I can enter one of the foreign Universities, it shall be one of those you name -- that is, should we, after this war is ended, come into peaceful relations with the Dutch."

Before leaving the Earl's, Cyril had promised faithfully that he would return thither with Sydney, and accordingly, at the end of the fortnight, he rode back with him there, and, three weeks later, journeyed up to London with the Earl and his family.

It was the middle of March when they reached London. The Court had come up a day or two before, and the Fleet was, as Cyril learnt, being fitted out in great haste. The French had now, after hesitating all through the winter, declared war against us, and it was certain that we should have their fleet as well as that of the Dutch to cope with. Calling upon Prince Rupert on the day he arrived, Cyril learnt that the Fleet would assuredly put to sea in a month's time.

"Would you rather join at once, or wait until I go on board?" the Prince asked.

"I would rather join at once, sir. I have no business to do in London, and it would be of no use for me to take an apartment when I am to leave so soon; therefore, if I can be of any use, I would gladly join at once."

"You would be of no use on board," the Prince said, "but assuredly you could be of use in carrying messages, and letting me know frequently, from your own report, how matters are going on. I heard yesterday that the Fan Fan is now fitted out. You shall take the command of her. I will give you a letter to the boatswain, who is at present in charge, saying that I have placed her wholly under your orders. You will, of course, live on board. You will be chiefly at Chatham and Sheerness. If you call early to-morrow I will have a letter prepared for you, addressed to all captains holding commands in the White Squadron, bidding them to acquaint you, whensoever you go on board, with all particulars of how matters have been pushed forward, and to give you a list of all things lacking. Then, twice a week you will sail up to town, and report to me, or, should there be any special news at other times, send it to me by a mounted messenger. Mr. Pepys, the secretary, is a diligent and hard-working man, but he cannot see to everything, and Albemarle so pushes him that I think the White Squadron does not get a fair share of attention; but if I can go to him with your reports in hand, I may succeed in getting what is necessary done."

Bidding farewell to the Earl and his family, and thanking him for his kindness, Cyril stopped that night at Captain Dave's, and told him of all that had happened since they met. The next morning he went early to Prince Rupert's, received the two letters, and rode down to Chatham. Then, sending the horses back by his servant, who was to take them to the Earl's stable, where they would be cared for until his return, Cyril went on board the Fan Fan. For the next month he was occupied early and late with his duties. The cabin was small, but very comfortable. The crew was a strong one, for the yacht rowed twelve oars, with which she could make good progress even without her sails. He was waited on by his servant, who returned as soon as he had left the horses in the Earl's stables; his cooking was done for him in the yacht's galley. On occasions, as the tide suited, he either sailed up to London in the afternoon, gave his report to the Prince late in the evening, and was back at Sheerness by daybreak, or he sailed up at night, saw the Prince as soon as he rose, and returned at once.

The Prince highly commended his diligence, and told him that his reports were of great use to him, as, with them in his hand, he could not be put off at the Admiralty with vague assurances. Every day one or more ships went out to join the Fleet that was gathering in the Downs, and on April 20th Cyril sailed in the Fan Fan, in company with the last vessel of the White Squadron, and there again took up his quarters on board the Henrietta, the Fan Fan being anchored hard by in charge of the boatswain.

On the 23rd, the Prince, with the Duke of Albemarle, and a great company of noblemen and gentlemen, arrived at Deal, and came on board the Fleet, which, on May 1st, weighed anchor.

Lord Oliphant was among the volunteers who came down with the Prince, and, as many of the other gentlemen had also been on board during the first voyage, Cyril felt that he was among friends, and had none of the feeling of strangeness and isolation he had before experienced.

The party was indeed a merry one. For upwards of a year the fear of the Plague had weighed on all England. At the time it increased so terribly in London, that all thought it would, like the Black Death, spread over England, and that, once again, half the population of the country might be swept away. Great as the mortality had been, it had been confined almost entirely to London and some of the great towns, and now that it had died away even in these, there was great relief in men's minds, and all felt that they had personally escaped from a terrible and imminent danger. That they were about to face peril even greater than that from which they had escaped did not weigh on the spirits of the gentlemen on board Prince Rupert's ship. To be killed fighting for their country was an honourable death that none feared, while there had been, in the minds of even the bravest, a horror of death by the Plague, with all its ghastly accompaniments. Sailing out to sea to the Downs, then, they felt that the past year's events lay behind them as an evil dream, and laughed and jested and sang with light-hearted mirth.

As yet, the Dutch had not put out from port, and for three weeks the Fleet cruised off their coast. Then, finding that the enemy could not be tempted to come out, they sailed back to the Downs. The day after they arrived there, a messenger came down from London with orders to Prince Rupert to sail at once with the White Squadron to engage the French Fleet, which was reported to be on the point of putting to sea. The Prince had very little belief that the French really intended to fight. Hitherto, although they had been liberal in their promises to the Dutch, they had done nothing whatever to aid them, and the general opinion was that France rejoiced at seeing her rivals damage each other, but had no idea of risking her ships or men in the struggle.

"I believe, gentlemen," Prince Rupert said to his officers, "that this is but a ruse on the part of Louis to aid his Dutch allies by getting part of our fleet out of the way. Still, I have nothing to do but to obey orders, though I fear it is but a fool's errand on which we are sent."

The wind was from the north-east, and was blowing a fresh gale. The Prince prepared to put to sea. While the men were heaving at the anchors a message came to Cyril that Prince Rupert wished to speak to him in his cabin.

"Sir Cyril, I am going to restore you to your command. The wind is so strong and the sea will be so heavy that I would not risk my yacht and the lives of the men by sending her down the Channel. I do not think there is any chance of our meeting the French, and believe that it is here that the battle will be fought, for with this wind the Dutch can be here in a few hours, and I doubt not that as soon as they learn that one of our squadrons has sailed away they will be out. The Fan Fan will sail with us, but will run into Dover as we pass. Here is a letter that I have written ordering you to do so, and authorising you to put out and join the Admiral's Fleet, should the Dutch attack before my return. If you like to have young Lord Oliphant with you he can go, but he must go as a Volunteer under you. You are the captain of the Fan Fan, and have been so for the last two months; therefore, although your friend is older than you are, he must, if he choose to go, be content to serve under you. Stay, I will put it to him myself."

He touched the bell, and ordered Sydney to be sent for.

"Lord Oliphant," he said, "I know that you and Sir Cyril are great friends. I do not consider that the Fan Fan, of which he has for some time been commander, is fit to keep the sea in a gale like this, and I have therefore ordered him to take her into Dover. If the Dutch come out to fight the Admiral, as I think they will, he will join the Fleet, and although the Fan Fan can take but small share in the fighting, she may be useful in carrying messages from the Duke while the battle is going on. It seems to me that, as the Fan Fan is more likely to see fighting than my ships, you, as a Volunteer, might prefer to transfer yourself to her until she again joins us. Sir Cyril is younger than you are, but if you go, you must necessarily be under his command seeing that he is captain of the yacht. It is for you to choose whether you will remain here or go with him."

"I should like to go with him, sir. He has had a good deal of experience of the sea, while I have never set foot on board ship till last year. And after what he did at Lowestoft I should say that any gentleman would be glad to serve under him."

"That is the right feeling," Prince Rupert said warmly. "Then get your things transferred to the yacht. If you join Albemarle's Fleet, Sir Cyril, you will of course report yourself to him, and say that I directed you to place yourself under his orders."

Five minutes later Cyril and his friend were on board the Fan Fan. Scarcely had they reached her, when a gun was fired from Prince Rupert's ship as a signal, and the ships of the White Squadron shook out their sails, and, with the wind free, raced down towards the South Foreland.

"We are to put into Dover," Cyril said to the boatswain, a weatherbeaten old sailor.

"The Lord be praised for that, sir! She is a tight little craft, but there will be a heavy sea on as soon we are beyond shelter of the sands, and with these two guns on board of her she will make bad weather. Besides, in a wind like this, it ain't pleasant being in a little craft in the middle of a lot of big ones, for if we were not swamped by the sea, we might very well be run down. We had better keep her close to the Point, yer honour, and then run along, under shelter of the cliffs, into Dover. The water will be pretty smooth in there, though we had best carry as little sail as we can, for the gusts will come down from above fit to take the mast out of her."

"I am awfully glad you came with me, Sydney," Cyril said, as he took his place with his friend near the helmsman, "but I wish the Prince had put you in command. Of course, it is only a nominal thing, for the boatswain is really the captain in everything that concerns making sail and giving orders to the crew. Still, it would have been much nicer the other way."

"I don't see that it would, Cyril," Sydney laughed, "for you know as much more about handling a boat like this than I do, as the boatswain does than yourself. You have been on board her night and day for more than a month, and even if you knew nothing about her at all, Prince Rupert would have been right to choose you as a recognition of your great services last time. Don't think anything about it. We are friends, and it does not matter a fig which is the nominal commander. I was delighted to come, not only to be with you, but because it will be a very great deal pleasanter being our own masters on board this pretty little yacht than being officers on board the Henrietta where we would have been only in the way except when we went into action."

As soon as they rounded the Point most of the sail was taken off the Fan Fan, but even under the small canvas she carried she lay over until her lee rail was almost under water when the heavy squalls swooped down on her from the cliffs. The rest of the squadron was keeping some distance out, presenting a fine sight as the ships lay over, sending the spray flying high into the air from their bluff bows, and plunging deeply into the waves.

"Yes, it is very distinctly better being where we are," Lord Oliphant said, as he gazed at them. "I was beginning to feel qualmish before we got under shelter of the Point, and by this time, if I had been on board the Henrietta, I should have been prostrate, and should have had I know not how long misery before me."

A quarter of an hour later they were snugly moored in Dover Harbour. For twenty-four hours the gale continued; the wind then fell somewhat, but continued to blow strongly from the same quarter. Two days later it veered round to the south-west, and shortly afterwards the English Fleet could be seen coming out past the Point. As soon as they did so they headed eastward.

"They are going out to meet the Dutch," Sydney said, as they watched the ships from the cliffs, "The news must have arrived that their fleet has put out to sea."

"Then we may as well be off after them, Sydney; they will sail faster than we shall in this wind, for it is blowing too strongly for us to carry much sail."

They hurried on board. A quarter of an hour later the Fan Fan put out from the harbour. The change of wind had caused an ugly cross sea and the yacht made bad weather of it, the waves constantly washing over her decks, but before they were off Calais she had overtaken some of the slower sailers of the Fleet. The sea was less violent as they held on, for they were now, to some extent, sheltered by the coast.

In a short time Cyril ran down into the cabin where Sydney was lying ill.

"The Admiral has given the signal to anchor, and the leading ships are already bringing up. We will choose a berth as near the shore as we can; with our light draught we can lie well inside of the others, and shall be in comparatively smooth water."

Before dusk the Fleet was at anchor, with the exception of two or three of the fastest frigates, which were sent on to endeavour to obtain some news of the enemy.



Chapter XX

The Fight Off Dunkirk


As soon as the Fan Fan had been brought to an anchor the boat was lowered, and Cyril was rowed on board the Admiral's ship.

Albemarle was on the poop, and Cyril made his report to him.

"Very well, sir," the Duke said, "I dare say I shall be able to make you of some use. Keep your craft close to us when we sail. I seem to know your face."

"I am Sir Cyril Shenstone, my Lord Duke. I had the honour of meeting you first at the fire in the Savoy, and Prince Rupert afterwards was good enough to present me to you."

"Yes, yes, I remember. And it was you who saved the Henrietta from the fire-ship at Lowestoft. You have begun well indeed, young sir, and are like to have further opportunities of showing your bravery."

Cyril bowed, and then, going down the side to his boat, returned to the Fan Fan. She was lying in almost smooth water, and Sydney had come up on deck again.

"You heard no news of the Dutch, I suppose, Cyril?"

"No; I asked a young officer as I left the ship, and he said that, so far as he knew, nothing had been heard of them, but news had come in, before the Admiral sailed from the Downs, that everything was ready for sea, and that orders were expected every hour for them to put out."

"It is rather to be hoped that they won't put out for another two days," Sydney said. "That will give the Prince time to rejoin with his squadron. The wind is favourable now for his return, and I should think, as soon as they hear in London that the Dutch are on the point of putting out, and Albemarle has sailed, they will send him orders to join us at once. We have only about sixty sail, while they say that the Dutch have over ninety, which is too heavy odds against us to be pleasant."

"I should think the Duke will not fight till the Prince comes up."

"I don't think he will wait for him if he finds the Dutch near. All say that he is over-confident, and apt to despise the Dutch too much. Anyhow, he is as brave as a lion, and, though he might not attack unless the Dutch begin it, I feel sure he will not run away from them."

The next morning early, the Bristol frigate was seen returning from the east. She had to beat her way back in the teeth of the wind, but, when still some miles away, a puff of white smoke was seen to dart out from her side, and presently the boom of a heavy gun was heard. Again and again she fired, and the signal was understood to be a notification that she had seen the Dutch. The signal for the captains of the men-of-war to come on board was at once run up to the mast-head of the flagship, followed by another for the Fleet to be prepared to weigh anchor. Captain Bacon, of the Bristol, went on board as soon as his ship came up. In a short time the boats were seen to put off, and as the captains reached their respective ships the signal to weigh anchor was hoisted.

This was hailed with a burst of cheering throughout the Fleet, and all felt that it signified that they would soon meet the Dutch. The Fan Fan was under sail long before the men-of-war had got up their heavy anchors, and, sailing out, tacked backwards and forwards until the Fleet were under sail, when Cyril told the boatswain to place her within a few cables' length of the flagship on her weather quarter. After two hours' sail the Dutch Fleet were made out, anchored off Dunkirk. The Blue Squadron, under Sir William Berkley, led the way, the Red Squadron, under the Duke, following.

"I will put a man in the chains with the lead," the boatswain said to Cyril. "There are very bad sands off Dunkirk, and though we might get over them in safety, the big ships would take ground, and if they did so we should be in a bad plight indeed."

"In that case, we had best slack out the sheet a little, and take up our post on the weather bow of the Admiral, so that we can signal to him if we find water failing."

The topsail was hoisted, and the Fan Fan, which was a very fast craft in comparatively smooth water, ran past the Admiral's flagship.

"Shall I order him back, your Grace?" the Captain asked angrily.

Albemarle looked at the Fan Fan attentively.

"They have got a man sounding," he said. "It is a wise precaution. The young fellow in command knows what he is doing. We ought to have been taking the same care. See! he is taking down his topsail again. Set an officer to watch the yacht, and if they signal, go about at once."

The soundings continued for a short time at six fathoms, when suddenly the man at the lead called out sharply, -- 

"Three fathoms!"

Cyril ran to the flagstaff, and as the next cry came -- "Two fathoms!" -- hauled down the flag and stood waving his cap, while the boatswain, who had gone to the tiller, at once pushed it over to starboard, and brought the yacht up into the wind. Cyril heard orders shouted on board the flagship, and saw her stern sweeping round. A moment later her sails were aback, but the men, who already clustered round the guns, were not quick enough in hauling the yards across, and, to his dismay, he saw the main topmast bend, and then go over the side with a crash. All was confusion on board, and for a time it seemed as if the other topmast would also go.

"Run her alongside within hailing distance," Cyril said to the boatswain. "They will want to question us."

As they came alongside the flagship the Duke himself leant over the side.

"What water had you when you came about, sir?"

"We went suddenly from six fathoms to three, your Grace," Cyril shouted, "and a moment after we found but two."

"Very well, sir," the Duke called back. "In that case you have certainly saved our ship. I thought perhaps that you had been over-hasty, and had thus cost us our topmast, but I see it was not so, and thank you. Our pilot assured us there was plenty of water on the course we were taking."

The ships of the Red Squadron had all changed their course on seeing the flagship come about so suddenly, and considerable delay and confusion was caused before they again formed in order, and, in obedience to the Duke's signal, followed in support of the Blue Squadron. This had already dashed into the midst of the Dutch Fleet, who were themselves in some confusion; for, so sudden had been the attack, that they had been forced to cut their cables, having no time to get up their anchors.

The British ships poured in their broadsides as they approached, while the Dutch opened a tremendous cannonade. Besides their great inferiority in numbers, the British were under a serious disadvantage. They had the weather gauge, and the wind was so strong that it heeled them over, so that they were unable to open their lower ports, and were therefore deprived of the use of their heaviest guns.

Four of the ships of the Red Squadron remained by the flagship, to protect her if attacked, and to keep off fire-ships, while her crew laboured to get up another topmast. More than three hours were occupied in this operation, but so busily did the rest of the Fleet keep the Dutch at work that they were unable to detach sufficient ships to attack her.

As soon as the topmast was in place and the sails hoisted, the flagship and her consorts hastened to join their hard-pressed comrades.

The fight was indeed a desperate one. Sir William Berkley and his ship, the Swiftsure, a second-rate, was taken, as was the Essex, a third-rate.

The Henry, commanded by Sir John Harman, was surrounded by foes. Her sails and rigging were shot to pieces, so she was completely disabled, and the Dutch Admiral, Cornelius Evertz, summoned Sir John Harman to surrender.

"It has not come to that yet," Sir John shouted back, and continued to pour such heavy broadsides into the Dutch that several of their ships were greatly damaged, and Evertz himself killed.

The Dutch captains drew off their vessels, and launched three fire-ships at the Henry. The first one, coming up on her starboard quarter, grappled with her. The dense volumes of smoke rising from her prevented the sailors from discovering where the grapnels were fixed, and the flames were spreading to her when her boatswain gallantly leapt on board the fire-ship, and, by the light of its flames, discovered the grapnels and threw them overboard, and succeeded in regaining his ship.

A moment later, the second fire-ship came up on the port side, and so great a body of flames swept across the Henry that her chaplain and fifty men sprang overboard. Sir John, however, drew his sword, and threatened to cut down the first man who refused to obey orders, and the rest of the crew, setting manfully to work, succeeded in extinguishing the flames, and in getting free of the fire-ship. The halliards of the main yard were, however, burnt through, and the spar fell, striking Sir John Harman to the deck and breaking his leg.

The third fire-ship was received with the fire of four cannon loaded with chain shot. These brought her mast down, and she drifted by, clear of the Henry, which was brought safely into Harwich.

The fight continued the whole day, and did not terminate until ten o'clock in the evening. The night was spent in repairing damages, and in the morning the English recommenced the battle. It was again obstinately contested. Admiral Van Tromp threw himself into the midst of the British line, and suffered so heavily that he was only saved by the arrival of Admiral de Ruyter. He, in his turn, was in a most perilous position, and his ship disabled, when fresh reinforcements arrived. And so the battle raged, until, in the afternoon, as if by mutual consent, the Fleets drew off from each other, and the battle ceased. The fighting had been extraordinarily obstinate and determined on both sides, many ships had been sunk, several burnt, and some captured. The sea was dotted with wreckage, masts, and spars, fragments of boats and débris of all kinds. Both fleets presented a pitiable appearance; the hulls, but forty-eight hours ago so trim and smooth, were splintered and jagged, port-holes were knocked into one, bulwarks carried away, and stern galleries gone. The sails were riddled with shot-holes, many of the ships had lost one or more masts, while the light spars had been, in most cases, carried away, and many of the yards had come down owing to the destruction of the running gear.

In so tremendous a conflict the little Fan Fan could bear but a small part. Cyril and Lord Oliphant agreed, at the commencement of the first day's fight, that it would be useless for them to attempt to fire their two little guns, but that their efforts should be entirely directed against the enemy's fire-ships. During each day's battle, then, they hovered round the flagship, getting out of the way whenever she was engaged, as she often was, on both broadsides, and although once or twice struck by stray shots, the Fan Fan received no serious damage. In this encounter of giants, the little yacht was entirely overlooked, and none of the great ships wasted a shot upon her. Two or three times each day, when the Admiral's ship had beaten off her foes, a fire-ship directed its course against her. Then came the Fan Fan's turn for action. Under the pressure of her twelve oars she sped towards the fire-ship, and on reaching her a grapnel was thrown over the end of the bowsprit, and by the efforts of the rowers her course was changed, so that she swept harmlessly past the flagship.

Twice when the vessels were coming down before the wind at a rate of speed that rendered it evident that the efforts of the men at the oars would be insufficient to turn her course, the Fan Fan was steered alongside, grapnels were thrown, and, headed by Lord Oliphant and Cyril, the crew sprang on board, cut down or drove overboard the few men who were in charge of her. Then, taking the helm and trimming the sails, they directed her against one of the Dutch men-of-war, threw the grapnels on board, lighted the train, leapt back into the Fan Fan, rowed away, and took up their place near the Admiral, the little craft being greeted with hearty cheers by the whole ship's company.

The afternoon was spent in repairing damages as far as practicable, but even the Duke saw it was impossible to continue the fight. The Dutch had received a reinforcement while the fighting was going on that morning, and although the English had inflicted terrible damage upon the Dutch Fleet, their own loss in ships was greater than that which they had caused their adversaries. A considerable portion of their vessels were not in a condition to renew the battle, and the carpenters had hard work to save them from sinking outright. Albemarle himself embarked on the Fan Fan, and sailed from ship to ship, ascertaining the condition of each, and the losses its crew had suffered. As soon as night fell, the vessels most disabled were ordered to sail for England as they best could. The crew of three which were totally dismasted and could hardly be kept afloat, were taken out and divided between the twenty-eight vessels which alone remained in a condition to renew the fight.

These three battered hulks were, early the next morning, set on fire, and the rest of the Fleet, in good order and prepared to give battle, followed their companions that had sailed on the previous evening. The Dutch followed, but at a distance, thinking to repair their damages still farther before they again engaged. In the afternoon the sails of a squadron were seen ahead, and a loud cheer ran from ship to ship, for all knew that this was Prince Rupert coming up with the White Squadron. A serious loss, however, occurred a few minutes afterwards. The Royal Prince, the largest and most powerful vessel in the Fleet, which was somewhat in rear of the line, struck on the sands. The tide being with them and the wind light, the rest of the Fleet tried in vain to return to her assistance, and as the Dutch Fleet were fast coming up, and some of the fire-ships making for the Royal Prince, they were forced to give up the attempt to succour her, and Sir George Ayscue, her captain, was obliged to haul down his flag and surrender.

As soon as the White Squadron joined the remnant of the Fleet the whole advanced against the Dutch, drums beating and trumpets sounding, and twice made their way through the enemy's line. But it was now growing dark, and the third day's battle came to an end. The next morning it was seen that the Dutch, although considerably stronger than the English, were almost out of sight. The latter at once hoisted sail and pursued, and, at eight o'clock, came up with them.

The Dutch finding the combat inevitable, the terrible fight was renewed, and raged, without intermission, until seven in the evening. Five times the British passed through the line of the Dutch. On both sides many ships fell out of the fighting line wholly disabled. Several were sunk, and some on both sides forced to surrender, being so battered as to be unable to withdraw from the struggle. Prince Rupert's ship was wholly disabled, and that of Albemarle almost as severely damaged, and the battle, like those of the preceding days, ended without any decided advantage on either side. Both nations claimed the victory, but equally without reason. The Dutch historians compute our loss at sixteen men-of-war, of which ten were sunk and six taken, while we admitted only a loss of nine ships, and claimed that the Dutch lost fifteen men-of-war. Both parties acknowledged that it was the most terrible battle fought in this, or any other modern war.

De Witte, who at that time was at the head of the Dutch Republic, and who was a bitter enemy of the English, owned, some time afterwards, to Sir William Temple, "that the English got more glory to their nation through the invincible courage of their seamen during those engagements than by the two victories of this war, and that he was sure that his own fleet could not have been brought on to fight the fifth day, after the disadvantages of the fourth, and he believed that no other nation was capable of it but the English."

Cyril took no part in the last day's engagement, for Prince Rupert, when the Fan Fan came near him on his arrival on the previous evening, returned his salute from the poop, and shouted to him that on no account was he to adventure into the fight with the Fan Fan.

On the morning after the battle ended, Lord Oliphant and Cyril rowed on board Prince Rupert's ship, where every unwounded man was hard at work getting up a jury-mast or patching up the holes in the hull.

"Well, Sir Cyril, I see that you have been getting my yacht knocked about," he said, as they came up to him.

"There is not much damage done, sir. She has but two shot-holes in her hull."

"And my new mainsail spoiled. Do you know, sir, that I got a severe rating from the Duke yesterday evening, on your account?"

Cyril looked surprised.

"I trust, sir, that I have not in any way disobeyed orders?"

"No, it was not that. He asked after the Fan Fan, and said that he had seen nothing of her during the day's fighting, and I said I had strictly ordered you not to come into the battle. He replied, 'Then you did wrong, Prince, for that little yacht of yours did yeomen's service during the first two days' fighting. I told Sir Cyril to keep her near me, thinking that she would be useful in carrying orders, and during those two days she kept close to us, save when we were surrounded by the enemy. Five times in those three days did she avert fire-ships from us. We were so damaged that we could sail but slowly, and, thinking us altogether unmanageable, the Dutch launched their fire-ships. The Fan Fan rowed to meet them. Three of them were diverted from their course by a rope being thrown over the bowsprit, and the crew rowing so as to turn her head. On the second day there was more wind, and the fire-ships could have held on their course in spite of the efforts of the men on board the Fan Fan. Twice during the day the little boat was boldly laid alongside them, while the crew boarded and captured them, and then, directing them towards the Dutch ships, grappled and set them on fire. One of the Dutchmen was burned, the other managed to throw off the grapnels. It was all done under our eyes, and five times in the two days did my crew cheer your little yacht as she came alongside. So you see, Prince, by ordering her out of the fight you deprived us of the assistance of as boldly handled a little craft as ever sailed.'

"'I am quite proud of my little yacht, gentlemen, and I thank you for having given her so good a christening under fire. But I must stay no longer talking. Here is the despatch I have written of my share of the engagement. You, Sir Cyril, will deliver this. You will now row to the Duke's ship, and he will give you his despatches, which you, Lord Oliphant, will deliver. I need not say that you are to make all haste to the Thames. We have no ship to spare except the Fan Fan, for we must keep the few that are still able to manoeuvre, in case the Dutch should come out again before we have got the crippled ones in a state to make sail. '"

Taking leave of the Prince, they were at once rowed to the Duke's flagship. They had a short interview with the Admiral, who praised them highly for the service they had rendered.

"You will have to tell the story of the fighting," he said, "for the Prince and myself have written but few lines; we have too many matters on our minds to do scribe's work. They will have heard, ere now, of the first two days' fighting, for some of the ships that were sent back will have arrived at Harwich before this. By to-morrow morning I hope to have the Fleet so far refitted as to be able to follow you."

Five minutes later, the Fan Fan, with every stitch of sail set, was on her way to the Thames. As a brisk wind was blowing, they arrived in London twenty-four hours later, and at once proceeded to the Admiralty, the despatches being addressed to the Duke of York. They were immediately ushered in to him. Without a word he seized the despatches, tore them open, and ran his eye down them.

"God be praised!" he exclaimed, when he finished them. "We had feared even worse intelligence, and have been in a terrible state of anxiety since yesterday, when we heard from Harwich that one of the ships had come in with the news that more than half the Fleet was crippled or destroyed, and that twenty-eight only remained capable of continuing the battle. The only hope was that the White Squadron might arrive in time, and it seems that it has done so. The account of our losses is indeed a terrible one, but at least we have suffered no defeat, and as the Dutch have retreated, they must have suffered well-nigh as much as we have done. Come along with me at once, gentlemen; I must go to the King to inform him of this great news, which is vastly beyond what we could have hoped for. The Duke, in his despatch, tells me that the bearers of it, Lord Oliphant and Sir Cyril Shenstone, have done very great service, having, in Prince Rupert's little yacht, saved his flagship no less than five times from the attacks of the Dutch fire-ships."

The Duke had ordered his carriage to be in readiness as soon as he learnt that the bearers of despatches from the Fleet had arrived. It was already at the door, and, taking his seat in it, with Lord Oliphant and Cyril opposite to him, he was driven to the Palace, learning by the way such details as they could give him of the last two days' fighting. He led them at once to the King's dressing-room. Charles was already attired, for he had passed a sleepless night, and had risen early.

"What news, James?" he asked eagerly.

"Good news, brother. After two more days' fighting -- and terrible fighting, on both sides -- the Dutch Fleet has returned to its ports."

"A victory!" the King exclaimed, in delight.

"A dearly-bought one with the lives of so many brave men, but a victory nevertheless. Here are the despatches from Albemarle and Rupert. They have been brought by these gentlemen, with whom you are already acquainted, in Rupert's yacht. Albemarle speaks very highly of their conduct."

The King took the despatches, and read them eagerly.

"It has indeed been a dearly-bought victory," he said, "but it is marvellous indeed how our captains and men bore themselves. Never have they shown greater courage and endurance. Well may Monk say that, after four days of incessant fighting and four nights spent in the labour of repairing damages, the strength of all has well-nigh come to an end, and that he himself can write but a few lines to tell me of what has happened, leaving all details for further occasion. I thank you both, gentlemen, for the speed with which you have brought me this welcome news, and for the services of which the Duke of Albemarle speaks so warmly. This is the second time, Sir Cyril, that my admirals have had occasion to speak of great and honourable service rendered by you. Lord Oliphant, the Earl, your father, will have reason to be proud when he hears you so highly praised. Now, gentlemen, tell me more fully than is done in these despatches as to the incidents of the fighting. I have heard something of what took place in the first two days from an officer who posted up from Harwich yesterday."

Lord Oliphant related the events of the first two days, and then went on.

"Of the last two I can say less, Your Majesty, for we took no part in, having Prince Rupert's orders, given as he came up, that we should not adventure into the fight. Therefore, we were but spectators, though we kept on the edge of the fight and, if opportunity had offered, and we had seen one of our ships too hard pressed, and threatened by fire-ships, we should have ventured so far to transgress orders as to bear in and do what we could on her behalf; but indeed, the smoke was so great that we could see but little.

"It was a strange sight, when, on the Prince's arrival, his ships and those of the Duke's, battered as they were, bore down on the Dutch line; the drums beating, the trumpets sounding, and the crews cheering loudly. We saw them disappear into the Dutch line; then the smoke shut all out from view, and for hours there was but a thick cloud of smoke and a continuous roar of the guns. Sometimes a vessel would come out from the curtain of smoke torn and disabled. Sometimes it was a Dutchman, sometimes one of our own ships. If the latter, we rowed up to them and did our best with planks and nails to stop the yawning holes close to the water-line, while the crew knotted ropes and got up the spars and yards, and then sailed back into the fight.

"The first day's fighting was comparatively slight, for the Dutch seemed to be afraid to close with the Duke's ships, and hung behind at a distance. It was not till the White Squadron came up, and the Duke turned, with Prince Rupert, and fell upon his pursuers like a wounded boar upon the dogs, that the battle commenced in earnest; but the last day it went on for nigh twelve hours without intermission; and when at last the roar of the guns ceased, and the smoke slowly cleared off, it was truly a pitiful sight, so torn and disabled were the ships.

"As the two fleets separated, drifting apart as it would almost seem, so few were the sails now set, we rowed up among them, and for hours were occupied in picking up men clinging to broken spars and wreckage, for but few of the ships had so much as a single boat left. We were fortunate enough to save well-nigh a hundred, of whom more than seventy were our own men, the remainder Dutch. From these last we learnt that the ships of Van Tromp and Ruyter had both been so disabled that they had been forced to fall out of battle, and had been towed away to port. They said that their Admirals Cornelius Evertz and Van der Hulst had both been killed, while on our side we learnt that Admiral Sir Christopher Mings had fallen."

"Did the Dutch Fleet appear to be as much injured as our own?"

"No, Your Majesty. Judging by the sail set when the battle was over, theirs must have been in better condition than ours, which is not surprising, seeing how superior they were in force, and for the most part bigger ships, and carrying more guns."

"Then you will have your hands full, James, or they will be ready to take to sea again before we are. Next time I hope that we shall meet them with more equal numbers."

"I will do the best I can, brother," the Duke replied. "Though we have so many ships sorely disabled there have been but few lost, and we can supply their places with the vessels that have been building with all haste. If the Dutch will give us but two months' time I warrant that we shall be able to meet them in good force."

As soon as the audience was over, Cyril and his friend returned to the Fan Fan, and after giving the crew a few hours for sleep, sailed down to Sheerness, where, shortly afterwards, Prince Rupert arrived with a portion of the Fleet, the rest having been ordered to Harwich, Portsmouth, and other ports, so that they could be more speedily refitted.

Although the work went on almost without intermission day and night, the repairs were not completed before the news arrived that the Dutch Fleet had again put to sea. Two days later they arrived off our coast, where, finding no fleet ready to meet them, they sailed away to France, where they hoped to be joined by their French allies.

Two days later, however, our ships began to assemble at the mouth of the Thames, and on June 24th the whole Fleet was ready to take to sea. It consisted of eighty men-of-war, large and small, and nineteen fire-ships. Prince Rupert was in command of the Red Squadron, and the Duke of Albemarle sailed with him, on board the same ship. Sir Thomas Allen was Admiral of the White, and Sir Jeremiah Smith of the Blue Squadron. Cyril remained on board the Fan Fan, Lord Oliphant returning to his duties on board the flagship. Marvels had been effected by the zeal and energy of the crews and dockyard men. But three weeks back, the English ships had, for the most part, been crippled seemingly almost beyond repair, but now, with their holes patched, with new spars, and in the glory of fresh paint and new canvas, they made as brave a show as when they had sailed out from the Downs a month previously.

They were anchored off the Nore when, late in the evening, the news came out from Sheerness that a mounted messenger had just ridden in from Dover, and that the Dutch Fleet had, in the afternoon, passed the town, and had rounded the South Foreland, steering north.

Orders were at once issued that the Fleet should sail at daybreak, and at three o'clock the next morning they were on their way down the river. At ten o'clock the Dutch Fleet was seen off the North Foreland. According to their own accounts they numbered eighty-eight men-of-war, with twenty-five fire-ships, and were also divided into three squadrons, under De Ruyter, John Evertz, and Van Tromp.

The engagement began at noon by an attack by the White Squadron upon that commanded by Evertz. An hour later, Prince Rupert and the Duke, with the Red Squadron, fell upon De Ruyter, while that of Van Tromp, which was at some distance from the others, was engaged by Sir Jeremiah Smith with the Blue Squadron. Sir Thomas Allen completely defeated his opponents, killing Evertz, his vice - and rear-admirals, capturing the vice-admiral of Zeeland, who was with him, and burning a ship of fifty guns.

The Red Squadron was evenly matched by that of De Ruyter, and each vessel laid itself alongside an adversary. Although De Ruyter himself and his vice-admiral, Van Ness, fought obstinately, their ships in general, commanded, for the most part, by men chosen for their family influence rather than for either seamanship or courage, behaved but badly, and all but seven gradually withdrew from the fight, and went off under all sail; and De Ruyter, finding himself thus deserted, was forced also to draw off. During this time, Van Tromp, whose squadron was the strongest of the three Dutch divisions, was so furiously engaged by the Blue Squadron, which was the weakest of the English divisions, that he was unable to come to the assistance of his consorts; when, however, he saw the defeat of the rest of the Dutch Fleet, he, too, was obliged to draw off, lest he should have the whole of the English down upon him, and was able the more easily to do so as darkness was closing in when the battle ended.

The Dutch continued their retreat during the night, followed at a distance by the Red Squadron, which was, next morning, on the point of overtaking them, when the Dutch sought refuge by steering into the shallows, which their light draught enabled them to cross, while the deeper English ships were unable to follow. Great was the wrath and disappointment of the English when they saw themselves thus baulked of reaping the full benefit of the victory. Prince Rupert shouted to Cyril, who, in the Fan Fan, had taken but small share in the engagement, as the fire-ships had not played any conspicuous part in it.

"Sir Cyril, we can go no farther, but do you pursue De Ruyter and show him in what contempt we hold him."

Cyril lifted his hat to show that he heard and understood the order. Then he ordered his men to get out their oars, for the wind was very light, and, amidst loud cheering, mingled with laughter, from the crews of the vessels that were near enough to hear Prince Rupert's order, the Fan Fan rowed out from the English line in pursuit of the Dutch.



Chapter XXI

London In Flames


The sailors laughed and joked as they rowed away from the Fleet, but the old boatswain shook his head.

"We shall have to be careful, Sir Cyril," he said. "It is like a small cur barking at the heels of a bull -- it is good fun enough for a bit, but when the bull turns, perchance the dog will find himself thrown high in the air."

Cyril nodded. He himself considered Prince Rupert's order to be beyond all reason, and given only in the heat of his anger at De Ruyter having thus escaped him, and felt that it was very likely to cost the lives of all on board the Fan Fan. However, there was nothing to do but to carry it out. It seemed to him that the boatswain's simile was a very apt one, and that, although the spectacle of the Fan Fan worrying the great Dutch battle-ship might be an amusing one to the English spectators, it was likely to be a very serious adventure for her.

De Ruyter's ship, which was in the rear of all the other Dutch vessels, was but a mile distant when the Fan Fan started, and as the wind was so light that it scarce filled her sails, the yacht approached her rapidly.

"We are within half a mile now, your honour," the boatswain said. "I should say we had better go no nearer if we don't want to be blown out of the water."

"Yes; I think we may as well stop rowing now, and get the guns to work. There are only those two cannon in her stern ports which can touch us here. She will scarcely come up in the wind to give us a broadside. She is moving so slowly through the water that it would take her a long time to come round, and De Ruyter would feel ashamed to bring his great flag-ship round to crush such a tiny foe."

The boatswain went forward to the guns, round which the men, after laying in their oars, clustered in great glee.

"Now," he said, "you have got to make those two guns in the stern your mark. Try and send your shots through the port-holes. It will be a waste to fire them at the hull, for the balls would not penetrate the thick timber that she is built of. Remember, the straighter you aim the more chance there is that the Dutch won't hit us. Men don't stop to aim very straight when they are expecting a shot among them every second. We will fire alternately, and one gun is not to fire until the other is loaded again. I will lay the first gun myself."

It was a good shot, and the crew cheered as they saw the splinters fly at the edge of the port-hole. Shot after shot was fired with varying success.

The Dutch made no reply, and seemed to ignore the presence of their tiny foe. The crew were, for the most part, busy aloft repairing damages, and after half an hour's firing, without eliciting a reply, the boatswain went aft to Cyril, and suggested that they should now aim at the spars.

"A lucky shot might do a good deal of damage, sir," he said. "The weather is fine enough at present, but there is no saying when a change may come, and if we could weaken one of the main spars it might be the means of her being blown ashore, should the wind spring up in the right direction."

Cyril assented, and fire was now directed at the masts. A few ropes were cut away, but no serious damage was effected until a shot struck one of the halliard blocks of the spanker, and the sail at once ran down.

"It has taken a big bit out of the mast, too," the boatswain called exultingly to Cyril. "I think that will rouse the Dutchmen up."

A minute later it was evident that the shot had at least had that effect. Two puffs of smoke spirted out from the stern of the Dutch flagship, and, simultaneously with the roar of the guns, came the hum of two heavy shot flying overhead. Delighted at having excited the Dutchmen's wrath at last, the crew of the Fan Fan took off their hats and gave a loud cheer, and then, more earnestly than before, settled down to work; their guns aimed now, as at first, at the port-holes. Four or five shots were discharged from each of the little guns before the Dutch were ready again. Then came the thundering reports. The Fan Fan's topmast was carried away by one of the shot, but the other went wide. Two or three men were told to cut away the wreckage, and the rest continued their fire. One of the next shots of the enemy was better directed. It struck the deck close to the foot of the mast, committed great havoc in Cyril's cabin, and passed out through the stern below the water-line. Cyril leapt down the companion as he heard the crash, shouting to the boatswain to follow him. The water was coming through the hole in a great jet. Cyril seized a pillow and -- stuffed it into the shot-hole, being drenched from head to foot in the operation. One of the sailors had followed the boatswain, and Cyril called him to his assistance.

"Get out the oars at once," he said to the boatswain. "Another shot like this and she will go down. Get a piece cut off a spar and make a plug. There is no holding this pillow in its place, and the water comes in fast still."

The sailor took Cyril's post while he ran up on deck and assisted in cutting the plug; this was roughly shaped to the size of the hole, and then driven in. It stopped the rush of the water, but a good deal still leaked through.

By the time this was done the Fan Fan had considerably increased her distance from De Ruyter. Four or five more shots were fired from the Dutch ship. The last of these struck the mast ten feet above the deck, bringing it down with a crash. Fortunately, none of the crew were hurt, and, dropping the oars, they hauled the mast alongside, cut the sail from its fastening to the hoops and gaff, and then severed the shrouds and allowed the mast to drift away, while they again settled themselves to the oars. Although every man rowed his hardest, the Fan Fan was half full of water before she reached the Fleet, which was two miles astern of them when they first began to row.

"Well done, Fan Fan!" Prince Rupert shouted, as the little craft came alongside. "Have you suffered any damage besides your spars? I see you are low in the water."

"We were shot through our stern, sir; we put in a plug, but the water comes in still. Will you send a carpenter on board? For I don't think she will float many minutes longer unless we get the hole better stopped."

The Prince gave some orders to an officer standing by him. The latter called two or three sailors and bade them bring some short lengths of thick hawser, while a strong party were set to reeve tackle to the mainyard. As soon as the hawsers, each thirty feet in length, were brought, they were dropped on to the deck of the Fan Fan, and the officer told the crew to pass them under her, one near each end, and to knot the hawsers. By the time this was done, two strong tackles were lowered and fixed to the hawsers, and the crew ordered to come up on to the ship. The tackles were then manned and hauled on by strong parties, and the Fan Fan was gradually raised. The boatswain went below again and knocked out the plug, and, as the little yacht was hoisted up, the water ran out of it. As soon as the hole was above the water-level, the tackle at the bow was gradually slackened off until she lay with her fore-part in the water, which came some distance up her deck. The carpenter then slung himself over the stern, and nailed, first a piece of tarred canvas, and then a square of plank, over the hole. Then the stern tackle was eased off, and the Fan Fan floated on a level keel. Her crew went down to her again, and, in half an hour, pumped her free of water.

By this time, the results of the victory were known. On the English side, the Resolution was the only ship lost, she having been burnt by a Dutch fire-ship; three English captains, and about three hundred men were killed. On the other hand, the Dutch lost twenty ships, four admirals, a great many of their captains, and some four thousand men. It was, indeed, the greatest and most complete victory gained throughout the war. Many of the British ships had suffered a good deal, that which carried the Duke's flag most of all, for it had been so battered in the fight with De Ruyter that the Duke and Prince Rupert had been obliged to leave her, and to hoist their flags upon another man-of-war.

The next morning the Fleet sailed to Schonevelt, which was the usual rendezvous of the Dutch Fleet, and there remained some time, altogether undisturbed by the enemy. The Fan Fan was here thoroughly repaired.

On July 29th they sailed for Ulic, where they arrived on August 7th, the wind being contrary.

Learning that there was a large fleet of merchantmen lying between the islands of Ulic and Schelling, guarded by but two men-of-war, and that there were rich magazines of goods on these islands, it was determined to attack them. Four small frigates, of a slight draught of water, and five fire-ships, were selected for the attack, together with the boats of the Fleet, manned by nine hundred men.

On the evening of the 8th, Cyril was ordered to go, in the Fan Fan, to reconnoitre the position of the Dutch. He did not sail until after nightfall, and, on reaching the passage between the islands, he lowered his sails, got out his oars, and drifted with the tide silently down through the Dutch merchant fleet, where no watch seemed to be kept, and in the morning carried the news to Sir Robert Holmes, the commander of the expedition, who had anchored a league from the entrance.

Cyril had sounded the passage as he went through, and it was found that two of the frigates could not enter it. These were left at the anchorage, and, on arriving at the mouth of the harbour, the Tiger, Sir Robert Holmes's flagship, was also obliged to anchor, and he came on board the Fan Fan, on which he hoisted his flag. The captains of the other ships came on board, and it was arranged that the Pembroke, which had but a small draught of water, should enter at once with the five fire-ships.

The attack was completely successful. Two of the fire-ships grappled with the men-of-war and burnt them, while three great merchantmen were destroyed by the others. Then the boats dashed into the fleet, and, with the exception of four or five merchantmen and four privateers, who took refuge in a creek, defended by a battery, the whole of the hundred and seventy merchantmen, the smallest of which was not less than 200 tons burden, and all heavily laden, were burned.

The next day, Sir Robert Holmes landed eleven companies of troops on the Island of Schonevelt and burnt Bandaris, its principal town, with its magazines and store-houses, causing a loss to the Dutch, according to their own admission, of six million guilders. This, and the loss of the great Fleet, inflicted a very heavy blow upon the commerce of Holland. The Fan Fan had been hit again by a shot from one of the batteries, and, on her rejoining the Fleet, Prince Rupert determined to send her to England so that she could be thoroughly repaired and fitted out again. Cyril's orders were to take her to Chatham, and to hand her over to the dockyard authorities.

"I do not think the Dutch will come out and fight us again this autumn, Sir Cyril, so you can take your ease in London as it pleases you. We are now halfway through August, and it will probably be at least a month after your arrival before the Fan Fan is fit for sea again. It may be a good deal longer than that, for they are busy upon the repairs of the ships sent home after the battle, and will hardly take any hands off these to put on to the Fan Fan. In October we shall all be coming home again, so that, until next spring, it is hardly likely that there will be aught doing."

Cyril accordingly returned to London. The wind was contrary, and it was not until the last day of August that he dropped anchor in the Medway. After spending a night at Chatham, he posted up to London the next morning, and, finding convenient chambers in the Savoy, he installed himself there, and then proceeded to the house of the Earl of Wisbech, to whom he was the bearer of a letter from his son. Finding that the Earl and his family were down at his place near Sevenoaks, he went into the City, and spent the evening at Captain Dave's, having ordered his servant to pack a small valise, and bring it with the two horses in the morning. He had gone to bed but an hour when he was awoke by John Wilkes knocking at his door.

"There is a great fire burning not far off, Sir Cyril. A man who ran past told me it was in Pudding Lane, at the top of Fish Street. The Captain is getting up, and is going out to see it; for, with such dry weather as we have been having, there is no saying how far it may go."

Cyril sprang out of his bed and dressed. Captain Dave, accustomed to slip on his clothes in a hurry, was waiting for him, and, with John Wilkes, they sallied out. There was a broad glare of light in the sky, and the bells of many of the churches were ringing out the fire-alarm. As they passed, many people put their heads out from windows and asked where the fire was. In five minutes they approached the scene. A dozen houses were blazing fiercely, while, from those near, the inhabitants were busily removing their valuables. The Fire Companies, with their buckets, were already at work, and lines of men were formed down to the river and were passing along buckets from hand to hand. Well-nigh half the water was spilt, however, before it arrived at the fire, and, in the face of such a body of flame, it seemed to make no impression whatever.

"They might as well attempt to pump out a leaky ship with a child's squirt," the Captain said. "The fire will burn itself out, and we must pray heaven that the wind drops altogether; 'tis not strong, but it will suffice to carry the flames across these narrow streets. 'Tis lucky that it is from the east, so there is little fear that it will travel in our direction."

They learnt that the fire had begun in the house of Faryner, the King's baker, though none knew how it had got alight. It was not long before the flames leapt across the lane, five or six houses catching fire almost at the same moment. A cry of dismay broke from the crowd, and the fright of the neighbours increased. Half-clad women hurried from their houses, carrying their babes, and dragging their younger children out. Men staggered along with trunks of clothing and valuables. Many wrung their hands helplessly, while the City Watch guarded the streets leading to Pudding Lane, so as to prevent thieves and vagabonds from taking advantage of the confusion to plunder.

With great rapidity the flames spread from house to house. A portion of Fish Street was already invaded, and the Church of St. Magnus in danger. The fears of the people increased in proportion to the advance of the conflagration. The whole neighbourhood was now alarmed, and, in all the streets round, people were beginning to remove their goods. The river seemed to be regarded by all as the safest place of refuge. The boats from the various landing-places had already come up, and these were doing a thriving trade by taking the frightened people, with what goods they carried, to lighters and ships moored in the river.

The lines of men passing buckets had long since broken up, it being too evident that their efforts were not of the slightest avail. The wind had, in the last two hours, rapidly increased in strength, and was carrying the burning embers far and wide.

Cyril and his companions had, after satisfying their first curiosity, set to work to assist the fugitives, by aiding them to carry down their goods to the waterside. Cyril was now between eighteen and nineteen, and had grown into a powerful, young fellow, having, since he recovered from the Plague, grown fast and widened out greatly. He was able to shoulder heavy trunks, and to carry them down without difficulty.

By six o'clock, however, all were exhausted by their labours, and Captain Dave's proposal, that they should go back and get breakfast and have a wash, was at once agreed to.

At this time the greater part of Fish Street was in flames, the Church of St. Magnus had fallen, and the flames had spread to many of the streets and alleys running west. The houses on the Bridge were blazing.

"Well, father, what is the news?" Nellie exclaimed, as they entered. "What have you been doing? You are all blackened, like the men who carry out the coals from the ships. I never saw such figures."

"We have been helping people to carry their goods down to the water, Nellie. The news is bad. The fire is a terrible one."

"That we can see, father. Mother and I were at the window for hours after you left, and the whole sky seemed ablaze. Do you think that there is any danger of its coming here?"

"The wind is taking the flames the other way, Nellie, but in spite of that I think that there is danger. The heat is so great that the houses catch on this side, and we saw, as we came back, that it had travelled eastwards. Truly, I believe that if the wind keeps on as it is at present, the whole City will be destroyed. However, we will have a wash first and then some breakfast, of which we are sorely in need. Then we can talk over what had best be done."

Little was said during breakfast. The apprentices had already been out, and so excited were they at the scenes they had witnessed that they had difficulty in preserving their usual quiet and submissive demeanour. Captain Dave was wearied with his unwonted exertions. Mrs. Dowsett and Nellie both looked pale and anxious, and Cyril and John Wilkes were oppressed by the terrible scene of destruction and the widespread misery they had witnessed.

When breakfast was over, Captain Dave ordered the apprentices on no account to leave the premises. They were to put up the shutters at once, and then to await orders.

"What do you think we had better do, Cyril?" he said, when the boys had left the room.

"I should say that you had certainly better go on board a ship, Captain Dave. There is time to move now quietly, and to get many things taken on board, but if there were a swift change of wind the flames would come down so suddenly that you would have no time to save anything. Do you know of a captain who would receive you?"

"Certainly; I know of half a dozen."

"Then the first thing is to secure a boat before they are all taken up."

"I will go down to the stairs at once."

"Then I should say, John, you had better go off with Captain Dave, and, as soon as he has arranged with one of the captains, come back to shore. Let the waterman lie off in the stream, for if the flames come this way there will be a rush for boats, and people will not stop to ask to whom they belong. It will be better still to take one of the apprentices with you, leave him at the stairs till you return, and then tie up to a ship till we hail him."

"That will be the best plan," Captain Dave said. "Now, wife, you and Nellie and the maid had best set to work at once packing up all your best clothes and such other things as you may think most valuable. We shall have time, I hope, to make many trips."

"While you are away, I will go along the street and see whether the fire is making any way in this direction," Cyril said. "Of course if it's coming slowly you will have time to take away a great many things. And we may even hope that it may not come here at all."

Taking one of the apprentices, Captain Dave and John at once started for the waterside, while Cyril made his way westward.

Already, people were bringing down their goods from most of the houses. Some acted as if they believed that if they took the goods out of the houses they would be safe, and great piles of articles of all kinds almost blocked the road. Weeping women and frightened children sat on these piles as if to guard them. Some stood at their doors wringing their hands helplessly; others were already starting eastward laden with bundles and boxes, occasionally looking round as if to bid farewell to their homes. Many of the men seemed even more confused and frightened than the women, running hither and thither without purpose, shouting, gesticulating, and seeming almost distraught with fear and grief.

Cyril had not gone far when he saw that the houses on both sides of the street, at the further end, were already in flames. He was obliged to advance with great caution, for many people were recklessly throwing goods of all kinds from the windows, regardless of whom they might fall upon, and without thought of how they were to be carried away. He went on until close to the fire, and stood for a time watching. The noise was bewildering. Mingled with the roar of the flames, the crackling of woodwork, and the heavy crashes that told of the fall of roofs or walls, was the clang of the alarm-bells, shouts, cries, and screams. The fire spread steadily, but with none of the rapidity with which he had seen it fly along from house to house on the other side of the conflagration. The houses, however, were largely composed of wood. The balconies generally caught first, and the fire crept along under the roofs, and sometimes a shower of tiles, and a burst of flames, showed that it had advanced there, while the lower portion of the house was still intact.

"Is it coming, Cyril?" Mrs. Dowsett asked, when he returned.

"It is coming steadily," he said, "and can be stopped by nothing short of a miracle. Can I help you in any way?"

"No," she said; "we have packed as many things as can possibly be carried. It is well that your things are all at your lodging, Cyril, and beyond the risk of this danger."

"It would have mattered little about them," he said. "I could have replaced them easily enough. That is but a question of money. And now, in the first place, I will get the trunks and bundles you have packed downstairs. That will save time."

Assisted by the apprentice and Nellie, Cyril got all the things downstairs.

"How long have we, do you think?" Nellie asked.

"I should say that in three hours the fire will be here," he said. "It may be checked a little at the cross lanes; but I fear that three hours is all we can hope for."

Just as they had finished taking down the trunks, Captain Dave and John Wilkes arrived.

"I have arranged the affair," the former said. "My old friend, Dick Watson, will take us in his ship; she lies but a hundred yards from the stairs. Now, get on your mantle and hood, Nellie, and bring your mother and maid down."

The three women were soon at the foot of the stairs, and Mrs. Dowsett's face showed signs of tears; but, though pale, she was quiet and calm, and the servant, a stout wench, had gained confidence from her mistress's example. As soon as they were ready, the three men each shouldered a trunk. The servant and the apprentice carried one between them. Mrs. Dowsett and her daughter took as many bundles as they could carry. It was but five minutes' walk down to the stairs. The boat was lying twenty yards out in the stream, fastened up to a lighter, with the apprentice and waterman on board. It came at once alongside, and in five minutes they reached the Good Venture. As soon as the women had ascended the accommodation ladder, some sailors ran down and helped to carry up the trunks.

"Empty them all out in the cabin," Captain Dave said to his wife; "we will take them back with us."

As soon as he had seen the ladies into the cabin, Captain Watson called his son Frank, who was his chief mate, and half a dozen of his men. These carried the boxes, as fast as they were emptied, down into the boat.

"We will all go ashore together," he said to Captain Dave. "I was a fool not to think of it before. We will soon make light work of it."

As soon as they reached the house, some of the sailors were sent off with the remaining trunks and bundles, while the others carried upstairs those they had brought, and quickly emptied into them the remaining contents of the drawers and linen press. So quickly and steadily did the work go on, that no less than six trips were made to the Good Venture in the next three hours, and at the end of that time almost everything portable had been carried away, including several pieces of valuable furniture, and a large number of objects brought home by Captain Dave from his various voyages. The last journey, indeed, was devoted to saving some of the most valuable contents of the store. Captain Dave, delighted at having saved so much, would not have thought of taking more, but Captain Watson would not hear of this.

"There is time for one more trip, old friend," he said, "and there are many things in your store that are worth more than their weight in silver. I will take my other two hands this time, and, with the eight men and our five selves, we shall be able to bring a good load."

The trunks were therefore this time packed with ship's instruments, and brass fittings of all kinds, to the full weight that could be carried. All hands then set to work, and, in a very short time, a great proportion of the portable goods were carried from the store-house into an arched cellar beneath it. By the time that they were ready to start there were but six houses between them and the fire.

"I wish we had another three hours before us," Captain Watson said. "It goes to one's heart to leave all this new rope and sail cloth, good blocks, and other things, to be burnt."

"There have been better things than that burnt to-day, Watson. Few men have saved as much as I have, thanks to your assistance and that of these stout sailors of yours. Why, the contents of these twelve boxes are worth as much as the whole of the goods remaining."

The sailors' loads were so heavy that they had to help each other to get them upon their shoulders, and the other five were scarcely less weighted; and, short as was the distance, all had to rest several times on the way to the stairs, setting their burdens upon window-sills, or upon boxes scattered in the streets. One of the ship's boats had, after the first trip, taken the place of the light wherry, but even this was weighted down to the gunwale when the men and the goods were all on board. After the first two trips, the contents of the boxes had been emptied on deck, and by the time the last arrived the three women had packed away in the empty cabins all the clothing, linen, and other articles, that had been taken below. Captain Watson ordered a stiff glass of grog to be given to each of the sailors, and then went down with the others into the main cabin, where the steward had already laid the table for a meal, and poured out five tumblers of wine.

"I have not had so tough a job since I was before the mast," he said. "What say you, Captain Dave?"

"It has been a hard morning's work, indeed, Watson, and, in truth, I feel fairly spent. But though weary in body I am cheerful in heart. It seemed to me at breakfast-time that we should save little beyond what we stood in, and now I have rescued well-nigh everything valuable that I have. I should have grieved greatly had I lost all those mementos that it took me nigh thirty years to gather, and those pieces of furniture that belonged to my father I would not have lost for any money. Truly, it has been a noble salvage."

Mrs. Dowsett and Nellie now joined them. They had quite recovered their spirits, and were delighted at the unexpected rescue of so many things precious to them, and Captain Watson was overwhelmed by their thanks for what he had done.

After the meal was over they sat quietly talking for a time, and then Cyril proposed that they should row up the river and see what progress the fire was making above the Bridge. Mrs. Dowsett, however, was too much fatigued by her sleepless night and the troubles and emotions of the morning to care about going. Captain Dave said that he was too stiff to do anything but sit quiet and smoke a pipe, and that he would superintend the getting of their things on deck a little ship-shape. Nellie embraced the offer eagerly, and young Watson, who was a well-built and handsome fellow, with a pleasant face and manner, said that he would go, and would take a couple of hands to row. The tide had just turned to run up when they set out. Cyril asked the first mate to steer, and he sat on one side of him and Nellie on the other.

"You will have to mind your oars, lads," Frank Watson said. "The river is crowded with boats."

They crossed over to the Southwark side, as it would have been dangerous to pass under the arches above which the houses were burning. The flames, however, had not spread right across the bridge, for the houses were built only over the piers, and the openings at the arches had checked the flames, and at these points numbers of men were drawing water in buckets and throwing it over the fronts of the houses, or passing them, by ropes, to other men on the roofs, which were kept deluged with water. Hundreds of willing hands were engaged in the work, for the sight of the tremendous fire on the opposite bank filled people with terror lest the flames should cross the bridge and spread to the south side of the river. The warehouses and wharves on the bank were black with spectators, who looked with astonishment and awe at the terrible scene of destruction.

It was not until they passed under the bridge that the full extent of the conflagration was visible. The fire had made its way some distance along Thames Street, and had spread far up into the City. Gracechurch Street and Lombard Street were in flames, and indeed the fire seemed to have extended a long distance further; but the smoke was so dense, that it was difficult to make out the precise point that it had reached. The river was a wonderful sight. It was crowded with boats and lighters, all piled up with goods, while along the quays from Dowgate to the Temple, crowds of people were engaged in placing what goods they had saved on board lighters and other craft. Many of those in the boats seemed altogether helpless and undecided as to what had best be done, and drifted along with the tide, but the best part were making either for the marshes at Lambeth or the fields at Millbank, there to land their goods, the owners of the boats refusing to keep them long on board, as they desired to return by the next tide to fetch away other cargoes, being able to obtain any price they chose to demand for their services.

Among the boats were floating goods and wreckage of all kinds, charred timber that had fallen from the houses on the bridge, and from the warehouses by the quays, bales of goods, articles of furniture, bedding, and other matters. At times, a sudden change of wind drove a dense smoke across the water, flakes of burning embers and papers causing great confusion among the boats, and threatening to set the piles of goods on fire.

At Frank Watson's suggestion, they landed at the Temple, after having been some two hours on the river. Going up into Fleet Street, they found a stream of carts and other vehicles proceeding westward, all piled with furniture and goods, mostly of a valuable kind. The pavements were well-nigh blocked with people, all journeying in the same direction, laden with their belongings. With difficulty they made their way East as far as St. Paul's. The farther end of Cheapside was already in flames, and they learnt that the fire had extended as far as Moorfields. It was said that efforts had been made to pull down houses and so check its progress, but that there was no order or method, and that no benefit was gained by the work.

After looking on at the scene for some time, they returned to Fleet Street. Frank Watson went down with Nellie to the boat, while Cyril went to his lodgings in the Savoy. Here he found his servant anxiously awaiting him.

"I did not bring the horses this morning, sir," he said. "I heard that there was a great fire, and went on foot as far as I could get, but, finding that I could not pass, I thought it best to come back here and await your return."

"Quite right, Reuben; you could not have got the horses to me unless you had ridden round the walls and come in at Aldgate, and they would have been useless had you brought them. The house at which I stayed last night is already burnt to the ground. You had better stay here for the present, I think. There is no fear of the fire extending beyond the City. Should you find that it does so, pack my clothes in the valises, take the horses down to Sevenoaks, and remain at the Earl's until you hear from me."

Having arranged this, Cyril went down to the Savoy stairs, where he found the boat waiting for him, and then they rowed back to London Bridge, where, the force of the tide being now abated, they were able to row through and get to the Good Venture.

They had but little sleep that night. Gradually the fire worked its way eastward until it was abreast of them. The roaring and crackling of the flames was prodigious. Here and there the glare was diversified by columns of a deeper red glow, showing where warehouses, filled with pitch, tar, and oil, were in flames. The heavy crashes of falling buildings were almost incessant. Occasionally they saw a church tower or steeple, that had stood for a time black against the glowing sky, become suddenly wreathed in flames, and, after burning for a time, fall with a crash that could be plainly heard above the general roar.

"Surely such a fire was never seen before!" Captain Dave said.

"Not since Rome was burnt, I should think," Cyril replied.

"How long was that ago, Cyril? I don't remember hearing about it."

"'Tis fifteen hundred years or so since then, Captain Dave; but the greater part of the city was destroyed, and Rome was then many times bigger than London. It burnt for three days."

"Well, this is bad enough," Captain Watson said. "Even here the heat is well-nigh too great to face. Frank, you had better call the crew up and get all the sails off the yards. Were a burning flake to fall on them we might find it difficult to extinguish them. When they have done that, let the men get all the buckets filled with water and ranged on the deck; and it will be as well to get a couple of hands in the boat and let them chuck water against this side. We shall have all the paint blistered off before morning."

So the night passed. Occasionally they went below for a short time, but they found it impossible to sleep, and were soon up again, and felt it a relief when the morning began to break.



Chapter XXII

After The Fire


Daylight brought little alleviation to the horrors of the scene. The flames were less vivid, but a dense pall of smoke overhung the sky. As soon as they had breakfasted, Captain Watson, his son, Captain Dowsett, Nellie, and Cyril took their places in the boat, and were rowed up the river. An exclamation burst from them all as they saw how fast the flames had travelled since the previous evening.

"St. Paul's is on fire!" Cyril exclaimed. "See! there are flames bursting through its roof. I think, Captain Watson, if you will put me ashore at the Temple, I will make my way to Whitehall, and report myself there. I may be of use."

"I will do that," Captain Watson said. "Then I will row back to the ship again. We must leave a couple of hands on board, in case some of these burning flakes should set anything alight. We will land with the rest, and do what we can to help these poor women and children."

"I will stay on board and take command, if you like, Watson," Captain Dave said. "You ought to have some one there, and I have not recovered from yesterday's work, and should be of little use ashore."

"Very well, Dowsett. That will certainly be best; but I think it will be prudent, before we leave, to run out a kedge with forty or fifty fathoms of cable towards the middle of the stream, and then veer out the cable on her anchor so as to let her ride thirty fathoms or so farther out. We left six men sluicing her side and deck, but it certainly would be prudent to get her out a bit farther. Even here, the heat is as much as we can stand."

As soon as Cyril had landed, he hurried up into Fleet Street. He had just reached Temple Bar when he saw a party of horsemen making their way through the carts. A hearty cheer greeted them from the crowd, who hoped that the presence of the King -- for it was Charles who rode in front -- was a sign that vigorous steps were about to be taken to check the progress of the flames. Beside the King rode the Duke of Albemarle, and following were a number of other gentlemen and officers. Cyril made his way through the crowd to the side of the Duke's horse.

"Can I be of any possible use, my Lord Duke?" he asked, doffing his hat.

"Ah, Sir Cyril, it is you, is it? I have not seen you since you bearded De Ruyter in the Fan Fan. Yes, you can be of use. We have five hundred sailors and dockyard men behind; they have just arrived from Chatham, and a thousand more have landed below the Bridge to fight the flames on that side. Keep by me now, and, when we decide where to set to work, I will put you under the orders of Captain Warncliffe, who has charge of them."

When they reached the bottom of Fleet Street, the fire was halfway down Ludgate Hill, and it was decided to begin operations along the bottom of the Fleet Valley. The dockyard men and sailors were brought up, and following them were some carts laden with kegs of powder.

"Warncliffe," Lord Albemarle said, as the officer came up at the head of them, "Sir Cyril Shenstone is anxious to help. You know him by repute, and you can trust him in any dangerous business. You had better tell off twenty men under him. You have only to tell him what you want done, and you can rely upon its being done thoroughly."

The sailors were soon at work along the line of the Fleet Ditch. All carried axes, and with these they chopped down the principal beams of the small houses clustered by the Ditch, and so weakened them that a small charge of powder easily brought them down. In many places they met with fierce opposition from the owners, who, still clinging to the faint hope that something might occur to stop the progress of the fire before it reached their abodes, raised vain protestations against the destruction of their houses. All day the men worked unceasingly, but in vain. Driven by the fierce wind, the flames swept down the opposite slope, leapt over the space strewn with rubbish and beams, and began to climb Fleet Street and Holborn Hill and the dense mass of houses between them.

The fight was renewed higher up. Beer and bread and cheese were obtained from the taverns, and served out to the workmen, and these kept at their task all night. Towards morning the wind had fallen somewhat. The open spaces of the Temple favoured the defenders; the houses to east of it were blown up, and, late in the afternoon, the progress of the flames at this spot was checked. As soon as it was felt that there was no longer any fear of its further advance here, the exhausted men, who had, for twenty-four hours, laboured, half suffocated by the blinding smoke and by the dust made by their own work, threw themselves down on the grass of the Temple Gardens and slept. At midnight they were roused by their officers, and proceeded to assist their comrades, who had been battling with the flames on the other side of Fleet Street. They found that these too had been successful; the flames had swept up to Fetter Lane, but the houses on the west side had been demolished, and although, at one or two points, the fallen beams caught fire, they were speedily extinguished. Halfway up Fetter Lane the houses stood on both sides uninjured, for a large open space round St. Andrew's, Holborn, had aided the defenders in their efforts to check the flames. North of Holborn the fire had spread but little, and that only among the poorer houses in Fleet Valley.

Ascending the hill, they found that, while the flames had overleapt the City wall from Ludgate to Newgate in its progress west, the wall had proved an effective barrier from the sharp corner behind Christchurch up to Aldersgate and thence up to Cripplegate, which was the farthest limit reached by the fire to the north. To the east, the City had fared better. By the river, indeed, the destruction was complete as far as the Tower. Mark Lane, however, stood, and north of this the line of destruction swept westward to Leaden Hall, a massive structure at the entrance to the street that took its name from it, and proved a bulwark against the flames. From this point, the line of devastated ground swept round by the eastern end of Throgmorton Street to the northern end of Basinghall Street.

Cyril remained with the sailors for two days longer, during which time they were kept at work beating out the embers of the fire. In this they were aided by a heavy fall of rain, which put an end to all fear of the flames springing up again.

"There can be no need for you to remain longer with us, Sir Cyril," Captain Warncliffe said, at the end of the second day. "I shall have pleasure in reporting to the Duke of Albemarle the good services that you have rendered. Doubtless we shall remain on duty here for some time, for we may have, for aught I know, to aid in the clearing away of some of the ruins; but, at any rate, there can be no occasion for you to stay longer with us."

Cyril afterwards learnt that the sailors and dockyard men were, on the following day, sent back to Chatham. The fire had rendered so great a number of men homeless and without means of subsistence, that there was an abundant force on hand for the clearing away of ruins. Great numbers were employed by the authorities, while many of the merchants and traders engaged parties to clear away the ruins of their dwellings, in order to get at the cellars below, in which they had, as soon as the danger from fire was perceived, stowed away the main bulk of their goods. As soon as he was released from duty, Cyril made his way to the Tower, and, hiring a boat, was rowed to the Good Venture.

The shipping presented a singular appearance, their sides being blistered, and in many places completely stripped of their paint, while in some cases the spars were scorched, and the sails burnt away. There was lively satisfaction at his appearance, as he stepped on to the deck of the Good Venture, for, until he did so, he had been unrecognised, so begrimed with smoke and dust was he.

"We have been wondering about you," Captain Dave said, as he shook him by the hand, "but I can scarce say we had become uneasy. We learnt that a large body of seamen and others were at work blowing up houses, and as you had gone to offer your services we doubted not that you were employed with them. Truly you must have been having a rough time of it, for not only are you dirtier than any scavenger, but you look utterly worn out and fatigued."

"It was up-hill work the first twenty-four hours, for we worked unceasingly, and worked hard, too, I can assure you, and that well-nigh smothered with smoke and dust. Since then, our work has been more easy, but no less dirty. In the three days I have not had twelve hours' sleep altogether."

"I will get a tub of hot water placed in your cabin," Captain Watson said, "and should advise you, when you get out from it, to turn into your bunk at once. No one shall go near you in the morning until you wake of your own accord."

Cyril was, however, down to breakfast.

"Now tell us all about the fire," Nellie said, when they had finished the meal.

"I have nothing to tell you, for I know nothing," Cyril replied. "Our work was simply pulling down and blowing up houses. I had scarce time so much as to look at the fire. However, as I have since been working all round its course, I can tell you exactly how far it spread."

When he brought his story to a conclusion, he said, -- 

"And now, Captain Dave, what are you thinking of doing?"

"In the first place, I am going ashore to look at the old house. As soon as I can get men, I shall clear the ground, and begin to rebuild it. I have enough laid by to start me again. I should be like a fish out of water with nothing to see to. I have the most valuable part of my stock still on hand here on deck, and if the cellar has proved staunch my loss in goods will be small indeed, for the anchors and chains in the yard will have suffered no damage. But even if the cellar has caved in, and its contents are destroyed, and if, when I have rebuilt my house, I find I have not enough left to replenish my stock, I am sure that I can get credit from the rope - and sail-makers, and iron-masters with whom I deal."

"Do not trouble yourself about that, Captain Dave," Cyril said. "You came to my help last time, and it will be my turn this time. I am sure that I shall have no difficulty in getting any monies that may be required from Mr. Goldsworthy, and there is nothing that will give me more pleasure than to see you established again in the place that was the first where I ever felt I had a home."

"I hope that it will not be needed, lad," Captain Dave said, shaking his hand warmly, "but if it should, I will not hesitate to accept your offer in the spirit in which it is made, and thus add one more to the obligations that I am under to you."

Cyril went ashore with Captain Dave and John Wilkes. The wall of the yard was, of course, uninjured, but the gate was burnt down. The store-house, which was of wood, had entirely disappeared, and the back wall of the house had fallen over it and the yard. The entrance to the cellar, therefore, could not be seen, and, as yet, the heat from the fallen bricks was too great to attempt to clear them away to get at it.

That night, however, it rained heavily, and in the morning Captain Watson took a party of sailors ashore, and these succeeded in clearing away the rubbish sufficiently to get to the entrance of the cellar. The door was covered by an iron plate, and although the wood behind this was charred it had not caught fire, and on getting it open it was found that the contents of the cellar were uninjured.

In order to prevent marauders from getting at it before preparations could be made for rebuilding, the rubbish was again thrown in so as to completely conceal the entrance. On returning on board there was a consultation on the future, held in the cabin. Captain Dave at once said that he and John Wilkes must remain in town to make arrangements for the rebuilding and to watch the performance of the work. Cyril warmly pressed Mrs. Dowsett and Nellie to come down with him to Norfolk until the house was ready to receive them, but both were in favour of remaining in London, and it was settled that, next day, they should go down to Stepney, hire a house and store-room there, and remove thither their goods on board the ship, and the contents of the cellar.

There was some little difficulty in getting a house, as so many were seeking for lodgings, but at last they came upon a widow who was willing to let a house, upon the proviso that she was allowed to retain one room for her own occupation. This being settled, Cyril that evening returned to his lodging, and the next day rode down to Norfolk. There he remained until the middle of May, when he received a letter from Captain Dave, saying that his house was finished, and that they should move into it in a fortnight, and that they all earnestly hoped he would be present. As he had already been thinking of going up to London for a time, he decided to accept the invitation.

By this time he had made the acquaintance of all the surrounding gentry, and felt perfectly at home at Upmead. He rode frequently into Norwich, and, whenever he did so, paid a visit to Mr. Harvey, whose wife had died in January, never having completely recovered from the shock that she had received in London. Mr. Harvey himself had aged much; he still took a great interest in the welfare of the tenants of Upmead, and in Cyril's proposals for the improvement of their homes, and was pleased to see how earnestly he had taken up the duties of his new life. He spoke occasionally of his son, of whose death he felt convinced.

"I have never been able to obtain any news of him," he often said, "and assuredly I should have heard of him had he been alive.

"It would ease my mind to know the truth," he said, one day. "It troubles me to think that, if alive, he is assuredly pursuing evil courses, and that he will probably end his days on a gallows. That he will repent, and turn to better courses, I have now no hope whatever. Unless he be living by roguery, he would, long ere this, have written, professing repentance, even if he did not feel it, and begging for assistance. It troubles me much that I can find out nothing for certain of him."

"Would it be a relief to you to know surely that he was dead?" Cyril asked.

"I would rather know that he was dead than feel, as I do, that if alive, he is going on sinning. One can mourn for the dead as David mourned for Absalom, and trust that their sins may be forgiven them; but, uncertain as I am of his death, I cannot so mourn, since it may be that he still lives."

"Then, sir, I am in a position to set your mind at rest. I have known for a long time that he died of the Plague, but I have kept it from you, thinking that it was best you should still think that he might be living. He fell dead beside me on the very day that I sickened of the Plague, and, indeed, it was from him that I took it."

Mr. Harvey remained silent for a minute or two.

"'Tis better so," he said solemnly. "The sins of youth may be forgiven, but, had he lived, his whole course might have been wicked. How know you that it was he who gave you the Plague?"

"I met him in the street. He was tottering in his walk, and, as he came up, he stumbled, and grasped me to save himself. I held him for a moment, and then he slipped from my arms and fell on the pavement, and died."

Mr. Harvey looked keenly at Cyril, and was about to ask a question, but checked himself.

"He is dead," he said. "God rest his soul, and forgive him his sins! Henceforth I shall strive to forget that he ever lived to manhood, and seek to remember him as he was when a child."

Then he held out his hand to Cyril, to signify that he would fain be alone.

On arriving in London, Cyril took up his abode at his former lodgings, and the next day at twelve o'clock, the hour appointed in a letter he found awaiting him on his arrival, he arrived in Tower Street, having ridden through the City. An army of workmen, who had come up from all parts of the country, were engaged in rebuilding the town. In the main thoroughfares many of the houses were already finished, and the shops re-opened. In other parts less progress had been made, as the traders were naturally most anxious to resume their business, and most able to pay for speed.

Captain Dave's was one of the first houses completed in Tower Street, but there were many others far advanced in progress. The front differed materially from that of the old house, in which each story had projected beyond the one below it. Inside, however, there was but little change in its appearance, except that the rooms were somewhat more lofty, and that there were no heavy beams across the ceilings. Captain Dave and his family had moved in that morning.

"It does not look quite like the old place," Mrs. Dowsett said, after the first greetings.

"Not quite," Cyril agreed. "The new furniture, of course, gives it a different appearance as yet; but one will soon get accustomed to that, and you will quickly make it home-like again. I see you have the bits of furniture you saved in their old corners."

"Yes; and it will make a great difference when they get all my curiosities up in their places again," Captain Dave put in. "We pulled them down anyhow, and some of them will want glueing up a bit. And so your fighting is over, Cyril?"

"Yes, it looks like it. The Dutch have evidently had enough of it. They asked for peace, and as both parties consented to the King of Sweden being mediator, and our representatives and those of Holland are now settling affairs at Breda, peace may be considered as finally settled. We have only two small squadrons now afloat; the rest are all snugly laid up. I trust that there is no chance of another war between the two nations for years to come."

"I hope not, Cyril. But De Witte is a crafty knave, and is ever in close alliance with Louis. Were it not for French influence the Prince of Orange would soon oust him from the head of affairs."

"I should think he would not have any power for mischief in the future," Cyril said. "It was he who brought on the last war, and, although it has cost us much, it has cost the Dutch very much more, and the loss of her commerce has well-nigh brought Holland to ruin. Besides, the last victory we won must have lowered their national pride greatly."

"You have not heard the reports that are about, then?"

"No, I have heard no news whatever. It takes a long time for it to travel down to Norwich, and I have seen no one since I came up to town last night."

"Well, there is a report that a Dutch Fleet of eighty sail has put to sea. It may be that 'tis but bravado to show that, though they have begged for peace, 'tis not because they are in no condition to fight. I know not how this may be, but it is certain that for the last three days the Naval people have been very busy, and that powder is being sent down to Chatham. As for the Fleet, small as it is, it is doubtful whether it would fight, for the men are in a veritable state of mutiny, having received no pay for many months. Moreover, several ships were but yesterday bought by Government, for what purpose it is not known, but it is conjectured they are meant for fire-ships."

"I cannot but think that it is, as you say, a mere piece of bravado on the part of the Dutch, Captain Dave. They could never be so treacherous as to attack us when peace is well-nigh concluded, but, hurt as their pride must be by the defeat we gave them, it is not unnatural they should wish to show that they can still put a brave fleet on the seas, and are not driven to make peace because they could not, if need be, continue the war."

"And now I have a piece of news for you. We are going to have a wedding here before long."

"I am right glad to hear it," Cyril said heartily. "And who is the happy man, Nellie?" he asked, turning towards where she had been standing the moment before. But Nellie had fled the moment her father had opened his lips.

"It is Frank Watson," her father said. "A right good lad; and her mother and I are well pleased with her choice."

"I thought that he was very attentive the few days we were on board his father's ship," Cyril said. "I am not surprised to hear the news."

"They have been two voyages since then, and while the Good Venture was in the Pool, Master Frank spent most of his time down at Stepney, and it was settled a fortnight since. My old friend Watson is as pleased as I am. And the best part of the business is that Frank is going to give up the sea and become my partner. His father owns the Good Venture, and, being a careful man, has laid by a round sum, and he settled to give him fifteen hundred pounds, which he will put into the business."

"That is a capital plan, Captain Dave. It will be an excellent thing for you to have so young and active a partner."

"Watson has bought the house down at Stepney that we have been living in, and Frank and Nellie are going to settle there, and Watson will make it his headquarters when his ship is in port, and will, I have no doubt, take up his moorings there, when he gives up the sea. The wedding is to be in a fortnight's time, for Watson has set his heart on seeing them spliced before he sails again, and I see no reason for delay. You must come to the wedding, of course, Cyril. Indeed, I don't think Nellie would consent to be married if you were not there. The girl has often spoken of you lately. You see, now that she really knows what love is, and has a quiet, happy life to look forward to, she feels more than ever the service you did her, and the escape she had. She told the whole story to Frank before she said yes, when he asked her to be his wife, and, of course, he liked her no less for it, though I think it would go hard with that fellow if he ever met him."

"The fellow died of the Plague, Captain Dave. His last action was to try and revenge himself on me by giving me the infection, for, meeting me in the streets, he threw his arms round me and exclaimed, 'I have given you the Plague!' They were the last words he ever spoke, for he gave a hideous laugh, and then dropped down dead. However, he spoke truly, for that night I sickened of it."

"Then your kindness to Nellie well-nigh cost you your life," Mrs. Dowsett said, laying her hand on his shoulder, while the tears stood in her eyes. "And you never told us this before!"

"There was nothing to tell," Cyril replied. "If I had not caught it from him, I should have, doubtless, taken it from someone else, for I was constantly in the way of it, and could hardly have hoped to escape an attack. Now, Captain Dave, let us go downstairs, and see the store."

"John Wilkes and the two boys are at work there," the Captain said, as he went downstairs, "and we open our doors tomorrow. I have hurried on the house as fast as possible, and as no others in my business have yet opened, I look to do a thriving trade at once. Watson will send all his friends here, and as there is scarce a captain who goes in or out of port but knows Frank, I consider that our new partner will greatly extend the business."

Captain Watson and Frank came in at supper-time, and, after spending a pleasant evening, Cyril returned to his lodgings in the Strand. The next day he was walking near Whitehall when a carriage dashed out at full speed, and, as it came along, he caught sight of the Duke of Albemarle, who looked in a state of strange confusion. His wig was awry, his coat was off, and his face was flushed and excited. As his eye fell on Cyril, he shouted out to the postillions to stop. As they pulled up, he shouted, -- 

"Jump in, Sir Cyril! Jump in, for your life."

Astonished at this address, Cyril ran to the door, opened it, and jumped in, and the Duke shouted to the postillions to go on.

"What do you think, sir? -- what do you think?" roared the Duke. "Those treacherous scoundrels, the Dutch, have appeared with a great Fleet of seventy men-of-war, besides fire-ships, off Sheerness, this morning at daybreak, and have taken the place, and Chatham lies open to them. We have been bamboozled and tricked. While the villains were pretending they were all for peace, they have been secretly fitting out, and there they are at Sheerness. A mounted messenger brought in the news, but ten minutes ago."

"Have they taken Sheerness, sir?"

"Yes; there were but six guns mounted on the fort, and no preparations made. The ships that were there did nothing. The rascals are in mutiny -- and small wonder, when they can get no pay; the money voted for them being wasted by the Court. It is enough to drive one wild with vexation, and, had I my will, there are a dozen men, whose names are the foremost in the country, whom I would hang up with my own hands. The wind is from the east, and if they go straight up the Medway they may be there this afternoon, and have the whole of our ships at their mercy. It is enough to make Blake turn in his grave that such an indignity should be offered us, though it be but the outcome of treachery on the part of the Dutch, and of gross negligence on ours. But if they give us a day or two to prepare, we will, at least, give them something to do before they can carry out their design, and, if one could but rely on the sailors, we might even beat them off; but it is doubtful whether the knaves will fight. The forts are unfinished, though the money was voted for them three years since. And all this is not the worst of it, for, after they have taken Chatham, there is naught to prevent their coming up to London. We have had plague and we have had fire, and to be bombarded by the Dutchmen would be the crowning blow, and it would be like to bring about another revolution in England."

They posted down to Chatham as fast as the horses could gallop. The instant the news had arrived, the Duke had sent off a man, on horseback, to order horses to be in readiness to change at each posting station. Not a minute, therefore, was lost. In a little over two hours from the time of leaving Whitehall, they drove into the dockyard.

"Where is Sir Edward Spragge?" the Duke shouted, as he leapt from the carriage.

"He has gone down to the new forts, your Grace," an officer replied.

"Have a gig prepared at once, without the loss of a moment," the Duke said. "What is being done?" he asked another officer, as the first ran off.

"Sir Edward has taken four frigates down to the narrow part of the river, sir, and preparations have been made for placing a great chain there. Several of the ships are being towed out into the river, and are to be sunk in the passage."

"Any news of the Dutch having left Sheerness?"

"No, sir; a shallop rowed up at noon, but was chased back again by one of our pinnaces."

"That is better than I had hoped. Come, come, we shall make a fight for it yet," and he strode away towards the landing.

"Shall I accompany you, sir?" Cyril asked.

"Yes. There is nothing for you to do until we see exactly how things stand. I shall use you as my staff officer -- that is, if you are willing, Sir Cyril. I have carried you off without asking whether you consented or no; but, knowing your spirit and quickness, I felt sure you would be of use."

"I am at your service altogether," Cyril said, "and am glad indeed that your Grace encountered me, for I should have been truly sorry to have been idle at such a time."

An eight-oared gig was already at the stairs, and they were rowed rapidly down the river. They stopped at Upnor Castle, and found that Major Scott, who was in command there, was hard at work mounting cannon and putting the place in a posture of defence.

"You will have more men from London by to-morrow night, at the latest," the Duke said, "and powder and shot in abundance was sent off yesterday. We passed a train on our way down, and I told them to push on with all speed. As the Dutch have not moved yet, they cannot be here until the afternoon of to-morrow, and, like enough, will not attack until next day, for they must come slowly, or they will lose some of their ships on the sands. We will try to get up a battery opposite, so as to aid you with a cross fire. I am going down to see Sir Edward Spragge now."

Taking their places in the boat again, they rowed round the horseshoe curve down to Gillingham, and then along to the spot where the frigates were moored. At the sharp bend lower down here the Duke found the Admiral, and they held a long consultation together. It was agreed that the chain should be placed somewhat higher up, where a lightly-armed battery on either side would afford some assistance, that behind the chain the three ships, the Matthias, the Unity, and the Charles V., all prizes taken from the Dutch, should be moored, and that the Jonathan and Fort of Honinggen -- also a Dutch prize -- should be also posted there.

Having arranged this, the Duke was rowed back to Chatham, there to see about getting some of the great ships removed from their moorings off Gillingham, up the river. To his fury, he found that, of all the eighteen hundred men employed in the yard, not more than half a dozen had remained at their work, the rest being, like all the townsmen, occupied in removing their goods in great haste. Even the frigates that were armed had but a third, at most, of their crews on board, so many having deserted owing to the backwardness of their pay.

That night, Sir W. Coventry, Sir W. Penn, Lord Brounker, and other officers and officials of the Admiralty, came down from London. Some of these, especially Lord Brounker, had a hot time of it with the Duke, who rated them roundly for the state of things which prevailed, telling the latter that he was the main cause of all the misfortunes that might occur, owing to his having dismantled and disarmed all the great ships. In spite of the efforts of all these officers, but little could be done, owing to the want of hands, and to the refusal of the dockyard men, and most of the sailors, to do anything. A small battery of sandbags was, however, erected opposite Upnor, and a few guns placed in position there.

Several ships were sunk in the channel above Upnor, and a few of those lying off Gillingham were towed up. Little help was sent down from London, for the efforts of the authorities were directed wholly to the defence of the Thames. The train-bands were all under arms, fire-ships were being fitted out and sent down to Gravesend, and batteries erected there and at Tilbury, while several ships were sunk in the channel.

The Dutch remained at Sheerness from the 7th to the 12th, and had it not been for the misconduct of the men, Chatham could have been put into a good state for defence. As it was, but little could be effected; and when, on the 12th, the Dutch Fleet were seen coming up the river, the chances of successful resistance were small.

The fight commenced by a Dutch frigate, commanded by Captain Brakell, advancing against the chain. Carried up by a strong tide and east wind the ship struck it with such force that it at once gave way. The English frigates, but weakly manned, could offer but slight resistance, and the Jonathan was boarded and captured by Brakell. Following his frigate were a host of fire-ships, which at once grappled with the defenders. The Matthias, Unity, Charles V., and Fort of Honinggen were speedily in flames. The light batteries on the shore were silenced by the guns of the Fleet, which then anchored. The next day, six of their men-of-war, with five fire-ships, advanced, exchanged broadsides, as they went along, with the Royal Oak and presently engaged Upnor. They were received with so hot a fire from the Castle, and from the battery opposite, where Sir Edward Spragge had stationed himself, that, after a time, they gave up the design of ascending to the dockyard, which at that time occupied a position higher up the river than at present.

The tide was beginning to slacken, and they doubtless feared that a number of fire-barges might be launched at them did they venture higher up. On the way back, they launched a fire-ship at the Royal Oak, which was commanded by Captain Douglas. The flames speedily communicated to the ship, and the crew took to the boats and rowed ashore. Captain Douglas refused to leave his vessel, and perished in the flames. The report given by the six men-of-war decided the Dutch not to attempt anything further against Chatham. On the 14th, they set fire to the hulks, the Loyal London and the Great James, and carried off the hulk of the Royal Charles, after the English had twice tried to destroy her by fire. As this was the ship in which the Duke of Albemarle, then General Monk, had brought the King over to England from Holland, her capture was considered a special triumph for the Dutch and a special dishonour to us.

The Duke of Albemarle had left Chatham before the Dutch came up. As the want of crews prevented his being of any use there, and he saw that Sir Edward Spragge would do all that was possible in defence of the place, he posted back to London, where his presence was urgently required, a complete panic reigning. Crowds assembled at Whitehall, and insulted the King and his ministers as the cause of the present misfortunes, while at Deptford and Wapping, the sailors and their wives paraded the streets, shouting that the ill-treatment of our sailors had brought these things about, and so hostile were their manifestations that the officials of the Admiralty scarce dared show themselves in the streets.

Cyril had remained at Chatham, the Duke having recommended him to Sir Edward Spragge, and he, with some other gentlemen and a few sailors, had manned the battery opposite Upnor.

The great proportion of the Dutch ships were still at the Nore, as it would have been dangerous to have hazarded so great a fleet in the narrow water of the Medway. As it was, two of their men-of-war, on the way back from Chatham, ran ashore, and had to be burnt. They had also six fire-ships burnt, and lost over a hundred and fifty men.

Leaving Admiral Van Ness with part of the Fleet in the mouth of the Thames, De Ruyter sailed first for Harwich, where he attempted to land with sixteen hundred men in boats, supported by the guns of the Fleet. The boats, however, failed to effect a landing, being beaten off, with considerable loss, by the county Militia; and Ruyter then sailed for Portsmouth, where he also failed. He then went west to Torbay, where he was likewise repulsed, and then returned to the mouth of the Thames.

On July 23rd, Van Ness, with twenty-five men-of-war, sailed up the Hope, where Sir Edward Spragge had now hoisted his flag on board a squadron of eighteen ships, of whom five were frigates and the rest fire-ships. A sharp engagement ensued, but the wind was very light, and the English, by towing their fire-ships, managed to lay them alongside the Dutch fire-ships, and destroyed twelve of these with a loss of only six English ships. But, the wind then rising, Sir Edward retired from the Hope to Gravesend, where he was protected by the guns at Tilbury.

The next day, being joined by Sir Joseph Jordan, with a few small ships, he took the offensive, and destroyed the last fire-ship that the Dutch had left, and compelled the men-of-war to retire. Sir Edward followed them with his little squadron, and Van Ness, as he retired down the river, was met by five frigates and fourteen fire-ships from Harwich. These boldly attacked him. Two of the Dutch men-of-war narrowly escaped being burnt, another was forced ashore and greatly damaged, and the whole of the Dutch Fleet was compelled to bear away.

While these events had been happening in the Thames, the negotiations at Breda had continued, and, just as the Dutch retreated, the news came that Peace had been signed. The Dutch, on their side, were satisfied with the success with which they had closed the war, while England was, at the moment, unable to continue it, and the King, seeing the intense unpopularity that had been excited against him by the affair at Chatham, was glad to ratify the Peace, especially as we thereby retained possession of several islands we had taken in the West Indies from the Dutch, and it was manifest that Spain was preparing to join the coalition of France and Holland against us.

A Peace concluded under such circumstances was naturally but a short one. When the war was renewed, three years later, the French were in alliance with us, and, after several more desperate battles, in which no great advantages were gained on either side, the Dutch were so exhausted and impoverished by the loss of trade, that a final Peace was arranged on terms far more advantageous to us than those secured by the Treaty of 1667. The De Wittes, the authors of the previous wars, had both been killed in a popular tumult. The Prince of Orange was at the head of the State, and the fact that France and Spain were both hostile to Holland had reawakened the feeling of England in favour of the Protestant Republic, and the friendship between the two nations has never since been broken.

Cyril took no part in the last war against the Dutch. He, like the majority of the nation, was opposed to it, and, although willing to give his life in defence of his country when attacked, felt it by no means his duty to do so when we were aiding the designs of France in crushing a brave enemy. Such was in fact the result of the war; for although peace was made on even terms, the wars of Holland with England and the ruin caused to her trade thereby, inflicted a blow upon the Republic from which she never recovered. From being the great rival of England, both on the sea and in her foreign commerce, her prosperity and power dwindled until she ceased altogether to be a factor in European affairs.

After the Peace of Breda was signed, Cyril went down to Upmead, where, for the next four years, he devoted himself to the management of his estate. His friendship with Mr. Harvey grew closer and warmer, until the latter came to consider him in really the light of a son; and when he died, in 1681, it was found that his will was unaltered, and that, with the exception of legacies to many of his old employés at his factory, the whole of his property was left to Cyril. The latter received a good offer for the tanyard, and, upon an estate next to his own coming shortly afterwards into the market, he purchased it, and thus the Upmead estates became as extensive as they had been before the time of his ancestor, who had so seriously diminished them during the reign of Elizabeth.

His friendship with the family of the Earl of Wisbech had remained unaltered, and he had every year paid them a visit, either at Wisbech or at Sevenoaks. A year after Mr. Harvey's death, he married Dorothy, who had previously refused several flattering offers.

Captain Dave and his wife lived to a good old age. The business had largely increased, owing to the energy of their son-in-law, who had, with his wife and children, taken up his abode in the next house to theirs, which had been bought to meet the extension of their business. John Wilkes, at the death of Captain Dave, declined Cyril's pressing offer to make his home with him.

"It would never do, Sir Cyril," he said. "I should be miserable out of the sight of ships, and without a place where I could meet seafaring men, and smoke my pipe, and listen to their yarns."

He therefore remained with Frank Watson, nominally in charge of the stores, but doing, in fact, as little as he chose until, long past the allotted age of man, he passed quietly away.

<eob>

Louis' School Days: A Story For Boys

By

E. J. May



Chapter I.


Doleful were the accounts received from time to time of Louis Mortimer's life with his tutor at Dashwood Rectory; and, if implicit credence might be yielded to them, it would be supposed that no poor mortal was ever so persecuted by Latin verses, early rising, and difficult problems, as our hero. His eldest brother, to whom these pathetic relations were made, failed not to stimulate him with exciting passages of school life -- and these, at last, had the desired effect, drawing from Louis the following epistle:


"My dear Reginald,

"Your letter was as welcome as usual. You cannot imagine what a treat it is to hear from you. Mr. Phillips is kind, but so very different from dear Mr. Daunton. What I dislike most is, that he says so often, 'What did Mr. Daunton teach you? I never saw a boy so ignorant in my life!' I do not care how much he says of me, but I cannot bear to hear him accuse dear Mr. Daunton of not teaching me properly. I believe I am really idle often, but sometimes, when I try most, it seems to give least satisfaction. The other day I was busy two hours at some Latin verses, and I took so much pains with them -- I had written an 'Ode to the Rising Sun,' and felt quite interested, and thought Mr. Phillips would be pleased; but when I took it to him, he just looked at it, and taking a pen dashed out word after word, and said, so disagreeably, 'Shocking! Shocking, Louis! Disgraceful, after all that I said yesterday -- the pains that I took with you,' 'Indeed, sir,' I said, 'I tried a great deal,' 'Fine ideas! fine ideas! no doubt,' he said, 'but I have told you dozens of times that I do not want ideas -- I want feet.' I wish those same feet would run away to Clifton with me, Reginald; I hope I have not been saying any thing wrong about Mr. Phillips -- I should be very sorry to do so, for he is very kind in his way: he tells me I do not know what I am wishing for, and that school will not suit me, and a great deal about my having to fag much harder and getting into disgrace; but never mind, I should like to make the experiment, for I shall be with you; and, dear as Dashwood is, it is so dull without papa and mamma -- I can hardly bear to go into the Priory now they are away. I seem to want Freddy's baby-voice in the nursery; and sober Neville and Mary are quite a part of home -- how long it seems since I saw them! Well, I hope I shall come to you at Easter. Do you not wish it were here? I had a nice letter from mamma yesterday -- she was at Florence when she wrote, and is getting quite strong, and so is little Mary. I have now no more time; mamma said papa had written to you, or I would have told you all the news. I wanted to tell you very much how our pigeons are, and the rabbits, and Mary's hen, which I shall give in Mrs. Colthrop's care when I leave Dashwood. But good bye, in a great hurry. With much love, I remain your very affectionate brother,

"Louis Francis Mortimer.

"P.S. Do you remember cousin Vernon's laughing at our embrace at Heronhurst? I wonder when I shall have another -- I am longing so to see you."


It would not concern my readers much were I to describe the precise locality of the renowned Dr. Wilkinson's establishment for young gentlemen -- suffice it to say, that somewhere near Durdham Down, within a short walk of Clifton, stood Ashfield House, a large rambling building, part of which looked gray and timeworn when compared with the modern school-room, and sundry dormitories, that had been added at different periods as the school grew out of its original domains. Attached to the house was a considerable extent of park land, which was constituted the general play-ground.

At the time of which I am writing, Dr. Wilkinson's school consisted of nearly eighty pupils, all of whom were boarders, and who were sent from different parts of the kingdom; for the doctor's fame, as an excellent man, and what, in the eyes of some was even a greater recommendation, as a first-rate classical scholar, was spread far and wide. At the door of this house, one fine April day, Louis presented himself; and, after descending from the vehicle which brought him from Bristol, followed the servant into the doctor's dining-room, where we will leave him in solitary grandeur, or, more correctly speaking, in agitating expectation, while we take a peep at the room on the opposite side of the hall. In this, Dr. Wilkinson was giving audience to a gentleman who had brought back his little boy a few minutes before Louis arrived. Having some private business to transact, the child was sent to the school-room, and then Mr. Percy entered into a discussion respecting the capabilities of his son, and many other particulars, which, however interesting to himself, would fail of being so to us.

At length these topics were exhausted, and it seemed nearly decided how much was to be done or discontinued in Master Percy's education. Mr. Percy paused to consider if any thing were left unsaid.

"Oh! by the by, Dr. Wilkinson," he said, letting fall the pencil with which he had been tapping the table during his cogitations, "you have one of Sir George Vernon's grandsons with you, I believe?"

"Two of them," replied the doctor.

"Ah! indeed, I mean young Mortimer, son of Mr. Mortimer of Dashwood."

"I have his eldest son, and am expecting another to-day."

"Then it was your expected pupil that I saw this morning," said Mr. Percy.

"May I ask where?" said the doctor.

"At the White Lion. He came down by the London coach. I saw his trunk, in the first place, addressed to you, and supposed him to be the young gentleman who attained to some rather undesirable notoriety last year."

"How so?" asked the doctor.

"Oh! he very ungenerously and artfully endeavored to retain for himself the honor of writing a clever little essay, really the work of his brother, and actually obtained a prize from his grandfather for it."

"How came that about?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.

"Oh! there was some mistake in the first instance, I believe, and the mean little fellow took advantage of it."

Mr. Percy then gave a detailed account of Louis' birthday at Heronhurst, and concluded by saying -- 

"I was not present, but I heard it from a spectator; I should be afraid that you will not have a little trouble with such a character."

"It is extraordinary," said the doctor; "his brother is the most frank, candid fellow possible."

"I hear he is a nice boy," said Mr. Percy. "There is frequently great dissimilarity among members of the same family; but of course, this goes no further. It is as well you should know it, -- but I should not talk of it to every one."

Dr. Wilkinson bowed slightly, and remained silent, without exhibiting any peculiar gratification at having been made the depository of the secret. Mr. Percy presently rose and took his leave; and Dr. Wilkinson was turning towards the staircase, when a servant informed him that a young gentleman waited to see him in the dining-room.

"Oh!" said the doctor to himself, "my dilatory pupil, I presume."

He seemed lost in thought for a minute, and then slowly crossing the hall, entered the dining-room.

Louis had been very anxious for the appearance of his master, yet almost afraid to see him; and when the door opened, and this gentleman stood before him, he was seized with such a palpitation as scarcely to have the power of speech.

Dr. Wilkinson was certainly a person calculated to inspire a school-boy with awe. He was a tall, dignified man, between fifty and sixty years of age, with a magnificent forehead and good countenance: the latter was not, however, generally pleasing, the usual expression being stern and unyielding. When he smiled, that expression vanished; but to a new-comer there was something rather terrible in the compressed lips and overhanging eyebrows, from under which a pair of the keenest black eyes seemed to look him through.

Louis rose and bowed on his master's entrance.

"How do you do, Mortimer?" said the doctor, shaking hands with him. "I dare say you are tired of waiting. You have not seen your brother, I suppose?"

"No, sir," replied Louis, looking in the stern face with something of his customary simple confidence. Doctor Wilkinson smiled, and added, "You are very like your father, -- exceedingly like what he was at your age."

"Did you know him then, sir?" asked Louis, timidly.

"Yes, as well as I hope to know you in a short time. What is your name?"

"Louis Francis, sir."

"What! your father's name -- that is just what it should be. Well, I hope, Louis, you will now endeavor to give him the utmost satisfaction. With such a father, and such a home, you have great privileges to account for; and it is your place to show to your parents of what use their care and instruction have been. In a large school you will find many things so different from home, that, unless you are constantly on your guard, you will often be likely to do things which may afterwards cause you hours of pain. Remember that you are a responsible creature sent into the world to act a part assigned to you by your Maker; and to Him must the account of every talent be rendered, whether it be used, or buried in the earth. As a Christian gentleman, see, Louis, that you strive to do your part with all your might."

Dr. Wilkinson watched the attention and ready sympathy with his admonition displayed by Louis; and in spite of the warning he had so lately received, felt very kindly and favorably disposed towards his new pupil.

"Come with me," he said, "I will introduce you to your school-fellows; I have no doubt you will find your brother among them somewhere."

Louis followed Dr. Wilkinson through a door at the further end of the hall, leading into a smaller hall which was tapestried with great-coats, cloaks, and hats; and here an increasing murmur announced the fact of his near approach to a party of noisy boys. As the doctor threw open the folding-doors leading into the noble school-room, Louis felt almost stupefied by the noise and novelty. A glass door leading into the play-ground was wide open, and, as school was just over, there was a great rush into the open air. Some were clambering in great haste over desks and forms; and the shouting, singing, and whistling, together with the occasional overthrow of a form, and the almost incessant banging of desk-lids, from those who were putting away slates and books, formed a scene perfectly new and bewildering to our hero.

The entrance of Dr. Wilkinson stilled the tumult in a slight degree, and in half a minute after, the room was nearly cleared, and a passage was left for the new-comers towards the upper end. Here was a knot of great boys (or, rather, craving their pardon, I should say young men), all engaged in eager and merry confabulation. So intent were they that their master's approach was wholly unnoticed by them. One of these young gentlemen was sitting tailor fashion on the top of a desk, apparently holding forth for the edification of his more discreet companions, to whom he seemed to afford considerable amusement, if the peals of laughter with which his sallies were received might be considered any proof. A little aloof from this party, but within hearing, stood a youth of about seventeen, of whom nothing was remarkable, but that his countenance wore a very sedate and determined expression. He seemed struggling with a determination not to indulge a strong propensity to laugh; but, though pretending to be occupied with a book, his features at length gave way at some irresistible sally, and throwing his volume at the orator, he exclaimed -- 

"How can you be such an ass, Frank!"

"There now," said Frank, perfectly unmoved, "the centre of gravity is disturbed, -- well, as I was saying, -- Here's the doctor!" and the young gentleman, who was no other than Frank Digby, brother of Louis' cousin Vernon, dismounted from his rostrum in the same instant that his auditors turned round, thereby acknowledging the presence of their master.

"I have brought you a new school-fellow, gentlemen," said the doctor; "where is Mortimer?"

"Here, sir," cried Reginald, popping up from behind a desk, where he had been pinned down by a short thick-set boy, who rose as if by magic with him.

"Here is your brother."

Louis and Reginald scrambled over all obstacles, and stood before the doctor, in two or three seconds.

In spite of Louis' valiant protestations the preceding mid-summer at Heronhurst, he did not dare, in the presence of only a quarter of the hundred and twenty eyes, to embrace his brother, but contented himself with a most energetic squeeze, and a look that said volumes; and, indeed, it must be confessed, that Reginald was not an inviting figure for an embrace; for, independently of a rough head, and dust-bedecked garments, his malicious adversary had decorated his face with multitudinous ink-spots, a spectacle which greatly provoked the mirth of his laughter-loving school-fellows.

Dr. Wilkinson made some remark on the singularity of his pupil's appearance, and then, commending Louis to the kind offices of the assembled party, left the room.

He had scarcely closed the door behind him, when several loiterers from the lower part of the room came up; and Reginald and his brother were immediately assailed with a number of questions, aimed with such rapidity as to be unanswerable.

"When did you come?" "Who's that, Mortimer?" "Is that your brother?" "What's his name?" "Shall you be in our class?" "Why didn't you stay longer in Bristol? -- If I had been you I would!"

Louis was amused though puzzled, and turned first one way, and then another, in his futile attempts to see and reply to his interrogators.

"Make way!" at last exclaimed Frank Digby; "you are quite embarrassing to her ladyship. Will the lady Louisa take my arm? Allow me, madam, to interpose my powerful authority." And he offered his arm to Louis with a smirk and low bow, which set all the spectators off laughing; for Frank was one of those privileged persons, who, having attained a celebrity for being very funny, can excite a laugh with very little trouble.

"Don't, Frank!" said Reginald.

"Don't! really, Mr. Mortimer, if you have no respect for your sister's feelings, it is time that I interposed. Here you allow this herd of I don't know what to call them, to incommode her with their senseless clamor. I protest, she is nearly fainting; she has been gasping for breath the last five minutes. Be off, ye fussy, curious, prying, peeping, pressing-round fellows; or, I promise you, you shall be visited with his majesty's heaviest displeasure."

"How do you do, lady Louisa? I hope your ladyship's in good health!" "Don't press on her!" was now echoed mischievously in various tones around Louis, whose color was considerably heightened by this unexpected attack.

"Now do allow me," persisted Frank, dragging Louis' hand in his arm, in spite of all the victim's efforts to prevent it, and leading him forcibly through the throng, which made way on every side, to Edward Hamilton, the grave youth before mentioned: -- "His majesty is anxious to make the acquaintance of his fair subject. Permit me to present to your majesty the lovely, gentle, blushing lady Louisa Mortimer, lately arrived in your majesty's kingdom; your majesty will perceive that she bears loyalty in her -- hey! what! excited! -- hysterics!"

The last exclamations were elicited by a violent effort of Louis to extricate himself.

"Frank, leave him alone!"

"What is the will of royalty?" said Frank, struggling with his refractory cousin.

"That you leave Louis Mortimer alone," said Hamilton. "You will like us better presently, Louis," added he, shaking hands with him: "my subjects appear to consider themselves privileged to be rude to a new-comer; but my royal example will have its weight in due time."

"Your majesty's faithful trumpeter, grand vizier, and factotum is alive and hearty," said Frank.

"But as he had a selfish fit upon him just now," returned Hamilton, "we were under the necessity of doing our own business."

"I crave your majesty's pardon," said Frank, stroking his sovereign tenderly on the shoulder; for which affectionate demonstration he was rewarded by a violent push that laid him prostrate.

"I am a martyr to my own benevolence," said Frank, getting up and approaching Louis, "still I am unchanged in devotion to your ladyship. Tell me what I can do," -- and whichever way Louis turned, Frank with his smirking face presented himself; -- "Will you not give your poor slave one command?"

"Only that you will stand out of my sunshine," said Louis good-temperedly.

"Very good," exclaimed Hamilton.

"Out of your sunshine! What, behind you? that is cruel, but most obsequiously I obey."

Louis underwent the ordeal of a new scholar's introduction with unruffled temper, though his cousin took care there should be little cessation until afternoon school, when Louis was liberated from his tormentors to his great satisfaction -- Frank's business carrying him to a part of the school-room away from that where Louis was desired to await further orders. In the course of the afternoon, he was summoned to the presence of Dr. Wilkinson, who was holding a magisterial levee in one of two class-rooms or studies adjoining the school-room. The doctor appeared in one of his sternest humors. Besides the fourteen members of the first class, whose names Louis knew already, there was in this room a boy about Louis' age, who seemed in some little trepidation. Doctor Wilkinson closed the book he held, and laying it down, dismissed his pupils; then turning to the frightened-looking boy, he took a new book off the table, saying, "Do you know this, Harrison?"

"Yes, sir," faintly replied the boy.

"Where did you get it?"

"I bought it."

"To assist you in winning prizes from your more honorable class-fellows, I suppose," said the doctor, with the most marked contempt. "Since you find Kenrick too difficult for you, you may go into the third class, where there may be, perhaps, something better suited to your capacity; and beware a second offence: you may go, sir."

Louis felt great pity for the boy, who turned whiter still, and then flushed up, as if ready to burst into tears.

"Well, Louis, I wish to see what rank you will be able to take," said the doctor, and he proceeded with his examination.

"Humph!" he ejaculated at length, "pretty well -- you may try in the second class. I can tell you that you must put your shoulder to the wheel, and make the most of your powers, or you will soon be obliged to leave it for a less honorable post; but let me see what you can do -- and now put these books away on that shelf." As he spoke, the doctor pointed to a vacant place on one of the shelves that lined two sides of the study, and left the room. Louis put the books away, and then returned to the school-room, where he sought his brother, and communicated his news just before the general uproar attendant on the close of afternoon school commenced.

Reginald was one of the most noisy and eager in his preparations for play; and, dragging Louis along with him, bounded into the fresh air, with that keen feeling of enjoyment which the steady industrious school-boy knows by experience.

"What a nice play-ground this is!" said Louis.

"Capital!" said Reginald. "What's the fun, Frank?" he cried to his cousin, who bounded past him at this moment, towards a spot already tolerably crowded.

"Maister Dunn," shouted Frank.

"Oh, the old cake-man, Louis," said Reginald; "I must go and get rid of a few surplus pence."

"Do you like to spend your money in cakes?" asked Louis; "I have plenty, Mrs. Colthrop took care of that."

"In that case I'll save for next time," said Reginald, "but let's go and see what's going on."

Accordingly Reginald ran off in the cake-man's direction. Louis followed, and presently found himself standing in the outer circle of a group of his school-fellows, who formed a thick wall round a white-haired old man and a boy, both of whom carried a basket on each arm, filled with dainties always acceptable to a school-boy's palate.

Maister Dunn.

Were I inclined to moralize, I might here make a few remarks on waste of money, &c., but my business being merely to relate incidents at present, I shall only say that there they stood, the old man and his assistant, with the boys in constant motion and murmur around them.

Frank Digby and Hamilton were in the outer circle, the latter having walked from a direction opposite to that from which Frank and Reginald came, but whose dignity did not prevent a certain desire to purchase if he saw fit, and if not, to amuse himself with those who did so. He stood watching the old man with an imperturbable air of gravity, and, hanging on his arm in a state of listless apathy, stood Trevannion, another member of the first class.

Frank Digby took too active a share in most things in the establishment to remain a passive spectator of the actions of others, and began pushing right and left. "Get along, get away ye vagabonds!" he politely cried: "you little shrimps! what business have you to stop the way? -- Alfred, you ignoramus! Alfred, why don't you move?"

"Because I'm buying something," said the little boy addressed, looking up very quietly at the imperious intruder.

"Da locum melioribus, Alfred, as the poet has it. Do you know where to find that, my boy? -- the first line of the thirteenth book of the Aeneid, being a speech of the son of Anchises to the Queen of Carthage. You'll find a copy of Virgil's works in my desk."

"I don't mean to look," said Alfred, "I know it's in the Delectus."

"Wonderful memory! -- I admire that delectable book of yours," cried Frank, who talked on without stopping, while forcing himself to the first rank. "How now, Maister Dunn!" he said, addressing the old man, "I hope you b'aint a going to treat us as e did last time. You must be reasonable; the money market is in a sadly unflourishing condition at present."

"You always talk of the money market, Frank," said little Alfred: "what do you mean by the money market?"

"It's a place, my dear -- I'll explain it in a moment. Here, Maister Dunn; -- It's a place where the old women sell sovereigns a penny a measure, Alfred."

"Oh, Frank!" exclaimed Alfred.

"Oh! and why not?" said Frank; "do you mean to say you don't believe me? That's it, -- isn't it, maister?"

"Ah, Maister Digby! ye're at yer jokes," said the old man.

"Jokes!" said Frank, with a serious air. "Pray, Mr. Dunn, did you ever happen to notice certain brass, or copper, or bronze tables, four in number, in front of the Bristol Exchange!"

"Ay sure, maister!"

"Well, I'll insense you into the meaning of that, presently. That, my good sir, is where the old women stood in the good old times, crying out, 'Here you are! sovereigns a penny a measure!' And that's the reason people used to be so rich!"

"Oh, Frank! now I know that's only your nonsense," said Alfred.

"Well, I can't give you a comprehension, and if I could buy you one, I couldn't afford it," answered Frank. "Now here's my place for any one; Louis, I'll make you a present of it, as I don't want it."

"I don't want to buy any thing," said Louis.

"Rubbish!" cried Frank. "Every one does. Don't be stingy." And so Louis allowed himself to be pushed and pulled into the crowd, and bought something he would much rather have been without, because he found it inconvenient to say no.

The two upper classes were privileged to use the largest of the class-rooms as their sitting-room in the evenings; and here Reginald introduced his brother after tea; and, when he had shown him his lessons, began to prepare his own. Most of the assembled youths were soon quietly busy, though some of the more idly disposed kept up a fire of words, while turning over leaves, and cutting pens to pieces. Among the latter class was Frank Digby, who was seldom known to be silent for a quarter of an hour, and who possessed the singular power of distracting every one's attention but his own; for, though he scarcely ever appeared to give his lessons a moment's attention, he was generally sufficiently prepared with them to enable him to keep his place in his class, which was usually two from the bottom.

Louis saw that he must give his whole mind to his work; but being unused to study in a noise, it was some time before he was well able to comprehend what he wanted to do; and found himself continually looking up and laughing at something around him, or replying to some of Frank's jokes, which were often directed to him. When, by a great exertion, he had at last forced himself to attend to Reginald's repeated warnings, and had begun to learn in earnest, the door softly opened, and the little boy he had noticed in the crowd that afternoon came in.

"Halloa! what do you want?" cried one of the seniors; "you have no business here."

"Is Edward here, Mr. Salisbury?"

"No."

"Do you know where he is, please?"

"With the doctor," replied the young gentleman.

"Oh dear!" sighed the little boy, venturing to approach the table a little nearer.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Reginald.

"I can't do this," said the child: "I wanted Edward to help me with my exercise."

"My little dear, you have just heard that sapient Fred Salisbury declare, in the most civil terms chooseable, that your fraternal preceptor, Edwardus magnus, non est inventus," said Frank, pompously, with a most condescending flourish of his person in the direction of the little boy.

"And, consequently," said the afore-mentioned Mr. Salisbury, "you have free leave to migrate to York, Bath, Jericho, or any other equally convenient resort for bores in general, and you in particular."

"Please, Mr. Digby," said the little boy, "will you just show me this?"

"Indeed I can't," said Frank; "I can't do my own, so in all reason you could not expect me to find brains for two exercises."

"Oh! please somebody show me -- Dr. Wilkinson will be so angry if Mr. Norton sends me up again to-morrow."

"Will you go?" shouted Salisbury, with such deliberate energy of enunciation that Alfred shrunk back: "what's the use of your exercises, if you're shown how to do them?"

"Come here, Alfred," said Louis, softly. Alfred readily obeyed; and Louis, taking his book, began to show him what to do.

"Louis, you must not tell him word for word," said Reginald: "Hamilton wouldn't like it -- he never does himself."

"But I may help him to do it for himself, may I not?" said Louis.

"Yes; but, Louis, you have not time -- and he is so stupid," replied Reginald; "you won't have time to do your own."

But Louis thought he should have time for both, and, putting his arm round Alfred, he kindly and patiently set him in the way of doing his lesson properly, and then resumed his own disturbed studies.

Hardly, however, was he settled than he found himself listening to Frank, who remarked, as Alfred left the room, "We shall be sure to have 'Oars' in soon!"

"Who do you mean by Oars?" asked Louis.

"Churchill," said Reginald, laughing.

"What an extraordinary name!" said Louis.

"I say, Digby," cried a boy from the opposite side of the table, "they give you the credit of that cognomen -- but we are all in the dark as to its origin."

"Like the origin of all truly great," answered Frank, "it was very simple: Churchill came one day to me with his usual 'Do tell us a bit, that's a good fellow,' and after he had badgered me some minutes, I asked him if he had not the smallest idea of his lesson -- so, after looking at it another minute, he begins thus, 'Omnes, all.' 'Bravo!' replied I. 'Conticuere -- What's that, Frank?' 'Were silent,' I answered: 'Go on.' After deep cogitation, and sundry hints, he discovered that tenebant must have some remote relationship to a verb signifying to hold fast, and forthwith a bright thought strikes him, and on we go: 'Intentique ora tenebant -- and intently they hold their oars,' he said, exultingly. 'Very well,' quoth I, approvingly, and continued for him, 'Inde toro pater -- the waters flowed glibly farther on, ab alto -- to the music of the spheres; the inseparable Castor and Pollux looking down benignantly on their namesake below.' Here I was stopped by the innocent youth's remark, that I certainly was quizzing, for he knew that Castor and Pollux were the same in Latin as in English. Whereupon, I demanded, with profound gravity, whether gemini did not mean twins, and if the twins were not Castor and Pollux -- and if he knew (who knew so much better than I) whether or no there might not be some word in the Latin language, besides gemini, signifying twins; and that if it was his opinion that I was quizzing, he had better do his lesson himself. He looked hard, and, thinking I was offended, begged pardon; and believing that jubes was Castor and Pollux, we got on quite famously -- and he was quite reassured when we turned from the descriptive to the historical, beginning with Aeneas sic orsus infandum -- Aeneas was such a horrid bear."

"Didn't you tell him of his mistake?" asked Louis, who could not help laughing.

"What! spoil the fun and the lesson I meant to give him? -- not I."

"Well, what then, Frank?" said Reginald.

"Why, imagine old Whitworth's surprise, when, confident in the free translation of a first-class man, Oars flowed on as glibly as the waters; Whitworth heard him to the end in his old dry way, and then asked him where he got that farrago of nonsense; -- I think he was promoted to the society of dunces instanter, and learns either Delectus or Eutropius now. Of course, he never applied again to me."

Louis did not express his opinion that Frank was ill-natured, though he thought so, in spite of the hearty laugh with which his story was greeted. When he turned again to his lesson, he found his book had been abstracted.

"I tell you what," cried Reginald, fiercely, "I won't have Louis tormented -- who has taken his book? It's you, Ferrers, I am sure."

"I! did you ever!" replied that young gentleman. "I appeal to you, Digby -- did you see me touch his book?"

"I did not, certainly," said Frank.

"Give me the book," exclaimed Reginald, jumping upon the table, "give me the book, and let's have no more such foolery."

"Get down, Mortimer, you're not transparent," cried several voices.

Reginald, however, paid no attention to the command, but pouncing upon Ferrers at a vantage, threw him backwards off the form, tumbling over his prostrate foe, and in his descent bringing down books, inkstand, papers, and one of the candles, in glorious confusion.

"What's the row!" exclaimed Salisbury, adding an expression more forcible than elegant; and, starting from his seat, he pulled Reginald by main force from his adversary, with whom he was now struggling on the floor, and at the same instant the remaining candle was extinguished. Louis was almost stunned by the noise that ensued: some taking his brother's part, and some that of Ferrers, while, in the dark, friend struggled and quarrelled with friend as much as foe, no one attempting to quell the tumult, until the door was suddenly burst open, and Hamilton with Trevannion and two or three from the school-room entered. Hamilton stood still for a moment, astonished by the unlooked-for obscurity. His entrance checked the combatants, who at first imagined that one of their masters had made his appearance, if that could be said to appear which was hardly discernible in the dim light which came through the half-open door. Hamilton begged one of the boys with him to fetch a light, and taking advantage of the momentary lull, he called out, "Is this Bedlam, gentlemen? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! What's the matter, Mortimer?"

"Oh!" replied Ferrers, "they've been teasing his little brother, and he can't abide it."

"I only mean to say, that Louis shan't be plagued in this manner," cried Reginald, passionately; "and you know if the others were not here you wouldn't dare to do it, you bully!"

"For shame, Mortimer," said Hamilton, decidedly; and coming up to Reginald he drew him a little aside, not without a little resistance on Reginald's part -- "What's the matter, Mortimer?"

"Matter! why that they are doing all they can to hinder Louis from knowing his lessons to-morrow. I won't stand it. He has borne enough of it, and patiently too."

"But is that any reason you should forget that you are a gentleman?" said Hamilton.

"My book is here, dear Reginald," said Louis, touching his brother's shoulder.

Reginald darted a fierce glance at Ferrers, but not being able to substantiate an accusation against him, remained silent, and, under the eye of Hamilton and his friend Trevannion, the remainder of the evening passed in a way more befitting the high places in the school which the young gentlemen held; but Louis had been so much interrupted, and was so much excited and unsettled by the noise and unwonted scenes, that when Dr. Wilkinson came at nine to read prayers, he had hardly prepared one of his lessons for the next day.



Chapter II.


Louis soon made himself a universal favorite among his school-fellows; and, though he was pronounced by some to be a "softy," and by others honored by the equally comprehensive and euphonious titles of "spooney" and "muff," there were few who were not won by his gentle good-nature, and the uniform good temper, and even playfulness, with which he bore the immoderate quizzing that fell to his lot, as a new boarder arrived in the middle of the half-year. If there were an errand to be run among the seniors, it was, "Louis Mortimer, will you get me this or that?" if a dunce wanted helping, Louis was sure to be applied to, with the certainty in both cases that the requests would be complied with, though they might, as was too often the case, interfere with his duties; but Louis had not courage to say no.

In proportion, however, as our hero grew in the good graces of his school-fellows, he fell out of those of his masters, for lessons were brought only half-learned, and exercises only half-written, or blotted and scrawled so as to be nearly unintelligible; and after he had been a fortnight at school, he seemed much more likely to descend to a lower class than to mount a step in his own. Day after day saw Louis kept in the school-room during play-hours, to learn lessons which ought to have been done the night before, or to write out some long imposition as a punishment for some neglected duty that had given place to the desire of assisting another.

Louis always seemed in a hurry, and never did any thing well. His mind was unsettled, and, like every thing else belonging to him at present, in a state of undesirable confusion.

There was one resource which Louis had which would have set all to rights, but his weakness of disposition often prevented him from taking advantage of even the short intervals for prayer allowed by the rules of the school, and he was often urged at night into telling stories till he dropped asleep, and hurried down by the morning bell, before he could summon up courage to brave the remarks of his school-fellows as to his being so very religious, &c., and sometimes did not feel sorry that there was some cause to prevent these solemn and precious duties. I need not say he was not happy. He enjoyed nothing thoroughly; he felt he was not steadily in earnest. Every day he came with a beating heart to his class, never certain that he could get through a single lesson.

One morning he was endeavoring to stammer through a few lines of some Greek play, and at last paused, unable to proceed.

"Well, sir," said his master quietly, -- "as usual, I suppose -- I shall give you only a few days' longer trial, and then, if you cannot do better, you must go down."

"Who is that, Mr. Danby?" said a voice behind Louis, that startled him, and turning his blanched face round, he saw Dr. Wilkinson standing near. "Who is that, Mr. Danby?" he repeated, in a deep stern voice.

"Louis Mortimer, sir," replied Mr. Danby. "Either he is totally unfit for this class, or he is very idle; I can make nothing of him."

Dr. Wilkinson fixed his eyes searchingly on Louis, and replied, in a tone of much displeasure:

"If you have the same fault to find the next two days, send him into a lower class. It is the most disgraceful idleness, Louis."

Louis' heart swelled with sorrow and shame as the doctor walked away. He stood with downcast eyes and quivering lids, hardly able to restrain his tears, until the class was dismissed, and he was desired to stay in and learn his unsaid lesson.

Reginald followed his brother into the study, where Louis took his books to learn more quietly than he could do in the school-room.

"My dear Louis," he said, "you must try; the doctor will be so displeased if you go into a lower class; and just think what a disgrace it will be."

"I know," said Louis, wiping his eyes: "I can't tell how it is, every thing seems to go wrong with me -- I am not at all happy, and I am sure I wish to please everybody."

"A great deal too much, dear Louis," said Reginald. "You are always teaching everybody else, and you know you have scarcely any time for yourself. You must tell them you won't do it; I can't be always at your elbow; I've quarrelled more with the boys than ever I did, since you came, on your account."

"Oh dear! I am sorry I came," sighed Louis, "I do so long to be a little quiet. Reginald, dear, I am so sorry I should give you any trouble. Oh, I have lost all my happy thoughts, and I know every thing is sure to go wrong."

Louis remained sadly silent for a few minutes, and then, raising his tearful eyes to his brother, who was sitting with his chin on his hands, watching him, he begged him to leave him, declaring he should not learn any thing while Reginald was with him.

Thus urged, Reginald took his departure, though, with his customary unselfish affection, he would rather have stayed and helped him.

When he was gone, Louis began slowly to turn over the leaves of his Lexicon, in order to prepare his lesson. He had not been long thus employed, when he was interrupted by the irruption of the greatest dunce in the school, introduced to the reader in the former chapter as Churchill, alias Oars, a youth of fifteen, who had constant recourse to Louis for information. He now laid his dog's-eared Eutropius before Louis, and opened his business with his usual "Come now, tell us, Louis -- help us a bit, Louis."

"Indeed, Harry, it is impossible," said Louis sorrowfully. "I have all my own to do, and if I do not get done before dinner I shall go into the third class -- no one helps me, you know."

"It won't take you a minute," said Churchill.

"It does take much more. You know I was an hour last night writing your theme; and, Churchill, I do not think it is right."

"Oh stuff! who's been putting that nonsense into your head?" replied Churchill. "It's all right and good, and like your own self, you're such a good-natured fellow."

"And a very foolish one, sometimes," said Louis. "Can't you get somebody else to show you?"

"Goodness gracious!" cried Churchill, "who do you think would do it now? and no one does it so well as you. Come, I say -- come now -- that's a good fellow, -- now do."

"But how is it that you want to learn your lesson now," asked Louis? "Won't the evening do?"

"No; Dr. Wilkinson has given me leave to go out with my uncle this afternoon, if I learn this and say it to old Norton before I go; and I am sure I shan't get it done if you don't help me."

"I cannot," said poor Louis.

"Now I know you're too good-natured to let me lose this afternoon's fun. Come, you might have told me half."

And against his better judgment, Louis spent half an hour in hearing this idle youth a lesson, which, with a little extra trouble he might easily have mastered himself in three quarters of an hour.

"Thank you, Louis, you're a capital fellow; I know it now, don't I?"

"I think so," replied Louis; "and now you must not talk to me."

"What are you doing?" said Churchill, looking at his book; "oh, 'Kenrick's Greek Exercises.' If I can't tell you, I can help you to something that will. Here's a key." As he spoke, he took down the identical book taken from Harrison on the day of Louis' arrival, and threw it on the table before him.

"Is that a key?" asked Louis, opening the book; "put it back, Harry, I cannot use it."

"Why not?"

"It would not be right. Oh no! I will not, Churchill; put it up."

"How precise you are!" said Churchill; "it's quite a common thing for those who can get them -- Thompson and Harcourt always use one."

"Thompson ought to be ashamed of himself," cried Louis, "to be trying for a prize, and use a key."

"Well, so he ought, but you won't get a prize if you begin now, and try till breaking-up day; so you hurt nobody, and get yourself out of a scrape. Don't be a donkey, Louis."

When Churchill left him alone Louis looked at the title-page, and felt for an instant strongly tempted to avail himself of the assistance of the book; but something checked him, and he laid his arms suddenly on the table, and buried his face on them. A heavy hand laid on his shoulder roused him from this attitude; and looking up, with his eyes full of tears, he found Hamilton and Trevannion standing beside him.

"What's the matter, Louis?" said the former.

"I have so much to do; -- I -- I've been very careless and idle," stammered Louis.

"I can readily believe that," said Hamilton.

"A candid confession, at any rate," remarked Trevannion.

"And do you imagine that your brains will be edified by coming in contact with these books?" asked Hamilton. "What have you to do?"

"I have this exercise to re-write, and my Greek to learn, -- and -- and -- twenty lines of Homer to write out. I can't do all now -- I shall have to stay in this afternoon."

"I should think that more than probable," said Trevannion.

"What have we here?" said Hamilton, taking up the key. "Hey! what! Louis! Is this the way you are going to cheat your masters?"

"Pray don't think it?" said Louis, eagerly.

"If you use keys, I have done with you."

"Indeed I did not, -- I never do, -- I wasn't going. One of the boys left it here. I am sure I did not mean to do so," cried Louis in great confusion.

"Put it back," said Hamilton, gravely, "and then I will go over your lessons with you, and see if I can make you understand them better."

"Thank you, thank you, -- how kind you are!" said poor Louis, who hastily put the dangerous book away, and then sat down.

Hamilton smiled, and remarked, "It is but fair that one should be assisted who loses his character in playing knight errant for all those who need, or fancy they need, his good services: but, Louis, you are very wrong to give up so much of your time to others; your time does not belong to yourself; your father did not send you here to assist Dr. Wilkinson -- or, rather, I should say, to save a set of idle boys the trouble of doing their own work. There is a vast difference between weakness and good-nature; but now to business."

Trevannion withdrew with a book to the window, and Hamilton sat down by Louis, and took great pains to make him give his mind to his business; and so thoroughly did he succeed with his docile pupil, that, although he had come in rather late, all, with the exception of the imposition, was ready for Mr. Danby by the time the dinner-bell rang.

Louis overwhelmed Hamilton with the expression of his gratitude, and again and again laid his little hand on that of his self-instituted tutor. Hamilton did not withdraw his hand, though he never returned the pressure, nor made any reply to Louis' thanks, further than an abrupt admonition from time to time to "mind what he was about," and to "go on."

Several inquiries were made at the open window after Louis, but all were answered by Trevannion, and our hero was left undisturbed to his studies.

That evening Louis had the satisfaction of being seated near his friend Hamilton, who, with a good-natured air of authority, kept him steadily at work until his business was properly concluded. Unhappily for Louis, Hamilton was not unfrequently with the doctor in the evenings, or he might generally have relied on his protection and assistance: however, for the next two or three days, Louis steadily resisted all allurements to leave his own lesson until learned; and, in consequence, was able to report to Hamilton the desirable circumstance of his having gained two places in his class.



Chapter III.


For some time before Louis' arrival at Ashfield House, preparations had been making in the doctor's domestic menage for the approaching marriage of Miss Wilkinson, the doctor's only daughter. The young gentlemen had, likewise, their preparations for the auspicious event, the result of which was a Latin Epithalamium, composed by the seniors, and three magnificent triumphal arches, erected on the way from the house-door to the gate of the grounds. Much was the day talked of, and eagerly were plans laid, both by masters and pupils, for the proper enjoyment of the whole holiday that had been promised on the occasion, and which, by the way -- whatever young gentlemen generally may think of their masters' extreme partiality for teaching -- was now a greater boon to the wearied and over-fagged ushers, than to the party for whose enjoyment it was principally designed.

The bridal day came. -- No need to descant on the weather. The sun shone as brightly as could be desired, and as the interesting procession passed under the green bowers, cheer after cheer rose on the air, handfuls of flowers were trodden under the horses' feet, and hats, by common consent, performed various somersaults some yards above their owners' heads.

There was a long watch till the carriages returned, and the same scene was enacted and repeated, when the single vehicle rolled away from the door; and the last mark of honor having been paid, the party dispersed over the large playground, each one in search of his own amusement. Louis wandered away by himself, and enjoyed a quiet hour unmolested, and tried, with the help of his little hymn-book, and thinking over old times, to bring back some of his former happy thoughts. There were more than ordinary temptations around him, and he felt less able to resist them; and this little rest from noise and hurry was to him very grateful. When, at length, a little party found out his retreat and begged him to join in a game of "hocky," he complied with a light and merry heart, freer from that restless anxiety to which he had been lately so much subject.

In the afternoon, determining to let nothing interfere with the learning of his lessons, Louis sat down in the school-room to business. There were but two persons besides himself in the room, one of whom was an usher, who was writing a letter, and the other, his school-fellow Ferrers. The latter was sitting on the opposite side of the same range of desks Louis had chosen, very intently engaged in the same work which had brought Louis there.

Louis felt very happy in the consciousness that he was foregoing the pleasure of the merry playground for the stern business that his duty had imposed on him; and the noise of his companions' voices, and the soft breezes that came in through the open door leading into the playground, only spurred him on to finish his work as quickly as possible.

Ferrers and his younger vis-a-vis pursued their work in silence, apparently unconscious of the presence of each other, until the former, raising his head, asked Louis to fetch him an atlas out of the study.

"With pleasure," said Louis, jumping up and running into the study; he returned almost immediately with a large atlas, and laid it down on Ferrers' books. He had once more given his close attention to his difficult exercises, when a movement from his companion attracted his notice.

"Did you speak?" he said.

"Will you -- oh, never mind, I'll do it myself," muttered Ferrers, rising and going into the class-room himself.

Louis had become again so intent upon his study, that he was hardly aware of the return of his school-fellow, nor did he notice the precipitation with which he hurried into his place, and half hid the book he had brought with him, a book that he imagined to be a key to his exercises, but which, in fact, was a counterpart to that taken away from Harrison, though bound exactly like the one Ferrers had gone for, and so nearly the same size as easily to be mistaken for it in the confusion attendant on the abstraction of it.

Just at this moment, Hamilton, Trevannion, and Salisbury, with one or two more of the first class, entered from the playground, and walked directly across to Ferrers.

Alive to all the disgrace of being found by his class-fellows in possession of a key, and unable to return it unobserved, Ferrers, in the first moment of alarm, tried to push it into the desk at which he was writing, but finding it locked, he stood up with as much self-possession as he could assume, and pretending to be looking among his books and papers, managed, unobserved, to pass the obnoxious volume over to Louis' heap of books, laying it half under one of them. Louis was wholly unconscious of the danger so near him, and did not raise his held from his absorbing occupation when the fresh comers approached the desk.

"Ferrers," said Salisbury, as they came up, "we want your advice on a small matter; come with us into the class-room."

Accordingly Ferrers obeyed, glad to leave the dangerous spot, and Louis was left in undisturbed possession of the apartment for more than half an hour, at the end of which time the party returned from the inner room laughing, and all walked out of doors. Just as they passed out, Mr. Witworth, the usher, approached Louis, and asked him if he could lend him a pencil. Louis laid his pen down, and began to search his pockets for a pencil he knew should be there, when he was startled by the ejaculation of the master:

"Hey! -- what! -- This is it, is it? So I have found you out, sir."

Louis looked up in alarm. "Found me out, sir?" he said, in a terrified tone: "what have I done?"

"Done!" exclaimed Mr. Witworth, -- "done, indeed: what are you doing there?"

"My exercise, sir."

"To be sure, to be sure. What's the meaning of this, sir?" and he held up the key. "What have you done, indeed! -- you hoped that it was nicely concealed, I dare say. I wonder how you can be so artful."

"I am sure I don't know any thing about that book," said Louis, in great agitation.

"Admirably acted," said Mr. Witworth. "It wouldn't walk here, however, Master Mortimer: some one must have brought it."

"I am sure I don't know who did -- I don't indeed," said poor Louis, despairingly.

"Perhaps you'll try to make me believe you don't know what it is, and that you never saw the book before," remarked Mr. Witworth, scornfully.

"I do know what it is, but I never used it, I do assure you, sir, and I did not bring it here. Will you not believe me?"

"It is very likely that I should believe you, is it not? Well, sir, this book goes up with you to-morrow to Dr. Wilkinson, and we shall see how much he will believe of your story. This accounts for your apparent industry lately." So saying, Mr. Witworth walked off with the book in his hand, leaving Louis in the greatest distress.

"And all my pains are quite lost!" he exclaimed, as he burst into tears. "The doctor is sure not to believe me, and there will be -- oh, who could have left it there?"

"Louis, are you coming out this afternoon; what's the matter?" exclaimed the welcome voice of his brother.

"What, Lady Louisa in tears! Here's the ink bottle; do let me catch the crystal drops," said Frank Digby, who accompanied Reginald in search of his brother.

"Oh, Reginald!" exclaimed Louis, regardless of Frank's nonsense, "some one has left a key to my exercises on my books, and Mr. Witworth has just found it. What shall I do?"

"Some one has left," ejaculated Frank. "That's a good story, Louis; only one can't quite swallow it, you know. Who would leave it, eh?"

"How? where, Louis?" said Reginald.

"It was just here it was found. I am sure I cannot think who put it there."

"Well of all the" -- began Frank; "my astonishment positively chokes me. Louis, are you not ashamed of yourself?"

"Oh, Frank! I am speaking the truth; I am, indeed, I am -- Reginald, I am, you know I am."

"It is very strange," remarked Reginald, who was standing with a clouded, unsatisfied brow, and did not exhibit that enthusiasm respecting his innocence which Louis expected from him. Reginald knew too much, and dared not yet be certain when appearances were so sadly against him.

"Reginald, dear Reginald, tell me," cried Louis, almost frantically; "surely you believe me?"

"Believe you!" echoed Frank, scornfully; "he knows you too well, and so do I. Remember last year, Louis: you'd better have thought of it sooner."

Reginald cast a threatening glance on his cousin, who undauntedly replied to it.

"You can't gainsay that, at any rate, Reginald."

"Reginald, dear Reginald," cried Louis, with streaming eyes, "you know I always spoke the truth to you; I declare solemnly that I am speaking only the truth now."

Reginald looked gloomily at his brother.

"Indeed it is. If you will not believe me, who will?"

"Who, indeed?" said Frank.

"I do believe you, Louis," said Reginald, quickly, "I do believe you; but this matter must be sifted. It is very strange, but I will make all the inquiries I can. Who sat with you?"

"Ferrers was sitting there," replied Louis.

"Any one else?"

"No," replied Louis.

"I'll answer for it, it was Ferrers," said Reginald.

"A likely story," said Frank.

"I think it very likely," said Reginald, firmly, "and woe be to him if he has."

As he finished speaking, Reginald ran off in search of Ferrers, whom he found in a group of the head boys, into the midst of which he burst without the smallest ceremony.

"Manners!" exclaimed Hamilton; "I beg your pardon, Mr. Mortimer, for standing in your way."

"I am very sorry," said Reginald, bluntly, "but I can't stand upon ceremony. Ferrers, what have you been doing with Kenrick's Exercises -- I mean the key to it?"

"I!" cried Ferrers, reddening violently; "what -- what do you mean, Mortimer?"

"You have left the key on Louis' desk, to get him into a scrape -- you know you have."

"Upon my word, Mortimer! what next!" exclaimed Salisbury. "Who do you think would fash themselves about such a little hop-o'-my-thumb?"

"Will you let Ferrers answer!" cried Reginald, imperiously.

Unconscious of the mistake he had made, Ferrers felt exceedingly uncomfortable in his present position, and, assuming an air of contemptuous indignation, he turned his back on Reginald, saying as he did so, "Such impertinence merits nothing but silent contempt."

"You did it, you coward!" cried Reginald, enraged almost beyond control. "I know you did, and you know you did. Will you answer me?"

"Answer him, Ferrers, answer him at once, and let us have an end of his impertinence," cried several voices: "he's like a wild-cat."

"Well then, I did not," said Ferrers, turning round with a violent effort; "will that satisfy you?"

Reginald glared angrily and doubtfully on the changing countenance of the speaker, and then burst out vehemently,

"I don't believe a word you say: you did it either to spite him, or you mistook your aim. Do you never use keys, Mr. Ferrers?"

"Really, Mortimer!" exclaimed Trevannion, "your language is very intemperate and ungentlemanly. I have no doubt your brother knows how to help himself; and now, for your comfort, know that I saw him the other day with that same book, and here is Hamilton, who can corroborate my statement."

"Where? when?" asked Reginald, in a subdued tone.

"In the class-room alone, when he was writing his exercise. Hamilton, am I not right?"

Hamilton nodded.

"Dr. Wilkinson will do justice to-morrow," said Reginald, as after a moment's painful silence he looked up with assumed confidence, and turned proudly away from Ferrers' reassured look of exultation, though the latter hardly dared exult, for he thought Reginald had mistaken the book, and feared the suspicions that might rest on himself when it should be discovered that it was not a second-class key. "And now, Mortimer, let's have no more of this violent language," said Hamilton. "If the matter is to come before the doctor, he will do all justice; let him be sole arbitrator; but I would not bring it before him were I in your place. Make an apology to Ferrers, and say nothing more. You will do your brother more harm than good."

"Make an apology," said Reginald, ironically; "I haven't changed my mind yet. It must come before the doctor. Mr. Witworth found the book, and has carried it by this time, or certainly will carry it, to head-quarters."

"Come along with me, and tell me the whole affair," said Hamilton.

While Reginald was unfolding the matter to Hamilton, the party they had left was reinforced by Frank Digby, who warmly took Ferrers' part, and enlightened the company as to many particulars of his cousin's former character: and so much was said about the injury Reginald had done to Ferrers by his suspicions, that when that youth discovered the certainty of the mistake he had made, he was so far involved as to render it impossible to him to acknowledge that even out of a spirit of teasing he had placed the book near Louis; and his anxiety was so great to free himself from any suspicion, that he was selfishly and ungenerously insensible to the trouble entailed upon Louis, whom he disliked on account of his superiority to himself, but on whom he had not seriously contemplated inflicting so great an injury -- so imperceptibly does one fault lead to another, so unable are we to decide where the effects of one false step, one dishonest thought, shall end.

The story was soon spread among Louis' immediate companions, who were anxious to learn the cause of his swollen eyes and sad demeanor, and Louis had to endure many sneers, and, what was still harder to bear, much silent contempt from those whose high sense of honor made them despise any approach to the meanness of which he was supposed guilty. Hamilton, though in the study the whole evening, took no notice of him, and when his eyes met Louis', they bore no more consciousness of his presence than if he had been a piece of stone. Frank Digby did not tease Louis, but he let fall many insinuations, and a few remarks so bitter in their sarcasm, that Reginald more than once looked up with a glance so threatening in its fierceness, that it checked even that audacious speaker. Even little Alfred was not allowed to sit with Louis; though Hamilton made no remark, nor even alluded to the subject to his brother, he called him immediately to himself, and only allowed him to leave him at bed-time.

As the elder boys went up stairs to bed, Frank continued his aggravating allusions to Louis' weakness, but in so covert a manner, that no one but those acquainted with Louis' former history could have understood their import. For some time Reginald pretended not to hear them; there was a strong struggle within him, for his high spirit rose indignantly at his cousin's unkindness, yet was for some time checked by a better feeling within; but, at length, on Frank's making some peculiarly insulting remark in a low tone, his pent-up ire boiled forth, and, in the madness of his fury, he seized on his cousin with a strength that passion rendered irresistible. "You've tried to provoke me to this all the evening -- you will have it, you dastardly coward! you WILL have it, will you?"

These exclamations were poured forth in a shout, and Reginald, after striking his cousin several violent blows, threw him from him with such force that his head struck against the door-post, and he fell motionless to the ground, the blood streaming from a wound in his forehead.

There was an awful silence for a minute. The boys, horror-struck, stood as if paralyzed, gazing on the inanimate form of their school-fellow. Reginald's passion subsided in an instant; his face turned pale, the color fled from his lips, and clasping his hands in terror, he muttered, "Oh! what have I done!" and then there was a shout, "Oh, Frank Digby's killed! Digby's killed -- he's dead!"

Hamilton at length pushed forward and raised Frank's head. And at this moment Mr. Norton and Dr. Wilkinson, with two or three of the servants, came from different directions. The crowd round Frank made way for the doctor, who hurriedly approached, and assisted Hamilton to raise Frank and carry him to his bed.

"He's dead, he's dead!" cried the boys all round.

"How did this happen?" asked the doctor, and without waiting for an answer he tore open the handkerchief and collar of the insensible youth, and dispatched some one immediately for a medical man. One was sent for a smelling-bottle, another for some water, and Mrs. Wilkinson soon made her appearance with a fan, and other apparatus for restoring a fainting person. But it was long before there were any signs of returning life. It was a terrible time for Reginald. It was agony to look on the motionless form, and blood-streaked countenance before him -- to watch the cloud of anxiety that seemed to deepen on his master's face as each new restorative failed its accustomed virtue, -- to listen to the subdued murmurs and fearful whispers, and to note the blanched faces of his school-fellows. He stood with clasped hands, and there was a prayer in his heart that he might not be called to suffer so very deeply for this sinful expression of his temper. What if he should have sent his cousin unprepared into eternity? Oh, what would he give to see one motion; what, that he had been able to restrain his ungovernable fury! There was almost despair in his wild thoughts, when at last Frank sighed faintly, and then opened his eyes. He closed them immediately, and just then the surgeon arriving, more potent remedies were used, and he was at length restored to consciousness, though unable to speak aloud. Doctor Wilkinson had him removed to another room, and after seeing him comfortably arranged, returned to Reginald's bedroom.

"Now, how did this happen?" he said.

No one spoke, and the silence was only broken by the sound of sobs from the further end of the room.

"Who did this?" asked the doctor again.

"I did, sir," said Reginald, in a broken voice.

"Come forward. Who is it that speaks?" said Doctor Wilkinson. "Mortimer! is this some passion of yours that has so nearly caused the death of your cousin? I am deeply grieved to find that your temper is still so ungovernable. What was the matter?"

Reginald was incapable of answering, and none of his companions understood the quarrel; so Doctor Wilkinson left the room, determined to make a strict investigation the next morning.

Poor Reginald was almost overwhelmed: he knelt with his brother after their candle was extinguished, by their bedside, and both wept bitterly, though quite silently. Distress at his own fault, and his brother's new trouble, and deep thankfulness that his cousin was alive, and not dangerously hurt, filled Reginald's mind, and kept him awake long after all besides in the room were asleep.



Chapter IV.


The next morning, after the early school-hours, Doctor Wilkinson kept Reginald back as he was following the stream to breakfast, and led the way into the class-room, where, after closing the door, he seated himself, and motioning Reginald to draw closer to him, thus opened his inquiry.

"I wish to know, Mortimer, how this affair began last night: it appears, from all I can make out, to have been a most unprovoked attack on your part, but as there is often more than appears on the surface, I shall be glad to hear what you have to allege in extenuation of your savage conduct."

Reginald colored very deeply, and dropping his eyes under the piercing gaze of his master, remained silent.

"Am I to conclude from your silence that you have no excuse to make?" asked the doctor in a tone of mixed sorrow and indignation; "and am I to believe that from some petty insult you have allowed your temper such uncontrolled sway as nearly to have cost your cousin his life?"

"I had very great provocation," said Reginald, sullenly.

"And what might that be?" asked his master. "If the wrong be on Digby's side, you can have no hesitation in telling me what the wrong was."

Reginald made no answer, and, after a pause, Dr. Wilkinson continued: "Unless you can give me some reason, I must come to the conclusion that you have again given way to your violent passions without even the smallest excuse of injury from another. The assertion that you have been 'provoked' will not avail you much: I know that Digby is teasing and provoking, and is therefore very wrong, but if you cannot bear a little teasing, how are you to get on in the world? You are not a baby now, though you have acted more like a wild beast than a reasonable creature. I am willing and desirous to believe that something more than usual has been the cause of this ebullition of temper, for I hoped lately that you were endeavoring to overcome this sad propensity of yours."

"I assure you, sir," said Reginald, raising his open countenance to his master's, "I tried very much to bear with Frank, and I think I should if he had not said so much about -- about -- "

Here Reginald's voice failed; a sensation of choking anger prevented him from finishing his sentence.

"About what?" said the doctor, steadily.

"About my brother," said Reginald, abruptly.

"And what did he say about your brother that chafed you so much?"

Reginald changed color, and his eyes' lighted up with passion. He did not reply at first, but as his master seemed quietly awaiting his answer, he at length burst out, -- 

"He had been going on all the afternoon about Louis: he tried to put me in a passion; he said all he could -- every thing that was unkind and provoking, and it was more than a fellow could stand. I bore it as long as I could -- "

"You are giving me a proof of your gentle endurance now, I suppose," said the doctor.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I can't help it, -- I feel so angry when I think of it, that I am afraid I should knock him down again if he were to repeat it."

"For shame, sir!" said the doctor, sternly; "I should have thought that you had already had a lesson you would not easily have forgotten. What did he say of your brother that irritated you? I insist upon knowing."

"He said Louis was -- that Louis did not speak the truth, sir. He said that I believed it -- that I believed it" -- and Reginald's passionate sobs choked his utterance.

"Believed what?" asked the doctor.

"Something that happened yesterday," said Reginald; "he said that -- he was a hypocrite, and he went on taunting me about last summer."

"About last summer!" repeated the doctor.

"Yes, sir -- about a mistake. Nobody makes allowances for Louis. I could have borne it all if he had not said that I knew Louis was a liar. I'd knock any one down that I was able who should say so! Indeed," continued Reginald, fiercely, "I begged him to leave off, and not provoke me, but he would have it, and he knew what I was."

"Enough -- enough -- hush," said Dr. Wilkinson: "I beg I may hear no more of knocking down. Don't add to your fault by working yourself into a passion with me. Some provocation you certainly have had, but nothing can justify such unrestrained fury. Consider what would have been your condition at present, if your rage had been fatal to your cousin; it would have availed you little to have pleaded the aggravation; your whole life would have been embittered by the indulgence of your vengeful feelings -- one moment have destroyed the enjoyment of years. Thank God, Mortimer, that you have been spared so terrible a punishment. But you will always be in danger of this unless you learn to put a curb on your hasty temper. The same feelings which urge you into a quarrel as a boy, will hurry you into the duel as a man. It is a false spirit of honor and manliness that makes you so ready to resent every little insult. In the life of the only perfect Man that ever lived, our great Example and Master, we do not see this impatience of contradiction: 'When He was reviled, He reviled not again;' and if He, the Lord of all, could condescend to endure such contradiction of sinners against Himself, shall it be too much for us to bear a little with the contradiction of our fellow-creatures? My boy, if we do not strive to bear a little of the burden and heat of the day, we are not worthy to bear the noble name of Christians."

"I am very sorry, sir," said Reginald, quite softened by the earnest manner of his master; "I am very sorry I have been so hasty and wrong. I dare not make any promises for the future, for I know I cannot certainly keep them, but, with God's help, I hope to remember what you have so kindly said to me."

"With His help we may do all things," said Dr. Wilkinson; "you may by this help overcome the stumbling-stone of your violent passions, which otherwise may become an effectual barrier in the way of your attaining the prize of eternal life; and remember that 'he that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.'"

There was a minute's silence, which Reginald broke by asking if he might attend on Frank until he was well.

"Can I hope that you will be gentle," said the doctor; "that you will remember he is in invalid -- one of your making, Mortimer; and that if he is impatient and fretful, you are the cause?"

"I will try, sir, to make amends to him," said Reginald, looking down; "I hope I may be able to be patient."

"I will give orders that you may go to him," said the doctor; and after a pause, he added, "another offence of this kind I shall visit with the heaviest displeasure. I am in hopes that the anxiety you have undergone, and the present state of your cousin, may be a lesson to you; but if I find this ineffectual, I shall cease to consider you a reasonable creature, and shall treat you accordingly."

Dr. Wilkinson then rose and left the room. Reginald lingered a few minutes to compose himself before joining his school-fellows; his heart was very full, and he felt an earnest desire to abide by his master's counsel, as well as grateful for the leniency and kindness with which he had been treated, which made him feel his fault much more deeply than the severest punishment.

The breakfast time was very unpleasant for Louis that morning; he was full of anxiety as to the result of Mr. Witworth's discovery, and his sickness of heart entirely deprived him of appetite. When the meal was dispatched, Reginald went off to Frank, whom he found in a darkened room, very restless and impatient. He had passed a very bad night, and was suffering considerable pain. Reginald had to endure much ill-nature and peevishness; all of which he endeavored to bear with gentleness, and during the time Frank was ill, he gave up all his play-hours to wait on him and to amuse him as he grew better; and the exercise of patience which this office entailed was greatly beneficial to his hasty and proud spirit.

Mr. Danby was in the midst of the second-class lessons that morning, when one of the first class brought him a little slip of paper. Mr. Danby glanced at the few words written thereon, and when the class had finished he desired Louis to go to Dr. Wilkinson. All remnant of color fled from Louis' cheek, though he obeyed without making any reply, and with a very sinking heart entered the room where the doctor was engaged with the first class. The keen eye of his master detected him the instant he made his appearance, but he took no notice of him until he had finished his business; then, while his pupils were putting up their books he turned to Louis, and pointing to a little table by his side, said, "There is a volume, Louis Mortimer, with which I suspect you have some acquaintance."

Louis advanced to the table, and beheld the Key to Kenrick's Greek Exercises.

"You know it?" said the doctor.

"Yes, sir, but I did not use it," said Louis.

"You will not deny that it was found among your books in the school-room," said the doctor.

"I know, sir, Mr. Witworth found it, but I assure you I did not put it there," replied Louis, very gently.

"Have you never used it at all?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.

"Never, sir," replied Louis, firmly.

At this moment, he met the eye of Hamilton, who was standing near Dr. Wilkinson, and who looked very scornfully and incredulously at him as he paused to hear the result of the inquiry. Louis remembered that Hamilton had seen the key Churchill had left, and he hastily exclaimed, "I assure you, Mr. Hamilton, I did not."

"What is this, Hamilton?" said Dr. Wilkinson, turning round. "Do you know any thing of this matter?"

"I would much rather not answer," said Hamilton, abruptly, "if you will excuse me, sir."

"I must, however, beg that you will, if you please," replied the doctor.

"I really know nothing positively, I can say nothing certainly. You would not wish, sir, that any imagination of mine should prejudice you to Louis Mortimer's disadvantage; I am not able to say any thing," and Hamilton turned away in some confusion, vexed that he should have been appealed to.

Dr. Wilkinson looked half perplexed -- he paused a moment and fixed his eyes on the table. Louis ventured to say, "Mr. Hamilton saw a book once before with my lesson books, but I never used it."

"What do you mean by saw a book?" asked the doctor. "What book did Mr. Hamilton see? How came it there, and why was it there?"

"It was 'Kenrick's Greek Exercises,' sir."

"You mean the 'Key,' I suppose?"

Louis answered in the affirmative.

"Whose was it?" asked the doctor, with a countenance more ominous in its expression.

"It was the one you took from Harrison, sir," replied Louis.

"Humph! I thought I took it away. Bring it here." Louis obeyed, and the doctor having looked at it, continued, "Well, you had this with your lesson books, you say. How did it come there?"

"One of the boys gave it to me, sir," replied Louis.

"And why did you not put it away?"

"I was going, sir;" and the color rushed into Louis' pale face. "I did not use it -- and I hope I should not."

"Who left the book?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.

"Churchill, sir."

"Call Churchill, Salisbury."

Salisbury obeyed; and during his absence a profound silence reigned in the room, for all the first class were watching the proceedings in deep interest. Dr. Wilkinson seemed lost in thought; and Louis, in painful anxiety, scanned the strongly marked countenance of his master, now wearing its most unpleasing mask, and those of Hamilton and Trevannion, alternately. Hamilton did not look at him, but bent over a table at a book, the leaves of which he nervously turned. Trevannion eyed him haughtily as he leaned in his most graceful attitude against the wall behind the doctor's chair; and poor Louis read his condemnation in his eyes, as well as in the faces of most present.

Salisbury at length returned with Churchill, who was the more awe-struck at the unwonted summons, as he was so low in the school as seldom to have any business with the principal.

"Churchill," said the doctor, gravely, "I have sent for you to hear what is said of you. Now, Louis Mortimer, who gave you this book on the day Mr. Hamilton discovered it in your possession?"

"Churchill, sir," replied Louis, in great agitation; "you did, Churchill, did you not? Oh! do say you did."

"Hush," said the doctor. "What have you to say against this, Churchill?"

"Nothing, sir -- I did -- I gave it to Louis Mortimer," stammered Churchill, looking from Louis to the doctor, and back again.

"And how came you to give it to him?"

Churchill did not reply until the question was repeated, when he reluctantly said, he had given it to Louis to assist him in his exercise.

"Did Mortimer ask you for it?"

"No, sir."

"Did he wish for it?"

"No, sir, not that I know of."

"You know, Harry, that I asked you to put it away -- did I not?" cried Louis.

"I don't know -- yes -- I think you did," said Churchill, growing very hot.

"Why did you not put it away?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.

"Because I thought he wanted it, please sir."

"But I did not, Harry! I told you I did not," said Louis, eagerly.

Dr. Wilkinson desired Louis to be silent, and continued his questions -- 

"Did you try to persuade him to use it?"

Again Churchill paused, and again confessed, most unwillingly, that he had done so -- and received a severe reprimand for his conduct on the occasion, and a long task to write out which would keep him employed during the play-hours of that day.

He was then dismissed, and Dr. Wilkinson again addressed himself to Louis: "I am glad to find that part of your story is correct; but I now wish you to explain how my key found its way into the school-room yesterday, when discovered by Mr. Witworth. The book must have been deliberately taken out of this room into the school-room. You appear to have been alone, or nearly so, in the school-room the greater part of yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Witworth found the book half concealed by your lesson books while you were writing your exercises."

"I assure you, sir, I did not take it," said Louis.

"Unhappily," replied Dr. Wilkinson, "I cannot take a mere assurance in the present instance. Had not the case been so palpable, I should have been bound to believe you until I had had reason to mistrust your word -- but with these facts I cannot, Louis;" and he added, in a very low tone, so as to be heard only by Louis, who was much nearer to him than the others, "Your honor has not always been sacred -- beware."

His school-fellows wondered what made the red flush mount so furiously in Louis' forehead, and the tears spring to his eyes. The painful feelings called forth by his master's speech prevented him from speaking for a few minutes. He was roused by Dr. Wilkinson saying -- 

"The discovery of this Key in your possession would involve your immediate dismissal from the second class, a sufficient disgrace, but the matter assumes a far more serious aspect from these assertions of innocence. If you had not used the book when discovered, it must have been taken either by you, or another, for use. The question is now, who took it?"

"I did not, sir," said Louis, in great alarm.

"Who did, then? Were any of your class with you?"

"No, sir."

"Was any one with you?"

Louis paused. A sudden thought flashed across him -- a sudden recollection of seeing that book passed over and slipped among his books; an action he had taken no notice of at the time, and which had never struck him till this moment. He now glanced eagerly at Ferrers, and then, in a tremulous voice, said, "I remember now, Ferrers put it there -- I am almost sure."

"Ferrers!" exclaimed the young men, with one voice.

"What humbugging nonsense!" said Salisbury, in a low tone.

"Do you hear, Mr. Ferrers?" said the doctor: "how came you to put that Key among Louis Mortimer's books?"

"I, sir -- I never," stammered Ferrers. "What should I want with it? What good could I get by it? Is it likely?"

"I am not arguing on the possibility of such an event, I simply wish to know if you did it?" said the doctor.

"I, sir -- no," exclaimed Ferrers, with an air of injured innocence. "If I had done it, why did he not accuse me at once, instead of remembering it all of a sudden?"

"Because I only just remembered that I saw you moving something towards me, and I am almost sure it was that book now -- I think so," replied Louis.

"You'd better be quite sure," said Ferrers.

Dr. Wilkinson looked from one to the other, and his look might have made a less unprincipled youth fear to persist in so horrible a falsehood.

"Were you learning your lessons in the school-room yesterday afternoon, Mr. Ferrers, at the same time with Louis Mortimer?" Ferrers acknowledging this, Dr. Wilkinson sent for Mr. Witworth, and asked him if he had observed either Ferrers or Louis go into the study during the afternoon, and if he knew what each brought out with him. Mr. Witworth replied that both went in, but he did not know what for.

"I went in to get an atlas for Ferrers," cried Louis, in great agitation.

"I got the atlas myself, Mortimer, you know," said Ferrers.

Louis was quite overcome. He covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.

"This is a sad business," said Dr. Wilkinson, very gravely; "much worse than I expected -- one of you must be giving utterance to the most frightful untruths. Which of you is it?"

"What would Ferrers want with the Key to The Greek Exercises sir?" suggested Trevannion, "unless he wished to do an ill turn to Mortimer, which you cannot suppose."

"I have hitherto trusted Mr. Ferrers," replied Dr. Wilkinson; "and am not disposed to withdraw that confidence without sufficient cause. Mr. Ferrers, on your word of honor, am I to believe your statement?"

Ferrers turned pale, but the doctor's steady gaze was upon him, and all his class-fellows awaited his reply -- visions of disgrace, contempt, and scorn were before him, and there was no restraining power from within to check him, as he hastily replied, "On my word of honor, sir."

"I must believe you, then, as I can imagine no motive which could induce you to act dishonorably by this boy, were I to discover that any one in my school had acted so, his immediate expulsion should be the consequence."

The dead silence that followed the doctor's words struck coldly on the heart of the guilty coward.

"Now, Louis Mortimer," said the doctor, sternly, "I wish to give you another chance of confessing your fault."

Louis' thick convulsive sobs only replied to this. After waiting a few minutes, Dr. Wilkinson said, "Go now to the little study joining my dining-room, and wait there till I come: I shall give you half an hour to consider."

Louis left the room, and repaired to the study, where he threw himself on a chair in a paroxysm of grief, which, for the first quarter of an hour, admitted of no alleviation: "He had no character. The doctor had heard all before. All believed him guilty -- and how could Ferrers act so? How could it ever be found out? And, oh! his dear father and mother, and his grandfather, would believe it."

By degrees the violence of his distress subsided, and he sent up his tearful petitions to his heavenly Father, till his overloaded heart felt lightened of some of its sorrow. As he grew calmer, remembrances of old faults came before him, and he thought of a similar sin of his own, and how nearly an innocent person had suffered for it -- and this he felt was much easier to bear than the consciousness of having committed the fault himself; and he remembered the sweet verses in the first Epistle of St. Peter: "What glory is it if, when ye be buffeted for your faults, ye take it patiently; but if when ye do well and suffer for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God. For even hereunto ye were called, because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example that we should follow His steps: who did no sin, neither was guile found in His mouth; who, when He was reviled, reviled not again; when He suffered, He threatened not; but committed Himself to Him that judgeth righteously," -- and the feeling of indignation against Ferrers was gradually changed into almost pity for him, for Louis knew by experience the pain of a loaded conscience. While his thoughts thus ran over the past and present, he heard the firm step of Dr. Wilkinson crossing the hall, and nearly at the same moment that gentleman entered the room. There was no pity in his countenance -- the dark lines in his face seemed fixed in their most iron mould; and briefly announcing to his trembling pupil that the time allowed him for consideration had expired, he asked whether he were prepared to acknowledge his fault. Louis meekly persisted in his denial, which had only the effect of making the doctor consider him a more hardened offender; and after a few words, expressing the strongest reprehension of his wickedness and cowardice, he gave him severe caning, and sent him immediately to bed, although it was but the middle of the day. In spite of the better feelings which urged poor Louis to acknowledge the justice, under the circumstances, of his master's proceedings, he could not help thinking that he had been very hardly treated. He hurried up stairs, glad to indulge his grief in silence. How many times, in the affliction of the next few hours, did he repeat a little hymn he had learned at home:

"Thy lambs, dear Shepherd, that are weak, Are thy peculiar care; 'Tis Thine in judgment to afflict, And Thine in love to spare.

"Though young in years, yet, oh! how oft Have I a rebel been; My punishment, O Lord, is mild, Nor equals all my sin.

"Since all the chastisements I feel Are from Thy love alone, Let not one murmuring thought arise, But may Thy will be done.

"Then let me blush with holy shame, And mourn before my Lord, That I have lived to Thee no more, No more obeyed Thy word."

 -- "Hymns for Sunday-Schools"

At last he fell asleep, and oh! to wake; from that sleep! It was surely good to be afflicted, and in the happiness of his mind Louis forgot his trouble. But he had yet to endure much more, and the bitterest part of his punishment came the next morning, when, according to his master's orders, he repaired to the study with his books. He had been desired to remain in this room out of school-hours, and was forbidden to speak to any of his school-fellows without leave. While he was sitting there the first morning after the inquiry related in this chapter, Dr. Wilkinson entered with a letter, and sat down at the table where Louis was reading. As he opened his desk, he said, "I have a painful task to perform. This is a letter from your father, Louis Mortimer, and he particularly requests that I should give him an account of your conduct and your brother's; you know what an account I can give of you both."

Louis had listened very attentively to his master's speech, and when it was concluded he gave way to such a burst of sorrow as quite touched the doctor. For some minutes he wept almost frantically, and then clasping his hands, he implored Dr. Wilkinson not to tell his father what had happened: "It will break mamma's heart, it will break mamma's heart, sir -- do not tell my father."

"Confess your fault, Louis, and I may then speak of amendment," said the doctor.

"I cannot, indeed -- indeed I cannot. It will all come out by and bye: you will see, sir -- oh! you will see, sir," sobbed Louis, deprecating the gathering of the angry cloud on the doctor's face. "Oh! do not tell mamma, for it is not true."

"I do not wish to hear any more, sir," said the doctor, sternly.

"Oh! what shall I do -- what shall I do!" cried Louis; and he pushed his chair quickly from the table, and, throwing himself on his knees by Dr. Wilkinson, seized the hand that was beginning to date the dreaded letter -- "I assure you I did not, sir -- I am speaking the truth."

"As you always do, doubtless," said the doctor, drawing his hand roughly away. "Get up, sir; kneel to Him you have so deeply offended, but not to me."

Louis rose, but stood still in the same place. "Will you hear only this one thing, sir? I will not say any thing more about my innocence -- just hear me, if you please, sir."

Dr. Wilkinson turned his head coldly towards him.

Louis dried his tears, and spoke with tolerable calmness: "I have one thing to ask, sir -- will you allow me still to remain in the second class, and to do my lessons always in this room? You will then see if I can do without keys, or having any help."

"I know you can if you choose," replied Dr. Wilkinson, coldly, "or I should not have placed you in that class."

"But, if you please, sir, I know all," -- Louis paused, he had promised to say no more on that subject.

There was a little silence, during which Dr. Wilkinson looked earnestly at Louis. At last he said, "You may stay in the class; but, remember, you are forbidden to speak to any of your school-fellows for the next week without express permission."

"Not to my brother, sir?"

"No; now go."

"May I write to mamma?"

"Yes, if you wish it."

After timidly thanking the doctor, Louis returned to his seat, and Dr. Wilkinson continued his letter, which went off by the same post that took Louis' to his mother.



Chapter V.

"Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; nevertheless, afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby." -- Heb. xii. 11.

"Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now have I kept Thy word." -- Psalm cxix. 67.


Perhaps there is no state more dangerous to a Christian's peace of mind than one of continual prosperity. In adversity even the worldly man will sometimes talk of resignation, and feel that it is a good thing to be acquainted and at peace with God, and that when all human help is cut off, it is a sweet thing to have a sure refuge in an almighty Saviour. But in prosperity the ungodly never look to Him; and His own children, carrying about with them a sinful nature, against which they must continually maintain a warfare, are too apt to forget the Giver in his gifts, and to imagine that all is well because nothing occurs to disturb the regularity of their blessings.

Our little Louis, though the trial he now underwent was a bitter one, and though at times it seemed almost too hard to be endured, learned by degrees to feel that it was good for him. He had been in too high favor, he had trusted too much in the good word of his school-fellows, and had suffered the fear of man to deter him from his duty to God; and now, isolated and looked upon as an unworthy member of the little society to which he belonged, he learned to find his sole happiness in that sweet communion which he had now solitary leisure to enjoy. His very troubles carried him to a throne of grace; his desolate condition made him feel that there was only One who never changed nor forsook His people; only One who could understand and feel for the infirmities and sorrows of a human creature; and though to the ungodly it is a terror to know that there is "nothing that is not manifest in God's sight," to the true child of God it is an unspeakable comfort to feel that his thoughts and actions are "known long before" by his unwearied Guardian.

The effects of Louis' lonely communings were soon visible in his daily conduct, and after his term of punishment had expired, the meekness of his bearing, and the gentle lowliness of his demeanor, often disarmed the most severe and unpitying of his youthful judges. There was no servility in his manner, for he neither courted nor shunned observation; nor, though he was as willing as ever to do a kind action for any one, did he allow himself to be persuaded to give up all his time to his idler school-fellows. There seemed more firmness and decision in his naturally yielding disposition, and those who knew not the power of assisting grace, looked and wondered at the firmness the sweet but weak boy could at times assume. He would have told them it was not his own. He was very quiet, and spoke little, even to his brother, of what was passing in his mind, and sometimes his thoughts were so quietly happy that he did not like to be spoken to. To Ferrers, Louis was as gentle and courteous as to the rest of his companions, and, indeed, he had now little other feeling towards him than that of sorrow and pity.

There had been an unusual noise in the study one evening, while Louis was absent, and when he entered it, he found the confusion attendant on a grand uproar. Very little was doing, and tokens of the late skirmish lay about the floor in torn and scattered books, and overthrown forms. Among others, Ferrers was hunting for a missing book, but to discover it in such a chaos was a difficult task, especially as no one would now allow the candles to be used in the search.

With many expressions, so unfitted for refined ears that I do not choose to present them to my reader, Ferrers continued his search, now and then attempting to snatch a candle from the table, in which he was regularly foiled by those sitting there.

"Well, at least have the civility to move and let me see if it is under the table," he said at length.

"You have hindered us long enough," said Salisbury; "Smith, Jones, and I have done nothing to-night. If you will have rows, you must e'en take the consequences."

"Can't you get under the form?" asked Smith, derisively.

Ferrers was going to make some angry, reply, when Louis dived between the table and the form, with some trouble, and, at the expense of receiving a few unceremonious kicks, recovered the book and gave it to Ferrers, who hardly thanked him, but leaning his head on his hand, seemed almost incapable of doing any thing. Presently he looked up, and asked in a tone of mingled anger and weariness, what had become of the inkstand he had brought.

"Loosing's seeking, Finding's keeping,"

said Salisbury. "Which is yours? Perhaps it's under the table too."

"Hold your nonsense," cried Ferrers, angrily. "It's very shabby of you to hinder me in this manner."

Louis quietly slipped an inkstand near him, an action of which Ferrers was quite aware, and though he pretended not to notice it, he availed himself presently of the convenience. A racking headache, however, almost disabled him from thinking, and though he was really unwell, there was only the boy he had so cruelly injured who felt any sympathy for his suffering.

Louis carefully avoided any direct manifestation of his anxiety to return good for evil, for he felt, though he hardly knew why, that his actions would be misconstrued, but whenever any little opportunity occurred in which he could really render any service, he was always as ready to do it for Ferrers as for another; and now, when from his classmates Ferrers met with nothing but jokes on his "beautiful temper," and "placid state of mind," he could not help feeling the gentleness of Louis' conduct, the absence of pleasure in his annoyance, and the look of evident sympathy he met whenever he accidentally turned his eyes in his direction. For a few days after this he was obliged to keep his bed, and during this time, though Louis only once saw him, he thought of every little kind attention he could, that might be grateful to the invalid. Knowing that he was not a favorite, and that few in the school would trouble themselves about him, he borrowed books and sent them to him for his amusement, and empowered the old cake man to procure some grapes, which he sent up to him by a servant, with strict orders to say nothing of where they came from. The servant met Hamilton at the door of the room, and he relieved her of her charge, and as she did not consider herself under promise of secrecy towards him, she mentioned it, desiring him at the same time to say nothing to Ferrers.

Louis had now established a regular time for doing his own lessons, and kept to it with great perseverance to the end of the half-year, with one exception, when he had been acting prisoner in a trial performed in the school-room, by half his own class and the third, and let the evening slip by without remembering how late it grew. His class-fellows were in the same predicament as himself, and as they had barely time to write a necessary exercise, they agreed among themselves to learn each his own piece of the lesson they had to repeat. Louis did not seriously consider the deceit they were practising, and adopted the same plan. One of the number, not trusting to his memory, hit upon the singular expedient of writing the whole of his piece and the next on a piece of paper, and wafering it to the instep of his shoe when he went up to his class. Unhappily for his scheme, he was so placed that he dared not expose his foot so as to allow him to avail himself of this delectable assistance, and consequently, after much looking on the floor for inspiration, and much incoherent muttering, was passed over, and the order of things being thereby disturbed, of course no one could say the missing lines until the head boy was applied to, and the lower half of the class was turned down, with the exception of Louis, who, standing on this occasion just above the gentleman of shoe memory, had been able to say his share.

As they were breaking up, Mr. Danby said to Louis, "You have been very industrious lately, Louis Mortimer: I am glad you have been so correct to-day."

Louis blushed from a consciousness of undeserved praise; but though his natural fear of offending and losing favor sprung up directly, a higher principle faced it, and bearing down all obstacles, forced him to acknowledge his unworthiness of the present encomium.

"I ought to learn mine, sir, -- I learned my piece to-day."

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Danby.

"I learned my part of the lesson, as well as Harris, Williams, Sutton, and Charles Salisbury. We forgot our lessons last night, but it is quite an accident that I have said mine to-day."

"I am glad you have had the honor to say so," said Mr. Danby. "Of course you must learn yours, but let me have no more learning pieces, if you please."



Chapter VI.

"Blessed are they that dwell in Thy house, they will be still praising Thee. For a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a door-keeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness." -- Psalm lxxxiv. 4, 10.


Dr. Wilkinson's school was too large to be entirely accommodated with sittings in the nearest church -- and, consequently, was divided into two bodies on Sunday, one of which regularly attended one of the churches in Bristol, where Mr. Wilkinson, the doctor's son, occasionally did duty. It fell to Louis' lot, generally, to be of the Bristol party, and unless the day was rainy he was not ill-pleased with his destiny, for the walk was very pleasant, and there was something in the chorus of bells in that many-churched city, and the sight of the gray towers and spires, very congenial to his feelings. It happened that the Sunday after Louis had received permission to mix as usual with his school-fellows was one of those peculiarly sunny days that seem to call upon God's people especially to rejoice and be glad in the Works of His hand. Louis' mind was in a more than usually peaceful state, and his heart overflowed with quiet happiness as he looked down from the height of Brandon Hill upon the city below. He and his companion had walked on rather faster than the rest of their school-fellows, and now stood waiting till they came up.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mortimer," said his companion, a pleasant-looking boy of fifteen or sixteen years of age; "you are very silent to-day -- what may be the subject of your profound meditations?"

Louis hardly seemed to hear the question, for he suddenly turned his bright face to his interrogator, and exclaimed, "What a beautiful sight it is to see so many churches together, Meredith! I think our churches make us such a happy country."

Louis and Meredith on Brandon Hill.

"Upon my word," replied Meredith, "you are endowing those piles of stone with considerable potency. What becomes of commerce and -- "

"I mean, of course," interrupted Louis, "that it is religion that makes us a happier country than others. I love so to look at the churches; the sight of one sometimes, when all is fair and quiet, brings the tears into my eyes."

"Hey-dey! quite sentimental! You'd better be a parson, I think."

"I hope I shall be a clergyman -- I wish very much to be one -- there is not such another happy life. I was just thinking, Meredith, when you spoke to me, of a verse we read yesterday morning, which quite expresses my feelings: 'One thing have I desired of the Lord which I will seek after, that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in His temple.'"

Meredith looked with some surprise at Louis, and as they moved on he said carelessly, "I suppose somebody will have the gratification of beholding me in a long gown some day, holding forth for the edification of my devoted flock."

"Are you going to be a clergyman?" asked Louis.

"Yes, I suppose I must. Don't you think I shall be a most useful character?"

"Oh! surely you wish it, do you not?"

"Well, I don't much mind," replied Meredith, snatching a handful of leaves from the hedge near him; "I shall have a nice fat living, and it's a respectable kind of thing."

Louis was horror-struck -- he had not imagined such an idea -- he almost gasped out, "Oh! Meredith, I can hardly understand you. Surely that is not your only wish about it: that cannot be a reason -- not a right one."

"Why, what's the harm?" said Meredith, laughing. "I only say outright what hundreds think. If I could choose, perhaps I might like the army best, but my father has a comfortable provision in the church for me, and so I, like a dutiful son, don't demur, especially as, if I follow the example of my predecessor, it will be vastly more easy than a soldier's life."

"Meredith, Meredith, this is too solemn a thing to laugh about. I have often wondered how it is there are clergymen who can take their duties so easily as some do; but if they only undertake them for your reasons, I cannot feel so much surprised that they should be so careless. How can you expect any happiness from such a life! I should be afraid to talk so."

Meredith stared contemptuously. "You are a Methodist, Louis," he said; "I have no doubt I shall preach as good sermons as you: just put on a grave face, and use a set of tender phrases, and wear a brilliant on your little finger, and a curly head, and there you are a fashionable preacher at once -- and if you use your white pocket-handkerchief occasionally, throw your arms about a little, look as if you intended to tumble over the pulpit and embrace the congregation, and dose your audience with a little pathos, you may draw crowds -- the ladies will idolize you."

"I should not think that such popularity would be very good," replied Louis, "supposing you could do as you say; but it seems to me quite shocking to speak in such a slighting manner of so holy a thing. Were you ever at an ordination, Meredith?"

"Not I," said Meredith.

"I should think if you had been you would be afraid to think of going to answer the solemn questions you will be asked when you are ordained. I was once with papa at an ordination at Norwich cathedral, and I shall never forget how solemnly that beautiful service came upon me. I could not help thinking how dreadful it must be to come there carelessly, and I wondered how the gentlemen felt who were kneeling there -- and the hymn was so magnificent, Meredith. I think if you were there with your present feelings, you would be afraid to stay. It would seem like mocking God to come to answer all those solemn questions, and not mean what you said. I think it is wicked."

Louis spoke rapidly, and with great emotion.

Meredith looked angry, struggling with a feeling of shame, and a wish to laugh it off. "You are exclusively precise," he said; "others are not, and have as much right to their opinion as you to yours. Trevannion, for instance -- he's going into the church because it is so genteel."

"I hope you are mistaken," said Louis, quickly.

"Not I; I heard him say the same thing myself."

"I am very sorry," said Louis, sadly. "Oh! I would rather be a laborer than go into the church with such a wish -- and yet, I had rather be a very poor curate than a rich duke: it is such a happy, holy life." The last part of Louis' speech was nearly inaudible, and no more was said until the afternoon.

It was Dr. Wilkinson's wish that the Sabbath should be passed as blamelessly as he had the power of ordering it in his household; but to make it a day of reverence and delight among so large a number of boys, with different dispositions and habits of life, was an arduous task. Mr. James Wilkinson was with the boys the whole afternoon, as well as his father, to whose utmost endeavors he joined his own, that the day might not be wholly unprofitable. In spite, however, of all diligence, it could not fail of often being grossly misspent with many of the pupils; for it is not possible for human power effectually to influence the heart, and, until that is done, any thing else can be but an outward form.

This afternoon the boys were scattered over the large playground. In one corner was the doctor, with twenty or thirty boys around him, and in other directions, the different ushers hearing Catechisms and other lessons. Some of the parties were very dull, for no effort was made by the instructor to impart a real delight in the Word of God to his pupils; and religion was made merely a matter of question and answer, to remain engraved in such heartless form on the repugnant mind of the learner. And, alas! how can it be otherwise, where the teacher himself does not know that religion is a real and happy thing, and not to be learned as we teach our boys the outlines of heathen mythology?

Sitting on the ground, lolling against one of the benches under a tree, sat Hastings Meredith and Reginald and Louis Mortimer; and one or two more were standing or sitting near; all of whom had just finished answering all the questions in the Church Catechism to Mr. Danby, and had said a Psalm.

Louis was sitting on the bench, looking flushed, thinking of holidays, and, of course, of home, -- home Sabbaths, those brightest days of home life, -- when Trevannion came up with his usual air of cool, easy confidence. Trevannion was the most gentlemanly young man in the school; he never was in a hurry; was particularly alive to any thing "vulgar," or "snobbish," and would have thought it especially unbecoming in him to exhibit the smallest degree of annoyance at any untoward event. It took a good deal to put him out of countenance, and he esteemed it rather plebeian to go his own errands, or, indeed, to take any unnecessary trouble.

"Were you in Bristol this morning, Meredith?" he said.

"Yes, sure, your highness," replied Meredith, yawning.

"Tired apparently," said Trevannion ironically, glancing at the recumbent attitude of the speaker.

"Worried to death with that old bore Danby, who's been going backwards and forwards for the last hour, with 'What is your name?' and 'My good child,' &c. I'm as tired as -- as -- oh help me for a simile! as a pair of worn-out shoes."

"A poetical simile at last," remarked Reginald, laughing.

"You would have a nice walk," said Trevannion.

"Very! and a sermon gratis to boot," replied Meredith. "It would have done you good, Trevannion, to have heard what shocking things you have done in being so very genteel."

"What do you mean?" said Trevannion, coolly.

"Louis Mortimer was giving me a taste of his Methodistical mind on the duties of clergymen generally, and your humble servant especially."

"I presume you do not include yourself in the fraternity yet?" said Trevannion.

"Not exactly; but having informed him of my prospects, the good child began to upbraid me with my hypocrisy, and, bless you, such a thundering sermon, -- positively quite eloquent."

"Perhaps I may be allowed to profit by the second part of it," said Trevannion, turning to Louis; "will you be kind enough to edify me?"

Louis did not reply, and Trevannion's lips curled slightly as he remarked, "There is an old proverb about those who live in glass houses -- 'Physician, cure thyself.'"

Poor Louis turned away, and Meredith, stretching himself and yawning terrifically, continued, "You must know, Trevannion, that it is very wicked to be any thing but a Methodist, very wicked for a clergyman to be genteel, or to wish to make himself comfortable."

"Hastings, I did not say so," said Louis, turning his head.

"And so," continued Meredith, without noticing Louis, "if we dare to follow up our own or our fathers' wishes, we must listen to Louis Mortimer, and he will tell us what to do."

"Much obliged to him, I am sure," said Trevannion.

"Yes, so am I," rejoined Meredith, "though I forgot to tender my thanks before; and hereby give notice, that when I am in orders, I will not hunt more than convenient, nor play cards on Good Friday, nor go to dancing parties on Saturday evening."

"Pshaw, Meredith," said Trevannion: "it is very unbecoming to talk in this manner of so sacred a profession. A hunting and card-playing clergyman ought to be stripped of his gown without hesitation. Any right-minded person would recoil with horror at such a character. It is a great disgrace to the profession; no clergyman ought to enter into any kind of improper dissipation. Your ideas are very light and indelicate."

"Will you be kind enough to define that term, improper dissipation," said Meredith, carelessly. "I presume you have no objection to a quiet dance now and then, only they must not call it a ball."

"A clergyman ought not to dance," replied Trevannion, in precisely the same cool, dictatorial manner.

"He may look on them, may he not?" said Meredith.

"A clergyman has many serious duties to perform, and he should be very careful that he does not degrade his office," replied Trevannion. "He has to uphold the dignity of the church, and should take care that his conduct is such that no reproach can fall on that church from his inconsistency."

"Well, for my part," said Meredith, lightly, "I think the church too important to miss the weight of my example. I mean to have a most exemplary curate."

Near these speakers sat Mr. James Wilkinson, with a few little boys, whom at this moment he hastily dismissed, for the sound of the light conversation reached him, and he arose quickly and introduced himself to the little coterie just as Reginald exclaimed, "For shame, Meredith!"

"Ay, for shame," said Mr. James: "I have heard a little of what has been going on among you, and am really very sorry to hear such expressions on a subject so solemn and important. Meredith, you cannot be aware of what you are saying. I should like to have a little talk about this matter; and, Mr. Trevannion, if you will give me your attention for a few minutes, I shall be obliged to you."

Trevannion seated himself on the bench, and folding his arms, remained in an attitude of passive attention.

"Lend me your prayer-book, Mortimer," said Mr. James, and he quickly turned to the service for the ordering of deacons. "The first question here put to the candidate for holy orders is, 'Do you trust that you are inwardly moved by the Holy Ghost, to take upon you this office and ministration, to serve God for the promoting of His glory and the edifying of His people?' Now, Meredith, I ask you to think, whether, with such sentiments as you have just expressed, you can dare to answer, 'I trust so?'"

"I never thought very seriously about it," said Meredith, rather abruptly.

"But you know these things must be thought of seriously and prayerfully. It is required of a man in every station of life, that he be faithful and diligent, serving the Lord, and whoever does not remember this, must answer for his neglect of such duty to his Maker. It will not do to say that our individual example can be of no importance; the command, 'Occupy till I come,' is laid upon each one of us; but what must be said of him who, in a careless, light frame of mind, takes these holy vows upon him, knowing in his own mind that he intends to break them; that his sole desire to be put into the priest's office is to eat a morsel of bread? What shall be said of him who goes into the house of God, and in the presence of His people declares that it is his intention, 'to search gladly and willingly for the sick and poor of his parish, to relieve their necessities; to frame his own life and the lives of his family according to the doctrine of Christ; to be diligent in prayers and in reading of the Holy Scriptures, laying aside the study of the world and the flesh,' and yet knows that he intends to enjoy himself in the things of this world -- a very hireling who forgets that his master's eye is upon him. It is a fearful thing. It is coming before the Almighty with a lie. Nay, hear me a little longer. The clergyman's is a glorious and exalted path, the happiest I know of on earth. It is his especially to bear the message of salvation from a tender Saviour. It is his to go forth with the balm of heavenly comfort, to bind up the wounds sin and grief have made. It is his indeed pre-eminently to dwell in the house of his God, to be hid away from the world and its many allurements; but as every great blessing brings with it a great responsibility, so the responsibility of the minister of Christ is very great, and if he turn from the commandment delivered to him, his condemnation is fearful. I should be much obliged to you, Meredith, if you would read me these verses."

Meredith took the open Bible from Mr. Wilkinson's hand, and read aloud the first ten verses of the 34th of Ezekiel.

"In this holy word, which must be the standard for all our conduct, we do not find that the Almighty looks upon this office as a light thing. In the thirty-third chapter there is so solemn a warning to the careless watchman, that I wonder any one who does not steadfastly intend to give himself to his sacred duties, can read it and not tremble. 'If the watchman see the sword come, and blow not the trumpet, and the people be not warned; if the sword come, and take away any person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity; but HIS BLOOD WILL I REQUIRE AT THE WATCHMAN'S HAND. So thou, O son of man, I have set thee a watchman unto the house of Israel; therefore thou shalt hear the word at my mouth, and warn them from me. When I say unto the wicked, Oh wicked man, thou shalt surely die; if thou dost not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand.' This is the second solemn warning to the same purport given to Ezekiel; for, in the third chapter, we find the same thing; and these are awful truths engraved in God's everlasting word, by which we are to be judged at the last day. You must excuse me," continued Mr. Wilkinson, and his eyes glistened with emotion; "but I am a watchman, and I must warn you of the fearful sin you are contemplating."

Meredith was silent. He was impressed with the earnestness displayed by Mr. Wilkinson, and the solemn truths he had brought before him -- truths it would be well if all those who are looking forward to entering the sacred ministry would seriously and prayerfully consider.

The tea bell ringing at this moment, the conversation was necessarily concluded; but that evening after prayers, Mr. Wilkinson put into Meredith's hand a piece of paper, on which were written the following references: Num. xvi. 9; Isaiah lii. 7, 8; lxii. 6, 7; Jer. xxiii. 1-4; Ezek. iii. 17-21; xxxiii. 1-9; xxxiv. 1-10; John xxi. 15-17; 1 Cor. ix. 16, 17, 19; and both the Epistles to Timothy; and underneath the references was the Apostle's injunction, "Meditate upon these things; give thyself wholly to them, that thy profiting may appear unto all."

When Louis was fairly in bed that night, he was called on for a story.

"Tell us the end of the princess Rosetta, Louis," cried Frank; "I want to know how the fair animal got out of her watery bedroom, and whether the green dog ever got his nose nipped by the oysters he was so fond of snapping up."

"Yes, Rosetta!" cried several voices. "Did she ever get to the king of the peacocks, Louis?"

"No, no," cried Reginald; "it is not fit for Sunday."

"I am sure we have been doing heaps of good things to-day," replied Frank, lightly; "come, Louis."

"I must not," said Louis, gently. "I do not like telling stories at night at all, because I think we ought not to fill our heads with such things when we are going to sleep; but I must not tell you Rosetta to-night, Frank."

"Get along," said Frank, contemptuously; "you are not worth the snap of a finger. All you are ever worth is to tell stories, and now you must needs set up for a good, pious boy -- you, forsooth of all others!"

"Indeed, Frank, you will not understand me."

"If you dare to say any more to Louis," cried Reginald, "I'll make you -- "

Louis' hand was upon Reginald's mouth.

Frank replied, tauntingly, "Ay, finish your work this time, that's right. Come boys, never mind, I'll tell you a wonderful tale."

"I think we'd better not have one to-night," said one; "perhaps Mortimer's right."

"Don't have one, don't!" said Louis, starting up; "do not let us forget that all this day is God's day, and that we must not even speak our own words."

"None of your cant," cried one.

"Well, I propose that we go to sleep, and then we shan't hear what he says," said Meredith. "They talk of his not having pluck enough to speak, but he can do it when he pleases," he remarked in a low tone to his next companion, Frank Digby, who rejoined,

"More shame for him, the little hypocrite. I like real religious people, but I can't bear cant."

What Frank's idea of real religion was, may be rather a difficult matter to settle. Probably it was an obscure idea to himself, -- an idea of certain sentiment and no vitality.



Chapter VII.


The next Saturday afternoon proving unusually fine, the community at Ashfield House sallied forth to enjoy their half-holiday on the downs. A few of the seniors had received permission to pay a visit to Bristol, and not a small party was arranged for a good game of cricket. Among the latter was Reginald Mortimer, whose strong arm and swift foot were deemed almost indispensable on such occasions. As he rushed out of the playground gates, bat in hand, accompanied by Meredith, he overtook his brother, who had discovered a poem unknown to him in Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, and was anticipating a pleasant mental feast in its perusal.

"Louis, you lazy fellow," cried Reginald, good-temperedly, "you shan't read this fine afternoon -- come, join us."

"I don't play cricket, I have not learned," replied Louis.

"And you never will," rejoined Reginald, "if you don't make a beginning: I'll teach you -- now put away that stupid book."

"Stupid!" said Louis. "It's Coleridge, that mamma promised to read to us."

"I hate poetry," exclaimed Reginald; "I wonder how anybody can read such stuff. Give me the book, Louis, and come along."

"No, thank you, I'd rather not."

"What a donkey you are!" said Meredith: "why don't you learn?"

"Perhaps my reputation may be the safer for not divulging my reasons," said Louis, archly: "it is sufficient for present purposes that I had rather not."

"Rather not -- rather not," echoed Meredith: "like one of your sensible reasons."

"He has refused to give them, so you cannot call that his reason, Meredith," remarked Reginald; "but let us be off, as Louis won't come."

Away they ran, and after looking at them for a minute, Louis turned off his own way, but it was destined that he should not read the Ancient Mariner that day, for he was presently interrupted by little Alfred Hamilton, who pounced upon him full of joy.

"Louis," he cried, "I am so glad to speak to you! I don't know how it is that I have not been able to speak to you lately: I half thought Edward did not like it, but he asked me to-day why I did not come to you now."

"Did he?" exclaimed Louis, with joyful surprise; "I am very glad you are come. I think we shall have a beautiful walk."

"I can't think how it is, Louis, that everybody is either so grave or rude when I speak of you. What is the matter?"

"A mistake; and a sad one for me," said Louis, gravely. "But don't say any thing about it, Alfred; they think I have been doing something very wrong; but all will come out some day."

"I hope so," replied little Alfred; "I cannot think what you can have done wrong, Louis, you always seem so good."

The child looked wistfully up in Louis' face as he spoke, and seemed to wait some explanation.

"That is because you do not know much about me, Alfred," replied Louis; "but in this one case I have not done wrong, I assure you."

Alfred asked no more questions, though he looked more than once in the now sorrowful young face by him, as they sauntered along the wide downs.

"Here come Edward and Mr. Trevannion," said Alfred, turning round; "and there is Frank Digby, and Mr. Ferrers, too. I think Edward is going to Bristol this afternoon."

This intimation of the august approach of his majesty and court was hardly given when the young gentlemen passed Louis. Hamilton, with Trevannion, as usual, leaning on his arm, and Frank Digby walking backwards before them, vainly endeavoring to support a failing argument with a flood of nonsense, a common custom with this young gentleman; and, by the way, we might recommend it as remarkably convenient at such times, to prevent the pain of a total discomfiture, it being more pleasant to slip quietly and unseen from your pedestal to some perfectly remote topic, than to allow yourself to be hurled roughly therefrom by the rude hand of a more sound and successful disputant.

"Enough, enough, Frank!" exclaimed Hamilton, laughing. "I see through your flimsy veil. We won't say any more: you either argue in a circle, or try to blind us."

Louis looked up as Hamilton passed, in hopes that that magnate might give him a favorable glance, in which he was not mistaken, for Edward the Great had been watching him from some distance, and was perfectly aware of his near approach to him.

He certainly did not seem displeased, though the grave countenance bore no marks of particular satisfaction at the rencontre. He spoke carelessly to his brother, and then, addressing Louis, said, "You must look after him, Louis, if you wish for his company; if not, dismiss him at once."

"I do wish for him," said Louis, with a bright look of gratitude; "I promise to take care of him. Mr. Hamilton, I am getting up in my class -- I am fifth now."

The latter communication was made doubtfully, in a tone indicating mixed pleasure and timidity.

"I am glad to hear it," was Hamilton's laconic reply. He did not quicken his pace. "What have you there?" he asked, noticing his book.

"Coleridge's Ancient Mariner; I was going to read it," replied Louis; "but now Alfred has come we shall talk: shall we not, Alfred?"

This was accompanied by another look of grateful pleasure at Alfred's brother.

What was passing in Hamilton's mind was not to be gathered from his countenance, which exhibited no emotion of any kind. He turned to Trevannion, as their party was strengthened by Churchill, remarking, "Here comes the sucking fish."

"It's uncommon hot," said Churchill, taking off his hat, and fanning himself with his handkerchief.

"Dreadful warm," said Frank Digby, in exactly the same tone.

"And there is not a breath of wind on the horrid downs," continued the sapient youth, perfectly unconscious of Frank's mimicry.

"What will the fair Louisa do?" cried Frank: "O that a zephyr would have pity on that delicate form!"

Across their path lay a wagon, from which the horses had been detached, and which now offered a tempting though homely shelter to those among the pedestrians who might choose to sit on the shady side, or to avail themselves of the accommodation afforded by the awning over the interior. Ferrers threw himself full length inside the cart: and Louis, drawing Alfred to the shady side, seated himself by him on the grass. His example was followed by Churchill, who exclaimed rapturously as he did so, "How nice! This puts me in mind of a Latin sentence; I forget the Latin, but I remember the English -- 'Oh, 'tis pleasant to sit in the shade!'"

"Of a wagon," said Frank, laughing. "Remarkably romantic! It is so sweet to hear the birds chirp, and the distant hum of human voices -- but language fails! As for Lady Louisa, she is in the Elysium of ecstasy. It's so romantic."

"Are you going to Bristol, Frank, for I'm off?" said Hamilton.

"Coming," replied Frank. "We'll leave these romantic mortals to their sequestered glen. There ain't nothing like imagination, my good sirs."

As he joined his companions, Trevannion remarked to Hamilton, "Little Mortimer is so much the gentleman, you never know him do or say any thing vulgar or awkward. It is a pity one can't depend upon him."

"I am not quite sure that you cannot," replied Hamilton.

"How!" said Trevannion, in astonishment.

"Are you going to turn Paladin for her ladyship?" asked Frank.

"I have been watching Louis very carefully, and the more I see, the more I doubt his guilt," replied Hamilton.

"After what you saw yourself? After all that was seen by others? Impossible, my dear Hamilton!" exclaimed Trevannion. "You cannot exonerate him without criminating others."

"We shall see," replied Hamilton; "and more than that, Trevannion, I am certain that Dr. Wilkinson has his doubts now, too."

"But does Fudge know any thing about his old pranks?" asked Frank, incredulously.

"I cannot say," replied Hamilton; "but I think that he probably does; for what is so well known now among ourselves, is likely enough to reach his quick ears."

"But knowing all you do, my dear Hamilton," said Trevannion, expostulatingly, "you must be strongly prejudiced in your protege's favor to admit a doubt in this case. Has Dr. Wilkinson told you that he has any doubts?"

"No," replied Hamilton; "you know the doctor would not reveal his mind unless he were confident, but I have noticed some little things, and am sure that though he seems generally so indifferent to Louis' presence and concerns, and so distant and cold towards him, he's nevertheless watching him very narrowly; and I, for my part, expect to see things take a new turn before long."

"The boy seems quite to have won your heart," said Trevannion.

"Poor fellow," replied Hamilton, smiling. "He is a sweet-tempered, gentle boy; a little too anxious to be well thought of, and has, perhaps, too little moral courage. I own he has interested me. His very timidity and his numerous scrapes called forth pity in the first instance, and then I saw more. I should not have been surprised at his telling a lie in the first place, but I do not think he would persist in it."

"I'm afraid wisdom's at fault," said Frank, shaking his head: "you would not say that Ferrers helped him? -- I mean took the key to get him into a scrape."

"I accused no one, Digby," replied Hamilton, in a reserved tone; "nor am I going to wrong any one by uttering unformed suspicions."

"Enough has been said," remarked Trevannion; "let us drop the subject, and talk of something more interesting to all parties."

While these young gentlemen pursue their walk, we will retrace our steps to the wagon, where Louis and his little friend have taken shelter.

Churchill, finding neither seemed very much inclined to encourage his conversational powers, took himself off, after remaining in the shade long enough to cool himself. After his departure Louis and Alfred talked lazily on of their own pleasant thoughts and schemes, both delighted at being once more in each other's society. They were within sight of the masters out on the downs, and who had forbidden them to wander beyond certain limits, but still so far from their school-fellows as to be able to enjoy their own private conversation unmolested, and in the feeling of seclusion.

At length, after a pause, Louis made an original remark on the beauty of the weather, which was immediately responded to by his companion, who added that he had not known such a fine day since Miss Wilkinson's wedding.

"Don't you think so?" said Louis; "I think we had one or two Sundays quite as fine."

"Perhaps I thought that day so very fine, because I wanted to go out," said Alfred.

"What do you mean?" asked Louis: "we had a holiday then."

"Yes, I know, but I was not allowed to go out because I had been idle, and had spoken improperly to Mr. Norton. I remember it was so sad. I assure you, Louis, I cried nearly all day; for I was shut up in your class-room, and I heard all the boys so merry outside. The very thought makes me quite sorrowful now."

A thought flashed across Louis' mind, and he asked quickly -- 

"Were you shut up in our class-room that holiday, Alfred? I never saw you when I went in."

"But I saw you once," said Alfred, "when you came in for an atlas; and I saw Mr. Ferrers, and afterwards Edward and Mr. Salisbury and Mr. Trevannion come in; but I was ashamed, and I did not want any one to see me, so I hid myself between the book-case and the wall."

"Did your brother know you were there?" asked Louis.

"Not there," replied Alfred. "He thought I was to go into Dr. Wilkinson's study; but I could not go there, and I didn't want him to speak to me."

"Did Ferrers come to fetch any thing, Alfred?"

Alfred laughed. "It won't be telling tales out of school to tell you, Louis. He came for a key to the first-class exercise book."

"How do you know it was a first-class exercise book, Alfred?" asked Louis, with a glowing face and beating heart.

"I know Edward does Kenrick's Latin Exercises, and I know the key because it's just like the book, and I have seen Mr. Ferrers with it before. I remember once on a half-holiday he did his lessons in the school-room at my desk, and he had it open in the desk, and as I wanted something out. I saw it, though he did not think I did."

"Oh Alfred, Alfred!" cried Louis, clasping him very tightly. "Oh Alfred! dear Alfred!"

The child looked up in astonishment, but Louis was so wild with excitement that he could not say any more.

Just at that moment there was an abrupt movement in the wagon, and Ferrers' head was put over the side.

Alfred uttered an exclamation of fear. "Oh, there's Mr. Ferrers!"

"What rubbish have you been talking, you little impostor?" cried Ferrers. "How dare you talk in such a manner? I've a great mind to kick you from Land's End to John o' Groat's house."

Ferrers begins to be found out.

"Ferrers, you know it's all true," said Louis.

Ferrers' face was white with passion and anxiety. "Get along with you, Alfred, you'd better not let me hear any more of your lies, I can tell you."

"If you had not been listening you would not have heard," replied Alfred, taking care to stand out of Ferrers' reach. "Listeners never hear any good of themselves, Mr. Ferrers: you know it's all true, and if I'd told Edward, you wouldn't have liked it."

"Alfred dear, don't say so much," said Louis.

Alfred here set off running, as Ferrers had dismounted in a very threatening attitude, but instead of giving chase to the daring fugitive, the conscience-stricken youth drew near Louis, who was standing in a state of such delight that he must be excused a little if no thought of his school-fellow's disgrace marred it at present. A glance at the changed and terror-stricken countenance of that school-fellow checked the exuberance of Louis' joy, for he was too sympathizing not to feel for him, and he said in a gentle tone,

"I am very sorry for you, Ferrers, -- you have heard all that Alfred has said."

"Louis Mortimer!" exclaimed Ferrers, in agony; and Louis was half alarmed by the wild despair of his manner, and the vehemence with which he seized his arm. "Louis Mortimer -- it is all true -- but what shall I do?"

Louis was so startled that he could not answer at first: at last he replied,

"Go and tell the doctor yourself -- that will be much the best way."

"Listen to me a moment -- just listen a moment -- as soon as Dr. Wilkinson knows it, I shall be expelled, and I shall be ruined for life. What I have suffered, Louis! Oh -- you see how it was; I dared not tell about it -- how can I hope you can forgive me?"

"I think you must have seen that I forgave you long ago," replied Louis; "I wish I could do any thing for you, Ferrers, but you cannot expect me to bear the blame of this any longer. I think if you tell it to the doctor yourself, he will, perhaps, overlook it, and I will beg for you."

"Oh, Louis!" said Ferrers, seizing the passive hand, and speaking more vehemently; "you heard what the doctor said, and he will do it -- and for one fault to lose all my prospects in life! I shall leave at the holidays, and then I will tell Dr. Wilkinson; will you -- can you -- to save a fellow from such disgrace, spare me a little longer? There are only four weeks -- oh, Louis! I shall be eternally obliged -- but if you could tell -- I have a father -- just think how yours would feel. Louis, will you, can you do this very great favor for me? I don't deserve any mercy from you, I know; but you are better than I am."

All the bright visions of acknowledged innocence fled, and a blank seemed to come over poor Louis' soul. The sacrifice seemed far too great, and he felt as if he were not called to make it; and yet -- a glance at Ferrers' face -- his distress, but not his meanness, struck him. A minute before, he had indulged in bright dreams of more than restoration to favor -- of his brother's delight -- of his father's and mother's approbation -- of his grandfather's satisfaction -- and Hamilton's friendly congratulations. And to give up this! it was surely too much to expect.

During his silence, Ferrers kept squeezing, and even kissing, his now cold hand, and repeating,

"Dear Louis -- be merciful -- will you pity me? -- think of all -- I don't deserve it, I know." And though the meanness and cowardliness were apparent, Louis looked at little else than the extreme agony of the suppliant.

"Don't kiss my hand, Ferrers -- I can't bear it," he said at length, drawing his hand quickly away; and there was something akin to disgust mingled with the sorrowful look he gave to his companion.

"But Louis, will you?"

"Oh Ferrers! it is a hard thing to ask of me," said Louis, bitterly.

"Just for a little longer," implored Ferrers, "to save me from a lasting disgrace."

Louis turned his head away -- it was a hard, hard struggle: "I will try to bear it if God will help me," he said; "I will not mention it at present."

"Oh! how can I thank you! how can I! how shall I ever be able!" cried Ferrers: "but will Alfred tell?"

"He does not know," replied Louis, in a low tone.

"But will he not mention what has passed?"

"I will warn him then," said Louis.

Ferrers then in broken sentences renewed his thanks, and Louis, after hearing a few in silence, as if he heard nothing, turned his full moist eyes on him with a sorrowful beseeching look,

"You have done a very wicked thing, Ferrers. Oh do pray to God to forgive you."

"I will try to do any thing you wish," replied Ferrers.

"A prayer because I wished, could do you no good. You must feel you have sinned against God. Do try to think of this. If it should make you do so, I think I could cheerfully bear this disgrace a little longer for you, though what it is to bear I cannot tell you."

"You are almost an angel, Louis!" exclaimed Ferrers.

"Oh don't say such things to me, Ferrers," said Louis, "pray don't. I am not more so than I was before this -- I am but a sinful creature like yourself, and it is the remembrance of this that makes me pity you. Now do leave me alone; I cannot bear to hear you flatter me now."

Ferrers lingered yet, though Louis moved from him with a shuddering abhorrence of the fawning, creeping manner of his school-fellow. Seeing that Ferrers still loitered near him, he asked if there were any thing more to say.

"Will your brother know this?"

"Reginald?" replied Louis. "Of course -- no -- I shall not tell him."

"A thousand thousand times I thank you, -- oh Louis, Louis, you are too good!"

"Will you be kind enough to let me alone," said Louis gently, but very decidedly.

This time the request was complied with, and Louis resumed his former seat, and fixing his eyes vacantly on the sweet prospect before him, ruminated with a full heart on the recent discovery; and, strange to say, though he had voluntarily promised to screen Ferrers a little longer from his justly merited disgrace, he felt as if it had been only a compulsory sense of duty and not benevolence which had led him to do so, and was inclined to murmur at his hard lot. For some time he sat in a kind of sullen apathy, without being able to send up a prayer, even though he felt he needed help to feel rightly. At length the kindly tears burst forth, and covering his face with his hands he wept softly. "I am very wrong -- very ungrateful to God for His love to me. He has borne so much for me, and I am so unwilling to bear a little for poor Ferrers. Oh what sinful feelings I have! My heavenly Father, teach me to feel pity for him, for he has no one to help him; help him, teach him, Thyself."

Such, and many more, were the deep heart-breathings of the dear boy, and who ever sought for guidance and grace, and was rejected? and how unspeakably comfortable is the assurance, that for each of us there is with Christ the very grace we need.

The sullen fit was gone, and Louis was his own happy self again, when little Alfred came to tell him that Mr. Witworth had given the order to return home, -- "And I came to tell you, dear Louis, for I wanted to walk home with you. What a beast that Ferrers is! see if I won't tell Edward of him."

"Hush, Alfred!" said Louis, putting his finger on the little boy's mouth. "Do you know that God is very angry when we call each other bad names, and surely you do not wish to revenge yourself? I will tell you a very sweet verse which our Saviour said: 'Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you, that ye may be the children of your Father who is in heaven.'" As the little monitor spoke, the soft consciousness of the comfort of those sweet words rushed over his own mind, "children of your Father who is in heaven."

"And am I a child -- His child indeed! I will try to glorify my Saviour who has given me that great name."

That is a sure promise that "they who water shall be watered," and who is there that has endeavored to lead another heavenward, that has not felt, at one time or another, a double share of that living water refreshing his own soul?

With one arm round his little friend's neck, Louis wandered home, and, during the walk, easily persuaded Alfred not to say a word of what had passed; and as for Louis -- oh, his eye was brighter, his step more buoyant, his heart full of gladness!

A little word, and I will close this long chapter. It is good for us to consider how unable we are to think and to do rightly ourselves: we must do so if we would be saved by Christ. When we have done all, we are unprofitable servants; but oh, how gracious -- how incomprehensible is that love that puts into our minds good desires, brings the same to good effect, and rewards us for those things which He Himself has enabled us to do!



Chapter VIII.

"Charity suffereth long, and is kind." -- 1 Cor. xiii. 4.


Louis entered the class-room sooner than usual one evening, and sitting down by his brother, spread before him a few strawberries and some sweet-cakes, inviting him and one of Salisbury's brothers who was on the other side of him to partake of them.

"What beauties they are!" exclaimed John Salisbury; "have you had a box, Louis? How did you get them?"

"Guess," said Louis.

"Nay, I can't guess. Strawberries like these don't come at this time of the year in boxes."

"I guess," said Frank Digby from the opposite side of the table, in a tone as if he had been speaking to some one behind him. "Fudge has a dinner party to-night, hasn't he?"

"Yes," said Louis, laughing; "how did you know that?"

"Oh, I have the little green bird that tells every thing," replied Frank.

"What's that, Frank?" cried Salisbury; "Fudge a dinner party? How snug he's kept it!"

"Why you don't suppose that he's obliged to inform us all when he has some idea of doing the genteel," remarked one of the first class.

"Are Hamilton and Trevannion invited?" asked Salisbury.

"In good troth! thou art a bat of the most blind species," said Frank; "didn't you see them both just now in all their best toggery? Trevannion went up to his room just after school, and has, I believe, at last adorned his beauteous person to his mind -- all graces and delicious odors. -- Faugh! he puts me in mind of a hair-dresser's shop."

"He declares that his new perfumes are something expressly superior," said another. "He wouldn't touch your vulgar scents."

"His millefleurs is at all events uncommonly like a muskrat," said Salisbury.

"And," remarked Frank, "as that erudite youth, Oars, would say, 'puts me in mind of some poet, but I've forgotten his name.' However, two lines borrowed from him, which my sister quotes to me when I am genteel, will do as well as his name:

"'I cannot talk with civet in the room --  A fine puss gentleman, that's all perfume.'"

Reginald laughed. "I often think of the overrun flower-pots in the cottages at Dashwood, when Trevannion has been adorning himself. I once mortally offended him by the same quotation."

"Had you the amazing audacity! the intolerable presumption!" cried Frank, pretending to start. "I perceive his magnificent scorn didn't quite annihilate you; I think, though, he was three hours embellishing himself to-night."

"Frank, that's impossible!" cried Louis, laughing, "for it was four o'clock when he went, and it's only half-past six now."

"Cease your speech, and eat your booty: I dare say it is sweet enough; sweetness is the usual concomitant of goods so obtained."

"What do you mean, Frank?" asked Louis.

"Sweet little innocent; of course he don't know -- no, in course he don't -- how should he? they came into his hand by accident," said Frank, mockingly; "I wish such fortunate accidents would happen to me."

"They were given to me, Frank," said Louis, quietly. "Mrs. Wilkinson gave them to me when she told me I must not stay in the study."

"What a kind person Mrs. Wilkinson is! -- oh! Louis, Louis, Tanta est depravitas humani generis!"

"FRANK!" shouted Reginald, "at your peril!"

"Well, my dear -- what, is my life in peril from you again? I must take care then."

"Come, Frank, have done," cried one of his class-fellows, "can't you leave Louis Mortimer alone -- it doesn't signify to you."

"I only meant to admonish him by a gentle hint, that he must not presume to contradict gentlemen whose honor and veracity may at least be on a par with his own."

"Frank," said Louis, "I cannot think how you can suppose me guilty of such meanness."

"The least said, the soonest mended," remarked Salisbury. "We must have large powers of credence where you are concerned. Clear off your old scores, and then we will begin a new one with you."

Reginald started to his feet. "You shall rue this, Salisbury."

"Two can play at your game," rejoined Salisbury, rising.

Reginald was springing forward, but was checked by Louis, who threw himself on him. "Do not fight, dear Reginald -- do not, pray."

"I will -- unhand me, Louis! I tell you I WILL -- let me go."

"Dear Reginald, not for me -- wait a minute."

At this moment the form behind them fell with a heavy bang, and in struggling to release himself, Reginald fell over it, dragging Louis with him. Louis was a little hurt, but he did not let go his hold. "Reginald," he said, "ask Mrs. Wilkinson to say so herself; they will believe her, I suppose."

The fall had a little checked his rage, and Reginald sat brooding in sullen anger on the ground. At last he started up and left the room, saying to Louis, "It's all your fault, then -- you've no spirit, and you don't want me to have any."

Louis mechanically assisted in raising the form, and stood silently by the table. He looked quickly round, and pushing the little share of his untasted fruit from him, went into the school-room. He did not recover his spirits again that evening, even when Reginald apologized to him for his roughness, pleading in excuse the extreme trouble it gave him to prevent himself from fighting with Salisbury.

As they went up stairs that night, in spite of the cautions given by the usher to be quiet, a sham scuffle ensued on purpose between Salisbury and Frank Digby, during which the former let his candle fall over the bannisters, and they were left in darkness; though, happily for the comfort of the doctor's dinner party, the second hall and back staircase arrangement effectually prevented the noise that ensued from reaching the drawing-room.

"Halloa there -- you fellows! Mortimer, ahoa!" cried one of Salisbury's party; "bring your light."

"You may come and fetch it if you want it," shouted Reginald from his room.

"We're in the dark," was the reply.

"So much the better," said Reginald: "perhaps you will behave a little better now; if you want a light you may come and light your candle here."

"Our candle's on the hall floor," said another voice, amidst suppressed laughter.

"Pick it up, then."

"We're desperately afraid of hobgoblins," cried Frank, rushing into his room and blowing their candle out.

"What did you do that for, Frank?" asked several indignant voices.

"Because Salisbury and his myrmidons were coming to carry it off by a coup de main -- he-he-he -- " giggled Frank.

"And so you've given your own head a blow to punish your tooth! well done," exclaimed another voice at the door.

"Peters, is that you?"

"What's to be done now?"

"How shall we get a light?"

"If you will give me the candle I will get one," said Louis.

Accordingly, the extinguished candle was delivered into his hands, and he felt his way to the kitchen door, where he obtained a light, and then, picking up the fallen candle, tried to arrange its shattered form, and replace it. While thus employed, Ferrers joined him, and offered his aid, and on Louis' accepting it, said in a low tone, -- 

"Louis, I am a wretch, I am so very miserable. I can't think how you can bear so much from one who has never done you any thing but harm."

Louis raised his head from his work in astonishment, and saw that Ferrers looked as he said, very miserable, and was deadly pale.

"I do so despise myself -- to see you bearing all so sweetly, Louis. I should have been different, perhaps, if I had known you before -- I love, I admire you, as much as I hate myself."

"Are you coming with the candle there?" cried a voice from above: "Louis Mortimer and William Ferrers in deep confabulation -- wonders will never cease."

Ferrers jumped up and ran up stairs with his candle, and Louis followed more leisurely to his own room, nor could any thing induce him that night to tell a story. How long and earnest was his prayer for one who had injured him so cruelly, but towards whom he now, instead of resentment, felt only pity and interest!

Ferrers, after tossing from side to side, and trying all schemes for several hours, in vain, to drown his remorse in sleep, at last, at daybreak, sank into an uneasy slumber. The image of Louis, and his mute expression of patient sorrow that evening, haunted him, and he felt an indefinable longing to be like him, and a horror of himself in comparison with him. He remembered Louis' words, "Pray to God;" and one murmured petition was whispered in the stillness of the night, "Lord have mercy on a great sinner."

Since his disgrace, Louis generally had his brother for a companion during their walks; but the next morning Ferrers joined him, and asked Louis to walk with him to the downs. They were both naturally silent for the beginning of the walk; but on Louis making some remark, Ferrers said, "I can't think of any thing just now, Louis; I have done every thing wrong to-day. My only satisfaction is in telling you how much I feel your goodness. I can't think how you can endure me."

"Oh, Ferrers!" said Louis, "what am I that I should not bear you? and if you are really sorry, and wish to be better, I think I may some day love you."

"That you can never do, Louis, -- you must hate and despise me."

"No, I do not," said Louis, kindly; "I am very sorry for you."

"You must have felt very angry."

"I did feel very unkind and shocked at first," replied Louis; "but by God's grace I learned afterwards to feel very differently, and you can't think how often I have pitied you since."

"Pitied me!" said Ferrers.

"Oh yes," replied Louis, sweetly; "because I am sure you must have been very unhappy with the knowledge of sin in your heart -- I don't think there is any thing so hard as remorse to bear."

"I did not feel much sorrow till you were so kind to me," said Ferrers. "What a wretch you must think me!"

"I have sinned too greatly myself to judge very hardly of you; and when I think of all the love shown to me, I feel anxious to show some love to others; and I should be afraid, if I thought too hardly of you, I should soon be left to find out what I am."

Ferrers did not reply; he did not understand the motives which induced Louis' forbearance and gentleness, for he was an entire stranger to religion, and never having met with any one resembling Louis, could not comprehend, though he did not fail to admire, his character, now its beauty was so conspicuously before him. He felt there was an immeasurable distance between them -- for the first time he found himself wanting. Mentally putting himself in Louis' place, he acknowledged that no persuasion could have induced him to act so generously and disinterestedly; and knowing the keen sensitiveness of Louis to disgrace, he wondered how one so alive to the opinion of others, and naturally so yielding and wavering, could steadily and uncomplainingly persevere in his benevolent purpose; for not by word or sign did Louis even hint the truth to Reginald -- the usual depository of his cares and secrets.

Louis, imagining the silence of his companion to proceed from shame and distress, proceeded after a few minutes to reassure him.

"You must not think that I am miserable, Ferrers, for lately I have been much happier than even when I was in favor, for now I do not care so much what the boys will think or say of me, and that thought was always coming in the way of every thing; and there are many things which make me very happy, often."

"What things, Louis?"

"I do not think you would understand me," replied Louis, timidly; "the things and thoughts that make me happy are so different from what we hear generally here."

"But tell me, Louis. I want to know how it is you are so much better than any one else here. I want to be better myself."

"Oh, dear Ferrers," said Louis, gazing earnestly in Ferrers' face, "if you do want to be better, come to our Saviour, and He will make you all you want to be. It is the feeling of His goodness, and the happy hope of being God's children, and having all their sins forgiven, that make all God's people so happy; and you may have this happiness too, if you will. I do not think we think enough of our great name of Christian."

"You read your Bible a great deal, Louis, don't you?"

"Not so much as I ought," replied Louis, blushing, "but I love it very much."

"It always seems to me such a dull book, I am always very glad when our daily reading's over."

"I remember when I thought something in the same way," said Louis: "only mamma used always to explain things so pleasantly, that even then I used to like to hear her read it to us. Papa once said to me that the Bible is like a garden of flowers, through which a careless person may walk, and notice nothing, but that one who is really anxious to find flowers or herbs to cure his disease, will look carefully till he finds what he wants, and that some happy and eager seekers will find pleasure in all."

"Louis, you are very happy," said Ferrers, "though very strange. I would give a world, were it mine, to lay this heavy burden of mine down somewhere, and be as light in disgrace as you are."

Ferrers sighed deeply, and Louis said softly, "'Come unto Him all ye that are heavy laden, and He will give you rest. His yoke is easy and His burden is light.'"

Here they parted. The last whispers of the Saviour's gracious invitation, those "comfortable words," lingered in Ferrers' ears as he entered the house, and returned at night; but he did not throw himself and his burden at the Saviour's feet. And what hindered him? It was pride, pride -- though forced to feel himself a sinner, pride still retained its hold, more feebly than before, but still as a giant.



Chapter IX.


The holidays were fast approaching. Ten days of the three weeks' examination had passed, and every energy was exerted, and every feeling of emulation called out, among those who had any hope of obtaining the honors held out to the successful candidates. It was surprising to see what could be, and what was, done. Even idle boys who had let their fair amount of talent lie dormant during the half year, now came forth, and, straining every nerve, were seen late and early at work which should have been gradually mastered during the last five months; denying themselves both recreation and sleep, with an energy, which, had it been earlier exerted in only half the degree, would have been highly laudable. Some of the latter, who possessed great talent, were successful, but generally the prizes fell to the lot of those who had throughout been uniformly steady, and who had gained an amount of thorough information which the eager study of a few weeks could not attain. Now there were beating hearts and anxious faces, and noisy summing up of the day's successes or losses, when the daily close of school proclaimed a truce to the emulous combatants. A few there were who appeared totally indifferent as to the issue of the contest, and who hailed the term of examination as entailing no set tasks to be said the ensuing day under certain penalties, and, revelling in extended play-hours, cared nothing for disgrace, having no character to lose.

Reginald bid fair to carry off all, or nearly all, the second-class honors; still, there were in his class several whose determined efforts and talents gave him considerable work in winning the battle.

Amongst all this spirited warfare, it is not to be supposed that Louis was tranquil; for, though naturally of an indolent temperament, there was in him a fund of latent emulation, which only wanted a stimulus such as the present to rouse him to action. Louis was a boy of no mean ability, and now, fired with the hope of distinguishing himself, and gaining a little honor that might efface the remembrance of past idleness, and give some pleasure to his dear parents, he applied himself so diligently and unremittingly to his studies during the last month, as to astonish his masters.

I do not mean to particularize the subjects for examination given by Dr. Wilkinson to the two upper classes, for this simple reason, that my classical and mathematical ignorance might cause mistakes more amusing to the erudite reader than pleasant to the author. It shall be sufficient to say, that whatever these subjects had been, the day's examination had gone through in a manner equally creditable to masters and pupils; and after a few turns in the fresh air when tea was over, a knot, comprising the greater part of the above-mentioned classes, assembled round their head man to congratulate him on his undoubted successes, and to talk over the events of the day elsewhere. Reginald and Louis could spare little time for talking, and were walking up and down the playground, questioning and answering each other with the most untiring diligence, though both of them had been up since four o'clock that morning. There were a few who had risen still earlier, and who now lay fast asleep on forms in the school-room, or endeavored to keep their eyes open by following the example of our hero and his brother.

"John's fast asleep," said Salisbury, laughing; "he has a capital way of gaining time -- by getting up at half-past three, and falling asleep at seven."

"How does he stand for the prizes?" asked Smith.

"I'm sure I can't tell you; I suppose Mortimer's sure of the first classics and history -- and he ought, for he's coming to us next half. John's next to him."

"I hear little Mortimer's winning laurels," remarked Trevannion.

"Oh! for him," said Harris, a second-class boy, "because he's been such a dunce before; -- I suspect Ferrers helps him."

"Ferrers!" cried all at once, and there was a laugh -- "Do you hear, Ferrers?"

"Of course I do," replied Ferrers.

"He's not good-natured enough," remarked another.

"He needs no help," said Ferrers.

"You're sure of the mathematical prize, Ferrers; and Hamilton, of course, gets that for Latin composition."

Ferrers did not reply -- his thoughts had flown to Louis, from whom they were now seldom absent; and, though he had been generally successful, yet the settled gloom and anxiety of his manner led many to suppose that he entertained fears for the issue of his examination. There were others who imagined that there was some deeper cause of anxiety preying on his mind, or that he was suffering from illness and fatigue -- and one or two made mysterious remarks on his intimacy with Louis, and wondered what all foreboded.

"I wonder who'll get the medal," said one.

"Hamilton, of course," replied Smith.

"You're out there," said Frank Digby. "My magic has discovered that either the Lady Louisa or myself will obtain it. I admire your selfishness, young gentlemen -- you assign to yourselves every thing, and leave us out of the question. If I can't be a genius, I mean to be a good boy."

Many bitter remarks were then made on Louis' late good behavior, and a few upon his manner towards Ferrers, which, by some, was styled meanness of the highest degree.

Ferrers could not endure it -- he left the circle and walked about the playground alone, full of remorse, thinking over every plan he had formed for making amends to Louis for all. He looked up once or twice with a gasping effort, and, oh! in the wrinkled and contracted forehead what trouble might be read. "Oh! that it were a dream," he at last uttered, "that I could wake and find it a warning."

There was a soft, warm hand in his, and Louis' gentle voice replied, "Do not grieve now about me, Ferrers, it will soon be over."

Ferrers started and drew his hand away.

"You are not angry with me, are you?" said Louis; "I saw you alone, and I was afraid you wanted comfort -- I did not like to come before, for fear the boys should make remarks, Reginald especially."

Ferrers looked at Louis a minute without speaking, and then, pushing him off, walked quickly to the house, and did not show himself any more that evening.

*    *    *    *    *

Breakfast had long been finished, and the school was once more assembled; the second class was waiting impatiently on the raised end of the school-room for the doctor's entrance, or for a summons to his presence; and near, at their several desks, busily writing answers to a number of printed questions, sat the first class. It was nearly an hour past the time, and impatient eyes were directed to the clock over the folding-doors, which steadily marked the flying minutes.

"Where can the doctor be?" had been asked many times already, but no one could answer.

"We shall have no time -- we shall not get done before night," muttered several malcontents. "What can keep the doctor?"

At this moment the folding-doors were quickly flung open, and Dr. Wilkinson entered, and rapidly made his way towards the upper end of the school-room, but in such a state of unwonted agitation that the boys were by common consent hushed into silence, and every occupation was suspended to watch their master's movements. "How strange he looks!" whispered one; "something's the matter." Dr. Wilkinson took no notice of the open eyes and mouths of his awe-struck pupils -- all his aim seemed to be to reach his seat with the greatest speed.

"What's the row?" muttered Salisbury, in an under-tone to Hamilton, having some idea that the latter could afford a clue to the clearing up of the mystery. "Do you know of any thing, Hamilton?" Hamilton shook his head, and fairly stood up to see what was going on.

Dr. Wilkinson at length reached his place, and there stood a few minutes to collect himself. He then looked around, and asked, in a quick, low tone, for Louis Mortimer. Louis was almost behind him, and in some terror presented himself; though he was unconscious of any misdemeanor, he did not know what new suspicion might have attached to him. His gentle "Here, sir," was distinctly heard in every part of the large room, in the breathless silence which now ruled. Dr. Wilkinson looked on him, but there was no anger in his gaze -- his eyes glistened, and though there might be indignation mixed with the many emotions struggling for expression in his countenance, Louis felt, as he raised his timid eyes, that there was nothing now to fear. The doctor seemed incapable of speaking; after one or two vain efforts he placed both hands on Louis' head, and uttered a deep "God bless you!"

It would be impossible to describe the flood of rapture which this action poured upon poor Louis. The endurance of the last few weeks was amply repaid by the consciousness that somehow -- and he did not consider how -- his innocence was established, and now, in the presence of his school-fellows, publicly acknowledged.

For another minute Dr. Wilkinson stood with both hands resting on the head of his gentle pupil, then, removing one, he placed it under Louis' chin, and turned the glowing face up to himself and smiled -- such a smile none remembered ever to have seen on that stern face.

"Have you found all out, sir?" cried Reginald, starting forward.

The doctor's hand motioned him back, and turning Louis round, so as to face the school, he said in a distinct, yet excited manner,

"Young gentlemen, we have been doing a wrong unconsciously, and I, as one of the first, am anxious to make to the subject of it the only reparation in my power, by declaring to you all that Louis Mortimer is entirely innocent of the offence with which he was charged; and I am sure I may say in the name of you all, as well as of myself, that we are very sorry that he should have suffered so much on account of it."

Dr. Wilkinson proclaims Louis innocent.

There was a hum all around, and many of the lower school who knew nothing of the matter, began whispering among themselves. But all was hushed directly the doctor resumed his speech.

"There are some among you who are not aware, I believe, to what I allude; but those who do know, can bear testimony to the gentle endurance of false accusation that Louis Mortimer has exhibited during the whole time he has been made to suffer so severely for the fault of another. I cannot express my admiration of his conduct -- conduct which I am sure has had for its foundation the fear and love of God. Stay, gentlemen," said the doctor, stilling with a motion of his hand the rising murmur of approbation, "all is not yet told. This patient endurance might be lauded as an unusual occurrence, were there nothing more -- but there is more. Louis Mortimer might have produced proofs of his innocence and cleared himself in the eyes of us all."

"Louis!" exclaimed Reginald, involuntarily.

Louis' head was down as far as his master's hand would allow it, and deep crimson blushes passed quickly over the nearly tearful face -- and now the remembrance of Ferrers, poor Ferrers, who had surely told all. Louis felt very sorry for him, and almost ashamed on his own account. He wished he could get behind his master, but that was impossible, and he stood still, as the doctor continued, "Three weeks ago Louis discovered that a little boy was in the study on the day when Kenrick's Key was abstracted, who could, of course, bring the desired information -- the information which would have righted him in all our eyes; but mark -- you who are ready to revenge injuries -- because this would have involved the expulsion of one who had deeply injured him, he has never, by sign or word, made known to any one the existence of such information, persuading the little boy also to keep the secret; and this, which from him I should never have learned, I have just heard from the guilty person, who, unable to bear the remorse of his own mind, has voluntarily confessed his sin and Louis' estimable conduct. Young gentlemen, I would say to all of you, 'GO AND DO LIKEWISE.'"

During this speech, Reginald had hardly been able to control himself, especially when he found that Louis had never mentioned his knowledge to himself; and now he sprang forward, unchecked by the doctor, and, seizing his brother, who was immediately released, asked, "Why did you not tell me, Louis? How was it I never guessed?"

While he spoke, there was a buz of inquiry at the lower end of the school, and those who knew the story crowded eagerly up to the dais to speak to Louis. Alfred's voice was very distinct, for he had worked himself up to his brother:

"Edward, tell me all about it. I'm sure if I'd known I'd have told. I didn't know why Louis was so joyful."

Edward could answer nothing: his heart was as full as the doctor's, and with almost overflowing eyes and a trembling step, he pushed his way to Louis, who had thrown himself on Reginald and was sobbing violently.

"Louis, I'm very sorry," said one. "Louis, you'll forgive me -- I'm sure I beg pardon," said other voices; and others added, "How good you are! -- I shouldn't have done it."

Louis raised his head from that dear shoulder, so often the place where it had rested in his troubles, and said, amidst his sobs,

"Oh! don't praise me. I was very unwilling to do it."

"Let him alone," said the doctor. "Reginald, take him up stairs. Gentlemen, I can do nothing more, nor you neither, I think, to-day. I shall give you a holiday for the remainder of it."

There was a lull in the noise as Dr. Wilkinson spoke, but just as Louis was going out, there arose a deafening cheer, three times repeated, and then the boys picked up their books and hurried out of doors.

Louis' heart was full of gratitude, but at the same time it was sobered by the recollection of what Ferrers must now suffer, and the doubt he felt respecting his fate; and as soon as he had recovered himself, he sought the doctor to beg pardon for him.

"As he has voluntarily confessed his fault, I shall not expel him," replied the doctor; "but I intend that he shall beg your pardon before the school."

Louis, however, pleaded so earnestly that he had already suffered enough, and begged as a favor that nothing more might be said, that at length Dr. Wilkinson gave way.

The sensation that this event had caused in the school was very great: those who had been loudest in condemning Louis, were now the loudest in his praise, and most anxious to load him with every honor; and when he made his appearance among them with Reginald, whose manly face beamed with satisfaction and brotherly pride, he was seized by a party, and against his will, chaired round the playground, everywhere greeted by loud cheers, with now and then "A groan for Ferrers!"

"Louis, my man, you look sorrowful," said Hamilton, as he was landed at last on the threshold of the school-room door.

"No, no," said Salisbury, who had been foremost in the rioting; "cheer up, Louis -- what's the matter?"

"I am afraid," said Louis, turning away.

"Afraid! of what old boy?" said Salisbury. "Come, out with it."

"I am afraid you will make me think too much of what ought not to be thought of at all -- you are all very kind, but -- "

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Salisbury; "we're all so vexed that we have been such bears, and we want to make it up."

"I am sure I do not think any thing about it now," said Louis, holding out both his hands and shaking all by turns; "I am very happy. Will you let me ask one thing of you?"

"A hundred," was the reply; "and we'll fly on Mercury's pennons to do your bidding."

"Put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes," said Frank Digby.

"When poor Ferrers comes among us, for my sake, do not take any notice of what has happened."

There was a dark cloud on the faces before Louis, and Hamilton's lip trembled with scorn. No reply was made.

"I am the only one who has any thing to forgive; please promise me to leave him alone."

"Then," said Salisbury, abruptly, "whenever he comes in, I walk out, for I can't sit in the same room and be civil.

"I shan't be particularly inclined to favor him with my discourse," said Frank; "so I promise to leave him alone."

"Will you try to be the same as you were before? Do!" said Louis.

"That's impossible!" they all cried; "we cannot, Louis."

"If you only knew how unhappy he has been, you would pity him very much," said Louis, sorrowfully. "He has been so very sad -- and do not talk of this to other people, please. I should be so much more happy if you would try to be the same to him."

"All we can promise, is not to notice it, Louis," said Hamilton; "and now, don't be sad any longer."

Yet Louis was sad and anxious; though now and then a thought that all was clear, darted like a sunbeam across his mind, and called forth a grateful emotion. He longed for the holidays to come, -- the favor he was in was almost painful.

Ferrers was invisible till the next evening, when he joined his class-fellows at prayers. In spite of the half-promise Louis had obtained from them, a studied unconsciousness of his presence, and a chilling coldness, greeted him. Louis alone stood by him, and looked in the deadly white countenance by him with heartfelt sympathy and compassion; and glanced at several of his companions to remind them of his wish. Ferrers seemed hardly the same; the proud, bullying air of arrogance had given place to a saddened, subdued despair; and yet his expression was far more pleasing in its humility than the natural one.

One or two, noticing Louis' anxiety, addressed him civilly, and even wished him "Good-night!" which he did not return by more than an inclination of the head. He expected no pity, and had nerved himself to bear the scorn he had brought on himself; but any attention was a matter of surprise to him.



Chapter X.


Wearily and joylessly had the last week of the examination passed away for Ferrers; although in one branch he had borne away the palm from all competitors. His confession had, in some measure, atoned for his great fault, in the eyes of his judicious master; for, however much it called for the severest reprehension, the fact of the mind not being hardened to all sense of shame and right feeling, made the doctor anxious to improve his better feelings; and, instead of driving them all away by ill-timed severity, considering how lamentably the early training of Ferrers had been neglected, he endeavored, after the first emotion of indignation had passed away, to rouse the fallen youth to a sense of honor and Christian responsibility; and sought to excite, as far as he was able, some feeling of compassion for him among his school-fellows.

There were, however, few among them who had learned the Christian duty of bearing one another's burdens; few among them, who, because circumstances over which they had had no control, had placed them out of the temptations that had overcome their penitent school-fellow, did not esteem themselves better than he, and look scornfully upon him, as though they would say with the proud Pharisee of old, "Stand by, for I am holier than thou!" And is it not the case around us generally? Alas! how apt we are all to condemn our fellow-creatures; forgetting that, had we been throughout similarly situated, our course might have been the same, or even worse. "Who is it that has made us to differ from another?"

Louis, as I have mentioned, felt very deeply for Ferrers; for, besides their late close connection, had he not known what it was to suffer for sin? He knew what it was to carry about a heavy heart, and to wake in the morning as if life had no joy to give; and he knew, too, what it was to lay his sins at a Saviour's feet, and to take the light yoke upon him. How anxious was he to lead his fellow-sinner there! Though his simple efforts seemed impotent at the time, years after, when his school-fellow had grown a steady and useful Christian, he dated his first serious impressions to this time of disgrace; and the remembrance of Louis' sweet conduct was often before him.

Louis' mind had been so chastened by his previous adversity that his present prosperity was meekly though thankfully borne. It came like sunshine after showers, cheering and refreshing his path, but not too powerful; for he was gradually learning more and more, to fear any thing that had a tendency to draw his mind to rest complacently on himself.

But the prize-day came -- the joyful breaking-up-day -- the day that was to bring his dear parents; and of all the bounding hearts, there were none more so than those of the two brothers. Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer had given their boys reason to expect them in the afternoon of that day, and they were to go from Clifton to Heronhurst before returning home.

Although Dr. Wilkinson's breaking-up-day was not ostensibly a public day, yet so many of the pupils' friends claimed admittance to the hall on the occasion, that it became so in fact, and was usually very respectably attended. Many of the doctor's old pupils came, to recall their old feelings, by a sight of this most memorable exhibition. And on this day, Vernon Digby was present with a younger brother, not to witness Frank's triumph, for that young gentleman had none to boast of, but to look on the theatre of his former fame, and to see how his place was now filled.

Dr. Wilkinson's high desk had been removed from the dais, and in its place stood a long table covered with a red cloth, on which were arranged a number of handsomely bound books of different sizes; and in front of the dais, in a semicircular form, were placed the rows of seats for the boys. On each side of this semicircle, and behind and parallel with Dr. Wilkinson's seat, was accommodation for the spectators. The room was in the most inviting order, and had been hung with garlands of flowers by the boys. At eleven o'clock the pupils assembled, and under the inspection of two of the under masters, seated themselves in the places assigned them, the little boys being placed in the front row.

As the exact fate of each was unknown, though tolerably accurately guessed, there was much anxiety. Some of the youths were quite silent and pale, others endeavored to hide their agitation by laughing and talking quietly, and some affected to consider their nearest companion as more sure than themselves. Even Hamilton was not free from a little nervousness, and though he talked away to Vernon Digby, who was sitting by him, he cast more than one fidgety glance at the red-covered table, and perceptibly changed color when the class-room door opened to allow the long train of ladies and gentlemen to enter, and closed after Dr. Wilkinson, and a few of his particular friends, among whom were two great scholars who had assisted in the examination of the past week.

When every one was comfortably settled, Dr. Wilkinson leaned forward over the table, and drew a paper towards him. His preliminary "hem" was the signal for many fidgety motions on the forms in front of him, and every eye was riveted on him as he prefaced his distribution of the prizes by a short statement of his general satisfaction, and a slight notice of those particular points in which he could desire improvement. He then spoke of his pleasure at the report his friends had made of the proficiency of the upper classes, and particularly alluding to the first class, stopped and mentioned by name those who had especially distinguished themselves. Among these, as a matter of course, Hamilton stood foremost, and carried away the prize for Latin composition, as well as another. Ferrers gained that for mathematics -- and two other prizes were awarded to the next in order. Dr. Wilkinson mentioned Frank Digby as having taken so high a place during the examination, as to induce one of the gentlemen who assisted him to consider him entitled to one of the classical prizes; but the doctor added that Frank Digby's indifference and idleness during the term had made him so unwilling that he should, by mere force of natural ability, deprive his more industrious class-fellows of a hard-earned honor, that he had not felt himself justified in listening to the recommendation, but hoped that his talents would, the following term, be exerted from the beginning, in which case, he should have pleasure in awarding to him the meed of successful application.

Frank colored, half angrily, but said, sotto voce,

"I don't care -- I just like to see whether I can't do as well as any one else without fagging."

Vernon was half provoked and half amused at his brother's discomfiture.

Then came Reginald's turn, and he carried off three out of the four prizes of his class, leaving one for John Salisbury.

As each one was called up to receive his reward, an immense clapping and stamping took place, and Louis, all exuberance, stamped most vigorously when his brother and his particular friends went up. There were very slight manifestations when poor Ferrers was summoned, but Louis exerted himself so manfully in the applauding department, that the contagion spread a little before the despised recipient was seated.

The other classes were taken in order; and when all was finished, Dr. Wilkinson took up a little morocco case, and, after clearing his throat once or twice, began anew:

"There remains now but one reward to be assigned, but it is the greatest of all, though undoubtedly that one which it is the most difficult to adjudge rightly. It is the medal for good conduct. Hitherto it has been my practice never to give it to any one who has not been with me the whole term, but on the present occasion I am inclined to depart from my custom in favor of a young gentleman whose conduct has been most praiseworthy, though he has only been with me since Easter. Before adjudging it, I will, however, appeal to the young gentlemen themselves, and ask them who they think among them is the most deserving of this honor?"

Dr. Wilkinson paused, and immediately a shout, led by Hamilton, arose, of "Louis Mortimer."

"I expected it," said the doctor, with a smile: "Louis Mortimer has been placed, perhaps, in a situation in the school a little beyond him, and has, therefore, made no great figure in the examination, but of his conduct I can speak in the highest terms, and believe that his sense of duty is so strong that he only wants the conviction that it is his duty to exert himself a little more, to make him for the future as habitually industrious as he has been during the last six weeks. -- Louis Mortimer!"

Almost overcome with astonishment and delight, Louis hardly understood the summons, but Reginald whispered, "Go, Louis, the doctor calls you," and all made way for him with the most pleasant looks of sympathy and congratulation. His modesty and elegance prepossessed the spectators greatly in his favor, as he passed timidly along the ranks to the table. Dr. Wilkinson smiled kindly on him as he delivered the bright silver medal, in its claret-colored case, saying as he did so,

"I have the greatest pleasure in giving this to you, and trust that you will be encouraged, when you look on it, to go on as you have begun."

Louis was covered with blushes -- he bowed, and as he turned away, the most deafening applause greeted him; and, as the last prize was now given, the boys left their seats and mingled among the company. Louis was drawn immediately into a little coterie, composed of Hamilton, Reginald, his three cousins, and one or two others, all of whom congratulated him upon his distinction.

"And so, Louis, you are the hero," said Vernon; "and what is the drama in which you have been acting so much to your credit?"

"Too long a tale to tell now," replied Hamilton, smiling on Louis; "we will talk over it by and by. We have been treating him very ill, Digby, but next half-year we shall understand him better -- shall we not, Louis?"

Louis was so full of delight that he could hardly speak -- it was especially a happy moment to stand before his cousin Vernon with a right fame and well-established character.

"I said my magic knew who would gain the medal," said Frank.

"But your magic did not anticipate such magnificent honors for yourself, I imagine," said Vernon.

"I was a little out," said Frank, carelessly; "for it has proved that Lady Louisa has all the goodness, and I the genius. My head is quite overloaded with the laurels Fudge heaped on me: I shan't be able to hold it up these holidays."

"A good thing that something will press it down: it is generally high enough," remarked Hamilton.

"How delighted father and mother will be to hear of your industry!" said Vernon.

"I am sure," replied the incorrigible youth, "they ought to be proud of having a son too clever to win the prizes. Louis, it puts me in mind of the man in your tale, who had to bind his legs for fear he should outrun the hares. I am, however, heartily glad for you, and amazingly sorry we should have so misunderstood you."

"Louis Mortimer," cried a little boy, very smartly dressed, "mamma wants to look at your medal -- will you come and show it to her?"

"And go off, Reginald, with him, and tell Lady Stanhope all the news," said Vernon, as Louis went away with little Stanhope; "I will come and pay my respects as soon as it is convenient for me to be aware of her ladyship's presence."

Louis' medal was examined and passed from hand to hand, and many compliments were made on the occasion. Lady Stanhope was very kind, and would hear the history, a command Reginald was by no manner of means unwilling to obey, though he suppressed the name of the guilty party. The doctor was in great request, for many of the ladies were very anxious to know more of "that lovely boy," but he was very guarded in his accounts of the matter, though bearing the strongest testimony to Louis' good conduct. He turned to Mr. Percy, who was present, and said, quietly, "That, sir, is the boy you mentioned to me at Easter; the son of Mr. Mortimer, of Dashwood."

The excitement was almost too much for Louis, tried as he had been lately by unusual fagging and early rising. He was glad to get away into the playground, and after watching one or two departures he ran wildly about, now and then laughing aloud in his delight, "Oh! papa and mamma, how glad they will be!" and then the well-spring of deep gladness seemed to overflow, and the excess of happiness and gratitude made him mute. His heart swelled with emotions too great for any words; a deep sense of mercies and goodness of which he was unworthy, but for which he felt as if he could have poured out his being in praise. Oh the blessing of a thankful heart! How happy is he who sees his Father's hand in every thing that befalls him, and in whom each mercy calls forth a gush of gratitude!

"Ten thousand thousand precious gifts My daily thanks employ; Nor is the least a thankful heart, To taste those gifts with joy." ADDISON.

The playground was empty, for the boys were either engaged with their friends, or else departing; and Louis, from his little nook, saw many vehicles of different descriptions drive away from the door. When the dinner-bell rang he re-entered the house, but the dinner-table looked very empty -- there was not half the usual party.

"Where have you been, Louis?" asked Reginald, as he entered; "I have been looking everywhere for you. Hamilton was quite vexed to go away without bidding you goodbye, and he begged me to do it for him."

"I am very sorry, indeed," said Louis; "I have been in the playground. Reginald, does it not make you feel very pleasant to see the heap of boxes in the hall? I stood a long time looking at our directions."

"I am almost cracked," cried Reginald, joyously; -- 

"'Midsummer's coming again, my boys, Jolly Midsummer and all its joys!'"

How far Reginald's reminiscences of his holiday song might have continued, I cannot pretend to say, had it not been interrupted by a desire from the presiding master, that "he would recollect himself, and where he was;" but order was out of the question, most of the party being in Reginald's condition -- and, after several useless appeals to the sense of gentlemanly decorum proper to be observed by the noisy party, Mr. Witworth found his best plan would be to let every thing pass that did not absolutely interfere with the business in hand, and, dinner being over, the ill-mannered troop dispersed. Several of them, among whom were Reginald and Louis, stopped in the hall to feast their eyes on the piles of trunks and portmanteaus; and Reginald discovered that a direction was wanting on one of theirs; "And I declare, Louis, see what Frank has been doing."

Louis laughed, as he perceived that one of the directions on his luggage was altered to "Lady Louisa Mortimer," and ran away to rectify it. When he returned, the party in the hall was considerably enlarged, and Ferrers came towards him to wish him good-bye. "Good-bye, Louis, I am coming back next half-year," he said, in a low tone; "and you must help me to regain my character." Louis squeezed his hand, and promised to write to him, though he hoped, he said, that he should not come back himself; and when Ferrers left the hall, the business of affixing the necessary directions went on very busily. Reginald was in a state of such overflowing delight, as to be quite boisterous, and now and then burst out into snatches of noisy songs, rendered remarkably effective by an occasional squeak and grunt, which proclaimed his voice to be rather unmanageable.

"Now, Louis, here's a piece of string, and my knife.

'Christmas is coming again, my boys!'"

"Christmas, Reginald -- Midsummer!" cried Louis, laughing.

"Well then, ah, well! tie it tight.

'Midsummer's coming again, my boys, Jolly Midsummer, and all its joys; And we're all of us cracked, so we'll kick up a noise. Chorus. Ri-toorul-loor, rul-loor, rul-loor-rul. Hip, hip, hurrah! Hollo!'"

The sensible chorus was shouted at the utmost pitch of the voices of the assembled youths, who waved hats, hands, and handkerchiefs, during the process.

"Bravissimo!" exclaimed Reginald, quite red with his exertions, and beaming with excitement. "But my beautiful voice is very unruly; the last few times I have tried to sing, it has been quite disobedient. I think it must be cracked, at last."

"Are you not pleased?" said Louis, archly.

"Not particularly," replied Reginald.

"You said you should be, last Christmas. Do you remember the ladies at grandpapa's?"

"Well, there is that comfort at any rate," said Reginald, "we shan't have any more of their humbug; but think of the dear old madrigals, and -- it's no laughing matter, Mr. Louis, for all your fun."

"Acknowledge, then, that you spoke rashly, when you said you should be glad of it," said Louis, who was full of merriment at his brother's misfortune.

And now Vernon, Arthur, and Frank Digby pressed forward, to bid good-bye.

As Vernon shook Louis' hand, he said, "I shall see you at Heronhurst, I suppose."

"I suppose I mustn't dare to go," said Frank.

"And now I shall go and gather some of those white roses by the wall, for mamma," said Louis. "I hope it won't be very long, Reginald, they must be here soon -- oh, how delightful it will be!"

Louis ran off, and succeeded in finding a few half-blown roses for his dear mother, and was engaged in carefully cutting off the thorns, when one of his school-fellows ran up to him, and called out that his father and mother were come.

"Papa and mamma! Where's Reginald?" he cried, and flew over the playground without waiting for an answer. "Where are papa and mamma? Where is Reginald?" he cried, as he ran into the hall. His hurried question was as quickly answered; and Louis, jumping over the many packages, made his way to the drawing-room. Here were his dear father and mother, with Dr. Wilkinson. Reginald had been in the room several minutes; and when Louis entered, was standing by his mother, whose arm was round him, and close behind him stood his father.

"My Louis!" was his mother's affectionate greeting, and the next moment he was in her arms, his own being clasped tightly round her neck, and he could only kiss her in speechless joy, at first; and then, when the kind arms that strained him to her bosom were loosened, there was his dear father, and then words came, and as he looked with flashing eyes and crimsoned cheek, from one to the other, he exclaimed, "Oh, mamma! I have a medal -- mamma, it is all come out! Papa, I am innocent; I have a character now! Oh, dear mamma, I said it would -- I am quite cleared!"

His head sank on his father's shoulder; a strange, dull sound in his head overpowered him; a slight faintness seemed to blow over his face; his eyes were fixed and glassy, and he became unconscious. Mr. Mortimer changed color, and hastily catching the falling boy, he carried him to the sofa. Dr. Wilkinson sent Reginald immediately for some water, but before he could return, and almost before Mrs. Mortimer could raise her dear boy's head from the pillow to her shoulder, the color came again, and his eyes resumed their natural expression.

"What was the matter, my darling?" said his mother, kissing him.

"I don't know, mamma," replied Louis, sitting up. "I only felt giddy, and something like a little wind in my face."

"I think he has been overwrought," said Dr. Wilkinson, kindly; "he has gone through a great deal lately. We will take him up stairs and let him lie down; I think he wants a little quiet."

"I am quite well now," said Louis.

"I will sit by your side; you had better go up stairs, dear," said his mother.

Louis yielded, and Mr. Mortimer assisted him up stairs, despite his declarations that he was quite strong and well, and, being laid on a bed, Mrs. Mortimer stationed herself by his side.

All they said I have not time to relate, but long Louis lay with his mother's hand in both of his, telling her of the events of the last two months, and often she bent her head down and kissed his broad forehead and flushed cheek; and when she would not let him talk any more, he lay very passively, his eyes filling with grateful tears, and now and then in the overflowing of his heart, raising them to his mother, with "Mamma, thank God for me. Oh, how very grateful I ought to be!"

At length he fell asleep, and his mother sat still, watching the quiet face, and the glittering tear-drop that trembled on his eyelash, and she too felt that her mercies were very great -- she did thank God for him, and for herself.



Chapter XI.

"Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life." -- Prov. iv. 23.


After a long and tedious journey Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, with their two boys, reached Heronhurst, where they met with the affectionate welcome usually given by Sir George and Lady Vernon to all so nearly related to them. The castle was full of visitors, amongst whom were Lady Digby and her two eldest daughters, and many young people -- personages grandmamma never forgot in the holidays, however unimportant they may appear in the eyes of some. Children liked to come to Heronhurst, for there was always so much mirth and amusement, and Lady Vernon was so remarkably clever in arranging pleasant pic-nics and excursions. Vernon and Frank Digby arrived the same day as Mr. Mortimer, a few hours before him, and as Vernon had announced the fact of Louis' having gained the medal, every one was prepared to receive our hero with due honor.

It was with no little satisfaction that Louis felt in the hearty shake of the hand, and the kind tone, that he was now more than re-established in his grandfather's good opinion. Had it not been for the salutary effects of his former disgrace, and the long trial he had lately undergone, there would have been great danger now of his falling into some open fault, for he was praised so much by his kind relations, and flattered by the company, and his medal had so often to be exhibited, that it needed much that in himself he did not possess, to guard him from falling into the error of imagining himself to be already perfect.

It was settled that there was to be a fete on the 27th, which some of my readers may remember was Louis' birthday; and Sir George, anxious to efface from his grandson's memory any painful reminiscences of the last, arranged the order of things much in the same manner, taking care that Louis' proteges, the school-children, should not be forgotten.

This news had just been communicated to Louis by his grandfather, with many expressions of commendation, and he was in a state of complacent self-gratulation, that feeling which would have led him to say, "By the strength of my hand I have done this;" instead of, "My strength will I ascribe unto the Lord," when a kind, soft hand, glittering with rings, was laid upon his arm, and the pleasant voice of his old friend Mrs. Paget greeted him.

"So, Master Louis, we are to have a fete, I hear. Are you really fourteen on the 27th? Come and sit down and tell me all about your school. I knew you would soon be a favorite. What's all this long story that everybody talks of and nobody knows? I said I would ask you, the most proper person to know it; and I know you will tell me the secret."

"It is no secret, ma'am," said Louis; "I would rather not talk of it."

"Just like your own modest little self: and it might not be kind to tell every one all the story, perhaps; but with an old friend like me, you know you are safe."

"But, ma'am, you might forget when every one is talking -- "

Louis stopped and colored, for he thought it seemed rather conceited to imagine every one must be talking of him, and he corrected himself,

"At least, dear Mrs. Paget, I had much rather not, I mean."

"You are a dear, kind little boy," said the injudicious lady; "I know very well you are afraid of committing that naughty school-fellow of yours. I can't understand about the keys -- I heard your brother saying something about them -- what keys? Were they the keys of the boy's desks?"

Louis could hardly help laughing -- "No, ma'am, Kenrick's keys."

"And who is Kenrick -- one of the masters?"

"It is a book, ma'am -- a key to the Greek exercises."

"Oh, I see -- a sort of translation -- well, he stole this from Dr. Wilkinson, and said you'd done it?"

"No, not that," replied Louis. "He took it out of the study. Some of the boys were in the habit of using the keys when they could."

"Well, there was nothing so very terrible in it, poor fellows. I dare say the lessons are very hard. I think every boy ought to have an English translation of those frightful Latin and Greek books."

Louis opened his eyes and quietly said -- 

"We think it very dishonorable and unfair, ma'am."

"Well, if I understood all about it, I might too, I dare say. I only see a little bit, but of course you know the rules and all the rest, -- well, was that all?"

"No, ma'am," said Louis, uneasily.

"He said you had taken it, I dare say?"

"Something like it," replied Louis. "He slipped it among my books to hide it, ma'am, but not intending to do me any harm; and when it was found he was afraid to speak the truth."

"And so you bore the blame -- and did you not try to clear yourself?"

"To be sure, ma'am; but he was older and better known than I was, and so he was believed."

"And you couldn't help yourself? I thought you bore it out of kindness to him."

"Afterwards I found it out, ma'am. I found that Alfred Hamilton knew something about it."

"Who is Alfred Hamilton?" asked Mrs. Paget.

"A little boy, ma'am, at school."

"And he found it out -- and didn't he tell of it?"

"I did not wish him," replied Louis, with less reserve. "It would have been very unkind to poor Ferrers; he would have been expelled. Alfred was going to tell, but you would not have wished him to do it, I am sure."

Ah Louis, Louis! anxiety for Ferrers' reputation was quite lost in the selfish desire of admiration. Mrs. Paget put her arm round him, and her kindly eyes nearly overflowed with affectionate emotion, for she, poor lady, could only see the surface; the inward workings of the little vain heart were hid from her, or she would have been surprised to find under the appearance of sweetness and humility, Louis was only thinking of seeming lovely and amiable in her eyes.

"No, my darling, I know you could not do any thing unkind -- you are a sweet, dear creature, and I am sure I love you; and so this Master Ferrers never spoke the truth, and you bore the blame?"

"He did at last, ma'am, at the end of the half-year: but it was not very long to bear it, only five weeks."

"Only! I wonder you could have done it for so long; Ferrers, that was the name, was it?"

"If you please, don't mention it," exclaimed Louis, with unaffected earnestness; "I did not mean to say his name. Please, dear Mrs. Paget, do not mention it. He is so very sorry, and confessed all so handsomely -- I think you would like him if you knew all about him, for he is not so bad as others make him out to be."

Mrs. Paget had only time to give him a kind of half promise, when she was called away; and Louis, left to himself, became aware of the vanity his foolish heart had persuaded him was Christian kindness. His enjoyment was destroyed that evening, for he was full of anxiety lest Mrs. Paget should talk of the matter, and he wandered restlessly about the rooms, longing for an opportunity of speaking a kind word for Ferrers, wishing vainly that what he had said could be undone. He felt more than ever the necessity of keeping a watch over his heart and tongue, and almost inclined to despair of ever overcoming the many stumbling-blocks in the way of attaining to holiness. Thus, little by little, is the evil of our hearts disclosed to us, and the longer the true Christian lives, the less he finds to be satisfied with in himself; not that he is further removed from holiness, but he has more sight given him to know what he really is by nature -- and the nearer he arrives to the perfect day, the greater is the light to disclose his own deformities, and the exceeding loveliness of the righteousness he possesses in Jesus his Lord.

Louis, in common with the young visitors at Heronhurst, thought often and expectantly of his birthday -- and when the morning at last arrived, he awoke much earlier than usual, with a strong sensation of some great happiness. The light on the blind of his window was not bright, nor promising brightness -- and when he jumped up and ran to examine the day, expressing to his brother his hope that the weather was propitious, he found to his dismay that the rain was pouring in torrents, and the dull unbroken clouds gave but little promise of a change in the prospect.

"Oh! Reginald, it's raining, raining hard."

"How very provoking!" cried Reginald. "Let me see -- there is not much hope neither -- how exceedingly tiresome -- there's an end to our fun -- who'd have thought it -- how VERY -- "

"Hush!" said poor Louis, who was very much disappointed, "it is not right to say tiresome when it pleases God that the weather shall not suit us."

"I can't help it," said Reginald.

"I dare say we shall be very happy. I am most sorry about the school-children."

"I don't care a fig about them," said Reginald, impatiently; "there's that cricket match, and all."

"What, not the poor little things, Reginald? just think how they have been expecting this day -- it is quite an event for them, and we have so many pleasures: I dare say you will have the cricket the first fine day."

Reginald felt rather ashamed, and yet unwilling to acknowledge himself in the wrong; therefore he satisfied himself with remarking, that Louis did not like cricket, and he didn't care about the children, and there was no difference.

Louis' attention was at that moment attracted by something on the table. "Oh! here is something for me, Reginald! -- A beautiful new Bible from dear papa and mamma -- and a church service from grandmamma, and what's this? -- 'The Lady of the Manor' from uncle and aunt Clarence; how kind, look Reginald! and here's another -- a beautiful little red and gold book, 'Mrs. Rowe's Poems,' the book I am so fond of -- from you: oh! thank you, dear Reginald."

"And many happy returns of the day, dear Louis," said Reginald, who had by this time completely recovered his ordinary good-humor.

At the foot of the stairs, when he descended, Louis met some of the young party, who hardly waited to offer the compliments of the day before they loudly expressed the disappointment felt by each at the unfavorable weather. "Raining, raining -- nothing but splashing and dark clouds -- so tiresome, so disappointing -- we shall be obliged to stay in-doors," sounded round him in different keys as they marched in close phalanx to the breakfast-room, where they found Bessie Vernon, a little girl of seven years old, kneeling on a chair at the window, singing, in the most doleful accents,

"Rain, rain, go to Spain, And mind you don't come back again."

"Good morning, Bessie," said Louis.

"Oh! Louis, many happy returns. I haven't got a present for you, because I hadn't money enough."

"Never mind," said Louis; "I would rather have your love and kisses than any present."

"And I will give you many, many kisses," cried the little girl, fulfilling her promise in good earnest.

"My love and a kiss," said her brother; "that's what Bessie always sends at the end of her letters: isn't it, Bessie, I send you my love and a kiss?"

"Well, I mean it," said Bessie, "and you needn't laugh. I wonder what we shall do to-day -- dear me -- I think, though, there's a little lighter bit of sky over the oak."

"Let me see -- where are my spectacles?" said Frank.

"Not much hope, I fear," said Sir George's hearty voice behind her. "Not much hope, Bessie. What an array of long faces. How do you do? Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I hope I see you in health and spirits. A happy birthday, and many of them to you, my boy; the rain does not appear to have damped you so much as some of your play-fellows -- well, Miss Bessie?"

"Grandpapa, grandpapa! what shall we do? you must find some pleasure for us," cried Bessie, clinging round her grandfather's knees, and looking up very beseechingly in the kind face so far above her.

"Ah, well -- we'll see, we'll see -- now let me go to breakfast; when that important business is dispatched, and grandmamma makes her appearance, we will find something to do."

Fortified with this promise, an excellent breakfast was eaten by the martyrs to disappointment, and then, after some consultation, it was decided that the band should be in attendance in the hall, and a messenger should be sent forthwith to command the attendance of the school-children at a banquet in the same place, and Lady Vernon was of opinion that with charades, a magic lantern, bagatelle, tivoli, and dolls, a very merry morning might be spent. The young people then dispersed in search of their own peculiar amusements. Some of the young men went into the billiard-room, and a few chess parties were formed. Some began to act charades for the edification of such among the elders as would choose to make an audience. A still larger party adjourned to the school-room to play at houses with their dolls, and two tables were soon spread with ground plans of three magnificent establishments for paper ladies and gentlemen, by three young ladies between the ages of twelve and eight, assisted by Mr. Frank Digby.

At one o'clock they went to the hall, where the band was playing a merry air. Here a long table was spread, well covered with a nice plain dinner, and the school-children came two-and-two into the hall, just after the visitors had arrived.

When all were seated, the girls at the upper, and the boys at the lower end, Mr. Mortimer came forward and said grace for them, and then the viands disappeared with great rapidity. Some of the castle children, headed by Louis, asked to be allowed to wait on them, and, the permission being given, they made themselves very busy, though it must be confessed that they were sometimes sadly in the servants' way. Sir George Vernon went round the table very majestically, and now and then spoke a word or two to one of the children -- words which were treasured up in their memories for many a long day, though they meant little or nothing; but it is so easy to create a pleasant and grateful feeling.

Many of the spectators, including nearly all the gentlemen, had left the hall very soon after the commencement of the feast, and now a summons was given to the little ones of the castle to their own dinner. Louis, not being included in the little ones, went with the school-children into a large empty room, and with the help of his father and one or two others, exerted himself successfully for their entertainment, until his friends joined them, and, the room being darkened, the magic lantern was displayed. The humble little guests then, being supplied each with a cake and some fruit, returned to their homes, quite delighted with the pleasures of the day. Frank and the three young ladies enjoyed an hour's amusement during the late dinner; for the good-natured youth had yielded to the pressing invitation of the merry little party, and dined with them at two, to their great satisfaction, notwithstanding the declaration of some, that he was "a great tease."

The great dinner was much earlier than usual, to allow of the ball, which began at seven o'clock for the convenience of the younger ones, and was continued until eleven, at which time, though he had been very happy, Louis was very tired, and could not help thinking, that, after all, a whole day of pleasure-seeking in this manner, was very fatiguing and unsatisfying. He could hardly keep his eyes open, when Mrs. Paget seized him, and after a few compliments on his dancing, insisted upon hearing him sing "Where the bee sucks."

Louis complied as well as he was able, and though his sleepiness robbed his song of some power, its sweetness not only satisfied the flattering lady, but a more unscrupulous auditor who stood behind him in the person of his grandfather.

"Your mother taught you to sing, Louis?" said he.

"Miss Spencer taught me," replied Louis.

"The mechanism, perhaps, but it's your mother's teaching. The taste, madam," said Sir George, turning to Mrs. Paget.

"Both Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer are first-rate amateurs," said Mrs. Paget.

"Mrs. Mortimer has great talent," replied Sir George; "and she has done something with this boy. I suppose you are very fond of music, Louis?"

Louis answered in the affirmative, and Sir George added -- 

"I shall give you a treat. You shall go on Sunday to A --  -- , and hear the singing at the church there. The little boys sing very sweetly. Have you heard them ma'am?"

"No, I never have."

"Then I think it would be a wise step to pay a visit there during divine service next Sunday. The church is worth looking at, -- a good specimen of the early English style of architecture. We can make up a little party to go, if you would like it."

Mrs. Paget expressed her entire approbation of the scheme, and Louis, too sleepy to think much of it, wished her and Sir George good night, and went to bed.

The next day, the rain continuing, in the morning Louis enjoyed The Lady of the Manor in his own room. He was still much excited by the yesterday's pleasure, and felt unsettled, and disinclined to employ himself steadily with any thing. In the afternoon, as the weather was fine, his mother insisted on his taking a walk, and Reginald and Vernon Digby accompanied him. They had a great scramble through the hilly district that surrounded Heronhurst, and merrily the talk (we will not dignify it by the name of conversation) continued. As they re-entered the grounds it fell upon the scheme of visiting the church, and during the light and common-place discussion that ensued, it struck Louis that there might be something wrong in the plan. He became very silent, and when he reached his room, quietly thought over the matter, and came to the conclusion that, though they intended going to church, yet the motives that induced their doing so were not to the glory of God, and that to employ servants for such an end, on God's holy day, was certainly wrong. This was his first impression; and when he next saw Reginald, he told him what he had been thinking of.

"Well, but Louis, you know it won't make any difference whether we go or not, and so we shan't engage the servants. I don't see why, because you like nice singing, you should go to the chapel where they screech so abominably."

Louis was silent, for he hardly liked to oppose his reasons to Reginald's blunt speech, and Reginald, dismissing the subject from his mind, began to talk of something else. He ran on very volubly for a little while, without receiving any interruption from his brother, and, looking at him, he saw very plainly that Louis was not paying the slightest attention to him.

"What is the matter, Louis? How dull you are!"

"Nothing," replied Louis.

"Nothing?" repeated Reginald; "Something, you ought to say. I know you are making yourself miserable about this church-going, and what need is there? We are going to church, and we can't prevent the carriage going. If it were on purpose for us it would be different."

"But there will be a great deal of nonsense, I know," said Louis, uneasily. "It seems very much like going to a show place. I hope I shall be able to ask mamma about it."

"As to nonsense," replied Reginald, "when do we have any thing else here? -- you can't make Dashwood of Heronhurst, and I think if you go to hear such beautiful singing, it is more likely to put good thoughts into your head than those lovely singers here; and then, Mr. Perrott is quite a famous man; everybody likes him better than Mr. Burton -- you are too scrupulous, Louis. I think, sometimes, you are guilty of over-conscientiousness."

Before Louis could reply, some of their young friends entered the room, and one thing followed another so quickly that Louis had no time to think clearly on the subject till he went to bed; but when all was silent and nothing interfered with his thoughts, his anxious mind ran over all that had passed, and turn it which way he would, it still seemed wrong. What with this feeling, and the fear of making his grandfather angry, Louis felt very uncomfortable; and then came Reginald's sophistry, and Louis almost argued himself into the belief that his brother was right and he too scrupulous: and when he tried to pray for direction he did not feel sincere, for he was conscious of a wish to go to the church, and a great dread of offending his grandfather. After some hours' restless consideration, he dropped asleep, having made up his mind to consult his father and mother, and to abide by their counsel. The next day, however, he had no opportunity of speaking to them alone, and Saturday night found him as miserably undecided as before. "Oh dear, if there were any one I could ask!" There was One, and though aid was feebly asked, it was granted; and with much fear and anxiety, Louis declined accompanying the party to A --  --  church the next morning.

Vernon stared, and Reginald tried in vain to persuade him to alter his mind, -- but he stood firm, and turning away from them, afraid to trust himself, stayed up stairs till the castle chapel bells began to ring, and then hastened down with a happy, free, and light heart, to join his mother.

"Hey-day, Louis!" exclaimed his grandfather; "I thought you were off long ago. You're too late: the carriage has been gone this hour. What's the meaning of these late hours, sir?"

"I was up quite early, grandfather," said Louis.

"Then how was it you let them go without you?"

"Because I had rather not go, sir," said Louis, with a heightened color.

"And pray why could you not say so sooner? -- you are the most uncertain fellow; -- not the smallest dependence ever to be placed upon you. Do you know your own mind, Mr. Louis?"

"Not always at first," replied Louis, in a low tone.

"Hold up your head and speak out. And pray why has your weather-cock mind changed? What new wind has blown you round now, eh?"

"It's Sunday, grandpapa," said Louis, looking up at his mother with a distressed face.

"Well! Is the boy moon-struck? 'It's Sunday, grandpapa.' Don't you suppose I know that?"

"I didn't think it was quite right, sir, to go to A --  --  church when we had one so near us."

"Just as you please," said Sir George, contemptuously -- "just as you please, Master Louis; only do not expect me to plan any thing for your pleasure again."

"I am very much obliged, grandpapa -- you don't understand me."

"Oh, we understand each other very well, sir," said his grandfather, turning off very haughtily.

As he passed Mr. Mortimer he said,

"This comes of molly-coddling that boy at home; you'll make a Methodist of him."

What answer Mr. Mortimer made, Louis could not hear, and the next moment they all went into the chapel.

Many contemptuous smiles were exchanged among those of the visitors who heard the colloquy, but Louis was comforted by an approving smile from his parents, and from the sweet consciousness of having done what was right. The service was very sweet to him, and the lightness of his heart made even the inferior singing very pleasant, and he gained something from "tedious Mr. Burton's" sermon; so much depends on the frame of mind. Our Saviour has enjoined us to take heed how we hear.

Louis had a very pleasant stroll in the park with his father after service, and when he entered the house with a happy quiet mind, he contrasted his feelings with those he should have had, had he been one of the giddy party at that time returning from A --  -- , and joyfully thanked his heavenly Father for keeping him from dishonoring His holy day in "seeking his own pleasure" on it.

*    *    *    *    *

The following Thursday evening Mr. Mortimer's carriage was seen coming along the road leading to Dashwood, and at each window was a very joyful face noting all the familiar objects around; and as the horses dashed round a corner under a short grove of limes, the tongues belonging to the two began to move with astonishing rapidity.

"Here's Dashwood!" cried one.

"There's the river," exclaimed the other.

"The Priory chimneys," shouted the first.

"The Grange, Reginald," cried the second.

"And Bessie Gordon in the garden, -- she sees us," cried Reginald, who had changed sides for a second. "Ann White's cottage, Louis -- I saw the old picture of Lazarus large as ever -- and the sheep -- and I smell hay. Look, there's a hay-field, and Johnson with the hay-makers! Hillo, Johnson! He sees me."

"The bells, papa! The bells, mamma!" exclaimed Louis -- "Oh, it's home, dear, sweet home! The bells are ringing because you are come home, papa; and look, there are all the people coming out of the cottages -- how glad they seem to be!"

"Louis, Louis, here we go!" shouted Reginald, as the carriage swept down a lane arched over with green boughs.

Presently they came to the lodge gate; but not a moment had they to wait; it was wide open, and they could scarcely exchange marks of recognition with the gatekeeper and family, when they were out of sight in the long winding carriage road that led through the park.

"Welcome, welcome -- home! The dear, dear old Priory," said Louis, with increasing enthusiasm.

"Take care you are not out on the grass, Louis," said his mother, seizing his arm.

"Here we are!" cried Reginald. "And there's Mary, the little pussy, and sober Neville, looking out of his wits, for a wonder. Here we are!"



Chapter XII.

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." -- Eccles. ix. 10.

"Watch and pray." -- Matt. xxvi. 41.

"The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds; casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God." -- 2 Cor. x. 4, 5.


"Ah! Louis, this is home," exclaimed Reginald, as, after the embraces in the hall, they entered the pleasant drawing-room. It was home, home with all its sweet associations and dear beings; and, in a few minutes, Reginald and Louis had run all over the house for the pleasure of seeing "the dear old places;" had shaken hands with the old servants, given nurse a kiss, and, having finished by wakening Freddy from his first sleep, returned to the drawing-room, where tea was ready. It was a very pleasant tea that night. Every one had so much to say, and there was so much innocent mirth -- all agreed it was worth while going away from home, for the pleasure of returning. Gradually the broad yellow light faded from the wall, table, carpet, and window; and, the gray twilight usurping its place, little Mary was obliged to leave her seat on her father's knee, and with many kisses was marshalled up stairs by nurse and Neville.

When Neville returned, the happy party sat round the open window watching the bright stars in their trembling beauty, and the half-moon rise over the dark trees, whitening their tops, silvering the water, and casting the deep shadows into deeper darkness. There was something in the still beauty that hushed the speakers, and at last only a low remark was now and then made, until Louis asked his mother to walk out into the garden. Mrs. Mortimer at first pleaded the heavy dews as an excuse, but the request was so urgently pressed by Reginald and Neville, and a large shawl and pair of clogs being procured, they sallied forth, Neville and his father first, then Reginald and Miss Spencer, and lastly, to his great satisfaction, Louis and his mother.

"I am so fond of moonlight, mamma," said Louis.

"I think most people are," replied his mother.

"I wonder what is the reason that moonlight is so much sweeter than sunlight," said Louis.

"Do you like it better?" said his mother.

"I don't know that I like it better," replied Louis; "but it always seems so quiet and soothing. I always liked moonlight when I was a very little boy -- but I thought very differently about it then."

"How so?" asked his mother.

"Oh! mamma, I thought it was very beautiful, and I felt a strange sort of feeling come into my mind -- a sort of sad happiness: and sometimes I thought of fairies dancing in the moonlight; and when I grew older, I used to think a great deal of nonsense, or try to make poetry, and I called the moon 'Diana,' and 'queen of night' -- and imagined a great deal that I hardly like to tell you, about lovers walking in moonlight."

"And your feelings are quite changed now?" asked his mother.

"Oh, yes! quite, mamma, it only seems more soothing, because I feel as if I were alone with God. Does it not seem to you, mamma, as if we see something of heaven in these lovely nights? I often wonder whether the bright stars are the many mansions our Saviour speaks of. Oh! mamma, what an immense thought it is to think of all these bright worlds constantly moving -- either suns themselves with their planets revolving in ceaseless circles, or else themselves going round some bright sun!"

"And, perhaps," added his mother, "that bright sun carrying all its attendant worlds round some larger and brighter sun, whose distance is too great to be calculated. By the aid of powerful telescopes may be seen in the extremity of our firmament, appearances which those who have devoted themselves to this glorious science have decided are other firmaments, each one containing its countless systems. Oh! Louis, God is infinite -- what if these wondrous creations have no limit, but circle beyond circle spread out to all eternity! We may see the infinity of our Maker in the smallest leaf. There is nothing lost. What we destroy does but change its form."

"Mamma, I once remember cutting a bit of paper into halves -- that is to say, I first cut it into halves, and then cut one half into halves and so on, till my scissors would not divide the little bit. I was very idle that day, but I remember thinking that if I could get a pair of scissors small enough I could cut that speck up forever -- and even if there only happened to be a grain left, I could not make that nothing."

Louis paused; he was lost in thoughts of wonders that human imagination cannot grasp: the immensity and mystery of the Almighty's works. Presently he added, "I cannot imagine it, mamma, my mind seems lost when I try to think of forever. But there is a little hymn you used to teach me that I cannot help thinking of -- I often think of it -- it was the first I ever learned:

''Twas God, my child, that made them all By His almighty skill; He keeps them that they do not fall, And rules them by His will. How very great that God must be!'" HYMNS FOR INFANT MINDS.

"Do you remember learning that hymn?" said his mother; "I should have thought it had been too long ago."

"Oh, no, mamma. I remember once very distinctly, you had drawn up the blind that I might look at the stars, and you leaned over my crib, and taught me that verse. Mamma, even when I did not love God, I used to like to hear you tell me Bible stories and hymns sometimes, but I did not think much of them after they were over; but now, almost every thing reminds me of something in the Bible; or seems a type or a figure of some of our heavenly Father's dealings with us."

"That is what the Apostle says," replied Mrs. Mortimer: "'The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty, through God, to the pulling down of strongholds; casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God; and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.' Your imaginations before were not according to the will of God; you never saw any thing lovely in Him, but now He has become 'altogether lovely' in your eyes; every imagination that is contrary to His will is subdued, and all brought into obedience to Him. And are you not far happier?"

"Indeed I am; oh, how much more happy!" said Louis: "but, dear mamma, I do not wish you to think that I am always so happy, because that would not be true. Very often, I seem almost to forget that I am a child of God, and then, nothing awakens those happy feelings."

"I do not suppose you are always so happy, my dear boy. It is too often the case with Christians, that instead of drawing their pleasures from the fountain of life, they imagine that they can make cisterns of their own; they look to the comforts around them, to the friends God has given them, for satisfaction; and numberless other things have a tendency to draw their minds from their heavenly Father, which must inevitably destroy their peace of mind. But how sad it should ever be so! we have only ourselves to blame that we are not always happy. A Christian should be the most joyous creature that breathes."

"Dear mamma, how many pleasant conversations I have had with you!" said Louis, affectionately kissing his mother's hand, as it lay on his arm. "They have been some of my sweetest hours. It makes me so happy to talk of God's love to me."

"An inexhaustible subject," said his mother: "'Then they that feared the Lord, spake often one to another; and the Lord hearkened and heard it; and a book of remembrance was written before Him, for them that feared the Lord, and thought upon his name. And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of Hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels.'

"Our favorite poet has expressed your feelings very beautifully:

'Oh, days of heaven, and nights of equal praise, Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days When souls drawn upward, in communion sweet Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat; Discourse, as if released and safe at home, Of dangers past and wonders yet to come; And spread the sacred treasures of the breast Upon the lap of covenanted rest.'" COWPER'S "Conversation."

"Come, I think I must order you in," said Mr. Mortimer, who came up with the others, just as these lines were finished. "These nocturnal perambulations will not improve your health, my love; and it is past prayer-time already. What a sweet night!"

"I am afraid I have been a little imprudent, but it was a temptation when the dear boys pressed me so earnestly; our first night at home too, after so long a separation."

"Mamma's very carefully wrapped up," said Neville.

"And it's so deliciously warm," said Reginald.

"Well, let us not increase the evil," said Mr. Mortimer.

They presently re-entered the drawing-room, and the servants being summoned, Mr. Mortimer read prayers, and the boys went to bed.

The weather being generally wet for the next fortnight, all the in-door resources were drawn upon by the young people of the Priory, and time seldom hung heavily on their hands. I do not mean to say that there was never a moment wasted; on the contrary, Louis had many lazy fits. It must be allowed that in holiday time, when no one is expected to do much regularly, there are great temptations to be idle, and boys are apt to forget that it is not particularly for parents and teachers' good that they are exhorted to make the most of their time.

Louis' father and mother gave him many gentle reminders of his failing, and many were the struggles which he had with his dreamy indolence. Sometimes, when in accordance with a plan laid down by his mother's advice, he sat down to study for a stated time, he would open the book, and, after leaning over it for half an hour, find that he had built himself a nice little parsonage and school, and established himself a most laborious and useful minister in the prettiest of villages. At other times he was a missionary, or an eminent writer, and occasionally a member of Parliament. Then, at other times, he must draw the plan of a cottage or church, or put down a few verses; and sometimes, when he heard the clock strike the hour that summoned him to his studies, he had some excessively interesting story to finish, or very much preferred some other occupation.

"Now, Louis, my dear, there is ten o'clock."

"Yes, mamma, I will go directly."

"Directly," in some persons' vocabulary, being an ambiguous term, another quarter of an hour saw Louis in the same place, quite absorbed.

"Louis, Louis!"

"Yes, mamma." And Louis got up, book and all, and walked across the room, reading all the way. After knocking his head against the door, and walking into the library instead of into the school-room, he at last found himself at the table where his writing-desk stood, without any further excuse, but there he stood for a minute or two reading, and then, still continuing, felt for his key, and slipped it along the front of his desk for some time in the most absent and fruitless manner. Being obliged, at length, to lay aside the book, he unlocked the desk, and opening it, laid the dear volume thereon, and read while he carried his desk to another table. Then a few books were fetched in the same dawdling way, Louis all the while persuading himself -- foolish boy -- that he was merely occupying the time of walking across the room in reading. A few minutes more, and a chair was dragged along, and Louis seated. Then he reluctantly laid his book down open beside him and commenced. It would be tiresome to say how often when the dictionary or something else had to be referred to, a half page or more of the story was read, and to remark how equally Louis enjoyed his amusement and profited by his study. He was finally overwhelmed with confusion when his father, entering the room, came and looked over his shoulder, making some remark on the economy of time exhibited in thus ingeniously blending together his work and play without profiting by either.

"But indeed, papa, I don't know how it is; I made up my mind to be very industrious, and I was very steady yesterday."

"You put me in mind of a story of a man who made a vow to abstain from frequenting beer-shops, and who, on the first day of his resolution, passed several successively, until he came to the last that lay on his way home, when he stopped and exclaimed, 'Well done, Resolution! I'll treat you for this,' and walked in."

"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Louis, laughing.

"Don't you think this looks very much like treating resolution?" said his father, taking up the open book.

"I can't tell how it is, papa," said Louis, looking ashamed. "I assure you I did not mean to waste time; I cannot help being interested in stories, and unless I leave off reading them altogether, I don't know what to do."

"As reading stories is not a duty," said his father, "I would certainly advise your leaving off reading them if they interfere with what is so clearly one; but do you not think there is any way of arranging your affairs so as to prevent a harmless recreation from doing this?"

"I can't depend upon myself, papa. If it were Reginald, he could throw his book down directly, and do at once what he ought, and so would Neville, but it is quite a trouble to me sometimes even to bring my thoughts to bear upon dry studies, particularly mathematics, which I hate."

"I allow there is some difference of constitution; Reginald is not so fond of reading as you are, and has naturally more power of turning his attention from one subject to another; but this power may be acquired, and if you grow up with this inclination to attend only to those things for which you take fancies and fits, you will not be a very useful member of society; for it must always be remembered that consistency is essential to a useful character, and that without it, though many may love, few will respect you."

"I wish I could be like Neville; he is like a clock, and never lets any one thing interfere with another, and he always has time for all he wants to do, and is never in a hurry and flurry as I am; I think he has nothing to struggle with."

"Indeed, my dear Louis, he has. Neville has as many faults as the generality of boys, but you must not forget how much longer he has begun the good fight than yourself; and the earlier we begin to struggle against the corruptions of our nature, the easier the task is; but, Louis, instead of wishing yourself like Neville, or any one else, think how you may approach most nearly to the high standard of excellence which is placed before us all."

"But, father, how can I? What must I do?" sighed Louis. "You cannot tell how difficult it is to keep good resolutions. I fear I shall never be any better."

"What is the grace of God, my boy?" said Mr. Mortimer, laying his hand on Louis' shoulder; "tell me, what is the grace of God?"

"God's favor and help," replied Louis.

"And to whom is this promised?"

"To all who will ask for it, father."

"And will you say you can do nothing? Oh, my dear son! God is a God of all grace, and can give to each of us what we need for every emergency. Without Him, we can, indeed, do nothing, but with Him we may do all things; and blessed be His name for this unspeakable gift by which He works in man a gradual restoration to more than his primeval condition. Called with a holy calling, my boy, seek to glorify God in every little affair of life; take your religion into these unpleasant studies, and you will find them pleasures."

"But, father, there is one thing I want to say. Often when I pray, I do not seem able to do things that I wish and ought."

"There may be two reasons for that," replied his father. "The first, that you are not sufficiently in earnest in your petitions; and next, that you imagine that your prayers are to do all, without any exertion on your part -- that the mere fact of having asked the help of the Almighty will insure you a supernatural ease and delight in performing these duties, forgetting that, while we are in this world we have to fight, to run steadily forward, not to sit still and expect all to be smooth for us. We must show diligence unto the end -- we must watch as well as pray. You remember the parable of the withered hand?"

"Yes, father."

"And you remember that our Lord commanded the man to stretch forth his hand. He might have pleaded that it was powerless; but no, the Lord had given him power at the moment he desired him to exert it; and just so to every Christian, God is a God of all grace, and will give to each of us the peculiar grace we need; but we must not lock it up and imagine it to be efficacious without exertion on our part."

Louis was silent for some minutes. At length he turned his face up to his father, and said -- 

"What would you advise me to do?"

"What do you think yourself would be best?" said his father. "Think always after earnest prayer for divine guidance, what seems right to do, what the Bible says, and how it will be to the glory of your Saviour; then, when you have made up your mind as to the rectitude of any plan of action, let your movements be prompt and decided, and do not leave the silly heart any room to suggest its excuses and modifications. Your judgment may sometimes err, but it is better for the judgment than the conscience to be in fault. Be assured that if you thus acknowledge God in all your ways, He will direct your paths."

Louis paused another moment, and said -- 

"Will you take that book, father, and not let me have it any more to-day, as it has interfered so much with my study; and I will try to be more industrious. I will finish my Prometheus and Euclid, and the projection of my map, and then, perhaps, I shall be ready for the reading."

Mr. Mortimer shook his head as he held up his watch before his son's eyes -- 

"Too late, Louis. The time is lost, and something must be missed to-day."

"Then, papa, I will do my Greek, and go to the reading, and then, instead of amusing myself after lunch, I will do the other things -- and please take that book away with you."

"I had rather leave it," said Mr. Mortimer. "You must learn to act for yourself and by yourself. You do not expect to be always a boy, and if these weaknesses are not checked now, you will grow up a weak man, sadly dependent upon external influences and circumstances. Put the book out of your way by all means, but let it be your own act. And now I will leave you to do your work, for I see you have done very little, and that little very ill."

When his father had left the room, Louis put the book on a shelf, and, turning his back to it, set himself to work with earnest determination. He rewrote what he had done so badly, took great pains with the new edition, and had the satisfaction of receiving his father's approval of his work in the evening. After lunch his disagreeable Euclid was completed, and the map finished, and Louis refrained steadily from looking at the book for the rest of the day; nor did he, though sorely inclined, open it the next day until he could do so with a safe conscience.

For the remainder of the holidays Louis adhered to his resolution; but I do not mean to say he trusted on his own resolution: that he had found, by painful experience, to be a broken reed. In dependence upon an Almighty helper, he steadily endeavored from day to day to perform what was required of him in his station and circumstances, and found his reward in peace of mind and consciousness of growing in grace.



Chapter XIII.


It seems, by common consent, established among school-boys, that school and school-masters are necessary evils, only endurable because incurable, and that, as a matter of course, the return to school must be looked on as a species of martyrdom, the victims of which are unanimously opposed to the usual persuasives that school-days are the happiest, and that they will wish themselves back again before they have left it long. We will not attempt to account for this perversity of opinion in the minds of the individuals alluded to, nor have we any intention of instituting an inquiry as to the probability of the origin of this repugnance to scholastic life being in the natural opposition of man's mind to discipline or order, and the tendency therein to dislike all that is especially arranged and placed before him plainly for his benefit; but I am sure that most of those among my readers who either have been, or are school-boys at this moment, will agree with me in declaring that, returning to school, after the vacation, is a dismal affair, and that, during the first week or fortnight, certain rebellious feelings are prominent, which it would be treason to breathe.

The close of the holidays had arrived, and it was decided that Louis should return to school with his brother, notwithstanding his great wish to the contrary; but now his principles were firmer, his father was of opinion that mixing with a large party of boys was more calculated to supply what was wanting in his character than staying at home with his mother and sister, and, consequently, a day or two after the reopening of Ashfield House, Reginald and Louis were placed by their father safely in a coach that started from Norwich, and, in a rather sorrowful mood, began their long journey.

I have no adventures to mention; romantic incidents are rarely met with in a school-boy's life; nor was there any thing remarkable to relate in the day and a half's travel, beyond the stoppage for meals, and the changes of vehicle. Louis and his brother generally patronized the top of the coach, but as they drew near Bristol, Louis grew so sleepy and tired, from the length of the journey, as well as the imperfect slumber obtained inside the preceding night, that he preferred changing his quarters, to the risk of falling from his perch above. It so happened that the coach was empty inside, and Louis indulged himself by stretching at full length on one of the seats, and soon lost the recollection of his troubles in sleep. How long he had slept he could not tell, when the stopping of the coach disturbed him, and rising lazily, he looked out to see where they were. Instead, however, of the "White Lion," in Bristol, or the "Roadside Inn," with the four waiting horses, there was opposite the window a pretty house, standing in a moderately sized garden, gay with countless flowers, green grass, and waving trees. It was such a house as Louis with his romance loved; low and old-fashioned, with a broad glass door in the centre, on one side of which was a long casement-window, and on the other, two thick sashes. The house, extending to some length, displayed among the evergreen shrubs, delicate roses and honey-suckles, a variety of odd windows, from the elegant French to the deep old-fashioned bay; and over the front, almost entirely concealing the rough gray stucco, was a vine, the young grapes of which fell gracefully over the little bedroom windows, suggesting the idea, how very pleasant it would be, when the fruit was ripe, to obtain it at so little trouble. Louis especially noticed the sheltering trees, that grew to a great height close behind the house, and the long shadows thrown by the evening sun across the smooth green lawn.

While he was admiring the little prospect before him, a maid-servant, assisted by the guard of the coach, appeared at the door, carrying a black trunk, and behind followed another elderly servant, with a carpet-bag and basket. It was very evident that another passenger might be expected, and a few seconds more threw considerable light on the doubt enveloping the expected personage. The glass door before mentioned, opened into a low square hall, and at the further end, just as the carpet-bag reached the garden gate, appeared a group, of which, till it arrived at the door, little could be discerned but some white frocks. Presently, however, a pleasant middle-aged gentleman came out, holding by the hand a tearful-looking little boy, seemingly about nine or ten years old. The shade of his cap was pulled down very far over his forehead, but enough of his face was visible to betray some very showery inclinations. Two little girls, one older and the other younger, clung round him; the little one was weeping bitterly. When they reached the gate, the gentleman shook the boy's hand, and gave him in charge of the guard, to see him safely into a coach to convey him to Ashfield House.

"No fear of that, sir," replied the guard, opening the coach door, and putting in the bag and basket. "I daresay these young gentlemen would let him ride with them: they are for Dr. Wilkinson's."

"Indeed," said the gentleman, looking at Reginald, and then following the jerk of the guard's thumb at Louis; "perhaps you will share your fly with my son?" Reginald replied that they would be most happy. The gentleman thanked him, and turning to his little boy, who was hugging his youngest sister at the moment, said cheerfully, "Well, Charles, this is pleasant; here are some school-fellows already. You will have time to make friends before you reach the doctor's. Come, my boy."

Charles had burst into a torrent of fresh tears, and sobbing his "Good-byes," got into the coach very quickly.

"Come, come, you mustn't be a baby," said his father, squeezing both his hands; and he shut the coach door himself.

"Good-bye, Charlie," said the little girls.

"Good-bye, master Charles," said the servants.

"I shall be so glad when Christmas comes," sobbed the little one.

The coach rolled away, amid the adieus and blessings poured on the disconsolate boy, who watched his home eagerly as long as he could see it. There they were all -- father, sisters, and servants, watching at the gate till the coach was out of sight. For some time, Louis did not attempt to console his new companion, who threw himself into the opposite corner, and burying his face in his handkerchief, sobbed passionately, without any effort at self-control. At length, the violence of his grief abating, Louis gently spoke to him, asking if he had ever been away from home before. At first, Charles was very reserved, and only answered Louis' questions; but by degrees his sobs decreased, and from declaring that he could not see the reason of his being sent away from home, he at last talked freely to Louis of his father, sisters, and home; and asked Louis of his. Louis was ready enough to enlarge on these topics, and entered into an enthusiastic description of home and its pleasures, and before they had reached their journey's end, they had become very good friends.

Charles had informed Louis that his father was a clergyman, and that his home was the parsonage house; and enlarged very much on the pleasure of being taught by his father. There was something in his manner of expressing himself that often surprised Louis, and made him think that he must be older than he appeared. Before they reached Bristol, they had agreed to be "great friends," and to help each other as much as possible. Charles had evidently been very carefully brought up, and Louis found that they had many things in common. They decided to be companions on Sunday, and to be together whenever they could.

Between seven and eight o'clock, the coach stopped in Bristol, where Reginald joined his brother; and after a few minutes spent in taking a hasty tea, the three boys were consigned to a suitable conveyance, and drove on to Dr. Wilkinson's.

Reginald had a mortal aversion to tears in any boy but Louis, and had consequently taken an antipathy to his new school-fellow, besides caring very little about so small a boy. He was just civil to him, and his manner bringing out all Charles's shyness, he became very silent, and scarcely any thing was said during the ride from Bristol to Ashfield House.

It would be of little use describing the interesting appearance that Ashfield House presented when the three young gentlemen arrived there. Such descriptions are generally skipped; consequently, I leave it to my reader's imagination to picture how romantic the edifice looked, with the last faint yellow daylight glowing on its front, and the first few stars peeping out on the green park.

Our young gentlemen, be assured, noticed nothing but the very dismal impression that they were once more at school. Inquiring if the doctor were to be seen, they were informed that he was expected in a few minutes, as it was nearly prayer-time; and accordingly Reginald marshalled the way without a word to the school-room. There was no one in the hall or school-room, but a murmur from the half-open door of the adjoining class-room drew them in that direction. The room was nearly full, for besides the first and second classes there were many belonging to the third class, and one or two others who had either arrived late, or taken advantage of the little additional license given the first few days to stay beyond their usual bedtime. It was too dark to distinguish faces, but the figure of Frank Digby, who had managed with great pains to climb the mantelpiece, and was delivering an oration, would have been unmistakable if even he had been silent; -- who but Frank Digby could have had spirit to do it the third night after the opening of the school?

"Gentlemen and ladies," began the merry-andrew; "I beg your pardon, the Lady Louisa not having arrived, and Miss Maria Matheson being in bed, I ought to have omitted that term -- but, gentlemen, I take this opportunity, gentlemen, the opportunity of the eleventh demi-anniversary of our delightful reunion. Gentlemen, I am aware that some of you have not been fortunate enough to see eleven, but some among us have seen more. I, gentlemen, have seen eleven at this auspicious moment. I may say it is the proudest moment of my life to be able to stand on this mantelpiece and look down on you all, to feel myself enrolled a member of such an august corps. I may say I feel myself elevated at this present moment, but as, gentlemen, there is no saying, in the precarious situation I am now placed, how long I may be in a position to contemplate the elegance of his majesty and court, I hasten to propose that his majesty's health be eaten in plum-cake, and that if I fall somebody will catch me.

"With kind regards to all, "Believe me your attached school-fellow, "FRANK DIGBY."

A little on one side of the fireplace, which was not far from the open window, Trevannion was leaning back in a chair that he had tipped on the hind legs till the back touched the wall behind him, his own legs being stretched out on another poised in like manner on the two side legs; this elegant and easy attitude being chosen partly for the convenience of speaking to Salisbury, who was nicely balanced on the window-sill, eating plum-cake. As the young gentleman concluded his delectable harangue, he made an involuntary leap from his narrow pedestal, plunging on the top of Trevannion's legs, and, tumbling over him, struck with some violence against Salisbury, who was thrown out of the window by the same concussion that brought his more fastidious compeer to the ground, chairs and all. There was a burst of merriment at this unexpected catastrophe, but nothing could exceed the mirth of the author of the mischief, who sat in unextinguishable laughter on the floor, to the imminent danger of his person when the enraged sufferers recovered their legs.

The finale to Digby's speech.

"Really! Digby," exclaimed Trevannion, angrily, "this foolery is unbearable. You deserve that we should give you a thrashing; if it were not beneath me, I most certainly would."

"You -- ha! ha!" returned Frank: "ha! ha! -- you must stoop to -- ha! ha! -- you must stoop to conquer -- for, oh! oh! I can't get up. Pardon me, my dear fellow, but -- oh! ha! ha! -- you did look so ridiculous."

"Get up, you grinning donkey!" said Salisbury, who, in spite of his wrath, could not help laughing.

"Trevannion's legs!" exclaimed Frank, in a choking fit of laughter.

"Get up, Digby," exclaimed Trevannion, kicking him; "or I'll shake some of this nonsense out of you."

"Do be rational, Frank," said Hamilton's voice from a corner; "you are like a great baby."

How long Frank might have sat on the floor, and what direful events might have transpired, I cannot pretend to say, for just at this juncture the further door opened, and Dr. Wilkinson entered, bearing a candle in his hand. Frank very speedily found his legs, and retired into a corner to giggle unseen. The light thus suddenly introduced brought Reginald and his brother into notice, and one or two near the door recognizing them, pressed forward to speak to them, and before the doctor had fairly attained his place, Reginald had run the gauntlet of welcomes through all his school-fellows -- and Louis, half-way on the same errand, was forcibly arrested by something scarcely short of an embrace from Hamilton, who expressed himself as surprised as pleased at his appearance, and in whose glistening eyes, as well as the friendly looks of those around, Louis experienced some relief from the almost insupportable sense of dulness that had oppressed him ever since his entrance into the house. But now, the doctor having opened his book, the young gentlemen were obliged to separate and form into their places. Hamilton kept Louis by him, and Louis beckoned the sorrowful little boy who had accompanied him towards them.

"Who is that?" asked the doctor, as the child moved shyly towards Louis.

"A new boy, sir," said one.

"What is your name?" said the doctor. "Come here. Oh! I see, it is Clifton, is it not? -- how do you do?"

Charles had reached Dr. Wilkinson by this time, and, encouraged by his kind tone, and the sympathizing though slightly quizzical gaze on his very tearful face, replied to his queries in a low, quick tone.

"When did you come?" asked the doctor.

"He came with us, sir," said Reginald, stepping forward.

"Mortimer here!" said the doctor. "How do you do? and Louis, too, I presume -- where is he? I am very glad to see you again," he added, as Louis came forward with a blushing but not miserable countenance. He then spoke to the other new-comers, and then, commanding silence, read prayers.

The young gentlemen were just retiring, when Dr. Wilkinson desired them to stay a moment -- "I have one request to make, young gentlemen," he said, gravely; "that is, I particularly wish when Mr. Ferrers returns that no allusion be made to any thing gone by, and that you treat him as one worthy to be among you."

The doctor paused as he spoke, and glanced along the row of faces, many of which looked sullen and cloudy: most of them avoided their master's eye, and looked intently on the ground. Dr. Wilkinson sought Hamilton's eye, but Hamilton, though perfectly conscious of the fact, was very busily engaged in a deep meditation on the texture of Louis' jacket.

"Hamilton."

"Sir," replied Hamilton, reluctantly raising his eyes.

"I look to you, as the head of the school, to set the example. I am grieved to see so little Christian spirit among you. Why should you feel more aggrieved than the injured party, who has, I am sure, heartily forgiven all, and will wish no further notice to be taken of what has passed?"

Louis looked up acquiescently, and slipped his hand into Hamilton's. A slight pressure was returned, and Hamilton, bowing to the doctor, led the way out of the room.

On the way up stairs many rebellious comments were made on the doctor's speech, and some invoked tremendous penalties on themselves if they had any thing to do with him or any like him. Hamilton was quite silent, neither checking nor exciting the malcontents. He put his hand into Louis' arm, and, walking up stairs with him, wished him a warm good-night, and marched off to his own apartment.

This evening, as there were one or two new-comers, an usher was present in the dormitory to insure the orderly appropriation of the several couches; and, to Louis' great satisfaction, he was able to get quietly into bed -- where, feeling very dull and sad, he covered his head over and unconsciously performed a crying duet with his new friend.

Hardly had the usher departed than Frank Digby popped his head out of bed:

"I don't know," said he, "whether any one expects a feast to-night, from a few unlucky remarks which fell from me this morning; if so, gentlemen, I wish immediately to dispel the pleasing delusion, assuring you of the melancholy fact, that my golden pippins have fallen victims to Gruffy's rapacity."

"Oh, what a shame!" exclaimed one.

"What's that, Frank?" said Reginald.

"How did Gruffy get hold of them?" asked Meredith: "I thought you were more than her match."

"Why, the fact is, her olfactory nerves becoming strongly excited, she insisted upon having a search, and after snuffing about, she came near my hiding-place, and found the little black portmanteau:

"'Upon my word, Mr. Digby,' said she, 'I am surprised at your dirtiness -- putting apples under your pillow!' and insisted on having the key or the apples. I disclaimed all ideas of apples, but quite failed in persuading her that I had Russian leather-covered books inside, that were placed there to enable me to pursue my studies at the first dawn of day. You should have heard her: 'Did I suppose she was an idiot, and couldn't smell apples!' and oh -- nobody knows how much more. But I should have carried my point if ill-luck hadn't brought Fudge in the way, and the harpy carried off my treasures."

Frank paused, and then added, in a tone that set every one laughing, "It's a pity she can't be transported into heathen mythology; she'd have made an excellent dragon. Hercules would never have been so successful if she'd been that of Hesperia. I'll be even with her yet; but there's something very forlorn in one's troubles beginning directly."

The next morning brought with it the stern reality of school. Louis was dreaming that he was in Dashwood with Charles Clifton, when the bell-man came into the breakfast-room, crying out that the golden pippins belonging to his attached school-fellow, Frank Digby, were lost, stolen, or strayed; and that he would be even with any who should find them, and bring them to the Hesperides; and he was in the act of proving, more to his own satisfaction than to that of the bell-man, that the books in the library were what he wanted, when Reginald discovered them, -- i.e., the golden apples, -- peeping from under his pillow, and shook him violently for his deceit.

"Louis, Louis! -- the bell, the bell."

He started up in great alarm, and discovered that he was sitting on his bed at school, listening to the sonorous clanging of the bell below.

Groans, shouts, and sleepy exclamations reverberated round him. Reginald, rather more accustomed to good early habits at home than some of his room-fellows, was busy rousing those who either did not, or pretended not to hear the summons. Among the latter was our friend Frank Digby, who stoutly resisted being awakened, and when obliged to yield to the determined efforts of his cousin, nearly overwhelmed him with a species of abuse.

"That bell's a complete bugbear," he groaned. "It ought to be indicted for a nuisance, waking people up o' mornings when they ought to be in the arms of Morpheus -- I've a great mind to lie still. Half an hour's sleep is worth sixpence."

"It's much better laid out with 'Maister,' Frank," suggested Meredith.

"And then Fudge will be so black about it," said Reginald. "Come, up with you, Frank."

"As for Fudge," said Frank, "I wouldn't give you twopence for him, nor his black looks neither. But you may be sure he'll be amiable enough this morning. He has been remarkably affectionate these few mornings -- hasn't he, Meredith?"

"To be sure," replied the young gentleman addressed: "when did you know a master otherwise the first week? They all know there's danger of our cutting their acquaintance in a summary manner, and take good care to be bland enough till we're tamed down."

"For my part," said Frank, "I have been longing for an opportunity of putting Fudge in a passion. If only he or Danby would box my ears for something, that I might fling a book at his head, and have a legitimate excuse for taking myself off -- but, alas! they are all so dreadfully amiable, except old Garthorpe, and he's beneath all consideration."

Frank continued in this strain for some minutes, working himself into a more rebellious humor, stimulated by those among his companions who admired this demonstration of spirit. Confidentially I may remark, that though running away seems to be the desideratum of a discontented school-boy, it is far more interesting in theory than practice, and I doubt much whether any malcontent who availed himself of this as his only refuge from the miserable fate awaiting him in the dungeon to which he was consigned, ever considered in the end that his condition had been materially improved. Spangled canopies and soft turf couches do well to read of, but stiff limbs and anxious hearts are sterner realities, to say nothing of sundry woes inflicted on the culprit when discovered. But I am enlarging and must return from my digression.

Dr. Wilkinson was engaged the greater part of the morning in arranging the different classes and examining his new pupils. Great surprise was felt among those interested, in the news that Charles Clifton was to take his place in the second class. Even the doctor paused once or twice in his examination, and looked earnestly on the great forehead and small pale face of the child.

"Why, how old are you?" said he, at length.

"Twelve, sir," replied Charles, gravely.

"Very little of your age. Have you ever been at school before?"

Charles replied in the negative, and after another momentary scrutiny, Dr. Wilkinson asked a few concluding questions, and then unhesitatingly declared him a member of the second class.

Louis had, this half-year, a far better chance of distinguishing himself than before, as his brother and Meredith, with one or two others, had mounted into the first class, and John Salisbury had not returned. He was, however, not a little surprised when Hamilton informed him that he would have enough to do to keep pace with his new friend, whom he had looked upon as quite one of the lower school.



Chapter XIV.


The first long dreary week had passed: quicker, however, in its peaceable monotony than many a gayer time has been known to do, and the young gentlemen of Ashfield House were beginning to settle down soberly and rationally to their inevitable fate. Louis' position was so altered this half-year, that he hardly understood himself the universal affection and consideration with which he was treated. He was indubitably a favorite with the doctor, but no one was jealous, for he bore his honors very meekly, and was always willing to share his favors with others, neither encroaching on nor abusing the kindness displayed towards him by his master, who seemed, in common with his pupils, to be exceedingly desirous of obliterating all remembrance of the misunderstanding of the last half-year. But the doctor's affection was much more sparingly exhibited than Hamilton's, who seemed at times to forget every thing for Louis. He was now made the companion of the seniors -- he had free admission into all their parties. Hamilton seemed unable to walk into Bristol unless Louis were allowed to accompany him. Louis' place in the evening was now by Hamilton, who did his utmost to make him steady, and to prevent him from yielding the first place to Clifton, who very soon proved himself to be a boy of considerable genius, united with much steadiness of purpose, and who had, evidently, been very carefully educated. One evening about this time, when most of the class-room party were very busy, under the orderly supervision of Messrs. Hamilton and Trevannion, the door was quietly opened and Ferrers entered with that doubtful air that expected an unfavorable reception. When I speak of business and quietude at Ashfield House it must, of course, be understood as comparative, for the quietest evening in that renowned academy would have furnished noise enough to have distracted half the quiet parlors in the kingdom -- and on this particular evening there was quite enough to cover the bashful entrance of the former bully. Hamilton was writing, and doubly engaged in keeping Louis from listening to an interesting history, delivered by Salisbury, of a new boy who had arrived that half-year from a neighboring school. The boy in question was a cunning dunce, who had already discovered Louis' failing, and having partaken of the assistance Louis supplied as liberally as allowed, had come more especially under the ken of the seniors, and Hamilton had been administering a reproof to Louis for helping Casson before getting his own lessons ready.

Ferrers had nearly reached the upper end of the table before any one was aware of his vicinity, when Trevannion, looking up from his writing to dip his pen anew in the ink, caught sight of him, recognizing him so suddenly that even his equanimity was almost surprised into a start. He colored slightly, and coldly acknowledging his presence by a stiff bow and a muttered "How do you do," returned to his work, not, however, before his movement had attracted the attention of one or two others. The intimation of his presence was conveyed almost talismanically round the room, and a silence ensued while the young gentlemen looked at one another for an example. These unfriendly symptoms added considerably to Ferrers' embarrassment. Pale with anxiety, he affected to notice nothing, and looked for a place at one of the tables where he might lay the books he had brought in with him. The silence, however, had made Hamilton now very conscious of what, till this moment, he had been in blissful ignorance -- that his voice was raised to nearly a shouting pitch to make his admonitions sufficiently impressive to his protege -- and the sonorous tones of his voice, delivering an emphatic oration on weakness and perseverance contrasted, were so remarkable that the attention was a little drawn from Ferrers by this unusual phenomenon.

"What a burst of eloquence!" exclaimed Frank, who, on the first sound of the kingly voice, had begun to attitudinize; while Trevannion gazed on his friend with a quiet, gentlemanly air of inquiry, that was not to be put out of countenance by any circumstance how ludicrous soever, "His majesty's in an oratorical vein to-night. Such a flow of graceful language, earnest, mellifluous persuasives dropping like sugar-plums from his lips!"

"Three cheers for his majesty's speech," cried Salisbury.

These comments were hailed by a hearty laugh, mingled with clapping of hands, and an effort on the part of a few to raise a cheer. Hamilton joined in the laugh, though he had been so intent upon his lecture that at first he hardly comprehended the joke.

"Your majesty's been studying rhetoric since we had the pleasure of a speech," remarked Reginald, when a little lull had succeeded to the uproarious mirth. "Mercury himself couldn't have done better."

"Considering that the speeches of Edward the Great usually savor of Spartan brevity," said Smith, "we couldn't have hoped for such a masterpiece."

"You don't understand his most gracious majesty," said Frank; "depend upon it he's a veritable cameleon."

At this juncture, Louis, whose eyes had a sad habit of wandering when they should be otherwise employed, caught sight of Ferrers, and, starting up, he welcomed him with the utmost heartiness.

Hamilton looked round and colored furiously, but before Ferrers had time to make any answers to Louis' rapid questions, he rose, and, stepping forward, held out his hand -- 

"How are you, Ferrers?" he said, in a cheerful tone, "I neither saw nor heard you come in just now. You have not been here long, have you?"

Ferrers grasped Hamilton's hand and looked in his face, astonished and overcome with gratitude for this unexpected welcome. The silence of the few minutes before was resumed, and every eye was riveted on Hamilton, who, perceiving from the tight grasp on his hand and the crimsoned countenance of Ferrers, his utter inability to speak, and being anxious to remove the insupportable feeling of awkwardness under which he felt sure he labored, continued, without waiting for an answer -- 

"You are very late this half. We have expected you every day."

He then sat down and went on telling Ferrers about the new-comers, and the present condition of the first class, asking him some questions about his journey, and all so quickly and cleverly as neither to appear forced, nor to oblige Ferrers to speak more than he chose. While Hamilton spoke he only now and then glanced at him from his work, which he had apparently resumed as soon as he sat down.

"His majesty's taken Fudge's hint," said Frank, in a low, discontented tone.

"Hamilton can, of course, do as he likes, but I won't," said another, with a nod of determination. "We're not obliged to follow his lead."

"Trevannion won't, you'll see," muttered Peters.

"Be kind enough to lend me your lexicon, Salisbury," said Trevannion, who had, since Hamilton's notice of Ferrers, assumed an air of more than ordinary dignity, and now reached across Ferrers for the book, as if there were no one there. Ferrers made an effort to assist in the transition of the thick volume, but all his politeness obtained was a haughty, cold stare, and a determined rejection of assistance. Louis was sure that Hamilton observed this action, from the expression of his face, but he made no remark, and continued to talk to Ferrers a little longer, when he laughingly pleaded his avocations as an excuse for being silent; but Louis was now disengaged, and Reginald had happily followed Hamilton's example, for though at first inclined to be on Trevannion's side, he could not help pitying his evident distress, and, touched by the emotion he exhibited, he exerted himself to smooth all down. Had all been as cold and repulsive as Trevannion and his advocates, Ferrers would have been dogged and proud, but now the sense of gratitude and humility was predominant, and at last so overpowered him, that he was glad to get away in the playground by himself. As he closed the door, the buz was resumed, and an attack was made on Hamilton by those who had determinedly held back.

"Your royal clemency is most praiseworthy, most magnanimous Edward," said Frank Digby.

"Worthy of you, Hamilton," said Trevannion, sneeringly. "Ferrers is a fit companion and associate for gentlemen."

"My manners not bearing any comparison with yours," replied Hamilton, coolly, "I am not so chary of contamination."

"That's a hit at your slip just now, Trevannion," said Smith. "How could you commit such a what-do-you-call it? gooch -- gaucherie."

"You had better take lessons of the old woman over the way," said Salisbury; "she only charges twopence extra for them as learns manners."

"A good suggestion," said Trevannion, laughing; "will you pay for me, Hamilton?"

"Willingly," replied Hamilton, in a low, deep tone, "if, on inquiry, I find her good manners are the result of good feeling."

"I am excessively indebted to you," replied Trevannion, coloring; "and feel exceedingly honored by the solicitude of Ferrers' friend."

"Just as you choose to feel it, Trevannion," said Hamilton; "but I had better speak my mind, gentlemen, -- I do not think we have, as a body, remembered the doctor's injunction."

"How could we?" "Is it likely?" "No, indeed." "I dare say!" "Very fine!" sounded on all sides.

"Hear me to the end," said Hamilton; "I have not much to say."

"Two speeches in one night!" said Jones. "Never was such condescension."

Hamilton took no notice of the jeering remarks round him, but having obtained a little silence, continued -- 

"We have made enough of this business. It is cruel now to carry it on further. I confess myself to have felt as much repugnance as any one could feel, to renewing any thing beyond the barest possible intercourse with Ferrers; but let us consider, first, that it becomes us, while we are Dr. Wilkinson's pupils, to pay some respect to his wishes, whether they coincide with our feelings or not; and next, whether it is charitable to shut a school-fellow out of a chance of reformation. Let us put ourselves in his place."

"A very desirable position; rather too much for imagination," remarked Trevannion.

"It is a miserable position," said Hamilton; "therefore we should do well to endeavor to help him out of it. I have no doubt if we had been once in so painful a situation, we should not have considered ourselves as hopeless or irremediable characters -- nor is he; he is quite overcome to-night because all have not been quite such savages as he expected."

"As he would have been. He wouldn't have been merciful!" exclaimed Meredith.

"That's nothing to the purpose," said Hamilton. "We have only to act rightly ourselves. Give him a chance. If he forfeit it by a similar offence, I will not say another word for him."

There was a dead silence when Hamilton had finished. His appeal had the more effect, that he was usually too indolent to trouble himself much about what did not immediately concern him or his, but took all as he found it.

"In giving what you call a chance, Hamilton," said Trevannion, who alone, in the indecision evident, remained entirely unmoved; "in giving what you call a chance, you forget that we implicate ourselves. As honorable individuals, as gentlemen, we cannot admit to fellowship one who has so degraded himself. To be 'hail-fellow-well-met' with him, were to lower ourselves. We do not prevent his improving himself. When he has done so, let us talk of receiving him among us again. In my opinion, Dr. Wilkinson's allowing him to return is as much, and a great deal more than he could expect."

"I shall say nothing more," said Hamilton. "I do not often make a request."

"I know what Louis would say," said Salisbury, who had been watching Louis' earnest, gratified gaze on Hamilton for the last few minutes; "I think we ought to be guided by him in this matter."

"I! oh, I wish just what Hamilton has said -- you know I wished it long ago."

"What Louis says shall be the law," said Jones. "We won't refuse him any thing."

"Especially in this matter," said Salisbury. "He's a brick, and so is his majesty, after all. My best endeavors for your side, Louis."

"And mine," said Jones.

"I'll outwardly forgive the culprit, at any rate," said Frank. Several others expressed their desire to abide by the same resolution; Hamilton looked his satisfaction, Trevannion sulkily recommenced his work, and Louis stole out of the room to find Casson, that he might finish telling him his lesson, according to promise. When Dr. Wilkinson arrived, he narrowly watched the manners of his pupils towards Ferrers, and was satisfied with his scrutiny, though he was, of course, unconscious of the means by which the civility shown had been procured. It is to be hoped that we have not gone so far in the delineation of Dr. Wilkinson's school, without discovering that the spirit of honor and confidence was generally high among the young gentlemen, and, consequently, having promised to be friendly to Ferrers, each individual, in duty bound, did his utmost to fulfil that promise, and in a little while the stiffness attendant on the effort wore off, and Ferrers was, in appearance, in precisely the same position as before, to the great satisfaction of the doctor, who was much pleased with his pupils' conduct on the occasion.



Chapter XV.


"Where is Louis Mortimer?" asked Hamilton, the next Saturday afternoon, about a quarter of an hour after dinner. "Does any one know where Louis Mortimer is?"

"Here I am, Hamilton, pret a vous servir, as Monsieur Gregoire would say!" cried Louis, starting from behind the school-room door.

"Are you engaged this afternoon?"

"Never, when you want me!" exclaimed Louis.

Hamilton looked gratified, but checked the expression as soon as he was aware of it.

"That is not right, Louis; I never wish, and never ought, to be an excuse for breaking an engagement."

"But suppose I make your possible requirements a condition of my engagements," said Louis, archly; "you have no objection to that, have you?"

"Only I cannot imagine such a case."

"Such is the case, however, this afternoon. I had the vanity to hope you would let me walk with you, and so only engaged myself conditionally."

"To whom were you engaged in default of my sufferance?"

"I was going to stay with Casson," replied Louis, hesitatingly. "He has a cold and headache, and he asked me if I would stay with him in the class-room, where he is obliged to stay while we are out."

"Casson!" said Hamilton, contemptuously; "you were not talking to him just now?"

"No; I was only listening to Ferrers. He was telling me about a wager Frank had just laid with Salisbury."

"How is it you prefer Casson to your friend Clifton?"

"Oh, Hamilton, I don't much like Casson; but he asked me, poor fellow. Charlie's engaged to West -- our days are Sunday, Monday, and Thursday."

"Which of you is first now?"

"Charles is, to-day," said Louis; "he is so very clever, Hamilton."

"I know he is; but you are older, and not a dunce, if you were not idle, Louis. Louis, I shall repudiate you, if you don't get past him."

"That would be a terrible fate," said Louis, slipping his hand into Hamilton's. "I cannot tell you how I should miss your kind face and help. You have been such a very kind friend to me: but I have not been so very idle, Hamilton."

"Yes, you have," returned Hamilton; "I am vexed with you, Louis. If I did not watch over you as I do, you would be as bad as you were last half. Don't tell me you can't keep before Clifton if you choose."

Louis looked gravely in Hamilton's face, and put his other hand on that he held. Hamilton drew his own quickly away.

"Lady Louisa," he said, "these affectionate demonstrations may do well enough for us alone, but keep them for private service, and don't let us play Damon and Pythia in this touching manner, to so large an audience. It partakes slightly of the absurd."

Louis colored, and seemed a little hurt; but he replied, "I am afraid I am very girlish sometimes."

"Incontrovertibly," said Hamilton, kindly laying his hand heavily on Louis' shoulder. "But we have no desire that any one should laugh at you but our royal self."

"Are we going to the downs?" asked Louis.

Before Hamilton could answer, Frank Digby, one of the large audience alluded to, came up. "Of course," he replied; "Hamilton is one of our party."

"One of your party?" asked Hamilton.

"Your majesty's oblivious of the fact," said Frank, "that among the many offices, honorary and distinctive, held by your most gracious self, the presidency of the 'Ashfield Cricket Club' is not altogether one of the most insignificant."

"We will thank our faithful amanuensis to become our deputy this afternoon," said Hamilton; "having a great desire to refresh ourself with a quiet discourse on the beauties of Nature."

"No cricket this afternoon, Hamilton!" cried Louis; "I shall be so much disappointed if you go!"

"No cricket!" exclaimed Frank: "we will enter into a conspiracy, and dethrone Edward, if he refuses to come instanter."

"Dethrone me by all means, this afternoon," said Hamilton; "my deposition will save me a great deal of trouble. I am only afraid that my freedom from state affairs would be of short duration; my subjects appear to be able to do so little without me."

"Hear him!" exclaimed Jones, laughing; "hear king Log!"

"No favoritism!" cried Smith; "I bar all partiality. We'll treat you in the Gaveston fashion, Louis, if you don't persuade your master to accede to our reasonable demands."

"That would be treason against my own comforts," said Louis, laughing, and struggling unsuccessfully to rise from the ground, where he had been playfully thrown by Salisbury. "To the rescue! your majesty; I cry help!"

"To the rescue!" shouted Reginald, pouncing suddenly upon Salisbury, and diverting his attention from Louis who would have recovered his feet, but for the intervention of one or two of the party.

"Your majesty perceives," said Frank, "that a rebellion is already broken out. A word from you may compose all."

"I have engaged to walk with Louis Mortimer, and I declare I will not stir anywhere without him," said Hamilton.

"We cannot do without you, Hamilton," said Trevannion, who had just joined the council. "You are engaged for all the meetings."

"Which meetings have no right to be convened without the concurrence of the president; -- eh, Mr. Secretary?" rejoined Hamilton.

"Of course you can please yourself," said Trevannion, proudly.

"Let Louis get up, Jones," said Hamilton.

"Does your majesty concede, or not?" said Jones, who was sitting upon Louis.

"I will answer when you let him get up."

Jones suffered Louis to rise, breathless and hot with his laughing exertions to free himself from durance vile.

"I will come, on condition that Louis comes too."

"Certainly," said Salisbury.

"And join our game, mind," said Hamilton.

"Oh!" exclaimed Smith; "that's decidedly another affair. You can't play, Sir Piers, can you?"

"He can learn," said Hamilton, who was perfectly aware of his ignorance.

"I've not the smallest objection," said Jones, "as I'm on the opposition side."

"Nor I," cried Salisbury; "though I should be a loser, as is probable."

"Really, Hamilton," exclaimed Trevannion, sulkily, "it's impossible! He'll only be in the way. I never saw such a fuss about a boy; it's quite absurd. If you want him, let him look on."

"I don't like cricket," said Louis.

"Humbug!" exclaimed Salisbury.

"I shall be in the way, as Trevannion says," continued Louis; "I am sure I shall never learn."

"'Patientia et perseverantia omnia vincunt,'" remarked Frank; "which may be freely translated in three ways:

'If a weary task you find it, Persevere, and never mind it;'

or,

'Never say die;'

or, thirdly,

'If at first you don't succeed, -- try, try again,'"

"Louisa, I am ashamed for you," said Hamilton; "and insist on the exhibition of a more becoming spirit."

"That's right, Hamilton," cried Reginald; "make him learn."

Louis pleaded as much as he dared, in dread of a few thumps, friendly in intent, but vigorous in execution, from Salisbury, and a second shaking from Hamilton, but all in vain, and they sallied forth. Trevannion fastened on Hamilton, and grumbled ineffectual remonstrances till they reached a convenient spot for their game. Here, under the active supervision of Hamilton, Salisbury, and Reginald, Louis was duly initiated; and after a couple of hours' play they returned home, Louis being in some doubt as to whether his fingers were not all broken by the concussion of a cricket-ball, but otherwise more favorably disposed towards the game than heretofore. He was, likewise, not a little gratified by the evident interest most of the players took in his progress. Hamilton had entirely devoted himself to his instruction, encouraged him when he made an effort, and laughed at his cowardliness, and Salisbury had been scarcely less kind.

As they entered the playground, Salisbury held up a silver pencil-case to Frank:

"Remember, Frank," said he, warningly.

"Do you think I've forgotten?" said Frank; "my memory's not quite so treacherous, Mr. Salisbury."

"What's that, Salisbury?" said Jones.

"Only my wager."

"Wager!" repeated Hamilton. "What absurdity is Frank about to perpetrate now?"

"He is going to make Casson swallow some medicine of his own concoction. My pencil-case against his purse, contents and all, he isn't able to do it. Casson's too sharp."

"I am surprised," said Hamilton, "that Frank is not above playing tricks on that low boy. I thought you had had enough of it, Frank."

Frank laughed; -- "No, he has foiled me regularly twice lately, and I am determined to pay him off for shamming this afternoon."

"I think it is real," said Louis.

"Then he has all the more need of medicine," said Frank; "and if he supposes it, my physic will do him as much good as any one else's."

"You'll certainly get yourself into some serious scrape some day with these practical jokes, Frank," said Hamilton. "It is a most ungentlemanly propensity."

"Hear, hear," said Reginald.

"What's that? Who goes there?" said Frank, directing the attention of the company to the figure of a tall woman neatly dressed in black silk, with an old-fashioned bonnet of the coal-scuttle species, who was crossing from the house to the playground at the moment; the lady in question being no other than the housekeeper, clothes-mender, &c., to Dr. Wilkinson introduced by Mr. Frank Digby as Gruffy, more properly rejoicing in the name of Mrs. Guppy.

"It's Gruffy, isn't it? Where is she going, I wonder."

Without waiting for an answer, Frank flew round the house, and disappeared in the forbidden regions of the kitchen.

"What is he after?" said Meredith. "I suspect we shall have some fun to-night."

"I do wish Frank wouldn't be so fond of such nonsense," said Hamilton, angrily. "Come, Louis, and take a turn till the tea-bell rings."

They had taken two or three turns up and down in front of the school-room, when the bell rang, and Frank Digby came back full of glee.

"I've done it, Salisbury," he cried, as he threw his hat in the air. "I've done it. I shall kill two birds with one stone. I'm sure to win; it's all settled; only I must be allowed to put the school-room clock forward half an hour."

"That wasn't in the bargain," said Salisbury.

"It wasn't out of it, at any rate," said Frank.

"It's all fair," said several voices; "he may do it which way he pleases."

"Remember, tace," said Frank. "Tace is the candle that lights Casson to bed to-night."

"I promise nothing, Frank," said Hamilton.

"Nevertheless you'll keep it," said Frank, laughing.

When tea was over, Frank disappeared rather mysteriously.

Salisbury had just begun to make use of one of the pile of books he had brought to the table in the class-room, when a notification was brought to him from the school-room, that Mrs. Guppy wanted to speak to him.

"Bother take her!" he exclaimed. "Why can't she come and speak to me? Interrupting a fellow at his work! Don't take my place; I shall be back presently."

Some time, however, elapsed, and no Salisbury. Now and then a few wonderments were expressed as to how Frank's wager would be won, and as to what Mrs. Guppy could want with Salisbury.

"Where is Frank, I wonder?" said one. "Just see, Peters, if Casson's gone yet."

Peters departed, and returned with the news that Casson had gone to bed a little while before.

"The farce has begun, I suspect," said Meredith. "It's more than half an hour since Salisbury went, -- and depend upon it, wherever he is, there is Frank."

At this moment Salisbury rushed into the room, and throwing himself in a sitting posture on the floor, with his back against the wall as if completely exhausted, laughed on without uttering a word, till his mirth became so infectious, that nearly all the room joined him.

"Well, Salisbury!" "Well, Salisbury!" "What is it?" "Tell us." "Have done laughing, do, you wretch, you merry-andrew." "Do be sensible."

"Sensible!" groaned Salisbury, laying his head against a form; "oh, hold me, somebody -- I'm quite knocked up with laughing. It's enough to make a fellow insensible for the rest of his life."

"Well, what is it, madcap?" said Reginald, jumping up from his seat, and approaching him in a threatening attitude.

"Frank Digby!" said Salisbury, going off into another paroxysm of laughter.

"Shake him into a little sense, Mortimer," said Jones.

"Come, Salisbury, what is it?" said several more, coming up to him.

Salisbury sat upright and wiped his eyes.

"It was the clearest case of stabbing a man with his own sword I ever saw. I don't know whether I shall ever get it out for laughing, but I'll try."

Louis looked up at Hamilton, rather anxious to get nearer to Salisbury, but Hamilton wrote on as if determined neither to let Louis move, nor to pay any attention himself, and Louis dared not ask.

"Well, you know, Mrs. Guppy sent for me. I went off in a beautiful humor, as you may imagine, and found her ladyship in a great dressing-gown, false front, and spectacles, surrounded by little boys in various stages of Saturday night's going to bed, tucking up Casson very comfortably.

"'Oh, Mr. Salisbury,' said she, 'I'll speak with you presently, -- will you be so good as to wait there a minute?'

"Well, I thought she looked very odd, but she spoke just the same as ever; and being very cross, I said, 'I am in a hurry; perhaps when you've done you'll call on me in the study,' Whereupon her ladyship comes straight out of the room, and says on the landing, in Frank Digby's voice, 'Know me by this token, I am mixing a black draught by the light of a Latin candle.'"

Salisbury burst out into a fresh fit of laughter, in which he was joined by all present except Hamilton, who steadily pursued his work with an unmoved countenance.

"Well, you may imagine," said Salisbury, when he had recovered himself, "I wasn't in a hurry then. I came back and waited behind the door very patiently. You never saw any thing so exact -- every motion and tone. He had pulled the curls over his eyes, and tied up his face with a great handkerchief over the cap, as Gruffy has been doing lately when she had the face-ache, and he went about among the little chaps in such a motherly, bustling way, it was quite affecting. Sally, who helped him, hadn't the least idea it wasn't Gruffy. However, the best of it is to come," said Salisbury, pausing a moment to recover the mirth which the recollection produced: -- "He was stirring up a concoction of cold tea, ink and water, slate-pencil dust, sugar, mustard, and salt, when I thought" (Salisbury's voice trembled violently) "that I heard a step I ought to know, and I had hardly time to get completely behind the door when it was widely opened, and in walked the doctor!"

A burst of uproarious mirth drowned the voice of the speaker. There was a broad smile on Hamilton's face, though he did not raise his head. As soon as Salisbury could speak, he continued:

"'Oh!' said I to myself, 'it's all up with you, Mr. Frank,' and I felt a little desirous of concealing my small proportions as much as might be. What Frank might feel I can't say, but he seemed to be very busy, and, as he turned round to the doctor, put up his handkerchief to his face.

"'Does your face ache, Mrs. Guppy?' says the doctor; and -- imagine the impudence of the boy -- he answered, it was a little troublesome. 'How is Clarke this evening? -- I hear he has been asleep this afternoon.' I imagine Frank has as much idea of the identity of Clarke as I have -- I don't even know who he is, much less that he was ill -- but he answered just as Gruffy would do, with her handkerchief up to her mouth, 'Rather better, sir, I think -- he was asleep when I saw him last, and I didn't disturb him.' 'Hem,' said the doctor, 'and who's this?'"

The audience was here so convulsed with laughter that Salisbury could not proceed; Louis could not help joining the laugh, though rather checked by the immovable gravity of Hamilton's countenance.

"Really, Hamilton," he said, "I wonder how Frank could tell such stories."

"He doesn't think them so," said Hamilton, abruptly.

"Well, Salisbury!" "Well, Salisbury!" exclaimed several impatient voices. "The impudence of the fellow." "How will he ever get out of it?" "Get on, Salisbury." "The idea of joking with the doctor." "Go on, Salisbury." "What a capital fellow he'd make for one of those escaping heroes in romances -- he'd never stay to have his head cut off."

"Well, and the doctor says, 'Who's this, Mrs. Guppy? Casson? How -- what's the matter with you? How long have you been here?' 'Just come to bed, sir,' says Casson; and then the doctor makes a few inquiries about his terrible headache, et cetera; and Mrs. Guppy had a twinge of the toothache, and could only let the doctor know by little and little how she had thought it better to put him to bed.

"'And that is medicine for him?'

"The doctor looked very suspiciously at the cup, I fancy, for his tone was rather short and sulky. Frank seemed a little daunted, but he soon got up his spirits again, and, stirring up the mess, was just going to give it to Casson, when, lo! another strange footfall was heard; doctor turned round (I was in a state of fright, I assure you, lest he should discover me) and in marched the real Simon Pure! It was a picture -- oh! if I had been an artist: -- there stood Gruffy, in her best black silk, looking more puzzled than angry; Frank -- I couldn't see what he looked like, but I'll suppose it, as he says -- and doctor turning from one to the other with a face as red as a turkey-cock, and looking so magnificent!"

The counterfeit Mrs. Guppy.

"Poor Frank!" exclaimed several laughing voices.

"Well, at last Fudge found words, and in such a tone, exclaimed, 'MRS. GUPPY! who is THIS, then?' Then she stormed out; 'Ay, sir, who is it, indeed? perhaps you will inquire.' I didn't see what followed, for my range of vision was rather circumscribed -- but I imagine that doctor pulled off part of Frank's disguise, for the next words I heard were, 'Digby, this is intolerable!' uttered in the doctor's most magnificent anger -- 'What is the meaning of this?' Frank said something about a wager and a little fun, meaning no harm, et cetera; and Fudge gave him such a lecture, finishing off by declaring, that 'if he persisted in perpetrating such senseless follies he should find some other place to do so in than his house.' All the little boys were laughing, but doctor stopped them all with a thundering 'SILENCE!' and then he asked what Frank had in that cup. 'Cold tea, sir,' said Digby, quite meekly. 'And what's this at the bottom?' 'Sugar, sir,' I saw the doctor's face -- it was not one to be trifled with, but there seemed a sort of grim smile there, too, when he gave the cup to Frank and insisted upon his drinking it all up; and Digby did it, too -- he dared not refuse."

Another peal of laughter rang through the room, in which Hamilton joined heartily.

"Then," continued Salisbury, "doctor said he hoped he would feel a little better for his dose -- and, becoming as grave as before, he desired he would return Mrs. Guppy's things, and beg her pardon for his impertinence."

"He didn't do so, surely?" said Jones.

"He did, though," replied Salisbury; "and I wouldn't have been him if he'd been obstinate; but he added -- I wondered how even he dared -- I've saved you a little trouble, ma'am, there are six of them in bed."

"Oh! oh! disgraceful!" exclaimed Hamilton.

"What did Fudge say?" asked Smith.

"'THIS TO MY FACE, SIR!' and then, what he was going to do I don't know, but Frank was quite frightened, and begged pardon so very humbly that at last Fudge let him off with five hundred lines of Virgil to be done before Wednesday evening, and then sent him to bed -- and there he is, for he was too much alarmed to play any more tricks."

"I'd have given something to have seen it," cried one, when the laugh was a little over.

"I think," said Jones, "all things considered, that the doctor was tolerably lenient."

"Oh! Digby's a little bit of a favorite, I fancy," said Meredith.

"Not a bit," said Reginald. "What do you say, Hamilton?"

"Nothing," said Hamilton, shortly.

"One would think you never liked a joke, Hamilton," said Peters.

"Nor do I, when it is so low as to be practical," said Hamilton. "I feel no sympathy whatever with him."

The event furnished idle conversation enough for that evening, and it was long before it was forgotten; and, in spite of Frank's reiterated boast that he did not care, and his apparent participation in the mirth occasioned by his failure, it required the utmost exercise of his habitual good-humor to bear equally the untiring teasing of his school-fellows, and the still more trying coldness and sarcasm of his master, whose manner very perceptibly altered towards him for some time after. Casson took care that no one in the lower school should be ignorant of Frank's defeat, and stimulated the little boys to tease him -- but this impertinence, being an insult to the dignity of the seniors, was revenged by them as a body, and the juvenile tormentors were too much awe-struck and alarmed to venture on a repetition of their offence.



Chapter XVI.


During Louis' frequent walks with Hamilton, it must not be supposed that his home and home-doings were left out of the conversation; before very long, Hamilton had made an intimate mental acquaintance with all his little friend's family, their habits of life, and every other interesting particular Louis could remember. Hamilton was an excellent listener, and never laughed at Louis' fondness for home, and many were the extracts from home-letters with which he was favored; nay, sometimes whole letters were inflicted on him.

Among the many delightful topics of home history, Louis dwelt on few with more pleasure and enthusiasm than the social musical evenings, and said so much on them, that Hamilton's curiosity was at length aroused, after hearing Louis sing two or three times, to wonder what a madrigal could be like. Louis tried to satisfy this craving by singing the treble part, and descanting eloquently on the manner in which the other parts ought to come in; but all in vain he repeated, "There now, Hamilton, you see this is the contralto part; and when this bit of the soprano is sung, it comes in so beautifully, and the bass is crossing it, and playing hide and seek with the tenor."

Hamilton was obtuse, but at length, by fagging very hard with one or two boys in the school-room, and getting one of the ushers, who generally performed a second in all the musical efforts in the school, to make some kind of bass, Louis presented his choir one evening in the playground, and made them sing, to the great rapture of the audience.

After this exhibition, the whole school seemed to have a fever for madrigals; nothing was heard about the playground but scraps of that which Louis had taken pains to drill into his party; and one or two came to Louis and Reginald to learn to take a second part. In play-hours, nothing seemed thought of but part-singing, and suddenly the propriety of giving a grand public concert was started; and after a serious debate, a singing-class was established, Louis being declared president, or master of the choir.

We will not say how fussy Louis was on the occasion; but he went about very busily trying the voices of his school-fellows for a day or two after his appointment, and picking out the best tones for his pupils. Casson owned a very fine singing voice, though it was one of the most rude in speaking, and having been partially initiated in the mystery before, by Louis was declared a treasure. Frank Digby was another valuable acquisition; for, joined to an extremely soft, full contralto voice, he possessed, in common with his many accomplishments, a refined ear and almost intuitive power of chiming in melodiously with any thing. Salisbury was a very respectable bass, as things went; and Reginald, who was certainly incapacitated for singing treble, declared his intention of assisting him, being quite confident that his voice would be a desirable adjunct. The members of the class having at last been decided on, a subscription was raised, and Hamilton was commissioned to purchase what was necessary, the first convenient opportunity; and accordingly, the next half-holiday, he obtained leave for Louis to accompany him, and set off on his commission. He had scarcely left the school-room when Trevannion met him, and volunteered to accompany him.

"I shall be very glad of your company," said Hamilton; "I am going to choose the music. You may stare when I talk of choosing music -- it is well I have so powerful an auxiliary, or I am afraid I should not give much satisfaction to our committee of taste."

"What powerful auxiliary are you depending on?" said Trevannion; "I shall be a poor one."

"You -- oh, yes!" exclaimed Hamilton; "a very poor one, I suspect. I was speaking of Louis Mortimer; he is going with me."

"Indeed," said Trevannion, coldly; "you will not want me, then!"

"Why not?" asked Hamilton. "We shall, I assure you, be very glad of your company."

"So will Hutton and Salisbury," said Trevannion; "and I can endure my own company when I am not wanted;" as he spoke, he walked away.

Hamilton turned, and looked after his retreating figure, as, drawn up to its full height, it quickly disappeared in the crowd of boys, who were chaffering with the old cake-man. His puzzled countenance soon resumed its accustomed gravity, and with a slight curl of the lip, he laid his hand on Louis' arm, and drew him on.

"Trevannion is offended," said Louis.

"He's welcome," was the rejoinder.

"But it is on my account, Hamilton," said Louis, anxiously; "I cannot bear that you should quarrel with him for me."

"I have not quarrelled," said Hamilton, coldly. "If he chooses to be offended, I can't help it."

"But he is an older friend than I am in two senses -- let me go after him and tell him I am not going. I can go with you another afternoon."

Louis drew his arm away as he spoke, and was starting off, when Hamilton seized him quite roughly, and exclaimed in an angry tone, "You shall do no such thing, Louis! Does he suppose I am to have no one else but himself for my friend -- friend, indeed!" he repeated. "It's all indolence, Louis."

Louis looked up half alarmed, startled at his vehemence.

"Perhaps," said Hamilton, relaxing his hold, and laughing as he spoke, "perhaps if I had not been so lazy, I should have found a more suitable friend before; as it is, I do not yet find Trevannion indispensable -- by no means," he added, scornfully.

"Dear Hamilton," said Louis, "I shall be quite unhappy if I think I am the cause of your thinking ill of Trevannion. You used to be such great friends."

"None the worse, perhaps, because we are aware of a common absence of perfection in each other," replied Hamilton, whose countenance had gradually regained its calmness. "It is foolish to be angry, Louis, but I was; and now let there be an end of it -- I don't mean to forsake you for all the Trevannions in Christendom."

They had by this time reached the playground gates, and were here overtaken by Frank Digby, who had before engaged to be one of the party.

"Better late than never," said Louis, in reply to his breathless excuses. "I had my doubts whether your pressing engagements with Maister Dunn would allow you to accompany us."

"Why, I got rid of him pretty soon," said Frank; "only just as I had wedged myself out of the phalanx, who should appear but Thally."

"Who?" said Louis.

"Tharah," repeated Frank.

"Sally Simmons, the boot-cleaner, Louis," said Hamilton; "you are up to nothing yet."

"She's a queer stick," said Frank.

"What a strange description of a woman!" remarked Louis. "It is as clear as a person being a brick."

"And so it is," replied Frank; "only it's just the reverse."

"Up comes Thally with my Sunday boots as bright as her fair hands could make them, and wanted me to look at a hole she had scraped in them, nor, though I promised to give her my opinion of her handiwork when I came back, was I allowed to depart till she had permission to take them to her 'fayther.'"

Nothing worthy of record passed during the walk to Bristol till the trio reached College Green. Here Louis began to look out for music-shops, while Frank entertained his companions with a running commentary on the shops, carriages, and people. It was a clear, bright day, and Clifton seemed to have poured itself out in the Green.

"Look there, Hamilton, there's a whiskered don! What a pair of moustaches! Hamilton, where is your eye-glass? Here's Trevannion's shadow -- was there ever such a Paris! Good gracious! as the ladies say, what a frightful bonnet! Isn't that a love of a silk, Louis? Now, Hamilton, did you ever see such a guy?"

Hamilton was annoyed at these remarks, made by no means in a low tone, and, in his eagerness to change the conversation and get further from Frank, he unfortunately ran against a lady who was getting out of a carriage just drawn up in front of a large linen-draper's shop, much to the indignation of a young gentleman who attended her.

Hamilton begged pardon, with a crimson face; and, as the lady kindly assured him she was not hurt, Louis recognized in her his quondam friend, Mrs. Paget, and darted forward to claim her acquaintance.

The meeting with Mrs. Paget.

"What, Louis! my little Master Louis!" exclaimed the lady; "I did not expect to see you. Where have you come from?"

"I am at school, ma'am, at Dr. Wilkinson's, and I had leave to come out with Hamilton this afternoon. This is Hamilton, ma'am -- Hamilton, this is Mrs. Paget."

"Our rencontre, Mr. Hamilton," said the lady, "has been most fortunate; for without this contretemps I should have been quite ignorant of Master Louis' being so near -- you must come and see me, dear. Mr. Hamilton, I must take him home with me this afternoon."

"It is impossible, ma'am," said Hamilton, bluntly; "I am answerable for him, and he must go back with me."

"Can you be so inexorable?" said Mrs. Paget. "Will you come, too, and Mr. Francis Digby -- I beg your pardon, Mr. Frank, I did not see you."

"I beg yours, ma'am," replied the affable Frank, with a most engaging bow; "for I was so taken up with the tempting display on the green this afternoon, that I only became aware this moment of my approximation to yourself."

"The shops are very gay, certainly; but I should have thought that you young gentlemen would not have cared much for the display. Now, a tailor's shop would have been much more in your taste."

"Indeed, ma'am, we came out with the express purpose of buying a silk for the Lady Louisa."

"I wonder any lady should commission you to buy any thing for her."

"Oh!" replied Frank, "I am renowned for my taste; and Hamilton is equally well qualified. Can you recommend us a good milliner, ma'am?"

"I am going to look at some bonnets," said the lady. "But, Mr. Frank, I half suspect you are quizzing. What Lady Louisa are you speaking of?"

Frank had drawn up his face into a very grave and confidential twist, when Mrs. Paget's equerry, the young gentleman before mentioned, offered his arm, and, giving Frank a withering look, warned the lady of the time.

"You are right. It is getting late," she said. "Good-bye, dear boy. Where are you now? Dr. Williams?"

"Dr. Wilkinson's, Ashfield House," said Louis.

"Henry, will you remember the address?" said the lady.

The young gentleman grunted some kind of acquiescence; and, after due adieus, Mrs. Paget walked into the shop.

"Frank, I'm ashamed of you," said Hamilton.

"I am sure," replied Frank, "I've been doing all the work; I'm a walking exhibition of entertainment for man and beast."

Hamilton would not laugh, and, finding all remonstrances unavailing, he quickened his pace and walked on in silence till they reached the music-seller's, where, after some deliberation, they obtained the requisite music, and, after a few more errands, began to retrace their steps.

The walk home was very merry. Louis, having unfastened the bundle, tried over some of the songs, and taught Frank readily the contralto of two. Then he wanted to try Hamilton, but this in the open air Hamilton stoutly resisted, though he promised to make an effort at some future time. After Frank and Louis had sung their duets several times over to their own satisfaction while sitting under a hedge, all the party grew silent: there was something so beautiful in the stillness and brightness, that none felt inclined to disturb it. At last, Louis suddenly began Eve's hymn:

"How cheerful along the gay mead The daisy and cowslip appear! The flocks, as they carelessly feed, Rejoice in the spring of the year; The myrtles that shade the gay bowers, The herbage that springs from the sod, Trees, plants, cooling fruits, and sweet flowers, All rise to the praise of my God.

"Shall man, the great master of all, The only insensible prove? Forbid it, fair gratitude's call! Forbid it, devotion and love! THEE, Lord, who such wonders canst raise, And still canst destroy with a nod, My lips shall incessantly praise, My soul shall be wrapped in my God." DR. ARNE.

Frank joined in the latter part of the first verse, but was silent in the second.

"Why did you not go on, Frank?" asked Hamilton.

"It was too sweet," said Frank. "Louis, I envy you your thoughts."

"Do you?" said Louis, looking up quickly in his cousin's face, with a bright expression of pleasure.

"When you began that song," continued Frank, "I was thinking of those lines,

'These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty, Thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!'"

"'Thyself how wondrous then!'" repeated Hamilton, reverentially.

"I don't know how it is, Louis," said Frank; "in cathedrals, and in beautiful scenery, when a grave fit comes over me, I sometimes think I should like to be religious."

Louis squeezed his hand, but did not speak.

"Take care, Frank," said Hamilton with some emotion. "Be very, very careful not to mistake sentiment for religion. I am sure it is so easy to imagine the emotion excited by beauty of sight or sound, religious, that we cannot, be too careful in examining the reason of such feelings."

"But how, Hamilton?" said Frank. "You would not check such impressions?"

"No; it is better that our thoughts should be carried by beauty to the source of all beauty; but to a poetical, susceptible imagination this is often the case where there is not the least vital religion, Frank. The deist will gaze on the splendid landscape, and bow in reverence to the God of nature, but a Christian's thoughts should fly to his God at all times; the light and beauty of the scenes of nature should be within himself. When a person's whole religion consists in these transient emotions, he ought to mistrust it, Digby."

"But, dear Hamilton," said Louis, after a few minutes' silence, "we ought to be thankful when God gives us the power of enjoying the beautiful things He has made. Would it not be ungrateful to check every happy feeling of gratitude and joy for the power to see, and hear, and enjoy, with gladness and thankfulness, the loveliness and blessings around?"

"The height of ingratitude, dear Louis," said Hamilton, emphatically. "But I am sure you understand me."

"To be sure," said Louis. "Many good gifts our Almighty Father has given us, and one perfect gift, and the good gifts should lead us to think more of the perfect ONE. I often have thought, Hamilton, of that little girl's nice remark that I read to you last Sunday, about the good and perfect gifts."

Hamilton did not reply, and for a minute or two longer they sat in silence, when the report of a gun at a little distance roused them, and almost at the same instant, a little bird Louis had been watching as it flew into a large tree in front of them, fell wounded from branch to branch, until it rested on the lowest, where a flutter among the leaves told of its helpless sufferings.

"I must get it, Hamilton!" cried Louis, starting up. "It is wounded."

"The branch is too high," said Hamilton. "I dare say the poor thing is dying; we cannot do it any good."

"Indeed I must try!" exclaimed Louis, scrambling partly up the immense trunk of the tree, and slipping down much more quickly. "I wish there were something to catch hold of, or to rest one's foot against."

"You'll never get up," said Hamilton, laughing; "if you must get it, mount my shoulders."

As he spoke he came under the tree, and Louis, availing himself of the proffered assistance, succeeded in reaching and bringing down the wounded bird, which he did with many expressions of gratitude to Hamilton.

"I am sure you ought to be obliged," said Frank. "Royalty lending itself out as a ladder is an unheard-of anomaly. Pray, what are you going to do with cock-sparrow now you have got him?"

Louis only replied by laying some grass and leaves in the bottom of his cap, and putting the bird on this extempore bed. He then seized Hamilton's arm and urged him forward. Hamilton responded to Louis' anxiety with some queries on the expediency of assisting wounded birds if pleasant walks were to be thereby curtailed, and Frank, after suggesting, to Louis' horror, the propriety of making a pie of his favorite, walked on, singing,

"A little cock-sparrow sat upon a tree,"

which, with variations, lasted till they reached the playground gates, where Louis ran off to find Clifton, that he might enter into proper arrangements for due attendance on his sparrow's wants.



Chapter XVII.

"In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin; but he that refraineth his lips is wise." -- Prov. x. 19.

"Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth; a stranger, and not thine own lips." -- Prov. xxvii. 2.


We are now considering Louis Mortimer under prosperity; a state in which it is much more difficult to be watchful, than in that of adversity. When he first came to school, his struggle was to be consistent in maintaining his principles against ridicule and fear of his fellow-creatures' judgment. In that he nearly failed; and then came the hard trial we have related, the furnace from whose fires he came so bright: and another trial awaited him, but different still.

By the beauty of conduct Divine grace alone had enabled him to observe, he now won the regard of the majority of his school-fellows; and no one meddled with him or his opinions. He was loved by many; liked by most, and unmolested by the rest. We are told, "When a man's ways please the Lord, even his enemies are at peace with him;" and this was Louis' case. If a few remarks were now and then made on the singularity and stiffness of his notions, the countenance of the seniors, and the general estimation in which he was held, prevented any annoyance or interference. His feet were now on smooth ground, and the sky was bright above his head; and he began to forget that a storm had ever been.

One day between school-hours, when Louis and his brother were diligently drilling the chorus, they were summoned to the drawing-room, where they found the doctor standing talking with a lady, in the large bay-window. Her face was turned towards the prospect beyond, and she did not see them enter; and near her, leaning on the top of a high-backed chair, stood a tall gentlemanly youth, whom Louis immediately recognized as Mrs. Paget's esquire. The lady was speaking as they entered, and her gentle lady-like tones fell very pleasantly on Louis' ears, and made him sure he should like her, if even the words she had chosen had been otherwise.

"I have been quite curious to see him; my sister has said so much, poor little fellow!"

Dr. Wilkinson at this moment became aware of the presence of his pupils, and, turning round, introduced them to the lady, and the lady in turn to them, as Mrs. Norman.

"I am personally a stranger to you, Master Mortimer," said Mrs. Norman; "but I have often heard of you. You know Mrs. Paget?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Louis.

"She is my sister, and, not being able to come herself to-day, she commissioned me to bring an invitation for you and your brother to spend the rest of this day with her, if Dr. Wilkinson will kindly allow it."

The invitation.

Louis looked at Dr. Wilkinson; and Reginald answered for himself -- 

"I am much obliged, ma'am; and, if you please, thank Mrs. Paget for me, but as it is not a half-holiday, I shall not be able to come this afternoon. I shall be very glad to come when school is over, if Dr. Wilkinson will allow me."

Dr. Wilkinson smiled. "Mrs. Norman will, I am sure, excuse a school-boy's anxiety to retain a hard-earned place in his class," he said. "I have given my permission, you may do as you please."

"Mrs. Paget will be so much disappointed," said Mrs. Norman; "are you anxious about your class, too, Master Louis?"

Louis blushed, hesitated, and then looked from Reginald to the doctor, but Dr. Wilkinson gave no assistance. Louis demurred a little; for he had a place to lose that he had gained only the day before, and that, probably, he might not be able to gain from Clifton for the rest of the half-year. But at length, on another persuasive remark from Mrs. Norman, he accepted the invitation in rather a confused manner; and, it being decided that Reginald was to join them at dinner, he went away to make some alteration in his dress. When he returned, Mrs. Norman carried him off in her carriage, which was waiting at the door, having first introduced him to her companion, as her son, Henry Norman.

During the ride to Clifton, Louis became very communicative. He liked Mrs. Norman very much, she was so very sweet, and now and then made little remarks that reminded Louis of home; and then he was sure she liked him; even if he had not guessed that the few words he first heard from her lips referred to him, her very kind full eyes and affectionate manner spoke of unusual interest, and Louis felt very anxious to rise in her estimation. Things that are not sinful in themselves, become sins from the accompanying motives; the desire of favor in the eyes of so excellent a person was not wrong, had it been mixed with a wish to adorn the doctrine of Christ, and thankfulness for the love and favor given; but now Louis talked of things which, though he really believed them, and of feelings which, though he had once really experienced them, were not now the breathings of a heart that overflowed with all its fulness of gratitude. He had quickness enough to see what was most precious in his new friend's sight, and tried to ingratiate himself with her, by dwelling on these subjects, and showing how much he had felt on them. Had felt, for he had "left his first love."

Let it not be supposed that Louis meant to deceive -- he deceived himself as much as any one; but he was in that sad state when a Christian has backslidden so far as to live on the remembrance of old joys, instead of the actual possession of new.

The carriage stopped, at length, at a house in York Crescent, where the trio alighted. Mrs. Norman led Louis up stairs into the drawing-room, while her son, who had scarcely spoken a word during the drive, stayed a minute or two at the house-door, and then ran down the nearest flight of steps leading to the carriage-road, jumped into the carriage, which was just driving off, and paid a visit to the stables.

The room into which Louis entered was very large, and littered so with all descriptions of chairs, stools, and non-descript elegancies, that it required some little ingenuity to reach the further end without upsetting the one, or being overthrown by the others. Near one of the three windows, reclining on a sofa, was Mrs. Paget, who welcomed Louis with her usual warmth.

"You see," said she, "I am a prisoner. I sprained my ankle the very day I saw you; and I am positively forbidden to walk. But where is Master Reginald?"

Louis informed Mrs. Paget of his brother's intentions, and, after expressing her regrets at his non-appearance, the lady continued:

"Now, sit near me, and let us have a little talk; I want to hear how you are going on, and how many prizes you are likely to get. But, perhaps, my dear, you would like to go on the downs, or into the town, or to --  -- Where's Henry, I wonder: where is Mr. Norman?" she asked of a servant who came to remove a little tray that stood beside her.

"Just gone round to the stables, ma'am."

"Dear, how unfortunate! You can't think what a beautiful little horse he has; I tell him it is quite a lady's horse. He will show it to you. I can't think how he could go away this afternoon. You'll be very dull, my dear -- but my sister will take you out."

Louis assured her he should enjoy sitting with her.

"That is very kind of you; very few of your age would care about staying with a lame, fidgety, old woman."

Louis protested against the two last epithets, and as Mrs. Norman had left the room he began talking of the pleasant ride he had had with her, and how much he loved her.

Mrs. Paget warmly admitted every thing, only adding that in some things she was a little too particular.

"But, dear me! you must be very hungry," she exclaimed, interrupting herself. "How could I forget? Just ring the bell, dear boy -- there's lunch down stairs. Oh, never mind, here is Charlotte."

As she spoke, Mrs. Norman re-entered, and took Louis down to lunch.

When he returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Paget had her sofa moved so as to face the window, and a little table was placed in front of her. A low armchair was near her for Louis, and another quite in the window Mrs. Norman took possession of, when she had provided herself with some work.

"Oh, what a beautiful view!" exclaimed Louis, as he looked for the first time out of the window. "How very, very beautiful! I think this is the pleasantest situation in Clifton."

"It is very beautiful," said Mrs. Norman. "But you have a magnificent prospect at Dr. Wilkinson's."

"Dr. Wilkinson's is a very nice place, I believe, is it not?" said Mrs. Paget. "It is a pity such a pretty place should be a school."

"Nay," said Mrs. Norman, smiling; "why should you grudge the poor boys their pleasure?"

"I don't think they appreciate it," said Mrs. Paget; "and, poor fellows, they are always so miserable that they might as well be miserable somewhere else."

"We are not at all miserable after the first week," said Louis.

"I thought you were not to go to school again, my dear," said Mrs. Paget.

"So I thought, myself, but papa wished me to go, and he is the best judge."

"Well, dear it's a very nice thing that you are wise enough to see it, -- and you are happy?"

"I should be very ungrateful not to be so ma'am; Dr. Wilkinson and all the boys are so kind to me this half. It is so different from the first quarter spent at school."

"They are kind, are they? Well, I dare say; they couldn't help it, I'm sure," replied Mrs. Paget. "I suppose you will have the medal again this half year. I am sure you ought to have it to make up."

"Oh, but I shouldn't have it to make up for last half, ma'am," said Louis, smiling.

"But you will get it, I dare say," said the lady.

"I don't know," said Louis; "perhaps -- I think I have a very good chance yet, but we never can tell exactly what Dr. Wilkinson thinks about us. There are only one or two I am afraid of."

"I should think you needn't be afraid of any," said Mrs. Paget. "I told you, Charlotte, about that story we heard at Heronhurst last summer -- dear boy -- you know he bore -- "

"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Norman. "You have a large number of school-fellows, Master Louis," she added.

"Yes, ma'am, there are seventy-six of us this half, so many that we hardly know the names of the lower school."

"Is that M. Ferrar or Ferrers there still?" asked Mrs. Paget.

"Yes, ma'am, and he is so much improved, you cannot think."

Louis looked very earnestly at her as she spoke, and she put her hand on his forehead, stroking his hair off, while she replied,

"He is very happy in having so kind a friend, I am sure; he ought to have been expelled."

"Oh no, ma'am -- I think kindness was much the best way," said Louis; and remembering how incautiously he had spoken of him before, he said all that he could in his praise.

The conversation then turned upon the school in general, and it was astonishing to watch how much Louis said indirectly in his own praise, and how nearly every thing seemed to turn in the direction of dear self, in the history of his lessons, progress, and rivals -- and even when it branched off to his friends, among whom in the first rank stood Hamilton.

"You would so like Hamilton, he is so kind to me. I told you about him before," said Louis, eagerly.

"Is that the young gentleman who had charge of you the other day?" asked Mrs. Paget.

Louis answered in the affirmative.

"I did not much like him, only one doesn't judge people fairly at first, often."

"Oh, Hamilton's such a good creature!" exclaimed Louis, in his energy letting fall one end of a skein of silk he was holding. He gathered it up, apologized, and resumed his defence of his friend.

"He is, perhaps, a little blunt, but he is so sincere, and so steady and kind, Dr. Wilkinson is very, very fond of him, I know; he makes me sit by him every night, and I learn my lessons with him. I am sure if it were not for him I should be terribly behind Clifton."

"I saw them coming out of Redland Chapel yesterday morning," said Mrs. Paget. "At least I saw Mr. Hamilton, but I did not see you."

Louis informed her of the division of the school on Sunday, and she continued,

"I noticed a very aristocratic young gentleman with Mr. Hamilton -- quite a contrast, so very handsome and elegant; who was he?"

"Was he tall?" asked Louis; "and dressed in black, with a light waistcoat?"

"I don't know what waistcoat he had," said Mrs. Paget, laughing. "His dress was in perfect gentlemanly taste. He was, I should think, tall for his age, and had dark hair and eyes."

"I have no doubt it was Trevannion; he is the handsomest fellow in the school, except Salisbury."

"That he is not," said Mrs. Paget, significantly.

Louis blushed, and felt rather foolish, certainly not wholly insensible to the injudicious hint.

"Only Fred Salisbury is so different: he is not elegant, and yet he is not awkward; he is rough and ready, and says all kinds of vulgar things. He is very much liked among us, but I don't think Trevannion is, though he gets his own way a great deal: he thinks nobody is equal to himself, I know, but I am sure he is not a favorite."

"Why not?" said Mrs. Paget.

"He is so very selfish, and so contemptuous, and so dreadfully offended if Hamilton does not treat him with the deference he wants. I think we know more of each other than any one else does, and no one would think, in company, when Trevannion is smiling and talking so cleverly, that he is so unamiable."

"He does not look like an ill-tempered person," said the lady.

"I don't think he is what is generally called an ill-tempered person; for he never puts himself into passions, nor does he seem to mind many things that make others very angry. But he is sometimes dreadfully disdainful and haughty when any one offends him, and especially when Hamilton seems to like anybody as well as himself. Only last Saturday he was so much affronted because Hamilton had asked leave for me to go into Bristol with him. When he found I was coming, he wouldn't go with us. I think he is very jealous of me, though I begged Hamilton to let me stay at home, and I was just going after him to call him back, only Hamilton wouldn't let me. I did not like to see such old friends quarrel. I am sure I would very gladly have stayed at home to keep peace."

"I am quite sure of that," said Mrs. Paget. "But how came your perfect Mr. Hamilton to choose such a friend?"

"I have often wondered," said Louis; "and last Saturday, when that happened that I told you of just now, and Hamilton (he is so kind) said he wouldn't give me up for anybody, he said he thought he made Trevannion his friend because he was too lazy to find another for himself."

"Too lazy to find another?" repeated Mrs. Paget.

"Hamilton does not like taking trouble, generally," said Louis; "it is his greatest fault, I think. He takes things as they come. I have often wished he would concern himself a little more about the wrong things that go on among us. You know it would be of no use my speaking about them, though I try sometimes; it is so much easier to do right when the great boys support you."

"So it is, dear," said Mrs. Paget, kindly.

Mrs. Norman had scarcely spoken during the whole conversation, though she had once or twice laid down her work and looked very gravely at Louis; but he had not noticed it; for he was so elated with himself, and the relations of his own importance at school, and the idea of his superiority above his school-fellows, that there was no room for any thing else in his head, and he went on with the firm conviction that both the ladies were, like every one else, extremely delighted and interested in him and his sentiments. There had been another auditor in the room almost ever since the beginning of the long chat, and that was Henry Norman, who, when he had seen his horse and lunched, entered the room unperceived by Louis or Mrs. Paget, and passed noiselessly along to the furthest window, where he sat, with a book, hid by the curtains from a careless glance. A few words caught his ear as he was finding out his place; and, whether the matter of the first page required deep consideration and digestion or not, we cannot pretend to determine, not knowing the nature of the chosen volume, but it is certain that that leaf was not turned over that afternoon, and the eyes that professed to convey its meaning to the mind of the reader not unfrequently wandered on the hills in the distant prospect, or, on being recalled, on the nearer objects of Mrs. Paget's sofa -- the skein of silk and the pair of hands, which were the only portions visible to him of the loquacious little visitor. That he was listening with interest of an equivocal nature might be gathered from the frequent, impatient knitting of the brow, biting of the lips, and sudden laying down of the book altogether; but there he sat till Louis, having flown off from Hamilton to the general school failings, had finished relating the history of Frank Digby's memorable Saturday night's exploit, and concluded by an emphatic delivery of his upright sentiments on the heinousness of practical jokes. He paused a minute to take breath, after a Philippic that elicited a small dose of flattery from Mrs. Paget, and, with a face flushed with satisfaction and excitement, stooped to pick up a fallen pair of scissors, when Mrs. Norman, laying down her work looked again at him and uttered a sound indicative of an intention of speaking. This time Louis was fully aware of an expression in her countenance far from satisfactory, but she had not time to express her sentiments, for at this moment Reginald was announced, and a general move took place. Henry Norman came forward and welcomed him, and then took him and Louis out on the Crescent till dinner-time. Here they were joined by some of Norman's acquaintances, whom he introduced to his visitors. Louis thought uncomfortably, for a few minutes, of Mrs. Norman's look of disapprobation; but he persuaded himself that there was nothing meant by it, and soon became very lively. There was something he did not like about Norman, who, though perfectly well-bred and attentive, showed a degree of indifference and disregard to any thing he said or did, that did not altogether suit Louis' present state of mind. If Louis addressed him, he listened very politely, but with a slight, sarcastic smile, and either returned a very short and cool reply, or, if the remark did not require one, an inclination of the head, and turned immediately to one of his other companions. Reginald did not much fancy him; but, upon the whole, they managed to pass the time very pleasantly till they were summoned to dinner.

Several persons came in in the evening, and Louis was called upon by Mrs. Paget to sing, "Where the bee sucks." This led to other songs, and Louis attracted the notice of a musical gentleman, who was much pleased with him, and who gave him a general invitation to his house. Louis was in the midst of his thanks when Reginald summoned him to go home, and, in spite of Mrs. Paget's remonstrances and offers of her carriage, carried his point.

"Well, Louis, how did you get on?" said Reginald, as they were walking home; "I think you must have been dreadfully bored with holding skeins and talking fine for Mrs. Paget's edification for two hours at least, to say nothing of all the stuffing you have had this evening."

"Oh! I have been very happy," said Louis. "Do you know Mr. Fraser has invited me to his musical parties?"

"I wish you joy, I am sure. What a nice woman Mrs. Norman seems!"

"Yes," said Louis, doubtfully.

"Yes -- that sounds very much like no," said Reginald.

"I did not mean it." Louis recalled her manner lately towards him, and mentally went over the conversation of the day.

"Well, what's the matter?" asked Reginald.

"I am afraid I have been very foolish; I talk so foolishly sometimes, Reginald -- I said so many foolish things this afternoon. I don't think Mrs. Norman likes me."

"Rubbish! stuff and nonsense! Just like you, Louis, always imagining somebody's displeased with you -- I won't hear a word more; I have no patience with you."

"Then you don't think she seemed vexed with me?"

"Not I; and if she were, what's the odds? What difference need she make in your happiness? What a wretched creature you'll make of yourself, Louis, if you think so much of the opinion of every one -- a person, too, you may never see again."

Louis was relieved, and talked on other matters with his brother till they reached home. He was a little annoyed to hear that Hamilton had expressed considerable vexation at his going with Mrs. Norman before afternoon school, and this, combined with the excitement and vanity under which he labored, disturbed considerably the tranquillity of his slumbers, and prevented his earnestly seeking that aid he so much needed.



Chapter XVIII.

"A talebearer revealeth secrets; but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter." -- Prov. xi. 13.

"He that covereth a transgression seeketh love, but he that repeateth a matter separateth very friends." -- Prov. xvii. 9.

"When pride cometh, then cometh shame." -- Prov. xi. 2.

"A haughty spirit goeth before a fall." -- Prov. xvi. 18.


Perhaps those who have read the first part of the story of Louis Mortimer will remember that I there endeavored to explain the nature of the Christian's warfare, and that I stated that there were sad periods when the Christian, too confident in his own strength, perhaps too much inclined to exult in his victories as evincing some latent power in himself, becomes less watchful, and gradually falls back in his glorious course. It is certain, that if we do not advance we go back, and oh, how sad it is that redeemed sinners, called by so holy a name as that of Christian, should, in any degree, forget to whom they owe all their might to do well, as well as their final salvation, that they should relax, in the least, their prayers, their efforts in the strength of the Holy Spirit to press forward towards the mark of the prize of their high calling. It is not that all those who thus sadly backslide are allowed to fall into open sin. Many, by the great mercy of their Lord, are preserved from thus dishonoring His holy name and cause; but alas! too often is there a falling off in devotion, in singleness of heart, in perseverance, in watchfulness against besetting sins, when the prayers are fewer and colder, the praises fainter, and the Christian, after languishing for a time in this divided state, hardly making an effort to return, becomes conscious, to his alarm, how far he has wandered, and feels with our sweet poet, in the bitterness of his spirit,


"Where is the blessedness I knew, When first I saw the Lord? Where is the soul-refreshing view Of Jesus and His word?

"The peaceful hours I once enjoyed How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill."

For the next fortnight the singing class was indefatigable, and owing to the cultivated taste of Louis and Reginald, and the superior musical education of one or two others, among whom Mr. Witworth and Frank were not the least in importance, the members at length considered themselves competent to exhibit before an audience.

Accordingly, after Dr. Wilkinson had been favored with a specimen of their skill, his permission was obtained to invite such of their friends as they chose.

Tickets of admission, which had been prepared before-hand, were then sent out in various directions, accompanied by notes of invitation. As soon as Mrs. Paget's arrived at its destination, a most kind answer was dispatched to Louis as president, adding a request to be allowed to provide refreshment for the performers; and, as her proposal was hailed with three cheers, and gracefully accepted by Louis, on the morning of the eventful day came grapes, peaches, biscuits, and wine, which were very elegantly set out in the class-room by the committee.

The concert passed off as propitiously as could be wished. Hamilton, who, from utter want of ear, was totally incapacitated for singing, acted the part of steward with Trevannion, Meredith, and one or two others, with great decorum, and actually stood near Mrs. Paget during part of the performance, listening quietly to Louis' praises with such evident interest, that a few words of commendation he uttered quite won the lady's heart, though she had certainly been prejudiced against him before. It was remarked by some, that the doctor did not seem much pleased with Louis' manners on this occasion; for, when Mrs. Paget, between the parts, began to praise Louis' extraordinary musical talents (as she was pleased to call them), and to relate how much he pleased the company at her house, Dr. Wilkinson coolly replied, that he considered he had been well taught, but doubted his having more than an average good taste and general ability; and as his eye turned upon Louis, who was moving rather affectedly and conceitedly from rank to rank on his way to the refreshment-room, his forehead wrinkled ominously, and his lips became more tightly compressed. He was observed to watch Louis for a minute, and then turn suddenly away as if disgusted.

The madrigal concert took place about the end of the quarter, and on the following Saturday afternoon, the monotony of Ashfield House was varied by the arrival of a new scholar, in the person of Mr. Henry Norman, who was placed as a parlor boarder with the doctor.

When Hamilton and Louis returned from the playground together, they discovered this young gentleman sitting on the table, carefully balancing the doctor's chair with one of his feet, deeply immersed in the contents of a new book with only partially cut leaves, left by accident on the table. His back was turned towards them, and he was so engrossed in the twofold occupation of reading and keeping the heavy chair from falling, that he did not notice their entrance, and Louis, not recognizing his figure at first, nor knowing that he was expected, left the business of welcoming the stranger to his senior.

"Our new school-fellow, Louis, I suppose," said Hamilton, in a low tone, as he scrutinized the lengthy figure before him. "I know that fellow, Louis -- he is a friend of yours."

Before Louis had time to answer, the low murmur had disturbed Norman; and, looking up without altering his position in the least, he acknowledged his acquaintance with Louis by a nod, and a careless "How do you do?"

Louis advanced directly with a warm welcome and out-stretched hand that was met by two fingers of Norman's left hand, tendered in a manner so offensive to Hamilton that he debated whether he should turn the intruder out of window, or walk himself out of the door; and concluded by drawing back in disdainful anger.

Louis was not so ready to take offence, though he was sensitive enough to feel a little hurt; and, turning round to his friend, introduced Norman to him.

Norman took a steady quick glance at Hamilton, and, though his lips were full of propriety, there was something like a sarcastic smile in his eyes.

"You are not altogether a stranger to me, Mr. Hamilton, though, I imagine, I am to you," he said, as he allowed the chair to regain its legs, and got off the table, throwing the book on another, several yards distant.

"I must confess you have the advantage of me," said Hamilton, coldly. "I was not aware that I had the honor of being known to you."

"I assure you, then, that you had that honor. -- Dear me!" he added, as he threw himself into the doctor's chair, stretching out his legs to their utmost length: "absurd of me to sit on that table, when I might have initiated myself so admirably into the art of reading made easy. Comfortable chair this of Fudge's -- I beg his pardon, Dr. Wilkinson's. I am so accustomed to that elegant nom du guerre that I occasionally forget myself. The old gentleman knows how to make himself comfortable; I suppose that book belongs to him. I took the liberty of cutting a few leaves."

"Which will be a peculiar satisfaction to him, doubtless," said Hamilton; "and perhaps you may have the pleasure of hearing so from his own lips."

"Verbum sat," replied Norman. "It is a peculiar gratification, Mr. Hamilton, to discover that your natural good sense is overcoming your usual disinclination to notice those things which are not comme il faut in your school-fellows, thereby depriving them of the aid of your countenance and example in their little endeavors; and I feel peculiar satisfaction in thus early becoming the recipient of the good services bestowed by the blunt sincerity and kindliness of your nature."

Hamilton crimsoned and stared; but there was nothing insolent in the tone; it was inexplicable. That something was meant he could not doubt; and presently, perceiving that Louis was uncomfortable and embarrassed, he said haughtily,

"I really am at a loss to understand you, sir; but your manner towards your friend and mine is particularly unpleasant. What you may have been used to I cannot pretend to know; but, whatever it be, you will be kind enough to remember that here we are accustomed to the society of gentlemen, and to treat each other as such."

"My dear Mr. Hamilton," said Norman, blandly, slightly moving as if to arrest Hamilton's progress towards the door, "you entirely misunderstand me. Master Mortimer and I now understand each other better. Indeed, I am laid under a weighty obligation to Master Louis for my acquaintance with your royal self and various members of your court; and could not possibly have any intention of quarrelling with so kind a benefactor. As for you, I have made up my mind to know and like you. Shake hands, will you?"

Hamilton hesitatingly touched the proffered hand, and looking at his watch at the same moment, wondered to Louis why tea was not ready.

"There's the bell!" exclaimed Louis; and seizing Hamilton's arm, he hurried off, leaving Norman to follow at his leisure, as neither Hamilton nor himself felt at all inclined to be ceremonious.

Louis felt a little afraid of Norman, though he did not exactly know why.

Norman did not follow them immediately; and Hamilton had nearly emptied his first cup of tea when he came in, in company with Trevannion and Frank Digby, the latter of whom had a marvellous facility for making acquaintances on the shortest notice. They sat down at the end of one of the three long tables, and continued laughing and talking the whole of the tea-time, after which Norman went to his own tea with the doctor.

"So, Louis, Norman's come!" exclaimed Reginald, pouncing upon his brother just as he reached the school-room door.

"Is he a friend of yours?" asked Trevannion.

"He is, and he is not. Make that riddle out at your leisure," replied Reginald, gayly.

"Oh, that settles the matter!" said Trevannion.

"What matter?" asked Louis.

A look of the most withering description was the only answer Louis received; it was enough, however, to deter him from repeating his question.

Happily, Reginald did not see it.

"How do you like our new-comer, Trevannion?" asked Hamilton, linking his arm in his friend's, preparatory to a short, after-tea turn in the playground. "There is something very peculiar about him -- insolent, I think."

"He's a nice fellow, in my opinion," said Trevannion.

"A very knowing chap," said Salisbury. "Has he been here before?"

"No," said Frank Digby; "but somebody's been kind enough to give the full particulars, history, and lives, peccadilloes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, of the gentlemen, generally, and individually, at Ashfield Academy. Why, Hamilton, he called Trevannion and Salisbury by their names, without any introduction, and is as much up to every thing here as yourself, I believe."

"I don't much fancy him," said Hamilton; "and strongly suspect he won't add much to our comfort."

"He doesn't like your pet, I suppose, then," said Trevannion, marking the slight color that rose in Hamilton's face. "He told me of your strange rencontre in the class-room; he has taken a fancy, I am sure, to you."

Hamilton did not look particularly delighted, and changed the subject to one on which he and Trevannion conversed most amicably till past their usual time for re-entering the study.

Norman did not come among them that evening till prayer-time; and, to his great satisfaction, Louis saw very little of him for the next day or two.

One day, during the first week of Norman's initiation, at the close of the morning school, a party similar in size and kind to that which had the honor of greeting Louis on his arrival the preceding half-year, was assembled on the raised end of the school-room. Frank and Salisbury were both of them seated on the top of a desk; the former, generally silent, relieved himself by sundry twists and contortions, smacking of the lips, sighs, and turnings of the eyes, varied by a few occasional thumps administered to Salisbury, who sat by him, apparently unconscious of the bellicose attitude of his neighbor, listening attentively, with a mixed expression of concern and anger on his honest countenance, to Norman, who, on this occasion, was the principal speaker. Louis was in the room, at his desk, hunting for a top; but too intent upon his search, and too far off to hear more of the topics that engrossed so much attention, than a few words that conveyed no impression to him, being simply, "Ferrers -- my aunt -- clever -- hypocritical."

Just as he had given up all hope of finding his top, Hamilton came up to him. "Louis," said he, "if Trevannion goes out with me, I shall have time to hear your Herodotus before afternoon school, directly after dinner, mind."

"I shan't forget; -- oh, Hamilton, you haven't such a thing as another top, have you? Reginald's broken two of mine, and I can't find my other."

"I do happen to have taken care of yours for you, you careless boy. Here is my desk-key, you will find it there; you can give me the key after dinner."

With many thanks, Louis proceeded to Hamilton's desk, and Hamilton went up to Trevannion, who was one of the party at the upper end of the room. Louis was now so near the speakers, as to be unavoidably within hearing of all that passed; and, astonished by the first few words, he proceeded no further in his errand than putting the key into the lock.

"Are you inclined for a walk, Trevannion?" asked Hamilton, as he reached him.

Trevannion was leaning against the doctor's desk, in a more perturbed state than his calm self usually exhibited. As Hamilton spoke, he turned round, stared, and drew himself proudly up, replying, in a tone of great bitterness, "Thank you, Mr. Hamilton, but perhaps if you will take the trouble, you may find some one better suited to you than myself."

"What is the matter?" said Hamilton.

"Some of your friends appear to have better memories than yourself," replied Trevannion, folding his arms, and assuming an indifferent air; "you will, perhaps, not find mine quite so capricious; I am much obliged for all favors bestowed, Mr. Hamilton. Perhaps you considered me too lazy to look out for another friend; I am active enough, I assure you, to provide myself with one, and to release you from the irksome ties your indolence has imposed upon you."

Hamilton looked, as he was, seriously annoyed. He did not remember the expression that had given so much offence, and was quite at a loss to understand the mystery: -- he looked from one to the other for explanation; at one time inclined to walk away as proudly as Trevannion could have done; at another, his more moderate feelings triumphing, urged him into an inquiry.

"I really cannot understand you," he said, at length; "do explain yourself. If I have done any thing to offend you, let me know what it is, and, if reasonable, I am willing to apologize."

Trevannion sneered. "Apologies can do little good -- eh, Norman?"

"If you know what this is, Norman," said Hamilton, "I must beg you to enlighten me."

"I have no business to interfere," said Norman, carelessly.

"What a tragedy scene! What's the matter?" cried Reginald Mortimer, who came up at the moment. "You lazy-bones of a Louis! where are you?"

"The matter is simply this," said Frank Digby: "Norman has heard from a veracious source that Mr. Hamilton once said, in confidence (between you and me, you know), that the reason he retained Mr. Philip Trevannion in the rank of first bosom-friend, was because he was too lazy to look out for one better suited to his tastes: consequently, as Mr. Trevannion can aver that Mr. Hamilton never confided this matter to him, it is certain that some one has betrayed confidence reposed in him -- oh, yes! oh, yes!"

"What a fuss about a nonsensical report!" exclaimed Reginald. "Do you believe it?"

"Does he deny it?" said Trevannion, tuning to Hamilton.

Hamilton's color rose; and, after a little pause, in which he carefully considered what he had said, he replied, "No, I do not deny having said something like this one day when Trevannion and I had fallen out; but how much it was more than a momentary fit of anger our long friendship ought to decide. Trevannion, we have been friends too long for such a silly thing as this to separate us. I am very sorry it should ever have escaped my lips; but if every thing we say in a moment of impatience and vexation were repeated and minded, there would be very little friendship in the world. Come, Trevannion, shake hands, and forget it for auld lang syne, as I will do when any one brings such a tale to me."

As Hamilton spoke, his eye rested on Norman, fired with indignation, and lighted a second on the principal offender, but no longer, for he did not wish to draw Louis into notice.

"It may seem a little nonsensical matter to you, Hamilton," said Trevannion, putting his hand behind him; "but these little things exhibit more than the greatest professions. I am not too lazy to cure myself of old habits, if you are."

"I never make professions," said Hamilton, proudly; "and I have done."

He was turning away, when a sudden motion from Jones arrested him. Jones had been standing silently by Trevannion, and now, leaping over a desk, seized Louis, and dragged him in the centre of the group, to the great astonishment of both himself and his brother, exclaiming:

"Here's the offender, the tell-tale, the hypocrite, the meek good boy, so anxious of Ferrers' reputation!"

"What do you want with me?" exclaimed Louis angrily, struggling to free himself from his captor.

"Hands off! Leave him alone, Jones," shouted Reginald. "What's all this about?"

"Do let him go," said Hamilton. "Can't you let him alone?"

"He's the traitor, Hamilton."

Hamilton could not deny it, for it could have been no one else.

"Well, it is past, and the punishment he has in his own feelings will be enough," he said. "Let him alone."

"Louis, you haven't been telling tales and making mischief?" cried Reginald.

"I don't know," said Louis. "I said something to Mrs. Paget, I believe -- I didn't know there was any harm. Hamilton didn't say he didn't want any thing said about it."

"Didn't say!" echoed Jones, scornfully.

Hamilton's look was more in reproach than anger. Louis felt struck to the heart with shame and anger; but so much had he lately been nursed in conceit and self-sufficiency, that he drove away the better impulse; and, instead of at once acknowledging himself in the wrong and begging pardon, he stood still, endeavoring to look unconcerned, repeating, "I didn't mean any harm."

"Oh, Louis!" exclaimed Reginald, reproachfully, "I didn't think you could."

"Let the boy go, Jones," said Hamilton, trying to remove the grasp from Louis' shoulders.

"Not so fast, an't please your majesty," said Jones: "I like to see hypocrites unmasked. Here, gentlemen, forsooth, here in this soonified youth, the anxious warden of Ferrers' reputation, you see the young gentleman who not only tells the story, but gives the name of the party concerned to a dear, good, gossiping soul -- "

"Gently, gently there, Jones," remarked Norman.

"A gossiping old soul," repeated Jones, "who'd have the greatest delight in retailing the news, with decorations and additions, all over the kingdom with the greatest possible speed."

"I don't believe a word of that, Jones," said Reginald. "It is impossible!"

"What! is it impossible?" asked Jones, giving Louis a shake.

"What business have you to question me?"

"Did you?" repeated Jones, with another shake.

"Fair questioning, Jones," cried Reginald. "No coercion, if you please."

"Hold him back, Mason, if you please. Norman, will you hold him back? Now, Louis, if you don't answer I'll give you a thrashing."

"You and I are friends, Mortimer," said Salisbury, jumping off the desk and coming close up to Reginald; "but I mean to have fair play in this matter. He shan't be hurt -- but, if you interfere till they've done questioning him, I shall help them to hold you back."

"Don't meddle with it, Salisbury," said Hamilton; "it's nobody's affair."

"Nobody's affair, indeed!" exclaimed Frank. "Here we've been making a cher ami, a rara avis, or something or other of this boy, because he professed to be something superior to us all -- and now, when we find he has been telling tales of all of us, we are told it's nobody's affair. He's been obtaining credit upon false pretences. We're the strongest party, and we'll do what we please."

Reginald restrained himself with a violent effort, and Jones proceeded.

"Now, sir, answer directly -- is this impossible?"

Louis felt very much inclined to cry, but he replied without tears very reluctantly, "Mrs. Paget would make me tell her some things -- she had heard almost all from others. I don't know how the name slipped out; I didn't mean to tell, I am sure."

"WHAT?" said Hamilton; "you tell that story, Louis!"

Louis felt that Hamilton despised him; and perhaps, had they known all the circumstances relative to the Heronhurst disclosure, the clamor would not have been so great; so much evil is done by repeating a small matter, exaggerated, as these repetitions usually are, according to the feelings of the speaker. But in every case now bearing so unexpectedly down upon him, had Louis, thoughtless of himself, been less anxious for admiration, he would not have committed himself; had he not attracted Norman's attention by his folly and conceit, the circumstance of his having disclosed the name of the offender, at Heronhurst, would, most probably, not only have been unknown to his school-fellows, but to Norman also.

"Oh, Hamilton, I didn't tell all the story!" he exclaimed.

"No, only just enough to appear magnanimous," said Frank.

"Seeing that such is the case," continued Jones, "it cannot be a matter of great astonishment, that the same meek crocodile should also deliver to the same tender mercy various particulars of minor import respecting sundry others of his school-fellows; among which, we discover the private conversation of an intimate and too indulgent friend. Upon my word, young gentleman, I've a great mind to make you kiss Ferrers' shoes. Where's Ferrers?"

Jones turned round with his victim towards the door, perceiving that Ferrers was not in the room, but neither Hamilton nor Reginald would permit matters to proceed further.

"Let him go," said Norman; "it is not worth while taking so much trouble about it. You know whom you have to deal with, and will be careful."

"Thanks to you," said Hamilton in a tone of the most cutting irony.

He released Louis, and stood still till he saw him safely in the playground, whither he was followed by the hisses and exclamations of his inquisitors, and then turned in the opposite direction to the class-room.

"Mr. Hamilton!" exclaimed Norman, "may I ask what your words meant just now?"

"You may," said Hamilton, turning round and eyeing the speaker from head to foot, with the most contemptuous indifference. "You are at liberty to put whatever construction you please upon them; and perhaps it will save trouble if I inform you at once that I never fight."

"Then, sir," said Norman, whose anger was rising beyond control, "you should weigh your words a little more cautiously, if you are so cowardly."

Hamilton deigned no reply, and proceeded to the class-room, where he shut himself up, leaving the field clear for Reginald, who, before long, was engaged in a pitched battle with Norman.

Louis retreated to his play-fellows who were yet unconscious of his disgrace with the higher powers; and, after playing for a little while, wandered about by himself, too uneasy and sick at heart to amuse himself. He found now, alas! that he was alone; that he had lost all pleasure in holy things; and, conscious of his falling away, he was now afraid to pray, -- foolish boy. And thus it is -- Satan tempts us to do wrong, and then tempts us to doubt God's willingness to forgive us, in order that, being without grace and strength, we may fall yet deeper.

As Louis wandered along, he heard sounds familiar enough to him, which portended a deadly fray, and when he came upon the combatants, he discovered that one of them was his own brother. He knew it was useless to attempt to stop the fight, and he wandered away again, and cried a little, for he thought that something would happen, and he and Reginald would be placed together in some unpleasant situation; and he dreaded Dr. Wilkinson's hearing of either affair.

I must be excused for stopping my story to remark here, that in this world, it is certain that we have great influence on one another, and that for this influence we are responsible. Had Louis' school-fellows acted more kindly, endeavoring to set before him the fault of tattling, the effect would have been to raise a feeling of gratitude in his mind, which would have been far more effectual in preventing the recurrence of the fault, than the plan of repudiation they had adopted. Had they, even after a day or two's penance, given him an opening into their good graces, he would not have felt, as he did, that he had lost his character, and it was "no use caring about it," and so gone from bad to worse, till his name was associated with those of the worst boys in the school. It may be said, How can school-boys be expected to have so much consideration? but this a school-boy may do. He may mentally put himself in the position of the delinquent, and considering how he would wish to be treated, act accordingly.

Every thing seemed to go wrong with Louis that day. The Herodotus that Hamilton was to have heard, was scarcely looked at; and Louis lost two or three places in his class. Hamilton never noticed him, and even Reginald was offended with him. Louis tried to brave it out, and sung in a low tone, whistled, and finally, when he was roughly desired to be quiet, walked into the school-room, and finished his evening with Casson and Churchill.



Chapter XIX

"Be not deceived; evil communications corrupt good manners." -- 1 Cor. xv. 32.


For the next few days Louis was regularly sent to Coventry, and though Hamilton took no part in any thing that was said against him, his manner had so entirely changed, and his tone was so cold when he addressed or answered him, that Louis needed no further demonstration to feel assured of the great difference in the feeling with which he was regarded. Clifton alone remained unchanged, but he was so much absorbed in his dear classics that he had hardly time to notice that any thing was the matter: and as Reginald, thoroughly disappointed, was also highly displeased with his brother, Louis was either thrown entirely upon his own resources, or driven to seek the society of the lower school; and, as he was in a very unhappy state, and could not bear to be left alone, he naturally chose the latter. For the first two days he struggled to assume an independent air, and, changing his place of his own accord from Hamilton to Clifton, talked incessantly, though nearly unheeded by the latter, to show how perfectly well able he was to do his own business without assistance. Hamilton missed him, and glanced down the table with a gaze of mingled disappointment and displeasure. A few words from him might have recalled Louis, but they were not spoken, and the only impression conveyed to the poor truant was, that the friend he most cared about, in common with the rest, considered him beneath his notice.

The third evening some affair was to be taken into consideration, of which the proceedings were intended to be kept very secret. Louis was sitting by Clifton, when Trevannion, who was to open the business, entered with a folded paper and a pencil in one hand, and took his place at the head of the long table. He looked down the table, and his eyes meeting Louis', he laid down his pencil, and taking up a book, began, or pretended to begin, to read.

"Hey! What's that, Trevannion?" asked Salisbury. "Are we to be prepared with a choice quotation from Thucydides, or is it a hint that we are to remember duty first and pleasure afterwards?"

"Rather," said Frank, "that some people have long ears and tongues."

"Perhaps," said Trevannion, looking over the top of his book, "Louis Mortimer will have the civility to hasten his studies this evening, as we have pressing business to perform."

"And why need I prevent it?" said Louis, crimsoning.

"Simply for this reason," said Trevannion, "that we do not choose to have every thing that passes our lips this night carried over the country; therefore, Master Louis, we can dispense with your company."

"Without so much circumlocution, either," said Jones. "We like your room better than your company just now, Louis Mortimer; so please to decamp."

"Evaporate!" said Meredith.

"I have my lessons to learn," said Louis.

"Is there any moral or physical impossibility in your lessons being learned in the school-room?" asked Smith.

"I don't choose."

"Don't choose!" repeated Jones. "We'll see about that. Do you choose to go quietly, or to be turned out, eh?"

"You have no right to do it," exclaimed Louis. "I have as much right to be here as you."

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed Jones. "You'll find might is right here, my pretty young gentleman. Salisbury, will you have the kindness to put the door between us and his impertinence?"

"The procacity of the juvenile is progressing," remarked Frank.

Hamilton was not in the room, and there was no one to assist Reginald in his resistance to the numbers by whom he was soon overpowered, and in a few minutes, in spite of his exertions, he found himself turned out with Louis, whom he had vainly endeavored to defend.

Boiling with fury, Reginald at first attempted to kick open the door, and then, being called to his senses by the interference of the usher in the room, walked into the playground, and getting in at one of the class-room windows, opened the door to Louis before his antagonists had recovered from their surprise.

There was another scuffle, which was at length settled by the usher's taking Louis' side, and desiring him to go in; but Louis found the study so thoroughly uncomfortable, that in a few minutes he returned to the school-room, and seated himself, in a restless, idle mood, by Casson.

The idle conversation of an idle, uprincipled boy is sure to be of a hurtful description, and after Casson had heard Louis' grievances, and condoled with him in the fashion of encouraging him in all that was bad, the discourse fell upon Casson's last school, and many things Louis heard and learned of which he had remained, till then, in blissful ignorance. One or two ushers usually sat with the boys in the evening. One of these was an elderly man, uncouth and ungainly in person, and possessed of a very unfortunate temper, that was irritated in every possible manner by those whose duty it was to have soothed the infirmities and considered the trials of one whose life was spent in their service. Louis had felt a great pity for the poor solitary man who never seemed to have a friend, and now and then had spared a few minutes of his play-time to talk to him, and would ask to be allowed to cut the pencil that was employed so constantly in ruling the ciphering books; and when his flowers were in bloom, a half-open rosebud was usually presented to Mr. Garthorpe to put in his button-hole on Sunday morning. The poor usher loved Louis as warmly as any one else in that house, nor would he have believed that "that good lad," as he called him, could have spent a great part of an evening in laughing at practical jokes played off on him, though Louis could not yet be prevailed upon to take part in them.

The next few days were spent as might be expected. Louis had now put himself under the guidance of some of the worst boys in the school, and the consequence was (for the downward path is easy) the neglect of all that was good, and the connivance at, if not actual participation in all that was wrong. His place was lost, his lessons so ill prepared, that, as formerly, he was kept in day after day, and Casson, his chief adviser, persuaded him that Mr. Danby was unjust and tyrannical, and instigated him to impertinence as a retaliation. Louis was miserable, for miserable must he be who sins against light.

It was not long before Dr. Wilkinson became aware of a change in Louis' conduct, and he took an early opportunity of speaking very seriously to him on the subject. Louis was very humble, and longed to throw open all his troubles to his master, the only person who had spoken kindly and sensibly to him since his disgrace, yet foolishly afraid to declare the whole truth to him, especially as, by the doctor's recommendation to him to follow the example of his friends Hamilton and Clifton, he found that his master was not aware that Hamilton was so much displeased with him. Unhappily, Dr. Wilkinson did not know of Louis' intimacy with Casson, nor had Casson been long enough with him to enable him to know more of him than as an idle, troublesome dunce. The doctor's admonitions were so far beneficial to Louis, that besides producing decidedly better behavior for a few days, they were instrumental in restraining him afterwards from the commission of many things which might have been both hurtful to his well-doing and future peace of mind; but unassisted by prayerful efforts on Louis' part, they could go no further than this; and as he had not strength of mind to shake off his evil companions, he soon fell back into much of his idle, giddy habits, and was classed with some of the worst boys by those of the upper school who had formerly so unwisely flattered and spoiled him. Oh, had they known how often his sad, restless, though at times reckless mind, yearned for a little kindness from them, that he might feel that every chance of retrieving their esteem had not gone! Once, after standing some time by Hamilton, he ventured to ask if he were still offended with him. Hamilton coldly disclaimed any idea of offence, and declining all discussion on the matter, hinted that Louis' conduct was too disreputable to be noticed. Louis turned from him with a proud resolve never to speak to Hamilton again. Hamilton's conscience smote him when he saw him a short time after in company with Casson and Harris, whispering and laughing in a corner, at no good, assuredly; but though he inwardly felt that he had forced Louis, in some measure, to take refuge with these boys, he was too proud to stoop from his throne of dignity to save him.

That day, when the boys returned from their walk, they entered at the back of the playground from a lane, on the opposite side of which lay some fields belonging to Dr. Wilkinson, and close on the edge of the field nearest to the ditch bounding the lane, were some out-houses, consisting of a cow-house, stables, and barn. As the lane was public property, the boys were forbidden to wander beyond the boundary of their playground, which on this side was a high wall, a wooden door shutting out all communication with any thing beyond. Notwithstanding the prohibition regarding this lane, there were now and then excursions over the wall in the direction of the cottage of an old woman, who kept a small day-school, and sold bull's-eyes and gingerbread, with other dainties of a doubtful description, and who was, more than all, willing, for "a consideration," to perform any hazardous errand for the young gentlemen. Other sallies of a still more doubtful character occasionally took place, and Dr. Wilkinson felt sure that his orchard had been robbed more than once, though by what hands he did not always discover. On this day the boys had just entered from the lane, and, as the ushers had not been careful in seeing the door closed, it stood open for some time, while several of the boys availed themselves of the crowd of their school-fellows near it to slip out on their various errands to old Mary Simmons. Louis had been collecting mineralogical specimens during his walk, all of which he had consigned to the depths of a large green baize bag which he carried with him. He stopped a few minutes near the gate to talk about his treasures to Clifton, who had been walking with him, but the concourse becoming rather greater than Clifton found convenient, he presently moved away, and Louis was following him, his bag in one hand and two unpromising-looking stones in the other, when Casson arrested him with,

"I say, Louis, what a famous bag -- lend it us a minute. I'm going to old mother Simmons's; it would hold half her shop."

"There are stones in it," said Louis, drawing back.

Casson verbally execrated the stones, and, declaring it was of no consequence, snatched the bag out of Louis' hand and ran away.

Rather startled by this abrupt manner of proceeding, Louis followed Casson to the verge of the lane, and waited there till he came back.

"I haven't eaten your bag, you see, but I can't spare it till we get in."

"But are the stones there?" said Louis.

"To be sure; what do you suppose I've done with them? What a famous receptacle! I say, Louis, did you ever see the inside of the stable over the way?"

"No -- I am not very fond of stables."

"But I suspect there's something worth seeing there," said Casson; and he proceeded to tell Louis, under a promise of the strictest secrecy, in a manner so exceedingly vulgar and improper that I do not choose to write it, that he believed that the doctor kept his winter apples in the loft of that stable, and concluded by hinting that some of them meant to find them out and help themselves. "We used to do it regularly at old Stennett's, where I went before, Louis," he continued. "It's such fun: you must lend us your green bag, and come with us."

"Oh! Casson, how can you think such a thing of me!" exclaimed Louis, shrinking back.

The exclamation was so loud that Casson laid his hand upon his mouth with a muttered angry ejaculation.

"One would think I had spoken of breaking open a house," said Casson.

"It's stealing," said Louis, in a tone of anger.

"Nonsense."

"I tell you, Casson, it is -- don't talk to me any more about it -- I wish I had never known you!"

Casson burst out laughing. "What a ninny you are!" he exclaimed. "You are as easily frightened as a bird with a pop-gun. And now, I suppose, you will go with this nice little story to some good friend and make something interesting and romantic out of nothing."

"Is it really nonsense?" said Louis, after a pause. "Tell me, Casson, truly, did you mean nothing just now?"

"Nothing, upon honor," said the unprincipled boy. "I wanted to see you horrified."

Louis looked doubtfully at him. "Well, please give me my bag."

"What a hurry you are in! -- you must wait till I've unloaded."

Louis followed him to the school-room, but, Casson's crowded desk not holding all the contents of the bag, he was obliged, notwithstanding his anxiety, to wait for his property for a day or two, at the expiration of which time it was returned to him, and borrowed the next day for another expedition to Mary Simmons.



Chapter XX.

"Open rebuke is better than secret love."


It now wanted little more than three weeks to the holidays. Sticks for notching were in great request, and "days" cut in paper were fastened to the testers of the several beds, to mark more securely the weary time that must elapse before the joyful breaking-up. Reginald and Louis had jointly decorated theirs with an elegant drawing of Dashwood Priory, with a coach and four in the distance, which drawing would remain uninjured till even the last of the twenty-eight strips of paper had been detached, when the owners tore the remainder for excess of joy. The subjects for examination had already been given out, and those who had any interest at stake had already commissioned Maister Dunn for candles, and begun to rise early and sit late, or as late us was allowed, at their various studies. It was with some little dismay that Louis looked down the long list of subjects for the examination of his class, for he felt that, though (thanks to Hamilton at first, and latterly some degree of perseverance on his own part) he had made some progress during the half-year: his friend Clifton's indefatigable industry had placed him so far first, that it would be almost impossible to hope for any advantage.

Hamilton was now busily engaged in the composition of a prize poem in Latin, besides the many other things with which (to use his own expression) he found it necessary "to cram himself"; for, however easy, comparatively, he had found his post the preceding half-year, he had now competitors sufficiently emulous and talented in Norman and Frank Digby -- the latter of whom had shown a moderate degree of diligence during the half-year, and now, exerting to the utmost the great powers with which he was gifted, bid fair, if not to distance all his rivals, at least to claim the lion's share of the honors held out.

As Hamilton scarcely allowed himself time to run once round the playground in the day, it cannot be supposed that even had he condescended to notice Louis he would have found much time to attend to him. More than once, however, he looked rather anxiously down the long table where Louis now sat (Reginald having insisted on his leaving the school-room and his companions to their fate), and, apparently satisfied that he was doing something, resumed his own work. Louis' mind was more than ever occupied now -- every moment was taken up with lessons of one kind or another. The first waking thoughts, which were formerly, at least, a consciousness of the presence of his Maker, were now so mixed up with Latin verses, English translations, French plays, ancient and modern history, that a very short time sufficed for his cold prayer -- and then poured in the whole flood of daily business, only checked by as cold a semblance of a petition at night. The former half-year the case, though similar in many respects, differed in the greatest essential. Louis was not less diligent than now, but he was more prayerful; he had not more time, but he used it better; he did not leave his religion for a few minutes at night and morning, and forget it for the rest of the day; he did not shut up his Bible, and scarcely look at it from Sunday to Sunday. He who waits closely upon his God is sure to be enabled to serve him in the beauty of holiness: and those who thought at all about Louis could not but be struck with the wide difference between the gentle, humble, happy-looking boy, who bore so meekly what was unkindly done and spoken, and the equally industrious, but fevered, restless, anxious, and now rather irritable being, who toiled on day after day almost beyond his strength.

The first day of the examination, Charles Clifton and Louis were walking together, between school-hours, settling the order in which their labors were to be undertaken. As they turned the corner of the playground, near the kitchen, they encountered Harris, Casson, and Churchill, who, with Sally Simmons and her basket of apples, blocked up a narrow passage between the side of the house and the kitchen-garden wall.

"Aint they beauties, Louis?" said Churchill, at the sight. The mention of apples sufficiently disturbed Louis in the present company, and he made a violent effort to get past Harris, who was, however, so much engaged in choosing an apple from the basket, that he did not move an inch. Finding it useless at present to attempt the pass, Louis was turning back, when Sally offered the basket to him, with "Mathter Louis, you mutht hide it; I donnoh what mathter would thay."

"There are plenty more where they came from, Sally," said Casson.

"Here'th a nithe one, thir," said Sally, looking in Louis' alarmed face, and pointing to one of the apples.

"They are not yours to give, Sally," said Louis, stepping back against the wall. "Harris, Casson, Churchill, don't take them -- it's dishonest."

Sally protested in great dismay, that it was only one or two, and Dr. Wilkinson wouldn't mind.

"You know he would, Sally, or why did you say I was to hide it?" said Louis.

"Do you mean to tell him you have given away any?" asked Clifton.

"Not she; she knows better -- don't you, Sally?" said Casson.

"You are not to be trusted," said Clifton.

"Mathter Louis, you won't be going and making mithchief?" said the girl.

"If he does," ejaculated Harris, "I'll -- "

What he would do Louis never heard, for he had by this time freed himself from the basket and run away, followed more leisurely by Clifton.

"I am sure," he said, when Clifton rejoined him, "that Sally Simmons ought not to be employed here; she is always doing forbidden things for the boys."

"If you know of any thing wrong in her, why don't you tell Dr. Wilkinson?" said Charles.

"The next thing I know of, I shall. But I should get the boys into such a scrape," said Louis.

"If they are bad boys they deserve it," replied Clifton; "my father says, if we conceal evil, when we may remove it by mentioning it, we make ourselves partners in it."

"The boys would call me a sneak if I did," said Louis.

Charles looked at Louis in simple wonderment. "That wouldn't hinder you from doing what is right, would it? What does it matter what such fellows as those think or say?"

"Yes, but I shouldn't like to get them into a scrape," repeated Louis, uneasily.

"Why don't you tell your friend Hamilton of it, and ask his advice?"

"Oh, Clifton! surely you know that Hamilton won't speak to me."

"No, I didn't," said Clifton, in a tone of surprise. "Why not? he used to be so fond of you."

"He's offended now," replied Louis, looking down.

"He doesn't like me, I know," said Charles; "but he used to be so very fond of you."

"Used -- that's long ago," said Louis, with a suppressed sigh.

"Well, but," remarked Clifton, without showing the least curiosity to discover the cause of Louis' quarrel with Hamilton, "if you can't consult him, ask your brother."

"I know very well what Reginald would do; he wouldn't think it right to tell of them, or of her either."

"Then, Louis, make up your own mind."

"It's not so easily done," replied Louis; "oh, Charlie, I wish I were like you!"

"Oh, why?" said Charles, gravely; "you have a great many more friends, and are much better liked than I am. I have no friend but you -- not that I care at all about it, but I should think you would."

"Yes; but I wish I could make up my mind. I am not half so happy as you are, for I cannot make up my mind to do a thing because it is right. You only think about that and do it at once; and because I have so many friends, and even care about pleasing those I do not like, I am always getting into scrapes, and always doing wrong. I think there never was anybody so bad as I am. I wish papa hadn't sent me to school."

"I like you very much," said Clifton; "and I am sure you have done me good -- on Sunday, at least."

"Ah, it is much easier to know and talk of what is right than to do it," replied Louis, sighing very deeply. "Oh, domum, dulce domum! But there is Reginald, and I must go and ask him a question."

*    *    *    *    *

For several days after this occurrence, Louis was too busy, and too much with his brother, to see much of his evil advisers; and very pleased in having, as he imagined, thus got rid of them. The examination was going on in earnest; Louis had now nearly regained his old place, and was, on the whole, favorably reported of: but Clifton was not to be overcome. Thoroughly prepared, and thoroughly understanding all he had learned, he kept the first place undaunted by any difficulty, and apparently unexcited by the crisis; at least, Louis remarked to Reginald, that Clifton was so cool, he didn't seem to care whether he won or not. He had a little more color than usual, and the only beauty his face possessed -- his intelligent eyes -- wore perhaps a keener and more anxious expression, but this was not noticed by a casual observer; nor was the violent palpitation of the heart, when the chances ran so closely between him and the next, at the close of a two days' struggle for the mathematical prize. There were few that congratulated him on his almost unparalleled success; but few that did not respect his ability and steadiness. Never once, from the first day he came to school, had he on any occasion incurred the displeasure of his masters; and yet no one cared for him, for he had lived only for himself.

But to return to Louis. The mathematical contest was finished, and there was a little lull before the second class would be again called on, and Louis determined to spend this little interval of leisure in giving a finishing scrutiny of the history likely to be in demand. Full of his purposes, he burst into the class-room, where only Hamilton and Reginald were, the former writing very fast, and the latter looking carefully over an English essay he had just finished. Louis flew to the shelves and ransacked them in vain: almost every book he wanted was gone. At length, in despair, he asked Reginald if he knew who had Rollin's History. Reginald absently replied in the negative, as he noted down something in the page he was reading.

"The books are always gone," said Louis, pettishly. "I suppose Charlie has it. He had it yesterday -- he might as well let me have it to-day."

"Trevannion has it, I think," said Reginald.

"You may have mine," said Hamilton.

Louis stood still; he wanted the book very much, but was too proud to accept the offer.

"It is in my room," continued Hamilton, without looking up.

"Thank you, I don't want yours," replied Louis, proudly, walking out of the room.

As he entered the school-room he confronted Dr. Wilkinson, who, having given orders for a brisk walk, was inquiring for Hamilton. Louis had scarcely taken his hand from the lock when Hamilton abruptly opened it and came quickly out of the room.

"You are the person I want," said the doctor, laying his hand on his arm. "Hamilton, I want you to come out with me this bright day."

"To-day, sir?" said Hamilton, whose countenance expressed any thing but delight at the proposition.

"And why put off till to-morrow what may be done to-day so well?" said the doctor, smiling. "I suppose you have hopes of the weather making a walk impracticable to-morrow: but I must have you all out, or some of you will be laid up before you go home."

His eye fell upon Clifton, who was sitting with his elbows on a desk close by, his fingers pushed through his hair, wholly absorbed in "Gibbon's Decline and Fall." Dr. Wilkinson addressed him twice, but, producing no impression, he removed one of the props of his head, and turned his face towards himself.

"What are you doing there?"

"History, sir," said the boy, getting up mechanically, and looking very much as if he were not pleased at the interruption.

"I hear your name is very high in the list to-day."

"Yes, sir," replied Charles, gravely; and, as the doctor released him, he settled down precisely in the same attitude, without showing the least satisfaction at the notice he had received.

Hamilton turned away with an impatient gesture.

"Are you going immediately, sir?" he said. "Can you spare me a few minutes?"

"I shall be at the garden-gate in a quarter of an hour from this time," replied the doctor.

"I will not fail, sir," said Hamilton; and, crossing the room in immense strides, he flew up stairs, and returned almost immediately with a large volume under his arm. He made some inquiries of Trevannion's whereabouts, and, learning that he was in the playground, went in search of him. He very soon found him, walking briskly up and down with Norman, making extracts from an old book in his hand, and questioning his friend alternately. Hamilton and he had scarcely exchanged a word since their quarrel, and it was with some surprise that he saw Hamilton present himself, and still more, when a request was made that he would exchange books.

"I particularly want this just now," he replied.

"This is Rollin," said Hamilton. "I should feel obliged if you would exchange copies."

Trevannion opened his eyes wider, but after a second's pause, he took Hamilton's and gave him his book in exchange, without any comment.

"What a strange whim!" remarked Norman, when Hamilton had left them, after shortly expressing his thanks.

"What can he mean, Norman?" said Trevannion. "This is his own, too."

"Perhaps some new way of trying to make up an old quarrel," said Norman, sneeringly.

"I don't think so," replied Trevannion; "he would not have tried so odd a plan -- no, there's something deeper than that."

"Are the histories alike?" asked Norman.

"I believe so," answered Trevannion; "if there's any advantage, I am sure to have it, at any rate."

"You have a very high opinion of him."

"VERY," said Trevannion. "If Hamilton did mean this to make up our quarrel, I am sure I shall be willing."

"Upon my word," said Norman, "this is dignity."

Trevannion made no answer, for something had attracted his attention on the opposite side of the playground.

"Holloa! Norman, look there!" he exclaimed.

"Where? what! oh, horror!" cried Norman.

"There they are -- they're hid; now, there they are again! -- now look, who is it? Stand behind this tree a minute -- now let us look out."

Obedient to his instructions, Norman looked, and saw three boys drop down one after another from the branch of a tree, that had evidently assisted their descent from the playground wall, and then run across the playground.

"Who are they?" said Trevannion, putting up his eye-glass (which, gentle reader, be it known he carried for use). "One is Churchill, I'm sure! Who's that long fellow? Why, it's Harris, isn't it? It can't be, surely!"

"It is," said Norman; "and the other's Casson."

"I'm sure they are at no good," said Trevannion; "I shall make a note of this remarkable occurrence."

So saying, he made a memorandum of the circumstance in his pocket-book, and had just finished when the boys poured out cloaked and great-coated, and informed him of the doctor's desires.

The reader will be at no loss to discover Hamilton's reason for exchanging the books. As Louis was out, he took Dr. Wilkinson's with him into the class-room, and sat down to finish the six last words of his poem; and then, folding it neatly up, enveloped it in half a sheet of writing-paper. He was just pressing the seal upon the wax, when his watch, which he had laid open before him, warned him that the last minutes of the quarter of an hour had arrived. He just pushed his things together, and left them on the table; and snatching up his hat as he ran through the hall, scarcely arrived at the garden-gate in time to save his character for punctuality.

It so happened that Casson was Louis' companion during the walk, and entertained him with a flowing account of all the vulgar tricks he had been in the habit of playing at his former school. Louis could not help laughing at them; nor would his vanity allow him to refrain from boasting of -- what he had before been properly ashamed -- his own share in some of Casson's late exploits. So afraid was he of seeming inferior, even to a person he despised, and in those things which his better feelings taught him equally to despise. Casson inwardly laughed at Louis' boasted feats, as he had always done to others when Louis was out of hearing; but he now quizzed him, stimulating him, by applauding his spirit and ingenuity; and by the time they had reached the house, Louis was in a thoroughly giddy humor, ready to try, at the risk of disgrace, the new schemes to which he had just been listening.

The boys stayed in the playground till the dinner-bell rang, which was a few minutes after they had entered the playground; but these few minutes sufficed for Louis, in his present humor, to get himself in a scrape, the consequences of which, at the time, he certainly did not contemplate. He had been complaining to Casson, in the beginning of their walk, that he could not get "Rollin's History," and, as Casson persisted that it was in the study, Louis took him there to show him his error, when they returned home.

"Ha, ha! Mr. Louis Mortimer, who's right?" cried Casson, holding up the book.

"That can't be; I wonder how it got there," said Louis, approaching the table in a mystified manner. "These must be Trevannion's things, I suppose; only Hamilton was writing here; and here is his dictionary, -- I wonder what he wanted with it -- he never said he had it -- he let me suppose Trevannion had it -- kind of him -- I suppose he wanted to prevent my getting it; but I'll have it now -- he's got one of his own."

"I'd be even with him," said Casson; "what a heap of things! See, here's an exercise of his; or a letter, I suppose -- it's too neat for an exercise. A good thick letter -- sealed, too. I'll tell you what, Louis -- "

Accordingly, what Casson did tell Louis was, what a "capital dodge" it would be to abstract Hamilton's sealed packet, and to leave another folded like it in its place.

"We often used to trick the boys at old Stennett's with their exercises," continued he; "they never wrote in books there -- we used to tear the leaves out of the exercise-books, and write on them. It was such jolly fun to see them open the paper and find nothing in it, or only some rubbish."

"How did you do it?" asked Louis.

"Oh, we doubled up a bit of an old exercise-book, and exchanged, that's all!" replied Casson; "see, why here's half a sheet of paper, that'll do for the cover; and now then, Louis, more paper -- he'll never miss it -- that's it -- fold it up just the size; how beautifully you have done it!"

"But there's no seal," said Louis.

"He'll forget he sealed it," replied Casson; "oh, how jolly! -- here's a piece of sealing-wax -- it is sealed with the top of a pencil-case."

"I have one just like that," said Louis; "oh, no; here's E. H. on this -- that won't do, Casson."

Casson presently relieved this difficulty by discovering Hamilton's pencil-case; and the paper was quickly sealed, when Louis began to doubt:

"But we don't know what it is, Casson."

"If it turns out to be any thing, send it by post, directed to him, at his father's," said Casson; "he'll get it safely enough."

The dinner-bell rang loudly at this moment, and with a little laugh at the idea of the oddity of sending it to Hamilton's home, and a strong feeling of doubt as to the wisdom of his proceeding, Louis hastily exchanged the packets, and ran out of the room. On his way to the dining-room he paused -- 

"If it should be of any consequence, Casson," he said.

"Well, if it is, so much the better fun; he won't treat you so shabbily another time."

"Ah, but -- I don't want to revenge myself, and I don't like playing tricks on Hamilton exactly, either: I think I must give it back."

"I thought you were such a dab at these kinds of things," said Casson, sneeringly.

"What have I done with it now?" Louis exclaimed suddenly, as they reached the dining-room door, after stopping a few seconds in the hall to hang up his coat. "What can I have done with it? I must have slipped it into my desk just now, when I put my Livy in."

He was not able to turn back then; and, in the mean time, Hamilton had paid a hasty visit to the class-room, to collect his things, and had locked up carefully the false packet; and Louis had not courage to make any inquiries, though he hoped that he might have found the right one, which, with all his care, he could not discover himself. Louis had, in his hurry, left Rollin on the study-table, and after school he ran into the room, and finding it in nearly the same place where Hamilton had been guarding it for him, he carried it off, and Hamilton, seeing the action, made no remark on the matter.

The next evening, the Latin poems were sent in to the doctor's study for comparison, and Hamilton's blank counterfeit was titled on the cover, and dispatched with a degree of nervous anxiety that certainly would not have been called forth by a subject so empty. Louis was in an agony of remorse, when the truth burst on him. His only hope was, that Hamilton might have found the right packet. He heard the speculations around him as to the probability of success, and saw the last paper put into Norman's hand to be carried away, but he dared not say any thing. He had never dreamt of the importance of the paper he had so carelessly dropped or mislaid, and would have given all he possessed to have remembered what he had done with it.

Nothing more was done that evening. Study had helped to drive away the smaller qualms of conscience the day before; but he was now so sick at heart, that he remained with his head on his hand doing nothing, puzzling himself in vain to remember what he had done with the poem.



Chapter XXI.


It was Saturday night when the manuscripts were delivered to the doctor, and it was not till Monday that the absence of Hamilton's poem was discovered. As much of Sunday as he was able, Louis spent with Casson, trying to discover what could have become of the poem, and in devising all manner of schemes for its recovery and restoration. Little comfort he received from his tempter -- Casson alternately laughed at his fears, and blamed his cowardice -- and, in order to escape this, Louis affected to be indifferent to the consequences, concealing his heaviness of heart under assumed mirth and unconcern. He had lately spent many cold, careless Sabbaths, but one so utterly wretched as this he could not remember.

The boys had just left the dining-room on Monday, after dinner, when a summons to the doctor's study came for Hamilton. As this was not an uncommon occurrence, Hamilton betrayed neither curiosity nor uneasiness, but quietly gave a few directions to his little brother, and then leisurely left the room. He was soon in the presence of Dr. Wilkinson, Mr. James Wilkinson, and an old gentleman who had a day or two before been examining his class, and who usually assisted in the half-yearly examinations. The countenances of these gentlemen were not very promising, and he instantly saw that something unpleasant might be expected. Before the doctor lay a number of folded papers, which Hamilton recognized as the poems under consideration, and in his hand was a blank sheet of paper, the envelope of which had fallen on the floor.

"Mr. Hamilton," said the doctor, "I have sent for you to explain this strange affair. Pray can you tell me what was in this envelope?" He stooped, and, picking up the paper as he spoke, handed it to Hamilton.

"My poem, sir," replied Hamilton, quietly.

"You are sure that is your writing?"

"Quite," said Hamilton, confidently.

"I have been able to discover nothing more than this," said the doctor, with something like annoyance in his tone. "I do not know whether you have been writing with invisible ink. This is a mistake, Hamilton," he added, turning the blank sheet in all directions. "Where is your poem?"

"That in my envelope, sir!" exclaimed Hamilton, reddening to the roots of his hair. "In my envelope!" he reiterated, taking up the envelope and re-examining it in a state of tremulous excitement. "I cannot have made such a mistake -- it is utterly impossible."

"I should say so -- impossible, unconsciously, to make so great a mistake," said the old gentleman.

"And equally so, sir, to make it consciously," replied Hamilton.

"But where is the poem?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.

"I expected it was here," said Hamilton -- "and, as it is not, I cannot answer that question, sir." He again turned over the paper, but could find no clue to the mystery.

"Is the paper the same as you used?" asked Mr. James.

"It is," replied Hamilton; "and the seal is my own, as well as the writing."

"What is the seal?" asked Dr. Berry, the old gentleman.

"E.H. It belongs to this pencil-case," answered Hamilton, producing his pencil-case. "I always carry it about with me."

"That's awkward again," said Dr. Berry, exchanging a look with Mr. James.

"Have you never left your pencil-case about lately, nor lent it to any one?" asked Dr. Wilkinson.

Hamilton considered.

"I believe I left it with all my things on the class-room table last Friday, when I went out with you, sir."

"Ah!" said Dr. Berry, "what did you leave there?"

"Some writing-paper, pens, a few books, and my poem, which I had just finished."

"That was careless of you, Hamilton," said Dr. Wilkinson.

"I had only just sealed it in time to run after you, sir," replied Hamilton; "and, as every one was out, I thought there could be no harm in leaving them there till I returned."

"How much paper did you leave there?" asked Mr. James.

"About half a quire."

"About half a quire; then, I suppose, you do not know whether any of that paper was taken while you were away?"

"No, I do not," replied Hamilton. "If any one changed it, it must have been then; as, after I came home, it was locked up in my own writing-desk till Saturday evening."

"It might have been changed on the way," suggested Mr. James.

Hamilton was silent for a few seconds, when he answered:

"I do not think so; for I am sure this is my writing: I must unwittingly have directed an empty packet."

"Unless," said Dr. Wilkinson, quietly, "some one has imitated your writing?"

"I only know one who could," replied Hamilton, coloring; "and, I am confident, he was not the party: besides, sir, I do not think there was time, between Norman's departure and his return, to have done it, and that was the only time any one would have had after I had directed it. I did not direct it till Saturday evening."

"But you said the boys were all out at the same time with yourself; and, in fact, I know they were: I saw them going in as we turned into the playground," said Dr. Wilkinson. "Did no one stay at home? Stay -- Friday -- Digby was at home; I remember he pleaded his cold."

Dr. Wilkinson looked down on the paper he held: there was a strong expression of suspicion in his countenance. The other gentlemen exchanged looks, and Mr. James remarked, that he considered Frank the probable culprit.

"I am glad he does not hear you say so, sir," exclaimed Hamilton. "I am sure Digby would sooner put his own on the fire! I'd trust Frank's honor as much as my own; and, I am sure, sir," he added, turning to Dr. Wilkinson, "you know Frank too well."

To Hamilton's annoyance, Dr. Wilkinson did not reply immediately.

"Frank is too fond of practical jokes," he said, at last; "I wish I could give him a lesson he would remember. He will never be cured till it touches him severely."

"But Frank would not joke on this, sir," expostulated Hamilton. "If he were not so high it might be so, but I'm sure it is not now."

"Well, there is no time now to consider of this any more," said Dr. Wilkinson, getting up. "I could bring forward many instances of Digby's disregard of feelings and appearances when his fancy for joking interferes. Dr. Berry, will you be kind enough to attend to these for me, this afternoon? I shall be glad to call upon you on Wednesday for my second class, if you can spare me the day."

Dr. Berry signified his ready acquiescence; and Dr. Wilkinson turned to Hamilton:

"It is just school-time," he said; "but I wish you, after school, to make a search in every desk for your poem. I do not imagine it is destroyed. Mr. James will assist you. In the mean time, in the event of your poem not being discovered, you had better rewrite it as well as you can; I will give you till nine o'clock on the last morning."

Hamilton bowed, thanked his master, and retired, exceedingly uncomfortable. His own loss was slight compared with the vexation he felt at any suspicion of Frank's honor being raised. A very different surmise would now and then try to rise in his own mind, but was vigorously opposed as ungenerous in the extreme. An idea of the real culprit never once occurred to him, nor to any other person. The first class being disengaged that afternoon, Hamilton employed himself with the new edition of his poem, but his thoughts wandered; and, had it not been for a good memory and the force of habitual concentration, he would have found it almost impossible to resume a task he had considered as finished, in circumstances so very disagreeable to him.

As soon as the business of the day was concluded Dr. Wilkinson commanded every one to remain in his place, and then desired Hamilton to begin the search, carefully refraining from mentioning the object in quest. There was considerable excitement in the school when the doctor's command was made known, and it was strictly enforced, that no one should touch the desks till after the search had been made.

"Frank Digby, come here!" shouted the doctor from his post. "Did I not desire that none of those desks should be touched at present?"

"I was only putting my slate away, sir," said Frank, in much amazement.

"I will not have your desk touched; stay here."

"What's in the wind?" muttered Jones, sulkily. "The magister's in a splendid humor. What do you want in my desk, Hamilton?"

"A trick has been played on me," said Hamilton, hastily; "my poem has been exchanged; but -- " he added, hesitating, "I cannot bear this."

"Nonsense, Hamilton!" said Mr. James, who was turning over the contents of Jones's desk. "There is nothing there."

"Stand back, and let Hamilton look, pray!" exclaimed Reginald Mortimer. "What a shame it is! -- you don't suspect us, Hamilton?"

"To be sure not!" said Hamilton, warmly; "but I am desired to do this."

"So much the better," said Salisbury; "you'll find mine locked, but here are my keys: we'll go up to the doctor. I say, Hamilton, don't upset my bottle of lemon kali, or my blue ink; you mightn't see them, perhaps, among the other things."

Hamilton took the keys with some embarrassment, and the first class moved in a body to the upper end of the room, where they remained till every desk had been subjected to a fruitless ransacking.

Louis' state of mind may be easily imagined. He had guessed the reason of the doctor's command the instant it was given; and had also heard the few words that passed between Hamilton and his friends. Oh! what would he have given that he had considered before he committed such folly! He could not bear to face Hamilton, and yet he must be near him when his own desk was examined, for he dared not move from his place. He had looked carefully there himself, but still he was afraid it might, by chance, be there. He hardly dared look round, for fear he should betray his secret; and yet his distress sadly longed for vent. "I did not mean to do any harm," was his reiterated thought; "I am sure, I thought it was a letter -- I did not mean it." And then he wished to confess his fault; but, with his usual vacillation of purpose, he deferred it, till he should see how things went. It did seem strange that, with all the lessons he had had, he should have put off his confession; yet he dared not, and tried to quiet his conscience with, "I shall tell Hamilton alone;" and, "It's no use telling, when I can't find the poem." But his trouble was tenfold increased when Hamilton and Mr. James came near him, and finding his desk locked, inquired who's it was, and where the keys were.

Hamilton remarked in a low tone, not aware that Louis was so near, "I suppose for form's sake we must look, but I am sure, poor fellow, he has nothing to do with it."

Louis just then handed his key; and, as Hamilton's hand came in contact with his, he was struck by its cold clamminess, and just looking at him, noticed the troubled expression, and the almost tearful eyes that were fixed on him. He attributed Louis' anxiety to his natural timidity, as well as to his having probably overheard the remark on himself; and his heart smote him, for he still loved him, and had felt once or twice lately, that he had not done his duty towards him.

The poem was not found. Louis ran out into the playground, despite the cold and twilight, to cry; and hurried in again in a few minutes, for fear of discovery. The members of the first class gathered round Hamilton to learn the story and to condole with him, and even Trevannion made some remark on the shamefulness of such a trick.

"I am sure, whoever gets the prize will not feel comfortable unless your poem is found and compared," said Frank; "write away, Hamilton; no one shall disturb you. I don't wonder Fudge was in such a passion."

Louis was very glad when bed-time came, and he could hide his tears and misery under the bed-clothes. Reginald had been too busy to notice that any thing was the matter with him; but Hamilton, occupied as he was, had seen it, though Louis had kept out of his way as much as possible. He dared not tell Reginald his trouble; and he felt afraid to pray -- he did not remember that, though our Heavenly Father knows all our thoughts and wants, He requires that all our care and sin should be poured out before Him. The Christian does not love sin; and when, through unwatchfulness or neglect of prayer, he has been betrayed into the commission of it, let him remember, that He alone can remove it and restore peace to his wounded conscience, who has said, "Return, ye backsliding children, and I will heal your backslidings."

*    *    *    *    *

Louis got on very ill the next Wednesday, and Reginald, extremely vexed, spoke very angrily to him. Louis answered as unkindly, and walked proudly away from him to the other end of the school-room, where, in spite of his abhorrence of such company, he was soon surrounded by his worst companions. Hamilton was standing near Reginald at the time; he watched Louis in his proud descent, and saw that, though he turned away with an erect head and high words, his step soon grew more listless, and an expression of indefinable weariness usurped the place of the independence he had assumed.

"Louis is unwell, I am sure, Reginald," he said.

"He is well enough," said Reginald, abruptly; "but he is sadly altered: I never saw a boy so changed. He is quite ill-tempered now, and so horridly idle. Why, Hamilton, you'd never believe that in to-day's examination in Prometheus Vinctus, he got down below Harris! -- he's positively at the bottom. He hardly answered any thing, and seemed quite stupefied."

"The more reason to think he's not well," said Hamilton; "for, to my certain knowledge, he would have stood an examination on Prometheus better than that, a week after we came back. Why, Harris and Peters, and half the rest, are not to be compared with him."

"I know it," said Reginald; "and that makes it the more vexatious. It's bad enough to think that Clifton should get ahead of him, but one may comfort one's self in the idea of his genius; but when it comes to those donkeyfied ignorami, it is past endurance. He has not tried a bit: I have seen him lately with his book before him, dreaming about some wonderful story of some enchanted ass, or some giantess Mamouka, I suppose; or imagining some new ode to some incomprehensible, un-come-at-able Dulcinea. He is always shutting himself up in his air-castles, and expecting that dry Latin and Greek, and other such miserable facts, will penetrate his atmosphere."

"Don't be angry with him; something is the matter. You only drive him to herd with those boys," said Hamilton. "Look there! -- there they are! -- oh, Reginald! it is not right to leave him with them."

"Speak to him yourself, Hamilton," said Reginald, a little sobered. "He will mind you. You have had a great deal to bear with him, but I know you make allowances."

Hamilton did not reply, but he had determined on making the effort to detach Louis from his evil counsellors, when the latter suddenly left the room with Casson, and did not return till Hamilton had gone into the class-room.

Casson was the only one to whom Louis could relieve his mind on the subject that weighed him down so heavily -- and he had, at the time Hamilton was watching him so intently, been whispering some of his fears, only to be laughed at. Suddenly he paused -- "Casson, just come with me; I think I recollect -- yes, surely -- "

He did not wait to conclude his sentence, but, pulling Casson into the hall, sought his great-coat, dived to the bottom of the pocket, and, to his great joy, drew forth Hamilton's poem.

"It's here! it's here! it's here!" he cried. "How could I have put it here without knowing? Oh, my dear Casson, I am so glad!"

"Well, what now?" said Casson, rudely. "What good is it? What do you mean to do with it?"

"Give it back, of course -- I think Hamilton will forgive me, and if not, I must give it back to him, and then, perhaps, I shall be happy again; for I have not been happy for a long, long while: I have been very wrong," he added, in a low, sorrowful tone.

"If ever I saw such a sap in my life," said Casson; "this comes of all your fine boasting; a nice fellow you are -- why you're afraid of your own shadow! Do you know what you'll get if you give it back?"

"Whatever happens," said Louis, "I feel I have done wrong -- wrong in listening to you, too, Casson. Oh, if ever it please God to make me happy again, I hope I shall be more careful! I have been afraid to do right -- I am afraid to think of all that has happened lately."

"I always thought you were a canting hypocrite," said Casson, sneeringly. "I never see that you religious people do any better than any one else. Go and get a thrashing, as you deserve, for your cowardice, only don't tell any lies about me. Remember it was all your own doing."

Casson opened the hall-door as he spoke, and ran into the playground, where most of the boys had assembled, the weather having cleared a little for the first time for the last two days.

Louis sat down on a chair to think what he should do, and the long-restrained tears coursed slowly down his face. His first and best thought was to go at once to Hamilton, acknowledge his fault, and restore the poem. Then came the idea of renewed disgrace, and his head sunk lower on his breast, and the parcel fell from his powerless hands. So intense was his grief, that he was as unconscious that Dr. Wilkinson passed through the hall while he sat there, as that he had heard the conversation between himself and Casson; for, unknown to them both, he had been in a recess of the hall, nearly covered by the cloaks and coats, looking there for something in a little corner closet. Louis at last took up the paper, and went to Hamilton's room; but a servant was there, and he did not like to leave it. Next he thought of the doctor's study, but he dared not venture to approach it. At length, after wandering about from the bed-room to the lass-room door several times, he ventured to peep into the latter room, and, throwing the parcel in, ran to the playground as fast as his feet could carry him.



Chapter XXII.

"Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ." -- Gal. vi. 2.


As soon as Hamilton had decided that it was of no use following Louis, he called his brother to him and marched with him into the class-room, to explain, according to promise, some classical allusions that occurred in his Latin grammar. Reginald took his arm, and several of the first class, who saw them move, accompanied him, for the glass-door opening at the moment, admitted more cold air than was agreeable to those who did not feel inclined to visit the playground. They almost expected to find the doctor in the study, as they knew he had been there a short time before, but the sole occupant of the chamber was Frank Digby, who, to the astonishment of all, was standing in a very disconsolate attitude near the fireplace, leaning his head on the mantelpiece, and neither moved nor spoke when they entered.

"Holloa, Momus!" exclaimed Reginald, "what's the row? as Salisbury would say; only, more properly we might ask, in your case, what do the tranquillity and genteel pensiveness of your demeanor denote?"

"We're going to have a change in the weather," said Jones.

"What's the matter, Frank?" asked Hamilton.

"Nothing," replied Frank, raising his head quickly, and endeavoring, rather unsuccessfully, to smile, amid something that looked very much like tears; at least, if we must not be allowed to hint at such appearances, there was certainly much agitation in his countenance -- so unusual a phenomenon, that a dead silence followed the ghastly effort.

"Nonsense," said Hamilton, kindly; "you won't persuade me that nothing is the matter, Frank."

"Nothing particular," said Frank, fidgeting with a penny that lay on the mantelpiece; "only the doctor has been giving me a lecture for the good of my morals, that's all."

"A lecture?" repeated Norman.

"What's been the matter, Frank?" said Reginald.

"A small moral discourse upon the sin and danger of practical jokes," said Frank, swallowing down such an evident degree of emotion as convinced his auditors that the discourse had been no ordinary one. "His hints were rather peculiar, Hamilton -- too decided for so quick-sighted a youth as myself. I don't wonder he has such a horror of a joke; I should think the dear man never was guilty of such a crime in his life himself; or he has a strong imagination; or, perhaps, a bad opinion of your humble servant -- all the same -- the cause doesn't much signify; the effect's what one looks at."

"Something dreadfully mysterious," said Reginald.

Hamilton was silent. He watched anxiously Frank's varying countenance, the twitching of which, as well as the thick, quick tone in which he spoke, betrayed great excitement.

"The fact is, I suppose, the doctor has reasons for his suspicions," continued Frank, still more quickly, while his face grew redder, and his eyelids twinkled painfully, and the penny was fairly spun into the fender.

"I haven't been quite so sage as I might have been, and, perhaps, jokes may not be quite gentlemanly -- but, -- but, Hamilton, -- he thinks, -- he thinks -- and almost said it -- that I changed your poem."

"What a shame!" they cried.

Frank stooped to pick up the penny, and was some minutes finding it. When he rose, he said:

"One will grow old in time, but it's hard to pay so dearly for good spirits. However, you couldn't expect such a flow cheap, I suppose," he added, with a little laugh.

"You must have mistaken him," said Trevannion; "he couldn't have meant it."

"I am not in the habit of taking offence at nothing," replied Frank. "Nay, I can be as purposely obtuse as any one when I choose, but one couldn't be blind."

"What did he say?" said Reginald.

"I don't exactly remember -- a heap about 'pain inflicted,' of 'misconstructions being placed on motives,' of 'transgressions against honor and kindliness;' and then, when I was at a loss to comprehend him, he said, 'he could not understand the gratification of seeing another disappointed and annoyed -- when he discovered that his school-fellow, whom he confidently trusted, had substituted a blank sheet for a carefully, laboriously-written work;' and then I asked him if he supposed I had tricked Hamilton? and he said he couldn't think of another who was so likely to do it as myself -- that 'the constant indulgence in these senseless follies was likely to blunt the sense of honor,' 'that I must excuse him' -- excuse him, forsooth -- 'if he spoke his mind on the subject:' and then he raked up an old affair, that happened ages ago, about an exercise -- Salisbury, you remember -- you were the victim; but that was a paltry, every-day affair, only he didn't seem to understand the difference. I'll back the doctor up for as good a memory as any man in the three kingdoms. I had forgotten that piece of moral turpitude, and might have been excused for imagining that the caning I got then had wiped out the offence. Hamilton," he added, with a faltering voice, laying his hand on Hamilton's shoulder -- "you don't believe I did it?"

"To be sure not, Frank," said Hamilton, heartily shaking Frank's hand. "I know you too well -- I am as confident of you as I should be of myself in the same case. Don't think any more of it. I am sure the doctor doesn't believe it himself: he only wants to show what might be thought if you get a character for playing tricks. I am excessively vexed at this."

"I don't feel at all certain he believes me yet," said Frank; "but this I declare, that unless your poem is found, I will withdraw all claim -- I won't touch the prize for any consideration."

"Don't do that, Frank," said Hamilton; "I'll give you some trouble yet with my new one."

"If that gets it, so much the better," said Frank, "and I dare say it will; but you all hear -- my mind is made up -- I won't have a prize for this poem unless it is gained over Hamilton's first."

"How came the doctor to begin this rigmarole?" asked Salisbury.

Frank blushed, and replied, with a conscious laugh: "I did an abominably foolish thing last night, in dipping all the bed-room candles that were standing in the pantry, into a tempting basin of water; and Mrs. Guppy was malicious because the candles sputtered and wouldn't light, and, as usual, determined that I had done it; and Fudge taxed me with it this morning."

"I wish," said Hamilton, emphatically, "I could discover the author of this shameful piece of business. It was vexatious enough in the first place, but this is painful to us all. Frank, every one knows you."

"Doctor best of all," put in Frank.

"I will give myself up to discovering who has done it," said Hamilton.

"You had better give yourself up to finishing your poem," said Reginald; "for it's my humble opinion if you haven't found it now, your eyes won't discover the clue, if you were Argus himself."

The others then began a rather noisy debate on the impropriety of their master's behavior; and little Alfred, finding his brother was not speaking, ventured to remind him of his promise. Contrary to his usual habit, Hamilton turned quite crossly to him:

"What an idle fellow you are! Why don't you get Lempriere and find them out for yourself? -- you ought not to be beginning now."

"I tried, Edward, but I couldn't understand it, and it went out of my head. I want to know about Cecropia again -- I forget what country it was, Edward," said the child, timidly, noticing an ominous reddening of his brother's face.

"A great deal of use it is giving you any information, is it not, sir? I have a great mind to make you write out every word I say. And pray what else have you forgotten?"

"Not forgotten any thing," said Alfred, meekly; "but I wanted to know, please Edward, who was Hannibal's father, and whether it was true about Hannibal's making the rocks red hot, and pouring vinegar on them? I don't think it could, for I don't know where he could get so much."

"A great deal he carried in his own countenance," said Frank, "and the rest was made from the wine supplied for the Carthaginian officers. There's nothing like white-wine vinegar, Alfred; and the Carthaginians were renowned for parting with luxuries on an emergency."

"Now I know that's your nonsense," said Alfred, looking very puzzled. "And, please Edward, who was Philomela and -- "

"That's enough -- one at a time!" exclaimed Hamilton; "get Lempriere, and my Roman History, and you shall look them out with me. It's to be hoped you are not dreaming of a prize."

"Poor infant!" said Salisbury; "it's hard work, I know, to remember the difference between those heathen chaps."

Alfred had just brought the required books, and was opening them by his brother's desire, and Hamilton was standing near him at the table, when suddenly a packet was thrown into the room, and fell at his feet. Changing color, he picked it up with the rapidity of lightning, and, with an exclamation, rushed out of the room, before any one but Alfred had seen the transaction. Louis had just gained the threshold of the door leading to the playground, when Hamilton hailed him, and his long strides gaining on Louis' terror-impeded steps, he presently reached him, and, grasping him tightly by both arms, bore him back to the class-room, sternly desiring two or three boys, who attempted to follow, to stay behind. Louis did not make any resistance, and Hamilton, after locking the door and putting the key into his pocket, brought him irresistibly to the front of the fire, and, placing him with his back against the table, opposite the assembled group, desired him, under pain of instant punishment, to remain where he was.

"What is the matter with him, Hamilton?" asked Reginald.

"You shall see presently," said Hamilton; "I mean to have some inquiries answered: and please, Mortimer, however unpleasant it may be to you, let us have fair play."

"I only stipulate it for Louis too," said Reginald.

"He shall have it," said Hamilton, calmly; "but if he attempts to move till I have done, I will carry him at once to Dr. Wilkinson."

Hamilton glanced at the windows, where five or six heads were darkening the lower panes, in their eagerness to discover the cause of Louis' forcible abduction; and, walking coolly up to them, bolted them, and drew down both blinds. He then returned to his place, and, drawing his coat-tails under his arms, arranged himself with his back to the fire, exactly opposite to Louis, who stood passively where he had been placed, very pale, but otherwise showing little emotion.

"Now, sir," began Hamilton, "explain how you got this."

As he spoke, he produced, to the astonishment of his school-fellows, the parcel -- rubbed at the edges, but still the identical parcel, as he proved, by breaking the seal, and showing the writing inside.

"What! Louis Mortimer!" exclaimed Jones.

"Et tu Brute!" ejaculated Frank, in a tone of mingled surprise and reproach.

"Louis!" said Reginald, coloring deeply; "oh, Louis! How did you find it, Hamilton?"

"Did you not see it come in through the half-open door just now?" said Hamilton.

"I fancied I saw something fly along," said Meredith.

"I thought I heard something fall," said another.

"Too cowardly to come openly," said Trevannion.

The room seemed to turn round with Louis.

"How did you come by this?" said Hamilton.

There was no answer.

"I will have an answer, Louis," he said: "and if you don't give it to me, you shall to Dr. Wilkinson!"

Louis murmured something that no one heard.

"What?" said Hamilton, sharply; "speak so as we can all hear. If you have brought it back for some one else," he added, in a softened tone, "say so at once; only let me know who took it."

"I took it," replied Louis, with a great effort.

"You ungrateful viper!" exclaimed Jones.

Hamilton appeared a little moved, but checking the emotion, continued:

"You! for -- your -- own -- especial -- gratification? And pray, when might you have accomplished that adroit and praiseworthy feat?"

"Last Friday," said Louis, in so low a tone, that nothing but the silence that reigned could have made it audible.

"And what was your motive?" asked Hamilton, leaning back against the mantelpiece, and putting one foot on the fender behind him.

"Only a little fun!"

"Pretty respectable fun!" said Hamilton, contemptuously.

"Gratitude might have restrained you, one would think," said Jones, "if nothing else would. A pretty return for all Hamilton's kindness, to set to work to lose him his prize!"

"I didn't, Jones," said Louis, warmly; "I thought it was a letter; I didn't mean any harm. And as to gratitude -- when Hamilton was kind to me, I was grateful -- and I do feel grateful for his kindness now; but he has been unkind enough lately to make me forget that."

"And reason enough he had," said Meredith. "Unkind, indeed! why no one else stood your friend when we found out what a tell-tale you were."

"I am sure nobody knew he was my friend then," said Louis, assuming an air of independence that ill became him. "Only last Friday, he let me believe that Trevannion had the doctor's Rollin; he offered me his, but I wasn't likely to take that, and -- " Louis hesitated, for Hamilton's eye was upon him so calmly and inquiringly; and Louis felt he was not likely to have had such an idea in his head.

"And what?" said Hamilton, quietly.

"Nothing," replied Louis; "I don't believe you knew, only it was rather strange, Hamilton."

"What was strange?" said Hamilton, in the same unmoved tone.

"Only when I came back into this room, I saw it on the table with your things, and I thought you had it, perhaps," said Louis, reluctantly. "If it hadn't been for that, I shouldn't have come here, and shouldn't have thought of playing the trick."

"You little -- " exclaimed Trevannion. Not being able to find a genteel epithet strong enough, he continued, "When Hamilton had just taken the trouble of exchanging his own history with me, for your service! I see it all now, Hamilton -- you ungrateful boy!"

"How should I know? he never said so," replied Louis, touched to the heart at this proof of his friend's kindness; and grieved very deeply that he should have thought or said so unkind a thing of him in his anger. "How am I to know what people think, if they don't speak, or if I don't see them?"

"And so you did it out of revenge?" said Hamilton.

Louis was silent for a minute, for he could not speak; but at last he replied, in a quivering voice -- 

"No; I told you I did it out of fun. I thought it was a letter, and -- and I have been very sorry I ever did any thing so foolish. I should have brought it back sooner, but I could not remember what I did with it."

"Why did you not tell me, at least, that you had taken it, Louis," said Hamilton, "when I was inquiring for it? It would have been more open."

"I should have done it, I believe, if I had known how you would have heard me -- but it's not so easy when every one is against you. I brought it only a few minutes after I found it."

"Who put such a thing into your head, Louis?" asked Reginald.

Louis checked the answer he had nearly given, and remained silent.

"Were you alone?" said Hamilton. "Were you the only one concerned in this business?"

"I was not alone," replied Louis, rather proudly; "but I do not mean to say who was with me. He was not to blame for what I did."

"How so?" asked Hamilton. "Didn't he put it into your head, and help you to do it?"

"You have no right to ask such questions," said Louis, uneasily. "He came in to help me find Rollin, and -- that's all I shall tell you."

"What, Casson help you to find Rollin!" said Hamilton, quickly. "He wouldn't know the book from a Lexicon."

"He did, however," said Louis; then, becoming suddenly conscious, from the intelligent glances exchanged among his judges, of the admission he had made, he turned very red, and exclaimed,

"It's very unfair!"

"I knew he was your companion," said Hamilton, rather scornfully. "You have belonged to his set too much lately to suppose otherwise -- and this is the consequence."

"If it is, Hamilton," said Louis, scarcely able to speak for the warmth of his feelings, "you might have prevented it if you would. You wouldn't forgive my speaking carelessly once -- and no one that I cared for would notice me. He was almost the only one who would speak to me. If you had said one word, I shouldn't have been so bad. I thought you didn't care about me, and I didn't mean to stay where I wasn't wanted."

The expression of Hamilton's face was not easy, and he drowned the end of Louis' speech by knocking all the fire-irons down with a movement of his poised foot.

"It was a likely way to be wanted, I imagine," said Jones, "to go on as you have been doing. Besides, who is to know what's likely to be safe with such a tell-tale -- a traitor -- in the camp as you are?"

"If there hadn't been another as great," said Louis, "you would never have known of me; but you bear with him because you can't turn him out."

"Pray, sir!" exclaimed Norman, "whom do you mean?"

Louis felt sorry he had allowed himself to say so much; but he stood unshrinkingly before his interrogator, and replied:

"I mean you, Norman: you know if you hadn't told tales of me this wouldn't have happened."

What vengeance Louis might have drawn on himself by this ill-judged speech we cannot tell, had not Hamilton stepped forward and interposed.

There was a grim ghost of a smile on his face as he put his arm in front of Louis.

"Fair play, Norman," he said; "I won't have him touched here. You can go now."

As Louis left the room, Hamilton resumed his former attitude, and seemed lost in a revery of an unpleasant description, while a discussion on Louis' conduct was noisily carried on around him: some declaring that Louis had done the deed from malicious motives, others believing that it was merely a foolish joke of which he had not calculated the consequences, and a third party attributing it entirely to Casson's influence.

"Vexed as I am to find Louis has been so foolish," said Reginald, "I am glad, Frank, that you will now be cleared. Hamilton, I am sure you believe that Louis only intended a joke?"

Hamilton nodded gravely.

"I suppose you'll clear up the matter instanter, Hamilton?" said Jones.

"Clear up the matter? How! is it not clear enough already?" said Hamilton, almost fiercely.

"Clear to us, but not to the doctor," said Meredith.

"It's as clear as it's likely to be, then," said Hamilton. "I intend to send up this poem the last evening, and say nothing about it."

"A likely story!" exclaimed Jones.

"If you don't, I shall, Hamilton," said Salisbury.

"Whoever breathes a word of the matter," cried Hamilton, "ceases from that moment to be a friend of mine. Whose business is it, I should like to know -- if I choose to throw that unhappy thing on the fire, who is the loser but myself? What satisfaction can it be to any one to get that boy into such a mess?"

As Hamilton spoke he disdainfully flung the poem on the table, and drew the fender, contents and all, on the floor with his fidgety foot.

"The matter comes to this," said Reginald: "it appears that either Louis must be exposed, or Frank suffer for his delinquencies. It is not, certainly, fair to Frank, and mustn't be, Hamilton, though Louis is my brother."

Hamilton cast a bewildered look on Frank.

"True, I had really forgotten Frank. It must be so, then," he said, in a lower tone.

"No, Hamilton, no!" said Frank; "I won't have you tell of poor Louis. I don't care a bit about Fudge's suspicions now, you all know I am clear. Don't say a word about it, I beg."

"Frank, you're a fine fellow!" exclaimed Hamilton, grasping his hand; "but I don't think it is quite fair."

"Nonsense!" said Frank, gayly; "I owe him something for relieving me from my situation; and, besides," he added, more gravely, "Louis deserves a little forbearance from us: none of us would have done what he did, last half."

"You are right," said Hamilton, warmly; "none of us would, but all of us have forgotten that lately; even Ferrers, who ought, at least, to have befriended him, has turned the cold shoulder to him. I feel quite indignant with Ferrers."

"Ferrers had a little reason to doubt him," said Trevannion.

"What, for letting his name slip out by accident?" said Hamilton, scornfully; "you heard how he let out Casson's just now -- you wouldn't blame him for that, I imagine?"

"No," said Frank; "and I can tell you that Mrs. Paget (no offence to her nephew) is one of those dear retailers of all descriptions of news, that would worm a secret out of a toad in a stone, and Louis hasn't ready wit enough to manage her."

"He has no presence of mind, and a little vanity," said Hamilton.

"He is as vain as a peacock -- a lump of vanity!" exclaimed Norman; "without an atom of moral courage to stand any persuasion short of being desired to put his head into the fire -- a perfect coward!"

"And where did you get your moral courage, Mr. Norman?" said Hamilton, with deliberate gravity; "we may send you to the heathen for reproof:

'If thou hast strength, 'twas heaven that strength bestowed, For know, vain man, thy valor is from God.'"

Norman was on the point of speaking, but Hamilton continued in the same calm, irresistible manner:

"If Louis is vain, we are proud; and I should like to know which is the worst, -- having an exalted opinion of ourselves, or craving the exalted opinion of others? We have not behaved well to Louis, poor fellow! we first spoiled him by over-indulgence and flattery, and when this recoils upon us, we visit all the evil heavily on him."

"I only want to remark," said Meredith, "that we had a right to expect more consistency in a professed saint."

"Perhaps so," said Hamilton; "yet, though I am sure Louis is a sincere Christian, he is not free from faults, and had still a hard work to do in overcoming them; and, because he has for a time forgotten that he had this work to do, shall we cast him off as a reprobate? Remember it was his former blameless conduct that made us expect more from him than another: the Power that guided him then can restore him again. But we have sadly forgotten that great duty, of bearing one another's burdens, which he taught us so sweetly a few months ago. Let us forgive him," continued Hamilton, with tears in his eyes, "as we would be forgiven; considering how we should act in temptation ourselves."

There was a dead silence, for Hamilton's address had something solemn in it. He added, after a short pause -- 

"I feel that we seniors have an immense responsibility: the power of doing much good or harm lies with us. I have been far too selfish and indifferent: Trevannion, will you forgive the thoughtless words that so justly offended you, but which, I assure you, had only the meaning of an angry emotion?"

"Willingly!" said Trevannion, starting up to meet the proffered hand of his friend; "I am sorry I should have been so much offended."

Reginald was making some acknowledgments to Hamilton and Frank, when a messenger came to summon Hamilton to a short turn with the doctor, and after gladly accepting Reginald's offer of performing his task towards Alfred, he took up his poem, and went away full of deep thoughts and regrets, that the late scene had called forth.



Chapter XXIII.

"O Israel, return unto the Lord thy God; for thou hast fallen by thine iniquity. Take with you words, and turn to the Lord: say unto Him, Take away all iniquity, and receive us graciously; so will we render the calves of our lips." -- Hosea xiv. 1, 2.


When Louis left the class-room, his feelings of grief and shame were almost too bitter for restraint; but he had learned lately to conceal something of what he felt from those who were not likely to sympathize with him; and finding some boys in the school-room, and being subjected there to several disagreeable remarks and questions, he went into the playground, in the hope of finding either relief in change of scene, or a little more seclusion than he could hope for in-doors; and after escaping from some tormentors, who met him at the door, in their anxiety to know what Hamilton wanted with him, he went towards the side of the playground that looked upon the lane, hardly caring where he was going, or what became of him.

The door was open, and disregarding, or more properly, forgetting, the injunctions respecting it, he went up to it, and stood looking out into the lane, till at last, one of his school-fellows discovering the open door, came up, and asked him to keep watch for him, while he went on a forbidden errand.

Meantime, Dr. Wilkinson and Hamilton had, after a walk across the grounds in front of the house, turned into the lane, making as large a round as possible, on their way to the house. Hamilton was in a very silent humor, and as his tutor was equally grave, very few words passed between them during the first half of their walk; and if Hamilton had thought at all about what he had undertaken so mechanically, he might have wondered how the doctor could have wanted a companion, when he was in so taciturn a humor.

Suddenly the doctor remarked, -- "Have you heard nothing of your poem, Hamilton?"

This was so unexpected a question, and Hamilton was so unwilling to make a direct answer, that he remained silent for a minute or two, his hesitation and color convincing his master that Louis had acted up to his determination.

"Well, have you forgotten all about it?" said the doctor, good-humoredly.

"I have found it, sir -- here it is," he replied, producing the paper.

"How did you get it?" asked the doctor, who betrayed far less surprise and satisfaction than the occasion seemed to demand.

"It was thrown into the class-room this morning, sir," said Hamilton, reservedly.

"And you are ignorant of the party?" said the doctor, with raised eyebrows.

"No, sir, I know who has done it," replied Hamilton, after a slight pause; "but I must beg you to excuse my naming him. I think there is no danger of a repetition of the offence. Of course you will understand, sir, that I do not mean Digby, who is as innocent as I ever believed him."

There was a little silence, while the doctor ran his eye down a page of Hamilton's manuscript.

"As you wish to keep the matter secret, I shall ask no further questions; only, Digby may not think it quite fair."

"He wishes it to be so, sir," replied Hamilton, eagerly. "It is quite his wish now he knows I have proof that he is not the culprit."

Dr. Wilkinson's face lighted up with an expression of great satisfaction, as he said,

"It does Digby credit."

Hamilton was on the point of hazarding a remark on the impossibility of Frank's contemplating such a thing, when they turned a corner of the lane that brought them in sight of the playground wall and the farm-yard opposite. The doctor's attention was suddenly arrested by the figure of a boy, perched on the top of the high wall surrounding the latter, who was reaching downwards towards the top of a large hawthorn-tree that grew inside.

"Hey-day! Hamilton, who's that?" he exclaimed. "Do you recognize the figure? If my eyes deceive me not, it is Louis Mortimer. I have strongly suspected lately that I have been robbed more than once. It is Louis Mortimer."

The doctor's tone assumed its ready sternness, and he quickened his pace. Hamilton could not doubt the evidence of his senses, but he felt miserably disappointed.

"I do not think Louis Mortimer would do so, sir," he said, faintly.

"There he is, however, out of bounds," said the doctor.

"Something else may have taken him there," said Hamilton.

"I hope it may prove so, but he is surely receiving something from below -- he sees us -- he will be down -- he will assuredly break his neck!" exclaimed the doctor, hurriedly. "There -- quick, Hamilton -- run."

Hamilton needed no bidding, for, as soon as he saw Louis fall, he ran off in the direction of the stable-yard. The doctor followed so quickly that Hamilton had only just raised Louis from the ground when he came up. To their great satisfaction he was not much hurt, having fallen on a heap of straw that lay just under the wall. He was much frightened, and at first so stunned as to be almost incapable of understanding what was said to him. On the ground near him lay his green baize bag, and rolling about in all directions, some apples, one or two still remaining in the bag.

"Where is your companion, sir?" was the first question Dr. Wilkinson asked, after ascertaining that no injury had been done to Louis.

"There was no one with me, sir," replied Louis, almost inarticulately.

"What were you doing here, sir?"

"I came to fetch my bag, sir."

"It is a mercy you were not killed," said Dr. Wilkinson, gravely. "Put the apples in that bag, Hamilton."

Dr. Wilkinson waited till Hamilton had performed this task, and then desired Louis to take the bag and follow him.

Louis did as he was desired, but he was evidently not yet in a condition to walk, and trembled so violently that Hamilton caught hold of him to prevent him from falling.

"He can't walk yet, sir," he said, compassionately. "I will bring him in when he has recovered a little."

"It is too cold to sit out here," said the doctor. "Where are you hurt?"

"I don't exactly know; I am not much hurt -- but, oh! I feel so strange, Hamilton. Let me walk -- I can take your arm."

Dr. Wilkinson looked anxiously at him, and assisted him, with Hamilton's aid, across the road, through the garden, into the kitchen, where, with a little hartshorn and water, he was soon in a condition to go up stairs. Dr. Wilkinson desired him to go to bed for the rest of the day, and sent Reginald to help him. The bag he took into his own possession till further occasion.

Louis was too much dismayed by his ill success, and too much exhausted by the shock of his fall, to make any remarks till he reached his room. Hamilton did not leave him until he had seen him comfortably in bed; and then, after wrapping him up most tenderly, he leaned over him, and asked what was really the matter.

Louis endeavored to answer calmly, but in his present weak condition Hamilton's kind manner overcame him, and he burst into tears.

"Oh, dear!" he exclaimed, amid his violent sobs; "oh, Reginald, Reginald -- Hamilton, I am so unfortunate! Every thing I do is always found out; but others can do all sorts of things, and no one knows it."

"Is there any thing then to be found out, Louis?" said Hamilton, gravely; "if so, it is far better for you that it should be."

Louis suddenly threw his arms round Hamilton, as he sat near him.

"Hamilton, I did not go there to steal, I am sure," he said, throwing his head back, and examining his friend's face with the most intense anxiety. "I am sure, Hamilton, bad as I am, you could not believe it of me. I have been very sinful, but oh, I am very sorry; and, Hamilton, I could not do so very wicked a thing. Do remember, please, how things were against me before when I was not guilty. Though it seems all against me now, I assure you, the only thing I have done wrong is going out of bounds -- oh, do let me keep my arms round you, Hamilton -- don't believe me guilty. I haven't -- oh, I haven't had a friend for so long! I have been very proud and self-willed -- if I had been humble perhaps things would not have gone so wrong. I never even said I was sorry I repeated what you said to Mrs. Paget; but I was sorry, Hamilton -- very, very sorry, only I did not like to say so. Will you forgive me, and be my friend again? I have been so ungrateful, I am afraid you will never love me any more."

Hamilton was completely overcome by the vehemence of Louis' appeal. He pressed the poor boy closer to him, and even kissed his forehead, as if he were a little child.

"Love you, Louis! love you, dear boy!" he replied; "you have had reason to doubt it, but I have always loved you. I forgive you from my heart, but you have something to forgive in me. I have not been as kind to you as I might have been."

"I am very sorry I spoke so unkindly of you this morning, Hamilton," sobbed Louis, laying his wet cheek on Hamilton's shoulder. "I was cross, and didn't think of what I was saying."

"Don't think any more about it," said Hamilton, affectionately; "lie down, and tell me quietly how you came to be on that wall just now."

"I was standing at the wooden door," said Louis, "when Sally Simmons told me that she had seen my bag on the great hawthorn-tree, by the wall on the other side. And when I asked her how it got there, she said, she supposed I knew, but it was too high for her to reach; and if I didn't get it, the doctor would find me out. At first, I thought I wouldn't go," said Louis, hesitating; "and then I was afraid I should be getting into a scrape -- I am sometimes so unfortunate -- and so I went across the lane, and got over the gate, and went into the yard to see if it were there. And there it was, Hamilton, with some apples in it, too, hanging partly, and partly lying, near the top of the tree; it was so high that I was obliged to get upon the cow-house roof, and as the cow-house was on the wrong side, I was obliged to get on the wall to read it. And I was pulling it off when you first saw me, and then -- I was afraid, and as I was rather over-reaching myself, I tried to get down in a hurry, and fell down. I think the tree broke my fall; but I don't know how it was, for I hardly understood any thing, even when you came up."

"You had better have let it alone," said Reginald.

"What were you doing at the gate?" said Hamilton; "keeping watch?"

"One of them asked me," replied Louis.

Hamilton shook his head.

"Have you any idea how your bag came there?"

"Please don't ask me any questions about that, Hamilton. Will you not believe I am innocent?"

"I fully believe your story, Louis, but I know you have been in bad company lately, and I wish to help you to clear yourself. Tell me all you know. If you have ever had even the least hand in any thing like this, make a friend of me, and tell me at once. Have you not some idea who put your bag there?"

"I may guess, you know," said Louis, evasively; "but, Hamilton, I do assure you, I never had any thing to do with any robbery here at all -- never once."

"If you do not know who has done it, then," said Hamilton, "I am sure your guess is a very accurate one -- whom do you guess?"

"I cannot tell you, Hamilton; you mustn't ask me."

"This is only nonsense," said Reginald, impatiently. "Are you going to make a martyr of yourself for a set of bad fellows who are a disgrace to the school?"

"They may tell themselves, perhaps," said Louis, "but I will not."

"Louis!" said Hamilton, seriously, "this is folly; don't let a mistaken notion of honor induce you to screen these bad boys from their just punishment. By doing so, you are doing an injury to others as well as yourself. You must remember, that these evil-disposed boys are still mixing with others, to whom their example and principles may do much harm, independently of the evil done to themselves by being allowed to sin with impunity. Louis, you were saying just now, that you were very unfortunate -- they are the most unfortunate whose crimes are undiscovered, and therefore unchecked. If you are, as you say, innocent of any participation in this affair, why should you wish to conceal what you know, or, at least, telling me whom you lent your bag to?"

"I did not lend it at all lately," said Louis, raising his face from the pillow, where he had hidden it. "The thing is, Hamilton," continued he, very sorrowfully, "I am called a tell-tale, and I know I deserve it; but the worst is, they call me a hypocrite, and say that religious people are no better than others. I could bear it if it were only myself, but it is more, and I have given reasons for them to say all kinds of things," he added, and burst anew into tears. "But do not make me tell any more tales. I have promised, Hamilton -- I dare not -- I will not break my promise!"

Hamilton made no immediate reply, and the loud ringing of the dinner-bell obliged him to leave Louis to himself.

"If it is a promise, Louis," he said, as he left the room with Reginald, "I won't urge you to break it; but remember well how the promise was made -- remember the consequences."

"Reginald," he added, when they had closed the door, "I have a clue; depend upon it, he won't be much the worse, poor fellow. But the doctor knows him well, I am sure."

Reginald stole away after dinner to sit with Louis, and to endeavor to persuade him to disclose all his suspicions, but all he could obtain was a kind of half-promise to clear it up, after he had seen how the matter would end; and the subject caused him so much distress, that Reginald at length left it alone.

"Sit down by my side, dear Reginald," said Louis, "and tell me again that you forgive me. I cannot think how I could be so unkind to you as I have been lately, when you were so anxious about me. I have been ungrateful to every body."

"Don't make yourself miserable," said Reginald, as gayly as he could. "I know I am hasty and cross, and don't go the right way to help you; but you had spoiled me by being so very gentle before, and I didn't understand your having any spirit."

"It was a very wrong spirit," replied Louis; "the fact is, Reginald, I have not been serving God lately, though at first I did not know it myself. I thought I did a great many things when I came back to school, because it would glorify God; when, I really believe now, the reason was -- to be praised for it. Every one seemed to think so much of me, and that every thing I did was right. I have wished so many times lately, that all the trouble of last half-year might come again if I should be so happy. But, Reginald, when the boys would not speak to me, then I knew by my angry feelings that I only cared for myself; and I saw that I had not been serving God, and I became afraid to pray. Sometimes so strangely, when I knew I was in the wrong, and that I ought to pray for help to be better, yet I wanted to look grand, and to show I didn't care, and I never used the time I had, and that's very little here, Reginald. I have been thinking of myself almost ever since I came back -- I have been thinking of glorifying myself!" He paused, and then added, in a lower tone, "I fancied I was not selfish, but now I know I am!"

When Reginald went away, Louis had long and quiet time to trace the reason of his sad falling away, and to make his peace with Him whose great name he had so dishonored. Earnestly, humbly, and sorrowfully did he confess his faults. How bowed to the earth he felt, in the consciousness of his utter impotence! He remembered how confident he had been in his good name; and now he became aware, in this silent self-examination, how mixed his motives had been, how full of vanity and vain-glory he had been, how careless in waiting for "more grace," how little he had thought of pressing forward, how wanting he had been in that single heart that thought only of doing the work committed to him regardless of the approbation of men -- that only desired to know what was right in order fearlessly to follow it; and unutterable were the tearful desires of his heart that he might be strengthened for the time to come to walk more worthy of the vocation wherewith he was called.



Chapter XXIV.

"I will heal their backslidings, I will love them freely; for mine anger is turned away from him. Ephraim shall say, What have I to do any more with idols?" -- Hosea xiv. 4, 8.

"I will hear what God the Lord will speak: for He will speak peace to His people, and to His saints, but let them not turn again to folly." -- Psalm lxxxv. 8.


Louis awoke from a calm, sound sleep very early the next morning, with a dim, indistinct recollection of having, when half awake during the night, seen Dr. Wilkinson standing by him, and of a consciousness of a hand being laid on his forehead and his hands; but, as he did not feel certain, much less suppose it likely, he settled that he must have dreamed it. It was quite dark when he awoke, and it was some few minutes before the events of the preceding day ranged themselves in any order in his mind; and then his thoughts flew to that rest whence they had been so long absent.

In about half an hour, several of his school-fellows began to rouse themselves, and, a candle or two being lighted, dressing was hastily accomplished; and, rolling themselves up in counterpanes and blankets, shawl fashion, they proceeded to pore over the books they had brought up the night before.

"I don't mean to get up," growled Frank; "it's a great deal more comfortable in bed. Clifton, bring me my candle here, and put it on that chair -- I shall make a studium of my couch."

"Dr. Wilkinson asked if we read with candles near the beds," said Clifton. "He said he wouldn't have us read in bed unless it were daylight, Digby."

"Well, we'll suppose he didn't," said Frank, "so come along."

"No, I won't," said Clifton, sitting down, near a chest of drawers, on which was a candle, the joint property of himself, Reginald, and Louis.

"You won't, won't you?" said Frank, coolly; "Reginald, my candle's near you, I'll trouble you for it."

"You must take the consequences, then," said Reginald, "for I heard the doctor say so."

"I didn't," said Frank, snuffing his candle, and opening a book; "Meredith, I'd advise you to follow my example."

"I followed it yesterday, and fell asleep in uncomfortable snoozes till the bell rang," yawned Meredith. "Reading one word and dreaming six may be entertaining, but it is certainly not instructive."

There was very little noise, and Louis lay for some time in deep thought. At length he moved as if with the intention of getting up, when Reginald started up and planted his beaming face over him so as to prevent his rising:

"Awake at last, Louis?"

"Yes, I have been awake a long time."

"You've been very quiet."

"How happy you look!" said Louis; "I could almost fancy you had something to tell."

"What will you give me for my news?"

"I am afraid I can offer nothing but thanks," replied Louis, smiling.

"What should you say if I were to tell you Casson was gone?"

"Casson gone!" exclaimed Louis, starting up in spite of his brother's incubian overseership. "Where? When? How? Was he ill? What was the matter?"

"He went home yesterday evening by the London coach. He was in perfect bodily health. The matter was, that the magister wouldn't keep him."

"What! expelled, Reginald?" said Louis, aghast.

"Expelled, Louis," Reginald replied, gravely; "don't look so frightened; he deserved it."

"Oh, Reginald! it is so terrible! But how -- why was it so sudden?"

"Ah, Beauty!" said Frank, "a few wonders have happened while your ladyship has been sleeping there. What will you say to Harris going, too?"

"Harris! no, surely not, Frank? Tell me, do tell me what's been the matter."

"We promised to let Hamilton tell the story," said Reginald. "He has been, in a great measure, the cause of finding all out; so make haste and go to him, for I want you back again."

Louis did not need any further bidding -- he hurried his toilette, and flew to the room that Hamilton enjoyed to himself. Hamilton was up. An open Bible lay near him, which he closed as Louis entered.

"How are you, foolish boy, this morning?" he said, kindly -- very kindly, Louis thought, as he squeezed his hand.

"I am very well, thank you. Reginald's been telling me strange news this morning."

"News?" said Hamilton. "He promised me -- "

"Oh! I only know that Casson's gone, and Harris going, but he would not tell me any more."

"Well, then, I will."

"Hamilton," said Louis, gently laying his hand on Hamilton's, "may I ask one thing?"

"What is it?"

"Will you read a little of this with me first?" he said, timidly, touching the Bible. "I have neglected it so lately. It would be so pleasant before we begin any thing else. You do not know how difficult it is in our room to be a minute quiet."

Hamilton had opened the Bible before Louis had finished, and bade him select a chapter, which he asked him to read aloud.

Louis read the 7th Psalm, and the 14th of Hosea; and when he had finished, he and his friend remained very silent.

Hamilton felt for Louis, though he did not know how soothingly the sweet words fell on the soul of the erring boy; how unspeakably precious had been the promise, that the backslider should be healed, and the dew of the Spirit refresh him, and make him grow in grace. Louis felt a wish to prolong those gracious words, "Ephraim shall say, What have I any more to do with idols? I have heard and observed him; I am like a green fir-tree, from me is thy fruit found!"

"Dear Hamilton," he said, at length, "I have a very great favor to beg of you -- would you let me come in a little every morning to read with you? It would do me so much good."

"By all means," said Hamilton, perhaps a little shily; but it was promise enough to call forth Louis' heartfelt thanks.

Hamilton then made Louis don a cloak of his, and stretching his own legs, so as to rest them comfortably on the window where Louis was sitting, he entered into a minute detail of the events of yesterday afternoon, equally surprising and interesting to Louis.

It appeared that Hamilton, acting on his own strong suspicions, went immediately after dinner to Dr. Wilkinson, whom, strange to say, he found equally inclined to listen to them; for he confessed to Louis that he did not exactly know what had made Dr. Wilkinson so suddenly take such a decided view of Casson's character as he appeared to have done. They went to the stable and examined it very carefully. They found the door unfastened; but on further consideration, discovered that the staple, which was rusty, had been broken off, so that, though the key had been turned, it could be opened as easily as if it had had no lock. They went up through the trap-door, but found nothing to assist them, till, just as they were descending, Hamilton picked up part of a Greek exercise. It was very small, not more than two inches square; a more careless observer might not have noticed it, but Hamilton seized it as a treasure, and, with the doctor's advice, set to work to discover whose handwriting it was.

The few words he deciphered carried him to the second class for the owner: "And oh, Louis! Dr. Wilkinson looked so grave when I told him it was Kenrick. But I knew it was not your writing. With very little trouble, and without discovering any thing, I soon found Harris to have been the writer. Having settled this point about an hour after school had begun, I took the first opportunity of informing the doctor, who immediately entered the school-room, suspended all business, summoned every one, and in an able speech, as the papers would say, prefaced the proceedings by declaring how painful it had been to him to discover that any of his pupils were not trustworthy, et cetera; and his determination to arrive at some conclusion on the point, to know whether his orders were or were not to be obeyed. He then mentioned having found you, and his firm belief, that even supposing you had gone there for the purpose of abstracting the apples, which he could not believe, you must have been tempted and persuaded to it by older hands; he called upon the offenders to come forward and clear the matter. Well, no one answered; and then the doctor just alluded to you, and what you had suffered last half, and said that he had determined that every one should be aware of the grounds of accusation, and he desired, if any one knew of any thing that would throw a light on the matter, he would come forward.

"Then, to every one's surprise, comes up Charles Clifton, and tells him coolly, that he was sure you had not stolen the apples, and that it was very likely to be Harris, Casson, and Churchill, and that Sally Simmons had, in his presence, given them apples, and they joked about the place where they came from. Sally was called, and at last confessed that she had let Casson know where the apples were kept; and they frightened her, or something, for she tried to bring you in as an accomplice, only Clifton was so manful, and braved her with so much spirit, that she soon quitted that ground, and departed under sentence of dismissal."

"Oh, poor Sally! I am very sorry."

"She is a bad girl," said Hamilton; "I never liked Clifton so well as I did yesterday: there is a great deal of truthful independence about him."

"Oh, Charlie's a very nice fellow!" said Louis, warmly. "Well, Hamilton."

"Well, Casson and Harris bullied, talked of characters defamed, and stoutly protested innocence. The doctor looked so indignant; I think I never saw him so thoroughly convinced of the evil-mindedness of any one, as he appeared to be of Casson's. He heard all they had to say, and spoke to them seriously of the crime they were adding. Harris looked abashed, but Casson declared there was not enough to convict him in the evidence of a 'liar like Sally, and a self-sufficient fellow like Clifton;' when, to my astonishment, Trevannion came forward, and gave his pocket-book open into the doctor's hands." Hamilton then proceeded to tell Louis what Trevannion had seen on the memorable Friday, and the great effect produced upon the school by the reading of the memorandum. Churchill confessed every thing, and cried, and begged pardon.

It seemed that they had gone no further than the gate leading to the field, on the Friday morning, as they saw some one in the distance; but that the plan had been renewed on Monday at twilight, when they were disturbed by a man with a lantern, coming into the yard as they left the stable, and, instead of going out the usual way, they scrambled over the wall, dropping the bag in their hurry, and had no opportunity the ensuing day to look for it.

"Harris," continued Hamilton, "turned as white as a sheet, and murmured something that no one could understand. The doctor spoke really beautifully. I hope something of what he said may remain with them, at least, be remembered at some future time."

"What did he say?" asked Louis.

"He spoke about the heinousness of the offences they had committed, and of his sorrow; and, Louis, he spoke as if he were sorry," said Hamilton, looking down, and speaking gravely. "I felt as if I were wrong in being so rejoiced at their detection. He spoke of the necessity he was under, not simply of making an example of such offenders, which was a duty he owed to the others under his charge, but of that of marking also to themselves the great abhorrence he entertained of their conduct. He then spoke of the consequences of unchecked sin, and, in a few words, mentioned a very sad history of a former pupil of his who turned out very ill -- he is dead, Louis; the manner in which he spoke of that prayer of the Psalmist's, 'Make me not a rebuke unto the foolish,' was very solemn; I assure you there were very few dry eyes."

Louis' were filled with tears.

"Well, Hamilton," he said, slowly.

"He then desired Casson to go directly and make preparations for leaving his house in less than an hour, and told Harris that he should not allow him to return after the holidays. There was not a sound when Casson left the room, Louis, except the sobbing of one or two of the little boys. I think I never felt any thing so solemn. It is a serious, a very serious thing."

"Very, very," said Louis. "Did Casson seem sorry, Hamilton?"

"He was very pale and silent -- I think frightened, not sorry. Harris stood like a statue while the doctor was speaking; but, when he told him he was not to return, I heard him sigh so deeply, it was quite painful."

"And Churchill?" said Louis, with difficulty.

"Churchill is to stay a week behind the others, and to write exercises every day till he goes home."

"Oh, Hamilton, Hamilton!" cried Louis, bursting fairly into tears, "I am not crying wholly for sorrow; for I am, and ought to be, thankful that I have not been made a 'rebuke unto the foolish.'"

Hamilton pressed his hand.

"I hope," he continued, "that this may be a blessing to me; but I am very much afraid of myself, Hamilton, for I am constantly making good resolutions and breaking them -- but, Hamilton, do you think they would suppose I had told of them?"

"Dr. Wilkinson told them you would not break your promise and clear yourself by betraying them," replied Hamilton; "and he also said a great deal on the folly of rash promises, and the evil of covering sin. I wish you had heard it; but we must not talk any more, for here is Alfred, and we shall have the prayer-bell presently; so, if you have any thing to do before you go down, you had better make haste."

Louis dried his tears, and obeyed the hint, after submitting, with no very great reluctance, to a mighty hug from Alfred, who would have given vent to his delight in a great flow of words had not his brother been present and waiting for him. There was little time for talking when Louis returned to his dormitory; but he and his brother made the most of it, and, arm in arm, they issued forth when the summons was heard. All the way down stairs Louis received the congratulations of his school-fellows. Everybody, even Trevannion, seemed to have forgiven him, and Norman held out his hand at the hall-door with a "Shake hands, old fellow!"

Louis felt rather afraid of entering the school-room, but Dr. Wilkinson made no comment, and, as far as he could judge from the doubtful light of a few candles struggling with the coming daylight, scarcely looked at him. The names were called over. At Harris's name there was a pause -- -some one answered, "Not here, sir;" and, as Dr. Wilkinson, without any comment, proceeded, Louis caught a few whispered words near him:

"He's been moaning nearly all night, poor fellow! he's in a terrible way now;" and then the reply, "Ah, the doctor never unsays any thing!"

When prayers were over, Dr. Wilkinson called Louis into the study, and kept him till breakfast-time with him. What passed, never transpired; but that it was something serious was conjectured from Louis' exceedingly humble manner and red eyes, when he left the room -- though every one was sure, from the subsequent manner of both master and pupil, that all was entirely forgiven, and Louis reinstated fully in Dr. Wilkinson's good graces.

But I must hasten to finish my story. The prize day arrived. It was a dismal, wet, dreary day; but the boys cared nothing for that, except that the audience was smaller than usual. Charles Clifton carried away all the first prizes of his class, except that for French, which was, contrary to his expectation, adjudged to Louis. Hamilton having privately signified to the doctor his wish to withdraw all claim to the medal, it was likewise bestowed on Clifton. Reginald was not successful in any branch this half-year, having so recently entered the highest class. As for Frank and Hamilton, the poems were considered so equal -- Hamilton's being the more correct, and Frank's displaying the greater talent and brilliancy -- that they each received a prize exactly alike. The doctor passed a high encomium on Frank's industry, and that original young gentleman had the satisfaction of bearing away two prizes in addition to that already mentioned, leaving another for Hamilton, one for Ferrers, and one for Norman.

Just as the boys had dispersed, and Reginald and Louis were arranging a snug place in their carpet-bag for Louis' prize, a letter was put into the hand of the former.

"From home, Reginald?" cried Louis; "I suppose it is to say who is coming for us."

But, no; -- it was to tell them of the illness of a lady who had been staying at Dashwood Priory, which had assumed so much the character of typhus fever, that Mr. Mortimer considered it unsafe for his boys to return; and the letter, which was from their mother, informed them, with many expressions of affectionate regret, that their father had written to ask Dr. Wilkinson to keep them a few days, till it could be decided how they were to be disposed of. Poor Louis was grievously disappointed, and Reginald, not less so, inveighed aloud on the folly and impertinence of ladies going to friends' houses to fall ill there and prevent their sons from enjoying their holidays, so long, that Louis at length could not help laughing.

"But what shall we do, Reginald? it will be so dull here."

"I shall die of the vapors, I think," said Reginald.

"Come home with me," said Salisbury, "both of you -- I am sure my father and mother will be very glad to see you."

"I should like nothing better," replied Reginald; "provided your father and mother prove of the same accommodating opinion when you sound them."

"Charlie asked me last week to go with him, Reginald," said Louis; "if you go with Salisbury, I shall go with him; but if you remain here, I shall stay with you."

The brothers received invitations on all sides when their desolate condition was known, but none could be accepted without the consent of their parents, or in the mean time of Dr. Wilkinson, as their guardian. It was finally, settled, that as both Salisbury and Clifton lived in the neighborhood, their invitations might be accepted till further notice from Dashwood.

The lady proved very ill, though, as it was not any infectious disease, the brothers probably might have been sent for, had not a heavy fall of snow rendered the roads near Dashwood impassable.

Louis spent nearly the whole of his holidays very happily with Charles; becoming, during his stay with them, a great favorite with Mr. Clifton and his little girls, as well as their nurse. Salisbury had the benefit of Reginald's company for a fortnight, the rest of his time being bestowed upon Meredith.

When the holidays were over, Hamilton returned for his last half-year. The reflections induced by the preceding term were not transient. He struggled manfully with the constitutional indifference of his character; and though there were many failings, for the habits were too deeply rooted to be suddenly overcome, yet the effort was not without its use, both to himself and others. To Louis, he was a constant and useful friend, never flagging in his efforts to make him more manly and independent in his conduct, as regarded the opinion of others; and also quietly strengthening, by his example and encouragement, every good feeling and impression he noticed. There were no tears shed, but Louis felt very low when he bade good-bye to Hamilton, at the close of the next half-year.

"Oh, Hamilton! I owe you a great deal. What shall I do next half without you? Who will help me?"

"Thy God, whom thou servest," said Hamilton, reverentially. "The thanks are not to me for the help of the last few months, Louis. Good-bye, my dear fellow -- our friendship does not end here; we are friends forever."

They shook hands warmly and parted.

Louis continued at school for two or three years longer, and passed through the ordeal of school-life with credit to himself and his relations. I would not be thought to mean that he never did wrong, or was always equally steady in his Christian course; for the Christian's whole life is a continued fight against the evil of his nature. He still retained his strong desire to enter the ministry of the Church, and his studies and pursuits were principally directed to that end. It was one of his fairest day-dreams, to be his father's curate when old enough to be ordained, and though that might not be, he still felt, wherever he might be placed, his language would be that of the Psalmist, when he said -- 

"My soul hath a desire and a longing to enter into the courts of the living God." "For I had rather be a door keeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness."

<eob>

Patty's Suitors

By

Carolyn Wells



Chapter I

A Valentine Party


"It IS a boofy frock, isn't it, Nansome?"

Patty craned her head over her shoulder, as she waited for her stepmother's response, which was only, "Yes."

"Oh, my gracious, Nan! Enthuse! Don't you know half the fun in life is enthusiasm?"

"What shall I say?" asked Nan, laughing.

"Oh, say it's a peach! a hummer! a lallapaloosa!"

"Patty, Patty! what language!"

"Oh, yes; I forgot I meant to stop using slang. But when any one is so lukewarm in her admiration as you are, forcible language is called for."

"Well, it certainly is a lovely gown, and you never looked prettier. There! since you are fishing for compliments, are you pleased now?"

Patty was far from being conceited over her pretty face, but she honestly liked admiration, and, indeed, she was accustomed to receive it from all who knew her. At the present moment, she was standing before a long mirror in her boudoir, putting the last touches to her new party toilette. Louise, the maid, stood by, with a fur-trimmed wrap, and Patty drew on her long gloves with a happy smile of anticipation.

"I just feel sure I'm going to have a good time to-night," she said; "it's a presentiment or premonition, or whatever you call it."

"Don't flirt too desperately," said Nan, not without cause, for pretty Petty was by nature a coquette, and as she had many admirers she merrily led them a dance.

"But it's so interesting to flirt, Nancy. And the boys like it, -- so why not?"

Why not, indeed? thought Nan. Patty's flirtations were harmless, roguish affairs, and prompted by mischief and good nature. Patty was a sweet, true character, and if she teased the young men a bit, it was because of her irrepressible love of fun.

"And this is St. Valentine's night," went on Nan, "so I suppose you think yourself privileged to break all the hearts you can."

"Some hearts are so brittle, it's no fun to break them," returned Patty, carelessly, as she adjusted her headdress.

She was going to a Valentine party, where the guests were requested to come in appropriate costume.

So Patty's gown was of white lace, softly draped with white chiffon. On the modish tunic were love-knots of pale blue velvet, and a border of tiny pink rosebuds. The head-dress, of gold filigree, was a heart pierced by a dart; and on Patty's left shoulder, a dainty little figure of Cupid was wobbling rather uncertainly.

"You'll lose that little God of War," said Nan.

"I don't care if I do," Patty answered; "he's a nuisance, anyway, but I wanted something Valentinish, so I perched him up there. Now, good-bye, Nancy Dancy, and I expect I'll be out pretty late."

"I shall send Louise for you at twelve, and you must be ready then."

"Oh, make it one. You know a Valentine party is lots of fun."

"Well, half-past twelve," agreed Nan, "and not a minute later!"

Then Louise wrapped Patty in a light blue evening cloak, edged with white fur, and the happy maiden danced downstairs.

"Good-bye, Popsy-Poppet," she cried, looking in at the library door.

"Bless my soul! what a vision of beauty!" and Mr. Fairfield laid down his paper to look at his pretty daughter.

"Yes," she said, demurely, "everybody tells me I look exactly like my father."

"You flatter yourself!" said Nan, who had followed, and who now tucked her hand through her husband's arm. "My Valentine is the handsomest man in the world!"

"Oh, you turtle-doves!" said Patty, laughing, as she ran down the steps to the waiting motor.

Unless going with a chaperon, Patty was always accompanied by the maid, Louise, who either waited for her young mistress in the dressing-room or returned for her when the party was over.

"Shall you be late, Miss Patty?" she asked, as they reached their destination.

"Yes; don't wait for me, Louise. Come back about half-past twelve; I'll be ready soon after that."

Louise adored Patty, for she was always kind and considerate of the servants; and she thought Louise might as well have the evening to herself, as to be cooped up in a dressing-room.

The party was at Marie Homer's, a new friend, with whom Patty had but recently become acquainted.

The Homers lived in a large apartment house, called The Wimbledon, and it was Patty's first visit there. Miss Homer and her mother were receiving their guests in a ballroom, and when Patty greeted them, a large crowd had already assembled.

"You are a true valentine, my dear," said Mrs. Homer, looking admiringly at Patty's garlanded gown.

"And this is a true Valentine party," said Patty, as she noted the decorations of red hearts and gold darts, with Cupids of wax or bisque, here and there among the floral ornaments.

Marie Homer, who was a pretty brunette, wore a dress of scarlet and gold, trimmed with hearts and arrows.

"I'm so glad to have you here," she said to Patty; "for now I know my party will be a success."

"I'm sure your parties always are," returned Patty, kindly, for Marie was a shy sort of girl, and Patty was glad to encourage her.

As soon as the guests had all arrived St. Valentine appeared in the doorway.

It was Mr. Homer, but he was scarcely recognisable in his garb of the good old Saint.

He wore a red gown, trimmed with ermine, and a long white beard and wig.

He carried an enormous letter-bag, from which he distributed valentines to all. They were of the old-fashioned lace paper variety, and beautiful of their kind.

Mrs. Homer explained that on the valentine of every young man was a question, and the girl whose valentine had an answer to rhyme with it, was his partner for the first dance.

The young men were requested to read their valentines aloud in turn, and the girls to read their responsive answers.

This proceeding caused much hilarity, for the lines were exceedingly sentimental, and often affectionate.

When it was Roger Farrington's turn, he read out boldly:

"Where's the girl I love the best?"

and Marie Homer, who chanced to hold the rhyming valentine, whispered, shyly:

"I am sweeter than the rest!"

"You are, indeed!" said Roger, as he offered his arm with his courtliest bow.

Then Kenneth Harper read:

"Who's the fairest girl of all?"

and Mona Galbraith read, with twinkling eyes:

"I'll respond to that sweet call!"

Then it was Philip Van Reypen's turn. He glanced at his valentine, and asked:

"Who's a roguish little elf?"

Everybody laughed when a tall, serious-faced girl responded:

"I guess I am that, myself!"

It was toward the last that Clifford Morse asked:

"Who's the dearest girl I know?"

and as Patty's line rhymed, she said, demurely:

"Guess I am, -- if YOU think so!"

"I'm in luck," said Clifford, as he led her to the dance. "You're such a belle, Patty Fairfield, that I seldom get a whole dance with you."

"Faint heart never won fair lady," laughed Patty, shaking her fan at him. "I always accept invitations."

"Accept mine, then, for the next dance," said Philip Van Reypen, who overheard her words as he was passing.

"No programmes to-night," returned Patty, smiling at him. "Ask me at dance time."

As no dances could be engaged ahead, except verbally, Patty was besieged by partners for every dance.

"Oh, dear," she cried, as, at the fourth dance, five or six eager young men were bowing before her; "what shall I do? I'd have to be a centipede to dance with you all! And I can't divide one dance into six parts. And I can't CHOOSE,-that would be TOO embarrassing! Let's draw lots. Lend me a coin, somebody."

"Here you are," said Van Reypen, handing her a bright quarter.

Patty took it, and put both hands behind her.

"You may try first, Phil, because you put up the capital. Right or left?"

"Right," said Philip, promptly.

Patty gaily brought her hands into view, and the quarter lay in her left palm.

"Next!" she said; "Mr. Downing."

"Left," chose that young man, as Patty again concealed her hands.

But that time she showed the coin in her right hand.

"My turn now," said Ken Harper, "AND, you'll please keep your hands in front of you! You don't do it right."

"Do you mean that I cheat?" cried Patty, in pretended rage.

"Oh, no, no! nothing like that! Only, this game is always played with the fists in view."

So Patty held her little gloved fists in front of her, while Kenneth chose.

"Right!" he said, and her right hand slowly opened and showed the shining coin.

"Were you going to take me, anyway?" asked Kenneth, as they walked off together. "And why did you turn down poor Van Reypen? He was awfully cut up."

"Ken Harper, do you mean to insinuate that I didn't play fair?"

"Yes, my lady, just that. Oh, cheating never prospers. You have to put up with me, you see!"

"I might do worse," and Patty flashed him a saucy glance.

"I wish you meant that."

"Oh, I do! I DO, Ken. Truly, there are lots of worse people than you in the world."

"Who?"

"Well, -- there's Eddie Perkins."

"Oh, Patty! that fop! Well, I'll bet you can't think of another."

"No; I can't."

"Patty, how dare you! Then you'll sit right here until you can."

Laughingly Kenneth stopped dancing, and led Patty to an alcove where there were a few chairs. As they sat down, Philip Van Reypen came toward them.

"Oh, Ken," Patty cried, "I've thought of a man worse than you are! Oh, EVER so much worse! Here he is! And I simply adore bad men, so I'm going to dance with him."

Naughty Patty went dancing off with Van Reypen, and Ken looked after them, a little crestfallen.

"But," he thought, "there's no use being angry or even annoyed at that butterfly of a girl. She doesn't mean anything anyway. Some day, she'll wake up and be serious, but now she's only a little bundle of frivolity."

Kenneth had been friends with Patty for many years; far longer than any of her other young men acquaintances. He was honestly fond of her, and had a dawning hope that some time they might be more than friends. But he was a slow-going chap, and he was inclined to wait until he had a little more to offer, before he should woo the pretty butterfly.

And, too, Patty would never listen to a word of that sort of thing. She had often proclaimed in his hearing, that she intended to enjoy several years of gay society pleasures, before she would be engaged to any one.

So Kenneth idly watched her, as she circled the room with Van Reypen, and took himself off to find another partner.

"Oh, Valentine, fair Valentine," said Van Reypen to Patty, as they danced.

"Wilt thou be mine, and I'lt be thine," returned Patty, in mocking sing-song tones.

"Forever may our hearts entwine," improvised Philip, in tune to the music.

"Like chickwood round a punkin-vine," Patty finished.

"Pshaw, that's not sentimental. You should have said, Like sturdy oak and clinging vine."

"But I'm not sentimental. Who could be in a crowded ballroom, in a glare of light, and in a mad dance?"

"What conditions would make you feel sentimental?"

"Why, -- let me see. Moonlight, -- on a balcony, -- with the right man."

"I'm the right man, all right, -- and you know it. And if I'm not greatly mistaken, here's moonlight and a balcony!"

Sure enough, a long French window had been set slightly ajar to cool the overheated room, and almost before she knew it, Patty was whisked outside.

"Oh, Philip! Don't! you mustn't! I'll take cold. I ought to have something around me."

"You have," said Van Reypen, calmly, and as he had not yet released her from the dance he held his arms lightly round her shoulders.

Patty was angry. She knew Philip loved her, -- several times he had asked her to marry him, -- but this was taking an unfair advantage.

The February wind itself was not colder than the manner with which she drew away from him, and stepped back into the ballroom.

"My dear, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Homer, who chanced to be near, "how imprudent! You should not go out without a wrap."

"I know it, Mrs. Homer," and Patty looked so sweetly penitent that her hostess could but smile at her. "But, truly, I just stepped out a single second to get a tiny breath of air. The room IS warm, isn't it? May I stay here by you a few moments?"

"Yes, indeed," and Mrs. Homer drew the girl down beside her on the sofa. "You're not robust, my child, and you mustn't run foolish risks."

"You're quite right, and I won't do it again. But on a night not quite so cold, that balcony, flooded with moonlight, must be a romantic spot."

"It is, indeed," said Mrs. Homer, smiling. "My young people think so; and I hope you will have many opportunities in the future to see it for yourself."

"Your young people? Have you other children besides Marie?"

"Yes; I have a daughter who is away at boarding-school. And, also, I have a nephew, whose home is in this same building."

"Is he here to-night?"

"No; Kit hates dances. Of course, that's because he doesn't dance himself. He's a musician."

"Kit? What a funny name."

"It's Christopher, really, Christopher Cameron; but he's such a happy-go-lucky sort of chap, we naturally call him Kit."

"I think I should like him," said Patty. "Would he like me?"

"No," said Mrs. Homer, her eyes twinkling at Patty's look of amazement. "He detests girls. Even my daughters, his cousins, are nuisances, he says. Still he likes to come down here and sit on my balcony, and tease them. He lives with his parents in the apartment just above us."

"He sounds an interesting youth," said Patty, and then, as Roger came up and asked her for a dance, she promptly forgot the musical nephew.

At supper-time, Patty's crowd of intimates gathered around her, and they occupied a pleasant corner of the dining-room.

"What'll you have, Patsums?" asked Roger, as a waiter brought a tray full of dainty viands.

"Sandwiches and bouillon," said Patty, promptly; "I'm honestly hungry."

"The result of exercise in the open air," murmured Philip Van Reypen, as he took a seat directly behind her.

Patty gave an involuntary giggle, and then turned upon Philip what she meant to be an icy glare. He grinned back at her, which made her furious, and she deliberately and ostentatiously ignored him.

"Hello, you two on the outs?" inquired Kenneth, casually.

"Oh, no!" said Philip, with emphasis; "far from it!"

So, as Patty found it impossible to snub such cheerfulness, she concluded to forgive and forget.

"There's something doing after supper," remarked Roger. "Miss Homer dropped a hint, and even now they're fixing something in the ballroom."

"What can it be?" said Elise, craning her neck to see through a doorway.

"It's a game," said Marie Homer, who had just joined the group. "I told mother, you all considered yourselves too grown-up for games, but she said she didn't want to have the whole evening given over to dancing. So you will play it, won't you?"

"Sure we will!" declared Kenneth, who admired the shy little girl.

Marie was new in their set, but they all liked her. She was timid only because she felt unacquainted, and the good-natured crowd did all they could to put her at ease.

"Games!" exclaimed Philip; "why, I just love 'em! I'll play it, whatever it is."

"I too," said Patty. "It will be a jolly change from dancing."



Chapter II

On The Telephone


When the young people returned to the ballroom, it presented a decidedly changed appearance. Instead of an interior scene, it was a winter landscape.

The floor was covered with snow-white canvas, not laid on smoothly, but rumpled over bumps and hillocks, like a real snow field. The numerous palms and evergreens that had decorated the room, were powdered with flour and strewn with tufts of cotton, like snow. Also diamond dust had been lightly sprinkled on them, and glittering crystal icicles hung from the branches.

At each end of the room, on the wall, hung a beautiful bear-skin rug.

These rugs were for prizes, one for the girls and one for the boys. And this was the game.

The girls were gathered at one end of the room and the boys at the other, and one end was called the North Pole, and the other the South Pole. Each player was given a small flag which they were to plant on reaching the Pole.

This would have been an easy matter, but each traveller was obliged to wear snowshoes. These were not the real thing, but smaller affairs made of pasteboard. But when they were tied on, the wearer felt clumsy indeed, and many of the girls declared they could not walk in them at all. And in addition each one was blindfolded.

However, everybody made an attempt, and at a given signal the young people started from their opposite ends of the room and endeavoured to make progress toward the goal as they blindly stumbled along.

Patty concluded to move very slowly, thinking this the surest way to make a successful trip. So she scuffled along among the other laughing girls, now and then stumbling over a hillock, which was really a hassock or a sofa cushion under the white floor covering. It was great fun, and the girls cheered each other on as they pursued their blinded way. And then about midway of the room they met the boys coming toward them. Then there was scrambling, indeed, as the explorers tried to get out of each other's way and follow their own routes.

It was a very long room, and Patty hadn't gone much more than halfway, when she concluded to give up the race as being too tiresome. She made her way to the side of the room, and reaching the wall she took off her blinding handkerchief and kicked off the snowshoes. To her great surprise she found that many of the other girls and some of the boys had done the same thing, and not half of the original contestants were still in the race. And, indeed, it proved to be much greater fun to watch those who were still blindly groping along, than to stay in the game.

At last the game was concluded, as Roger Farrington proudly planted his flag at the very spot that designated the North Pole, and not long after, Clementine Morse succeeded in safely reaching the South Pole. So the beautiful rugs were given to these two as prizes, and every one agreed that they had earned them.

Then, amid much laughter, everybody was unblindfolded, and they all sat around on the snow mounds waiting for the next game.

A big snow man was brought in and set in the centre of the room. Of course it was not real snow, but made of white plaster, gleaming all over with diamond dust. But it was the traditional type of snow man, with a top hat on, and grotesque features.

In the mouth of the figure was a cigarette, and each guest was presented with a few snowballs, made of cotton wool. The game was to knock the cigarette from the snow man's mouth with one of the snowballs.

Of course the cigarette was so arranged that the lightest touch of a ball would dislodge it, and as one cigarette was displaced, Mr. Homer supplied another.

The guests had been divided into two parties, and each side strove to collect the greater number of cigarettes.

Some balls flew very wide of the mark, while others with unerring aim would hit a cigarette squarely.

The game caused great hilarity, and everybody was anxious to throw balls. They threw in turn, each having three balls at a time.

Patty was especially deft at this, and with true aim succeeded several times.

Then when they tired of this play, a few more dances followed before it was time to go home.

Some attendants came in and whisked away the snow hillocks and floor covering, leaving the ballroom once again in order for dancing.

"Makes me feel young again, to play those kiddy games," said Kenneth, as he was dancing with Patty.

"I like them," returned Patty; "I hate to think that my childhood is over, and I love games of any kind."

"Your childhood will never be over," returned Kenneth; "I think you are the incarnation of youth, and always will be."

"I'm not so much younger than you."

"Five years, -- that's a long time at our age. By the way, when are the Hepworths coming home?"

"Next week; and we're planning the loveliest reception for them. You know their apartment is all ready, and we're going to have just a few people to supper there, the night they return."

"Shall I be one of the few?"

"Well, rather! The best man at the wedding must surely be at the home-coming. Doesn't it seem funny to think of Christine as mistress of her own home? She'll be perfectly lovely, I know. My goodness gracious! Ken, what time is it? I'm afraid I'm staying too late. I promised Nan I'd leave at half-past twelve."

"It's not much more than that. Can't you stay for another dance?"

"No, I can't possibly. I must run right away, or my motor car will turn into a pumpkin, and Louise into a white mouse. Take me to Mrs. Homer, please, and I will say good-night to her."

But as they crossed the room, they met Van Reypen coming toward them.

"Our dance, I think," he said, coolly, as he took Patty's hand.

The music had just started, and its beautiful rhythm was too tempting for Patty to resist.

"I'm just on my way home," she said, "but we'll go around the room once, and then I must go."

"Once indeed!" said Philip, gaily; "we won't stop until the music does."

"Yes, we will; I must go now," but somehow or other they circled the room several times. Patty loved dancing, and Philip was one of the best of partners.

But at last she laughingly protested that she really must go home, and they went together to say good-night to their hostess. And then Patty said good-night to Philip, and ran away to the dressing-room, where Louise was patiently waiting for her.

And soon, muffled up in her furs, they were rapidly spinning along toward home.

"I didn't keep you waiting very long, did I, Louise?" said Patty, kindly.

"No, Miss Patty, you're right on time. I expect you would have liked to stay longer."

"Yes, I should, but I promised Mrs. Fairfield not to."

When at last Patty reached her own little boudoir, she declared she was more tired than she had realised. So Louise took off her pretty frock, and Patty sat in her blue silk dressing gown while the maid brushed her hair. Then she brought her a cup of hot milk, and left her for the night.

Patty wasn't sleepy, and she dawdled around her room, now and then sipping the milk, and then looking over her engagements for the next day.

"Oh," she thought, suddenly, "I've left my fan at the party. I'm sorry, for it's my pet fan. Of course it will be safe there, but I think I'll telephone Marie to look it up and put it away."

Knowing that the Homers would not yet have retired, Patty picked up her telephone and called the number.

A masculine voice gave back a cheery "Hello!"

"Is this Mr. Homer?" said Patty.

"No, indeed. I'm Kit Cameron. Who are you, please?"

"Isn't this The Wimbledon apartment house?"

"It sure is."

"Isn't this 6483?"

"No, it's 6843. Please tell me who you are?"

A spirit of mischief entered into Patty. She knew this must be Marie Homer's cousin, who lived on the floor above the Homers, and who, Mrs. Homer had said, detested girls.

"But I have the wrong number," she said. "I didn't mean to call you."

"But since you did call me, you must tell me who you are."

"I'm a captive princess," said Patty, in rather a melancholy tone. "I'm imprisoned in the dungeon of a castle."

"How awful! May I get a squad of soldiers and come to your rescue, oh, fair lady?"

"Nay, nay, Sir Knight; and anyway you do not know that I am a fair lady."

"Your voice tells me that. Surely such musical tones could belong only to the most beautiful princess in the world."

"Oh, yes, I am THAT," and Patty laughed, roguishly; "but a well-behaved princess would not be talking to a strange man. So I must say good-bye."

"Oh, no, no! wait a minute; you haven't told me your name yet."

"And I don't intend to. You detest girls, anyway."

"Yes, I always have, but you see I never met a princess before."

"You haven't met me yet."

"But I shall! Don't make any mistake about that."

"How can you? I'm going to ring off now, and you have no way of tracing me."

"I can find out from Central."

"No, you can't."

"Why can't I?"

"Because I forbid you to do so."

"All right; then I can't find out that way, but I'll find out some other way. I'll go on a quest."

"Goodness, what is a quest?"

"Oh, it just means that I henceforth devote my whole life to finding you."

"But you can't find me, when you don't know my name."

"I'll make up a name for you. I'll call you Princess Poppycheek."

"How could you guess I'm a brunette?"

"I can tell it from your voice. You have snapping black eyes and dark curly hair, and the reddest of red cheeks."

"Exactly right!" exclaimed Patty, giggling to think how far this description was from her blonde pink-and-white type.

"I knew it was right!" exclaimed the voice, exultantly; "and I shall find you very soon."

"Then I shall await your coming with interest. You prefer brunettes, do you?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I have always admired blondes more, but I'm quite willing to change my tastes for you. Do you sing?"

For answer, Patty sang softly into the telephone, the little song of "Beware, take care, she is fooling thee."

Although she did little more than hum it, Mr. Cameron was greatly impressed with her voice.

"By jove!" he exclaimed. "You CAN sing! Now, I can find you easily. There are not many voices like that in this wicked world."

"Do you sing yourself? But I don't want to know, I haven't the least interest in a stranger, and besides, I'm going to ring off now."

"Oh, wait a minute! I don't sing, but I do something better. Don't ring off, just listen a minute."

Patty listened, and in a moment she heard a violin played softly. It was played by a master hand, and she heard an exquisite rendition of the "Spring Song."

"Beautiful!" she exclaimed, as the last notes died away, and then suddenly realising that she herself was acting in a most unconventional manner, she said abruptly, "Thank you; good-bye," and quickly hung up her receiver.

For some time she sat thinking about it. Curled up in a big easy chair, her blue silk boudoir gown trailing around her, she sat giggling over her escapade.

"It's all right," she assured herself, "for of course I know who he is, though he doesn't know me. He is Mrs. Homer's nephew, so it's just the same as if I had met him properly. And, anyhow, he hasn't an idea who I am, and he never can find out from the description he has of me!"

Still giggling over the episode, Patty went to bed and to sleep.

The next morning, as she thought it over, she realised that she hadn't succeeded in securing her fan, and she determined to go around and see Marie that afternoon, and get it.

So that afternoon she went to make her call.

"It was a beautiful party," she said to Marie, as the two girls chatted together. "I love games for a change from dancing, and the games you had were so novel."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Marie, "for I was afraid they would seem too childish."

"No, indeed," returned Patty; "and now put on your hat and come out with me for a little while. I'm going to a picture exhibition, and I'd love to have you go too. But first, did I leave my fan here last evening?"

"There was a beautiful fan left here, -- an Empire fan. Is this yours?"

Marie produced the fan and Patty recognised it as her own.

"But I can't go this afternoon," said Marie, "because Cousin Kit is coming down to practise some new music. Won't you stay and hear him play? He is really a very good violinist."

Patty considered. She rather wanted to meet this young man, but she was afraid he would think her forward. So after a little further chat, she rose, saying she must go. And it was just as she was going out that Mr. Cameron came in, with his violin under his arm.

Patty was obliged to pause a moment, as Marie presented her cousin, but the young man, though courteous, showed no interest whatever in Miss Fairfield. Patty's pretty face was almost invisible through her motor veil, and as Mr. Cameron had no idea that she was the girl who had talked to him the night before, and as he really had no interest in girls in general, he merely made a very polite bow and went directly toward the piano.

"I wish you'd stay and hear some music," said Marie, but Patty only murmured a refusal, not wanting Mr. Cameron to hear her voice, lest he recognise it.

He was an attractive looking man of fine physique and handsome face, but he looked extremely dignified and not very good-natured.

"All musicians are cross," Patty thought to herself as she went down in the elevator, "and I wasn't going to have that man think that I went around to Marie's to see him!"

She decided to call for Elise to go to the art gallery with her, and she found that young woman ready and glad to go.

"I hadn't a thing to do this afternoon," said Elise, as they started off, "and I love to go anywhere with you, Patty. Shall we have a cup of tea afterwards?"

And so it was after they had seen the pictures, and as they were sitting in a cosy little tea-room, that Elise said suddenly:

"Do you know Mr. Cameron? He's a cousin of Marie Homer's."

"I don't know him," said Patty, smiling, "but I've been introduced to him. Just as I was leaving Marie's to-day, he came in. But he was very abstracted in his manner. He merely bowed, and without a word he went straight on to the piano and began fussing with his music."

"You were just leaving, anyway?"

"Yes; but I would have remained a few moments, if he had been more sociable. But, of course, I couldn't insist on his talking to me, if he didn't want to."

"He doesn't like girls," said Elise, but as she spoke she smiled in a self-conscious way.

"So I've heard," said Patty, smiling herself. "He seems young to be what they call a woman-hater. I thought only old bachelors were that. Well, he has no interest for me. There are plenty of boys in our own set."

"Don't you tell, if I tell you something," and now Elise looked decidedly important.

"What is it? I won't tell."

"Well, it's the funniest thing! That Mr. Cameron wants to meet me, though he never has seen me."

"What!" exclaimed Patty, in astonishment. "Why does he want to meet you?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. But he was at Marie's this morning, and asked her if she knew any girl who was gay and merry and had a sweet voice, and had dark hair and eyes and rosy cheeks. And Marie says she knows he means me, and I think he does too! Isn't it exciting?"

"Yes," said Patty, drily. "But you don't sing much, Elise."

"Oh, of course I don't sing like you do, but I have a fairly decent voice."

"But how mysterious it is. What does he know about you?"

"I don't know. It IS mysterious. He wouldn't tell Marie anything except that he wanted to know the name of the girl he described; and he said she must be friendly enough with Marie to call her up on the telephone in the middle of the night."

"But did you do that?" asked Patty, who was really shaking with laughter.

"Yes; I called her up last night after I got home from the party, because I'd left my spangled scarf there, and I wanted her to put it away safely for me."

"I always leave things at a party, too," said Patty, looking innocent. "I left my fan at Marie's last night. So I went there to-day and got it."

"Well, I thought I'd better telephone, for so many girls leave things and they get scattered or lost."

"Well, what did your telephoning have to do with Mr. Cameron?"

"I don't know; that's the queer part of it. Perhaps the wires were crossed and he heard me talking."

"H'm," said Patty, "perhaps he did. When are you going to meet him, Elise?"

"I don't know; but Marie says she'll have a few friends to tea some day soon, and she'll ask him. She says it'll have to be a very small tea, because he hates to meet people."

"Why doesn't she have just you two? I think it would be more romantic."

"Oh, nonsense. This isn't romance. I think Mr. Cameron is a freak, anyway. But it's all amusing, and I hope you'll be at the tea, yourself, Patty."

"I will if I'm asked," said Patty.



Chapter III

The Hepworths At Home


It was the day of Christine's home-coming, and Patty was busy as a bee preparing for the great event. The pretty apartment where the Hepworths were to live was all furnished and equipped, but Patty was looking after the dainty appointments of a party.

Not a large party, only about a dozen of their own set. Nan was there, too, and Elise Farrington, and they were arranging flowers in bowls and jars and vases, till the rooms were a bower of blossoms.

"What time will they arrive?" said Elise.

"We expected them about six o'clock," returned Patty; "but I had a telegram, and their train is delayed, so they can't get here until nine. So I want the party all assembled when they come. It's five now, and everything's about done, so we can scoot home and get some dinner and get dressed, and be back here before they arrive. I'll be here by half-past eight, for the caterers are coming then, and I want to see about the table."

So they all went home to dress, and before half-past eight Patty was back again.

There were two maids already installed, but Patty found plenty to do in superintending matters, and she hadn't much more than completed the decorations of the table, when the guests began to come.

"Isn't the apartment lovely?" exclaimed Mona Galbraith, as she went through the rooms. "This music-room, or living-room, or whatever you call it, is just dear! Who selected the furnishings?"

"Oh, Mr. Hepworth and Christine," said Patty; "two artists, you know; of course the rooms ought to be beautiful. It is a lovely place, and just the right setting for that darling of a Christine."

The whole merry crowd were assembled in the living-room, when the bride and groom arrived. A shout of welcome went up from the young people, and Christine was smothered in girlish embraces, while the men vigorously shook Mr. Hepworth's hand, or clapped him on the shoulder, in their masculine way of congratulation.

Christine looked very sweet and smiling, in a pretty travelling gown, but Patty carried her off at once and insisted that she get into a house gown.

"The idea," said Patty, "of a hostess in a high-collared frock and all her guests in evening dress!"

So Christine quickly changed to a little chiffon gown of pale green and Patty tucked a pink rose in her hair and some more in her belt.

"Now you look like a bride," said Patty, nodding approval at her, and leading her to a mirror; "look at that vision of beauty! Aren't you glad I made you change?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Christine, in mock humility; "it's much better so."

The evening was a merry one. They danced and they sang and they chatted and finally they had the delightful supper that Patty had ordered.

Christine, blushing prettily, took the head of the table, while Gilbert Hepworth, with a proud air of proprietorship, sat at the other end.

Patty, as guest of honour, sat at the right hand of her host.

"It has always been my aspiration," she said, with a beaming smile at Christine, "to have a married friend to visit. I warn you, Christine, I shall spend most of my time here. There's one little nook of a bedroom I claim as my own and I expect to occupy it very frequently. And, besides, I have to give you lessons in housekeeping. You're a great artist, I know, but you must learn to do lots of other things beside paint."

"I wish you would, Patty," and the little bride looked very much in earnest; "I truly want to keep house, but being an artist and a Southern girl both, I don't believe I'm very capable."

"You're a blessed dear, that's what YOU are"; and Patty turned to Hepworth, saying, "Isn't she?"

"Yes, indeed," he returned; "I've only just begun to realise the beautiful qualities in her nature. And it is to you, Patty, that I owe my happiness. I shall never forget what you did in order that Christine might come to New York."

"And now we are surprised at the result," said Patty, who never could be serious for long at a time. "Come on, people, you've had enough supper, let's have one more dance and then we must go home and leave these turtledoves to their own nest."

But the one dance proved to mean several, until at last Patty said, "This will never do! Christine is all tired out, and as the superintendent of this party I order you all to go home at once."

The others laughingly agreed, except Philip Van Reypen, who came near Patty and murmured, "You haven't danced with me once to-night, and you've been awful cruel to me lately, anyway. Now let us have one more dance in honour of the bride's home-coming."

"No," said Patty, firmly, "not another dance to-night."

"Just a part of one, then," begged Philip; but Patty was inexorable.

And so the merry crowd dispersed, Patty lingering a moment to give Christine a good-night kiss and wish her every blessing and happiness in her new home.

"And I have you to thank for it all, Patty dear," said Christine, her blue eyes looking lovingly into Patty's own.

"Nonsense, thank your own sweet self. You well deserve the happiness that has come to you. And now good-night, dear; I'll be over some time to-morrow."

The laughing group went away, and as it had been planned, Mona took Patty home in her car.

"I wish you'd go on home with me, Patsy," said Mona, as they rolled along toward Patty's house.

"Can't possibly do it. I've a thousand and one things to look after to-morrow morning."

"But it isn't late; really it's awfully early. And I'll send you home early to-morrow morning."

"No, I mustn't, really, Mona. I have to look after some things for the Happy Saturday Club, which it won't do to neglect. And I want to run over to Christine's to-morrow morning, too. I have some things to take to her."

"Do you know, Patty, I think they're an awfully humdrum couple."

"Who? The Hepworths? Oh, I don't think humdrum is the right word, -- they're just serious-minded."

"But Mr. Hepworth is so old and prosy, and Christine seems to me just a little nonentity."

"Now, Mona, that isn't fair. Just because you are a frivolous-headed butterfly of fashion, you oughtn't to disdain people who happen to have one or two ideas in their heads."

"Well, the only ideas they have are about pictures."

"Pictures are good ideas."

"Yes, good enough, of course. But there's no fun in them."

"That's the whole trouble with the Hepworths. They haven't any fun in them. Neither of them has a sense of humour. But that's good, too; for if one had and the other hadn't, they'd be miserable for life. But as it is they don't know what they miss."

"No, they don't. Patty, don't ever marry a man without a sense of humour."

"Trust your Aunt Patty for that. But I don't propose to marry anybody."

"Of course not; he'd propose to you."

"Funny Mona! Don't let your sense of humour run away with you. Well, this facetious 'he' that you conjured up in your imagination may propose all he likes; I sha'n't accept him, -- at least not for many years. I mean to have a lot of fun before I get engaged. Can you imagine me settled down in a little apartment like Christine's, devoting myself to domestic duties?"

"No; but I can fancy you married to a millionaire with two or three country houses and yachts and all sorts of things."

"Good gracious, Mona. I don't aspire to all that! Just because YOU're a millionairess, yourself, you needn't think everybody else longs for untold wealth. After I get pretty well along in years, -- I think I shall marry a college professor, or a great scientist. I do love brainy men."

"Well, there are no brainy men in our set."

"Oh, Mona, what a libel! Our boys, -- somehow I never can think of them as men, -- are quite brainy enough for their age. And at the present day, I'd rather have fun with Ken or Roger, just talking foolishness, than to discourse with this wise professor I'm talking about. But of course, I wouldn't marry Ken or Roger even if they wanted me to, which they don't."

"Oh, yes, they do, Patty; everybody wants to marry you."

"Don't be a goose, Mona; you know perfectly well that Roger is over head and ears in love with you. Of course, I'm mortally jealous, for he was my friend first, and you stole him away from me. But I'll forgive you if you'll let up on this foolish subject and talk about something interesting."

"I will, Patty, if you'll tell me one thing. Don't you like Mr. Van Reypen very much?"

"Phil Van Reypen? Of course I do! I adore him, -- I worship the ground he walks on! I think he's the dearest, sweetest chap I ever knew!"

"Would you marry him?"

"Not on your life! Excuse my French, Mona, but you do make me tired! NOW will you be good? We're nearly home and I had a lot of things I wanted to ask you, and here you've been and went and gone and wasted all our time! Foolish girl! Here we are at my house, and I thank you, kind lady, for bringing me safely home. If you'll let your statuesque footman see me in at my own door, I'll promise to dream of you all night."

The girls exchanged affectionate good-nights, and Patty ran up the steps and Louise let her in.

"Nobody home?" asked Patty, noting the dim lights in the rooms.

"No, Miss Patty," answered Louise, "Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield are not in yet."

"Well, I'm not a bit sleepy, Louise, and I'm not going to bed now. I shall stay in the library for awhile, -- perhaps until they come home."

Louise took Patty's wraps and went away, and Patty wandered around the library selecting a book to read. The girl was a light sleeper, and she often liked to read a while before retiring.

But after she had selected a book and arranged a cosy corner in a big easy-chair by a reading light, she still sat idle, with her book unopened.

"I don't feel a bit like reading," she thought to herself; "I do hate to come home from a party so early. Of course I could write some letters, but I don't feel like that, either. I feel like doing something frisky."

She jumped up and turned on more lights. Then, chancing to see herself in the long mirror, she bowed profoundly to the pretty reflected figure, saying: "Good-evening, Miss Fairfield, how well you're looking this evening. Won't you sing a little for us?"

Then she danced into the music-room, and sitting down at the piano, sang a gay little song.

Then she sang another, and then looking over some old music she came across the little song, "Beware," that she had sung over the telephone to Kit Cameron. Naturally her thoughts turned to that young man, whom she had almost forgotten, and she wondered if he had met Elise yet.

"That was quite a jolly little escapade," she said to herself; "that young man certainly thought I was a little black-eyed beauty, and when he does see Elise, of course he'll think she's the one. I believe I'll call him up and mystify him a little more. It's all right, because I've really been introduced to him, and if he doesn't remember me, I can't help it! Probably he'll be out anyway; but I'll have a try at it."

Returning to the library, Patty sat down at the telephone and called up Mr. Cameron's number.

His own gay, cheery self answered "Hello," and Patty said in a shy little voice, "Is this you, Mr. Cameron?"

"Bless my soul! if it isn't my fair Unknown, again!"

"Why do you call me, fair, when you know I'm dark?"

"Oh, fair in this case means bewitching and lovely. It doesn't stand for tow hair and light blue eyes! and neither do I!"

"But you said you liked blondes."

"I used to, before I knew you."

"But you don't know me."

"Oh, but I do! I know you a whole heap better than lots of people who have seen you. There's something in a telephone conversation that discloses the real inner nature. It was dear of you to call me up to-night. You don't know how it pleases me!"

"Oh, I didn't do it to please you. But I'm all alone in my dungeon tower -- "

"Wait a minute; what IS a dungeon tower?"

"Oh, don't quibble. Anyway, I'm all alone, and I simply had to have some one to speak to."

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"Be there! Why, I assumed that you sat at your telephone every evening, waiting to see if I would call you!"

"You little rascal! That's exactly what I have done, but I don't see how you knew it. Are you still a captive princess?"

"Yes; they keep me on bread and water, and not very much of that."

"Couldn't I come and try to liberate you?"

"No, Sir Knight. Alas, you would but be captured yourself."

"But to be captured in such a cause, would be a glorious fate!"

"Oh, aren't you romantic! I really wish it were the Fifteenth Century, and you could come on a dashing charger, and rescue me with a rope ladder! I'm simply dying for an escapade!"

"All right; I'll be there in a few minutes!"

"No, no! it's just five centuries too late. Now, one can only meet people in humdrum drawing-rooms."

"And do you think there's no romance left in the world?"

"I can't find any." Naughty Patty put a most pathetic inflection in her voice, which touched Mr. Cameron's heart.

"Look here, my lady," he said, "there IS romance left in this old world, and we're IT! Now, this telephoning is all very well, but I'm determined to meet you face to face. And that before long, too."

"Oh, you've been making inquiries about me. You know I forbade that."

"No, you didn't; you only said I mustn't ask Central who telephoned. There was surely no harm in asking my cousin who called her up the other night. And very naturally she told me. So she's going to be the Fairy Godmother who will bring us together by the touch of her magic wand."

"Oh, if you know who I am, the fun is all gone out of our escapade!"

"Not at all; the fun is only about to begin."

"Then Marie did tell you all about me?" And Patty's tones betokened disappointment.

"She didn't need to tell me much about you. She told me your name, and the rest I want to know about you, I either know already or I shall learn for myself."

"If you know my name, why don't you call me by it?" And Patty had great difficulty to stifle her laughter.

"May I call you by your first name?"

"Not as a regular thing, of course. But if you know it, you may use it just once. But you can only use it to say good-night. For this session is over now."

"But I don't WANT to say good-night. I want to talk to you a long time yet."

"Alas, that may not be. It is even now time for my jailers to visit my dungeon, and if they catch me at this foolish trick, they will probably reduce my allowance of bread and water. And so, if you're going to call me by name, you must do it quickly, for I'm going to hang up this receiver, as soon as I say good-night!"

Patty's positive tones apparently carried conviction that she would do just as she said, for Mr. Cameron sighed deeply and responded, "It is such a beautiful name it seems a pity to use it only once. But I know you mean what you say, so as your liege knight, fair lady, I obey. Good-night -- Elise -- "

The name came slowly, as if the speaker wished to make the most of it, and Patty fairly thrust the receiver back on its hook as she burst into laughter. It surely was a joke on the young man! He had asked Marie who was her pretty brunette friend, and Marie had honestly thought he must mean Elise Farrington.

Patty was still giggling when her parents came in from a concert they had been attending.

"What IS the matter, Patty?" asked Nan. "Why do you sit up here alone, grinning like a Chessy cat, and giggling like a school-girl? Were the Hepworths so funny that you can't get over it?"

And then Patty told Nan and her father the whole story of Kit Cameron and the telephone.

Nan laughed in sympathy, but Mr. Fairfield looked a little dubious.

"And I thought you a well-brought up young woman," he said, -- half in earnest and half in jest. "Do you think it's correct to telephone to strange young men? I'm shocked! that's what I am, -- SHOCKED."

"Fiddlesticks, Fred," said Nan; "it's perfectly all right. In the first place, the man HAS been introduced to Patty. She met him at Miss Homer's."

"But she telephoned BEFORE she met him," stormed Mr. Fairfield, for Patty had told the whole story.

"But she didn't do it purposely," said Nan, impatiently. "She got him on the wire by mistake. She couldn't help THAT. And, anyway, when he said he was Miss Homer's cousin, that made it all right. I think it's a gay little joke, and I'd like to see that young man's face when he meets Patty!"

"I shan't meet him," said Patty, pretending to look doleful; "he hates tow-headed girls."

"Well, you're certainly that," said her father, looking at her with pretended disapproval. "I have to tell you the truth once in awhile, because everybody else flatters you until you're a spoiled baby."

"Tow-headed, am I?" and Patty ran to her father, and rubbed her golden curls against his own blond head. "And, if you please, where did I inherit my tow? If I hadn't had a tow-headed father I might have been the poppy-cheeked brunette that everybody admires. It isn't fair for YOU to comment on MY tow-head!"

"That's so, Pattikins; and I take it all back," for Mr. Fairfield could never resist his pretty daughter's cajolery. "You are a pretty little doll-faced thing, and I expect I'll have to forgive your very reprehensible behaviour."

"I'm NOT a doll-face," said Patty, pouting; "I shan't let you go until you take THAT back."

As Patty had her arms tightly round her father's neck, he considered it the better part of valour to take back his words. "All right," he said, "rather than be garroted, -- I retract! You're a beautiful and dignified lady, and your notions of convention and etiquette are above reproach."

"They're above YOUR reproaches, anyhow," returned Patty, saucily, and then she ran away to her own room.



Chapter IV

A Perfectly Good Joke


Patty decided to do nothing in the matter of meeting Kit Cameron. She dearly loved a joke, and this seemed to her a good one. But she thought it would spoil it, if she made any move in the game herself. So she bided her time, and it was perhaps a week later that Marie Homer came to call on her.

As Marie hadn't the slightest notion that Patty was the girl her cousin had in mind, the subject was not mentioned until just before Marie left, when she asked Patty if she would come to her home the next week to a little musicale.

"Not a big party," said Miss Homer, "just a dozen or so really musical people to spend the evening. And I want you to sing, if you will. My cousin will be there, -- the one who plays the violin."

"I thought he detested society," said Patty, her eyes twinkling a little.

"I don't know what's come over Kit," returned Marie, looking perplexed. "He's been the funniest thing of late. He has some girl in his mind -- "

"A girl!" exclaimed Patty; "I thought he scorned them."

"Well, I can't make this out. It's awfully mysterious. I think I'll tell you about it."

"Do," said Patty, demurely.

"Two or three weeks ago, -- in fact, it was the day after my valentine party, -- Kit asked me which of my friends had telephoned me late the night before. You know he lives in the apartment just above ours, and it seems the wires were crossed or something, but he heard this girl's voice, and now he insists he wants to meet her. I don't think Elise Farrington has such a fascinating voice, do you?" "Elise!" exclaimed Patty, in pretended surprise; "what has SHE to do with it?"

"Why," explained Marie, "Elise did call me up that night, to say she had left her scarf. But how Kit discovered that she was a red-cheeked brunette, is more than I can understand. You can't know that from a voice, now, can you?"

"No," said Patty, decidedly, "you CAN'T!"

"Well, then, a week or two went by, and I told Elise about this, but somehow I couldn't manage to get them together. Every time Elise came to our house, Kit would be away somewhere. But a few days ago I did manage to have them meet."

"Did you?" exclaimed Patty; "for gracious sake, WHAT happened?"

Marie looked a little surprised at Patty's excited interest, but she went on: "Oh, it was AWFULLY funny. Elise looked lovely that day. She had just come in from skating, and her cheeks were red and her eyes sparkled, and her furs were SO becoming! I introduced Kit, and I could see he admired her immensely. There were several people there, so I left these two together. They were getting on famously, when Kit said to her, 'Are you still a Captive Princess?'

"I didn't know what he meant, and Elise didn't either, for she looked perfectly blank, and asked him why he said that. And Kit told her she knew well enough why he said it, and Elise thought he must be crazy. However, they got along all right until Kit asked me to get Elise to sing. Now, you know Elise doesn't sing much; she has a nice little contralto voice, but she never sings for people. But do you know, she was perfectly willing, and she sang a little lullaby or something like that, rather sweetly, I thought. But such a change came over Kit's manner! I don't know how to express it. He was polite and courteous, of course; but he seemed to have lost all interest in Elise."

"But your cousin IS a sort of a freak, isn't he?" said Patty, who was deeply interested in Marie's story.

"Why, no, he isn't a freak. He's a musician, but he's an awfully nice chap, and real sensible. He hates society as a bunch, but he often likes an individual here and there, and when he does he can be awfully nice and friendly. But this whole performance was so QUEER. He wanted to meet Elise, and when he did, he admired her, I could see that; but when she sang, the light all went out of his face, and he looked terribly disappointed. The girl isn't a great singer, but why in the world should he expect her to be, or care so much because she isn't?"

"It IS strange!" murmured Patty; "how did Elise take it?"

"Oh, I don't think she minded much; she thinks the boy half crazy, anyway; asking her if she was a captive princess! And, of course, he didn't let HER see that he was disappointed in her voice. But I know Kit so well, that I can tell the moment he loses interest in anybody. I'm awfully fond of Kit, -- we've grown up more like brother and sister than cousins."

"What's he like? Has he any fun in him?"

"Well, he loves practical jokes, -- that is, if they're not mean. He couldn't do a mean or unkind thing to anybody. But he likes anything out of the ordinary. Escapades or cutting up jinks. He and Beatrice, -- that's my younger sister, -- are always playing tricks on us, when she's at home. But it's always good-natured fun, so we don't mind. Oh, Kit's a dear; but you never can tell whether he's going to like people or not. He likes so very few."

"But he liked Elise?"

"Oh, yes; in a general way. But, for some reason I can't make out, he was terribly disappointed in her."

"And he's going to play at your musicale?"

"Yes; and I want you to sing. We have two or three other musicians, and it will really be rather worth while."

Patty hesitated. If she went to this party, and met Kit, all the mystery of her little romance with him would be ended. He would be more disappointed in her than he had been in Elise, for at least she conformed to his favourite type of beauty, and Patty was quite the reverse. She could sing, to be sure, but probably her voice would not charm him, when robbed of the glamour lent by the telephone.

"Oh, DO say yes," Marie urged; "it will be a nice party, and if I've left out any people you specially want, I'll invite them."

But Marie's list included all of Patty's set, and as she rather wanted to go, she finally decided to say yes.

"Good for you!" exclaimed Marie; "now I know the party will be a success!"

"You always say that to me," said Patty, laughing. "I don't make parties a success."

"Yes, you do," said Marie, in a tone of firm conviction; "you're so nice, and pretty, and smiling, and always seem to have such a good time, that it makes everybody else have a good time."

"What do you want me to sing?"

"I don't care at all. Make your own selections. I like you best, I think, in some of those sweet, simple ballads."

"I rarely sing anything but ballads or simple music," said Patty, "my voice isn't strong enough for operatic soaring."

"Well, sing what you like, Patty, if you only come," and Marie went away, greatly elated at having secured Patty's consent to sing at her musicale.

Patty at once went to the piano, and began to look over her music. She smiled as she came across "Beware," but she concluded that would not do for a regular program, though she might use it as an encore.

She made her selections with care, as she honestly wanted to do credit to Marie's musicale, and then, taking several pieces of music, she ran up to Nan's room to ask her final judgment in the matter.

"You'll have a lot of fun out of this, Patty," said Nan, laughing, as she heard the whole story. "When is it to be?"

"Friday night. Do you know, Nan, I'd like to play a joke on that boy, between now and then."

"I think you are playing a joke on him, -- and, besides, he isn't a boy."

"No; Marie says he's about twenty-four. He's a civil engineer, besides being a musician. But, anyway, I've got him guessing. I'm glad Elise didn't take it to heart, that she wasn't the right girl, -- but Marie says Elise thinks he's a freak, anyway. And, too, I believe he's not very nice to girls as a rule, so of course Elise won't want him. Oh, I'M the only girl in the world for him!"

Patty pirouetted about the room on the tips of her toes, waving a sheet of music in either hand.

"What a silly you are, Patty, with your foolishness!"

Patty dropped on one knee at her stepmother's side, and clasping her hands, looked up beseechingly into the smiling face over her.

"But you love silly, foolish little girls, don't you, Nancy Nan?"

"Yes, when they're you," and Nan patted the shining head at her knee.

"Well, very few of them ARE me!"

"Thank goodness for that! I don't know what I'd do if you were a half a dozen!"

"You'd have just six times as much fun in your life!" and Patty jumped up and began to sing the songs she had brought.

Then together they decided on the ones she should sing at the musicale.

Although Patty's voice was not very strong, it was sweet and true and had been carefully cultivated. She sang with much charm, and her music always gave pleasure. She never attempted anything beyond her powers, and so her songs, while selected with good taste, were not pretentious.

That evening, while Patty was fluttering around her room, pretending to get ready for bed, but really dawdling, she was moved to telephone once again to the young man who was fond of jokes.

"It's you, is it?" he almost growled, in response to her call.

"Yes," said Patty, in a meek little voice; "shall I go away?"

"Great jumping cows! NO! Don't go away, stay right where you are!"

"But I'm going away for ever," said Patty, moved by a dramatic impulse; "my captors have found out that I'm holding communication with you, and they're going to take me away to another castle, and imprison me there."

"Stop your fooling; I want to know who you are, and I want to know it quick! Do you hear THAT?"

"Yes, I hear," returned Patty, saucily, "but I don't have to answer! And if you talk to me like that, I shall hang up this receiver."

"I won't talk like that any more. But, do you know, I thought I had found you, and you turned out to be somebody else."

"But I can't be anybody else. I'm only myself."

"Be serious a minute, won't you? I went to my cousin's and met a beautiful, poppy-cheeked princess; but she wasn't you."

"How do you know she wasn't?"

"Because she couldn't sing a LITTLE bit! And you can."

"I can sing a LITTLE bit! Oh, thank you!"

"Now, I want to ask you something. You know my cousin, don't you?"

"Have you sisters and cousins, whom you reckon up by dozens?"

"It doesn't matter if I have. I mean my cousin, Marie Homer, to whom you telephoned, or tried to, on the fourteenth of February. But you got me, instead, and that means we're each other's valentine. See?"

"No, I don't see at all. I only like pretty valentines."

"Oh, I'm as pretty as a picture! That part is all right. Now, I've tried my best to find out who you are, from Marie. But either she can't or won't tell. But I've found out one thing, for certain. You're NOT Miss Farrington."

"No, I'm not; but I never said I was."

"I know you didn't, but you told me you were a pretty brunette, with poppy cheeks, -- and Miss Farrington is that."

"Did I tell you I was PRETTY? Oh, I'm SURE I didn't!"

"You didn't have to. I know that myself. Now, if you'll keep still a minute, I'D like to speak."

"If I can't talk, I may as well hang up this receiver, for I'm sure I don't want to sit here and listen to you."

"Chatterbox! Now, listen; Marie is having a musicale next Friday night, and I want you to come."

"Without an invitation!" Patty's voice sounded horrified.

"Yes;" impatiently. "Marie would invite you fast enough if she knew who you were."

"Perhaps she HAS invited me."

"No, she hasn't; I saw her list. It's a small party, not more than twenty. And I asked her about each one, and not one of the ladies seemed to correspond to your description."

"Who's going to sing?" asked Patty, calmly.

"Only two ladies; a Miss Curtiss and a Miss Fairfield."

"Perhaps I'm one of those."

"No; I asked Marie, and she says Miss Fairfield is a pretty little blonde, and Miss Curtiss is a tall, brown-haired young woman."

"Don't you know either of these ladies?"

"No; that is, I've never seen Miss Curtiss, but Marie says I met Miss Fairfield one day, for a moment."

"Don't you remember her?"

"Hardly; she seemed an insignificant little thing."

"Pretty?"

"How do I know! She was all wrapped up in motor togs, and acted like a gawky schoolgirl."

"She did! Why, I know that Fairfield girl, and she isn't gawky a bit! She's a fascinating blonde."

"No blonde can fascinate ME! MY girl is a poppy-cheeked brunette, and I'm going to catch her before long. Ah, DO come to Marie's party, -- won't you?"

"I've never yet gone where I wasn't invited, and I don't propose to begin now. But if you can get Marie to invite me, I'll go."

"Don't be so cruel! I can't do more than I have in the matter. I've teased Marie to death over this thing, and she can't think who you can be, unless you're a Miss Galbraith. You're not, are you?"

"Gracious, no! I'm not Mona Galbraith!"

"I knew you weren't; Marie says SHE can't sing. Oh, dear, you're a perfect torment! Pretty princess, -- pretty Princess Poppy-cheek, WON'T you take pity on your humble slave and adorer, and tell me your name?"

"No; but I'll tell you what I will do. I'll send you my photograph."

"Oh, you heavenly angel! You dear, beautiful princess! When will you send it? Don't wait for the morning; call a messenger, and send it to-night!"

"I'll do nothing of the sort. I'll send it to-morrow morning, -- by messenger, if you like, -- and if you'll promise not to ask the messenger who sent it."

"I'll promise that if you so ordain. I guess I can play cricket!"

"All right then; now listen, yourself. I shall send you three pictures. You pick out the one you think I am, and take it to Marie, and if you are right, she'll invite me. She knows me well enough, but she can't recognise me from your description."

"I don't think it's fair for you to play that way; but I'm dead sure I can pick out your picture from the three."

"All right then; good-night!" And Patty hung up the receiver with a snap.

Then she lay back in her big chair and indulged in a series of giggles.

"Sam Weller says," she said, to herself, "that the great art of letter writing is to break off suddenly and make 'em wish they was more, -- and I expect that applies equally well to telephoning."

And she was quite right, for the impatient young man at the other end of the wire was chagrined indeed when the connection was cut off. He was too honourable to use any forbidden means of discovering Patty's identity, and so would not ask to see any telephone records, and was quite willing to promise not to quiz a messenger boy. And so, he could do nothing but wait impatiently for the promised photograph.

Meanwhile Miss Patricia Fairfield was looking over her portrait collection to see what ones to send. She had a box full of old photographs, but she wanted to select just the right ones.

But at last she tumbled them all on the table in a heap, and wisely decided to leave the decision till morning.

And so it happened, that when Nan came to Patty's room next morning, as she often did, she found that coquettish damsel, sitting up in bed, wrapped in a blue silk nightingale, and with a flower-decked lace cap somewhat askew on her tumbled curls.

Her breakfast tray sat untouched on its little stand, while on the counterpane were spread out some twoscore portraits of more or less beautiful maidens.

"What ARE you doing?" said Nan; "playing photograph solitaire?"

"I'm playing a game of photographs," said Patty, raising a pair of solemn blue eyes to Nan, "but it isn't exactly solitaire."

"You needn't tell ME! You're cutting up some trick with that new man of yours." And Nan deliberately brushed away some pictures, and sat down on the side of the bed.

"You're a wizard!" and Patty gazed at her stepmother. "You could have made your fortune, Nan, as a clairvoyant, telling people what they knew already! But since you're here, DO help me out." And Patty told Nan the scheme of the three photographs.

Now, Nan was only six years older than Patty herself, and she entered into the joke with almost as much enthusiasm as the younger girl.

"Shall you send one of your own, really?" she inquired.

"No; I think not. But I want to get three different types, just to fool him."

After much consideration the two conspirators selected a picture of a dark-eyed actress, who was pretty, but of rather flashy effects. Next they chose a picture of an intellectual young woman, with no pretension to beauty or style, and whose tightly drawn black hair and stiff white collar proclaimed a high brow. It was a picture of one of the girls in Patty's class, who had been noted for her intellect and her lack of a sense of humour.

"He'll know that isn't you, Patty," said Nan, objecting.

"No," said Patty, sapiently; "he's pretty clever, that young man, and probably he'll think I'm just that sort. Now for the third, Nancy."

It took a long time to select a third one, for Nan was in favour of a pretty girl, while Patty thought it would be more fun to send a plain one.

At last they agreed on a picture of another of Patty's school friends, who was of the willowy, die-away kind. She was a blonde, but of a pale, ashen-haired variety, not at all like Patty's Dresden china type. The pose was aesthetic, and the girl looked soulful and languishing.

"Just the thing!" cried Patty. "If he thinks I look like THAT, I'll never speak to him again!"

And so, amid great glee, the three pictures were made into a neat parcel, and addressed to Mr. Christopher Cameron.

"Now, for goodness' sake, Patty, eat your breakfast! Your chocolate is stone cold. I'll go down and call a messenger and despatch this precious bundle of beauty to its destination."

"All right," returned Patty, and, with a feeling of having successfully accomplished her task, she turned her attention to her breakfast tray.



Chapter V

Three Pictures


It was Tuesday morning that Patty had sent the pictures, and that same evening she was invited to dine and go to the opera with Mrs. Van Reypen.

Patty was a great favourite with the aristocratic old lady, and was frequently asked to the Van Reypen home. It is needless to say that Mrs. Van Reypen's nephew, Philip, usually managed to be present at any of his aunt's affairs that were graced by Patty's presence. And, indeed, it was an open secret that Mrs. Van Reypen would be greatly pleased if Patty would smile on the suit of her favourite and beloved nephew.

But Patty's smiles were uncertain. Sometimes it would suit her caprice to smile on Philip, and again she would positively snub him to such an extent that the young man was disgruntled for days at a time.

"But," as Patty remarked to herself, "if I'm nice to him, he takes too much for granted. So I have to discipline him to keep him where he belongs."

The dinner at the Van Reypen mansion was, as always, long and elaborate, and perhaps a trifle dull.

Mrs. Van Reypen's affection for Patty was of a selfish sort, and it never occurred to her to invite guests of Patty's age, or who could be entertaining to the girl.

And so to-night the other guests were an elderly couple by the name of Bellamy and a rather stupid, middle-aged bachelor, -- Mr. Crosby. These with the two Van Reypens and Patty made up the whole party.

Patty found herself assigned to walk out to dinner with Mr. Crosby, but, as Philip sat on her other side, she had no fear of being too greatly bored.

But to her surprise the elderly bachelor turned out to be exceedingly interesting. He had travelled a great deal, and talked well about his experiences, and it was soon discovered that he and Patty had mutual friends in Paris, where Patty had spent the winter several years before.

"I do love to hear you talk," Patty declared, ingenuously, after Mr. Crosby had given her a thrilling and picturesque description of an incident in his trip to the Orient.

"Oh, thank you," Mr. Crosby returned, a little bewildered by this outright compliment, for he was unaccustomed to talking to young girls.

"But, you see," Patty went on, "I mustn't monopolise you. You know, it's etiquette to talk fifteen minutes to your neighbour on one side and then turn to your neighbour on the other."

"Bless my soul! you're quite right, -- quite right!" and Mr. Crosby stared at Patty over his glasses. "How do you know so much, and you such a young thing?"

"Oh, I'm out," returned Patty, smiling, "and of course, when a girl comes out, she has to learn the rules of the game."

So Mr. Crosby turned to talk to the lady on his other side, and Patty turned to Philip, who looked a trifle sulky.

"Thought you were going to talk to that chap all evening," he growled, under his breath.

"I should like to," said Patty, sweetly, "he's SO interesting. But I can't monopolise him, you know. As I don't want to talk to a growly bear, I think, if you'll excuse me from polite conversation, I'll meditate for awhile."

"Meditate on your sins; it'll do you good!"

Patty opened her blue eyes wide and stared at the speaker. "Why," she said, "to meditate, one must have something to meditate on!"

"And you think you haven't any sins! Oh, would some power the giftie gi'e us!"

"To see ourselves as ithers see us," Patty completed the rhyme. "But you see, Philip, as I don't see any sins in myself, I can't meditate on the sins that ithers see in me, if I don't know what they are."

"Well, I'll tell you a big, black one! You simply ignored me for half an hour, while you jabbered to that duffer on the other side! Now meditate on THAT!"

Patty obediently cast down her eyes, and assumed a mournful expression. She continued to sit thus without speaking; until Philip exclaimed:

"Patty, you little goose, stop your nonsense! What's the matter with you to-night, anyway?"

"Honestly, Philip," said Patty, very low, "your aunt's parties always make me want to giggle. They're heavenly parties, and I simply ADORE to be at them, but her friends are so -- well, so aged, you know, and they seem to -- well, to be so interested in their dinner."

"I'm my aunt's guest, and I'm not a bit interested in my dinner."

"Well, you may as well be, for I'm going to talk to Mr. Crosby now."

Seeing that Mr. Crosby's attention was unclaimed for the moment, Patty turned to him, saying, with great animation: "Oh, Mr. Crosby, MAY I ask you something? I'm AWFULLY ignorant, you know, and you're so wise."

"Yes, yes, what is it?" And the great Oriental scholar looked benignly at her over his glasses.

Now naughty Patty hadn't any question to ask, and she had only turned to her neighbour to tease Philip, so she floundered a little as she tried to think of some intelligent enquiry.

"What is it. Miss Fairfield?" prompted Mr. Crosby.

Patty cast a fleeting glance toward Philip, as if appealing for help, and that young man, though engaged in a desultory conversation, whispered under his breath, "Ask him about the Aztecs."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Crosby," said Patty, "it's about the -- the Aztecs, -- you know."

"Ah, yes, the Aztecs, -- a most interesting race, MOST interesting, indeed. And what do you want to know about them, Miss Fairfield?"

Patty was tempted to say ALL about them, for her knowledge of the ancient people was practically nothing.

"Did they -- did they -- "

"Eat snails," said Philip, in a whisper.

"Did they eat snails, Mr. Crosby?" And Patty's big blue eyes were innocent of anything, save an intense desire to know about the Aztec diet.

"Snails? -- snails? -- well, bless my soul! I don't believe I know. Important, too, -- most important. I'll look it up, and let you know. Snails -- queer I DON'T know. I made a study of the Aztecs, and they are most interesting, -- but as to snails -- "

Apparently Mr. Crosby's mind was wrestling with the question.

"He's gone 'way back and sat down with the Aztecs," Philip murmured to Patty, "so you ask questions of me."

"You don't know anything that I want to know."

"Then I'll ask a question of YOU."

Philip's voice was full of meaning, so Patty said hastily: "No, no; it isn't polite to ask questions in society; one should make observations."

"All right, observe me. That's what I'm here for. Observe me early and often, and I'll be only too well pleased."

"But that isn't what I'm here for. Your aunt invited me to be a pleasant dinner guest and so I have to make myself entertaining to my Aztec friend."

And then Patty turned again to Mr. Crosby, and by a few skilful hints she soon had him started on another description of his travelling experiences, and this time it proved so thrilling that all at the table were glad to listen to it.

After dinner the whole party went to the opera and occupied Mrs. Van Reypen's box.

Patty was passionately fond of music, and never talked during a performance. Between the acts, she was a smiling chatterbox, but while the curtain was up, she behaved in most exemplary fashion. Mrs. Van Reypen knew this, or she would not have asked her, for that lady was old-fashioned in her ways, and had no patience with people who chattered while the great singers were pouring forth their marvellous notes.

After dinner the whole party went to the opera

When the final curtain fell, Mrs. Van Reypen invited her guests to return to her house for supper, but Patty declined.

"Very well, my dear," said her hostess, "I think, myself, you're too young to be out any later than this. We will set you down at your own door, and you must hop right into bed and get your beauty sleep. Young things like you can't stay young unless you take good care of your pinky cheeks."

"But I don't want Patty to go home," Philip grumbled, to his aunt.

"Your wishes are not consulted, my boy; this is my party. You're merely my guest, and, if you don't behave yourself, you won't get invited again."

"That scares me dreadfully," and Philip lightly pinched his aunt's cheek. "I will be good, so I'll be asked again."

The big limousine stopped at Patty's door, and Philip escorted her up the steps.

"I think you might have come to supper," he said, reproachfully, as he touched the bell.

"It's too late," said Patty, decidedly; "and, besides, I have other plans for the rest of the evening."

And with this enigmatical announcement Philip was forced to be content, for Patty said good-night and vanished through the doorway.

"And, indeed, I HAVE other plans," Patty said, to herself. "I'm simply consumed with curiosity to know which of those three beauties that ridiculous Kit man likes the best. I'm going to call him up and see. I wish he could call me up, -- it would suit me far better. But I suppose nobody can call anybody else up if nobody knows anybody else's name."

"Do you want any supper, Miss Patty?" asked Louise, as she unhooked Patty's frock.

"No, thank you, I'm not a bit hungry. You might bring me a cup of milk and a biscuit, and then give me a kimono. I'm not going to bed just yet."

So Louise arranged everything just as Patty wanted it, and finally went away.

"May as well be comfortable," said Patty, as she tucked herself into a favourite big chair, with the telephone on a little stand beside her. "I suppose I'll run up a fine bill for extra time, but, after all, it's less extravagant than a good many other things. Wonder how much they charge for overtime. I must ask Daddy."

With a smile of anticipation Patty picked up the telephone.

"Hello!" said Mr. Cameron's eager voice. "I thought you'd never come. I've been waiting since ten."

"I've been to the opera," said Patty, nonchalantly. "And you've NO reason to sit and wait for me! I'm not a dead certainty, like the sunrise or the postman."

"You're more welcome than either."

"Now that's a real pretty speech. Are you a poet?"

"Only to you."

"Did you get the pictures?" Patty was unable longer to restrain her impatience.

"Of course I got the pictures. I knew yours at once! You needn't think you can fool ME."

"Which was mine? The girl with the black curls?"

"Mercy, no! I know you're not THAT type. She looks like an actress, and hasn't a brain in her silly head. And you're not that lackadaisical lily-like one, either. Oh, I know YOU! You're that delightful, sensible, really brainy girl with the smooth black hair."

"Oh, I AM, am I?"

"Yes; and I'm SO glad you're not a rattle-pated beauty! What's a pretty face compared to real mind and intellect!"

Patty was furious. She didn't aspire to nor desire this great mind and intellect, and she was quite satisfied with the amount of brains in her pretty, curly head.

"I don't think much of your taste!" she exclaimed.

"Why! you don't want me to be disappointed because you're not pretty, do you?"

"But I AM pretty."

"Yes; as I said, the beauty of deep thought and education shines from your clear eyes. That is far better than dimples and curls."

Patty shook her curls at the telephone and her dimples came and went with her varying emotions.

"Why, I shouldn't like you half as well if you were pretty," Mr. Cameron went on. "The only things I consider worth while are seriousness and scholarship. These you have in abundance, as I can see at once from your picture."

"And how do you like the way I dress?"

"It suits your type exactly. That large black-and-white check denotes a mind far above the frivolities of fashion, and that stiff white collar, to my mind, indicates a high order of mentality."

"I think you're perfectly horrid!" And this exclamation seemed wrung from the depths of Patty's soul.

A ringing laugh answered her -- a laugh so hearty and so full of absolute enjoyment that Patty listened in astonishment.

"Poor little Princess Poppycheek! It's a shame to tease her! WAS she maligned by a bad, horrid man that she doesn't even know? There, Little Girl, don't cry! I know perfectly well that stiff old schoolmarm isn't you! Now, will you tell me who you are, and what you really look like?"

Patty had to think quickly. She had supposed that Cameron meant what he said, but after all he was fooling her. And she had thought she fooled him!

"Which is me, then?" she said, in a small, low voice.

"None of 'ern! You goosie! To think you could fool ME. In the first place, I knew you wouldn't send your own photograph; and when I saw those three charming specimens, in out-of-date clothes, I knew you had ransacked your album to find them. However, I took the whole bunch down to Marie, and she vowed she had never laid eyes on one of them before. So there, now!"

"Then we're just back where we started from," said Patty, cheerfully.

"Yes; but, if you'll come to the musicale on Friday night, we can make great progress in a short time."

"I told you I'd go, if you would persuade Marie to invite me."

"Nonsense! I believe she HAS invited you. I believe you're Miss Curtiss. SHE has dark hair."

"Why not that other singer, Miss Fairfield?"

"Oh, Marie says she's a blonde. The 'raving beauty' sort. I detest that kind. I know she's vain."

"Yes, she is. I hate to speak against another girl, but I know that Patty Fairfield, and she IS vain."

"Well, never mind about Patty Fairfield She doesn't interest me a bit. But what about you? Will you come to the party? Oh, DO-ee, DO-ee, -- now, -- as my old Scotch nurse used to say. Come to your waiting knight!"

Kit's voice was very wheedlesome, and Patty was moved to encourage him a little.

"Do you know, -- I almost think -- that maybe -- possibly -- perhaps, I WILL go."

"Really? Oh, Poppycheek, I'm SO glad! I do want to see My Girl!"

"YOUR girl, indeed!"

"Yes; mine by right of discovery."

"But you haven't discovered me yet."

"But I will, -- on Friday night. You'll TRULY come, WON'T you?"

"Honest, I've never been where I wasn't invited -- "

"But this is different --  -- "

"Yes, -- it IS different --  -- "

"Oh, then you will come! Goody, GOODY! I'm so glad!"

"Don't break the telephone with your gladness! Suppose I DO come, how will you know me? How will you know that it is I?"

"Oh, I'll know! 'I shall know it, I shall feel it, something subtle will reveal it, for a glory round thee hovers that will lighten up the gloom.'"

"Oh, you ARE a poet."

"I am a poet, but I didn't write that. However, it was only because the other fellow got ahead of me."

"Who was he? Who wrote it?"

"I'll tell you Friday night. Come early, won't you?" "No; I always get to a party late."

"Don't be too late. I want to play to you. And will you sing?"

"Mercy, gracious! I might go to a party without being invited, but I can't SING without being asked. You tell Marie I'm coming, will you?"

"You bet I will. What shall you wear?"

"What's your favourite colour?"

"Red."

"Red is becoming to brunettes; but I haven't any red evening gown. How about yellow?"

"All right, wear yellow. I shall adore you in any colour."

"Well; perhaps I'll come, and perhaps I won't. Good-night."

Patty hung up the receiver with a sudden click, and Mr. Kit Cameron was left very much in doubt as to whether the whole thing was a joke or not.



Chapter VI

Princess Poppycheek


On the night of the musicale at Marie Homer's, her talented cousin arrived long before any guests were expected.

"I couldn't wait, Aunt Frances," he said, as Mrs. Homer greeted him. "I'm so impatient to see My Girl."

Kit had told the Homers of the telephone conversations, because he was so anxious to find out his lady's name. Of course, he had not told all they said, and from his incoherent ravings about a black-haired beauty Marie never guessed he could mean Patty.

"You're a foolish boy, Kit," said his Aunt.

"I don't believe that girl is any one we know, but is some mischievous hoyden who is leading you a dance. You won't see her to-night, -- if you ever do."

"Then I shall think up the easiest death possible, and die it," declared Kit, cheerfully. "Why, you know, Aunt Frances, I never took any interest in a girl before, except of course Marie and Bee, but this girl is so different from everybody else in the world. Her voice is like a chime of silver bells, -- and her laugh --  -- "

"There, there, Kit, I haven't time to listen to your rhapsodies! You're here altogether too early, and you'll have to excuse me, for I have some household matters to look after. Marie isn't quite dressed yet, so you'll have to amuse yourself for awhile. Play some sentimental music on your violin, if that fits your mood."

With a kindly smile at her nephew, Mrs. Homer bustled away, and Kit was left alone in the music-room.

He played some soft, low music for a time, and then Marie came in.

"You're an old goose, Kit," she remarked, affectionately, "to think that mysterious girl of yours will be here to-night. There isn't anybody who knows me well enough to come without an invitation, that I haven't already invited. I've added to my list of invitations until it now numbers about thirty, and that's all the really musical friends I have. If this girl of yours sings as well as you say, she's probably a soubrette or a chorus girl."

"Nothing of the sort!" Kit exclaimed. "She's the sweetest, daintiest, refinedest, culturedest little thing you ever saw!"

"How do you know? You haven't seen her."

"No, but I've talked with her. I guess I know." And Kit turned decidedly sulky, for he began to think it WAS rather doubtful about his seeing his girl that evening.

And then the guests began to arrive, and Mr. Kit put on a smiling face and made himself agreeable to his cousin's friends.

Patty came among the latest arrivals. She looked her prettiest in a filmy gown of pale-blue chiffon, with touches of silver embroidery. An ornament in her hair was of silver filigree, with a wisp of pale-blue feather, and her cheeks were a little pinker than usual.

Kit glanced at her as she came in, and, though he noticed that she was an extremely pretty girl, he immediately glanced away again and continued his watch for the black-eyed girl he expected. The room was well filled by this time, and Patty took a seat near the front, where sat a group of her intimate friends. They greeted her gaily, and Kit, on the other side of the room, paid no attention to them.

The programme began with a duet by Kit on his violin, and his Cousin Marie at the piano.

The man was really a virtuoso, and his beautiful playing held the audience spellbound. Patty watched him, enthralled with his music, and admiring, too, his generally worth-while appearance.

"He does look awfully jolly," she thought, to herself, "and it's plain to be seen he has brains. I wonder if he will be terribly disappointed in me, after all. I've a notion to run away."

For the first time in her life Patty felt shy about singing. Usually she had no trace of self-consciousness, but to-night she experienced a feeling of embarrassment she had never known before. She realized this, and scolded herself roundly for it. "You idiot!" she observed, mentally, to her own soul; "if you want to make a good impression, you'd better stop feeling like a simpleton. Now brace up, and do the best you can, and behave yourself!"

Miss Curtiss sang before Patty did. She was a sweet-faced young woman, with a beautiful and well-trained contralto voice. Patty cast a furtive glance at Kit Cameron, and found that he was looking intently at the singer. She knew perfectly well he was wondering whether this might be the girl of the telephone conversations, and she saw, too, that he decided in the negative, for he shook his head slightly, but with conviction.

Suddenly the humour of the whole situation struck Patty. The incident was not serious, but humorous, and as soon as she realised this her shyness disappeared, and the spirit of mischief once again took possession of her. She knew now she would do herself credit when she sang, and when her turn came she rose and walked slowly and gracefully to the platform which had been temporarily placed for the musicians.

Marie was to play her accompaniment, and Patty had expected to sing first a somewhat elaborate aria, using "Beware" as an encore.

But as she reached the platform, and as she noticed Kit Cameron's face, its expression politely interested, but in no wise enthusiastic, she suddenly changed her mind. She put the music of "Beware" on the piano rack, and murmured to Marie, "This one first."

Marie looked puzzled, but of course she couldn't say anything as Patty stood waiting to begin.

For some reason Patty was always at her prettiest when she sang. She thoroughly enjoyed singing, and she enjoyed the evident pleasure it gave to others. She stood gracefully, her hands lightly clasped before her, and the added excitement of this particular occasion gave a flush to her cheek and a sparkle to her blue eyes that made her positively bewitching.

And then she sang the foolish little song, "Beware," just as she had sung it over the telephone, coquettishly, but without artificiality or forced effect.

She scarcely dared look at Kit Cameron. A fleeting glance showed her that he was probably at that moment the most nonplussed young man in existence.

She looked away quickly, lest her voice should falter from amusement.

Luckily, all the audience were regarding Patty attentively, and had no eyes for the astonished face of Kit Cameron. He had taken no special interest in the blonde singer, but when her first notes, rang out he started in surprise. As the voice continued he knew at once it was the same voice he had heard over the telephone, but he couldn't reconcile the facts. He caught the fleeting glance she gave him, he saw the roguish smile in her eyes, and he was forced to believe that this girl was his dark-eyed unknown.

"The little rascal!" he said, to himself. "The scamp! the rogue! How she has tricked me! To think she was Patty Fairfield all the time! No wonder Marie didn't know whom I was talking about! Well!"

As the song finished no one applauded more enthusiastically than Kit Cameron.

But Patty would not look toward him, and proceeded to sing as an encore the aria she had intended to sing first.

She was in her best voice, and she sang this beautifully, and, if the audience was surprised at the unusual order of the selections, they were unstinted in their applause.

Leaving the stage, instead of returning to her seat, Patty stepped back into the next room, which was the library.

Cameron was there to receive her. He had felt sure she would not return to the audience immediately, and he took the chance.

He held out both hands and Patty laid her hands in his.

"Captive Princess," he murmured.

"My Knight!" Patty whispered, and flashed a smile at him.

"Can you EVER forgive the things I said?" he asked, earnestly, as he led her across the room and they sat down on a divan.

"There's nothing to forgive," she said, smiling; "you detest blondes, I know, but I'm thinking seriously of dyeing my hair black."

"Don't! that would be a sacrilege! And you MUST remember that I told you I always adored blondes, until you told me you were brunette."

"But I didn't," said Patty, laughing. "Somehow you got the notion that I was dark, and I didn't correct it. Are you TERRIBLY disappointed in me?"

Naughty Patty raised her heavenly blue eyes and looked so like a fair, sweet flower that Kit exclaimed:

"Disappointed! You are an angel, straight from heaven!"

"Nonsense! If you talk like that, I shall run away."

"Don't run away! I'll talk any way you like, but now that I have found you I shall keep you. But I am still in depths of self-abasement. Didn't I say most unkind things about Miss Fairfield?"

"No unkinder than I did. We both jumped on her, and said she was vain and horrid."

"I never said such dreadful things! I'm sure I didn't. But, if I did, I shall spend the rest of my life making up for it. And I called you Poppycheek!"

Cameron looked at Patty's cheeks in such utter dismay that she laughed outright.

"But you know," she said, "there are pink poppies as well as scarlet. Incidentally there are white and there are saffron yellow."

"So there are," said Cameron, delightedly. "How you DO help a fellow out! Well, yours are just the colour of a soft, dainty pink poppy that is touched by the sunlight and kissed by a summer breeze."

"I knew you were a poet," said Patty, smiling, "but I don't allow even a summer breeze to kiss my cheeks."

"I should hope not! A summer breeze is altogether too promiscuous with its kisses. I hope you don't allow any kisses, except those of your own particular swansdown powder puff."

"Of course I don't!" laughed Patty, and then she blushed furiously as she suddenly remembered how Farnsworth had kissed both her cheeks the night of Christine's wedding.

"I see you're blushing at a memory," said Cameron, coolly; "I suppose the powder puff was too audacious."

"Yes, that's it," said Patty, her liking for this young man increased by the pleasantry of his light banter. "And now we must return to the music-room. I came here a moment to catch my breath after singing; but how did you happen to be here?"

"I knew you'd come here; ostensibly, of course, to catch your breath, but really because you knew I'd be here."

"You wretch!" cried Patty. "How dare you say such things! I never dreamed you'd be here; if I had, I shouldn't have come."

"Of course you wouldn't, you little coquette! It's your nature to be perverse and capricious. But your sweet good-humour won't let you carry those other traits too far. Oh, I know you, My Girl!"

"I object to that phrase from you," Patty said, coldly, "and I must ask you not to use it again."

"But you ARE my girl, by right of discovery. By the way, you're not anybody else's girl, are you?"

"Just what do you mean by that?"

"Well, in other words, then, are you engaged, betrothed, plighted, promised, bespoke --  -- "

Patty burst out laughing. "I'm not any of those things," she said, "but, if ever I am, I shall be bespoke. I think that's the loveliest word! Fancy being anybody's Bespoke!"

"Of course, it's up to me to give you an immediate opportunity," said Cameron, sighing. "But somehow I don't quite dare bespeak you on such short acquaintance."

"Faint heart --  -- "

"Oh, it isn't that! I'm brave enough. But I'm an awfully punctilious man. If I were going to bespeak you, now, I should think it my duty to go first to your father and correctly ask his permission to pay my addresses to his daughter."

"Good gracious! How do you pay addresses? I never had an address paid to me in my life."

"Shall I show you how?" And Cameron jumped up and fell on one knee before Patty, with a comical expression of a make-believe love-sick swain.

Patty dearly loved fooling, and she smiled back at him roguishly, and just at that moment Philip Van Reypen came into the room.

In the dim half-light he descried Patty on the divan and Cameron kneeling before her, and, as Mr. Van Reypen was blessed with a quick temper, he felt a sudden desire to choke the talented Mr. Cameron.

"Patty!" Philip exclaimed, angrily.

"Yes, Philip," said Patty, in a voice of sweet humility.

"Come with me," was the stern command.

"Yes, Philip," and Patty arose and walked away with Van Reypen, leaving Kit Cameron still on his knee.

"Well, I'll be hammered!" that gentleman remarked, as he rose slowly and deliberately dusted off his knee with his handkerchief; "that girl is a wonder! She's full of the dickens, but she's as sweet as a peach. I always did like blondes best, whether she believes it or not. But if I hadn't, I should now. There's only one girl in the world for me. I wonder if she is mixed up with that Van Reypen chap. He had a most proprietary manner, but all the same, that little witch is quite capable of scooting off like that, just to tease me. Oh, I'll play her own game and meet her on her own ground. Little Poppycheek!" With a nonchalant air, Mr. Cameron sauntered back to the music-room, and seated himself beside Miss Curtiss, with whom he struck up an animated conversation, not so much as glancing at Patty.

Patty observed this from the corner of her eye, and she nodded her head in approval.

"He's worth knowing," she thought; "I'll have a lot of fun with him."

The programme was almost over, but Kit was to play once again. With Marie, he played a fine selection, and then, as he was tumultuously encored, he went back to the platform alone. Without accompaniment he played the little song, "Beware," that Patty had sung, and, improvising, he made a fantasia of the air. He was clever as well as skilled, and he turned the simple little melody into thrilling, rollicking music with trills and roulades until the original theme was almost lost sight of, only to crop up again with new intensity.

Patty listened, enthralled. She loved this sort of thing, and she knew he was playing to her and for her. The strains would be now softly romantic, now grandly triumphant, but ever recurring to the main motive, until one seemed fairly to see the fickle maiden of the song.

When it was ended, the room rang with applause. Cameron bowed simply, and laying aside his violin, went straight to Patty and sat down by her, coolly appropriating the chair which his cousin Marie had just left.

"I made that for you," he said, simply. "Did you like it?"

"Like it!" exclaimed Patty, her blue eyes dancing; "I revelled in it! It was wonderful! Was it really impromptu?"

"Of course. It was nothing. Any one can play variations on an old song."

"Variations nothing!" remarked Patty. "It was a work, -- a chef d'oeuvre, -- an opus!"

"Yes; Opus One of my new cycle." "What are you two talking about?" said Marie, returning. "Have you found your girl, Kit? What do you think, Patty? -- Kit's crazy over a black-eyed girl whom he doesn't know!"

"Is he?" said Patty, dropping her eyes demurely.

"I found My Girl, Marie," Cameron announced, calmly; "I find I made a trifling mistake about her colouring, but that's a mere detail. As it turns out, the lady of my quest is Miss Fairfield."

"Good gracious, are you, Patty?" said Marie, impetuously; "are you Kit's girl?"

"Yes; I am," and Patty folded her hands with a ridiculous air of complacency.

"Patty!" growled Van Reypen, who was sitting behind her.

"Yes, Philip," said Patty, sweetly, turning partly round.

"Behave yourself!"

"I am behaving, Philip," and Patty looked very meek.

"Of course you are," said Marie; "you're behaving beautifully. And you look like an angel, and you sang like a lark, and if you're Kit's Girl, I'm glad of it. Now come on, everybody's going to supper."

"You come along with me," said Philip Van Reypen, as he took Patty by the arm.

"Why?" And Patty looked a little defiant at this command.

"Because I want you to. And I want you to stop making up to that Cameron man."

"I'm not, Philip; he's making up to me."

"Well, he'd better stop it! What was he doing on his knees before you in the library?"

"I don't remember," said Patty, innocently. "Oh, yes, he was telling me my cheeks were red, or some foolishness like that."

"And your eyes were blue, I suppose, and your hair was yellow! Didn't you know all those things before?"

"Why, Philip, how cross you are! Yes, I've known those things for nineteen years. It's no surprise to me."

"Patty, I'd like to shake you! Do you know what you are? You're just a little, vain, silly, babbling coquette!"

"I think that's a lovely thing to be! Do you want me to babble to you, Philip, or shall I go and babble to somebody else?"

"Don't babble at all. Here's a chair. You sit right down here, and eat your supper. Here's another chair. You lay your shawl and bonnet on that, to keep it for me, and I'll go and forage for some food."

Patty laid her scarf and fan on the chair to reserve it for Philip, but she was not unduly surprised when Mr. Cameron came along, picked up her belongings, and seated himself in the chair.

"That's Mr. Van Reypen's chair," said Patty; "if he finds you there, he'll gently but firmly kill you."

"I know it," said Kit, placidly; "but a Knight is always willing to brave death for his Lady."

"But I don't want you killed," said Patty, looking sad, "I wouldn't have anybody to telephone to."

"If I run away then, to save my life, will you telephone me to-night?"

"Indeed I won't! that's all over. But please, Mr. Cameron, run away, for here comes Philip, with both hands full of soup, and I know he wouldn't hesitate to scald you with it."

Mr. Cameron arose, as Mr. Van Reypen came in, and with an air of willingly relinquishing his seat to Philip, he said, "My Girl's Orders."

Philip didn't hear it, but Patty did, and she blushed, for Cameron's departure that way showed greater deference to her wishes than if he had stayed with her.

"What did he say?" Philip asked, as he offered Patty a cup of bouillon, and then sat down beside her.

"He said you were such a sweet-tempered man, he didn't wonder I liked you," and Patty beamed pleasantly.

"I would be sweet-tempered, Patty, if you didn't tease the very life out of me!"

"Now, Philip, you wouldn't be much good if you couldn't stand a little teasing."

"Go ahead, then; tease me all you like," and Van Reypen looked the personification of dogged endurance.

"I will!" said Patty, emphatically, and then some others joined them, and the group began to laugh and talk together.

"Your cousin is stunning, Marie," said Mona Galbraith; "why have we never met him before?"

"He's a freak," Marie said, laughingly. "I couldn't persuade him to come to my valentine party, and to-night I couldn't keep him away! All musicians are freaks, you know."

"He's a musician, all right," said Kenneth Harper. "The things he did to that simple little song must have made some of the eminent composers turn in their graves!"

"He's awfully clever at that sort of thing," said Marie; "sometimes when we're here alone, he'll take a simple little air and improvise the most beautiful melodies from it."

"Is he amiable?" asked Mona, casually.

"Not very; or rather, not always. But he's a dear fellow, and we're all fond of him. How did you like him, Patty?"

"I thought he was lovely," said Patty, and Van Reypen glared at her.



Chapter VII

Suitors


After supper the whole party went to the large drawing-room to dance.

Kit Cameron made a bee-line for Patty. "You'll give me the first dance, won't you?" he said, simply, "because I've stayed away from you all supper time."

Patty hesitated. "I'm willing, Mr. Cameron," she said, "but for one thing. I'm awfully exacting in the matter of dancing, and if you're not a good dancer it would go far to spoil our pleasant acquaintance. Suppose we don't risk it."

Cameron considered. "I am a good dancer," he said, "but Marie has told me that you're something phenomenal in that line. So I daresay you will be disappointed in me. All right, suppose we don't risk it."

Cameron half turned away, as if he had relinquished the idea of dancing with Patty, and that young woman was somewhat taken aback. She had assumed her new friend would insist on dancing with her, and she had no mind to let him escape thus. She was just about to say, impulsively, "Oh well, let's try it, anyway," when she caught a gleam from the corner of his eye, and she realised in a flash that he felt sure she would call him back!

This was enough for capricious Patty, and she turned away from him, but not so quickly but that she saw his face suddenly fall, proving that she had been quite right in her diagnosis of the case.

She smiled on Van Reypen, who was hovering near, and he came to her at once.

"Our dance, Patty?" he said, eagerly, holding out his hand.

"Yes, Philip," she answered simply, laying her hand in his, and in a moment they were circling the room.

"Don't be cross to me, will you, Philip?" said Patty with an appealing note in her soft voice.

"No; you little torment, you. I'll never be cross to you, if you won't flirt with other men."

"Philip," and Patty spoke quite seriously, "I'll be cross with you, if you don't stop taking that attitude with me. It isn't for YOU to say whether I shall flirt with other men or not!"

"No, I know it;" and Philip was unexpectedly humble. "I wish it was for me to say, Patty."

"Stop talking nonsense, or I'll stop dancing with you! By the way, Phil, you're an awfully good dancer."

"I'm glad there's something about me that pleases your ladyship."

"Yes; so am I. It certainly isn't your temper!"

And then Philip smiled into Patty's eyes, and peace was restored, as it always was after their little squabbles.

The dance over, they sat for a few moments, and then Kenneth Harper asked to be Patty's next partner.

"All right, Ken," said Patty; "but sit down here just a minute; I want to watch the others."

What Patty really wanted was to see Mr. Cameron dance; and in a few moments he went past them with Elise.

"That man's all round clever," commented Kenneth. "He dances just as he plays the violin, exquisitely. Why, Patty, he's a poem in patent leathers!"

Sure enough, Kit Cameron was an unusually fine dancer, and Patty felt a slow blush rising to her cheeks, as she remembered what she had said to him, and realised he must have thought her vain of her dancing.

For once, Patty felt honestly ashamed of herself. She had implied that she was such a fine dancer she didn't care to dance with any one unskilled in the art.

But after all, this was not quite Patty's attitude. When a stranger was introduced to her, she was quite willing to dance with him, whether he danced well or not. But as to Mr. Cameron, Patty liked him so much and so enjoyed his beautiful music, that she really felt it would be a shock to their friendship if he danced awkwardly.

And, too, she never for a moment supposed he would take her at her word. She had supposed he would insist upon the dance, even after her hesitation.

"What's the matter Patty?" said Kenneth; "you look as though you'd lost your last friend!"

"I'm not sure but I have," said Patty, smiling a little. For certainly Mr. Cameron was the last friend she had made, and it was very likely that she had lost him.

"Well, never mind, you still have me left. I'm gentle and I'm kind, and you'll never, never find a better friend than your old Ken."

"I believe you're right," and Patty smiled at him. "We've been friends a long time, haven't we, Ken?"

"We sure have. When I look at your gray hair and wrinkled cheeks, I realise that we are growing old together."

Patty laughed and dimpled at this nonsense, and then declared she was ready to dance.

All through the evening, Patty was gaily whisked from one partner to another, but Kit Cameron never came near her.

She was decidedly chagrined at this, even though she knew she had only herself to blame for it. She had been really rude, and she was reaping the well-deserved consequences.

Often she passed Cameron in the dance, as he whirled by with another girl. He always smiled pleasantly as they passed, and the fact that he was a magnificent dancer only made Patty feel more angry with herself at having been so silly.

Just before the last dance, Patty stood, gaily chatting with several of her friends, when the music struck up, and both Kenneth and Philip claimed the dance.

"You promised it to me, Patty," said Kenneth, reproachfully.

"Why, Ken Harper, I didn't do any such thing!" and Patty's big blue eyes gazed at him in honest surprise.

"Of course you didn't, you promised it to me," said Van Reypen, equally mendacious.

"Why, I didn't promise it to anybody!" declared Patty; "I haven't promised a dance ahead this whole evening."

As she stood, with the two insistent applicants on either side of her, Cameron walked straight toward her. He said not a word, but held out his arm, and calmly walking away from her two disappointed suitors, Patty was at once whirled away.

"Well, Princess Poppycheek, -- Princess Pink Poppycheek, -- I had to surrender," Cameron said, as they floated around the room. "After your cruel aspersion on my dancing, I was so enraged I vowed to myself I'd never speak to you again. But I'm awful magnanimous, and I forgive you freely, from the bottom of my heart."

"I haven't asked to be forgiven," and Patty shot him a saucy glance; "but," she added, shyly, "I'm truly glad you do forgive me. I was a pig!"

"So you were. A Poppycheeked piggy-wig! But with me, what is forgiven is forgotten. And, by the way, you dance fairly well."

"So I've been told," returned Patty, demurely. "And I find I can get along with you."

This sounded like faint praise, but each knew that the other appreciated how well their steps suited each other and how skilful they both were.

Van Reypen and Ken Harper stood where Patty had left them, for a moment, as they watched their hoped-for partner dance away.

"There's no use getting mad at that child," said Ken, patiently; "she WILL do as she likes."

"Well, after all, why shouldn't she? She's a reigning belle, and she's a law unto herself. But she has a lot of sense inside that golden curly head."

"Yes," returned Kenneth, "and not only sense, but a sound, sweet nature. Patty is growing up a coquette, but it is only because she is beset by flattery; and, too, she IS full of mischief. She can't help teasing her suitors, as she calls them."

"She can tease me all she likes," said Van Reypen, somewhat seriously, and Kenneth answered simply, "Me, too."

Next morning, Patty told Nan all about Mr. Cameron, and that gay little lady was greatly interested in the story.

"I knew he would be nice," said Nan, "from what you had already told me about him. Is he good-looking, Patty?"

"Yes, -- no, -- I don't know," returned Patty; "I don't believe I thought about it. He has an awfully nice face, and he's tall and big, and yet he's young-looking. At least, his eyes are. He has dark eyes, and they're just brimming over with mischief and fun, except when he's playing his violin."

"Then I suppose he has the regulation 'far away' look," commented Nan.

"Well, he doesn't look like a dying goat, if that's what you mean! but he looks like a real musician, and he is one."

"And a woman-hater, I believe?"

"Oh, it's rubbish to call him that! He's not crazy over girls, but it's because he thinks most of them are silly. He likes his two cousins, -- and, Nan, don't breathe it, but I have a faint inkling of a suspicion of a premonition that he's going to like me!"

"Patty, you're a conceited little goose!"

"Nay, nay, my ducky stepmother, but I'd be a poor stick if I couldn't fascinate that youth after our romantic introduction."

"That's so; and I think you'll not have much trouble bringing him to your feet."

"Oh, I don't want him at my feet. And I don't want him to fall in love with me. I hate that sort of thing! I want him for a nice, chummy, comrade friend, and if I can't have him that way, I don't want him at all. There's Philip and Kenneth now; they've always been so nice. But lately they've taken to making sheep's eyes at me and flinging out bits of foolishness here and there that make me tired! A debutante's life is not a happy one!"

Patty drew such a long, deep sigh, that Nan burst into laughter.

"I would feel sorry for you, Patty," she said, "but I can't help thinking that you're quite able to look out for yourself."

"'Deed I am! When they talk mush, I just giggle at 'em. It brings 'em down pretty quick from their highfalutin nonsense!"

The two were sitting in Patty's boudoir, which was such a bright, sunny room that many a morning hour was pleasantly passed together there by these two friends. Patty was fortunate in having a stepmother so in sympathy with her pursuits and pleasures, and Nan was equally fortunate in having warm-hearted, sunny-natured Patty with her.

Jane came in, bringing an enormous box from a florist.

"My prophetic soul!" cried Patty. "My efforts were not in vain! I feel it in my funnybone that my latest Prince Charming has sent me a posy."

Nor was she wrong. The box contained a bewildering array of spring flowers. Delicate blossoms of jonquils, hyacinths, lilacs, daffodils, and other dainty, fragile flowers that breathed of spring.

"Aren't they lovely!" And Patty buried her face in the fragrant mass of bloom.

"Here's a card," said Nan, picking up a white envelope.

Patty drew out Mr. Cameron's card, and on it was written: "To Princess Poppycheek; that they may tell all that I may not speak."

"Now that's a real nice sentiment," Patty declared; "you see, it doesn't commit him to anything, and yet it sounds pretty. Oh, I shall end by adoring that young man! Bring me some bowls and things, please, Jane; I want to arrange this flower garden myself."

Jane departed with the box and papers, and returned with a tray, on which were several bowls and vases filled with water.

Patty always enjoyed arranging flowers, and she massed them in the bowls, with taste and skill as to color and arrangement.

"There!" she said, as she finished her task; "they do look beautiful, though I say it as shouldn't. Now, I think I shall sit me down and write a sweet gushing note of thanks, while I'm in the notion. For I've a lot on to-day, and I can't devote much time to this particular suitor."

"Suitor is a slang word, Patty; you oughtn't to use it."

"Fiddle-dee-dee! if I didn't use any slang, I couldn't talk at all! And suitor isn't exactly slang; it's the word in current fashion for any pleasant young gentleman who sends flowers, or otherwise favors any pleasant young lady. Everybody in society knows what it means, so don't act old fogy, -- Nancy Dancy."

Patty dropped a butterfly kiss on Nan's brow, and then pirouetted across the room to her writing desk.

"Shall I begin, 'My Dear Suitor'?" she said, and then giggled to see the shocked look on Nan's face.

"It wouldn't matter; he would understand," she said, carelessly, "but I think I can do better than that."

"Well, I'll leave you to yourself," said Nan; "not out of special consideration for your comfort, but because it doesn't interest me to watch anybody write letters."

"By-by," and Patty waved her hand, absentmindedly, as Nan left the room.

Then she applied herself to her task.

"Most Courteous Knight," she began; "The flowers are beautiful, -- and they are saying lovely things to me. They say they are fresh and young and green. Oh, my goodness! I forgot that you said they were speaking for you! Well, then, they are saying that they are just the sort I like, and they are sure of a welcome. With many, many thanks, I am very sincerely yours, Patricia Poppycheek Fairfield."

And then Patty dismissed her Knight from her mind, and turned her attention to other matters. That afternoon about five o'clock, Mr. Cameron called.

"I scarcely hoped to find you at home," he said, as Patty greeted him in the drawing-room.

"It isn't our day," she returned, "but I chanced to be in, and I'm glad of it. Nan, may I present Mr. Cameron?" And Nan accorded a pleasant welcome to the visitor.

"You see, Mrs. Fairfield," Cameron said, "I rarely go into society and I fear my manners are a bit rusty. So if I have come to call too soon, please forgive me."

His smile was so frank and his manner so easily correct, that Nan approved of him at once. She was punctilious in such matters, and she saw, through Kit's pretence at rustiness, that he was not lacking in etiquette or courtesy.

"Let's have tea in the library," said Patty; "you see, Mr. Cameron, we always invite people we like to have tea in there, rather than in this formal place."

"That suits me; I want to be considered one of the family, and what's the use of wasting a whole lot of time getting up to that point? Let's make believe we've always known each other."

So tea was served in the library, and a very pleasant informal feast it was.

Mr. Fairfield came in, and soon the whole quartette were chatting gaily as if they had always known each other.

Mr. Cameron was especially interested in Patty's club called "Happy Saturdays."

"It's the kindest thing I ever heard of," he said, enthusiastically. "It does good to people who can't be reached by any organised charity. I don't want to intrude, Miss Fairfield, and I don't want to exploit myself, but if you ever give your Saturday friends a little musicale or anything like that, I'd jolly well like to play for you. I'll play popular stuff, or I'll play my best Sunday-go-to-meeting pieces, whichever you prefer."

"That's awfully nice of you," said Patty, smiling at him. "I've often thought I'd get up something of that sort."

"We might have it here," said Nan, "unless you mean to invite more people than we could take care of."

"I'd like to have it here," said Patty; "the drawing-room would easily seat sixty or seventy in an audience, -- perhaps more. And I don't believe we could find more than that to invite. Although I know of a girls' club that I'd like to invite as a whole."

"It's a pretty big thing you're getting up, Pattikins," said Mr. Fairfield, smiling kindly at his enthusiastic daughter, "but if you think you can swing it, go ahead. I'll help all I can."

"It would upset the house terribly," said Nan; "but I don't mind that. I'm with you, Patty. Let's do it."

"If you're shy on the programme, I can get one or two fellows to help us out," said Cameron. "A chum of mine warbles a good baritone and I'm dead sure he'd like to help."

"I'm really a perfectly good singer," said Mr. Fairfield, "but my voice is not appreciated nowadays. So I'm going to decline all requests to sing, however insistent. But I'll help you out this way, Patsy-Poppet. I'll set up the supper for the whole crowd."

"Oh, daddy, how good you are!" and Patty leaned over to give her father's hand an affectionate squeeze. "It will be just lovely! We'll give those people a real musical treat, and a lovely supper to wind up with. Really, Mr. Cameron, you are to be thanked for all this, for you first suggested it. Our club has never done such a big thing before. I know the girls will be delighted!"

Unable to wait, Patty flew to the telephone and called up Mona, who was one of the most earnest workers of the club. As she had fore-seen, Mona was greatly pleased, and they immediately planned a meeting for the next morning to perfect the arrangements.

"And incidentally, and aside from giving a musical entertainment to your poor but worthy young friends, won't you go with me next week to enjoy some music yourself?" said Cameron to Patty, as he was about to take leave.

"Where?" she asked.

"I want to have a little opera party. Only half a dozen of us. The Hepworths will be our chaperons, and if you will go, I'll ask my cousin Marie and Mr. Harper."

"Why not Mr. Van Reypen?" said Patty, mischievously.

"Me deadly rival! never! nevaire! how could you cruelly suggest it?"

"I didn't mean it. Forget it," and Patty smiled at him.

"All right, it's forgotten, but don't EVER let such a thing occur again!"

And then Mr. Cameron reluctantly took himself off.



Chapter VIII

A House Party


Somehow or other Mr. Cameron immediately became a prominent factor in the Fairfield household. He appeared frequently, and even more frequently he telephoned or he wrote notes or he sent flowers or messages, until Patty declared he was everlastingly under foot!

But he was so gay and good-natured, so full of pranks and foolery, that it was impossible to snub him or to be annoyed with him.

He was a civil engineer, having already built up a good-sized business. But he seemed to be both able and willing to leave his office at any hour of the day or night for any occasion where Patty was concerned.

But he apparently fulfilled her wishes as to being her friend and chum and comrade, without falling in love with her.

"He's a thoroughly nice chap," Mr. Fairfield often said; "good-natured and right-minded, as well as clever and talented."

So, as he was also a favourite with Nan, he dropped in at the Fairfield house very often, and Patty grew to like him very much.

The opera party had duly taken place and had been a pleasant success. The musical entertainment was being planned for some weeks hence, as it was not easy to find a near-by date which suited all concerned.

One morning, as Patty was fluttering around her boudoir and looking over her mail, the telephone rang and the familiar "Hello, Princess," sounded in her ear.

"Hello, most noble Knight," she responded, "what would'st thou of me?"

"A boon so great that I fear to ask it! Won't you promise it in advance?"

"What I promise in advance, I never fulfil."

"Don't do it, then! I'll ask you first. You see, it's this way. My angelic and altogether delightful sister Lora lives in Eastchester with her stalwart husband and a blossom-bud of a kiddy. Now it seems that there's a wonderful country-club ball up there, and she thinks it will be nice if you and I should attend that same."

"And what do YOU think about it?"

"Oh, I don't have any thoughts concerning it, until I know what YOU think. And then, of course, that's precisely what I think."

"When is it?"

"To-morrow night."

"Mercy me! So soon! Well, I haven't anything on for to-morrow night; but the next night Mr. Van Reypen is making a theatre party for me that I wouldn't miss for anything."

"H'm! how LOVELY! Well, Princess, what say you to my humble plea?"

"What are your plans? How do I get there?"

"Why, thusly; my sister will invite you to her home, and incidentally to the ball. She will also ask my cousin Marie and Mr. Harper, who is not at all averse, it seems to me, to playing Marie's little lamb!"

"Have you noticed that? So have I. Well, go on."

"Well, then, I thought it would be nice if we four should motor out to Eastchester to-morrow afternoon, go straight to sister's, do up the ball business and motor back the next day. There's the whole case in a nutshell. Now pronounce my doom!"

"It seems to me just the nicest sort of a racket, and if your sister invites me, I shall most certainly accept."

"Oh, bless you for ever! Princess Poppycheek. I shall telephone Lora at once, and she will write you an invitation on her best stationery, and she will also telephone you, and if you wish it she will come and call on you."

"No, don't bother her to do that. I've met her, you know, and if she either writes or telephones, it will be all right. What time do we start?"

"About three, so as to make it easily by tea-time."

"I'll be ready. Count on me. Good-bye."

Patty hung up the telephone suddenly, as she always did. She often said it was her opinion that more time was wasted in this world by people who didn't know how to say good-bye, than from any other cause. And her minutes were too precious to be spent on a telephone, after the main subject of conversation had been finished.

She danced downstairs to tell Nan all about it.

"Very nice party," Nan approved; "I've met Mrs. Perry, you know, and she's charming. You'll be home Thursday, of course. You know you've a theatre party that night."

"Yes, I know; I'll be home," said Patty, abstractedly. "What would you take for the ball, Nan? My pink chiffon or my yellow satin?"

"They're both so pretty, it's hard to choose. The yellow satin, I think; it's a dream of a frock."

Mrs. Perry wrote a most cordial invitation and also telephoned, saying how glad she would be to welcome Patty to her home.

And so, the next afternoon, the young people started on their motor trip.

It was easily accomplished in two hours, and then Patty found herself a very much honoured guest in Mrs. Perry's pleasant home.

"It's dear of you to come," said the vivacious little hostess, as she took Patty and Marie to their rooms upon their arrival.

"It's dear of you to ask me." returned Patty; "I love to go to parties, and I love to go into new people's houses, -- I mean people's new houses, -- oh, well, you know what I mean; I mean HERE!"

"The house IS new," said Mrs. Perry, laughing, "but we're getting to be old people, and we want you young folks to liven us up."

"Old people!" and Patty smiled at the pretty young matron.

"Yes, wait till you see my baby. She's almost three years old! Fancy my going to balls, with a big girl like that."

"You're just fishing," said Patty, laughingly, "and I shan't humour you. I know you young mothers! You go to a party, and you're the belles, and leave all us wall-flowers green with envy!"

Mrs. Perry's eyes twinkled, and she looked so roguish that Patty exclaimed, "You're exactly like Mr. Cameron! I can well believe you're his sister."

"Who's he? Oh, you mean Kit! I don't think I ever heard him called Mr. Cameron before, and it does sound so funny! Can't we persuade you to say Kit?"

"I don't mind, if he doesn't," said Patty, carelessly. "What a darling room this is!"

"Yes; this is one of my pet rooms. I always give it to my favourite guests."

"I don't wonder," and Patty looked round admiringly at the dainty draperies and pretty appointments of the chamber.

"Marie always has it when she's here; but, of course, she was glad to give it up to you, and I put her in the blue room just across the hall. Come now, powder your nose, we must run down to tea. Don't change your frock."

Patty had worn a little silk house gown under her motor coat, so after a brief adjustment of her tumbled curls she was ready to go down.

The Perrys' was a modern house of an elaborate type. There were many rooms, on varying levels, so that one was continually going up or down a few broad steps. Often the rooms were separated only by columns or by railings, which made the whole interior diversified and picturesque.

"Such a gem of a house!" exclaimed Patty, as she entered the tea-room. "So many cosy, snuggly places, -- and so warm and balmy."

She dropped into a lot of silken cushions that were piled in the corner of an inglenook, and placed her feet daintily on a footstool in front of the blazing fire.

"Awful dinky!" said Kit, as he pushed aside some cushions and sat down beside Patty, "but a jolly good house to visit in."

"Yes, it is," said Marie, who was nestled in an easy-chair the other side of the great fireplace. "And it's so light and pleasant. We never get any sunlight, home."

"Nonsense, Marie," said Kit, "our apartments are unusually light ones."

"Well, it's a different kind of light," protested Marie. "It only comes from across the street, and here the light comes clear from the horizon."

"It does," agreed Mrs. Perry, "but we're getting the very last rays now. Ring for lights, Kit."

"No, sister, let's just have the firelight. It's more becoming, anyway."

So Mrs. Perry merely turned on one pink-shaded light near the tea table and let her guests enjoy the twilight and firelight.

"Country life is 'way ahead of city existence," remarked Kenneth, as he made himself useful in passing the teacups. "The whole atmosphere is different. When I marry and settle down, I shall be a country gentleman."

"How interesting!" cried Patty. "I should love to see you, Ken, superintending your gardener and showing him how to plant cabbages!"

"Dead easy," retorted Kenneth; "I'd have a gardener show me first, and when the next gardener came I could show him."

"Well, I don't want to live in the country," said Kit; "it's great to visit here, that's what sisters' houses are for; but I couldn't live so far away from the busy mart. Back to the stones for mine."

When their host, Dick Perry, arrived he came in with a genial, breezy manner and warmly welcomed the guests.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed, "this IS a treat! To come home at night and find a lot of gay and festive young people gathered around! Lora, why don't we do this oftener? Nothing like a lot of young people to make a home merry. How are you, Marie? Glad to see you again, Miss Fairfield."

Mr. Perry bustled around, flung off his coat, accepted a cup of tea from his wife, and then, coming over toward Patty, he ordered Kit Cameron to vacate, and he took his place.

"You're not to be monopolised by that brother-in-law of mine, Miss Fairfield," he said, as he sat down beside her. "He's a clever young chap, I admit, but he can't always get ahead of me."

Patty responded laughingly to this gay banter, and the tea hour passed all too quickly, and it was time to dress for dinner.

"We'll put on our party frocks before dinner," said Mrs. Perry, as she went upstairs with the girls; "and then we won't have to dress twice. I'll send you a maid, Miss Fairfield."

"Thank you," said Patty, "but I can look after myself fairly well, -- until it comes to hooking up. I always do my own hair."

"It can't be much trouble," said Mrs. Perry, looking admiringly at the golden curls, "for it looks lovely whatever way you do it."

Patty slipped on a kimono and brushed out her shining mass of curls. As Mrs. Perry had rightly said, Patty's coiffure was not troublesome, for however she bunched up the gleaming mass it looked exactly right. She twisted it up with care, however, and added a marvellous ornament of a bandeau, which circled halfway round her head, and above which a gilt butterfly was tremblingly poised. It was too early to get into her frock, so Patty flung herself into a big chair before the crackling fire, and gave herself up to daydreams. She dearly loved to idle this way and she fell to thinking, naturally, of the home she was visiting and the people who lived there.

Patty still sat dreaming these idle fancies, when there was a tap at the door and, in response to her permission, a maid entered.

"I'm Babette," she said, "and I have come to help you with your gown."

"Thank you," said Patty, jumping up; "it's later than I thought. We must make haste."

With experienced deftness, the French maid arrayed Patty in the beautiful evening gown of yellow satin, veiled with a shimmering yellow gauze.

Although unusual for a blonde, yellow was exceedingly becoming to Patty, and she looked like an exquisite spring blossom in the soft, sheath-like jonquil-coloured gown.

Her dainty satin slippers and silk stockings were of the same pale yellow, as was also the filmy scarf, which she knew how to wear so gracefully.

Her only ornament was a string of pearls, which had been her mother's.

When she was all ready she went slowly down the winding staircase, looking about her at the interesting house. A broad landing halfway down showed an attractive window-seat, and Patty sat down there for a moment.

There seemed to be no one in the hall below, and Patty concluded that she was early after all, though she had feared she would be late.

In a moment Kit came down and spied her.

"Hello, Princess!" he cried. "You're a yellow poppy to-night, -- and a gay little blossom, too."

"Not yellow poppyCHEEK!" cried Patty, rubbing her pink cheeks in mock dismay.

"Well, no; only one who is colour-blind could call those pink cheeks yellow. May I pose beside you, here, and make a beautiful tableau?"

He sat beside Patty on the window-seat, and they wondered why the rest were so late.

"Prinking, I suppose," said Kit. "How did you manage to get ready so soon?"

"Why, just because I thought I was late, and so I hurried."

"Didn't know a girl COULD hurry, -- accept my compliments." And Kit rose and made an exaggerated bow.

"What's going on?" said Dick Perry, gaily, as he came downstairs and paused on the landing.

"Only homage at the shrine of Beauty," returned Kit.

"Let me homage, too," said Mr. Perry, and they both bowed and scraped, until Patty went off in a gale of laughter and said: "You ridiculous boys, you look like popinjays! But here comes Marie; now more homage is due."

Marie came down the steps slowly and gracefully, looking very pretty in pale green, with tiny pink rosebuds for trimming.

"Good for you, Marie!" exclaimed her cousin. "Your dress gees with Miss Fairfield's first-rate. You'll do!"

And then the others came, and the merry group went out to dinner.

After dinner they started at once for the country-club ball. It was to be a very large affair, and, as Patty knew no one except their own house party, she declared that she knew she'd be a wall-flower.

"Wall-flower, indeed!" said Kit. "Poppies don't grow on walls. They grow right in the middle of the field, and sway and dance in the breeze."

"I always said you were a poet," returned Patty, "and you do have the prettiest fancies."

"I fancy YOU, if that's what you mean," Kit replied, and Patty gave him a haughty glance for his impertinence.

Then Babette put on Patty's coat, which was a really gorgeous affair. It was what is known as a Mandarin coat, of white silk, heavily embroidered with gold, and very quaint she looked in it.

"That thing must weigh a ton," commented Kit. "Why do you girls want to wear Chinese togs?"

"It's a beautiful coat," said Mrs. Perry, admiringly. "Have you been to China, Miss Fairfield?"

"No; I never have. This was a Christmas present, and I'm awfully fond of it. I'm afraid I'm barbaric in my love of bright, glittering things."

"A very civilised little barbarian," said Mr. Perry, and then they all went off to the ball.

"How many may I have?" said Kit, as he took Patty's programme from her hand after they were in the ballroom.

"As I don't know any one else, I shall have to dance them all with you and Ken," returned Patty, demurely.

"Never mind Harper; give them all to me."

Patty looked at him calmly. "I'll tell you what," she said: "you put down your initials for every dance; then, if I do find any partners I like better, I'll give them dances; and, if not, you see I'll have you to depend on."

Cameron stared at her, but Patty looked at him with an innocent smile, as if she were not asking anything extraordinary.

"Well, you've got a nerve!" the young man exclaimed.

"Why, it was your own proposition that you have all the dances;" and Patty looked almost offended.

"Poppycheek, you shall have it your own way! You shall have anything you want, that I can give you." And Cameron scribbled his initials against every one of the twenty dances on the programme.

"You might have put K. C. to the first and then ditto after that," said Patty, as she watched him.

"Nay, nay, Pauline!" and Kit gave her a shrewd glance. "Think what would happen then. You'd give a dance to some other man, maybe, and he'd set down his initials, and all the rest of the dittos would refer to him!"

"Poor man! I never thought of that! But it isn't likely there'll be any others except Ken."

"Oh, don't you worry! Everybody will want an introduction to you, after they see you dance."

"I don't think much of that for a compliment! I'd rather be loved for my sweet self alone."

"Have you never been?"

"Many, many times!" and Patty sighed in mock despair. "But my love affairs always end tragically."

"Your suitors drown themselves, I suppose?"

"Do you mean if I encourage them?"

"Do you know what a silly you are?"

"Do you know what a goose YOU are?"

"Children, stop quarrelling," and Mrs. Perry smiled at the chattering pair. "Miss Fairfield, several amiable young men of my acquaintance desire to be presented to you. May I?"

Patty smilingly acquiesced, and in a moment half a dozen would-be partners were asking for dances.

They looked rather taken aback at sight of Patty's card, but she calmly explained to them the true condition of things, and they accepted the situation with smiles of admiration for a girl who could command such an arrangement. Patty would not give more than one dance to each, as she wanted to find out which ones she liked best.

Mr. Perry brought up some of his acquaintances, too, and shortly Patty's programme showed an astonishing lot of hieroglyphics scribbled over Kit's initials.

"Here are twelve dances you may have for your other friends," said Patty, to Mr. Cameron. "Take the numbers as I call them off: one, two, three --  -- "

"Oh, wait a minute! Have you given them all away?"

"No; only the first twelve, so far. But cheer up! I may be able to dispose of the others."

"You're a naughty, bad, mean little princess; and I don't love you any more."

Kit looked reproachfully at Patty, with his eyes so full of disappointment that she relented.

"I didn't give away the first one, really," she said, softly. "I saved that for you."

"You blessed, dear, sweet little Princess you! Now, don't give away any more, will you? I know you'll have thousands of requests."

"I'll see about it," was all Patty would promise, and then the music began and they stepped out on to the dancing floor.



Chapter IX

Eddie Bell


"Which do you like best of all the boys you've met?" asked Kit, as they danced.

"What a question! How can I possibly tell, when a dozen well-behaved and serious-looking young men stand up like a class in school and say, one after another, 'May I have the honour of a dance, Miss Fairfield?' They all looked exactly alike to me. Except one. There was one boy, who looks so much like me he might be my brother. I never had a brother, and I've a good notion to adopt him as one."

"Don't! There's nothing so dangerous as adopting a young man for a brother! But I know who you mean, -- Eddie Bell. He doesn't look a bit like you, but he HAS yellow curls and blue eyes."

"And pink cheeks," supplemented Patty.

"Yes, but not poppy cheeks; they're more the pink of a -- of a -- horsechestnut!"

"I think pink horsechestnut blooms are beautiful."

"Oh, you do, do you? And I suppose you think Eddie Bell is beautiful!"

"Well, there's no occasion for you to get mad about it if I do. Do you know, Mr. Cameron, you flare up very easily."

"If you'll call me Kit, I'll promise never to flare up again."

"Certainly, I'll call you Kit. I'd just as lieve as not; anything to oblige."

"And may I call you Patty?"

"Why, yes, if you like."

"Look here, you're altogether too indifferent about it."

"Oh, what a boy!" And Patty rolled her eyes up in despair. "If I don't want him to call me Patty, he doesn't like it; and if I do let him call me Patty, he isn't satisfied! What to do, -- what to do!"

"You're a little tease, -- THAT'S what you are!"

"And you're a big tease, that's what YOU are! I've heard you're even fond of practical jokes! Now, I detest practical jokes."

"That's an awful pity, for I mean to play one on you the very first chance I get."

"You can't do it?"

"Why can't I?"

"Because I'd discover it, and foil you."

"There's no such word as foil in my bright lexicon. I'll lay you a wager, if you like, that I play a practical joke on you, that you, yourself, will admit is clever and not unkind. That's the test of a right kind of a joke, -- to be clever and not unkind."

Patty's eyes danced. "You have the right idea about it," she said, nodding her head approvingly. "I don't so much mind a practical joke, if it is really a good one, and doesn't make the victim feel hurt or chagrined. But all the same, Mr. Kit, you can't get one off on me! I'm a little too wide-awake, as you'll find out."

"Would you take a wager?"

"I'm not in the habit of betting, but I'm willing for once. It's hardly fair, though, for I'm betting on a dead certainty."

"You mean you THINK you are! And I think I am, so the chances are even. What are the stakes?"

"I don't care: candy or books or flowers or anything."

"Nonsense, they're too prosaic. If I win, you're to give me a photograph of yourself."

"Oh, I almost never give my picture to my suitors. It isn't good form."

"But, if you're so sure that you will win, you needn't be afraid to promise it."

"All right, I promise; and, if I win, you may give me a perfectly beautiful picture frame, in which I shall put some other man's picture."

"How cruel you can be! But, as I'm sure of winning, I'm not afraid to take that up. A frame against a picture, then. But there must be a time limit."

"I'll give you a month; if you can't do it in that time, you can't do it at all. And, also, I must be the judge, -- if you do fool me, -- whether your practical joke is clever and not unkind."

"I'm quite contented that you should be the judge, for I know your sincere and honest nature will not let you swerve a hair's breadth from a true and fair judgment."

"That's clever," returned Patty; "for now I shall have to be honest."

The first dance over, Patty went on with a long succession of dances with her various partners. They were all polite and courteous young men, some attractive and agreeable, others shy, and some dull and uninteresting. Patty complacently accorded another dance to any one she liked, and calmly refused it to less desirable partners, -- pleading an engagement with Cameron as her excuse.

The one she liked best was Eddie Bell. As she had said, this young man did look a little like Patty herself, though this was mostly due to their similarity of colouring.

"If I may say anything so impossible, it seems to me that I look like a comic valentine of you," said Mr. Bell, as they began to dance.

Patty laughed outright at this apt expression of their resemblance, and said: "I have already told some one that you looked exactly like me. So, in that case, I'm a comic valentine, too. But, truly, you're enough like me to be my brother."

"May I be? Not that I want to, in the least, but of course that is the obvious thing to say. I'd rather be most any relation to you than a brother."

"Why?"

"Oh, it's such a prosaic relationship. I have three sisters, -- and they're the dearest girls in the world, -- but I don't really feel the need of any more."

"What would you like to be?" And Patty flashed him a dangerous glance of her pansy-blue eyes.

But Mr. Bell kept his equanimity. "How about second cousin, once removed?"

"I suppose you'll be removed at the end of this dance."

"Then, may this dance last for ever!"

"Oh, what a pretty speech! Of course, you wouldn't make that to a sister! I think a second cousinship is very pleasant."

"Then, that's settled. And I may call you Cousin Patty, I suppose?"

"It would seem absurd to say Cousin Miss Fairfield, wouldn't it? And yet our acquaintance is entirely too short for first names."

"But it's growing longer every minute; and, if you would grant me another dance after I'm removed from this one, I'm sure we could reach the stage of first names."

"I will give you one more," said Patty, for she liked Mr. Bell very much.

So at the end of their dance they agreed upon a number later on the programme, and Mr. Bell wrote down "Cousin Ed" on Patty's card.

It was just after this that Kit came back for his second dance.

"Naughty girl," he said; "you've kept me waiting three-quarters of the evening."

"I thought I saw you dancing with several visions of beauty."

"Only killing time till I could get back to you. Come on, don't waste a minute."

It was a joy to Patty to dance with Cameron, for he was by all odds the best dancer she had ever met. And many admiring glances followed them as they circled the great room.

"How did you like your little brother?" Kit enquired.

"He's a ducky-daddles!" declared Patty, enthusiastically. "Just a nice all-round boy, frank and jolly and good-natured."

"That's what I am."

"Not a bit of it! You're a musician; freakish, temperamental, touchy, and -- a woman-hater."

"Gracious! what a character to live up to, -- or down to. But I hate YOU awfully, don't I?"

"I don't know. I never can feel sure of these temperamental natures."

"Well, don't you worry about feeling sure of me. The longer you live, the surer you'll feel."

"That sounds like 'the longer she lives the shorter she grows,'" said Patty, flippantly.

"Yes, the old nursery rhyme. Well, you are my candle, -- a beacon, lighting my pathway with your golden beams --  -- "

"Oh, do stop! That's beautiful talk, but it's such rubbish."

"Haven't you ever noticed that much beautiful talk IS rubbish?"

"Yes, I have. And I'm glad that you think that way, too. Beautiful thoughts are best expressed by plain, sincere words, and have little connection with 'beautiful talk.'"

"Patty Fairfield, you're a brick! And, when I've said that, I can't say anything more."

"A gold brick?"

"Not in the usual acceptance of that term; but you're pure gold, and I'm jolly well glad I've found a girl like you."

There was such a ring of sincerity in Cameron's tone that Patty looked up at him suddenly. And the honest look in his eyes made it impossible for her to return any flippant response.

"And I'm glad, too, that we are friends, Kit," she said, simply.

The next dance was Mr. Bell's, and that rosy-cheeked youth came up blithely to claim it.

"Come along, Cousin Patty," he said, and Cameron stared at him in amazement.

"Are you two cousins?" he said.

"Once removed," returned Eddie Bell, gaily; "and this is the removal." He took Patty's hand and laid it lightly within his own arm as he led her away.

"Don't let's dance right off," he begged. "Let's rest a minute in this bosky dell."

The dell was an alcove off the ballroom, which contained several palms and floral baskets and a deep, cushioned window-seat.

"Let's sit here and watch the moon rise;" and he led Patty toward the window-seat, where he deftly arranged some cushions for her.

"I believe the moon rises to-morrow afternoon," said Patty.

"Well, I don't mind waiting. Sit here, won't you? These stupid cushions ought to be of a golden yellow or a pale green. However, this old rose does fairly well for our blond beauty. Isn't it nice we're of the same type and harmonise with the same furnishings? When we're married we won't have to differ about our house decorations." "When we are WHAT?"

"Married, I said. You know, you're not really my second cousin and there's absolutely no bar to our union."

This was quite the most audacious young man Patty had ever met. But she was quite equal to the situation.

"Of course there isn't," she said, lightly. "And, when I think of the economy of our being able to use the same colour scheme, it IS an inducement."

"And meantime we must get better acquainted, as you said when we were dancing. May I come to see you in the city? Where do you live?"

"In Seventy-second Street," said Patty, "but I feel it my duty to tell you that there's already a long line awaiting admission."

"Oh, yes, I've seen that line when I've been passing. It goes clear round the corner of the block. Do I have to take my place at the end, or can I have a special favour shown me?"

"I'm sure your sense of justice wouldn't permit that. You take your place at the end of the line, and when your turn comes I'll be glad to welcome you."

"Then that's all right," said Mr. Bell, cheerfully, "and you'll be surprised to see how soon I appear! Now, lady fair, would you rather go and dance or sit here and listen to me converse?"

"It's pleasant to rest a little," and Patty nestled into her cushions, "and you really ARE amusing, you know. Let's stay here a little while."

"Now, isn't that nice of you! Do you want to talk, too, or shall I do it all and give you a complete rest?"

"You do it all," said Patty, indolently. "It will be like going to a monologue entertainment."

"At your orders. What subject would you like?"

"Yourself."

"Oh, wise beyond your years! You know the subject that most interests a man."

"That isn't pretty!" And Patty frowned at him. "There ought to be another subject more interesting to you than that!"

"There is; but I don't dare trust myself with HER!"

Mr. Bell's manner and voice were so exactly the right mixture of deferential homage and burlesque that Patty laughed in delight.

"You are the DEAREST man!" she cried.

He looked at her reproachfully. "You said I might do all the talking, and now you're doing it yourself."

"I'll be still now. Avoid that subject you consider dangerous and tell me all about yourself."

"Well, once upon a time, there was a beautiful young man who rejoiced in the poetic and musical name of Eddie Bell. I know he was a beautiful young man, because he was said to resemble the most beautiful girl in the whole world. Well, one evening he had the supreme good fortune to meet this girl, and he realised at once that he had met his Fate, -- his Fate with a VERY large F. Incidentally, the F stood for Fairfield, which made his Fate all the more certain. And so --  -- "

"Patty, are you here?" and Ken Harper came through the palms toward them. "This is our dance."

"Good gracious, Ken, is this dance the next dance? I mean is this dance over, or is this dance our dance."

"You seem a little mixed, Patty, but this is our dance and I claim it. Are you RESTED enough?"

Patty rose and, with a simple word of excuse to Mr. Bell, went away with Kenneth.

"That's the first time, Ken, in all our friendship that I ever knew you to say anything horrid," and Patty looked at him with a really hurt expression.

"I didn't say anything horrid," and Kenneth's fine face wore a sulky expression.

"You did, too. You asked me if I were RESTED in a horrid, sarcastic tone; and you meant it for a reproof, because I sat out that dance with Mr. Bell."

"You had no business to go and hide behind those palms with him."

"We didn't hide! That's only a bay-window alcove, -- a part of the ballroom. I have a perfect right to sit out a dance if I choose."

"That young chap was too familiar, anyway. I heard him calling you 'Cousin Patty.'"

"Oh, fiddlestrings, Ken! Don't be an idiot! We were only joking. And I'm not so old, yet, but what I can let a boy call me by my first name if I choose. When I'm twenty I'm going to be Miss Fairfield; but while I'm nineteen anybody can call me Patty, -- if I give him permission."

"You're a flirt, Patty."

"All right, Ken. Flirt with me, won't you?" Patty's roguish blue eyes looked at Kenneth with such a frank and friendly glance that he couldn't scold her any more.

"I can't flirt with you, Patty. I'm not that sort. You know very well I've only a plain, plodding sort of a mind, and I can't keep up with this repartee and persiflage that you carry on with these other chaps."

"I don't carry on," said Patty, laughing.

"I didn't say you carried on," returned Kenneth, who took everything seriously. "I meant you carried on conversations that are full of wit and repartee, of a sort that I can't get off."

"Nobody wants you to, you dear old Ken! You wouldn't be half as nice if you were as foolish and frivolous as these society chatterboxes! You've got more sterling worth and real intellect in your make-up than they ever dreamed of. Now, stop your nonsense and come on and dance. But -- don't undertake to lecture Patty Fairfield, -- she won't stand for it!"

"I didn't mean to lecture you, Patty," and Kenneth spoke very humbly. "But when I saw you tucked away behind those palms, flirting with that yellow-headed rattle-pate, I felt that I ought to speak to you."

"You SPOKE, all right!" and Patty looked at him severely. "But you know perfectly well, Kenneth Harper, that I wasn't doing anything I oughtn't to. You know perfectly well that, though I like what you call 'flirting,' I'm never the least bit unconventional and I never forget the strictest law of etiquette and propriety. I'd scorn to do such a thing!"

Patty's blue eyes were blazing now with righteous indignation, for Kenneth had been unjust, and Patty would not stand injustice. She was punctilious in matters of etiquette, and she had not overstepped any bounds by sitting out a dance in that alcove, which was a part of the ballroom and a refuge for any one weary of dancing.

"And you know perfectly well, Kenneth," she went on, "that you DIDN'T think I was unconventional, or anything of the sort. You were only --  -- "

Patty paused, for she didn't quite want to say what was in her mind.

"You're right, Little Patty," and Kenneth looked her straight in the eyes; "you're right. I WAS jealous. Yes, and envious. It always hurts me to see you laughing and talking in that darling little way of yours, and to know that I can't make you talk like that. I wish I weren't such a stupid-head! I wish I could say things that would make you play your pretty fooleries with ME."

Patty looked at him in amazement. She had never suspected that serious-minded, hard-working Kenneth had anything but scorn for men of less mental calibre and quicker wit.

"Why, Kenneth," she said, gently, "don't talk like that. My friendship for you is worth a dozen of these silly foolery flirtations with men that I don't care two cents for."

"I don't want your friendship, Patty," and Kenneth's deep voice trembled a little; "I mean I don't want ONLY your friendship. And yet I know I can't hope for anything more. I'm too dull and commonplace to attract a beautiful butterfly like you."

"Kenneth," and Patty gave him a glance, gentle, but a little bewildered, "you're out of your head. You have a splendid head, Kenneth, full of wonderful brains, but you're out of it. You get yourself back into it as quick as you can! And don't let's dance this dance, please; I am tired. I wish you'd take me to Mrs. Perry."

In silence, Kenneth complied with Patty's wish, and took her to where Lora Perry was sitting.

Then he went away, leaving Patty much more disturbed by what he had said than by all the gay fooleries of Eddie Bell or Kit Cameron.



Chapter X

Quarantined


"Tired?" asked Mrs. Perry, as she welcomed Patty to her side.

"A little; I love to dance, but a long program does weary me. Are we going home soon?"

"Whenever you like, dear."

"Oh, not until the others are ready. There goes Marie. She's having a lovely time to-night. Isn't she a pretty thing? -- and so popular."

Patty's admiration was sincere and honest, and Marie's dark, glowing beauty was well worthy of commendation.

But seeing Patty sitting by Mrs. Perry, Marie came to them, when the dance ended, and declared that she was quite ready to go home, although the program wasn't finished.

"What's all this about?" inquired Kit Cameron, coming up to them. "Go home? Not a bit of it! There are a lot of dances yet."

"Well, you stay for them if you like, Kit," said his sister, rising. "I'm going to take these girls away. They've danced quite enough, and it's time they went home."

"Whither thou all goest, I will go also," said Cameron. "Where's Harper?"

Kenneth and Dick Perry came along then, and both men expressed their willingness to go home.

Patty was rather silent during the homeward way, and indeed, as all were more or less weary, there was little gay conversation.

As they entered the house, Nora, the parlour-maid, appeared to take their wraps.

"Where is Babette?" asked Mrs. Perry, surprised to see Nora in place of her French maid.

"Sure she's sick, Mrs. Perry; she do be feelin' that bad, she had to go to bed. So she bid me do the best I can for the young ladies."

"I'm sorry to hear Babette is ill; I must go and see her at once." And Mrs. Perry went away toward the servants' quarters.

She returned shortly, saying Babette had a bad cold and a slight fever, but that her symptoms were not alarming.

"But I'm sorry you girls can't have her services to-night," Mrs. Perry went on.

"It doesn't matter a bit," said Patty; "I'd be sorry for myself, if I couldn't get in and out of my own clothes! Don't think of it, Mrs. Perry."

They all went up to their rooms, and though Nora did her best to assist Patty, her unskilful help bothered more than it aided. So she kindly dismissed the girl, and catching up a kimono went across to Marie's room.

"You get me out of this frock, won't you, Marie?" she said. "It fidgets me to have Nora fumbling with the hooks. It's a complicated arrangement and I know she'd tear the lace."

Marie willingly acquiesced, and then Patty slipped off the pretty yellow gown, and got into her blue silk kimono.

"Stay here and brush out your hair, Patty," said Marie, "and we can have a 'kimono chat,' all by ourselves."

So Patty sat down at Marie's toilet table, and began to brush out her golden curls.

"Did you like the ball, Patty?" asked Marie, as she braided her own dark hair.

"Lovely! Everybody was so nice to me. And you had a good time yourself, I know. I saw you breaking hearts, one after another, you little siren."

"Siren, yourself! How did you like that Bell boy?"

"Gracious! That sounds like a hotel attendant! In fact I think 'bellhop,' as I believe they call them, wouldn't be a bad name for Eddie Bell. I liked him ever so much, but he was a little, -- well, -- fresh is the only word that expresses it."

"He is cheeky; but he doesn't mean anything. He's a nice boy; I've known him for years. He's an awful flirt, -- but he admired you like everything. Though as to that, who doesn't?"

"Oh, I don't think so much of this general admiration. I think if a young girl isn't admired, it's her own fault. She only has to be gay and pleasant and good-natured, and people are bound to like her."

"Yes," agreed Marie; "but there are degrees. I'll tell you who likes you an awful lot, -- and that's Mr. Harper."

"Oh, Kenneth;" Patty spoke carelessly, but she couldn't prevent a rising blush. "Why, Marie, we've been chums for years. I used to know Ken Harper when I was a little girl and lived in Vernondale. He's a dear boy, but we're just good friends."

"I like him," and Marie said this so ingenuously, that Patty gave her a quick look. "Don't you like anybody ESPECIALLY, Patty?"

"No, I don't. All boys look alike to me. I like to have them to dance with, and to send me flowers and candy; and I don't mind make-believe flirting with them; but the minute they get serious, I want to run away."

"Aren't you ever going to be engaged, Patty?"

"Nonsense! Marie, we're too young to think about such things. After a few years I shall begin to consider the matter; and if I find anybody that I simply can't live without, I shall proceed to marry him. Now, curiosity-box, is there anything else you want to know?"

"I didn't mean to be curious," and Marie's pretty face looked troubled; "but, Patty, I will ask you one more question: Couldn't you, -- couldn't you like, -- specially, I mean, -- my cousin Kit?"

"Marie, I've a notion to shake you! You little match-maker, -- or mischief-maker, -- stop getting notions into your head! In the first place, I've known your paragon of a cousin only a few weeks; and in the second place, there's no use going any further than the first place! Now, you go to sleep, and dream about birds and flowers and sunshine, and don't fill your pretty head with grown-up notions."

"You're a funny girl, Patty," and Marie looked at her with big, serious eyes.

"If it's funny to be a common-sense, rational human being, then I AM funny! Now, good-night, chickabiddy. Mrs. Perry says she'll send up our breakfast about nine to-morrow morning. Hop into my room and have it with me, won't you?"

Marie agreed to this arrangement, and gathering up her belongings, Patty slipped across the hall to her own room.

The wood fire had burnt down to red embers, and lowering the lights, Patty sat down for a few moments in a big fireside chair to think.

She had told the truth, that she did not want to think seriously of what Marie called "an especial liking" for anybody; but what Kenneth had said that evening troubled her.

Her friendship for Kenneth was so firm and strong, her real regard for him so deep and sincere, that she hated to have it intruded upon by a question of a more serious feeling. And she had never suspected that any such question would arise. But she could not mistake the meaning of Kenneth's spoken wish that he might be capable of the gay conversation in which Patty delighted.

"Dear old Ken," she said to herself, "he's so nice just as he is, but when he tries to be funny, he -- well, he CAN'T, that's all. It isn't his fault. All the boys can't be alike. And I s'pose Ken IS the nicest of them, after all. He's so true and reliable. But I hope to gracious he isn't going to fall in love with me. That would spoil everything I Oh, well, I won't cross that bridge until I come to it. And if I have come to it, -- well, I won't cross it, even then. I'll just stand stock-still, and wait. I believe there's a poem somewhere, that says:

"'Standing with reluctant feet Where the brook and river meet, --  Womanhood and childhood sweet.'

"I s'pose I HAVE left childhood behind, but I feel a long way off from womanhood. And yet, in a couple of months I'll be twenty. That does begin to sound aged! But I know one thing, sure and certain: I'll wait till I AM twenty, before I think about a serious love affair. Suitors are all very well, but I wouldn't be engaged to a man for anything! Why, I don't suppose he'd let me dance with anybody else, or have any fun at all! No, sir-ee, Patricia Fairfield, you're going to have two or three years of your present satisfactory existence, before you wear anybody's diamond ring. And now, my Lady Gay, you'd better skip to bed, for to-morrow night you have a theatre party in prospect, and you want to look fairly decent for that."

The fire was burnt out now, and Patty was so sleepy that her head had scarcely touched the pillow before she fell asleep.

A light tap at her door awakened her the next morning, and Marie appeared, followed by Nora, with a breakfast tray.

"Wake up, curly-head-sleepy-head," and Marie playfully tweaked Patty's curls. "Here, I'll be your maid. Here's your nightingale, and here's your breakfast cap."

Marie deftly arrayed Patty in the pretty trifles, and poked pillows behind her back until she was comfortable.

"Goodness gracious sakes! Marie," said Patty, rubbing her eyes, "you waked me out of the soundest sleep I have ever known! WHY bother me with breakfast?"

"Had to do it," returned Marie, calmly, drawing up a big chair for herself. "Now keep your eyes open and behave like a lady. Your chocolate is getting cool and your toast is spoiling."

The two girls were still discussing their breakfast, when Mrs. Perry came in.

"How are you getting on?" she asked, cheerily; "Babette is still ill, so I had to send Nora to you."

"Everything is lovely," said Patty, smiling at her hostess. "We're delightfully looked after. Nora is a jewel. But I hope your maid isn't seriously ill."

"I'm afraid she is," and Mrs. Perry looked troubled. "She has a bad sore throat and she's quite feverish. Now you girlies dawdle around as much as you like. Although I'm commissioned to tell you that there are two young men downstairs just pining for you, and they asked me to coax you to come down at once."

"Let them wait," said Patty; "we'll be down after a while. Mayn't we see the baby?"

"Yes, indeed, if you like. I'll send her in."

Soon a dainty little morsel of fragrant humanity appeared, accompanied by her nurse.

The tot was a trifle shy, but Patty's merry smile soon put her at her ease.

"Tell the lady your name, dear," said Marie.

"Pitty Yady!" said the baby, caressing Patty's cheek.

"Yes," said Marie, "now tell the pretty lady your name."

"Baby Boo," said the child.

"Baby Boo! What a dear name!" said Patty.

"Her name is Beulah," Marie explained, "but she always calls herself Baby Boo, so every one else does."

"It's just the name for her," said Patty, catching up the midget in her arms and cuddling her.

"Pitty Yady," repeated the baby, gazing at Patty.

"She's struck with your beauty, Patty, like everybody else," said Marie, laughing.

"It's mutual, then," returned Patty, "for I think she's the prettiest baby I ever saw. And she does smell so good! I love a violet baby." And Patty kissed the back of the soft little neck and squeezed the baby up in her arms.

"Now Baby Boo must go away," said Marie, at last, "for the Pitty Yady must get dressed and go downstairs."

Patty had brought a morning frock, of pink linen with a black velvet sash, and she looked very trim and sweet as she at last declared herself ready.

The two girls went downstairs, and found two very impatient young men awaiting them.

"Whatever HAVE you girls been doing all the morning?" exclaimed Cameron; "you CAN'T have been sleeping until this time!"

"Playing with the baby, and exchanging confidences," said Patty, smiling.

"Both of which you might as well have done down here," Cameron declared. "I adore my baby niece, and Mr. Harper and I would have been more than glad to listen to your exchange of confidences."

"Oh, they weren't intended for your ears!" exclaimed Marie, with mock horror. "Kimono confidences are very, VERY sacred. But it may well be that your ears burn."

"Which ear?" asked Kenneth, feeling of both of his.

"Fair exchange," said Marie, gaily. "Tell us what you said about us, and we'll tell you what we said about you."

"We said you were the two prettiest and sweetest girls in the world," said Cameron.

"And we said," declared Patty, "that you were the two handsomest and most delightful men in the world."

"But we said you had some faults," said Kenneth, gravely.

"And we said you had," retorted Marie. "Let's tell each other our faults. That's always an interesting performance, for it always winds up with a quarrel."

"I love a quarrel," said Cameron, enthusiastically. "I dare anybody to tell me my greatest faults!"

"Conceit," said Marie, smiling at her cousin.

"That isn't a fault; it's a virtue," Kit retorted.

"That's so," and Marie nodded her head; "if you didn't have that virtue, you wouldn't have any."

"That's a facer!" said Kit. "Well, Marie, my dear, as you haven't THAT virtue, am I to conclude you haven't any?"

"That's very pretty," and Patty nodded, approvingly; "but I want to stop this game before it's my turn, for I'm too sensitive to have my faults held up to the public eye."

"But we haven't quarrelled yet," said Kit, who looked disappointed. "Why do you like to quarrel so much?" asked Patty.

"Because it's such fun to kiss and make up."

"Is it?" asked Patty; "I'd like to see it done, then. You and Ken quarrel, and then let us see you kiss and make up."

"Harper is too good-natured to quarrel and I'm not good-natured enough to kiss him," said Kit. "I guess I won't quarrel to-day, after all. I can't seem to get the right partner. Let's try some other game. Want to go over to the club and bowl?"

"Yes, indeed," cried Patty; "I'd love to."

So the four young people bundled into fur coats, and motored over to the country club.

They were all good players and enjoyed their game till Kit reminded them that it was nearly luncheon time, and they went back to the house.

"How is Babette?" Patty inquired, as their hostess appeared at luncheon.

"She's worse;" and Mrs. Perry looked very anxious. "I don't want to worry you girls, but I think you would better go home this afternoon, for I don't know what Babette's case may develop into. The doctor was here this morning, and he has sent a trained nurse to take care of the girl. I confess I am worried."

"Oh, we were going this afternoon, anyway," said Patty. "I have to, as I have an engagement this evening. But I'm sorry for you, Mrs. Perry. It is awful to have illness in the house. What is it you are afraid of?"

"I hate to mention it, but the doctor fears diphtheria. Now don't be alarmed, for there is positively no danger, if you go this afternoon. But I can't risk your staying an hour longer than is necessary. Nora will help you pack your things. And I'm going to send you off right after lunch."

After luncheon the doctor came again, and Mrs. Perry went off to confer with him.

"Excuse me," said Kit Cameron, as his sister left the room, "I must stand by Lora, and I want to find out from the doctor if there is really any danger. Perhaps my sister's fears are exaggerated."

It was nearly half an hour before Kit came back, and then he looked extremely serious.

"I have bad news for you," he said; "Babette's illness is diphtheria, -- a severe case."

"Oh, the poor girl!" said Patty, with impulsive sympathy.

"Yes, indeed, little Babette is pretty sick. And, too, it's awfully hard on Lora. But that isn't all of it."

"What else?" said Marie, breathless with suspense.

"I hardly know how to tell you," and Cameron's face was very troubled. "But I suppose the best way is to tell you straight out. The truth is, we are all quarantined. We can't go away from here."

"Quarantined!" cried Patty, who knew that this meant several weeks' imprisonment; "oh, NO!"

"Yes," and Kit looked at her with pained eyes; "can you ever forgive me, Miss Fairfield, for bringing you here? But of course I could not foresee this awful climax to our pleasant party."

"Of course you couldn't!" cried Patty; -- "don't think for a moment that we blame you, Mr. Cameron. But, -- you must excuse me if I feel rather -- rather -- "

"Flabbergasted," put in Kenneth; "it's an awful thing, Cameron, but we must take it philosophically. Brace up, Patty girl, don't let this thing floor you."

Patty gave one look into Kenneth's eyes, and read there so much sympathy, courage, and strong helpfulness, that she was ashamed of herself.

"Forgive me for being so selfish," she said, as the tears came into her eyes. "Of course we must stay, if the doctor orders; I know how strict they have to be about these things. And we will stay cheerfully, as long as we must. It's dreadful to impose on Mrs. Perry so, but we can't help it, and we must simply make the best of it. We'll help her all we can, and I'm sure Marie and I can do a lot."

"You're a brick!" and Cameron gave her a look of appreciation. "Poor Lora is heart-broken at the trouble it makes for you girls, and for Harper. She quite loses sight of her own anxieties in worrying about you all."

"Tell her to stop it," said Marie; "I rather think that we can bear our part of it, considering what Cousin Lora has to suffer. Can Cousin Dick come home?"

"I hadn't thought of that!" exclaimed Cameron. "Why, no; that is, if he can't go back to his office again. We'll have to telephone him to stay in New York until the siege is raised. There are many things to think of, but as I am responsible for bringing you people up here, naturally that worries me the most. I'm not to blame for the maid's illness or for Dick's enforced absence from home. But I AM to blame for bringing you girls up here at all."

"Don't talk of blame, Mr. Cameron, please," said Patty's soft voice; "you kindly brought us here to give us pleasure and you did so. The fact that this emergency has arisen is of no blame to anybody. The only one to be blamed is the one who cannot meet it bravely!"



Chapter XI

Meeting It Bravely


"You're the most wonderful girl in the world!" exclaimed Cameron, in a burst of admiration at Patty's speech.

But Kenneth looked steadily at Patty, with a thoughtful gaze.

"You're keyed up," he said to her, gently; "and if you take it like that, you'll collapse."

"Like what?" Patty snapped out the words, for her nerves were strung to a high tension.

"Doing the hysterical histrionic act," and Kenneth smiled at the excited girl, not reprovingly, but with gentle sympathy. "Now take it standing, Patty, -- face it squarely, -- and you'll be all right. We're housed up here, -- for how long, Cameron?"

"I -- I don't know," said Kit, looking desperate.

"That only means you won't tell," declared his cousin. "Own up, Kit, how long did the doctor say?"

"Three or four weeks."

"Oh!" Patty merely breathed the word, but it sounded like a wail of despair. Then she caught Kenneth's eye, and his glance of steadfast courage nerved her anew.

"It's all right," she said, almost succeeding in keeping a quiver out of her voice. "We can have a real good time. People can send us all sorts of things, and, -- I suppose we can't write letters, -- but we can telephone. Oh, that reminds me; may I telephone Mr. Van Reypen at once, that I can't" -- Patty blinked her eyes, and swallowed hard -- "that I can't be at my -- at his party this evening?"

Mr. Cameron looked a picture of abject grief.

"Miss Fairfield," he began, "if I could only tell you how sorry I am -- "

"Please don't," said Patty, kindly; "I've accepted the situation now, and you won't hear a single wail of woe from me. Pooh! what's a theatre party more or less among me! And a few weeks' rest will do us all good. We'll pretend we're at a rest cure or sanitarium, and go to bed early, and get up late, and all that."

"Oh, of course we must all telephone to our homes," said Marie; "and I must say, I think girls are selfish creatures! We've never given a thought to Mr. Harper's business!"

"Don't give it a thought," said Kenneth, lightly. "I've given it one or two already, and I may give it another. That's enough for any old business."

"That sounds well, Ken," said Patty, "but I know it's going to make you a terrific lot of trouble. And Mr. Cameron, too! A civil engineer -- "

"Can't be uncivil, even in a case like this," put in Kit; "or I'd say what I really feel about the whole business! It would be worse, of course, if one of our own people were ill; but to be tied up like this because of a servant is, to say the least, exasperating."

"Babette's a nice little thing, and I'm awfully sorry for her," said Patty.

"So am I," said Marie; "but I'm like Kit. I think it's awful for half a dozen of us to be held here, like this, because a maid is ill!"

"But, Marie, what's the use of even thinking about it?" said Patty; "we can't help ourselves, we're obliged to stay here, so for goodness' sake, let's make the best of it. I shall send home for my pink chiffon, -- that's always a great comfort to me in time of trouble."

"Send for one for me," said Cameron, "if they're so comforting in trouble."

"I've only one," returned Patty, "but you can share the benefit of its comforting qualities. Now we'll have to take turns at the telephone. Suppose I take it first, and break the news to Mr. Van Reypen, for he'll have to invite somebody in my place."

"You're sure it's positive?" said Kenneth to Cameron; "you're sure there's no hope of a reprieve or a mistaken diagnosis?"

"No," said Kit, positively; "I made sure, before I told you at all."

"Of course you did," said Patty, trying to be cheerful. "I know you wouldn't have told us, until you were sure you had to. Now I'll telephone to Phil, and then to my home, and then, Marie, you can tell your people, and after that we'll let the men fix up their business affairs. What a comfort it is that we can telephone, for I don't suppose we'll be allowed to write letters, unless we fumigate them, and I won't inflict my friends with those horrid odours."

The telephone was in the library, and as Patty crossed the hall, she met Mrs. Perry coming toward her.

Mrs. Perry had her handkerchief to her eyes, and Patty went straight to her and put her arms around her.

"Dear Mrs. Perry," she said, "I am SO sorry for you! To have Babette's illness, and then to have the burden of four guests at the same time! But, truly, we'll make just as little trouble as we can, and I hope you'll let us help in any way possible."

"Oh, Patty," Lora Perry said, in a choked voice, "I feel dreadful about making you stay here in these circumstances! Just think of all your engagements, -- and all the fun you'll miss. It's perfectly awful!"

"Now don't think of those things at all. Just remember that your four guests are not complaining a bit. We know you're sorry for us and you know we're sorry for you, and we're all sorry for poor Babette. Now that part's settled, and we're all going to make the best of it. You don't go into Babette's room, do you?"

"Oh, no; I couldn't go near the baby, if I did. And the patient has a trained nurse, you know. Honestly, Patty, -- you don't mind my calling you Patty, do you?"

"No, indeed, I like to have you."

"Well, I was going to say, I don't really think there's a bit of danger of infection for any of us. But, of course, you know what a doctor's orders are, and how they must be obeyed."

"Of course I know; now don't you think for a moment of any petty little disappointments we girls may have. Why, they're nothing compared to your trouble and Mr. Perry's, and the boys'."

Patty telephoned Philip Van Reypen, and that young man was simply aghast.

"I can't believe it!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that you people are to be held up there for weeks? It's preposterous! It's criminal!"

"Don't talk like that, Philip. We can't help it. The Perrys can't help it. And it isn't a national catastrophe. Honestly, a few weeks' rest will do me good."

"Yes! With that Cameron man dangling at your heels!"

"Well, Philip, if I have to stay here, you ought to be glad I have some one here to amuse me."

"I'm not! I'd rather you were there alone! Patty, I won't stand it! I'm coming up myself, to dig you out!"

"Don't talk foolishness! If you come up here, you'll have to stay! They don't let any one leave the house."

"All right, then, I'll stay! That wouldn't be half bad."

"Philip, behave yourself! Mrs. Perry has all the company she can take care of."

"I'll help her take care of her company. One of 'em, anyway!"

"I won't talk to you, if you're so silly. Now listen. You go ahead with your party to-night, and ask some other pretty girl to take my place."

"Take your place!" Philip's growl of disgust nearly broke the telephone.

"Yes," went on Patty, severely, "to take my place. And then, when we get let out, you could have another party for me. Don't you see, it will be a sort of celebration of my release from captivity."

"I tell you I won't stand it! I'll have the confounded party to-night, -- because I'll HAVE to, but to-morrow I'm coming straight, bang, up to Eastchester!"

"Come if you like, but you won't be admitted to this house. And I think you're acting horrid, Philip. Instead of being sorry for me, you just scold."

"I'm not scolding YOU, Patty, but I won't have you shut up there with that Cameron!"

"And Kenneth."

"Harper's all right, but that Cameron boy is too fresh, -- and I don't want you to encourage him."

"All right, Philip, I won't encourage him. Good-bye." Patty spoke in her sweetest tones, and hung up the receiver suddenly, leaving Mr. Van Reypen in a state of mind bordering on frenzy.

Then Patty called up Nan, and explained the whole situation to her.

"How awful!" said Nan, in deepest sympathy, "both for Mrs. Perry and for you."

"Yes, it is; but of course there's nothing to do but make the best of it. Ken is splendid. If it weren't for his strength and courage I don't know how I'd bear it. But he won't let me give way. So I'm going to be a heroine and all that sort of thing, a real little Casablanca. Honestly, Nan, I feel ashamed of myself to think of my little bothers, -- when the boys have their business matters to consider, and Mrs. Perry is in such deep trouble. So I'm going to do my best to be cheerful and pleasant. They say we may be here two or three weeks or more."

"Good gracious, Patty!"

"Yes, I know, -- it's all of that! Now, Nan, I mustn't keep this telephone, for they all want to use it. But I'll call you up to-night or to-morrow, for a longer talk. I wish you'd send me up some clothes. Pack a suitcase or a steamer trunk with some little house-dresses and tea-gowns and lingerie, and send it along to-morrow. Then I'll tell you later what else I want. Tell father all about it, and ask him to call me up this evening. Good-bye for now."

Patty hung up the receiver, and Marie took her turn next.

"How did your people take it?" asked Cameron, as Patty came slowly back to the hall fireside, where they had all been sitting when the dreadful news was told.

"I told my mother," said Patty, "but I didn't give her a chance to say much. She was appalled, of course, at the whole business, but she's going to send me some clothes, and get along without me for a few weeks, -- although I can't help feeling 'they will miss me at home, they will miss me.'"

Patty sang the line in a high falsetto that made them all laugh.

"Mother's about crazy!" announced Marie, as she came back from telephoning. "Not that she minds my staying here, but she's sure I'll have the diphtheria!"

"No, you won't, Marie," said Kit, earnestly. "I asked the doctor particularly, and he said there wasn't the least danger that any of us would develop the disease."

"Then why do we have to stay here?" asked Marie.

"Because the house is quarantined. By order of the Board of Health. You may as well make up your mind to it, cousin, and take it philosophically, as Miss Fairfield does."

Kenneth telephoned to his office, and then Kit shut himself up in the library and telephoned for a long time.

When he returned, he said, with an evident effort at cheerfulness, "Now let's pretend that we're not kept here against our will, but that this is a jolly house party. If we were here for a month, on invitation, we'd expect to have a bang-up time."

"But this is so different," said Patty, dolefully. "A house party would mean all kinds of gaiety and fun. But it doesn't seem right to be gay, when Babette is dangerously ill."

"But she isn't dangerously ill," said Kit, earnestly. "It may prove a very light case. But you see the quarantine laws are just as strict for a very light case as for a desperate one. Now, I propose that we try to forget Babette for the present, and go in for a good time."

"But we can't do anything," said Marie; "we can't go to places or have any company, or see anybody or write any letters -- "

"There, there, little girl," said her cousin, "don't make matters worse by complaining. Here are four most attractive young people, in a perfectly lovely house, with all the comforts of home; and if we don't have a good time, it's our own fault. What shall we do this afternoon?"

"Let's play bridge," said Patty; "that's quiet, and I don't feel like anything rackety-packety."

"Bridge is good enough for me," said Kenneth, manfully striving to shake off the gloom he felt. He was really very much concerned about some important business matters, but he said nothing of this to any one.

They sat down at the bridge table, but the game dragged. No one seemed interested, and they dealt the cards in silence.

Cameron tried to keep up a lively flow of conversation, and the others tried to respond to his efforts. But though they succeeded fairly well, after the third rubber, Patty declared she could not play any longer, and she was going to her room for a nap.

"Come on," said Marie, jumping up, "I'll go with you."

"Yes, do, girlies," said Cameron, kindly. "A little nap will do you good. Come down for tea, won't you?"

"I don't know," said Patty, doubtfully; "I think we'll have tea in our rooms, and not come down till dinner time."

"As you like," returned Kit; "if we four have to live together for weeks, it won't do to see TOO much of each other!"

"Then perhaps we won't come down to dinner, either," said Patty, with a momentary flash of her roguish nature.

"Oh, you MUST!" exclaimed Kenneth, who couldn't help taking things seriously. "You two girls are the only bright spots in this whole business!"

"Thank you," and Patty smiled at him, as she and Marie went away.

"Come into my room," said Patty, "and let's talk this thing over."

Soon the two girls, in kimonos, were sitting either side of the cheerful wood fire, discussing the outlook.

"It's worse for you than for me, Patty," said Marie, "for you have more social engagements, and all that sort of thing, than I do. And besides, these are my relatives. But for you, almost a stranger, to be held up here like this, it's just awful! I can't tell you how bad I feel about it."

"Now, Marie, let up on that sort of talk! It's no more your fault than it is mine, and the fact of the Perrys being your relatives doesn't make a scrap of difference. To be honest, the thing nearly floored me at first, for I never had anything like this happen to me before. But that's all the more reason why I should brace up to this first occasion, -- and from now on, you won't hear another peep of discontent out of ME. If we have to stay here four weeks or eight weeks or twelve weeks, I'm going to behave myself like a desirable citizen. And I'm only sorry that I've acted horrid so far."

"You haven't acted horrid, Patty."

"Yes, I have; when we played bridge I sat around like an old wet blanket. Now I'll tell you what, Marie, let's plan something nice for this evening. Something that will cheer up Mrs. Perry, and incidentally ourselves. But isn't it strange how we can't make it seem like a house party? Really, you know, it IS one, and Babette isn't sick enough, -- at least, not yet, -- for us to be gloomy and mournful. And yet, for the life of me, I can't feel gay and festive. But I'm going to MAKE myself feel so, if it takes all summer! We've two awfully nice boys to entertain us, and you and I are good congenial chums. Mrs. Perry is a dear and the baby is an awful comfort. Now why, Marie, WHY can't we act just as if there wasn't any Babette? I mean, of course, unless she gets very much worse."

"It isn't our concern for Babette that makes the trouble," said Marie, slowly; "it's our disappointment at our own inconvenience, and being kept here against our will."

"You clever little thing! You've put your finger right on the truth. You're right! Our anxiety for Babette is real enough as far as it goes, but it's secondary. The primary cause of our gloom IS pure selfishness! and the amazing part is, that I never realised it until you showed me! Now I have always thought that the sin I abhorred most was selfishness, and here I am giving way to it at the first opportunity. Well, it's got to stop! Now, then, let's plan something real nice and pleasant for this evening, and have a good time."

"I don't think anything would be nicer than music," said Marie. "Lora has a violin, and Kit and I will play, and you can sing -- "

"And we'll all sing choruses and things, -- real jolly ones, and enter into it with some spirit."

"Yes; Lora loves to have people sing, and she'll enjoy that."

"And then other nights," Patty went on, bravely, "we'll get up some entertainment. Tableaux, you know, or theatricals."

"Yes, and we can play games and things. Now shall we go down to tea?"

"No," and Patty wagged her head, sagely; "it's perfectly true that we mustn't give those boys too much of our delightful society or they won't appreciate it! Let them wait for us till dinner time. We'll have our tea up here, and perhaps Mrs. Perry will be with us. Let the boys shift for themselves till dinner time, and then they'll be all the more glad to see us."

Nora brought the tea tray up to the girls, and with it a note.

"I thought they'd holler for us," said Patty, laughing as she read the note; "listen to this: 'Twin stars of light and joy, DO come down and illumine our dark and lonesome tea-table! We pine and languish without you! Oh, come QUICK, ere we fade away! Kit and Ken.' I thought they'd be lonesome," and Patty nodded her head, with a satisfied air. "Now you know, Marie, if we've got to take care of these boys for weeks, we must make them walk a chalk line."

"Yes, of course, Patty; shall we go down, or send a note?"

"Neither," returned Patty, with a toss of her head. "Nora, please say to the young gentlemen that the young ladies will be down at dinner time."

"Yes, Miss Fairfield," said Nora, departing.

A few moments later they heard the wailing strains of a violin, and listening at their door, heard Kit playing, with exaggerated effect. "Come into the Garden, Maud."



Chapter XII

A Surprise


"Good gracious, Marie!" exclaimed Patty, popping her head in at Marie's door, just before dinner time, "we haven't any clothes! Are you going to wear your party frock or the dress you wore up here?"

"'Deed I'm not going to put on my best gown for a little home dinner! The dresses we wore up here are all right. They're nice and pretty."

"But they're day frocks. I DO like to dress up for dinner."

"I'll help you out," said Lora Perry, who was present. "I've two or three trunkfuls of old-fashioned clothes, that ought to fit you girls fairly well. They're not antiques, you know; they're some I had before I was married, -- but they're pretty. Go in the trunk room and rummage."

So the two girls went to inspect the frocks.

"Why, they're beautiful," said Patty; "I really think they're a lot prettier than the things we wear to-day. Oh, look at these big sleeves."

"Yes, leg o' mutton they used to call them."

"I know, but they're more the size of a side of beef! But these are street dresses. Where are the evening things?"

"Here are some," said Marie, opening another trunk.

"Oh, how lovely!" And Patty pounced on a white organdy, made with a full skirt and three narrow, lace-edged frills. There were wide, full petticoats to go with it, and Patty declared that was her costume. Marie found a dimity, of a Dresden-flowered pattern, with black velvet bows, which she appropriated, and they flew back to their rooms in triumph.

The white dress proved very becoming to Patty, and the square-cut neck of the bodice suited the lines of her pretty throat and shoulders. She wore a broad sash of blue ribbon and a knot of blue ribbon in her hair. Marie's dress was equally pretty, and they laughed heartily at the full, flaring skirts, so different from the narrow ones of their own wardrobe.

They went downstairs together, and found waiting for them two bored-looking young men, in immaculate evening clothes.

"Good-evening," said Patty, dropping a little curtsy; "SO glad to meet you."

"Thought you'd never come," returned Kit. "What are you, anyway? Masquerading as old-fashioned girls?"

"Are they old-fashioned togs?" said Kenneth. "I thought they looked different, but I didn't know what ailed them."

"They're perfectly beautiful evening frocks," Patty declared, "and you're not to make fun of them."

"Far be it from me to make fun of anything so charming," returned Cameron. "Come along, Captive Princess, dinner is waiting." He tucked Patty's hand in his arm, and as they walked to the dining-room, he murmured: "You really are a Captive Princess now, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am; and if you're my Knight, aren't you going to deliver me from durance vile?"

"Of course I am. I will be under your window at midnight with a rope ladder and a white palfrey."

"Well, if I'm awake I'll come down the ladder; but if not, don't expect me."

"But if you want to be rescued, you must take the opportunity when it offers."

"Oh, I'm not so sure I want to be rescued. I'm ready now to make the best of things and I'm planning to have a real good time while we stay here."

"Nice little Captive Princess! Nice little Princess Poppycheek! And am I included in these good times?"

"Yes, indeed. It will take the four of us; and Mrs. Perry, whenever we can get her, to have the good times I'm planning."

All through dinner time Patty was her own gay, merry self. Babette was not mentioned, nor the fact that they were staying in Eastchester, under compulsion, and it might have been just a happy party invited there for pleasure.

Mr. Perry's absence was, of course, painfully noticeable. But Patty knew that Mrs. Peny had telephoned him all about the case, and she made no comment. She was determined that she would not be responsible for any allusion to their trouble.

After dinner Patty informed them all that a musicale would take place. Everybody agreed to this, and all joined in singing gay choruses and glees. Patty sang solos, and Kit and Marie played duets. Then Patty sang to a violin obligato, and altogether the concert was a real success.

"We ought to go on the road," said Kit, as he laid down his violin at last. "I think as a musical troupe we'd be a screaming success. Now, who's for a little dance to wind up with?"

"Do dance," said Mrs. Perry; "I'll play for you."

"Just one, then," said Patty, "for this is a rest-cure, you know; and I'm going to bed very early. Six weeks in the country is going to do wonders for me."

Though four weeks had been the extreme possibility of their stay, Patty whimsically kept calling it six weeks or eight weeks, because, as she said, that made four weeks seem less.

Cameron turned to Patty, as his sister began to play, and in a moment they were dancing.

"If we dance every night for twelve weeks," said Patty, "we ought to do fairly well together."

"When I think of that, I'm entirely reconciled to staying here," returned Kit. "Poppycheek, you are a wonderful dancer! You're like a butterfly skimming over a cobweb!"

"I don't dance a bit better than you do. You're almost like a professional, except that you're more graceful than they are."

"DON'T, Princess! don't talk to me like that, or I shall faint away from sheer delight! But as we both are such miraculous steppers, we might give exhibitions or something."

"Yes, or teach, and make our everlasting fortune."

"Well, I think we won't do either. We'll just reserve our glorious genius for our own enjoyment. Just think of dancing with you every night, for goodness knows how long!" said Kit.

"But you won't."

"Won't? Why not?"

"Because before we've been here many days we shall quarrel. I know we will. Four people can't be shut up inside four walls without quarrelling sooner or later."

"Well, let's make it later. And, anyway, I'm so good-natured, you couldn't quarrel with me if you tried."

"I couldn't quarrel with you while I'm dancing with you, anyway. But now this dance is over and there's not to be another one to-night. Good-night, everybody. Come, Marie," and taking Marie by the hand, Patty led her upstairs at once.

"Oh, DON'T go!" cried the two young men, but Patty and Marie only leaned over the banisters, and called down laughing good-nights, and ran away to their rooms.

Next morning, Patty declared they must adhere to the policy of keeping more or less to themselves.

"I can put in a lovely morning," she said; "I shall visit the baby in the nursery and I shall read for awhile, and I'll have a long telephone conversation with Nan and perhaps some other people, and I'm not going downstairs till luncheon time. You do as you like, Marie."

Marie declared her intention of doing whatever Patty did, so the two girls spent a pleasant morning upstairs.

Mrs. Perry reported that Babette was no worse, and that the doctor had said nothing further than that.

At luncheon time, the girls went downstairs and were greeted with reproofs for being so late.

"We'll play with you this afternoon," said Patty, kindly, "but you can't expect to have our company all day. I've had a lovely time this morning; Baby Boo is an entertainment in herself."

"Why didn't you let me come up to the nursery?" said Kit. "That Kiddy-baby loves me."

"She does, indeed," said Patty, serenely; "she's been asking for Uncle Kit all the morning."

"Cruel Princess!" said Cameron; "you're not a bit nice to your Knight!"

"I'll make up for it this afternoon," and Patty flashed him a glance that seemed greatly to cheer him.

After lunch they all went into the library. Patty threw herself into a big arm-chair.

"Now, I want to be entertained," she said; "I'm perfectly amiable and affable and good-natured, but I wish to be amused. Will you do it, my Knight?"

"Ay, Princess, that will I!" and Cameron made a flourishing and obsequious bow before her. "Would it amuse your Royal Highness to learn that you're going home this afternoon?"

"That is but a cruel jest," said Patty, "and so, not amusing. If it were the truth, it would be good hearing, indeed."

"But it IS the truth, fair lady." Cameron looked at his watch. "In about an hour, the speedy motor will convey us all back to the busy mart and to our homes."

"What do you mean?" cried Patty, starting up; for she saw that it was not a mere jest.

"May I make a speech?" and Cameron took the middle of the floor, while his hearers sat in breathless silence.

Mrs. Perry had a twinkle in her eye, Kenneth looked hopeful, but the girls' faces expressed only blank wonder.

"To begin with," said Mr. Cameron, in a cool, even voice, "we're not quarantined, and never have been. To proceed, Babette has not the diphtheria, and never has had. In a word, and I trust I shall not be flayed alive, -- this whole affair is a practical joke, which I have had the honour to perpetrate on Miss Patricia Fairfield, and for which I claim the payment of a wager made by the fair lady herself!"

Patty's blue eyes stared at him. At first, a furious wave of anger swept over her, and then her sense of justice made her realise that she had no right to be angry. It took her a few moments to realise the whole situation, and then she began to laugh.

She jumped up and went to Cameron, and with her little fist she pounded his broad shoulder.

"I -- THINK -- YOU'RE -- PERFECTLY -- HORRID!!" she exclaimed, emphasising each word by a pound on his shoulders.

Then she stood back with dignity. "How DARE you do such a thing?" she cried, stamping her foot at him.

"There, there, little Princess, -- little Captive Princess, -- don't take it so hard! Don't let your joy at your escape be marred by your chagrin at having been caught!"

"Do you mean to say, Cameron," said Kenneth, rather sternly, "that you trumped up this quarantine business, and it's all a fake?"

"Just exactly that," said Cameron, calmly, and looking Ken steadily in the eye.

"You've made me a lot of trouble, old man," and Kenneth's voice was regretful rather than reproachful.

"Oh, not so much," said Cameron, airily. "I took the liberty of telephoning your office after you did yesterday, and told them that it was probable you'd be back there this afternoon."

Kenneth stared at him speechlessly, stupefied by this exhibition of nerve.

"Did you know all about it, Lora?" demanded Marie, turning to Mrs. Perry.

"Yes," said that lady, between spasms of laughter. "I didn't want to do it, but Kit just made me! You see, Babette did have an awful sore throat, and we did call a nurse, but the doctor said, that while it might turn toward diphtheria, there was small danger of it. And, this morning, he said even that danger had passed. Truly, girls, I didn't consent willingly, but Kit coaxed me into it. Of course, I telephoned Dick the whole story, and he stayed in town last night, but he's coming home this afternoon. You're not angry, are you, Patty?"

"I don't know whether I am or not. I'm a little bewildered as yet. But I think, in fairness, I shall have to admit it was a most successful practical joke, -- as such jokes go."

"And it fulfilled all your conditions?" asked Cameron, eagerly.

"I'm not sure of that. We agreed that it must be clever and not unkind. It was certainly clever, but wasn't it a little unkind to cause trouble to so many people? Mrs. Homer, for instance?"

"No!" exclaimed Kit, hastily. "I telephoned last evening to auntie, and told her that there was probability that the quarantine would be lifted to-day. I telephoned the same thing to Mrs. Fairfield, but I told both ladies not to mention that to you girls, as I didn't want to raise false hopes. Oh, I looked out for every point, and you're not angry with me, are you, Princess?"

He was so wheedlesome and so boyish in his enjoyment of the joke, that Patty hadn't the heart to scold him, nor was she sure she had any reason to do so.

"I admit it," she said, "you certainly did play a practical joke on me successfully, though I didn't think you could. You have won the wager, and I shall of course pay my debt. But just now, I'm interested in the fact that we're going home. And yet," she added, turning to her hostess, "isn't it funny? Now that we CAN go, I don't want to go! Now it seems like a house party again."

Patty beamed around on them all, and seemed a different girl from the Patty of the last twenty-four hours.

"You were a brick!" said Kenneth, "through it all. I know how you suffered, but you bravely forgot yourself in trying to make it pleasant for the others."

"Nonsense! I acted like a pig! A horrid, round, fat pig! But, truly, it was the most different sensation to be quarantined here or to be visiting here. I wouldn't believe, if I hadn't tried it, what a difference there is! Oh, it's just lovely here, now!" and Patty executed a little fancy dance, singing a merry little song to it.

"Well, I'll tell you how to get even," said Mrs. Perry; "all of you come up here again soon, for a little visit, and leave Kit at home! Then I guess he'll be sorry."

At this, Kit emitted a wail of grief and anguish, and then the girls ran away to pack their things for the homeward trip.

Within the hour, they had started for New York. Patty had entirely forgiven Cameron, and was ready to enjoy the memory of the affair as a good joke upon herself.

"I don't approve of practical jokes," she said, by way of summing up. "I never did, and I don't now. But I know that I brought it on myself by making that foolish bet, and it has taught me a lesson never to do such a thing again. And I forgive you, Mr. Kit Cameron, only on condition that you give me your promise never to play a joke on me again. I admit that you CAN do it, but I ask that you WON'T do it."

"I promise, Princess," said Cameron. "Henceforward, there shall be no jokes between us, -- of course, I mean practical jokes. But you will make good your wager?"

"Certainly; I always pay my just debts."

"May I come and collect the debt this evening?"

"No, that's too soon; come to-morrow night, if you like. This evening I devote to a reunion with my family."

"Nobody else?"

"Possibly somebody else, -- somebody who was defrauded by your precious joke." And then a sudden light dawned upon Patty. "WAS your quarantine idea worked up in order to keep me away from New York last night?"

"Partly," said Cameron, honestly; "I didn't see any other way to cut out Van Reypen, and it fitted in with my whole plan, so why not?"

"It wasn't very nice of you."

"All's fair in love and war," and Cameron laughed so gaily, that Patty concluded it was wiser to drop the subject.

"I think it was awfully hard for poor Mr. Van Reypen to lose Patty from the party, because of your old joke!" exclaimed Marie.

"I don't mind that part of it," said Kenneth; "he might as well have a little corner of the joke, as the rest of us. But if I've lost a five thousand dollar deal on this, I'll sue you for damages, Cameron."

"Sue ahead," said the irrepressible Kit; "I've danced, and I'm willing to pay the piper."

Kenneth and Marie were left at their homes, and the car went on to Patty's house.

"May I come in?" said Cameron, as they reached it.

"No, indeed!" said Patty, and then she added, "I don't know -- yes -- perhaps you'd better. If father storms about this thing, I think you ought to be there and face the music."

"I think so, too," said Cameron, with alacrity; "I'd rather be there, and help my little Princess weather the storm."

They found Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield both at home, and they created an immense surprise by suddenly appearing before them.

"Why, Patty Fairfield!" cried Nan, "you DEAR child!" She wrapped Patty in her embrace as if welcoming one long lost. Nor was Mr. Fairfield less fervent in his demonstrations of welcome.

They shook Cameron warmly by the hand, and Nan rang for tea and said: "Tell us all about it! How did you get out? Was it a false alarm? Wasn't it diphtheria? Oh, Mr. Cameron, you relieved us so greatly last night, when you told us it might be a mistaken diagnosis! What is the matter with you two? What are you giggling about?"

And then the whole story came out. Cameron and Patty both talked at once, Cameron making a clean breast of the matter, and assuming all the blame, while Patty made excuses for him, and offered conciliatory explanations.

Nan went off in peals of laughter and declared it was the best joke she had ever heard.

But Mr. Fairfield hesitated as to his verdict. He asked many questions, to which he received straightforward answers.

At last, he said: "It was a prank, and I cannot say I think it was an admirable performance. But young folks will be young folks, and I trust I'm not so old and grouty as to frown on innocent fun. To my mind, this came perilously near NOT being entirely innocent, but I'm not going to split hairs about it. I don't care for such jokes myself, but I must admit, Cameron, you played it pretty cleverly. And you certainly did your share toward lessening any anxieties that might have been caused to other people. So there's my hand on it, boy, but if you'll take an older man's advice, put away these childish pranks as you take on the dignity of years."

"Thank you, Mr. Fairfield," said Cameron, "you make me feel almost ashamed of myself; but, truly, sir, I am addicted to jokes. I can't seem to help it!"

The handsome face was so waggish and full of sheer, joyous fun, that they all laughed and the matter was amicably settled.

"But I want my picture," Cameron said, as he rose to go.

"And you shall have it," said Patty, running out of the room.

She returned with a cabinet photograph, wrapped in a bit of tissue paper.

"Please appreciate it," she said, demurely, "for never before have I given my photograph to a young man. They say it is an excellent likeness of me."

Cameron removed the paper, and saw a picture of Patty taken at the age of two years.

It was a lovely baby picture, with merry eyes and smiling lips.

The quick-witted young man betrayed none of the disappointment he felt, and only said, "It is indeed a striking likeness! I never saw a better photograph! Thank you, a thousand times."

Then, amid the general laughter that ensued, Cameron went away.

The Fairfields discussed the whole matter, and Patty finally summed up the consensus of opinion, by saying: "Well, I don't care! It was an awfully good joke, and he's an awfully nice boy!"



Chapter XIII

Sister Bee


One afternoon Patty and Marie Homer were coming home from a concert.

Patty had grown very fond of Marie. They were congenial in many ways, and especially so in their love of music, and often went together to concerts or recitals.

It was late in March, but as spring had come early the afternoon was warm and Marie proposed, as the two girls got into the Homer limousine, that they go for a ride through the park.

"A short one, then," said Patty, "for I must be home fairly early!"

"Then don't let's go in the park," said Marie, "let's go to my house, instead. For I want you to meet Bee. She's just home for her Easter vacation."

"I can only stay a minute; but I will go. I do want to see Bee. How long will she be at home?"

"More than a fortnight. She has quite a holiday. Oh, there'll be gay doings while Bee's at home. She keeps the house lively with her pranks, and if she and Kit get started they're sure to raise mischief."

"How old is Beatrice?"

"She's just seventeen, but sometimes she acts like a kiddy of twelve. Mother says she doesn't know what to do with her, the child is so full of capers."

As the two girls entered the Homer apartment, Beatrice Homer ran to meet them.

"Oh, you're Patty Fairfield! I KNOW you are! Aren't you the loveliest thing ever! You look like a bisque ornament to set on a mantel-piece. Are you real?"

She poked her finger in Patty's dimpled cheek, but she was so roguish and playful, that Patty could not feel annoyed with her.

"Let me look at you," Patty said, holding her off, "and see what YOU'RE like. Why, you're a gipsy, an elfin sprite, a witch of the woods! You have no business to be named Beatrice."

"I know it," said Bee, dancing around on her toes. "But my nickname isn't so bad for me, is it?" And she waved her arms and hovered around Patty, making a buzzing noise like a real bee.

"Don't sting me!" cried Patty.

"Oh, I don't sting my friends! I'm a honey-bee. A dear, little, busy, buzzy honey-bee!" And she kept on dancing around and buzzing till Patty put out her hand as if to brush her away.

"Buzz away, Bee, but get a little farther off, -- you drive me distracted."

"That's the way she always acts," said Marie, with a sigh; "we can't do anything with her! It's a pity she was ever nicknamed Bee, for, when she begins buzzing, she's a regular nuisance."

"Sometimes I'm a drone," Bee announced, and with that she began a droning sound that was worse than the buzzing, and kept it up till it set their nerves on edge.

"Oh, Bee, dear!" Marie begged of her, "WON'T you stop that and be nice?"

Bee's only answer was a long humming drone.

Patty looked at the girl kindly. "I want to like you," she said, "and I think it's unkind of you not to let me do it."

Bee stopped her droning and considered a moment. Then she smiled, and when her elfin face broke into laughter, she was a pretty picture, indeed.

"I DO want you to like me," she said, impulsively, grasping Patty's hands; "and I will be good. You know I'm like the little girl, -- the curly girlie, you know, -- when she was good she was awful drefful good, and when she was bad she was horrid."

"I'm sure you couldn't be horrid," and Patty smiled at her, "but all the same I don't believe you can be very, VERY good."

"Oh, yes, I can; the goodest thing you ever saw! Now watch me," and sure enough during the rest of Patty's stay, Beatrice was as charming and delightful a companion as any one you'd wish to see. She was bubbling over with fun and merriment, but she refrained from teasing, and Patty took a decided liking to her.

"I'll make a party for you, Bee," she said. "What kind would you like?"

"Not a stiff, stuck-up party. I hate 'em. Can't it be a woodsy kind of a thing?"

"A ramble through the park?"

"More woodsy than that. The park is almost like the city."

"Well, a picnic to Bronx Park, then, or Van Cortlandt."

"That sounds better. But I'll come to any party you make, -- I know it will be lovely. Oh, I'll tell you, Patty, what I'd like best. To go on one of your Saturday afternoon jinks; with the queer, poor people, you know."

"They're not queer and they're not always very poor," returned Patty, seriously; "I'm afraid you'd tease them or make fun of them."

"Honest Injun, I wouldn't! Please let me go, and I'll be heavenly nice to them. They'll simply adore me! Please, pretty Patty!"

"Of course I will, since you've promised to be nice to them."

"Oh, you lovely Patty! Don't you sometimes get tired of being so pink and white?"

"Of course I do. I wish I could be brown and dark-eyed like you."

"You'd soon wish yourself back again. Can't you combine the woodsy party and the Happy Chaps, or whatever you call them?"

"I think we can," smiled Patty, who had already planned a Saturday afternoon picnic, and would be glad to include Bee.

"But Bee has to learn to behave properly at formal parties," said Marie. "I'm going to give a luncheon for her, while she's at home, and it's going to be entirely grown-up and conventional."

"Don't want it!" and Bee scowled darkly.

"That doesn't matter. Mother says we must have it, and that you must behave properly. You have to learn these things, you know."

"Oh, Bee will do just exactly right, I know," said Patty, as she rose to go. "If she doesn't, we can't let her come to the picnic. When is the luncheon, Marie?"

"We haven't quite decided yet, but I must send out the invitations in a day or two."

Patty went home, thinking about this sister of Marie's.

"She's an awfully attractive little piece," she said to Nan, later, "but you never can tell what she's going to do next. I think if she had the right training, she'd be a lovely girl, but Mrs. Homer and Marie spoil her with indulgence and then suddenly scold her for her unconventionality. Perhaps the school she's attending will bring her out all right, but she's a funny combination of naughty child and charming girl. She would stop at nothing, and I don't wonder that they say when she and Kit Cameron get together, look out for breakers."

A few days later, Patty received an invitation to Marie's luncheon for her sister.

It was formally written, and the date set was Tuesday, April the eighth, at half-past one. Patty noted the day on her engagement calendar, and thought no more about it at the time. But a day or two later it suddenly occurred to her that she had heard that Beatrice was to return to school on the seventh of April.

"I must be mistaken about her going back," Patty thought, remembering the luncheon on the eighth, and then, lest she herself might be mistaken in the date, she looked at the invitation again. It read "the eighth," and though Marie's handwriting was scrawly and not very legible, the figure eight was large and plain.

"She ought to have spelled it out," said Patty, who was punctilious in such matters.

"Yes," agreed Nan, "it's those little details that count so much among society people."

"Well, the Homers are dears, but they lack just that little something that makes people know when to spell their figures and when not to. I think it's horrid when people spell a date in ordinary correspondence. But an invitation is another thing. But I say, Nan, -- Jiminetty crickets!"

"I'm not sure that date-spelling people ought to refer to those crickets," said Nan, lifting her eyebrows.

"Well, Jerusalem crickets, then! and every kind of crickets in the ornithology or whatever they belong in. But, Nan, I've discovered something!"

"What, Miss Columbus?"

"Oh, I'm a Sherlock Holmes! I'm Mr. D. Tective! What DO you think?"

"If you really want to know, I think you're crazy! jumping around like a wild Indian, and you a this season's debutante!"

"Rubbish! most debutantes are wild Indians at times. But, Nan, I've discovered their secret! Hah! the vilyuns! but they shall be foiled! foiled!! FOILED!!!"

Patty raged up and down the room, melodramatically clutching at her hair and staring at Nan with her blue eyes. "It is a deep-laid plot, but it shall be foiled by Patricia Sherlock, -- the only lady detective in captivity!"

"Patty, do behave yourself! What is the matter with you? You act like a lunatic!"

"I'll tell you, Nan, honey," and Patty suddenly sat down on the couch, among a pile of pillows. "But first read that invitation and see if you see anything unusual or suspicious about it."

"I can hardly read it; for this writing looks like that on the obelisk, -- or at least it's nearly as unintelligible. But it seems to say that Mrs. Robert Homer requests the pleasure of your company at luncheon on Tuesday, April the eighth, at half-past one o'clock. Nothing criminal about that, is there?"

"Is there! There is, indeed! Nan, you're the dearest, sweetest, loveliest lady in the whole world, but you can't see a hole through a ladder. So I'll tell you. The date of that party is really April the FIRST. I mean, Marie wrote April the first! And if you'll observe, somebody else has put a twisty line around that ONE and made it into an EIGHT! Why, it's as plain as day!"

"It certainly is, Patty," and Nan looked at the girl in astonishment and admiration. "How did you ever happen to notice it?"

"Why, it just jumped out at me. See, a different pen was used. The line is thicker. And nobody would make an EIGHT that way. They'd make it all with one pen mark. And this is a straight up-and-down ONE, and that rest of it was put on later. And, anyway, Nan, if there were any doubt, don't you see it isn't TH after it as it ought to be for the eight, it's ST?"

"You can't tell which it is in this crazy handwriting," and Nan scrutinised the page.

"Yes, you can," and Patty stared at it. "You wouldn't notice the difference, if you weren't looking for it, but it IS ST. I see it all, Nan! You know Bee didn't want this luncheon, and to get out of it, she changed that date before the invitations were sent! And you see, by the eighth, she'll be back in school!"

"Are both dates Tuesday?" said Nan, thinking.

"Yes, of course, they are. Isn't it clever? Oh, Bee never got this up all by herself, -- that Kit helped her."

"But, Patty, then nobody will go on the first, and the Homers will be all prepared -- "

"That's just what Bee wants! One of her practical jokes! Oh, Nan, I do detest practical jokes."

"So do I! I think they're ill-bred."

"But the Homers don't think that, and Kit Cameron doesn't, either. We've discussed that matter lots of times, and we never agree. And, besides, Nan," and Patty had a new inspiration, "don't you see, this party was planned for the first of April, and Bee and Kit will call this thing an April Fool joke, and therefore entirely permissible. April Fool's Day is their Happy Hunting Ground. But I'm going to foil this thing, and don't you forget it! Seems to me it would be a pretty good joke if I'd turn the tables on those two smarties."

"How can you, Patty?"

"I haven't quite thought it out yet, but I have an idea."

"But, Patty, wait a minute. Perhaps they only changed the date on yours, -- just to fool you, you know."

"Good gracious, Nan! perhaps that's so! How did you come to think of it? But I'll soon find out."

Patty flew to the telephone, and in a short time learned that both Mona and Elise were invited for the eighth, and she concluded that the plotters had changed the date on all the invitations.

Next she called up Marie, and without letting her know why, asked for a list of the luncheon guests.

Marie told her at once, without asking why she wanted to know.

There were nine beside the Homers, and Patty was acquainted with them all.

She called them up each in turn on the telephone, and explained carefully that a mistake had been made in the invitations, and she hoped they would come on the first instead of the eighth.

Fortunately, all of them were able to do this, and Patty enjoined each one to say nothing about this change of date, until they should arrive at the party.

To a few of her more intimate friends, -- Mona, Elise, and Christine, -- she told the whole story, and they fell in with her plans.

And so it came about, that on the first of April preparations were going blithely forward in the Homer apartment, for Bee's elaborate luncheon.

It was all true, exactly as Patty had figured it out; and Kit and Beatrice had planned what they considered a first-class and entirely permissible practical joke.

They knew that Mrs. Homer would make elaborate preparations for the luncheon, but they agreed that there would be no other harm done. And to them, the fun of seeing the perplexity of Marie and her mother at the non-appearance of their guests, was sufficient reason for their scheme. Moreover, they fell back on the time-honoured tradition that any joke was justifiable on April Fools' Day.

In addition to all this, Beatrice did not want to attend the luncheon party, and as by chance it had been left to her to seal up and address the invitations that Marie had written, and as Kit came in while she was doing it, their fertile brains had discovered that, as the dates fell on the same day of the week, the first could easily be changed to the eighth! And the two sinners chuckled with glee over the fact that another luncheon would have to be prepared the week following.

As it neared one o'clock on the first of April, Kit strolled into the Homers' apartment.

"Run away, little boy," said his aunt, gaily; "we're having a young ladies' party here to-day, and you're not invited."

"Please let me stay a little while, auntie; I'll run away before your guests arrive. Mayn't I help you fix flowers or something?"

"No, you're more bother than help; now be good, Kit boy, and run away."

"Auntie," and Kit put on his most wheedlesome smile, which was always compelling, "if you'll just let me stay till the first guest comes, I'll scoot out at once."

Bee nearly choked at this, for did she not know that the guests wouldn't arrive for a week yet!

Mrs. Homer was called away to the dining-room then, and the two conspirators indulged in a silent dance of triumph over the success of their scheme. Not for a moment did it strike them as unkind or mean, because they had been used to practical jokes all their life, and this seemed to them the biggest and best they had ever carried off.

At half-past one Patty appeared.

She had laid her plans most carefully, and everything was going smoothly.

Mrs. Homer and Marie greeted her warmly, and Beatrice and Kit were not much surprised to see her, because she was liable to come any day. Beatrice looked a little surprised at Patty's dressed-up appearance, but as no one else appeared, she had no suspicion of what Patty had done.

They all sat in the drawing-room, and the clock ticked away until twenty-five minutes of two, but nobody else arrived.

Mrs. Homer grew restless. She looked at the clock, and turning to Kit, asked him if the time was right by his watch.

"Yes, auntie," replied that scapegrace. "It's almost twenty minutes of two. I thought you invited your friends for one-thirty."

"I did," and Mrs. Homer looked anxious. "How strange that no one is here, except Patty!"

Patty said nothing, but the enigmatic smile which she cast on Kit made him feel that perhaps she knew more than she was telling.

"Do run away, Kit," urged his aunt. "I should think you'd be ashamed to come to a party where you're not invited."

"Perhaps I shall be invited if I wait long enough," and Kit threw a meaning glance at Beatrice. "If your guests don't come, auntie, you'll be glad to have me to help eat up your goodies."

"Not come! Of course they'll come!" cried Mrs. Homer, and Marie turned pale with dismay.

"Well, it seems to me," went on Kit, "that it would be a jolly good April Fool joke on you all, if they didn't come. And" -- he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, -- "something tells me that they won't."

"What!" And Marie jumped up, her eyes blazing. Kit's roguish chuckle and Bee's elfin grin made Marie suddenly realise there was something in the air.

But before Kit could reply, Patty rose, and said directly to him, "How strange! I wonder what it is that tells you the luncheon guests won't come. How do you know?" -- and she smiled straight at him. "Something tells ME that they WILL come!"

Then Patty herself stepped into the hall, threw open the door, and in came eight merry, laughing girls!

Patty had arranged that Elise should stay downstairs and receive each guest, and keep them there until all had arrived. Then they were to come upstairs, and wait outside the Homers' door, until the dramatic moment.

Although not in favour of practical jokes, Patty couldn't help enjoying Kit's absolutely paralysed face. He looked crestfallen, -- but more than that, he looked so bewildered and utterly taken back, that Patty burst into laughter.



Chapter XIV

Kenneth


Mrs. Homer and Marie were greeting the newcomers, and as yet had hardly realised the whole situation, but quick-witted Beatrice took it all in.

"You Patty!" she cried, "oh, you Patty Fairfield!"

Patty's beaming face left no doubts as to who it was that had circumvented their plan and carried off the honours of the day.

"I'm so sorry you can't stay to luncheon," she said, turning to Kit; "must you really go now?"

"You little rascal!" he cried, "but I'll get even with you for this!"

"Please don't," and Patty spoke seriously. "Truly, Kit, I don't like these things. I'm awfully glad I could save Mrs. Homer and Marie the mortification and annoyance you and Bee had planned for them. But I haven't any right to talk to you like a Dutch aunt. If this is your notion of fun, I've no right even to criticise it; but I will tell you that if you 'get even with me,' as you call it, by playing one of your jokes on me, we'll not be friends any more."

"Patty!" and Kit took both her hands with a mock tragic gesture, "ANYTHING but that! To lose your friendship, Poppycheek, would be to lose all that makes life worth living! Now, if I promise to get even with you, by never trying to get even with you, -- how's that?"

"That's just right!" and Patty, as the victorious party, could afford to be generous. "Now run away, Kit. You promised your aunt you'd scoot when her guests arrived."

"Yes, I did, Princess, so off I go! I haven't told you yet what I think of your cleverness in this matter, -- by the way, how did you get on to it?"

"I'll tell you some other time; run away, now."

So Kit went away, and Patty turned back to the laughing group who were merrily discussing the joke.

Mrs. Homer and Marie were so horrified when they learned of their narrow escape from trouble, and so gratified that through Patty it had been an escape, that their feelings were decidedly mixed.

Beatrice was by nature what is called a good loser, and she took her defeat gaily.

"I had thought," she said, "that Kit and I were the best practical jokers in the world; but we've been beaten by Patty Fairfield! Now, that you're all here, I'm really glad of it, but I did think it would be fun to see mother and Marie hopping around, waiting for you!"

Then they all went out to luncheon, and among the pretty table decorations and merry first of April jests, Patty managed to smuggle in at Bee's place a funny little figure. It was a bauble doll dressed like a Jester or Court Fool. And he bore a tiny flag in his hand, bearing the legend, April first.

"I AM an April Fool!" Beatrice admitted, as she took her seat, "but I forgive Patty for making me one, if all of the rest of you will forgive me."

Bee made this apology so prettily, and her roguish dark eyes flashed so brightly, that forgiveness was freely bestowed, and indeed, as one of the guests remarked, there was nothing to forgive.

But the story was told over and over again, and Patty was beset with questions as to how she chanced to discover the fraud.

"Why, I just happened to," she said, smiling; "I think I'm a detective by instinct; but there's not much credit due to me, for I knew Beatrice and Mr. Cameron were always planning jokes, and I couldn't believe they'd let the first of April pass by without some special demonstration. So I kept my eyes open, -- and I couldn't help seeing what I did see."

"You're a Seer from Seeville," declared Bee, "and I promise I shall never try to trick you again."

"Which means," said Patty, calmly, "that you'll never cease trying until you accomplish it, and you say that to put me off my guard."

The baffled look on Bee's face proved that this was true, and everybody laughed.

It was that very same evening that Kenneth came to call, and Patty merrily told him the whole story.

She was not much surprised that he disapproved heartily of the joke.

"It isn't nice, Patty," he declared; "I may be dull and serious-minded, but I can't stand for jokes of that sort."

"I either, Ken," Patty returned; "but we must remember that people in this world have different ideas and tastes. And especially, they have differing notions of what constitutes humour. So, just because WE don't like practical jokes, we oughtn't to condemn those who do. We may like some things that THEY don't approve."

"What a just little person you are, Patty," and Harper looked at her approvingly. "For all your gaiety and frivolity you have a sound, sweet nature. And more than that, you have real brains in that curly-pate of yours."

"Goodness, Ken, you overwhelm me with these sudden compliments! You'll quite turn my head; I never COULD stand flattery!"

"It isn't flattery," and Kenneth spoke very earnestly; "it's the solemn truth. You are as wise and sensible as you are beautiful."

"Heavens and earth! Ken, WHY these kind words? What do you want?"

Harper looked at her a moment, and then said, steadily: "I want YOU, Patty; I want you more than I can tell you. I didn't mean to blurt this out so soon, but I can't keep it back. Patty, PATTY, can't you care for me a little?"

Patty was about to reply flippantly, but the look in Harper's eyes forbade it, and she said, gently, "Kenneth, dear, PLEASE don't!"

"I know what that means; it means you DON'T care."

"But I DO, Ken --  -- "

"Oh, Patty, DO you? Do you MEAN it?"

Kenneth took her hands in his and his big grey eyes expressed so much love and hope, that Patty was frightened.

"No, I DON'T mean it! I don't mean anything! Oh, Ken, please DON'T!"

"Don't say that, Patty, because I MUST. Listen, dear; I went to see your father to-day. And I asked him if I might tell you all this."

Patty looked at him, not quite comprehending.

"You went to see daddy?" she said, wonderingly; "he never told me."

"Why should he? Don't you understand, dear? I went to him to ask his permission to tell you that I love you, and I want you for my wife. And your father said that I might tell you. And now, -- darling --  -- "

"And now it's up to me?" Patty tried to speak lightly.

"Exactly that, Patty," and Kenneth's face was grave and tender. "It's up to you, dear. The happiness of my whole life is up to you, -- here and now. What's the answer?"

Patty sat still a moment, and fairly blinked her eyes in her endeavour to realise the situation.

"Ken," she said at last, in a small, far-away voice, "are you -- are you -- are you proposing to me?"

"I sure am!" and Kenneth's head nodded a firm assent; "the sooner you get that fact into your head, the better. Patty, DEAR little Patty, tell me, -- don't keep me waiting --  -- "

"But, Ken, I don't WANT to be proposed to, -- and least of all, by YOU!"

"Patty, do you mean that?" and Harper's strained, anxious face took on a look of despair.

"Oh, no, NO, I don't mean THAT! At least, not in the way you think! I only mean we've been such good friends for so long, you're the last one I should think of marrying!"

"And who is the first one you think of marrying?"

Patty burst into laughter. "Oh, Ken, you're so funny when you're sarcastic! Don't be THAT, whatever you are!"

"I won't; Patty, darling, tell me you love me a little bit, -- or just that you'll let me love you, -- and I'll NEVER be sarcastic! I'll only be tender, and gentle, and loving, -- and anything and everything you want me to be!"

"Can you?"

The eager light faded from Kenneth's eyes, as he answered: "No, I'm afraid I can't, dear. I know as well as you do, that I haven't the kind of gaiety you like in a man. I've told you this before. But, Patty, -- you've so much of that, -- don't you think you've enough for two?"

Patty smiled. "It isn't only that, Ken. Don't think that I care more for foolish, witty speeches than I do for a true, noble heart, like yours."

"DON'T say 'true, noble heart'! It sounds as if you didn't care two cents for me! But my heart, Patty, such as it is, is all yours, and has been ever since Vernondale days. Have you forgotten those?"

"No, indeed, and that's just what I say, Ken, we've been friends from the first, -- and we're friends now."

"But the time has come, Patty, to be more than friends. I have known it a long time. And I want you to know it too, dear. Patty, -- can't you?"

And then, all of a sudden, Patty KNEW she couldn't. Like a flash, she saw Kenneth just as he was, a strong, brave, true man, for whom she felt a warm friendship, but whom she knew she never could love. She might some time perhaps, in days to come, love somebody, but it would never, never be Kenneth Harper.

The thought made her sad, not for herself, but she hated to give pain to this kind, honest man. She realised the depth of his love for her, and it broke her heart that she could not return it.

"Kenneth," she began, "I can't love you the way you want me to, -- I just can't. And, anyway, I'm too young to think about these things."

"No, you're not, Patty. You're almost twenty and I'm twenty-four. That isn't too young, -- it's just exactly the right age for lovers. It isn't too young, Patty, -- if you love me."

"But I don't, Ken. I'm sorry, -- but I don't."

"But you will. Oh, Patty, say you will try to!"

"Kenneth, does love come by trying?" and Patty looked into Kenneth's face, with a wide-eyed, serious gaze.

"I don't know why it shouldn't. Take time, dearest, to think about it, if you want to, but don't say no, irrevocably."

"Is a woman's no ever irrevocable?" And a smile dimpled Patty's face.

"Oh, Patty, you are so sweet when you smile like that! Please say you'll think about it."

"It won't do any good to think about it, Ken. If ever I marry anybody, it'll be somebody that I know I'm in love with, without thinking about it."

"There isn't anybody, is there, Patty, that you know you're in love with?"

"No, there isn't," and Patty's honest eyes showed that she spoke the truth. "But I'll tell you what, Ken, YOU try to like somebody else. Marie Homer is perfectly lovely! or, -- there is Elise --  -- "

"Hush, Patty, you don't know what you're talking about. I'm in love with you, -- and you needn't suggest other girls to me."

"They're a great deal nicer than I am," said Patty, thoughtfully.

"Rubbish! You're the only girl in the world for me, and I want YOU. Are you sure there's nobody you like better than me, Patty?"

Patty rested her dimpled chin on the backs of her clasped hands and seemed to ponder this question. At last she said: "There's nobody I like better than you, Ken; but I've counted up nine, that I like just exactly as well. Now, what would you do in a case like that?"

"Now, what would you do in a case like that?"

"Patty, you're a torment! But if I have an even chance with the others, I shall get ahead, somehow. Are you sure you don't like that Cameron chap any better than me?"

"Not a bit better. He's good fun, but I can't imagine anybody falling in love with him."

"And -- Van Reypen?"

The pink in Patty's cheeks deepened, and the lids fell over her blue eyes at this question. Af-ter an instant's pause, she said: "I don't think it's fair, Ken, for you to quiz me like that. And, anyway, I can't tell. In some ways, I like you a heap better than Phil Van Reypen, -- and then in other ways --  -- "

"You like him a heap better than me!" Kenneth's tone was accusing, and Patty resented it.

"Yes, I do!" she said, honestly. "He's always ready for a good time and willing to give up things for other people. Why, Ken, when you've an important case on, you won't go skating or anything! I have to coax you to come to my parties. Now, Phil is always ready to go anywhere or do anything."

"But he's a millionaire, Patty. He doesn't have to grub for a living, as I do."

"It isn't that, Ken." Patty's quick perceptions had caught the flaw in Kenneth's argument. "It isn't that. It's because you're so absorbed in your work that you'd RATHER dig and delve in it, than to go to parties. That's all right, of course, and much to your credit. But you can't blame me for liking a man who is willing to throw over his business engagements for me."

"That's just like you, Patty, to see through me so quickly. You're right. I don't care an awful lot for society doings. I only go to parties and things to see you. And it's mighty little satisfaction, for you're always so surrounded by rattle-pated men, that there's no getting near you."

"Wait a minute, Ken; is it fair to call them rattle-pated, when you only mean that they enjoy the kind of gay chatter that you look down upon?"

"Oh, Patty, I do love you so! And when you say things like that, that proves what a big, clear mind you have underneath your frivolity, I love you more than ever. Of course, as you saw at once, I call them rattle-pates out of sheer envy and jealousy, because they possess that quality we're speaking of, and I don't. Teach it to me, Patty; teach me to be a gay society man, dancing attendance on gay society girls --  -- "

Patty burst into a peal of laughter at this notion of Kenneth's.

"I could do that, Ken, about as easily as you could teach me to be a quiet, demure, little person like Christine Hepworth. This is Christine:"

Patty sat upright with her hands clasped in her lap, and drew down the corners of her mouth, and rolled her eyes upward with a saint-like expression.

Then, "This is me!" she said. And jumping up, she pirouetted, whirling, around the room, waving her arms like a graceful butterfly skimming over flowers. Faster and faster she went, seeming scarcely to touch the tips of her toes to the floor, and smiling at Kenneth like a tantalising fairy.

Harper gazed at her, fascinated, and then as she hovered near him, jumped up, and caught her in his arms.

"You beauty!" he cried, but Patty slipped away from him.

"You haven't caught me yet, Ken," she said, laughing, "not for keeps, you know." The rollicking dance had restored her gaiety, and relieved the seriousness of the situation.

"You know perfectly well," she went on, standing across the room from him, and shaking a little pink forefinger at him, "you know perfectly well, Kenneth-boy, that we're not a bit suited to each other. I go through life the way I just flew around the room; and you go this way:" Patty dropped her arms at her side and marched stiffly around the room with a military air, gazing straight ahead of her.

"Now, how COULD we ever keep step?" she said, pausing in front of him and looking up into his face.

"I'm afraid you're right, Patty," and Kenneth looked at her with serious eyes. "But I WANT you so!" and he held out his arms.

"Nay, nay, Pauline," and Patty danced away again. "Who gets me, I think, will have to swoop down in an aeroplane, and grabble me all up and fly away with me!"

"Where do they keep aeroplanes for sale?" inquired Kenneth, looking at her meditatively.

"You dear old Ken!" and Patty danced up to him again and laid her hand on his arm. "Isn't that just exactly like you! You'd go right off and buy an airship, I believe, and try to come swooping after me!"

"Indeed I would, if it were practicable and possible."

"Yes, that's your motto: practical and possible. But you see, Mr. Ken, I like the impractical and the impossible."

"Supposing, then, that I take up those things as a serious study?"

"Oh, yes, a SERIOUS study! Is everything serious with you?"

"My love for you is very serious, Patty."

But Patty was not willing to treat it so. "That's the trouble," she said; "now if your love for me were frivolous --  -- "

"Then it wouldn't be worth having, Patty."

"Oh, I -- don't -- know! At any rate, Ken, can't you mix it? Say three parts seriousness to one part frivolousness? Though I'd rather have the proportions reversed."

"Patty, you're incorrigible!"

"Good gracious! what's that? It must be something awfully nice, if I'm it."

"Well, you are it, -- and I don't know what to do with you."

"You mean, you don't know what to do without me!"

"Same thing. But you'll promise me this, won't you? To think it over seriously and not decide at once."

"Yes, I'll promise that. How long do you want me to think it over, Ken?"

"The rest of your life, Patty."

"Ken, if you say such clever things as that, I'm afraid I'll fall in love with you!"

"Patty, darling, -- don't tease me like that! If I thought you meant it -- -"

"But, anyway, Ken, if I take the rest of my life to think this thing over, I can't give you an answer till my dying day! And that seems late --  -- "

"Patty, stop talking like that! You'll drive me crazy! Now listen, little girl, I'm going now. And you're going to think over what I've said to you. And -- try to think kindly, -- won't you?"

"I've never thought of you any way but kindly, Ken."

"Well, think more than kindly, then, -- think lovingly. Good-night, Patty."

Kenneth held out his hand and Patty put her little hand slowly into it.

As she felt his strong, warm clasp, a mischievous impulse moved her to say, demurely: "I think it would be polite, Ken, if you kissed my hand, instead of squeezing it to pieces!"

Kenneth gave her one look, dropped a light kiss on the back of her little hand, and with a courteous bow left the room.

For a moment Patty stood where he had left her, then, as she heard the front door close, she looked curiously at the back of her hand, almost as if expecting to see a mark there.

"Dear old Ken," she said, softly, to herself, and then she went upstairs.



Chapter XV

An Invitation


Notwithstanding the experience of the evening, Patty slept dreamlessly all night, and was only awakened, when Jane came in the morning with her breakfast tray.

"Hello, Jane," she said, sleepily, opening her eyes, "will you ask Mrs. Fairfield to come up here right away?"

"What is it, Patty?" said Nan, appearing a moment later; "are you ill? Jane said you wanted me right away."

"No, I'm not ill," and Patty gave her stepmother a quizzical glance. "Sit down, Nan, and brace yourself for a shock. In me you behold a charming young debutante who has received her first proposal from a most worthy young man."

"Good gracious, Patty! Kenneth?"

"None other!" And Patty waved her hand dramatically.

"Naturally, I'm not overcome with amazement, as he spoke to Fred about it first. Kenneth always has good manners. Well, and what did you say, Patty?"

Patty eyed Nan, provokingly. "What do you think, Nancy?"

"Honestly, Patty, I haven't the slightest idea. Ken is splendid, I think, -- but --  -- "

"But what, Nan?" And Patty looked deeply interested.

"First, what did you say?"

"I won't tell you, until you tell me what you meant by 'but.'"

"Why, I only meant that Kenneth is, -- well he's a dear and all that, but he's so --  -- "

"Oh, fiddlesticks, Nan, say it out! Dull, prosaic, old-fogy, poky, slow."

"Patty, Patty! those words are too strong! Ken isn't all those things! He's only, -- just a little bit --  -- "

"Just a day and a half behind the times. Or else I'm a day and a half ahead of them. Well, Nan, that's what I told him."

"What! that he was dull and old-fogy?"

"Not exactly those terms; but in a few well-chosen words I gave him that impression, or tried to. By the way, Nan, I danced all round the room while he was proposing. Was that correct?"

"Patty, stop your nonsense! Will you never be grown-up? You shall not make fun of Kenneth."

"Oh, Nan, I only wish I could! You might as well try to make fun of the Public Library. Kenneth is an institution. I always feel like saying to him, 'Sail on, sail on, oh, Ship of State!' or something like that. Now, wait a minute, Nan; don't you think I don't appreciate his sterling qualities. Like a Ship of State, he's made of pure granite, -- oh, NO, they don't make ships of granite, do they? -- I mean like the Public Library, you know. And he has solid foundations, -- mental, moral, and physical. But he hasn't any fancy work about him. Even the Public Library has flags flying, -- but Ken never thinks of anything as gay as a flag."

"Patty, you're talking a lot, but I do believe you know what you're saying; -- it's true, dear. And are you going to marry him?"

"Marry him!" And Patty looked distinctly aggrieved. "Why, Nan, do you think for a moment I'd accept my first proposal? No, sir-ee! After I've had half a dozen, I may take one seriously, but not before. How can I tell until I've seen various sorts? Why, Nan, Kenneth didn't go down on his knees at all! I thought they always did. Didn't father, when he asked you?"

"Oh, Patty, I thought you were up-to-date! Kneeling proposals went out with the Colonials! It's only a tradition, now."

"Gracious, Nan, how experienced you are! But I don't think I shall accept anybody until he kneels to me. But don't tell anybody that, for I don't want them all doing it on purpose."

"Patty," and Nan spoke seriously, "it's all very well for you to rattle on like this, but you mustn't treat Ken's proposal lightly. He's a splendid man and he's terribly in love with you --  -- "

"Wait a minute, Nan," and Patty was quite as earnest as the other. "Ken isn't TERRIBLY in love with me. I'd like it better if he were. He's deeply in love, even earnestly, -- almost solemnly, but --  -- "

"That's the best sort, Patty. Remember, dear, flirtation is all very well; but in the man you marry you want those qualities you've just mentioned."

"Oh, Nan, don't you be serious, too! Ken's seriousness almost finished me. And I suppose father will take the same tack! Oh, I don't want to be grown-up, -- I think it's HORRID!"

Nan looked sympathetically at Patty.

"I suppose, right here," Patty went on, "I ought to burst into tears. Don't girls always cry over their first proposal? But, Nan, I feel more like giggling. I can't help it. It seems so ridiculous for Kenneth and me to go through that scene we had last evening. We've been friends so long, and then for him, all of a sudden --  -- "

"It wasn't sudden with him, Patty. He's been in love with you for years."

"Yes, so he says. Well, Nan, I don't HAVE to marry him, do I?"

"No, of course not."

"Well, then, I'm not going to! And I don't want to be treated as if I were an ingrate because I don't! Ken is a splendid man, noble souled and all that, but I don't love him and never shall. Now please, Nan, be nice to me."

"Why, Patty, dear, I never dreamed of NOT being nice to you! I do want you to realise what you're throwing away, but if you couldn't be happy with Ken, of course, you mustn't marry him. He's a very different temperament from you, and I think myself he would be a sort of a weight on your buoyant nature. And if you're sure of your own heart, that's all there is about it. But you must tell Ken so, just as kindly as possible, for I know it will be an awful blow to the poor fellow. Did you tell him?"

"Yes, I did, but he insisted that I should think it over."

"Well, think it over. It won't hurt you to do that. And if you keep getting more and more certain that you don't love Kenneth and never will, then you'll know you're right in your decision. You're a dear girl, Patty, and I want you to marry some time, and just the right man."

"As you did."

"Yes, as I did," and Nan gave a happy smile. "You will probably marry some one nearer your own age, Patty, but you can never be any happier than Fred and I are."

"I believe you, you dear old thing! Oh, here's the mail, and I have not touched my breakfast yet."

Jane came in with a lot of letters, and Patty pounced upon one in particular.

"Here's a letter from Adele," she cried. "I hope she's coming to the city, she's been talking of it."

But instead of that news, the letter contained an invitation for Patty to come up to Fern Falls for a visit.

"Come to spend May-day," Adele wrote. "I'm having a small house party; in part, a reunion of our Christmas crowd. Daisy is here and Hal, of course, and we all want you. Invite one or two of your beaux, if you like, but don't bring any more girls; for we have two or three new neighbours with a superfluity of daughters. Come as soon as you can, and stay as long as you will, and bring your prettiest frocks. Oceans of love from me and Jim. Adele."

"That's good," said Nan, as she read the letter. "Why don't you start right off, Patty? Adele says to invite some young men if you like. You might ask Kenneth!"

"No, thank you. I don't want any of the boys. I'll be glad to get away from them for awhile. I must have some new frocks, Nan. Something Springy, you know."

"Yes, we'll go and order them to-day. I'd love to." Nan spoke absentmindedly, for she was reading her own letters, and Patty proceeded to open the rest of her mail.

That evening Kenneth came for his answer.

Patty had talked it over with her father, and had concluded the kindest thing was to tell Kenneth frankly, no.

The scene was not as difficult as Patty had feared, for Kenneth took the cheerful attitude of believing that she would yet relent.

"So long as there is no one else, Patty, girl," he said, very gently, "I'm going to hope that you will yet learn to love me. I shall never despair, until you tell me yourself that you have given your heart to some one else."

"And we'll be good friends, Ken?"

"You bet we will! You needn't think I'm down and out because you've said no, once! I'm not awfully swift, Patty, but I'm terribly persistent, -- and I'm just going to keep on loving you, in hope that some day you'll come to me because you want to."

"But there's no promise, Ken."

"No, dear, no promise. Only a hope in my heart, too deep to be rooted out, that some day -- "

"So -- me day! So -- ome day!" chanted Patty in a trilling voice, and Ken smiled in his old, friendly fashion.

"He is awfully nice," Patty said to Nan, afterward, "when he isn't proposing. There's something about Ken you can't help liking."

And Nan smiled and said, "That's so."

The days flew along, the spring frocks materialised and the grass and flowers began to be beautiful up at Fern Falls.

Patty went up there a few days before the first of May, and was welcomed by the Kenerleys with vigorous and jubilant greetings.

"You dear!" exclaimed Adele, as after a rapturous hug she held Patty off to look at her. "I do believe you're prettier than ever!"

"It's the happiness of coming up here," said Patty, smiling. "I'm so glad to come, Adele. The country in spring, -- and all that, you know."

"Yes," said Adele, laughing. "You know what the Boston girl said: 'Oh, I just LOVE nature! It ADDS so!' You're like that, aren't you, Patty?"

"Exactly! but spring is all over the city, too. They're selling flowers on every street corner, and all the pedestrians wear big bunches of violets or daffodils or magnolias or something. Daisy, you're looking fine! How long have you been here?"

"I came last week," said Daisy Dow, "and I'm awfully glad to see you again, Patty."

And then Patty was whisked off to her room, and not until tea-time did she see the rest of the house party.

Then her host, Jim Kenerley, appeared, and Hal Ferris, Adele's brother, and, greatly to Patty's surprise, Philip Van Reypen.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Phil," said Patty, after she had greeted the men of the house.

"I'm only here for a short time," returned Philip; "Mrs. Kenerley invited me to stay as long as I behaved myself; but you know, Patty, I can't do that very long."

"No, indeed! You'll be starting to-morrow morning at that rate!"

"Now, Patty, that's unkind of you. However, under your angelic influence, I may behave well enough to stay till the afternoon train."

"You're a beautiful behaver, Mr. Van Reypen," declared his hostess, "and I shan't let naughty Patty cast aspersions."

"What are those things, Adele?" asked Patty; "I'm sure I never cast anything like that at anybody, and I wouldn't hit him if I did. I can't hit the side of a barn."

"I know they say that about women," said Hal Ferris; "but I believe it's a base libel. At least, I think they could be taught to accomplish such a feat. I believe I'll organise a class of young ladies and teach them how to hit the side of a barn."

"But why hit it at all?" asked Daisy; "what has the poor barn done to be hit?"

"Lots of people get hit when they don't deserve it," said Kenerley. "But don't use our barn, Hal, use the neighbour's. Because under your tuition, your pupils might get proficient enough to hit it."

"I'm so glad to be here when it isn't winter," said Patty, looking around her. They were having tea on one of the wide verandas, which, though still enclosed with glass, had many panes open to the spring air.

"From now on, it's lovely here," said Adele; "almost every day we have one more sash open and then pretty soon we take them all out."

"It was lovely last winter, when we had tea by the hall fireplace, but this is better still," and Patty leaned back in her Japanese wicker easy-chair and nibbled contentedly at her plate of little cakes.

The tea hour at the Kenerleys' was always a pleasant affair, and in warm weather neighbours from the nearby country houses were apt to stroll over. On this occasion two or three came and Patty became acquainted with several young ladies.

"You know what I told you," said Adele to Patty, after they had left. "We have plenty of girls around here, but not many men. So for the May-party, I want you to ask a few of your friends to come up."

"All right, I will; the boys will all be glad to come. Which ones do you want?"

"I've already asked Roger Farrington, and we'll see about the others later."

"All right," said Patty, carelessly; "I've one or two new friends whom I'm sure you will like."

The next day Patty had a brilliant idea for a joke on Kit Cameron. It popped into her head quite suddenly, and she gleefully told her scheme to Adele and Daisy, as they sat together in Adele's own pleasant sitting-room.

"Doesn't Mr. Cameron know you're up here?" asked Adele.

"No; I haven't seen him for a week or two. He went South with the Homers and only came home the day I left."

The plan was carefully thought out, amid giggling and laughter, and the final result was achieved by Patty in the form of a much scribbled letter.

"Now I'm going down to copy this on Jim's typewriter," she said. And she flew downstairs to the library, from which opened a small office fitted up for Mr. Kenerley's home use.

Jim Kenerley had gone to business, and Van Reypen and Hal Ferris were playing golf, so Patty had the place to herself; and by dint of slow but persevering pounding on the typewriter, she picked out the following missive:

"Mr. Christopher Cameron: DEAR MR. CAMERON,

A few weeks ago I heard you play the violin at a concert! Oh, if I could tell you the raptures that thrilled my soul at the floods of melody you drew from the insensate strings! Only a poet's spirit, only a high-strung heart could accomplish such strains! I, too, am of a musical spirit; I, too, thrill to the notes of the great masters, if interpreted as they are by you! May I hope that you will not spurn this outburst of a sympathetic nature, and accept this tribute to your genius? Could I look for a line, -- just a word, -- in response to this, saying that you are glad of my appreciation? Never before have I written to a stranger. That is why I dare not use my own penmanship. Please do not seek to find out who I am, but send just a line that I may know you do not scorn my praise. Address Miss Belle Harcourt, Maple Bank, Conn."

The conspirators had decided upon the Maple Bank Post-office as being safer than Fern Falls, if Kit should by any chance hear that Patty had gone to the Kenerleys'.

"You know," said Patty, as she sealed the letter, "it might be mean to play this trick on anybody else, but Kit plays so many jokes on other people, he deserves it. And while he's not over-conceited, yet he's just vain enough to be tickled to death with this appreciation of his music. 'Miss Harcourt' will get an answer, all right! Come on, girls, let's get ready to go to Maple Bank."

And in a short time the three plotters were motoring over to the adjoining village to post the precious document.

Of course, they did not tell the men about this, and the three kept it an inviolate secret.

"We can hardly expect an answer for two days," said Patty, "but if I know Mr. Kit, he'll reply about as quickly as possible."

And sure enough, when the next day but one the three again invaded the little Maple Bank post-office, there was a letter from New York City for Miss Belle Harcourt.

"Read it, read it!" cried Daisy as they started homeward with their prize.

The three sat side by side in the motor, with Patty in the middle, and they all giggled, as Patty read the letter aloud.

"Dear Miss Harcourt:

I cannot tell you what pleasure your letter gave me. It is so delightful to learn that a stranger is interested in my poor attempts at making music. And -- may I say it? -- the personal charm of your letter has thrilled my heart! Only a pure, sweet, young nature could write as you do. May I not see you? Or at least will you not send me your photograph? I know I have no right to ask this, but I would so love to meet one so sympathetic and appreciative of the great art which is the ideal of my life.

With many, many thanks for your welcome letter, I am,

Very sincerely yours, CHRISTOPHER CAMERON."

"I knew he'd do it!" cried Patty. "I knew he'd fall for that flattery! Kit's a perfect dear, but he IS vain of his music, and I don't blame him. He's a wonderful violinist."

"What are you going to do next, Patty?" asked Adele. "Answer that letter?"

"Sure!" returned Patty; "but I'm not running this thing alone. We must all help make up the letter. And, Adele, haven't you some photograph that will be just right to send?"

As soon as they reached home they hunted over Adele's collection of photographs, and finally found one that Patty declared just right.

It was a picture of one of Adele's cousins, a girl of about sixteen, whose sweet young face wore an expression so soulful and languishing that it was almost comical.

"Hester hates that picture," said Adele; "she never looks that way really, -- like a sick calf, -- but somehow the photographer managed to catch that expression."

"She wouldn't mind if she knew, would she?" said Patty.

"Oh, mercy, no! She'd think it the best joke in the world. She lives in California, so there's little chance of Mr. Cameron ever seeing her. Now let's write the letter."

After much agony of composition and much gay fooling, the plotters produced this:

"Dear Mr. Christopher:

I must modify your more formal name a little, -- for it seems now as if I almost knew you. I tremble with fear lest some one should discover that I write to you. But I cannot help writing. I am impelled by a feeling in my soul. I send my picture and I wish it were more beautiful. For I know you love only what is good and beautiful. We must not meet, that would be TOO dangerous. But will you not write me one more precious letter that I may keep it forever?

Belle."

There had been much discussion over the signature. Adele preferred "Yours devotedly"; Daisy wanted "Yours adoringly"; but Patty stood out for the name alone, saying that it meant more that way.

And so the letter enclosing the picture was despatched to Kit, who received it duly.



Chapter XVI

Belle Harcourt


As quickly as possible the answer came back.

It was a rainy day, and Adele sent the chauffeur to Maple Bank after it.

The three gathered in Patty's room to hear it read, and were not surprised that it ran after this manner:

"Belle:

How could you know the dearest way to sign yourself? Any other word would have spoiled it! But Belle! My beautiful one! I MUST see you! The picture is just what I anticipated, only more sweet and soulful. You are an angel, and I must see you or die. Do not make me wait. May I fly to Maple Bank at once? Meet me somewhere. No one will know it, -- but I must look once into those dear eyes!

Your own

Christopher."

"Oh, Kit, Kit!" exclaimed Patty, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes; "I didn't know you COULD be such an idiot! Adele, we must have him come up here."

"Oh, of course. How shall we arrange a meeting?"

"I'll tell you," said Daisy, "write him that Belle will meet him in front of the Maple Bank post-office. Then let Patty meet him, you know, and we'll sit in the car and see the fun."

"All right," Patty agreed. "WON'T he be mad when he sees ME!"

So they wrote:

"My Christopher:

I knew we were made for each other. I, too, feel that I must see you. But our meeting must be secret. I cannot risk my people knowing about it. So, will you meet me in front of the Maple Bank post-office at four o'clock on Thursday afternoon? I would like a more secluded place, but I dare not. The post-office is on a beautiful maple-shaded street and we can meet casually, as if we were ordinary passersby. You must only speak with me a few moments, and let me look once deep in your eyes, and then you must pass on, -- out of my life forever! But I shall have at least one moment of blissful rapture! You will know me, because I shall wear white, with pink roses in my hat, and a pink parasol. I can hardly wait for Thursday! Come soon to

Your

Belle."

"I rather guess that'll fetch him," observed Patty, complacently, as she sealed the envelope. "I knew Kit was a romantic goose, but I didn't suppose he'd be up to these tricks."

"Of course we'll bring him home with us, Patty," said Adele.

"Yes, he'll come fast enough."

"If he isn't too mad at you," put in Daisy.

"Oh, he won't be mad," returned Patty; "he'll be terribly cut up at first, to think I tricked him so, but he'll get over it. And I warn you, Adele, if he comes here he'll play some fearful joke on us to get even."

"I don't mind," said Adele, "I like a joke once in awhile as well as anybody else. Now if he comes Thursday, Patty, will he stay over Saturday? That's May-day, you know, and I'd like to have him here for the celebration."

"He'll be here if you ask him; even if he has to go back to the city Friday and come up again for Saturday. Phil and Roger come Saturday, you know."

Van Reypen had gone back to town for a few days, and Hal Ferris was also away on business, which was one reason why the girls had plunged so interestedly into their merry scheme.

Thursday afternoon they started for Maple Bank in time to be at the post-office before four o'clock, and witness the arrival of Mr. Cameron.

Patty looked her dainty best, in a white linen, with a broad-brimmed hat wreathed with pink roses. Her pink parasol was flounced with chiffon and adorned with a bunch of pink roses, and two rose blooms were tucked in her belt.

"Rather summery garb, for the last of April," said Patty, gazing at herself in Adele's long mirror; "but I said I'd wear white before I thought. However, it's a lovely day, and with my motor coat I'll be warm enough going over."

They started off in high spirits, and reached the post-office at quarter before four. Kit was already there, walking calmly up and down the maple-shaded village street, and apparently waiting with properly concealed impatience.

In accordance with directions, the chauffeur drove right past the post-office and around a corner, where the three conspirators might indulge in a burst of laughter.

"I shan't appear until a few minutes after four," said Patty; "it isn't feminine to keep an appointment on time."

So they went up and down some other streets until just the right time, and then Patty got out of the car, as she intended to walk to the tryst.

The car, with Adele and Daisy, whizzed away and took up a position exactly opposite the post-office, stopping there to watch the show.

Of course Cameron paid no attention to this car, and continued to patrol the sidewalk with slow, even steps.

At last, as he walked along, he saw a girl in white coming toward him. Her pink parasol completely concealed her face, but Cameron knew it was his "Belle."

He walked on slowly, and Patty did too, until they met and both stopped. Gently he raised the intruding parasol and turned it to one side.

But even then, he could not see Patty's face, for she had arranged her broad-brimmed hat to droop over it, and she hung her head as if in extreme shyness. But she put out her hand and Cameron clasped it in his own.

"Belle," he murmured, "MY Belle! Look at me, please!"

Suddenly Patty lifted her head, and smiled into Kit Cameron's face.

He took a step backward, and staggered almost as if he would fall.

"Patty Fairfield!" he exclaimed, "what does this mean? Why are you here? I expected -- oh, I beg your pardon -- I -- I'm aw-awfully glad to see you."

Adele and Daisy, watching them, were convulsed at Cameron's baffled surprise. They could almost hear what he said. They could see how he tried to pull himself together, and they could see Patty speechless with laughter, as she enjoyed the joke on Kit.

"What are YOU doing in Maple Bank?" she said, as soon as she could speak for laughing.

Kit looked at her gravely. "I came expressly to meet a girl in a white frock and pink roses. I don't see any other around, so -- it might as well be you!"

"You needn't try to turn it off so carelessly," said Patty. "Own up that you're caught! What was your girl's name?"

"Belle -- My Belle -- " And Cameron rolled his eyes in such soulful manner, that Patty went off in another paroxysm.

"Oh, you Joke King, you! Nobody can trick you, can they? Do you own up?"

"Own up what? that I'd rather see you than any other belle? Certainly, I'll own that. But my time is up. You know we were only to gaze once into each other's eyes and then part forever!" And Kit gazed into her eyes as if it were indeed the last time.

"That'll do," said Patty, laughing again. "The farce is over. Now come and be real. Your own beautiful real self. Come and meet my friends."

"Who?" said Kit, as he accompanied Patty across the street.

"Here he is," sang out Patty, as they reached the car. "Mrs. Kenerley, -- Miss Dow, -- may I present Mr. Cameron, the celebrated violin virtuoso."

Adele greeted him warmly, and Daisy smiled on him, and Cameron's own delightful manner soon made them all friends.

"Jump in and go home with us, Mr. Cameron," said Adele, turning down a side seat in the car.

"But my stay in Maple Bank is limited," said Kit. "I'm due to take the next train back to New York."

"Come back with us to tea, anyway," said Adele.

"You can stay to dinner, too," said Patty, "and take a late train down from Fern Falls."

"But you see, though I dressed with particular care to meet a very charming young lady, I didn't expect to dine with her."

"Oh, no matter," said Adele; "we won't be formal to-night. But if you will, Mr. Cameron, we'd like to have you come back on Saturday for our May-day celebration."

"Will I!" said Kit; "you're awfully good to ask me, Mrs. Kenerley, after you've discovered what a wicked young man I am, thus to follow up invitations from strange ladies. But you see the photograph that came to me was so charming that the temptation was irresistible."

"If you'd known it was only me, you wouldn't have come, would you?" asked Patty.

Kit regarded her solemnly. Then he waved his hand, as if dismissing a question of no moment. "It doesn't matter," he said, "all young ladies in pink and white look alike to me."

"Then I'm glad I'm not in pink and white," said Daisy, who was looking very pretty in a blue linen frock, with wide black ribbons.

"So am I," and Kit smiled at her approvingly. "You look so different, it's a pleasure to observe you."

Cameron had a charming way of talking nonsense, and before they reached home both Daisy and Adele had taken a decided liking to the gay young man.

They had tea on the glass-paned veranda, and it was not until they were all comfortably seated, with their teacups in hand, that Cameron said, casually: "Oh, by the way, Patty, I have a note for you from Mrs. Fairfield, and a parcel."

He took from his pocket a letter and a little box.

"Oh, thank you," said Patty, taking them "May I?" she added, as she opened the note.

As Patty read, her face grew longer and her eyes grew bigger. As she finished, she looked at Cameron, who was gazing at her with his eyes full of laughter.

"You Kit!" she exclaimed; "oh, you Kit Cameron! Can nobody EVER get ahead of you? Girls, listen to this! It's a note from Nan, and she says: 'Dear Patty: Mr. Cameron says he's going to see you to-morrow. Has Adele invited him to Fern Falls? How nice for you all. He won't tell me how she happened to do so, but I suppose it was through you. I'm sending you by him your pearl pin, which you forgot. Oceans of love, from Nan.' Now, how in the name of common sense, did you happen to tell Nan that you were coming to see me?"

"Why, I was there last night, and I knew I was coming up here to-day; so I told her, and she asked me to bring your pin. And I said I would. That's all."

"But how did you know you were coming here?" persisted Patty.

"I didn't know I was coming here, and I didn't tell Mrs. Fairfield I was. I only told her I should see you. I can't help what she assumed, -- and I have delivered the pin in safety."

"But how did you know you were going to see me?"

"My dear child, do you suppose for one minute that I fell for that Belle Harcourt business? Didn't you know that I would know that that very first letter was written by your fairy fingers?"

"Why, Mr. Cameron!" exclaimed Adele, "weren't you really fooled?"

"You WERE!" exclaimed Daisy. "You were at first, anyway."

"Not for a minute, Miss Dow," and Kit smiled lazily at her. "I'm not over-modest about my wonderful musical genius, but somehow I couldn't believe that a stranger appreciated me so highly. I just COULDN'T believe it, and something told me that it wasn't quite all it sounded. Then, says I to myself, if it isn't a real Belle Harcourt it's most probably Patty Fairfield. I had no idea you were away, but I telephoned the house, and some of your menials told me you were at Fern Falls. I had never heard of Fern Falls, but it was me for the atlas, and after much study, I unearthed Fern Falls and found it to be very decidedly adjacent to Maple Bank. So I put away my atlas, got down my arithmetic, and by its artful aid I managed to put two and two together. If I had found any one else but Patty Fairfield under that pink parasol, I should have been the most surprised man under the Stars and Stripes!"

"I think you're perfectly horrid!" cried Patty; "just per-fect-ly hor-rid!"

"You don't really, you know," and Kit smiled at her, calmly, "you're just as ready to admit yourself tricked, as I was."

Patty went off into a peal of laughter at the thought of how she had insisted that Kit should own up to being tricked, when they met; but she felt a little chagrined that her joke had fallen through.

"I'm glad of it," declared Adele, "for I may as well confess, Mr. Cameron, it had prejudiced me against you to think you would write those letters to a stranger."

"Oh, I wouldn't, Mrs. Kenerley," said Kit, with exaggerated earnestness. "Honest and truly, I wouldn't! I NEVER write letters to strangers, unless I'm SURE the strangers are Patty Fairfield. And I'm sure I shouldn't dare to write a letter to the young lady of the photograph that came to me. She looked like an angel in the last stages of nervous prostration."

"That's exactly what she did look like," said Adele, laughing. "I must tell Hester that! She's a school-girl cousin of mine, Mr. Cameron, and if she were here, she'd enjoy this two-story joke as well as any of us."

Cameron stayed to dinner, as he said, to make his peace with Mr. Kenerley when he came home, but really because he wanted to remain with the pleasant house party.

Hal Ferris came home at dinner time, too, and was greatly diverted by the whole story of the Belle Harcourt joke.

After dinner, it was warm enough to sit out on the veranda till time for Kit to go to the train.

At last the chauffeur brought the little runabout to the door, and Kit took leave of the merry group.

"Be sure to come back on Saturday morning," said Adele, as she shook hands with him.

"Trust me for that, Mrs. Kenerley. I'm so delighted with the invitation, I'm afraid I'll get here too soon."

"Come up on the noon train. The May party's at four o'clock. And now you must fly or you'll lose your train."

"Parting is SUCH sweet sorrow," said Kit, as he took Patty's hand, to say good-bye to her last.

Patty followed him down the steps of the veranda, and he was about to step into the car, when he said, "Come on down to the station with me."

"I will," said Patty, impulsively, and as there was no time to discuss the matter, she sprang into the car. Kit jumped in after her, and slammed the door and they were off.

"We've eloped," Cameron called back, as they whizzed away.

"All right," Adele called after them; "send Patty back by the chauffeur. There are extra wraps under the seat."

"What a duck you are to come!" said Kit, as they swung out through the gate.

"I didn't mean to; but I jumped in before I thought."

"Always jump in before you think, -- that is, if I'm around. If there's any danger of drowning, I'll pull you out."

"Oh, I can swim. Kit, I don't see how you knew I wrote that letter."

"Patty, it was plain as day on the face of it. Why, it sounded just like you from start to finish. Of course, if you had been in New York, I should have tried to suspect somebody else, but when I found you were staying only about six miles from Maple Bank, I knew it was you."

"Never mind, some day I'll play a joke on you."

"Thought you didn't approve of them."

"I don't, for other people. But you're so fond of them I feel as if I ought to do all I can for you."

"All right, joke away, little girl. I don't mind. I say, Poppycheek, what's this May-day business? An old-fashioned picnic?"

"Not exactly. It's a new-fashioned picnic. But they crown a May-queen, and all that sort of foolishness." "And who is to be queen?"

"Belle Harcourt."

"MY Belle! Oh, I'm glad of that. And so Princess Poppycheek is going to be made a queen! Well, so long as you're my Belle, you may be anybody's queen you like."

"I like an awful lot of people."

"Mostly men."

"No, sir! The men mostly like me. I like mostly girls. Don't you think Daisy Dow's charming and pretty?"

"Yes, she is a very pretty girl. You're fond of her?"

"I am now. I didn't like her at first, but I think it was because I didn't understand her. But now we're awfully good chums."

"And so you don't like the men?"

"Nonsense! Of course I do. I adore them. But not as much as I do my girl friends. And sometimes I think I like my married friends best of all. Aren't the Kenerleys just dear?"

"Then you'd like me better if I were married?"

"Yes, indeed. Will you get married, to please me?"

"Oh, anything to oblige. Will you pick out the lady?"

"Why, yes, if you want me to. There's Daisy Dow."

"Yes, there's Daisy Dow. But here's Patty Fairfield. I'd ever so much rather marry her! How about it, Poppycheek?"

"Nonsense, Kit, don't be silly."

"It isn't silly. You said you wanted me to be married and I'm awfully anxious to please you."

"Oh, do you want to marry me just to please me?"

"Well, I'm interested in the scheme on my own account, too."

"Well, don't bother me about it, now. I hate to answer questions in a speeding motor-car."

"Shall I tell him to slow down?" And Kit leaned forward toward the chauffeur.

"Mercy, no! you'll hardly catch your train now. A little faster, Jacques."

"Yes, Miss," and the chauffeur threw on a little more speed.

"Poppycheek, you rascal, I intended to miss that train."

"Well, you don't do it! see? We've enough to do to-morrow, without you bothering around. You can come up Saturday, but to-morrow we're going to be awfully busy."

"Van Reypen coming?"

"Of course. A party isn't a party without Phil."

"Huh! I'm not afraid of him. I can cut Van Reypen out any day in the week!"

"Not Saturdays. That's his great day." And Patty laughed tantalisingly.

"Just you wait and see! I'm not afraid! Bye-bye, Poppycheek."

They had reached the station just as the train was drawing out. Kit sprang from the car, slammed the door after him, and striding across the platform, swung on to the moving steps. He waved his hand at Patty and was gone.

"Home, Jacques," she said.



Chapter XVII

May-Day


May-Day, contrary to its custom, was a perfectly beautiful, balmy, sunshiny day.

Adele drew a long sigh of relief when she opened her eyes to this fact, for as the hostess of a large and elaborate garden party she had no care so great as the question of weather. And as all outdoors was a mass of warm sunshine, she felt sure of the success of her fete.

After luncheon she ordained that Patty should go to her room for a nap, as she had worked hard all the morning, and must not look fagged at her coronation.

"Make Daisy go too, then," said Patty, pouting, as she started upstairs.

"No, Daisy can do as she likes. She isn't tired and you are."

"But then Daisy will be here when the boys come, and I won't."

"You insatiable little coquette! You go right straight to your room and go to bed! You hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I can't sleep. I'm too 'cited!"

"Well, you can rest. Get yourself into a kimono, -- and I'll come up in a minute and tuck you up."

Adele went up in a few moments and found Patty leaning far out of her window.

"What ARE you doing, child? Don't lean out so far; you'll fall!"

Patty proceeded to draw herself back into the room. "Of course I won't fall, Adele! I was only trying to breathe all this whole May-day into my lungs at once. It's so beautiful."

"It is, I know; but, Patty, darling, you MUST behave yourself. Lie down and take a little sleepy-by till three o'clock. Then you can get dressed for the party."

"'I will be good, dear mother, I heard a sweet child say,'" trilled Patty, as she took down her hair and put on a kimono.

Then Adele tucked her up on the couch, in a nest of pillows and under a soft down quilt.

"Of course I trust you," she said, as she patted her shoulder, "oh, OF COURSE I trust you! but all the same, my lady, I'm going to lock you in!"

"What!" cried Patty.

But even as she spoke, Adele had scurried across the room, drawn out the key, and was already locking the door from the other side.

"Well!" thought Patty, "that's a high-handed performance! I don't really care, though. Now that I'm here, so comfy, I realise that I am tired." And in about two minutes Patty was sound asleep.

It was nearly an hour before she opened her eyes, and then with a little yawn she lazily wondered if it were time to get up. She glanced at the clock on her dressing-table, and as it was only half-past two, she felt sure that Adele would not come to her release until three o'clock. She lay there, her eyes wandering idly about the room, when she saw a startling sight. The floor, near her couch, was fairly strewn with sprays of apple blossoms. At first she thought she must be dreaming, and rubbed her eyes to be sure she was awake. Putting her hand down outside the silken coverlet, she touched a spray of blossoms, and picking it up looked at it wonderingly. There could be no doubt. They were real apple blossoms, and they were really there! What could it mean?

"Of course," she said to herself, "either Adele or Daisy came in while I was asleep and brought me these flowers, and sprinkled them on the floor for fun. It must have been Daisy, for Adele is too busy. How much nicer Daisy is than she used to be. And maybe that's not fair. Probably she always was just as nice, only I wasn't nice to her. Or I didn't know how to take her. Oh, my gracious!"

The last words were spoken aloud, and in a very surprised voice, the reason for which was, that a lot of apple blossoms had come flying through the open window and landed on the floor beside her. "It must be Daisy," she thought, "Adele won't let her in here, and she's trying to get my attention this way!"

Patty scrambled off the couch, her long golden hair a tangled mass around her shoulders, and her blue silk negligee edged with swansdown draped about her.

She went to the window, which was a long French one, opening like doors onto a tiny balcony. She stepped out on the balcony and looked down.

"BILL!" she cried, "Little Billee!"

And then, in her surprise, she almost fell over the railing, for down below on the lawn, with his smiling face looking up into hers, stood, -- Bill Farnsworth.

Patty gave a squeal of delight. "BILL!" she cried, "Little Billee"

"Look out, Apple Blossom!" he called back, in his big, cheery voice, "don't fall out of that balcony, and break your blessed neck! But if you want to jump, I'll catch you," and he held out his arms.

"No! I don't want to jump! Oh, Little Billee, I didn't know you were coming! Did you throw in the apple blossoms?"

"No, no, oh, NO! A passing highwayman threw those in! Why, what made you think I'd do such a thing?"

"Only because you still have a few left in your pockets," said Patty, laughing, for, sure enough, Bill had ends of blossom sprays sticking out of all his pockets.

"You see I didn't know how many it would take to wake you up," he said.

"How did you know I was up here?"

"Daisy told me. Adele wouldn't tell me, -- said you must sleep, or some such foolishness. Get into your togs and come down, won't you?"

For the first time Patty realised that her hair was hanging about her shoulders and her costume was, to say the least, informal, and with another little squeal, she sprang back into her room and closed the window doors.

Then she went and looked at herself in the mirror.

"Well, you don't look an absolute fright," she said, to the smiling reflection she saw there. "But to think of Bill being here! Little Billee! Bless his old heart!"

And then Patty flew at her toilet. Everything had been laid in readiness, and she began to draw on her white silk stockings and dainty slippers.

She was sitting before her mirror, doing her hair, when the key turned and Adele came in.

"For goodness' sake, Patty Fairfield! WHERE did all these flowers come from?"

"They came in at the window, ma'am, before I closed it," said Patty, demurely.

"Came in at the window! Nonsense, how could they do that?"

"Oh, the breeze was awful strong, and it just blew them in."

"Silly child! But I say, Patty, hurry up and get dressed!"

"I AM hurrying!" and Patty provokingly twisted up her curls with slow, deliberate motions.

"You're NOT! you're dawdling horribly! But you wouldn't, if you knew who was downstairs!"

"Who?"

"Oh, you're very indifferent, aren't you? Well, you wouldn't be so indifferent if you knew who's downstairs."

"Not, by any chance, Bill Farnsworth?"

"Yes! that's just exactly who it is! How did you ever guess? Are you glad?"

"Yes, of course I am," and Patty's pink cheeks dimpled as she smiled frankly at Adele. "I'm just crazy to see Bill again!"

"Look here, Patty," and Adele spoke somewhat seriously, "I want to say something to you, -- and yet I hate to. But I feel as if I ought to."

"My stars! Adele, what IS the dreadful thing?"

Patty paused in her hairdressing and, with brush in one hand and mirror in the other, she stared at Adele.

"Why, you see, Patty, I know you do like Bill, and -- I don't want you to like him too much."

"What DO you mean?"

"Oh, nothing. It even sounds silly to say it to you, as a warning. But, dear, I feel I MUST tell you. He's engaged."

"Oh, is he?" Patty tossed her head, and then went on arranging her hair, but the pink flush on her cheek deepened. "Are you sure?" she said, carelessly.

"Well, I'm not sure that he's engaged, really," and Adele wrinkled her pretty brow, as she looked at Patty; "but he told me last winter that all his life was bound up in Kitty, and he loved her with all his heart, or something like that."

"Kitty who?"

"I can't remember her other name, although he told me."

"How did Bill happen to tell you this, Adele?"

"He was here, and I was chaffing him about one of the Crosby girls, and then he told me that about Kitty. And somehow I thought you ought to know it."

"Oh, fiddlesticks, Adele, as if I cared! I can't understand why you should think I would care if Mr. Farnsworth were engaged to forty-'leven girls. It's nothing to me."

"Of course I know it isn't, Patty; but I just wanted to tell you."

"All right, honey; I'm glad you did. Now go on downstairs, and I'll be down in a few minutes."

Adele ran away and Patty proceeded to don her royal robes.

The coronation gown was of white chiffon, having no decoration save tiny bunches and garlands of flowers. It was not made in the prevailing fashion, but copied from a quaint old picture and was very becoming to its wearer.

Her golden curls were loosely massed and a few flowers adorned them.

Patty sat a moment in front of her mirror, talking to herself, as she often did.

"Of course Little Billee is engaged," she said to herself; "he's too nice a man not to be. And I hope his Kitty is a lovely, sweet, charming girl. I don't think, as an engaged man, he had any business to throw flowers in at my window, but I suppose that was because we've always been good friends. I don't see how he could tear himself away from the charming Kitty long enough to come East, but he's always flying across the continent on his business trips."

Daisy came into Patty's room then, and the two girls went downstairs together.

The guests had gathered for the garden party, and were dotted over the lawns or grouped on the veranda.

"Thank goodness it's a warm day," said Patty, as they went down the stairs. "Sometimes on May-day we have to go around in fur coats."

At the foot of the staircase Bill Farnsworth waited to greet Patty.

He came forward with an eager smile and took her two hands in his.

"Little Apple Blossom!" he exclaimed; "Patty Pink-and-White!"

For the life of her, Patty could not be as cordial as she would have been if Adele had not told her what she did. But though she tried to speak a genuine welcome, she only succeeded in saying, "How do you do, Mr. Farnsworth?" in a cool little voice.

Big Bill looked at her in amazement.

"You gave me a better greeting than that from your window," he said, in laughing reproach. "I still have an apple blossom left. May I give it to you?" and Bill produced a small but perfect spray which he proceeded to pin on the shoulder of Patty's gown.

"My costume is complete," said Patty, with a smiling dissent; "it doesn't need any additional flower."

"It needs this one to make it perfect," said Farnsworth, calmly, and indeed the pretty blossom was no detriment to the effect.

"Oh, Phil, how gorgeous you look!" and Patty abruptly turned from Farnsworth to admire Van Reypen's get-up.

"Me, too!" exclaimed Hal Ferris, stepping up to be admired. The men's decorations consisted of garlands draped across their shoulders and tied with huge bows of ribbon. On their heads they wore classic wreaths which Daisy and Hal had made, and which were really not unbecoming. The procession formed in the hall, and went out across the lawn to the May Queen's throne.

Hal Ferris and Van Reypen headed the line, Hal being the sceptre-bearer and Philip the crown-bearer.

Daisy followed these, carrying a silk banner which waved in the breeze, and she was followed by Baby May, carrying a basket of blossoms, which she scattered as she went along.

Patty came next, and surely a fairer May queen never went to her coronation. Patty's blonde beauty was well suited to the costume and floral decorations she wore, and she looked like a vision of Spring, incarnate, as she walked smilingly along. Behind her came Kit and Roger, who were Court Jesters. Their costumes were most elaborate, of the recognised style for jesters, and they carried baubles which provoked great merriment.

As Farnsworth had not been expected, there was no part for him on the program, but he calmly declared that he would be the band. He had brought a cornet, upon which he was a really fine performer, and he took up his place at the end of the line and played gay and merry music to which they marched.

The affair was exceedingly informal, and those in the procession chatted as they passed the guests who were mere lookers-on.

Baby May, indeed, left her place to run to her mother and give her a flower, and then dutifully returned to escort Patty.

The throne was under a bower made of evergreen boughs and trailing vines, interspersed with apple blossoms and other flowers.

As the procession neared the throne, Ferris, with his long gold sceptre, struck an attitude on one side, and Van Reypen, who carried the crown on a white satin cushion, took his place on the other side.

Daisy as Maid of Honour and Baby May as Flower Girl took their stand, and the two Court Jesters danced to their appointed places.

This left Patty alone, and, as there had been no rehearsal, she was a little uncertain what to do, when Farnsworth stepped forward and took her hand and gracefully led her to the throne, where he seated her in state. Then he made a profound bow and stepped away to one side.

Van Reypen came forward, and with a gay little impromptu speech, put a floral crown on Patty's head, and Ferris presented her with the long gilded sceptre.

Patty made a little speech of humorous greeting, and the coronation was declared over, and Patty was Queen of the May.

The guests came thronging around to talk to the pretty queen, and then they all went to the tea-tent. This gay and festive place was decorated with flowers and flags, and a delightful feast was served.

"Will you have an ice, Patty?" asked Farnsworth, "or something more substantial?"

"Here you are, Patty; I know what you want." and Kit Cameron came up with a cup of hot bouillon and a sandwich.

"Yes, indeed, Kit, I'm famishing. Thank you so much," and Patty ignored Farnsworth's remark entirely, and beamed pleasantly on Kit.

Farnsworth looked at her curiously for a moment, and then walked away.

He sat down by Daisy Dow, and said abruptly:

"What's the matter with Patty, that she doesn't like me any more?"

"Nonsense, Bill; she does like you."

"No, she doesn't. She's cool as a cucumber. She used to like me, but she's changed all through. I s'pose she likes those other fellows better -- and I don't blame her."

"They're both awfully gone on her," and Daisy looked at Cameron and Van Reypen hovering around Patty, who seemed to be sharing her favours equally between them.

"I don't belong here," said Farnsworth, gloomily. "I'm out of my element. I belong out West, riding over the plains and untrammelled by conventions."

"Don't be a goose, Bill," and Daisy looked at him kindly. "You've better manners than lots of these Eastern men, and you have a whole lot more innate kindliness."

"That's good of you, Daisy," and Bill flashed her a grateful look. "But I know the difference myself; I'm uncouth and awkward where those chaps are correct and elegant. I'm going back to Arizona and stay there."

"All because Patty Fairfield didn't welcome you with open arms!"

A flush rose to Big Bill's handsome face. "It is partly that, Daisy, but I can't blame her. There's no reason why that exquisite little piece of humanity should want to have anything to do with me, -- a big bear of a man."

"Honestly, Bill, you ought not to belittle yourself like that. I'm ashamed of you. But I'll tell you one thing: Patty is sometimes a little perverse. She can't seem to help it. She's a perfect dear, but she is a coquette. If you ask me, I think the more glad she is to see you, the more likely she is to be cool to you."

"Nonsense, Daisy! what sort of talk is that! Why should she act that way?"

Bill's straightforward gaze of blank amazement made Daisy laugh, but she only said: "I can't tell you why she does such things, but she does all the same."

Just then Hal Ferris came up and monopolised Daisy's attention, and Farnsworth, imagining himself in the way, strolled off. He joined the laughing group that was gathered around Patty, but he stood moodily silent, listening while she chaffed the others.

"It's getting chilly," Patty said, at last, "and I think it's too late to stay outdoors any longer. May parties are all very well while the sun shines. But as queen, I issue a royal mandate that now we all go in the house and dance."

"And as First Goldstick-in-Waiting, I claim the first dance with the queen," and Philip Van Reypen tucked Patty's hand through his arm and led her away to the house.

"And I claim the Maid of Honour," and Kit Cameron led Daisy away.

"Hold on," cried Hal Ferris, "the Maid of Honour is my partner."

"Possession is nine points of the law," and Hal gaily retained Daisy's hand in his own, lest she should escape him.

But there were plenty of other gay and merry maidens of the court, and soon several couples were whirling up and down through the great hall.

Farnsworth stood apart, not joining in the dance, and presently Adele came up to him.

"Dance with me, Bill," she said, with the freedom of long acquaintance.

"Thank you," said Farnsworth, and in a moment they had joined the other couples. Bill was a perfect dancer, and when they stopped, Adele said: "Why don't you dance with Patty? She is a lovely dancer. I'd like to see you two dance together."

Still with a grave face, Bill crossed the room to where Patty was standing.

"Miss Fairfield," he said, politely, "our hostess has ordained that I dance this dance with you." He clicked his heels together, and made a low military bow.

"Indeed," said Patty, coolly, "but the Queen of May takes no one's orders, not even those of her beloved hostess."

"Then you refuse?" and Farnsworth looked Patty straight in the eyes.

"Of course I refuse," and she gave her little head a disdainful toss. "This dance belongs to Mr. Van Reypen."

Philip was just passing, and as Patty laid her hand on his arm, he stopped.

"Certainly it does," he said, but it was easy to be seen that the dance was as much a surprise to him as it was a pleasure.

Farnsworth looked after the two, as they danced away. And then he turned on his heel and went in search of Adele.



Chapter XVIII

Moonlight


The May party was over, but a few of the guests, besides those staying in the house, remained for dinner.

"Shall I change my frock, Adele, or keep on this toggery for dinner?" said Patty.

"Oh, keep that on. You may as well be Queen of May as long as you can."

So Patty kept on her pretty, picturesque costume, and when dinner time came she made up her mind to ask Adele to seat her next to Farnsworth. But as the company paired off to go to dinner Big Bill was nowhere visible.

"Where's Mr. Farnsworth?" asked Patty, casually, of Jim Kenerley.

"Oh, he's gone. We expected him to stay the week-end, but he said he was due at another country house party, farther on somewhere, and he couldn't even stay for dinner."

Patty was sorry she had acted so rude to Bill, and sorry that he had gone. "But," she said to herself, by way of extenuation, "I didn't want to dance with anybody who asked me to because his hostess commanded him! He never even said he wanted to dance with me himself, but only that Adele said he must. But I do think he was mean to go away without saying good-bye to me!"

However, it was not Patty's nature to let her mind dwell on a disappointment, and she promptly proceeded to forget all about Mr. Farnsworth, and to turn her mind to her present partner. This happened to be Kit Cameron, and as he was in his gayest mood she responded and their conversation was of the merriest sort.

After dinner, Kit persuaded Patty to walk on the veranda for a bit of exercise. There was a large swing-seat, upholstered in red, which he declared was just the place for a tete-a-tete.

"But it's too cold," objected Patty.

"I'll get you a wrap," and Kit flew into the house and procured a long cloak, in which he enveloped Patty, and they sat in the swing together.

"What became of the Colossal Cowboy?" said Kit; "I thought he was here for the weekend."

"I thought so, too," returned Patty, "but it seems he had another engagement."

"I'm glad of it. You're altogether too fond of him."

"Fond of him! What do you mean? I'm nothing of the sort. Why, I scarcely spoke to him."

"I know it. That's what gave you away."

"Don't be a silly! I haven't the slightest interest in Mr. William Farnsworth, or his comings and goings."

"You'd rather have me here, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, EVER so much rather!" And Patty spoke with such intense enthusiasm that she was very evidently joking.

"But really, Patty, let's be in earnest just for a minute. Wouldn't you rather have me around than anybody?"

"Why, I don't know; I never thought about it."

"Think about it now, then. Honest, I mean it."

"Oh, don't mean things. It's too heavenly a night to talk seriously."

"Isn't it a wonderful night? Do you know a house party like this and moonlight on a veranda, like this, always goes to my head. I think week-ending is apt to go to one's head, anyway. But let it go. Let it go to your head, too."

"I don't think I'd better," and Patty spoke hesitatingly; "I might say something foolish."

"Oh, do, Patty! DO say something foolish! If you don't, I shall."

"Well, go on, then."

"May I, Patty? May I tell you that I've simply lost my heart to you, -- you beautiful little May Queen!"

"And is that what you call foolish?" Patty pouted, adorably.

"Yes, it's foolish, because I know there's no hope for me. I know you don't care one least scrap of a speck for me! Now, do you?"

"If you're so positive yourself, why ask me?"

"Oh, I MIGHT be mistaken, you know. Oh, if I only MIGHT! Patty, DEAR little Patty, couldn't you be my princess? My own Princess Poppycheek."

"I've been your Belle," and Patty laughed merrily at the recollection.

"There you go, laughing at me! I knew you would. That shows you don't care anything for me. If you did, you wouldn't laugh at me!"

"Oh, yes, I would! the more I care for people the more I laugh at them, -- always."

"You must be simply crazy over me then! If you don't stop laughing I won't swing you any more."

"Oh, yes, do, it's lovely to swing back and forth in the moonlight like this. The May party was pretty, wasn't it?"

"You're just trying to change the subject. But I won't have it changed. Let's go back to it. Patty, couldn't you stop laughing at me long enough to learn to care for me a little?"

"How can I tell? I don't know how long it would take to learn to care for you a little. And, anyway, I do care for you a little, -- but only a very, very little."

"Yes, I know that. You don't fool me any. You wouldn't care if you NEVER saw me again."

"Why, Kit Cameron, I would SO! If I though I'd never see you again -- I'd -- I'd -- I'd drown myself!"

"YES you WOULD! You little witch, how can you trifle with me like that, when my heart is just breaking for you?"

"Oh, come now, Kit, it isn't as bad as that! And let me tell you something. Do you know I think you are one of the very nicest friends I ever had, and I'm not going to have our friendship spoiled by any foolishness! So you might as well stop right where you are now. That is, if you're in earnest. If you're just talking foolishness on account of the moonlight -- and all, -- I don't mind. But I won't have you serious about it."

"All right, Poppycheek. I'm pretty serious, or I would be if you'd let me, but if you don't want it you shan't have it."

"Well, I don't. I don't want seriousness from anybody. And, anyway, Kit, I'd be afraid of seriousness from you."

"Why, Patty?"

"'Cause it would probably turn out to be a practical joke."

"Joke nothing! The regard I have for you, Miss Poppycheek Fairfield, is too everlasting real to have any joke about it!"

"And the friendship I have for you, Mr. Kit Cameron, is so nice and real, that I'm going to keep it up."

Patty knew from the undertones of Kit's voice that he was very much in earnest, and as she felt no interest in him beyond that of a good friend, she shrank from wounding his feelings by letting him go on further. And so she determinedly led the conversation further and further away from personal matters, and soon she gaily declared that it was getting too late for moonlight chat and she was going in the house.

Kit followed her in, and though he showed in no way the appearance of a rejected suitor, he was quieter than usual and less inclined to merriment. "He'll get over it," said Patty to herself, after she reached her room that night. "I s'pose all girls have to go through with these scenes, sooner or later. But I didn't mind Kit so much, because he was nice and sensible about it."

Then Daisy came in for a kimono confab, and perched herself on the edge of Patty's bed.

"What's the matter between you and Bill Farnsworth, Patty?" she asked without prelude of any sort.

"Nothing," said Patty, as she took the hairpins from a long shining strand of hair.

"There is, too. He asked me why you were so cool to him."

"He did! Well, I'm sure I don't know what he meant, for I wasn't cool to him, -- or anything else. I treated him politely, as I would any casual friend."

"Politely! I saw you refuse to dance with him, myself. If you call THAT polite!"

"If you want to know, Daisy, that was because he didn't want to dance with me. He said he only asked me because Adele insisted upon it."

"Patty, it's none of my business, but I do think you might be nicer to Bill, for I know he thinks an awful lot of you."

"Why, Daisy Dow! why should he think a lot of me when he's as good as engaged to another girl?"

"Engaged! Bill Farnsworth engaged! nothing of the sort. I know better."

"But he is. Adele told me so. Or, if he isn't engaged, he's very much in love with a girl named Kitty. Do you know her?"

"Kitty who? Where is she?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. But he told Adele his whole heart and life were bound up in this Kitty Somebody. So I'm sure I don't see any reason why I should be running after him."

"I can't imagine you running after anybody, Patty. You don't need to, for the boys all run after you. But it's very queer I never heard of this Kitty. I've known Bill for years. Let me see; there was Kate Morton, -- but I never thought Bill cared especially for her. And anyway, I can't imagine calling HER Kitty! She's as tall and straight as an Indian!"

"Well, Bill calls her Kitty; Adele said so."

"Oh, is it Kate Morton, then? Did Adele say that?"

"No, Adele said she couldn't remember the girl's last name. And I don't care if it's Kate Morton or Kathleen Mavourneen! It's nothing to me what kind of a girl Bill Farnsworth likes."

"Of course it isn't. I know you never liked Bill."

"I did SO! I DO like him, but just the same as I like all the other boys."

"Then what makes you turn pink every time Bill's name is mentioned, and never when you speak of anybody else?"

"I don't! And if I did, it wouldn't mean anything. I'm not specially interested in anybody, Daisy, but if I were, I wouldn't sit up and blush about it. You like Bill an awful lot, yourself."

"I do like him," said Daisy, frankly; "and I always have. He's a splendid man, Patty, one of the biggest, best natures I know. Why, at school we used to call him Giant Greatheart, -- he was so thoroughly noble and kind to everybody."

"Well, I'm sick of hearing his praises sung, so you'll please change the subject."

Daisy was quite willing to do this, for she had no wish to annoy Patty, and the girls chatted of other matters until Adele came along and sent them both to bed.

The next day was Sunday, and Patty didn't come downstairs until time for the midday dinner.

"I think you might have come down earlier," said Van Reypen, reproachfully, as Patty came smilingly down the staircase. "I wanted you to go for a walk this morning; it's simply great out in the sunshine."

"I'll go after dinner," said Patty; "isn't it funny why people have dinner at one o'clock, just because it's Sunday?"

"I'm glad of it. It'll give us the whole afternoon for our walk."

"Good gracious! if I walk the whole afternoon you'll have to bring me home in a wheelbarrow!"

"We won't walk far enough for that. If you get tired, we'll sit on a mossy mound in a bosky dell, or some such romantic spot."

After dinner, Philip held Patty to her promise of going for a walk. She didn't care about it especially, really preferring to stay with the gay group gathered on the veranda, but Philip urged it, and Patty allowed herself to be persuaded.

The country all around Fern Falls was beautiful, and a favourite walk was down to the Falls themselves, which were a series of small cascades tumbling down a rocky ravine.

Philip turned their steps this way, and they sauntered along the winding footpath that followed down the side of the falls.

"It is lovely here," said Patty, as she sat down on a rock for a short rest. "But I wouldn't want to live in the country all the year around, would you, Philip?"

"Not if you didn't like it, dear. Suppose we have two homes, one in the city and one in the country?"

"Homes for lunatics, do you mean?" and Patty favoured the young man with a wide-eyed gaze of inquiry.

"You know very well what I mean," and Philip returned her gaze with one of calm regard. "You know why I brought you out here this afternoon, and you know exactly what I'm going to say to you. Don't you?"

"Not EXACTLY," and Patty drew a roguish frown; "they all word it differently, you know."

"It is a matter of utter indifference to me how the others word it," and Philip leaned up comfortably against a rock as he looked at Patty. "The only thing that engrosses my mind, is whether I myself can word it persuasively enough to make you say yes. Do you think I can?"

"You never can tell till you try," said Patty, in a flippant tone.

"Then I'll try. But, Patty, dearest, you know it all; you know how I love you, you know how long I have loved you. Aren't you ever going to give me the least little encouragement?"

"How can I, Phil, when I don't feel encouraging a bit?"

"But you will, dear, won't you? You remember last winter when we went on that sleighride after the butter and eggs? Why, Patty, you ALMOST said yes, then."

"Why, Philip Van Reypen! I didn't do anything of the sort! I had no idea of saying yes, then, -- I haven't now, -- and I'm not sure that I ever shall have!"

"I'll wait, Patty," and Van Reypen spoke cheerfully. "I'll wait, Little Girl, because I think a love like mine is bound to win at last. And I know you're too young yet to make up your mind. But, Patty, there isn't anybody else, is there?"

"Anybody else what?"

"Anybody else who likes you as much as I do. Is there?"

"Now, Phil, how could I tell that? When people say they love you heaps and heaps, you never know quite how much to believe, or quite how much is just the influence of the moonlight."

"Well, there's no moonlight here now. So when I tell you how much I love you, it's all true. You believe that, don't you, Little Girl?"

"Yes, I believe it. But, Philip, I wish you wouldn't talk about it to-day. I'm tired of -- "

"Of having men tell you how much they love you? Poor little Patty! I'm afraid you'll have to put up with that all your life."

"Oh, horrible!" and Patty made a wry face. "I suppose some girls like it, but I don't."

"I'll tell you a way to avoid it, Patty. Be engaged to me, now, -- even if you won't marry me right away, and then, you see, other men can't propose to you."

"Do you mean be engaged to you, Phil, without intending EVER to marry you!"

"Well, don't consider the second question at present. Just be engaged to me, and then we'll see about it."

"No, I don't think that would be fair. You make it seem as if being engaged to a man doesn't mean anything."

"Patty! dearest! DON'T talk like that! It would mean all the world to me. And I'm sure I could make you love me enough to want to marry me, after awhile. If you knew how much I loved you, I'm sure you'd agree that you couldn't resist that love for long."

Van Reypen looked very handsome and very earnest as he gazed into Patty's eyes. And Patty looked very sweet and dear as she gazed back at him with a troubled expression on her lovely face.

Then with a sudden, impulsive gesture she put out both her hands and Philip took them in his own.

"Don't make me decide now, Phil," she said, and she looked at him with a pathetic smile. "I don't know what I want. I know I DON'T want to marry you, -- or anybody else, -- for a long time. And I don't think I want to be engaged to anybody just yet, either."

"Of course you don't, you dear little girl," and Van Reypen's tone was hearty and genuinely helpful. "You've only just begun to have your little fling, and enjoy yourself in your own sweet, butterfly way. And I'm not going to tease you or cause you one moment's worry. But, oh, Patty, darling, if ever you have a moment when you want to think about these things, think about me, won't you, dear? and remember that my whole heart is yours and my whole life is devoted to you. You don't understand now, what the whole love of a man means, but some day you will, and then, if your heart can turn to me, let it do so, won't you, -- little sweetheart?"

Patty was thrilled, not only by Philip's words, but by the deep and sincere love shining in his eyes, and which she could not mistake.

"You are very dear to me, Philip," she said, with absolute sincerity; "and I do want you to know how much I appreciate what you have said, -- and how grateful I am -- "

"Hush, Patty," and Philip smiled gently at her; "I don't want that. I don't want your appreciation nor your gratitude for what I feel for you. When you are ready to give me your love, in return for the love I offer you, I want it more than I can tell you. But until then, I want your friendship, the same good comradeship we have always had, but not any gratitude, or foolishness of that sort. Do you understand?"

"I do understand, Phil, and I think you're splendid! I want to keep on being your friend, -- but I don't want you to think -- -"

"No, dear; I promise not to think that you are giving me undue encouragement, -- for that is what you're trying to say. And you mustn't let my hopes or desires trouble you. Always treat me just exactly as you feel toward me, with gay comradeship, with true friendliness, or whatever is in your heart. But always remember that I am still loving you and waiting and hoping."

Philip gave Patty one long look deep into her eyes, and then, with an entire change of manner, he said lightly, "Now, my lady fair, if you are rested, suppose we walk back to the house?"

"I am rested," and Patty jumped up, "so you won't have to do what I feared, -- take me home in a wheelbarrow."

Van Reypen looked at her quizzically.

"Do you remember," he said, "the classic poem from which that quotation is taken?"

"It's from Mother Goose, isn't it?"

"Yes; but if you recollect, it was a bachelor gentleman who went to London. And when he returned he brought a WIFE home in a wheelbarrow. I'm not having quite THAT experience."

"No," said Patty, demurely, "but you haven't any wheelbarrow."



Chapter XIX

In The Runabout


When they reached the house, Patty went straight up to Mr. Kenerley, and said in a low tone, "Jim, I want to ask a favour of you."

"Anything at all, Patty Pink; anything, to the half of my kingdom!"

"Well, I want the little car, the runabout; and I want to go off for a little while, all by myself."

"Patty! You amaze me! Does this mean a clandestine meeting with a rustic swain? Oh, my child, I thought you were well brought up!"

"Don't tease me, Jim," and Patty looked really serious. "If you must know, though, it's because I want to get away from the rustic swains. I want a little time to myself. And if I stay here, the boys are all around; and if I go to my room, the girls won't give me any peace, and, oh, Jim, DO help me out!"

"Why, of course, you Blessed Infant. Trust all to your Uncle Jim! Come along with me."

The two started down the walk toward the garage, and Adele called out, "Where are you going?"

"Going to elope," Kenerley returned gaily over his shoulder, and they went on.

He took out the little car, which Patty could easily run herself, and putting her in, he jumped in beside her.

"I'll go with you, past the porch," he said, "and see you outside the gate."

So they dashed by the group on the veranda, not heeding their chaff and once outside the grounds, Jim said, "Are you sure you want to go alone, Patty?"

"Yes, please, Jim. I want to think a little."

"Oh, you GIRL! you needn't tell ME! some chap's been making love to you!"

"Nonsense!" but Patty's blush belied her words.

"I hope it IS nonsense, Patty, dear. You're too young to have a serious affair yet awhile. Take an old friend's advice and say no this time."

"Of course I shall. Don't worry about me, Jim."

"No, indeed. You've good common sense in that curly golden pate of yours. I'll get out here, and you go along, Patty, and have a nice little maiden meditation all to yourself, and come back fancy free, but don't stay out too late."

Kenerley got out of the car and went back to the house, and Patty drove on alone.

It was just what she wanted, an opportunity to think over what Philip had said. And she was fond of motoring alone, and an experienced driver. She went slowly at first, enjoying the beautiful country with its serene air of Sunday afternoon calm.

The trend of her thoughts was not a question of whether or not she should accept Van Reypen; but more a dreamy recollection and living over the scene at the Falls.

She pictured in her mind how really noble and handsome he looked, and she almost wondered at herself why she had only a friendly feeling toward him.

"But I like him better than Kenneth," she assured herself; "that is, I like him MORE than I do Kenneth. Ken is an old dear, but he IS slow; and Philip has all the nice ways and mannerisms that I do like in a man. He's always equal to any occasion, without any effort. He's just born so. He's an aristocrat like his aunt, but he hasn't a bit of her, -- well, -- it is really a kind of snobbishness. She's intolerant of people not in her own set. But Phil is kind and courteous to everybody. And he has a sense of humour. I suppose that's what's the matter with Ken. The poor boy hasn't a spark of fun in him except what I've banged into his blessed old head. There's Kit Cameron now, he has too much fun in him. He'd make anybody's life a practical joke. I don't believe he half meant what he said to me in the swing last night. I think he would have said the same to any girl, sitting there in the moonlight. Well, I do seem to be growing up. I wish I had Nan here. She's so nice to talk things over with. Not that I want to talk anything over. I believe it isn't considered correct to tell about the proposals you have, but I guess a mother wouldn't count, -- even if she is a stepmother. And Nan is such a duck of a stepmother! I'll certainly tell her about these proposals I've had. I don't believe I'll ever have any more. But all the same, I'm not going to get engaged yet! I'd rather be an old maid than to take the first man who asks me. But there's one thing certain, I do like Philip the best of the bunch!"

Patty went on along the highway, stopping now and then to gather a particularly beautiful branch of wild rose, or a few spring beauties.

She had on a simple little frock of pink linen, with a sailor collar of fine white embroidery, and a big black velvet bow at her throat. She wore no hat but her golden hair was partly confined by a band of black velvet. She had a light dust coat of pongee silk, though Jim had told her there was a warmer coat in the car if she should want it.

When Kenerley returned to the group on the veranda a wild shout greeted him, inquiring where Patty was.

"I told you she was going to elope," returned Jim; "I was merely helping her along. I left her just outside the gate on her way to meet her rustic swain."

"Nonsense, Jim," said his wife, "where did she go? Over to the Crosbys'?"

"She didn't say anything to me about the Crosbys. In fact, Adele, she didn't tell me where she was going, and I wasn't so inquisitive as to ask her. I let my guests do as they like and go where they choose. Patty asked me for the runabout and I gave it to her. If she had wanted the touring car she could have had it, -- or the limousine, -- or the wheelbarrow."

A smile passed over Van Reypen's face at the chance reference to the last-named vehicle, and his intuitions told him that Patty had gone for a solitary drive to get away from other people for a little while.

"Oh, LOOK who's here!" cried Daisy, suddenly, as a motor car came whizzing up the steps and out jumped Bill Farnsworth.

"I just stopped for a minute," he said to Adele, "to see how you all are after your party."

"All quite well," said Adele, "but sorry you couldn't stay here with us instead of going on."

"Sorry, too," said Farnsworth. "Where's Miss Fairfield?" and he looked about inquiringly.

"Gone for a drive," replied Adele, and Farnsworth made no further reference to Patty. But his call was short and soon he was again starting his car.

"Which way did Miss Fairfield go?" he murmured in a low voice to Kenerley, as his car moved off.

"East," said Jim, with a teasing smile at Farnsworth, and then Bill was gone.

He swung out on to the broad highway and turned east. There were no bypaths near and he had an intention of following and overtaking Patty. He wanted to see her, and with Bill Farnsworth to want to do anything was to do it.

Now it chanced that Patty had had a detention. Though an expert driver, and a fairly good mechanician for her own car, she was not entirely familiar with the car she was driving, and when it stopped stock-still at the side of the road, she found herself unable to discover the exact difficulty.

She was not overanxious, for it was a frequented road and she felt sure some car would come along, in whose driver she might feel sufficient confidence to ask help. But it so chanced that she sat for some time before any car came. The sun was warm and she threw off her coat, really enjoying basking in the sunshine while she waited.

And it was this sudden apparition of a golden head shining in the sunlight that gave Farnsworth a shock of surprise as he came up behind Patty's car.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "there she is! In trouble, too. Jolly well I came along, bless her heart! But it's funny if she can't manage the car. I believe she's sitting there purposely."

For a few moments Bill sat looking at the yellow head and smiling gently at it. Then he had an inspiration to drive right past her and see if she would speak to him. She had been far from cordial the day before and Farnsworth was uncertain whether she wanted to see him or not.

So, driving slowly, he passed by Patty in her motionless car.

Patty jumped at the sound of some one coming, and intending to ask help, held out her hand and said, "Please -- " before she realised who it was.

Farnsworth turned his head, stopped his car, whipped off his cap and jumped out, saying, as he walked toward Patty's car, "An accident, ma'am? Can I help you?"

A spirit of perversity rose in Patty's heart. Without knowing why, she desired to inflict a hurt on the man who was smiling at her.

"I beg your pardon," she said, coldly, "I thought you were a stranger."

"I'll be a stranger, if you like," and Farnsworth bowed profoundly.

"Very well, I wish you would. Pray proceed with your journey," and Patty bowed, and turned her head toward the opposite landscape.

"But you would ask a stranger to help you," said Farnsworth, feeling a strong desire to shake the exasperating little pink figure.

"Not every stranger," said Patty. "I am waiting to select the one I want."

"Oh, DO select me! I'm an awfully nice stranger, and incidentally, I could fix that car of yours in a jiffy."

"Did Adele order you to fix this car?" and Patty's blue eyes gave Bill a look of withering scorn.

"No, she did not."

"Then I can't think of allowing you to do it. I don't want you to do ANYTHING for me except at Adele's orders!"

"You little goose! I've a notion to kidnap you, wild roses and all, and take you off in my car."

"Did Adele order you to do THAT?"

"Patty, stop this nonsense! Of course I know what you mean, that I asked you to dance in Adele's name, instead of in my own."

"Yes; I admit I prefer to be asked to dance, personally, and not vi-vike -- "

"Vicariously is the word you are floundering over," said Farnsworth with utmost gravity; "well, now, I'll fix your car vicariously, or personally, or any old way you like, -- if you'll just behave yourself and smile upon me."

"I don't want my car fixed."

"You prefer to stay here?"

"I do."

"Alone?"

"Alone." Patty tried very hard to look like a stone image but only succeeded in looking like a very pretty pink-cheeked girl.

However, at her last word, and when Patty was just about to break into a dimpled smile, Farnsworth achieved a most dignified and conventional bow, replaced his cap, and without another glance at Patty, deliberately got into his car and drove away. He passed Patty, continuing east, and in a few moments was lost to sight, as he flew down the road at a swift pace.

"Well!" remarked Miss Patricia Fairfield, aloud. "Well! Hooray for you, Little Billee! I didn't know you had it in you to act like that! But" -- and her face clouded a little -- "I suppose your head is so full of Kitty Morton that you don't care what becomes of Patty Fairfield! H'm."

Patty sat still for some time, thinking over this new episode. She had been rude to Farnsworth, and she had done it purposely. But she was accustomed to having young men laugh at her pertness and chuckle over her sauciness.

One or two cars passed her, but as she scrutinised the drivers, they did not seem to be just the type of whom she cared to ask help; but presently a small car came toward her, driven by a frank-looking, pleasant-faced young man.

"Hello," he called out with the camaraderie of the road; "had a breakdown? Want some help?"

"Yes, sir," and Patty spoke in a timid, subdued voice.

"Then I'm your man," he said, as he jumped out and came over to her car. "My name's Peyton," he went on, "Bob Peyton, and very much at your service. What's the matter?"

"I don't know, sir," and Patty surrendered to a mischievous impulse; "I'm Mrs. Hemingway's maid; Mrs. Hemingway, sir, she can run the car, but I can't."

"Where is Mrs. Hemingway?"

"When the car broke down, sir, she said she would go for help. I think she went to that house over there."

"H'm! And so you're her maid. Personal maid, do you mean?"

"Not exactly, sir. I'm her new waitress, she was just taking me home, sir."

Patty didn't know why she was talking this rubbish, but it popped into her head, and the young man's eyes were so twinkly and gay, she felt like playing a joke on him. She thought he would fix her car, and then she would thank him and ride away, without having given her real name.

"Ah, my good girl," Mr. Peyton said, "and so you are a waitress. What is your name?"

"Suzette, sir. I'm French."

"Yes, I can see that by looking at you! Well, Suzerte, are you an experienced waitress?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I've worked in the best families and in, -- and in hotels and -- and -- "

"And on oceans liners, I presume! Well, Suzette, here's a proposition. My sister wants a waitress, awfully. Hers has just left. If you will go along with me to my sister's house, she will pay you twice what your previous mistress did."

Patty appeared to consider the question.

"Who is your sister, sir?"

"Mrs. Brewster; she lives in that next place, where you see the red brick chimneys."

Now Patty knew all about the Brewsters, although she had never met them. They were great friends of the Kenerleys, and indeed the whole house party was invited to dine at the Brewsters' the next night. Adele, too, had spoken about Bob Brewster's brother, and Patty realised they were friends and neighbours.

In her present mood, Patty was simply aching for an escapade. And she thought it would be a pretty good practical joke if she should go to Mrs. Brewster's and pretend to be a waitress. She would telephone Adele what she was up to, and they would send another car for her that evening. Perhaps if she had thought another moment she wouldn't have done it, but on the impulse she said. "I'd love to get double wages, sir, and I will go to your sister's, but what about Mrs. Hemingway's car?"

"I will take you over to my sister's first, -- it's only a short jump, and then I'll come back and see about this car."

So Patty got out of her own car and into Bob Peyton's, and in a moment they were spinning along toward the red chimneys.

The young man said not a word on the way, and Patty's spirits fell as she began to think she had undertaken a foolish prank, with no fun in it. But she realised that in her role of waitress she could not expect the young man of the house to talk to her, so she sat demurely silent, trying to look as much like a waitress as possible, and succeeding not at all.

On reaching the house, which proved to be a large and elaborate affair, Mr. Peyton drove around to a side door. He ushered Patty into a small waiting-room, and went in search of his sister. Patty heard much gay laughter from the drawing-rooms, and suddenly felt that her joke was not as funny as she had expected. But she determined to carry it a little further and see what might happen.

A charming young woman soon came to her, and said with a pleasant smile, "Is this Suzette?"

"Yes, madame," and Patty's manner was quite all that was to be desired in a waitress.

"I am Mrs. Brewster. My brother has told me the circumstances of his finding you. I am not sure that I'm doing right in taking you away from your present employer, but I'm going to be selfish enough to ask you to help me out for a short time, anyway. I have guests for dinner, and my waitress has gone. My guests are really important people and I was at my wits' end how to manage, until you appeared. If you will only stay and wait on my table at dinner, I will let you do as you choose afterwards, -- return to Mrs. Hemingway or remain with me."

The plan seemed to promise some fun to Patty. She would privately telephone Adele, who would tell Jim. It was to be a joke on the rest of them, especially Kit who had said Patty could never fool him. And ever since the Belle Harcourt joke, which had not fooled Kit after all, she wanted to try again. She would make Adele pretend she thought Patty was lost, and both Kit and Philip would be greatly alarmed.

"I will stay for dinner, madame," she said, at last, "and afterward we can decide. You may not like my work."

"I'm sure I shall; you seem capable, and my brother tells me you are experienced. I fear though, your gown is a little, -- a little -- "

"I understand, madame. You see, this is my Sunday afternoon frock. If I stay with you, I will send for my black ones. Perhaps, if I took off the lace collar now."

"Yes, and the black bow. It is those things that make your garb inappropriate. I will, of course, provide you with an apron and cap. Will you come with me now to the dining-room, and I will show you about your duties."

Mrs. Brewster gave Patty full directions about the serving of the dinner and then provided her with a cap and apron. The trifle of muslin and lace, when perched on Patty's gold curls, was really most becoming; and though she removed her collar and bow, the frilled bretelles of the dainty apron were quite as effective, and Patty looked like the kind of waitress that is seen in amateur plays.

"If not asking too much, madame," she said, "may I telephone to a friend?"

"Is it necessary?" and Mrs. Brewster looked a little surprised.

"It would be polite, I think, madame," returned Patty, with eyes cast down, "as it is to some people with whom I expected to take supper. They will wait for me, I fear?"

"Ah, yes, Suzette, you are right. You may telephone, but I will tell you frankly, I do not like to have my servants make a practice of telephoning to their friends."

"No, madame," and Patty's tone was most humble.

To her great delight the telephone was in a small booth by itself, and Patty soon made Adele acquainted with the whole story.

Adele was not altogether pleased with the prank, but as she couldn't help herself, she accepted the situation with a good grace, and promised to send for Patty later in the evening.



Chapter XX

The Ride Home


Patty stood in the butler's pantry when the guests entered the dining-room for dinner.

She was determined to do her part perfectly, for she knew quite well how everything should be done, and she entered into the spirit of it as if it were a play.

There were eight at the table, and as Patty tripped in to serve the soup she caught the approving glance of Mr. Bob Peyton. She quickly dropped her eyes and proceeded with her duties quietly and correctly. But as she set down the third soup plate, she chanced to look across the table, and met the calm, straightforward gaze of Bill Farnsworth!

She didn't drop the soup-plate or make any awkward movement. Patty was not that sort. She looked down quickly, though it was with difficulty that she prevented the corners of her mouth from breaking into a smile. Immediately she suspected the whole truth. Farnsworth was a guest at this house, -- of course he had sent Bob Peyton to her rescue! Or, hadn't he? Could it have been possible that Mr. Peyton found her unexpectedly? She didn't think so. She believed that Little Billee had sent Peyton to her aid, because she had refused his assistance. Of course, Bill had not foreseen the waitress joke, and doubtless he was as much surprised to see her now as she was to see him. Unless Mr. Peyton had told all the guests that he had found a waitress along the road in a stalled motor-car!

Well, at any rate, Patty determined to go on with the farce to the best of her ability. If Farnsworth thought he could rattle her, he was very much mistaken. But she would not look at him again. If he should smile at her, she knew she should smile, for she was on the verge of laughing anyway. So the dinner proceeded. Patty did her part beautifully, serving everything just exactly right and doing everything just as it should be done. And not once during the long dinner, did she catch the eye of either Farnsworth or Mr. Peyton. Once or twice she looked at Mrs. Brewster with a note of inquiry in her eyes, and that lady gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval, so that Patty knew everything was going all right.

At last it was time for Patty to bring in the finger bowls. They stood neatly ranged in readiness for her, and in each one was a pansy blossom.

On the table near the doorway through which Patty went in and out of the dining-room, chanced to be a big bowl of apple blossoms, and Patty appropriated one of these and substituted it for the pansy in the finger bowl which she subsequently placed before Farnsworth.

She did not glance at him, but she had the satisfaction of seeing him start with surprise, and then let his glance travel around the table as if assuring himself that he was the only one thus honoured.

He tried to catch Patty's eye, but she resolutely refrained from looking at him.

After dinner was over, and the guests returned to the drawing-room, Patty remained in the dining-room, wondering what would happen next.

In a few moments Mrs. Brewster came running out to her.

"You little brick!" she cried; "but, my DEAR child, what MADE you do it?"

"What do you mean, madame?" asked Patty, in her most waitress-like voice.

"What do I mean? You rogue! You scamp! Mr. Farnsworth has told us all about it! I don't know what you mean by this masquerade. But it's over now, and you must come into the drawing-room at once! Take off that apron and cap, and put on your collar and bow again."

"Oh, Mrs. Brewster, I can't go into the drawing-room. All your guests have on their evening things, and this is a morning frock!"

"Nonsense, child, come right along in. You look as sweet as a peach."

"But I say, Ethel," and Bob Peyton bounced out into the dining-room, "Miss Fairfield hasn't had any dinner, herself," and he smiled at Patty. "You see I know all about you. Farnsworth told the whole story. You are miffed with him, I believe, and wouldn't let him help you. So he came right over here and sent me back to help a fair lady in distress. Why you got up that waitress jargon I don't know."

"I don't either," and Patty dimpled roguishly at him. "I have an awful way of cutting up any jinks that happen to pop into my head! You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"I never should have forgiven you if you HADN'T!" and Peyton smiled admiringly into the big blue eyes that implored his forgiveness so sweetly.

"You DEAR child," Mrs. Brewster rattled on, "to think you haven't had a mite of dinner! Now I will get you something."

"No, no, thank you," laughed Patty, "I will confess that I ate all I wanted here in the pantry while the dinner was going on. Cook sent up special portions for me, and I had plenty of time to do justice to them."

"I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Brewster, cordially, "and now, Miss Fairfield, come into the drawing-room. I want my guests to know what a little heroine it is who waited on us at dinner. What a girl you are! I've often heard Adele Kenerley speak of you, and I'm so glad to know you. You must come and make me a visit, won't you, to prove that you forgive me for letting you wait on my table?"

"The pleasure was mine," returned Patty, dropping a pretty curtsy. Then they all went to the drawing-room, where Patty was praised and applauded till she blushed with confusion.

Farnsworth stood leaning against the mantel as she entered the room. He waited till the introductions were over and until the hubbub roused by Patty's story had subsided. Then, as she stood beside her hostess, he went over to her, and said, "What is your greeting for me, Miss Fairfield?"

"I gave you my greeting at the table," said Patty, and she flashed a glance at him from beneath her long lashes.

"WAS it a greeting?"

But before Patty could answer, Mrs. Brewster came to her and said in her enthusiastic way, "Oh, Miss Fairfield, I've been telephoning Mrs. Kenerley and telling her all about it! And what DO you think? She says that she and Jim are the only ones over there who know where you are, and they're pretending they don't know, and all the young people are crazy with anxiety!"

"I suppose I ought to go right home," said Patty, "and relieve their anxiety. But I'd like to stay a little while longer. And, yet, I don't want them to know where I've been, until I get there, and tell them myself."

"Let them wait," said Bob Peyton. "It won't hurt them to worry a little. Now, Miss Fairfield, we're going to have some music, and perhaps, -- as you're such an angel of goodness to us anyway, -- perhaps you'll sing for us."

They all sang in chorus, and some sang solos, and after awhile it was Patty's turn.

She had none of her elaborate music with her, so she told Mrs. Brewster she would sing any songs or ballads that she might happen to have.

They found a book of old songs, which Mr. Brewster declared were his favourites, and Patty sang two or three of those.

Among them was the old Scotch song of "Loch Lomond." Patty had never seen this, but as Mr. Brewster was fond of it he urged her to try it. The song was not difficult and Patty read easily, so she made a success of it. As she came to the lines, "I'll take the high road and you take the low road," she glanced at Farnsworth, with a half-smile.

He did not return the smile, but looked at her steadily and with a slightly puzzled expression.

When the song was over, Farnsworth crossed the room and stood by Patty's side.

"Why do you want to take the high road, if I take the low road?" he asked her, abruptly. He took no pains to lower his tones, and Bob Peyton who stood near heard what he said.

"Because I'm taking the low road, and Miss Fairfield will ride with me, though she won't with you."

Peyton's manner was so light and his smile so gay, that Patty answered in the same key, ignoring Farnsworth's serious face.

"I like to take the road with Mr. Peyton," she answered gaily, "because it leads to such pleasant places," and she smiled at Mrs. Brewster.

"You dear child! You are perfectly fascinating," Mrs. Brewster declared.

"There, there, Ethel, you mustn't tell Miss Fairfield what we all think about her," Peyton interrupted.

And then Patty was called to the telephone.

"You must come home, Patty," Adele's voice said.

"All right, I will, Adele," Patty replied; "but tell me this, does Kit think I'm lost, or anything?"

"No, Patty, he doesn't; but all the rest do. Kit pretends he thinks something has happened to you, but he told me privately that he knew perfectly well that you were all right, and that Jim and I know where you are! Oh, you can't fool HIM. But Mr. Van Reypen is nearly crazy. He says he doesn't think anything dreadful has happened to you, but he thinks you've had a breakdown and can't get home, and he insists on starting out to look for you. If you don't come right away, Patty dear, I can't keep him here much longer!"

"All right, Adele, I'll start at once; truly, I will! Don't send for me. Somebody here will take me over. You know your little runabout is here. I'll come home in that."

"Don't drive it yourself."

"Of course not. Somebody will drive me. I'll be over in fifteen minutes. Good-bye."

Patty hung up the receiver and returned to the drawing-room.

"I must go right straight away," she said, smiling at her hostess. "My joke worked a little too well, and unless I appear they're going to send out a search party after me! I told Adele her little car was here. How did it get here, Mr. Peyton?"

"I went after it and brought it here; instead of taking it to Mrs. Hammersmith's or whatever her name was!"

"You mean Mrs. Hemingway," said Patty, laughing, "my former mistress, who left me in her car to go in search of help."

"Yes," said Peyton. "Wasn't it lucky I came along? You little thought Farnsworth sent me, did you?"

"Indeed I didn't!" and Patty smiled at him, "and will you take me home in that little car? for I promised Adele I'd go at once."

"Of course I will," said Bob Peyton, "if you must go."

So Patty was made ready for her drive and Mrs. Brewster insisted she should wear the warm coat as the evening had grown chilly.

The whole crowd went out on the steps to see Patty off, and Mr. Brewster tucked her in, while Bob Peyton cranked the car.

"All aboard," said Peyton, straightening himself up, at last; and then, somehow, -- and Patty never knew how it happened, -- somebody jumped into the seat beside her, somebody grasped the steering-wheel, and the little car flew down the road and out at the gate, and even before Patty looked up to see the face of the man beside her, she KNEW it was not Mr. Peyton!

She looked up, and saw smiling at her the blue eyes of Bill Farnsworth.

Mrs. Brewster had tied a chiffon scarf over Patty's hair, and as Patty looked up in Farnsworth's face, the moonlight illumined her own face until she looked more like a fairy than a human being.

"Apple Blossom!" said Big Bill, under his breath. "I never shall find a more perfect name for you than that! Now, tell me what it's all about. Hurry up, we haven't much time."

"But -- but I'm so surprised! Why are YOU here, instead of Mr. Peyton?"

"Because I wanted to ride home with you."

"So did he."

Farnsworth shrugged his broad shoulders, as if to say that what Peyton wanted was a matter of utter indifference to him. "Go on," he said briefly, "tell me what it's all about."

"I don't know what you mean! What's all WHAT about?"

"The way you're treating me. The last time I saw you was last winter; at the Hepworths' wedding, to be exact. We were friends then, -- good friends. Then I came up here, -- yesterday. I threw your own flowers in at your window, and you came and smiled at me and said you were glad to see me. Didn't you?"

"Yes," said Patty, in a faint little voice.

"Yes, you DID. And then, -- then, Apple Blossom, when you came down stairs later, playing May Queen, you scarcely looked at me! you scarcely spoke to me! You wouldn't dance with me!"

"But you only asked me because -- "

"Don't tell that story again! Because Adele told me to ask you, is utter rubbish, and you know it! That isn't why you wouldn't dance with me. No-sir-ee! You had some other reason, some foolish crazy reason, in your foolish crazy little noddle! Now out with it! Tell me what it is! Own up, Posy-Face. You heard something or imagined something about me, that doesn't please your ladyship, and I have a right to know what it is. At least, I'm going to know, whether I have a right or not. What is it or who is it that has interfered with our friendship?"

Patty looked up at Bill and read determination in his face. She knew it was no time for chaffing or foolishness. So she only said, as she looked straight at him, -- "Miss Morton."

"Miss Morton! for Heaven's sake, what DO you mean?"

"The girl you're engaged to."

"The girl I'm engaged to! Patty, HAVE you taken leave of your senses?"

"Well, anyway, if you're not engaged to her, you're terribly in love with her! Your whole life and love is bound up in her!"

"Patty, I've heard there is a lunatic asylum over near Scottsville, and I'm going to take you right straight over there, unless you stop talking this rubbish! Now, if you're still possessed of the power of rational conversation, tell me who is this Miss Morton!"

"Miss Kate Morton, -- the lady you're in love with."

Patty's spirits had begun to rise, and as she said this she looked up at Farnsworth, with demure face, but with a mouth dimpling into laughter.

"Kate Morton! Why, I haven't seen her for ten years!"

"Was it a hopeless affection, then? Are you only true to her memory?"

"Patty, BEHAVE yourself! Who mentioned Kate Morton's name to you?"

"Kitty! You always call her Kitty."

Farnsworth chuckled. "Call her KITTY! why, I'd sooner call the Flatiron Building 'Kitty.' It would be about as appropriate."

"Well, anyway, you told Adele that you loved Kitty with all your heart and soul."

A great light seemed to break upon Farnsworth. He looked at Patty for a moment, with slowly broadening smile, and then he burst into irrepressible laughter.

"Oh, Patty!" he exclaimed, between his spasms of mirth; "Kitty! oh, Kitty! Patty!"

Patty sat looking at him in stern silence.

"I should think, Mr. Farnsworth, if any one ought to go to a lunatic asylum it might as well be you! You sit there like an imbecile saying, oh, Patty! oh, Kitty!"

"I don't know which I love most, you or Kitty!" and again Farnsworth went off in a roar of laughter.

"I don't care to be mentioned in connection with Miss Morton," and Patty tried her best to look like a tragedy queen.

"But it ISN'T Miss Morton, it's Kitty CLIVE."

"Adele said she couldn't remember her last name. But it doesn't matter to ME whether it's Miss Morton or Miss Clive."

"Oh, DON'T, Patty! You'll be the death of me! Why, Apple Blossom, Miss Clive, -- Kitty Clive, -- is -- my horse!"

Patty hesitated a moment, and then gave in, and laughed too.

"You must be AWFULLY fond of your horse," she said at last.

"I am; Kitty Clive is a wonder, and last summer we rode thousands of miles over the prairies. There NEVER was such a horse as my Kitty! And I remember I DID rave about her to Adele. But Adele MUST have known what I was talking about."

"No, she didn't. She thought it was a girl, and she told me not to -- not to -- " Patty floundered a little, and then concluded her sentence, "not to interfere."

"And, so, Apple Blossom, you were cool to me, -- you were cruel to me, -- you had no more use for me whatever; because you thought I liked another girl?"

"Well -- I didn't want to interfere."

"You BLESSED Posy-Face! do you know what this MEANS to me? It means that you CARE -- "

"No, I DON'T, Bill! I don't care if you like all the girls in the world. Only, you mustn't like them better than you do me."

"As if I COULD like anybody better than I do you!"

"And then we're friends again?"

"Friends!"

"Yes, friends. Don't you want to be friends with me, Little Billee?"

"Apple Blossom, I want to be to you anything and everything that you will let me be."

"Then we will be friends. Chums and comrades and good, GOOD friends."

Patty put a little pink hand out from the big coat sleeve and Bill clasped it in his great warm hand.

"Chums, -- Apple Blossom, -- and comrades, and good, GOOD friends!"

<eob>

The Boy With The U. S. Fisheries

By

Francis Rolt-Wheeler



Chapter I

Marooned By A Whale


"There she blows!"

Colin Dare, who was sitting beside the broken whale-gun and who had been promised that he might go in the boat that would be put out from the ship if a whale were sighted, jumped to his feet at the cry from the 'barrel' at the masthead.

"Where?" he shouted eagerly, rushing to the rail and staring as hard as he could at the heaving gray waters of the Behring Sea.

"There she blo-o-ows!" again cried the lookout, in the long echoing call of the old-time whaler, and stretching out his hand, he pointed to a spot in the ocean about three points off the starboard bow. Colin's glance followed the direction, and almost immediately he saw the faint cloud of vapor which showed that a whale had just spouted.

"Do you suppose that's a whalebone whale, Hank?" asked the boy, turning to a lithe Yankee sea-dog with a scraggy gray beard who had been busily working over the mechanism of the whale-gun.

"No sayin'," was the cautious reply, "we're too fur off to be able to tell yet a while. How fur away do you reckon we be?"

"A mile or two, I suppose," Colin said, "but we ought to catch up with the whale pretty soon, oughtn't we?"

"That depends," the gunner answered, "on whether the whale's willin' or not. He ain't goin' to stay, right there."

"But you usually do catch up?"

"If it's a 'right' whale we generally try to, an' havin' steam to help us out makes a pile o' difference. Now, in the ol' days, I've seen a dozen whales to wind'ard an' we couldn't get to 'em at all. By the time we'd beaten 'round to where they'd been sighted, they were gone."

"Well, I hope this is a 'right' whale," Colin said with emphatic earnestness.

"Why this one 'specially?" the old sailor asked.

"I heard Captain Murchison say that if we came up with a whale while the gun was out of order, rather than lose a chance, he would send a boat out in the old-fashioned way."

"An' you want to see how it's done, eh?"

"I got permission to go in the boat!" the boy answered triumphantly, "and I just can't wait."

"It's the skipper's business, I suppose, but I don't hold with takin' any chances you don't have to," was the gruff comment, "an' if you'll take the advice of an old hand at the game you'll keep away."

"But I want to go so much, Hank," came the reply.

"What for?"

"I'm trying to get Father's permission to join the Bureau of Fisheries," explained the boy, "and when Captain Murchison started on this trip, I begged him to let me come. The captain is an old friend of his."

"I'd rather you went in somebody else's boat than mine, then," was the ungracious response.

"Why, Hank!" exclaimed Colin in surprise, "what a thing to say!"

The old sailor nodded sagely.

"The skipper don't know much more about boat-whalin' than you do," he said, "that was all done away before his time. He's willin' to tackle anythin' that comes along, all right, but a whalin' boat is just about the riskiest thing that floats on water."

"How's that, Hank?" asked the boy. "I always thought they were supposed to be so seaworthy."

"They may be seaworthy," was the grim reply, "but I never yet saw a shipwright who'd guarantee to make a boat that'd be whaleworthy."

"But I'm sure I've read somewhere that whales never attacked boats," persisted Colin.

"Mebbe," rejoined the gunner, "but I don't believe that any man what writes about whalin' bein' easy, has ever tried it in a small boat."

"Well," said the boy, "isn't it true that the only time a whale-boat is smashed up is when the monster threshes around in the death-flurry and happens to hit the boat with his tail?"

"Not always."

"You mean a whale does sometimes go for a boat, in spite of what the books say?"

"I never heard that whales cared much about literatoor," the sailor answered with an attempt at rough humor, "an' anyway, most o' them books you've been readin', lad, are written about whalin' off Greenland an' in the Atlantic."

"What difference does that make?" queried Colin. "Isn't a whale the same sort of animal all the world over?"

"There's all kinds of whales," the gunner said, as though pitying the boy for his lack of knowledge, "some big an' some little, some good an' some bad. Now, a 'right' whale, f'r instance, couldn't harm a baby, but the killers are just pure vicious."

"You mean the orcas?" the boy queried. "Only just the other day Captain Murchison was talking about them. He called them the wolves of the sea, and said they were the most daring hunters among all things that swim."

"Sea-tigers, some calls 'em," the other agreed, "an' they're fiercer than any wolves I've ever heard about, but I never saw any of 'em attackin' a boat. I have seen as many as twenty tearin' savagely at a whale that was lyin' alongside a ship an' was bein' cut up by the crew. The California gray whale -- the devil-whale is what he really is -- looks a lot worse to me than a killer. He's as ugly-tempered as a spearfish, as vicious as a man-eatin' shark, as tricky as a moray, an' about as relentless as a closin' ice-floe."

"There she blo-o-ows!" came the cry again from the crow's-nest.

Hank, looking over the side, caught sight of the spout and, with a twist of the shoulder, walked aft to the first boat.

"I'm going, too," Colin reminded him.

The old whaler looked at him thoughtfully and disapprovingly.

"Orders is orders," he said at last, "an' if the skipper said you could go, why, I reckon that ends it. An' if you're goin' anyway, you're safer in the big boat than in the 'prams.' Tumble in."

Colin clambered into the double-ended boat with its high prow and stern and settled himself down excitedly.

"I never really believed I'd get the chance to see any whale-spearing," he said. "Whaling with a cannon is only a make-believe. Now, this is something like!"

"Foolishness I calls it," put in one of the younger sailors. "Why don't the skipper put in somewhere an' get the gun put to rights? An' Hank is just as likely to fix that gun so as he'll blow some of us up with it when he does get it goin'."

"Always croakin', Gloomy," said the old gunner. "Blowin' you up would be no great loss. You'd ought to be glad to see what whalin' was like when your betters was at it."

"I'm glad," said Colin, as he pulled steadily at his long oar, "that we did wrench the gun-frame when that heavy sea came aboard."

"I don't see it," said the gunner; "mebbe you'll think presently that you'd ha' done better to be satisfied with readin' about whalin' in those books of yours."

"Well, it got me the chance to see the fun!" responded Colin.

"That wouldn't have been enough to start this business a-goin' if it hadn't been that the Gull was an old whalin'-ship before they put steam into her. The little bits of whalin'-steamers they build now only carry a little pram or two, nothin' like this boat you're in now. The Gull's one of the old-timers."

"She hails from New Bedford, doesn't she?"

"She took the Indian Ocean whalin' in the sixties an' came round the Horn every season in the seventies," Hank replied; "an' there's not many of her build left. Easy with that oar, Gloomy," he added, speaking to the melancholy sailor, who was splashing a good deal in his stroke, "an' avast talkin', all."

Swiftly, but with oars dipping almost noiselessly, the boat slipped up to where the two whales were floating whose spouts had been seen from the ship. The sea was tinged with pink from the masses of shrimp-food which had attracted the whales, and the great creatures were feeding quietly. The surface was not rough, but there was a long, slow roll which tossed the boat about like a cork. Presently Hank, who was in the stern, held up one hand.

"Hold your starboard oars," he said quietly; "we'll back up to this largest one."

This near approach to the whales was too much for Gloomy's nerves. Instead of merely holding his long sweep steady in the water so that the stroke of the port oars would bring the boat around, he tried to make a long backward drive. As he reached back, the boat mounted sidewise on a swell, leaving Gloomy clawing at the air with his oar; then, the boat as suddenly swooped down with a rush, burying the oar almost to the row-locks; it caught Gloomy under the chin and all but knocked him overboard. The splash and the shout distracted Hank's attention for a second, and when he looked round a swirl of water was all that remained to show where the whales had been.

"I told you what it would be!" said Gloomy, picking himself up and speaking in an injured tone, as though he blamed everybody else for his own carelessness.

His protests, however, were silenced by a steady stream of descriptive epithet from Hank. The old gunner, without even raising his voice, withered any possible reply on the part of the clumsy sailor, whose inexpertness had caused their failure to get the whale.

"They were only humpbacks, however," added Hank, after Gloomy had been reduced to silence. Indeed, so shamefaced was the luckless sailor, that when he saw a spout a minute or two later he only pointed with his finger, without saying a word.

Noticing the gesture, Colin turned and saw with amazement a tall jet of vapor that had spouted from a whale close by. He looked at Hank expectantly, hoping to hear him spur the crew to a new venture, but the old whaler looked grave.

"Finback?" the boy queried.

"Gray whale, I reckon," answered the gunner.

"Devil-whale? Oh, Hank!" the boy cried, his eyes shining with excitement. "I hope it is!"

"That shows how little you know," the other replied.

"Are you going to harpoon him?"

Hank looked at the boy, smiling slightly at his utter fearlessness.

"I wish you were aboard the ship," he said, "an' I would. But I reckon it's wiser to keep out of trouble."

"But I don't want to be on the Gull," Colin protested; "at least not when there's anything going on out here. And," he added craftily, "I didn't think you were really afraid!"

"Wa'al," the old whaler said, his jaw setting firmly, "I don't want anybody to think I'm backin' down, just because I'm in a boat again. But I tell you straight, I don't like it. Gloomy," he continued, "an' the rest of you, stand by your oars. That's a gray whale an' I'm goin' after him."

"How do you know it's a California whale, Hank?" asked the boy, as they waited for the creature to reappear.

"By the spout," was the prompt reply. "It's not as high an' thin as a finback's, it's not large enough for the low, bushy spout of a humpback, an' it goes straight up instead of at a forward angle so it can't be a sperm. Must be a gray whale, can't be anythin' else."

For a few minutes the men rested on their oars, and Colin grew restless.

"Why doesn't he come up again?" he said impatiently. "First thing we know he'll be out of sight!"

The old whaler smiled again at the lad's eagerness.

"While the gray is the fastest swimmer of all the whales," he said, "you needn't be afraid that we'll lose sight of him. Most whales swim very slow, not much faster than a man can walk."

"There he is," called another of the sailors, pointing to a spout three or four hundred yards away.

"All right, boys," Hank said, "he's makin' towards the shore."

The long oars bit into the water again and Colin was glad to feel the boat moving, for it rolled fearfully on the long heaving swell. But with six good oars and plenty of muscle behind them, the little craft was not long in reaching the place where the 'slick' on the water showed that the whale had come up to breathe and then dived again. Acting under the gunner's orders the crew rested on their oars a short distance beyond the place where the whale had sounded. Presently, a couple of hundred yards from the boat, on the starboard side, the whale came up to spout, evidently having turned from the direction in which it had been slowly traveling, and the rowers made for the new objective. This time there was another long wait.

"How long do they stay down, Hank?" asked the boy.

"No reg'lar rule about it," the whaler answered; "sometimes for quite a while, but I reckon ten to fifteen minutes is about the usual. Some of 'em can stay down a long while sulkin' when they've got a harpoon or two in 'em, but I reckon three-quarters of an hour would be about the limit."

Again the boat sped onward, this time without any order from Hank, for all hands had seen the whale not more than fifty yards away, and Hank grasped the shoulder harpoon-gun. But before the boat could reach the whale and turn stern on so as to give the gunner a good chance for a shot, the whale had 'sounded' or dived.

"Next time," said Hank quietly, and told Scotty, one of the sailors, to clear away the first few coils of the rope in the barrel and make sure that it was free from tangles.

Colin noticed that the three places where the whale had spouted formed a slight arc and that Hank was directing the boat along a projection of this curve, so he was quite ready when a command came to stop rowing. Then, at the whaler's orders, the boat was swung round and the men held their oars ready to back-water.

The place could not have been picked out with greater accuracy if the whaler had known the exact spot where the big cetacean was going to appear. Within thirty feet of the boat the water began to swirl and boil.

"He's right there!" said Colin with a thrill of expectation not wholly devoid of fear.

In obedience to a wave of the old whaler's hand, the boat went astern slowly and fifteen seconds later the great back appeared near the surface and the monster 'blew,' his pent-up breath escaping suddenly when he was still a foot below the surface, and driving up a column of mixed water and air, the roar sounding like steam from a pipe of large size.

"Stand by the line, Scotty!" shouted Hank, as he raised the clumsy harpoon-gun to his shoulder.

The sailor who had been standing near the barrel nodded, as he drew his sheath-knife from its sheath, holding it between his teeth, ready to cut the line should a tangle occur, but keeping his hands free to attend to the coils of rope. To Colin the seconds were as years while the old whaler held the gun raised and did not fire. It seemed to the boy as if he were never going to pull the trigger, but the old gunner knew the exact moment, and just as the whale was about to 'sound' the back heaved up slightly, revealing the absence of a dorsal fin, and thus determining that it was a devil-whale in truth; at that instant Hank fired.

With the sudden pang of the harpoon the whale gave an upward leap for a dive and plunged, throwing the flukes of the tail and almost a third of his body out of water, and sounded to the bottom, taking down line at a tremendous speed. The line ran clear, Scotty watching every coil, and though the heavy rope was soaking wet, it began to smoke with the friction as it ran over the bow.

"Fifty fathom!" cried Scotty, as the line flew out.

"Sixty!" he called a moment later, and then, immediately after,

"Seventy -- and holding!"

As the pressure of the brake on the line tightened, the boat began to tear through the water, still requiring the paying out of the rope. For an instant it slackened and the winch reeled in a little line. There was a sudden jerk and then the line fell slack. Working like demons, the men made the winch handles fairly fly as the line came in, and within another minute the whale spouted, blowing strongly and sounding again. He sulked at the bottom for over twenty minutes, coming up suddenly quite near the boat. Scotty had lost no time, and not more than thirty-five fathom of line was out when the monster rose.

"He's a big un, Hank!" called Scotty. "Want the other line?"

"Got it!" was the brief reply, and Colin saw that the harpoon-gun had been reloaded.

"Sounding again!" called Scotty as the rope fell slack.

"No!" yelled Hank. "Stand by, all!"

Then suddenly:

"Back oars! Back, you lubbers! Hard as you know how!"

The oars bent like yew-staves.

"Back starboard! Hard!"

With the blood rushing to his brain, Colin, who was on the starboard side of the boat, threw his whole energy into the back stroke, and the boat spun round like a top into what seemed to be the seething center of a submarine volcano, for, with a roar that made the timbers of the boat vibrate, the gray whale spouted not six feet from where the boy was sitting. Dimly he saw the harpoon hurtle through the spray and the sharp crack of the explosion sounded in his ear.

Catching his breath chokingly, Colin was only conscious of the fact that he was expected to pull and he leapt into the stroke as the six oars shot the boat ahead.

Not soon enough, though! For, as the boat plunged from the crest of a wave the whale swirled, making a suction like a whirlpool into which the craft lurched drunkenly. Then the great creature, turning with a speed that seemed incredible, brought down the flukes of his tail in the direction of the boat, snapping off the stroke oar like a pipe-stem. Avidsen, the oarsman, a burly Norwegian, though his wrist was sharply and painfully wrenched by the blow, made no complaint, but reached out for one of the spare oars the boat always carried.

Colin was not so calm. Despite his courage, the shock of that tremendous tail striking the water within arm's-length of the boat had shaken his nerve, and the sudden drenching with the icy waters of Behring Sea had taken his breath away. But he was game and stuck to his oar. Looking at Hank, he saw that the old fighter of the seas had dropped the harpoon-gun and was holding poised the long lance.

This was hunting whales with a vengeance!

The monster had not sounded but was only gathering fury, and in a few seconds he came to the surface with a rush, charging straight for the boat.

"Stand by to pull," said Hank quietly.

The two forward oars, watching, dipped lightly and moved the boat a yard or two, then waited, their oars in the water and arms extended for the stroke. Colin would have given millions, if he had possessed them, to pull his oar, to do something to get away from the leviathan charging like an avenging fury for the little boat. But Hank stood motionless. Another second and Colin could almost feel the devil-whale plunging through the frail craft, when Scotty suddenly yelled,

"Pull!"

As Scotty yelled, Colin vaguely -- for everything seemed reeling about him -- saw Hank lunge with the long steel lance. The suction half whirled the boat round, but the whale sounded a little, coming up to the surface forty feet away and spouting hollowly. Even to the boy's untrained ear there was a difference, and when he noticed that blood was mixed with the vapor thrown out from the blowhole, his hope revived. The second rush of the whale was easily avoided, and Hank thrust in the lance again. Then, for the first time, the old whaler permitted himself to smile, a long, slow smile.

"That's the way it used to be done in the old days!" he said, with just a shade of triumph in his voice. "Pull away a little, boys, to be clear of the flurry. Have you a buoy ready, Scotty?"

The sailor nodded.

"There won't be much of a flurry, Hank," he said; "you got the lungs with the lance both times."

The old whaler looked at Colin, who was a little white about the lips.

"Scared you, I reckon?" he said. "You don't need to feel bad over that. Any one's got a right to be scared when a whale's chargin' the boat. I've been whalin' for nigh on forty-five years an' that's only the second devil-whale I've ever killed with a hand-lance. He pretty near caught us with his flukes that first time, too!"

"Guess that's the end of him," said Scotty, as the big animal beat the air with his tail, the slap of the huge flukes throwing up a fountain of spray.

"That's the end," agreed Hank.

Almost with the word the great gray whale turned, one fin looming above the water as he did so, and sank heavily to the bottom, the buoy which had been attached to the harpoon-line by Scotty showing where he sank, so that the ship could pick up the carcass later.

"How big do you suppose that whale was?" queried the boy as they started to pull back to the ship.

"'Bout forty-five foot, I reckon," was the reply, "an' we ought to get about twenty barrels of oil out of him."

"That ought to help some," said Colin, "and you see my coming didn't hurt anything. Just think if I had missed all that fun!"

"It turned out all right," the old whaler said, "but I tell you it was a narrow squeak. They'll have been worryin' on board, though, if any one has been able to see that we were hitched up to a gray whale."

"Isn't there any danger with other whales?"

"Wa'al, you've got to know how to get at 'em, of course. But all you've got to do is to keep out o' the way. There's no whale except the California whale that'll charge a boat. I did know one chap that was killed by a humpback, but that was because the whale come up suddenly right under the boat and upset it -- they often do that -- an' when one of the chaps was in the water the whale happened to give a slap with his tail an' the poor fellow was right under it."

Colin was anxious to start the old whaler on some yarns of the early days, but as the boat was nearing the ship he decided to wait for an opportunity when there would be more time and the raconteur would have full leeway for his stories.

"Forty-five-footer, sir," called Hank, as they came up to the ship. "Gray devil, sir."

The captain lifted his eyebrows in surprise, for he had not thought of a California whale so far north, but he answered in an offhand way:

"More sport than profit in that. Did you have a run for your money, Colin?"

"I certainly did, Captain Murchison," the boy answered.

"All right, tell me about it some time. Hank, you're on board just in the nick of time. I found out what the trouble was with the carriage of the gun and repaired it while you were amusing yourselves out there. Get in lively, now, there's work to do."

The men scrambled on board rapidly, and the boat was up in the davits in less than a minute, while the yards were braced round, and under sail and steam the Gull headed north.

"There's four whales in sight, Hank," said the captain; "humpbacks, I think, and two of them big ones."

"If they'll bunch up like that, sir," the gunner said, "we may make a good trip out of it yet."

"I hope so," the skipper answered, and turning on his heel, he went to the poop. Thither Colin followed him and told him all the story of the whale. The captain, who was an old friend of Colin's father when they both lived in a lumbering town in northern Michigan, was greatly taken aback when he found how dangerous the boat-trip had been, but he did not want to spoil the boy's vivid memories of the excitement.

"I suppose," he said, "that you want to go out as gunner next time."

Colin shook his head.

"I'm generally willing to try anything, Captain Murchison," he replied, "but I'm content to let Hank look after that end."

"Hank's an unusual man," the captain said quietly. "I rather doubt if any other man on the Pacific Coast could have won out with a gray whale. I'd rather have him aboard than a lot of mates I know, and as a gunner, of course, he's a sort of petty officer."

The canvas began to shake as the boat turned on its course after the whales, catching the skipper's eye, and he roared out orders to shorten sail.

"Clew up fore and main to'gans'ls," he shouted; "take in the tops'ls. Colin, you go and furl the fore to'gans'l, and if the men are still busy on the tops'l yards, pass the gaskets round the main to'gans'l as well."

"Aye, aye, sir," the boy answered readily, for he enjoyed being aloft, and he clambered up the shrouds to the fore-topgallant yard and furled the sail, taking a pride in having it lie smooth and round on the top of the yard.

"What's the difference between a 'finback' and a 'humpback,' Hank?" asked the boy, after the canvas had been stowed, the vessel under auxiliary steam having speed enough to keep up with the cetaceans, "are they 'right' whales?"

"Neither of 'em," the gunner replied: "there's two kinds of right whale, the bowhead and the black, and both have fine whalebone, an' that, as you know, is a sort of strainer in the mouth that takes the place of teeth. Humpbacks an' finbacks are taken for oil, an' they look quite different. A humpback is more in bulk an' has only a short fin on the back, it's a clumsy beast an' throws the flukes of the tail out of the water in soundin'. Now, a finback is built more for speed an' has a big fin on the back -- that's where it gets its name. The big sulphurbottom is a kind of finback, an' is the largest animal livin'. I've seen one eighty-five feet long!"

"Where does the sperm whale come in?" asked Colin.

"It's got teeth, like the gray whale," was the reply, "but you never find it in cold water. Sperm whalin' is comin' into favor again. But those two over there -- the ones we're after, are finbacks. You can tell by the spout, by the fin, by not seein' the flukes of the tail, an' by the way they play around, slappin' each other in fun."

Three hours were spent in the fruitless chase after this little group of whales. Then Hank, who had been standing in the bow beside the gun, watching every move of the cetacean during the afternoon, suddenly signaled with his hand for "full speed astern," by this maneuver stopping the ship squarely, as a whale -- a medium-sized finback -- came up right under the vessel's bow. The reversed screws took the craft astern so as to show the broad back about twenty-five feet away, and Hank fired.

The crashing roar of the harpoon-gun was followed by a swirl as the whale sounded for a long dive, but a moment later there came a dull, muffled report from the water, the explosive head of the harpoon, known as the 'bomb,' having burst. For a minute or two there was no sound but the swish of the line and the clank of the big winch as it ran out, while the animal sank to the bottom. There was a moment's wait, and then Hank, seeing the line tauten and hang down straight, called back:

"We can haul in, sir; I got him just right."

Compared to the excitement of the chase in the open boat this seemed very tame to Colin, and he said so to the captain, when he went aft, while the steam-winch gradually drew up the finback whose end had come so suddenly.

"My boy," was the reply, "I'm not whaling for my health. Other people have a share in this, besides myself and the crew, and what they're after is whales -- not sport. The business isn't what it was; in the old days whale-oil was worth a great deal and whaling was a good business. Then came the discovery of petroleum and the Standard Oil Company soon found out ways of refining the crude product so that it took the place of whale-oil in every way and at a cheaper price."

"But I thought whalebone was what you were after!" said Colin in surprise.

"It was for a time," the captain answered, "after the oil business gave out. But within the last ten years there have been so many substitutes for whalebone that its value has gone down. There's a lot of whalebone stored in New Bedford warehouses that can't be sold except at a loss."

"Well, if the oil is replaced and whalebone has no value, what is to be got out of whaling now, then?" the boy queried.

"Oil again," was the reply; "for fine lubricating work there's nothing as good. It's queer, though, how things have changed around. Fifty years ago, New Bedford was the greatest whaling port in the world, ten years ago there wasn't a ship there, they had all gone to San Francisco. Now 'Frisco is deserted by whalers, and the few in the business have gone back to the old port."

In the meantime, while Colin had been telling the story of the adventure with the gray whale, and the captain had been bemoaning the decay of the whaling industry, the work of bringing the dead whale to the surface had been under way. Letting out more slack on the rope attached to the harpoon a bight of it was passed through a sheave-block at the masthead, thus giving a greater purchase for the lifting of the heavy body. The winch was run by a small donkey-engine, and for about ten minutes the line was hauled in, fathom after fathom being coiled on the deck. Presently, as Colin looked over the rail, the dark body of the whale was seen coming to the surface, and as he was hauled alongside a chain was thrown around his flukes, and the body was made fast to the vessel, tail foremost.

Just as soon as the whale was secured a sailor jumped on the body, carrying with him a long steel tube, pierced with a number of holes for several inches from the bottom. To this he attached a long rubber tube, while the other end was connected with a small air-pump. The ever-handy donkey-engine was used to work the pump, and the body of the whale was slowly filled with air in the same way that a bicycle tire is inflated.

"What's that for?" asked Colin, who had been watching the process with much curiosity.

"So that he will float," the captain answered. "You can't tow a whale that's lying on the bottom!"

"But I thought you were going to cut him up!"

"And boil down the blubber on board?"

"Yes."

"That's very seldom done now," the captain explained. "In the old days, when whaling-ships went on three and four year voyages they 'fleshed' the blubber at sea and boiled it down or 'tried it out,' as they called it, into oil. They always carried a cooper along, too, and made their own barrels, so that after a long voyage a ship would come back with her hold full of barrels of whale-oil."

"What's the method now, Captain Murchison?" asked Colin.

"Nearly all whaling is done by steamers and not very far from the coast, say within a day's steaming. We catch the whales, blow them out in the way you see the men doing now, and tow them to the nearest 'trying out' factory. These places have conveniences that would be impossible on shipboard, they get a better quality of oil, and they use up all the animal, getting oil out of the meat as well as the blubber. Then the flesh is dried and sold for fertilizer just as the bones are. The fins and tail are shipped to Japan for table delicacies. Even the water in which the blubber has been tried out makes good glue. So, you see, it pays to tow a whale to the factory. And besides, the smell of trying out on one of the old whalers was horrible beyond description."

During this explanation the huge carcass of the whale had been distended to almost twice its natural size, and now it floated high out of the water. The steel tube was pulled out and a buoy with a flag was attached to the whale, which was then set adrift to be picked up and towed to the factory later.

Almost immediately the "tink-tink" of the bell of the signaler to the engine-room told that the ship was headed after another whale. The sea was rising and the wind was beginning to whistle through the rigging. Colin felt well satisfied that the canvas was stowed and that he would not have to go aloft during the night. The evening light, however, was still good enough for a shot, and Hank, at the bow, was swinging the heavy gun from side to side on its stand to assure himself that it was in good condition.

Owing to the approaching darkness, there was no time to wait for an exact shot, and Hank fired at the big finback on the first opportunity. The ship was rolling and pitching, however, and the harpoon, instead of striking the big whale, went clear over her and into the water beyond, crashing into the side of a little calf whale not more than sixteen feet long, the weapon going almost through him.

Apparently unconscious of what had happened to her baby, the mother whale sounded and sounded deep, not coming up for nearly twenty minutes. When she rose, she was at least a quarter of a mile away, and Colin, who was standing by Hank in the bow, wondered why the ship did not go in pursuit.

"Why don't we chase her up?" he asked.

"She'll come lookin' for her calf," the old whaler answered, "an' as long as we stay near that she'll come up to us. Lots of whalers shoot the calves a-purpose, makin' it easier to get the old whales, but I don't hold with that. I've never done it. Shootin' this one was just an accident, but as long as the little chap is dead anyhow, we might as well make use of him."

Just as the old whaler had predicted, in less than five minutes the mother whale spouted, coming in the direction of the vessel. In less than five minutes more she spouted again, just a little distance from the calf. Not understanding what had happened, she swam around as though to persuade the little one to follow her, and as she circled round the calf she came within range of the harpoon-gun. It was far too dark to see clearly, but Hank chanced a shot. The sudden roar startled Colin.

"Did you get her?" he asked anxiously.

"I hit her, all right," the gunner answered with a dissatisfied air, "but not just where I wanted."

The boy thought it wonderful that he should have been able to hit the monster at all, so small a portion of the body was exposed and so heavily was the Gull pitching. The whale, instead of sounding directly, dived at a sharp angle and the line ran out like lightning.

"What's that, Hank?" asked Colin in a startled voice, pointing over to the water just below the little calf, which had been hauled in by hand alongside the ship.

"Killers, by all that's holy!" ejaculated the whaler. "They'll get every blessed whale we've landed to-day. Did you ever see such luck!"

"What are they after?" asked Colin, "the calf whale?"

"Yes, or any other of 'em. See, the mother has smelt 'em and knows they mean harm for the baby."

It was growing dark and Colin leaned over the rail to see. Suddenly up from the deep, with a rush as of a pack of maddened hounds, ten or a dozen ferocious creatures, from fifteen to twenty feet in length, snatched and bit and tore at the body of the baby whale. A big white spot behind each eye looked like a fearful organ of vision, their white and yellowish undersides and black backs flashed and gleamed and the big fins cut the water like swords. The huge curved teeth gleamed in the reddened water as the 'tigers of the sea' lashed round, infuriated with lust for blood.

Then with a violent gesture of reminder, as though he had forgotten that which was of prime importance, Hank took a few quick steps to the rope that held fast the baby whale to the ship and cut it with his sheath-knife.

"What's that for?" said Colin.

"Let's get away from here," Hank replied, and signaled to go ahead.

As he did so, the mother whale caught sight of the remains of the body of the little one sinking through the water and dashed for it. Colin could have shouted with triumph in the hope that vengeance would be served out upon the orcas, but he was not prepared for the next turn in the tragedy. Like a pack of ravening wolves the killers hurled themselves at the mother whale, three of them at one time fastening themselves with a rending grip upon the soft lower lip, others striking viciously with their rows of sharp teeth at her eyes. The issue was not in doubt for a minute. No creature could endure such savage ferocity and such united attack. The immense whale threshed from side to side, always round the vessel, which seemed still to carry to her the scent of the baby whale.

"Has she any chance?" the boy asked, full of pity for the victim of such rapacity.

"Not the ghost of a chance," the whaler answered.

For a minute or two the whale seemed to have thrown off her demon foes and turned away, but scarcely a moment was she left alone, for up in front of her again charged five or six killers, rending and tearing at her head, and the whale, blinded, gashed in a thousand places and maddened by fear and pain, fled in the opposite direction.

Colin heard the captain give a wild cry from the poop and felt the engines stop and reverse beneath him. He cast one glance over the rail and like every man on board was struck motionless and silent. In the phosphorescent gleams of the waves churned up by the incredible muscular power of the killers, the old whale -- sixty feet in length at least, and weighing hundreds of tons -- was rushing at a maddened spurt of fifteen or even twenty miles an hour straight for the vessel's side, where a blind instinct made her believe her calf still was to be found. There was a death-like pause and then -- a shock.

Almost every man aboard was thrown to the deck, and the vessel heeled over to starboard until it seemed she must turn turtle. But she righted herself, heavily and with a sick lurch that spoke of disaster. The ship's carpenter ran to the pumps and sounded the well.

"Four inches, sir!" he called.

A moment later he dropped the rod again.

"Five and a half inches, sir," he cried, "an' comin' in fast."

It hardly needed the carpenter to tell the story, for the ship had a heavy list to starboard. In a minute or two the stokers came up from below and close upon their heels, the engineer.

"The water is close to the fire-boxes, Captain Murchison," he said.

"I know, Mr. Macdonald," the captain answered. "Boat stations!" he cried.

"I'm thinkin'," the engineer said quietly, looking at the windy sky and stormy sea, the last streaks of twilight disappearing in the west, "I'm thinkin' it may be a wee bit cold. Are we far from land, Captain?"

"We're none too close," the skipper said shortly. "Cook," he called, "are the boats provisioned?"

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

"Water-casks in and filled?"

Every boat reported casks in good condition.

"Sound the well, carpenter."

The sounding-rod was dropped and the wet portion measured.

"Nine inches, sir."

"You've got time to get what you want from below, boys," said the captain, as soon as the boats were all swung out on the davits; "she won't go down all of a hurry. Slide into warm clothes, all of you, and get a move on. Stand by to clear."

He waited a minute or two, then noticed one of the sailors busy on deck.

"What are you doing there, Scotty?" he called out.

"Putting a buoy on the line, sir; she's our whale."

"Looks to me more as though the whale had us, than we had the whale," the captain said grimly. "Are you all ready?" he added as the men came up from the fo'c'sle in oilskins and mittens. "No, there's only fifteen of you!"

"I'm here, Captain Murchison," spoke up Colin, emerging from the companion hatch with a heavy pilot coat. "I thought you'd need something for the boats, too."

The captain nodded his thanks.

"Lower away the whale-boat first," the captain said. "Never mind me, I'll come along presently. Look alive there! That's the idea, Hank! All right? Cast off. Lower away the big pram! All right. Get busy on that small pram, there. Here you, Gloomy, if I have to come down there --  -- ! All ready? Lower away. If you don't manage any better than that you'll never see land, I can tell you. Cast off."

The Gull was rolling heavily with an uneven drunken stagger that told how fast she was filling, and the starboard rail was close to the water's edge. The captain ran his eye over the boats and counted the men to see that all had embarked safely.

"Don't bring her too close, Hank!" he cried warningly, as he saw the old whaler edge the boat toward him, and stepping on the poop-rail, he jumped into the sea. But the gunner, judging accurately the swell of the waves, brought the boat to the very spot where the captain had struck the water and hoisted him on board. Without a word he made his way to the stern and took the tiller.

The boat pulled away a score of strokes or so and then the men rested on their oars. The sunset colors had faded utterly but a dim after-glow remained, and overhead a young moon shone wanly through black wisps of scudding cloud. The Gull sank slowly by the bow.

"She's one of the last of the old-timers," said the captain sadly. "This was her seventieth whaling season and that's old age for ship as well as man. I wish, though --  -- "

"What is it, Captain Murchison?" asked Colin.

"Ah, it's nothing, boy," was the reply. "Only we're foolish over things we love, and the Gull was all that I had left. It's a dark and lonely death she's having there. I wish --  -- "

"Yes, sir?" the boy whispered.

"I wish she'd had her lights," the captain said, and his hands were trembling on the tiller, "it's hard to die in the dark."

For a moment Colin had a wild idea of leaping into the sea and swimming to the sinking craft, and blamed himself bitterly for not having looked after the port and starboard lights at sundown, as he often did when the watch on deck was too busy to see to them. He would have given anything to have done it, rather than to have to sit beside the captain with his eyes fixed on the desolate unlighted ship! Boy though he was, he nearly broke down.

"Good-by, Gull, good-by," he heard the captain whisper under his breath.

Then, as if the ache in the boy's heart had been a flame to cross the sea, it seemed that a tiny spark kindled upon the sinking ship, and the captain, speechless for the moment, pointed at it.

"Is that a light, boy?" he said hoarsely, "or am I going mad?"

Like a flash, Colin remembered.

"It's the binnacle, sir," he cried; "I lighted it for the man at the wheel myself."

Solemnly the captain took off his hat.

"It's where the light should be," he said at last, "to shine upon her course to the very end."



Chapter II

The Fight Of The Old Bull Seals


The quick, uneasy pitching of the boat and a sudden dash of ice-cold spray roused the captain from the fit of abstraction into which the sinking of his ship had plunged him.

"Step the mast, men," he said; "we've got to make for the nearest land. It's going to be a dirty night, too."

"Did you want us to put a reef in, sir?" asked the old whaler.

"When I want a sail reefed," the captain answered shortly, "I'll tell you."

As the mast fell into place and the sail was hoisted, the whale-boat heeled sharply over and began to cut her way through the water at a good speed, leaving the two prams far in the rear. The captain, who was steering mechanically, paid no heed to them, staring moodily ahead into the darkness. Hank looked around uneasily from time to time, then in a few moments he spoke.

"The mate's signaling, I think, sir," he said.

Colin looked round but could only just see the outline of the larger of the two boats, and knew it was too dark to distinguish any motions on board her. He looked inquiringly at Hank, but the old gunner was watching the captain.

"What does he want?" questioned the captain angrily.

"Orders, sir, I suppose," the whaler answered.

The captain felt the implied rebuke and looked at him sharply, but although he was a strict disciplinarian, he knew Hank's worth as a seaman of experience and kept back the sharp reply which was upon his lips. Then turning in his seat he realized how rapidly they had sped away from the boats they were escorting, and said:

"I'll bring her up."

He put the tiller over and brought the whale-boat up into the wind, and in a few minutes the mate's boat and the smaller pram came alongside.

"Don't you want us to keep together, sir?" cried the mate as soon as he was within hearing.

"Of course," the captain answered. "You can't keep up, eh?"

"Not in a breeze like this, sir," the mate declared.

"All right, then," was the response; "we'll reef." He nodded to the gunner and the reef points were quickly tied, thus enabling the three boats to keep together.

As the night wore on the wind increased until quite a gale was blowing, and the whale-boat began to plunge into the seas, throwing spray every time her nose went into it. The oilskins shone yellow and dripping in the feeble light of a lantern and although it was nearly the end of June a cold wind whipped the icy spume-drift from the breaking whitecaps.

"Doesn't feel much like summer, Hank!" said Colin, shivering from cold and fatigue, also partly from reaction following his exciting adventure with the gray whale.

"Behring Sea hasn't got much summer to boast of," the old whaler replied; "leastwise not often. You may get one or two hot days, but when the sun goes down the Polar current gets in its work an' it's cold."

"Where do you suppose we're going, Hank?" the boy asked, with a firm belief that the old whaler knew everything. "I don't like to bother Captain Murchison."

"Nor I," the gunner answered, looking toward the stern of the boat; "let him fight his troubles out alone. As for where we're goin', I don't know. I can't even see the stars, so I don't know which way we're headin'."

"Do you suppose we'll strike Alaska?" Colin queried. "Or perhaps the north of Japan? Say, it would be great if we fetched up at Kamchatka or somewhere that nobody had ever been before!"

The lad's delight in the thought of landing at some inhospitable northern island off the coast of Asia was so boyish that in spite of the discomfort of their present position, the old whaler almost laughed outright.

"Japan's a long ways south of here," he said. "We'd strike the Aleutian or the Kuril Islands before we got near there. I reckon we ought to try for some place on the Alaska coast, but as I remember, the wind was dead east when we left the Gull an' I don't think it's changed much."

Colin gave a long yawn and then shivered.

"I wouldn't mind being in my berth on the Gull!" he said longingly; "I'm nearly dead with sleep."

"Why don't you drop off?" Hank advised. "There's nothin' you can do to help. Here, change places with me an' you won't get so much spray."

"But you'll get it then!" the boy protested.

"If I had a dollar for every time I've got wet in a boat," the old whaler answered, "I wouldn't have to go to sea any more."

He got up and made Colin change places.

"Are you warmer now?" he asked a minute or two later.

"Lots," the boy murmured drowsily, and in a few seconds he was fast asleep. The old whaler gently drew the boy towards him, so that he would be sheltered from the wind and spray, and held him safe against the rolling and pitching of the little boat. The long hours passed slowly, and Colin stirred and muttered in his dreams, but still he slept on through all the wild tumult of the night, his head pillowed against Hank and the old whaler's arm around him.

He wakened suddenly, with a whistling, roaring sound ringing in his ears. Dawn had broken, though the sun was not yet up, and Colin shivered with the wakening and the cold, his teeth chattering like castanets. A damp, penetrating fog enwrapped them. Four of the sailors were rowing slowly, and the sail had been lowered and furled while he was asleep. Every few minutes a shout could be heard in the distance, which was answered by one of the sailors in the whale-boat.

"Where's the mate's boat, Hank?" asked the boy, realizing he had heard only one shout.

"She got out of hailin' distance, a little while before breakfast," the other answered, "but that doesn't matter so much, because she can't very well get lost now."

"But why is the sail down?"

The old whaler held up his hand.

"Do you hear that noise?" he asked.

"Of course I hear it," the boy answered; "that's what woke me up. But what is it?" he continued, as the roar swelled upon the wind.

"What does it sound like?" the gunner asked him.

The boy listened carefully for a minute or two and then shook his head.

"Hard to say," he answered. "It sounds like a cross between Niagara and a circus."

Scotty, who had overheard this, looked round.

"That's not bad," he said; "that's just about what it does sound like."

"But what is the cause of it, Hank?" the boy queried again. "I never heard such a row!"

"Fur seals!" was the brief reply.

"Seals?" said Colin, jumping up eagerly. "Oh, where?"

"Sit down, boy," interrupted the captain sternly; "you'll see enough of seals before you get home."

"All right, Captain Murchison," Colin answered; "I'm in no hurry to be home."

In spite of his recent loss the captain could not help a grim smile stealing over his face at the boy's readiness for adventure, no matter where it might lead. But he had been a rover in his boyhood himself, and so he said no more.

"Why, there must be millions of seals to make as much noise as that!" Colin objected.

"There aren't; at least, not now," was Hank's reply. "There were tens of millions of fur seals in these waters when I made my first trip out here in 1860, but they've been killed off right an' left, same as the buffalo. The government has to protect 'em now, an' there's no pelagic sealin' allowed at all."

"What's pelagic sealing?" asked Colin.

"Killing seals at sea," the whaler answered. "That's wrong, because you can't always tell a young male from a female seal in the water, an' the females ought never to be killed. But you'll learn all about it. Beg pardon, sir," Hank continued, speaking to the captain, "but by the noise of the seals those must be either the Pribilof or the Commander Islands?"

"Pribilof, by my reckoning," the captain answered. "Do you hear anything of the third boat?"

"No, sir," answered the old whaler, after shouting a loud "Ahoy!" to which but one answer was returned, "but we'll see her, likely, when the fog lifts."

"Doesn't lift much here," the captain said. "But with this offshore wind, they ought to hear the seals three or four miles away."

In the meantime the whale-boat was forging through the water slowly and the noise of the seals grew louder every minute. The sun was rising, but the fog was so dense that it was barely possible to tell which was the east.

"Funny kind of fog," said Colin; "seems to me it's about as wet as the water!"

"Reg'lar seal fog," Hank replied. "If it wasn't always foggy the seals wouldn't haul out here, an' anyway, there's always a lot of fog around a rookery. Must be the breath of so many thousands o' seals, I reckon."

"Pretty things, seals," said the boy.

"Where did you ever see any?" his friend queried.

"Oh, lots of places," Colin answered, "circuses and aquariums and places like that. I even saw a troupe of them on the stage once, playing ball. They put up a good game, too."

"Those weren't the real fur seals," Hank replied; "what you saw were the common hair seals, an' they're not the same at all. You can't keep fur seals alive in a tank!"

"There are two fur seals in the aquarium of the Fisheries Building at Washington," interposed the captain, "but those are the only two."

"There!" cried the boy, pointing at the water; "there's one now!"

"You'll see them by hundreds in a few minutes, boy," the captain said. "I think I make out land."

As he spoke, an eddy of wind blew aside part of the fog, revealing through the rift a low-lying island. Within a minute the fog had closed down again, but the glimpse had been enough to give the captain his bearings. The noise from the seal-rookery had grown deafening, so that the men had to shout to one another in the boat and presently -- and quite unexpectedly -- the boat was in the midst of dozens upon dozens of seals, throwing themselves out of the water, standing on their hind flippers, turning somersaults, and performing all manner of antics.

"Why don't we land?" asked Colin, as he noticed that the boat was running parallel with the shore instead of heading directly for it.

"Land on a seal-rookery?" said Hank. "Haven't you had trouble enough with whales so far?"

"Would seals attack a boat?" asked Colin in surprise.

"No, you couldn't make 'em," was the instant reply, "but I never heard of a boat landin' at a rookery. The row would begin when you got ashore."

Gradually the boat drew closer to the land, as close, indeed, as was possible along the rocky shore, and then the land receded, forming a shallow bay flanked by two low hills on one side and one sharper hill on the other. The captain rolled up his chart and headed straight for the shore.

"St. Paul, I reckon," said Hank, as the outlines of the land showed clearly, "but I don't jus' seem to remember it."

"Yes, that's St. Paul," the captain agreed. "It has changed since your time, Hank. There has been a lot of building since the government took hold."

"Why, it looks quite civilized!" exclaimed Colin in surprise, as he saw the well-built, comfortable frame houses and a stone church-spire which stood out boldly from the hill above the wharf.

"When I first saw St. Paul," said the old whaler, "it looked just about the way it was when the Russians left it -- huts and shacks o' the worst kind an' the natives were kep' just about half starved."

"It's different nowadays," said the captain as they drew near the wharf, putting under his arm the tin box that held the ship's papers. "The Aleuts are regular government employees now and they have schools and good homes and fair wages. Everything is done to make them comfortable. I was here last year and could hardly believe it was the same settlement I saw fifteen years ago."

It was still early morning when the boat was made fast to the wharf, and Colin was glad to stretch his legs after having slept in a cramped position all night. The damp fog lay heavily over everything, but the villagers had been aroused and the group of sailors was soon surrounded by a crowd, curious to know what had happened. Hank, who could speak a 'pigeon' language of mixed Russian and Aleut, was the center of a group composed of some of the older men, while Colin graphically described to all those who knew English (the larger proportion) the fight with the gray whale, and told of the sinking of the Gull by the big finback, maddened by the attack of the killers. He had just finished a stirring recital of the adventures when the other two boats from the Gull loomed up out of the fog and made fast to the wharf.

Hearing that the only breakfast the shipwrecked men had been able to get was some cold and water-soaked provender from the boat, two or three of the residents hurried to their homes on hospitable errands bent, and in a few minutes most of the men were thawing out and allaying the pangs of hunger with steaming mugs of hot coffee and a solid meal. So, when the captain came looking for Colin that he might take him to the Fisheries agent's house, he found the lad -- who was thoroughly democratic in his ways -- breakfasting happily with the sailors and recounting for the second time the thrills and perils of the preceding day.

Rejoining the captain an hour or so later at the house to which he had been directed, Colin was effusively greeted by the assistant to the agent, a young fellow full of enthusiasm over the work the Bureau of Fisheries was doing with regard to fur seals. A natural delicacy had kept him from troubling Captain Murchison, but as soon as he discovered that Colin was interested in the question and anxious to find out all he could about seals, he hailed the opportunity with delight.

"I've just been aching for a chance to blow off steam," he said. "It's an old story to the people here. Obviously! I don't think they half realize how worth while it all is. I'm glad to have you here," he continued, "not only so that we can help you after all your dangers, but so that I can show you what we do."

"I'm still more glad to be here," Colin replied, after thanking him. "I've been trying to persuade Father to let me join the Bureau, but this is such an out-of-the-way place that I never expected to be able to see it for myself."

"It is a little out of the way," the official replied. "But in some ways, I think it's the most important place in the entire world so far as fisheries are concerned. It's the one strategic point for a great industry. Of course!"

"Why is it so important, Mr. Nagge?" Colin queried. "Just because of the seals, or are there other fisheries here?"

"Just seals," was the reply, in the jerky speech characteristic of the man. "Greatest breeding-place in the world. You'll see. Nothing like it anywhere else. And, what's more, it's almost the last. This is the only fort left to prevent the destruction not of a tribe -- but of an entire species in the world of life. Certainly!"

"Calling it a fort seems strange," Colin remarked.

"Well, isn't it? It's the heroic post, the forlorn hope, the last stand of the battle-line," the Fisheries enthusiast replied. "All the nations of the world were deliberately allowing all the fur seals to be killed off. Uncle Sam stopped it. It's not too late yet. The Japanese seal-pirates must be exterminated absolutely! Could you run a ranch if every time a steer or cow got more than three miles away from the corral anybody could come along and shoot it? Of course not. Obviously!"

"But this isn't a ranch!"

"Why not? Same principle," the assistant agent answered. "Ranchers breed cattle in hundreds or thousands. We breed seals in hundreds of thousands; yes, in millions. And a fur seal is worth more than a steer. Oh, yes!"

"Do seals breed as largely still?" Colin asked in surprise.

"Would if they had the chance," was the indignant answer. "Undoubtedly millions and millions have been killed in the last fifty years. Takes time to build up, too! Only one baby seal is born at a time. A run-down herd can't increase so very fast. But we're getting there. Certainly!"

"Our gunner was telling me," Colin said, "that killing seals at sea was the cause of all the trouble."

"Yes. Lately. Before that, rookery after rookery had been visited and every seal butchered. Old and young alike. No mercy. Worst kind of cruelty."

"But hasn't the sea trouble been stopped?" queried the boy. "I thought it had, but you said something just now about seal-pirates."

"Stopped officially," his informant said. "Can't kill a seal in the ocean, not under any consideration. That is, by law. Not in American waters. Nor in Russian waters. Nor in Japanese waters. Nor in the open sea. International agreement determines that. Of course. But lots of people break laws. Obviously! Big profit in it. There's a lot of killing going on still. Stop it? When we can!"

"But how about killing them on land?" Colin asked. "You do that, I know, because I've read that the Bureau of Fisheries even looks after the selling of the skins. While it may be all right, it looks to me as though you were killing them off, anyhow. What's the good of saving them in the water if you wipe them out when they get ashore."

"You don't understand!" his friend said. "Got anything to do right now?"

"Not so far as I know," Colin answered.

"You've had breakfast?"

"Yes, thanks," the boy answered, "and I tell you it tasted good after a night in the boat."

"Come over to the rookery," the assistant agent said. "I'm going. I count the seals every day. That is, as nearly as I can. Tell you all about it. If you like, we'll go on to the killing grounds afterwards. Yes? Put on your hat."

Colin realized that his host seldom had a listener, and as he was really anxious to learn all that he could about the fur seals, these creatures that kept up the deafening roar that sounded like Niagara, he followed interestedly.

"Looks a little as if it might clear," he suggested, as they left the house. "We could stand some sunshine after this fog."

The other shook his head.

"Don't want sunshine," he said. "Fog's much better."

"What for?" asked Colin in surprise. "Why should any one want fog rather than sunshine?"

"Fur seals do," was the emphatic response. "No seals on any other groups of islands in the North Pacific. Just here and Commander Islands. Why?"

"Because they are foggier than others?" hazarded Colin at a guess.

"Exactly. Fur seals live in the water nearly all year. Water is colder than air. Seals are warm-blooded animals, too -- not like fish. They've got to keep out the cold."

"Is that why they have such fine fur?"

"Obviously. And," the Fisheries official continued, "under that close warm fur they have blubber. Lots of it."

"Blubber like whales?"

"Just the same. Fur and blubber keeps 'em warm in the cold water. Too much covering for the air. Like wearing North Pole clothing at the Equator. If the sun comes out they just about faint. On bright days the young seals make for the water. Those that have to stay on the rookery lie flat on their back and fan themselves. Certainly! Use their flippers just the way a woman uses a regular fan. See 'em any time."

Colin looked incredulously at his companion.

"I'm not making it up," the other said. "They fan themselves with their hind flippers, too. Just as easy."

"I think they must be the noisiest things alive," said Colin, putting his fingers in his ears as they rounded the point and the full force of the rookery tumult reached them.

"The row never stops," the assistant agent admitted. "Just as much at night as daytime. Seals are used to swimming under water where light is dimmer. Darkness makes little difference. Seemingly! Don't notice it after a while."

"The queer part of it is," the boy said, listening intently, "that there seem to be all sorts of different noises. It's just as I said coming into the bay, it sounds like a menagerie. I'm sure I can hear sheep!"

"Can't tell the cry of a cow fur seal from the bleating of an old sheep," was the reply. "The pup seal 'baa-s' just like a lamb, too. Funny, sometimes. On one of the smaller islands one year we had a flock of sheep. Caused us all sorts of trouble. The sheep would come running into the seal nurseries looking for their lambs when they heard a pup seal crying. The lambs would mistake the cry of the cow seal for the bleating of their mothers."

"Why do you call the mother seal a cow seal?" asked the boy.

"Usual name," was the reply.

"Then why is a baby seal a pup?" asked Colin bewildered. "I should think it ought to be called a calf!"

The Fisheries official laughed.

"Seal language is the most mixed-up lingo I know," he said. "Mother seal is called a 'cow,' yet the baby is called a 'pup.' The cow seals are kept in a 'harem,' which usually means a group of wives. The whole gathering is called a 'rookery,' though there are no rooks or other birds around. The big 'bull' seals are sometimes called 'Sea-Catches' or 'Beachmasters.' The two-year-olds and three-year-olds are called 'Bachelors.' The 'pups,' too, have their 'nurseries' to play in."

But Colin still looked puzzled.

"Our gunner was talking about 'holluschickie'?" he said. "Are those a different kind of seal?"

"No," was the reply, "that's the old Russian-native name for bachelors. There are a lot of native words for seals, but we only use that one and 'kotickie' for the pups."

"If the cow seals bleat," said Colin, "and the pups 'baa' like a lamb, what is the cry of the beachmaster?"

"He makes the most noise," the agent said. "Never stops. Can you hear a long hoarse roar? Sounds like a lion!"

"Of course I can hear it," the boy answered; "I thought that must be a sea-lion."

"A sea-lion's cry is deeper and not so loud," his friend replied. "No. That roar is the bull seal's challenge. You're near enough to hear a sort of gurgling growl?"

"Yes," said Colin, "I can catch it quite clearly."

"That's a bull talking to himself. Then there's a whistle when a fight is going on. When they're fighting, too, they have a spitting cough. Sounds like a locomotive starting on a heavy grade. Precisely!"

"Do they fight much?" the boy asked.

"Ever so often!" his informant replied. "Can't you hear the puffing? That shows there's a fight going on. I've seldom seen a rookery without a mix-up in progress. That is, during the early part of the season after the cows have started to haul up. There's not nearly as much of it now, though, as there used to be."

"Could I see a fight?" the boy asked eagerly.

"Hardly help seeing one," was the reply. "Watch now. We're just at the rookery. Immediately!"

Turning sharply to the left, the older man led the way between two piles of stones heaped up so as to form a sort of wall, and shut off at the sea end.

"What's this for?" asked Colin.

"Path through the rookery. Want to count the seals every once in a while," the agent said. "Must have some sort of gangway. Obviously! Couldn't get near enough, otherwise."

"Why not?" queried Colin. "Would the beachmasters attack you?"

"They won't start it," was the reply. "Sea-catch keeps quiet unless he thinks you're going to attack his harem. About two weeks ago, I only just escaped. Narrow squeeze. Wanted to get a photograph of one of the biggest sea-catches I had ever seen. Took a heavy camera. The sea-catch didn't seem excited. Not particularly. So, I came up quite close to him."

"How close, Mr. Nagge?"

"Ten or twelve feet. Just about. I got under the cloth. Focused him all right. Then slipped in my plate. Just going to press the bulb when he charged. Straight for me. No warning. I squeezed the bulb, anyhow; grabbed the camera and ran. Promptly!"

"Did he chase you far?"

"A few yards. I knew there was no real danger. Best of it was that the plate caught the bull right in the act of charging! I've got a print up at the house. Show you when we get home!"

"I'd like to see it, ever so much," the boy answered.

As they came to a gap in the wall, the agent halted.

"There!" he said. "That's a rookery."

In spite of all that he had heard before of the numbers of seals, and although the deafening noise was in a sense a preparation, Colin was dazed at his first sight of a big seal rookery. For a moment he could not take it in. He seemed to be overlooking a wonderful beach of rounded boulders, smooth and glistening like polished steel; here and there pieces of gaunt gray rock projected above and at intervals of about every fifteen to forty feet towered a huge figure like a walrus with a mane of grizzled over-hair on the shoulders and long bristly yellowish-white whiskers. For a moment the boy stood bewildered, then suddenly it flashed upon him that this wonderful carpet of seeming boulders, this gleaming, moving pageantry of gray, was composed of living seals.

"Why, there are millions of them!" he cried.

Right from the water's edge back halfway to the cliffs, and as far as the eye could see into the white sea-mist, every inch of the ground was covered. Looking at those closest to him, Colin noticed that they lay in any and every possible attitude, head up or down, on their backs or sides, or curled up in a ball; wedged in between sharp rocks or on a level stretch -- position seemed to make no difference. Nor were any of them still for a minute, for even those which were asleep twitched violently and wakened every few minutes. And over the thousands of silver-gray cow seals, the sea-catches, the lords of the harem, three or four times the size of their mates, stood watch and ward unceasingly.

"Why do you herd them so close together?" asked Colin. "I should have thought there was lots of room on the beaches of the island."

"They herd themselves," the agent said. "Don't go anywhere unless it is crowded. The more a place is jammed, the more anxious they are to get there. Newcomers won't go to empty harems. Unhappy with only one or two other cows. Try and find room in a crowded bunch where one sea-catch is looking after thirty females."

"But," said Colin, looking at the group which was nearest to him, "there are a lot of little baby seals in there! They'll get trodden on!"

"They are trodden on. Often," said the agent. "Can't be helped. Only a few pups right in the harems and they are all small. Obviously! Go away when they are a week old. Wander from the harem to find playfellows. Make up 'pods' or nurseries. Sometimes four or five hundred in one nursery. Stay until the end of the season. There's a pod of pups," he continued, pointing up the beach; "about sixty of them, I should judge. Happy-looking? Clearly!"

"They look like big black kittens," said Colin, as he watched them tumbling about on the pebbly beach, "and just as full of fun. Can they swim as soon as they are born, Mr. Nagge?"

"Seals have to learn to swim. Same as boys," he answered. "They teach themselves, apparently! Young seal, thrown into deep water, will drown. Queer. Become wonderful swimmers, too."

"About how long does it take them to learn?" Colin asked.

"Don't begin until they are three weeks old," was the reply. "Practise several hours a day. Swim well in about a month."

"Why don't the father or the mother seals teach them?" queried the boy.

"A sea-catch doesn't see anything outside the harem. As long as a pup is within twelve feet of him, he will fight on the instant if the baby is in danger. Once it is in the nursery the bull seal forgets the little one's existence. He couldn't leave, anyway. Some other sea-catch would seize the harem."

"You mean that the old seal can't get away at all?"

"Not at all," was the reply.

"Then what does he get to eat?" asked Colin in surprise, "do the cow seals bring him food?"

"Not a bite. No. He doesn't eat at all. Not all summer."

"Never gets a bite of anything? I should think he'd starve to death," cried the lad.

"Fasts for nearly four months. From the time a sea-catch hauls up in May and preempts the spot he has chosen for his harem he doesn't leave that spot eight to sixteen feet square until late in August. Stays right there. He's active enough in some ways. No matter how much he flounders around, he keeps right on his own harem ground. He could hardly get away from it if he tried."

"Why not?"

"He couldn't leave his own harem without getting into the next one. Obviously!" the agent promptly replied. "And he'd have to fight that beachmaster. Evidently! And so on every few feet he went. Besides, the very moment his back was turned a neighboring bull would steal some of his cows. Certainly! Or, an idle bull would try and beat him out."

"Which are the idle bulls?" asked Colin.

"Those fellows at the back who came late or were beaten in the fight for places. They would charge down and take the harem, if he left it."

"Well, then, how does he sleep?"

"Doesn't sleep much," was the reply; "just little catnaps. Five or ten minutes at a time, perhaps. Light sleepers, too. If a cow tries to leave or an intruder comes near he wakes right up. Immediately! He's on the alert, night and day." The agent laughed. "Eternal vigilance is the bull seal's motto, all right!"

"But how can they stand it without food and without sleep?" Colin asked. "That's over three months of fasting. And it isn't like an animal that's asleep all winter. It seems to be their busiest time, fighting and watching and all that sort of thing!"

"They live on their blubber," the agent explained. "In the spring they haul up heavy and fat. Can hardly move around they're so fleshy. It's the end of June now. You see! Many bulls are loaded with fat still. By the end of next month, though, they'll be getting thin. Some of 'em are like skeletons when they leave the rookeries in August. They'll fight to the end, though."

"But if they leave each other's harems alone," Colin objected, "I don't see any cause for a fight."

"The cows don't all come at the same time. Perhaps for six weeks there are cows coming all the time. Those beachmasters who have harems nearest the water want their family first and there's fighting all along the water's edge, then. Other cows have to make their way inshore; any of the sea-catches may grab them. Wait a minute and watch. You'll see the scramble going on somewhere. There are two bulls fighting there," he added, pointing to a combat in progress some distance off, "and there's another -- and another."

"Is that one of the new cows just coming in from the water?" asked Colin, pointing to the shore, where a female seal, quietly and without attracting attention, had landed near one of the large harems.

"Yes," the agent said. "Just watch her a while. You'll see how the fighting begins."

Moving quietly and slowly and making just as little disturbance as possible, the incoming seal made her way through and over the recumbent seals, keeping as far as she could from the beachmasters. Those huge monarchs of the waterside eyed her closely, but the harems were full to the last inch of ground and they let her pass, the cow seal remaining quiet as long as the beachmaster was watching, then creeping on a yard or two.

"She'll get caught by the next one," said Colin. "See, there's just about room enough in his harem for one more."

But the cow managed to make her way past, the old bull being engrossed in watching a neighboring sea-catch whom he suspected of designs upon his home. She had only succeeded in reaching a point about six harems inland, however, when a bull with a small group of only about twelve cows, suddenly reached out with his strong neck, grabbed her by the back with his sharp teeth and threw her on the rocks with the rest of his company. As the sea-catch weighed over four hundred pounds and the cow not more than eighty -- the poor creature was flung down most cruelly.

"The brute!" cried Colin.

But for some reason the cow was dissatisfied with her new master and tried to escape. The old sea-catch made a lunge forward and caught her by the back of the neck, biting viciously as he did so, in such wise that the teeth tore away the skin and flesh, making two raw and ugly wounds.

Colin's indignation was without bounds.

"I'd like to smash that old beast!" he said, and if the agent had not been there to stop him the boy would have jumped over the low wall and gone to the assistance of the cow seal.

"That's going on all the time," the agent said. "You can't settle the affairs of ten thousand families. Not offhand that way. You'd be kept busy if you tried to fight the battles of every female that hauls up on St. Paul rookery."

"But see," cried Colin, "he's going after her again!"

This time the sea-catch was evidently angry, for he shook the cow as a dog does a rat and tossed her back into the very center of the harem, standing over her and growling angrily. The agent looked on tranquilly.

"There's going to be trouble," he said. "See that idle bull coming?"

He pointed to the back of the rookery, and Colin saw a sea-catch of good size, though not as large as the bull whose savage attack on the cow had excited Colin's resentment, come plunging down through the rookery with the clumsy lope of the excited seal. The cow squirmed from under the threatening fangs of her captor, but just as he was about to punish her still more severely, he caught sight of the intruder, and, with a vicious snap, he whirled round to the defense. The newcomer, though powerful, showed the dark-brown rather than the grizzled over-hair of the older bull, but while he had youth on his side, he was not the veteran of hundreds of battles.

Both stood upright for a moment, watching each other keenly, but with their heads averted, then the younger bull, with a forward movement so rapid that it could hardly be followed, struck downward with his long teeth to the point where the front flipper joins the body. It was a clever stroke, but the old bull knew all the tricks of warfare and turned the flipper in so that the teeth of his opponent only gashed the skin, and at the same time the old bull jerked his head up and sidewise, and sank his teeth deep into the side of the neck of the younger bull.

"He's got him, what a shame!" cried Colin, whose sympathies were all with the younger fighter.

The old sea-catch, paying no attention to the roaring and whistling of his wounded rival, kept his teeth fast-clenched in a bulldog-like grip and braced himself against the repeated lunges the other made to get free. There could be but one result to this and, with an agonized wrench, the younger bull pulled himself free -- tearing out several inches of skin and leaving a gaping wound from which the blood streamed down.

But he was not defeated yet!

Facing his more powerful enemy, roaring unceasingly and with the shrill piping whistle of battle, the younger bull fairly swelled with exertion and rage until he seemed almost the size of his big foe, his head darted from side to side quick as a flash, and the revengeful, passionate eyes -- so different from the limpid, gentle glance of the cow seals -- flashed furiously as the blood poured down and reddened the rocks around him.

Again it was the younger bull who took the aggressive and, after a couple of feints, he reared and struck high for the face, just grazing the cheek of the older bull and pulling out several of the stiff bristles on which his teeth happened to close, springing back in time to escape the double sickle-stroke of the sea-catch. The old bull roared loudly and sprang forward, getting a firm hold of the younger by the skin behind the muscles of the shoulders. But he was a second too late, for as he closed his grip, the smaller fighter shifted and struck down, a hard clean blow, reaching the coveted point and half-tearing the flipper from the body.

Undeterred by the injury, though the pain must have been intense, the old bull threw his weight upon the younger, bending him far over as though to break the spine. Seals cannot move backward, and the smaller fighter was almost overbalanced. Then, seizing his chance, the old beachmaster let go his hold upon the other's back and got in a crashing blow at the same point where he had torn open the neck before, this time sinking his teeth so far in that the muscle of the shoulder showed plainly, and an instant later, although there seemed scarcely time to strike a second blow, he swept down the body with his long, sharp teeth, catching the younger at the flipper-joint, and inflicting a wound almost exactly similar to that which he had received.

Quick as a flash, the younger combatant gave up the fight. But as he turned, instead of merely crawling away defeated, he made a sudden convulsive sprawl which the older bull was not expecting, and dug his teeth into the cow who had given rise to all the trouble, and lifted her bodily. The old beachmaster, his mane bristling with rage, made after him, but the younger bull, although he was forced to move on the stump of his wounded flipper, held fast to his prize, even when the victor inflicted a fourth fearful wound.

But before the old sea-catch could turn the plucky youngster, he saw two other bulls sidling towards his harem, intending to steal his cows while he was off guard, and he lumbered back to repel the new intruders. In the meantime, the young bull was attacked on his way to his own station by three other bulls near whose harems he had to pass, but he made no resistance and, though bleeding from a dozen wounds, he struggled on, leaving a gory trail in his wake, but gripping with grim determination the cow he had almost given his life to secure. When at last he reached his own station, he was a mass of blood from head to foot, his flesh was hanging from him in strips and one of his fore-flippers was dangling uselessly.

"He put up a plucky fight, anyway," said Colin, "even if he did get licked."

But it was for the poor cow seal that Colin felt the most sympathy. She lay upon the rocks where her second captor had thrown her, absolutely unconscious and seemingly almost dead, wounded in several places and covered with blood and sand, a wretched contrast to the pretty, gentle animal which the boy had seen emerge from the water not fifteen minutes before.

"It's a shame," Colin said, speaking a little chokingly. "I didn't know any animals could be so brutal."

The agent glanced at him quickly.

"The beachmasters are brutes," he said, "but mostly among themselves. Notice. The bull isn't even licking his wounds. He's pretty well used up, too. They're always too proud to show that they feel their hurts. Evidently! Even when they have been almost torn to pieces."

"Then you think he won't die?"

"Not a bit of it," the agent said cheerfully. "He'll be ready for another fight to-morrow."

"But how about the poor cow? She looks about dead now," said Colin.

"Not as bad as it looks! She's all right," his friend replied. "Those wounds don't go down into vital parts. They usually just reach the blubber. There isn't a sea-catch on the rookery that hasn't had from ten to twenty fights already this year. Most of 'em have been at it for several seasons. Yet you can hardly notice a scar on them. As for the mother seal, she will probably have a baby seal to-morrow. In a week the wounds will all have healed over. Cat may have nine lives, but a seal has ninety!"



Chapter III

Attacked By Japanese Poachers


"That's life on a rookery," the agent said. "Fight! Capture! More fight! But the holluschickie are different. Let's go to the hauling-grounds."

"Is that where the killing goes on?" the boy asked.

"Not quite," was the reply. "The road to the killing-grounds begins there, though. Naturally! We don't take any seals from a rookery."

"Why not?"

"No use! They are all either old bulls, females, or pups," was the answer. "The fur of the old sea-catches is coarse. Couldn't sell it. Never kill a cow seal under any circumstances. That's what all the trouble in killing seals at sea is about. You can't tell a holluschickie from a cow seal in the water. Cruel, too. When a cow seal is on her way to the rookery, she will have a baby seal in a few days."

"The holluschickie, then," said Colin, "don't come on the rookery at all?"

"Never! Absolutely! The bachelors, which are young male seals five years old and under, leave the rookery alone. The old sea-catches look after that. Certainly! It is mutilation or death for a holluschickie to put so much as a flipper on a rookery. They seldom try. Therefore, the hauling-grounds are at a distance. Obviously! Sometimes, though, it is impossible for the holluschickie to get to the sea without having to cross the rough, rocky ground which is suitable for a rookery."

"How can they work it, then?"

"The sea-catches leave a road eight feet wide, no more, no less. This path through the rookery gives just room for two holluschickie to pass. The beachmasters whose harems are on either side of this road watch them. They keep their lookout from a station right beside the road. If one of the holluschickie touches a cow on either side of this clear road-space, he will be attacked savagely."

"But I should think he could get away easily enough," Colin objected, "because the sea-catch can't leave his harem."

"Can't! Old bulls are all the way along," the agent answered. "Every one will attack a holluschickie who has once been attacked. No chance to escape. But the bachelors know that. They pass up and down such a causeway by thousands, night and day. They 'don't turn to de right, don't turn to de lef', but keep in de middle ob de road,'" quoted the agent, laughing.

"And you say that all the furs, then, are taken from among the holluschickie?" queried the boy.

"Every one of them."

"But how do you hunt the bachelor seals?"

The agent stared at him in surprise, and then burst into a short peal of laughter.

"Hunt? How do you hunt pet puppies?" he queried, in reply. "The holluschickie are the tamest, gentlest creatures in the world. Here are the hauling-grounds now. Let's go down. You'll see how tame they are."

"But it's like a dancing-floor or a parade-ground for soldiers!" cried Colin as, reaching the top of the hill, he looked across a stretch of upland plain at least half a mile across. There was not a blade of grass, not a twig of shrubbery of any kind, all had been beaten down and the bare ground was as smooth as though it had been leveled off and rolled. Upon this bare plain, thousands of the holluschickie were playing, the most characteristic game seeming to be a voluntary march or dance, when the bachelors would roughly gather into lines or groups and lope along at exactly the same speed together for about fifty feet, stopping simultaneously for a few moments, and then going on again, as though obeying the commands of a drill-sergeant.

"They don't seem to play with each other much," commented Colin as the two walked among the holluschickie, who showed neither fear nor excitement, merely shuffling aside a foot or two to let them pass.

"They do in the water," the agent said. "Play 'King of the Castle' on a flat-topped rock for hours together. One seal pushes the other off the coveted post, only to be dislodged himself a minute after. And I have never once seen any sign of ill-humor. They never bite. They never injure one another. They never even growl angrily. It's hard to believe that their tempers can change so quickly when they reach the rookery."

"They seem to be of all ages and sizes," said Colin.

"Yearlings of both sexes and males from two years old to five," the agent answered.

"Do they fast all summer, too, like the sea-catches?"

"No," was the reply. "No need for it. They go to sea every few days. If the sun is out they stay in the sea. They make long journeys, too, just as the mother seals have to do, because a seal needs at least thirty pounds of fish a day to keep in good condition. All the nearby fishing-grounds have been exhausted."

"I suppose the different colors show the different ages?" the boy suggested.

"Exactly," the agent answered. "That's important, too. By law we are only allowed to sell skins weighing between five and eight and a half pounds. That means only those of males two and three years old. The skin of a yearling weighs just about four pounds and that of a four-year-old male eleven or twelve."

"How about the two-year-old cow seals? You said that only the yearlings among the females were here."

"The cow seals never come twice to the hauling grounds," was the reply. "They go for the first time to the rookeries in their second year."

"I should think it would be easy enough then to 'cut out' a herd," the boy said. "I could pretty nearly do it myself."

"Obviously! Without any trouble!" was the reply. "But you've got to go slow."

"Why?" the boy queried.

"If a seal is hurried he gets heated. You remember I told you how little they can stand. If a seal is killed after being heated, fur comes off in patches and the skin is of no value. Let's go on. I have to tally those that are knocked down."

"I thought you were going to drive some!" said Colin in a disappointed tone, as they turned away from the hauling-grounds along a well-beaten road.

"The drive started three hours ago and more," was the reply. "Quarter of a mile an hour is fast enough to make seals travel. You can drive as fast as a mile an hour, but lots will be left on the road to die from the exertion. Yet the same seals will swim hundreds of miles in a day."

"But what can you do, then, on a warm day? Do you drive during the night?"

"No seals here on a warm day," was the immediate answer. "You saw all those thousands of holluschickie on the hauling-grounds? If the sun were to come out now, in half an hour there wouldn't be a seal on the entire flat. All disappear into the sea. Absolutely!"

"What is that group over there?" asked Colin, pointing to a small cluster a short distance ahead of them, near some rough frame buildings.

"That's the drive," the agent answered. "The killing-grounds are always near the salt-houses. What's that? The smell? Worst smell in the world, I thought, when I first came here. You can't kill seals in the same place year after year and just leave the flesh to rot without having a frightful odor. One gets used to it after a while."

"It seems to me that you're running the risk of starting up a plague or something!"

"No," was the reply, "it has never caused any sickness here. Then the drive is small now to what it used to be. Time was when three or four thousand seals would be driven, where we only take a couple of hundred now. Fallen off terribly! Fifty years ago, every available inch of all the beach was rookery, settled as thick as in the rookery you saw just now. The holluschickie were here in uncounted millions. These hills, now overgrown with grass, show the soil matted with fine hair and fur where the seals shed their coats for hundreds of years. Now a few scattered rookeries are all that remain."

"Do you suppose the seal herd will ever be as big again?" the boy asked.

The agent shook his head.

"I'm afraid not. The governments interested won't keep up the international agreement long enough," he said regretfully. "It would take thirty or forty years. Yet it would be worth it. You see," he continued, "this is absolutely the only place in the world where the true Alaskan fur seal -- the sea bear, as it used to be called, because it isn't a seal at all -- can be found. The fur seals on the Russian islands are a different species. Those on the Japanese islands are different from both."

"You say a fur seal isn't a seal at all?" asked Colin. "What's the difference?"

"Not the same at all. Different, entirely. Don't even belong to the same group of animal. They look differently. Their habits are unlike. Oh, they're dissimilar in every way."

"Just how?" asked Colin curiously.

"In the first place, the sexes of the hair or common seal are the same size, not like the fur seal, where the sea-catch is four or five times bigger than the female. Then they don't breed in harems and the male hair seal does not stay on shore. A fur seal swims with his fore flippers, a true seal with his hind flippers. A fur seal stands upright on his fore flippers, a hair seal lies supine. A fur seal has a neck, a hair seal has practically none. A fur seal naturally has fur, the hair seal has no undercoat whatever. A pup fur seal is black, a pup hair seal is white. Different? Obviously! Pity the old name 'sea bear' died out. It would have prevented confusion between fur seal and true seal."

With this beginning, the agent passed into a detailed description of the anatomy of the two different kinds of seal, and wound up with an earnest panegyric of his fur seal family. By the time the agent had completed his earnest defense of the sea bear, lest it should be confused with the more common seal, the two had reached the killing-grounds, where the natives were awaiting the agent's word to begin their work. He stepped up to the foreman of the gang and with him looked over the first 'pod' of about fifty that had been selected for killing, noting one or two that looked either too young or too old or with fur in bad condition, and these points settled, he gave the word to begin.

The 'pod' of seals was surrounded by eight men, each armed with a club about five and a half feet long, the thickness of a baseball bat at one end and three inches in diameter at the other. Behind him, each of the natives had laid his stabbing-knife, skinning-knife, and whetstone. At the word the killing began. Each native brought down his club simultaneously, the first blow invariably crushing the slight, thin bones of the fur seal's skull and stretching it out unconscious. The six or seven seals that fell to each man's share were clubbed in less than a minute for the lot.

The Aleuts then dropped their clubs and dragged out the stunned seals so that no one of them touched another, and taking their stabbing-knives, drove them into the hearts of the seals between the fore flippers. In no case did Colin see any evidence that the seal had felt a moment's suffering.

"Now," said the agent, "watch this, if you like seeing skilful work. Skinning has got to be done rapidly. Precisely! Else the seal will 'heat' and spoil the fur."

Watching the native nearest to him, Colin noticed that he rolled the seal over, balancing it squarely on its back. Then he made half a dozen sweeping strokes -- all so expert and accurate that not a slip was made with the knife, nor was any blubber left on the skin. In less than two minutes, by the watch, he had skinned the seal, leaving on the carcass nothing but a small patch of the upper lip where the stiff mustache grows, the insignificant tail, and the coarse hide of the flippers.

The whole sight was a good deal like butchery, and Colin felt a little uncomfortable. Moreover, he was not hardened to the odor arising from the blubber of the seal. He beat a retreat.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Nagge," he called, holding his handkerchief to his nose, "but that's too much for me."

The agent turned and noticed his departure. He called back to the boy:

"Do you see that low hill? To the right of that ruined hut?"

"Yes," Colin responded.

"Just below that are some sea-lions! Go and take a look at them. I'll join you as soon as we are through here. Won't be long. But you'll have to stalk them to the leeward if you want to get close," he added, "they're shy. I'll meet you there and we'll go back to dinner. You ought to be hungry by then."

"I will be, then," Colin responded cheerfully, adding under his breath, as he glanced back over his shoulder at the killing-grounds, "but I'm not now!"

A short walk through the long moss a-glitter with wild flowers, poppies, harebells, monkshood, and a host of sub-Arctic species, brought the lad to the top of the hill. There he paused a moment, to look over the island, treeless save for dwarf willows six inches high and a ground-dwelling form of crowberry. Below him, and some distance away, were the sea-lions, but even from that coign of vantage they looked so big and menacing that Colin wondered whether they might not stalk him, instead of his stalking them.

After a little scrambling, however, he found himself at the bottom of the cliff, and made his way as carefully as he could to the sea-lion rookery. But when he did come near and rounded a large boulder in order to get a fair view, he was inclined to think that shyness was the last idea he would have gained from the looks of sea-lions. Near him, almost erect on his fore flippers, was an old bull, a tremendous creature, well over six feet in height and weighing not less than fifteen hundred pounds.

Apart from size, he was a much more vicious-looking creature than the sea-catch; the tawny chest and grizzled mane gave him a true lion-like look, and an upturned muzzle showed the sharp teeth glistening white against the almost black tongue, while a small wicked, bulldog eye glittered at the intruder. The female sea-lion, near by, was almost as large as a six-year-old bull seal.

Wanting to see something happen, and realizing from the build of the sea-lion that he could not make much progress on land, Colin threw a stone at a pup sea-lion who was asleep on a rock close by.

But the boy was utterly unprepared for the result, for no sooner did the huge sea-lion realize his advance as he strode forward to throw the stone, than it was smitten with panic. When, moreover, it heard the 'crack' of the pebble as it hit a rock behind him, the cowardly creature went wild with fear, and made convulsive and clumsy efforts to reach the water ten feet away, tumbling down twice in doing so, and finally plunging into the ocean trembling as though with ague. At the alarm, the entire rookery took flight, leaving the pups behind, sprawling on the rocks. The parents ranged up in a line about fifty feet from shore and remained at that safe distance as long as Colin was in sight. He watched the pups for a little while, but they were not nearly as interesting as seals, and he was quite ready to go when his friend hailed him from the top of the hill.

"Sea-lions look sort of human in the water, don't they?" remarked Colin as he rejoined his friend, and turned for a farewell glance at the creatures with their upright heads and shoulders and inquisitive look.

"The Aleuts say they are," his friend replied. "They declare their ancestors were sea-lions or seals. That's a general belief on the north coast of Scotland and in the Hebrides, too."

"That men came from seals?"

"Certainly. What do you suppose started all the mermaid stories? Round head, soft tender eyes, and a fish's tail? Seals! Obviously! And, if you notice old pictures of mermaids the tail is drawn as if it were split in two, just like the two long flippers of the seal."

"I never thought of that before," said the boy.

"You've heard of the Orforde merman, of course, haven't you?"

Colin admitted his ignorance.

"Queer yarn. Quite true, though," the agent said. "Documents show it. It happened off the coast of Suffolk, England. About the end of the twelfth century, I think. Some fishermen caught a creature which they described as being like an old man with long gray hair, but which had a fish's tail. It could live out of the water just as well as in it. They brought it to the Earl of Orforde. In spite of all their efforts they could not teach the merman to speak. Naturally! So the priest of the parish suggested that perhaps the creature had something to do with the devil. Characteristic of the time! So they took the 'merman' to church. But it showed no sign of adoration and didn't seem to understand the ceremonies. So they were convinced that it was an evil thing, and put it to the torture, hoping to extract a confession from -- a seal!"

"But there are mermaids!" said Colin. "I've seen 'em. Not alive, of course, but stuffed."

"So have I," the agent said, laughing; "that was a trick the Japanese used and fooled a lot of people. Why, there was one in a museum in Boston for years! It was a fake, of course. Obviously!"

"How did they do it?"

"Head and shoulders of a newly-born monkey fastened to a fish's body. I forget now what fish. Then with incredible pains, they laid rows upon rows of fish scales all over the monkey's shoulders and chest. Wonderful work. Each scale was glued on separately, beginning from scales almost microscopic and shading both in size and color exactly into those of the fish hinder portion. The work was so exquisitely done that its artificiality could not be detected. But live mermaids haven't been put in any aquarium. Not yet!"

"I don't suppose there's even a water-baby left!" the boy said, laughing.

"No," was the reply. "We couldn't give it any milk now, the sea-cows have been all killed off."

"Sea-cows?"

"Big creatures, bigger even than walruses. Lots of them here some time. We find their bones everywhere. Nearly all our sled-runners are made of sea-cow bones. They grazed like cattle below water on the seaweeds of the shore and the natives used to spear them at low tide."

"Are there walruses here, too?"

"I saw three a few years ago, but none since. About two hundred miles north of here, however, on St. Matthew's Island, there used to be scores of them. But I reckon hunters and polar bears, between them, have destroyed most of them."

"Do polar bears come here in winter?"

The agent shook his head.

"The Pribilof Islands are not cold enough for a polar bear. Besides he likes walrus meat better than seal. Bear eats a lot of fish, too."

"I thought they lived almost entirely on seals."

"They couldn't very well," was the reply. "Seal is a better swimmer than a bear, although the polar bear is a marvel in the water for a land animal and can overhaul a walrus. The big white fellows only catch seal when basking on the ice. They get a good many that way. The hunters have left nothing to the Pribilofs except the fur seal and the sea-lion, and not many of those. And unless we can find a way to stop the seal-pirates, those will soon be gone, too."

"Do you have much trouble with that sort of thing?" the boy asked.

"A lot nearly every year. We won't have so much of it now. Great Britain, Japan, Russia, and the United States are united in the desire to prevent pelagic sealing. Good thing, too. A treaty has been signed, forbidding it for fifteen years. So you see, a seal poacher on the rookeries finds everybody against him."

"Wasn't there a lot of trouble some years ago?" Colin asked. "I heard that there was real fighting here."

"Indeed there was, and lots of it! No one, not even the United States Government, ever knew how much. While the islands were leased to a private company the beaches were patrolled by riflemen. Russian and Japanese schooners frequently sent off boatloads of armed men during a fog, to kill as many seals as possible, protecting their men by gunfire. But that was before the Bureau of Fisheries took hold!"

"Has there been any of that lately?"

"Not recently. The last was in 1906, when seven men were killed. The two schooners, the Tokaw Maru and the Bosco Maru, were seized and confiscated. Promptly! The men were taken to Valdez. They were convicted and sent to prison."

"Well, that's desperate enough," the boy said, "but, after all, there's something daring about it. It's the pelagic sealing that seems so mean to me."

"It may be daring enough," the agent admitted. "The way I feel about it, though, is that it seems worse to kill a cow fur seal than a human being. There are lots of people in the world. The human race isn't going to die out, but the small remnant of fur seals on the Pribilof Islands is absolutely the last chance left of saving the entire species from extinction. So," he concluded with a laugh, as they went into the village, "don't let your enthusiasm for a piece of daring tempt you to turn seal-pirate."

Colin laughed, as he nodded to his host, and went to see after one of his new pets, a blue fox pup which had been given him that morning by one of the natives.

Evening seemed to come early because of the dense fog, the damp mist which had been present all day settling down heavily. Colin was thoroughly tired, but not at all sleepy, and he wandered aimlessly through the village for a while after supper.

"I wonder if there's a storm coming?" he said to the agent. "I have a sort of feeling that something's going to happen."

"It may blow a little fresh," was the reply. "That's all. The barometer doesn't seem disturbed."

"I must be wrong then," said Colin, suppressing a yawn, "but I have a queer sort of excited feeling."

"Better take it out in sleep," was the advice given him. "We're all going to turn in soon. Even if you did get a nap this afternoon, you ought to be tired after last night."

The boy could see nothing to be gained by arguing the point, and there was nothing special to do, so he waited a few minutes and then went up to his room, though he had never felt less like sleeping. He got into bed, however, but tossed about uneasily for hours, the distant roaring of the seals on the rookery and other unaccustomed noises keeping him awake. And ever, through it all, Colin was conscious of this presentiment of some trouble on hand. Suddenly, this feeling rushed over him like a flood and, impelled by some force he could not resist, he sprang from bed and hurried to the window.

The fog had thinned considerably, but it was still so misty that he could only just see the edge of the bleak shore where the little waves rolled in idly, looking gray and greasy under the fog. He leaned his arms on the sill, but aside from the seal-roar, everything seemed peaceful and the lad was just about to turn away from the window in the feeling of miserable anger that comes from being tired but not able to sleep, when he saw a flash of light.

Startled, and with every nerve stimulated to alertness, he watched, and again he saw the light. Straining his eyes Colin could just distinguish the figure of a man with a gun on his shoulder and a lantern in his hand, making his way to the coast end of the village.

"Some one who has been making a night of it!" the boy muttered to himself with a short laugh, and got back into bed.

But the figure of the man with the gun and the lantern in his hand had impressed itself on his mind, and though he tried to dismiss the idea and go to sleep, every time he closed his eyes he seemed to see the man go walking silently through the village. Presently he sat bolt upright in bed.

"The native huts are all at the other end of the village!" he said half aloud, with a surprised suspiciousness. "Why was he going that way?"

The boy rose and went back to the open window. It seemed to him that there was more tumult from the rookery than when he had listened half an hour before, but it occurred to him that this was probably the result of the silence of the hour and his own restlessness. Then, not loudly, but distinctly, in spite of its being muffled by the fog, the sound of a rifle-shot came to his ears.

That settled it for Colin. If there was anything going on in the way of sport he wanted a share in it, and as he was wide awake, he decided to follow up and see what was going on. He slipped into his clothes as quickly as possible and tiptoed his way down the rickety stairs. But before he had gone many steps an unaccustomed thought of prudence struck him, and he walked back to a house three or four doors from where he had been staying, the home, indeed, of the villager who had given him the pet fox, and in which Hank had taken up quarters. He knocked on the window and immediately Hank appeared.

"What is it?" he queried. "Oh, it's you, Colin. Why aren't you in bed?"

"I was," the boy answered, and in a few words he told how he had seen the native go by with a gun and a lantern and had heard the shot fired a few minutes ago.

"Sounds like smugglin'," the old whaler said, after a minute's thought. "Well, there's no great harm in that. That is, I don't think so, though the gov'nment chaps might say different."

"Smuggling?" queried Colin; "poaching. Do you mean seal-poaching? Oh, come along, Hank, and let's find out."

"What's the use of huntin' trouble?" said the old man. "Go back to bed."

"Not much," retorted the boy; "if you don't want to come, I'll go, anyway."

"If you're goin' anyway," grumbled the old whaler, "I reckon it's no use my sayin' anythin' to stop you. But I s'pose," he added, and he was secretly as curious as the boy, "I'd better go along with you to see that you don't get into any more mischief than you have to."

"You're coming, then?" asked Colin impatiently.

"I'll be right out," the other answered, and he had hardly disappeared from the window when he appeared at the door. He slipped a revolver into his pocket and handed another to Colin.

"I've got a gun," the boy said.

"All right," responded Hank, "I'll pack this one along, too," and he slipped it into one of the pockets of his big reefer.

They walked in silence for a few minutes until they had passed the end of the village, and then Hank put his hand on the boy's arm.

"You've got a right hunch," he said abruptly, in a low voice. "There's somethin' in the wind."

"What makes you think so?" asked Colin.

The other pointed vaguely to sea.

"There's a ship out there," he said.

Colin did his utmost to pierce the gloom, but the fog had settled down again, the night was dark, and the boy could scarcely see the waves breaking on the shore not twenty feet away.

"I can't see anything," he said. "Whereabouts?"

"I don't know just where," the old sailor replied, "but I know she's there. I feel it."

"Let's hurry!" said the boy.

"Better go slower," warned Hank, pulling him back gently; "we're not far from the rookery."

"I don't see why we should be so careful, and I don't see why we should whisper," Colin objected, whispering nevertheless; "the seals are making noise enough to drown a brass band."

"Listen!" said Hank.

The boy put his hand to his ear, trying to distinguish sounds in the continuous roar.

"Voices?" he queried with a puzzled look.

"I thought so," the whaler nodded. There was a pause, while both listened, then the gunner said:

"It isn't English and it doesn't sound like Aleut or Russian."

"Japanese?" queried the boy at a guess.

The man grasped the boy's shoulder with a grip that nearly dislocated it.

"Japanese raiders!" he said. "Can you run?"

"You bet," said Colin, growing excited; "I'm a crack runner."

"Get back to the agent's house as fast as you know how an' wake him up. He'll know what to do."

"What are you after, Hank?" asked the boy, tightening his belt.

"Whatever comes along," was the terse reply.

Colin pitched off his heavy coat and started. It was over a half-mile run, but the boy was in good condition and the path was smooth, so that two minutes saw him at the agent's bedroom door.

"Eh? What's that? Japanese raiders! You've been dreaming, boy. Go back to bed."

"Do I look as if I'd been dreaming?" Colin said indignantly. "How do you suppose I could run myself out of breath in a dream? Hank was with me. He heard them, too, and sent me back to tell you."

But the agent was already up and busy.

"Wake the village!" he said shortly.

Without waiting to find out how this should be done, Colin started off at a run, and picking up a killing club that lay handy, he sped down the village street, hitting a resounding 'whack' on every door as he passed. As he came back, up the other side of the street, the natives were streaming out of their houses and Colin told them all to go to the agent, whereupon those who understood English started immediately, the rest following. The agent was ready and had all his plans made, some of the men were sent to the boats, and arms for others were laid out.

"They were right on Gorbatch rookery?" the agent asked.

"Yes, sir," Colin replied, "at the Reef Point end."

The party was swinging along at a fast half-run over the sands that lay between the edge of the village and the beginning of the rookery, and with the rising of the moon the fog seemed to thin.

"I had rather we were a little nearer before it gets too light," the agent said, "but we'd better make the best use we can of our time."

On reaching the wall, the agent vaulted lightly over it, the rest following suit, and to Colin's surprise the official led the way behind the rookery, threading in and out between idle bulls, who made a display of great ferocity but never actually attacked. The agent paid not the slightest heed to any of them, merely keeping out of reach of their teeth.

As they turned a corner, a cloud which had partly obscured the moon passed and showed them an unexpected sight. Magnified into gigantic forms by the fog were the figures of six men, apparently all armed, facing Hank, the old whaler, who, with both revolvers, was keeping them at bay. He was close to the shore, standing behind two old, wicked-looking beachmasters, who, in the unnatural light, appeared to be twice their natural size. Hank let out a hail as soon as he saw the government party coming to his assistance, but he did not relax his vigilance.

"I've got this bunch covered," he said, "an' they can't get to their boat. One load did get off."

Hearing his shout the invaders turned quickly, but found themselves overpowered, for a dozen rifles were leveled at them. They knew, too, that natives who are trained to shoot fur seal in the water -- as most of those men had done before pelagic sealing was stopped -- could be counted on as good shots.

The agent, who spoke sufficient Japanese for simple needs, demanded the surrender of the raiders and asked which was the officer of the party. This question they refused to understand.

"I suppose he went off in the other boat," hazarded the agent. "That's a pity. He stands a good chance of being shot!"

Colin looked up inquiringly.

"How do you expect to catch him now?" he asked.

"The fog is clearing away. Obviously!" the agent answered.

"Quite a lot," the boy admitted.

"Row-boat hasn't much chance against a launch, has it?"

"Oh, I see now," Colin said understandingly; "you covered the water with another party."

"In a very swift gasoline launch we have. While you were waking the village, I got a wireless to a revenue cutter. I caught her at less than fifteen miles away, and she's headed here now."

He turned to the Japanese.

"What is your ship? Schooner or steamer?" he asked.

"Schooner," was the reply.

The agent rubbed his hands delightedly.

"It's a clean haul," he said. "Thanks to you, Hank. Principally. To the boy, too! We've caught six men red-handed right on the rookery, with dead seals, most of them females. The launch ought to intercept the boat. There's not wind enough for a schooner to get far away by the time the revenue cutter arrives. Besides, the schooner will be short-handed since we have six of the crew here."

A sudden puff of wind lifted the fog still further and revealed the schooner herself, lying not far from shore. A row-boat was about one hundred and fifty feet from the vessel and the station launch was two hundred feet away, approaching from a different angle, but outspeeding the row-boat.

"A race!" cried Colin.

It was a closer race than at first appeared. Under the strange light of the full moon shining grayly through the silvering mist upon the seals in their countless thousands, the scene seemed most unreal. Before him appeared the principals in this dramatic encounter, revolvers and rifles in the hands of all parties, the Japs being still covered; while beyond, at sea, the two boats cleaving the water, their objective point the shadowy schooner, looking like a phantom ship, made a picture of weird excitement in an unearthly setting. The seconds seemed like hours. The row-boat was nearer the schooner and was traveling fast, but the launch was speeding even more rapidly, throwing up a high wave at the bow. It looked as though both boats would reach the schooner's side at the same instant.

"She'll do it! She'll do it!" the boy exclaimed. "If only an oar would smash!"

The Japanese, though not saying a word, were bending forward eagerly, watching the race with every nerve on the strain.

Colin fairly danced with excitement, nearly bringing down on himself the wrath of a neighboring sea-catch, who was roaring angrily at this intrusion.

"If she only had another couple of horsepower --  -- " he cried.

The Japanese smiled.

A port in the rail of the schooner opened and the muzzle of a small swivel-gun projected, aimed full at the launch. Colin caught his breath.

A puff of smoke followed, and a couple of seconds later the sharp crack of a small gun. A crash and a few sharp explosions were heard from the launch, but, so far as could be seen from the shore, no one was injured. The engine gave a 'chug-chug' or two -- then stopped dead.

Colin dropped his arms limply by his side in despair.

The leader of the Japanese took a quick step forward and whispered a word or two to the nearest man, who passed it down the line. The agent strained his ears to hear what was said, but could not distinguish the words.

"What's that you were saying?" he asked in Japanese.

The man replied calmly, and in English.

"We say nothing," he answered blandly, "only that you have made big mistakes. That is not our ship!"

The agent stared at him, but the Japanese smiled affably.

"We are shipwreck on the island," he said. "We not know what place it is, have no food, hungry, kill some seal for food, anybody do that."

At this impudent and barefaced falsehood, the agent was tongue-tied, but he turned to Hank.

"These men say," he said, "that they are shipwrecked sailors and do not belong to that ship. Let's get this thing right. Tell us what you know about it."

Hank straightened up.

"After the boy left me," he said, "I saw it wouldn't do any good to tackle 'em at once, there bein' no way of gettin' at 'em from the shore side. If I let 'em know they were watched, they would be off, sure, an' what I wanted was to find some way to head 'em off. I knew if you came down the beach after 'em they'd have the start, an' you can't always depend on shootin' straight at night in a fog."

"What did you do, then?" asked the agent.

"I just slipped into the water, down by the end o' the causeway," the old whaler said, "an' there were scores o' seals around, so that it didn't matter how much I splashed."

"You must be half a seal yourself," the agent said. "Swimming among rocks in the dark is no joke."

"I had plenty of time, and I can swim a little," the old man modestly admitted. "Wa'al, pretty soon I saw the boat an' I swam under water till I came up right behind it. The Jap what was sittin' in it wasn't expectin' any trouble an' as he was nid-noddin' and half asleep, I put one hand on the stern o' the boat, bringin' it down in the water. With the other hand I grabbed the back of a blouse-thing he was wearin' an' yanked him overboard."

"You didn't drown him, did you, Hank?" asked Colin.

"Not altogether," the old whaler answered. "I held him under, though, until he was good an' full o' water an' had stopped kickin', an' then I climbed into the boat. Next time he came up I grabbed him an' took him aboard. The fog was pretty thick an' none o' the rest of 'em saw what was goin' on. In a minute or two I could see he was beginnin' to come round an' I didn't quite know what to do. I didn't want to knock him on the head, he hadn't done anythin' to hurt me, an' so I dropped the row-locks overboard, tossed the oars ashore -- there they are, lyin' among the seals -- an' got ashore myself. As soon as I was on solid ground I untied the painter what held the boat an' set it adrift, givin' it a push off with one o' the oars. The tide's goin' out, so I knew he couldn't get ashore again. I'd hardly got the boat shoved off when he yelled an' the rest of 'em heard it."

"What did they do?"

"Come rushin' for the boats. Most of 'em went over to the south'ard," he pointed down the rookery, "where there was a boat I hadn't seen, but these six tried to rush me. I just had time to shove the boat off, grab my guns, an' face 'em."

"It was a bully hold-up," said Colin delightedly, "one against six."

"Had to," said the sailor, "or the six would have made mincemeat o' the one. Besides, I had to give the tide a chance to get that boat out o' the way. After I held 'em a few minutes I knew it was all right, because they had no boat, their own bein' adrift without oars."

"Big lie," said the Japanese leader placidly, "we shipwreck sailors, nothing to do with that ship at all. This man tell story about boat -- we not know anything of that boat. Our boat sunk on rocks, away over there!"

He pointed to the other side of the island.

"But you were killing seals!" protested the agent.

"Yes," said the Japanese, "we think islands have not any person on. Need food, we kill. Of course."

"Clever," said the agent, turning to Hank. "This isn't as simple as it looks. We have no direct evidence that these men belonged to that schooner."

"But we know they did!" said the whaler emphatically.

"Of course," agreed the agent. "But we can't prove it. Law demands proof. If we only had that boat, with the schooner's name on, it would serve."

Suddenly there came a hail from the crippled launch which was being brought in under oars.

"Mr. Nagge there?"

"Yes, Svenson," was the reply, "what is it?"

"They smashed our engine all to bits," answered the engineer of the boat, "but we've just picked up another boat, empty."

"That's the boat," said the agent with satisfaction in his voice. "Now we've got them!"

A smile, a very faint smile, crossed the features of the Japanese leader.

"What's the name on the stern of the boat?" the agent called.

There was a moment's pause, then came the answer in tones of deep disgust:

"The name's been painted out!"

The agent looked round despairingly and caught Colin's look of sympathy.

"The slippery Oriental again!" the boy said.

"Not quite slippery enough this time, though," said Hank in a voice which betrayed a discovery.

"What do you mean?" asked the agent.

"Uncle Sam's gettin' into the game," he answered, pointing out to sea.

"The revenue cutter?"

"Hm, hm," grunted the whaler in assent, "I reckon I can see her lights."

No one else could see anything in the fog and darkness, but a minute or two later there came a flash, followed by a dull "boom."

Hank turned to the Japanese leader.

"Pity to spoil that yarn o' yours," he said, "but your ship can't run away from quick-firin' guns without a wind."



Chapter IV

Catching The Sea-Serpent


There was great excitement in the village the next day when the revenue cutter brought in the Japanese raiding schooner and her crew. The boat that had successfully reached the ship had already begun to load her quota of sealskins, and the men had not thrown them overboard, believing that they could get away. Consequently, with the evidence of the raid ashore and with the seals in the boat belonging to the schooner from which witnesses had seen the crew go on board, the case was complete.

"What are you going to do with the prisoners?" asked Colin. "Are you going to put them on trial here?"

"Not here," the agent replied. "The Federal Courts look after that."

"But I thought you were a judge," the boy protested. "Who administers justice on the islands?"

"The chief agent," was the reply. "He is a magistrate. All the natives are employees of the Fisheries Bureau. He has a lot of authority over them. Obviously! But any really grave case is tried at Valdez, because that's the nearest Federal court from here. Sealing questions, too, are so confused with international issues that we don't undertake to decide them."

"And what will happen to the schooner?"

"A prize crew will be put aboard. Take her to Unalaska. The revenue cutter will pick them up afterwards. Probably start for Valdez without delay. Captain Murchison said this morning that he wanted to go along."

"I wonder if I'll have to go?" said Colin. "I'm sure I don't want to, at least, not yet. There's ever so much more that I want to find out about seals, and I've hardly started. If I'm ever lucky enough to get into the Bureau of Fisheries, I hope I shall have a chance to get something to do on this fur seal service."

"Fur seal's very important. But only a small part of the Bureau of Fisheries," the agent said, and outlined to Colin the general workings of the Bureau, in which he showed the practical value of the work.

"I know. I want to join the Bureau," the boy persisted, "not only because I think there's more fun in it than in anything else, but because I like everything about it."

"What do your folks say about the plan?" the Fisheries agent queried.

"They know I want it," the lad replied, "but I never felt that I knew enough about the Bureau to say that I didn't care to do anything else. Father's always wanted me to take up lumbering or forestry or sawmills or something to do with timber. He's quite a big lumberman, you know. But, some way, that never appealed to me."

"Your father ought to know," the other said. "Obviously! And if he owns timber lands, I think it's up to you to be a help. Lots of interesting angles to the lumber business. And if the timber lands are going to descend to you, you'll have to look after them, anyway."

"But they won't," objected Colin; "that's just it. In about ten years that timber will be all cut off. I'm pretty sure Father will let me join the Bureau," the boy continued, "because he's wild about fishing himself. Why, just now, he's down at Santa Catalina, angling for big game."

"Some difference between the Fisheries Bureau and angling for sport," the agent warned him. "I've been in the business all my life. But I've never even learned to cast a fly! It's a serious business, and down in Washington you'll find that the value of the work to the people of the United States is the chief aim of the Bureau."

"It may be serious, but I should think that there is always something new. And, anyway," Colin said enthusiastically, "fishes are ever so much more interesting than animals. There are such heaps of different kinds, too!"

"The interest in work depends on how you look at it," soberly responded the agent. "Obviously! But don't think the Bureau is experimenting with every kind of fish in the ocean. There are only a few food fishes or forms with commercial value that are exploited at all."

"But you were describing to me, only yesterday, the way they handle millions of baby fishes annually. I've just got to get into the Bureau."

"Go ahead, then. I don't doubt we'll be glad to have you. I've done my best to show you what you'll have to face," the official declared, "and if you're still eager for it, why, go in and win. There's always a place somewhere for the chap who is really anxious to work."

At supper that day, the decision was announced that the revenue cutter would start for Valdez next morning, and Colin had to scramble around in a hurry to take a last look at the seals, to get a small crate made for the blue fox pup, which he was going to send home for his younger brother to look after, and to put into a small trunk he had got from one of the villagers the few things he had saved from the wreck and had been able to buy in the village.

The trip down to the Aleutian Islands and through its straits was a delight to Colin, and he became quite excited when he learned that the second lieutenant had for years been attached to a revenue cutter which had a wharf at the Fisheries Bureau station at Woods Hole, Mass. This officer, who had a brother in the Bureau, was only too glad to talk to the boy about the service, and Colin monopolized his spare time on the journey. And when, one day, his friend depicted the immensity of the great salmon drives of the Alaskan rivers, the lad grew so excited that the lieutenant laughingly told him he expected some fine morning to find that he had jumped overboard and had started swimming for the Ugashik River or some other of the famous salmon streams of Alaska.

Shortly before they arrived at Valdez, the lieutenant of the cutter called the boy aside.

"Colin," he said, "didn't you tell me the other day that you were going down to Santa Catalina?"

"Yes, sir," the boy answered. "Father's down there now, and I want to ask him if he won't let me go and join the Bureau of Fisheries."

"Well," the officer replied, "before you do that, I think you ought to get some idea about the sort of work there is to do. It happens that one of my brother's friends is on the Columbia River just now, making some kind of experiment on salmon. He has a cottage not far from one of the state hatcheries, and if you like, I'll give you a letter to him. If you are really determined to enter the Bureau, you might stop on your way to Santa Catalina and see the work from another point of view."

"I'd like to ever so much," said Colin, "but I couldn't very well go uninvited."

"He'll be only too pleased to see you," was the reply; "he's a Westerner like myself, and will enjoy putting you up for a day or two."

"It's right in my way, too," remarked Colin, yielding to his desire to go.

"Quite a few of the steamers for 'Frisco stop at Astoria, at the mouth of the Columbia River," the lieutenant suggested, "and the professor's cottage is not more than half an hour from there, near the state fish-hatching station at Chinook, Wash."

"Just across the river, then?"

"Exactly. The way I look at it, you're not at all likely to have anything to do with fur seal if you go into the Bureau, certainly not for a good many years. So you can't judge the Fisheries' scope from that, and you ought to see the work that will probably fall to your lot."

"Very well, sir," said the boy, "I'll go gladly, and thank you ever so much."

"I'll drop a note to Professor Todd, then," the lieutenant said, nodding as he turned away, "and as we may be delayed a few days in Valdez, the letter will reach him before you will."

On their arrival at the Alaskan town, Colin learned that some time would elapse before the trial of the Japanese prisoners, as the court would not be in session until later in the summer, and he was told that when his deposition had been taken, there would be no need to keep him as a witness. Accordingly, after the boy had related the story of the discovery and of his entire connection with the affair, he was told that he might leave.

As the revenue officer had expected, within a week a steamer left Valdez for San Francisco, calling at Astoria on the way, and Colin took passage aboard. Aside from meeting on board an old shell collector, who taught him a great deal about the principal valuable sea shells of the world, the voyage was without incident, and he arrived in Astoria in time to proceed the same afternoon to the cottage of the professor, where he was to stay that night, having found a letter of welcome awaiting him in Astoria.

Reaching the house he presented his letter of introduction, and was cordially greeted. Finding that the boy was really interested, his host took him to a tiny laboratory of his own, where he was experimenting on the various diseases of the salmon and the trout.

This gave Colin an entirely new outlook on the Fisheries' activities.

"I never thought of fishes being sick before!" he exclaimed. "Are there fish-doctors in the Bureau?"

"There's a large division of the service given to that very work," the professor replied, "only there are so many millions of fish that we do not try to cure the individual, but only endeavor to prevent the disease. You know what the work of a veterinary is?"

"Of course," the boy responded.

"And you know that the United States Government has an inspector at every place where cattle and sheep and pigs are slaughtered to see that no diseased animals are sold?"

"Yes," the boy answered, "I have heard of that, too."

"Since there is almost as much fish eaten in this country as there is meat," the professor continued, "Uncle Sam sees to it that no diseased fish are sold for food."

"I don't quite see how," the boy responded; "there can't be an inspector at every place where they catch fish."

"Certainly not, but as long as there is no disease among fish, there can be no diseased fish. We try to prevent the diseases. Now here, for example," he continued, "are a lot of fish that have a kind of malign growth. It comes very frequently among the trout and salmon that are artificially raised, and sometimes we find it among fish that have been reared in a state of nature, and I have been working for some time on this and I hope this year -- or at all events by next season -- to be able to show the cause of the disease. That is really my problem, Colin, but the details of it are too complicated to explain easily. But you have come at a particularly good time," he continued, "because I have been wanting to do an experiment which I thought might interest you, and I waited until you came. If you like, we'll go out to-morrow."

"I should, ever so much," Colin exclaimed. "What's the experiment?"

"When the salmon come in from the sea," the professor began, "there is a great deal of hesitation among them sometimes before they go up the river to spawn, and we want to find out whether they go back to the sea again, whether they swim directly up the stream, or whether they remain in the brackish water at the mouth of the river."

"If you don't mind my saying so, what is the use of knowing?" asked Colin. "I mean, what does it matter as long as the salmon spawns?"

"The salmon is one of the most important food fishes of the country," the professor said rebukingly, "and it is as important for us to know all about its habits as it is to know about the way a grain of wheat grows."

"I hadn't thought of that," Colin said, a little shamefacedly. "I suppose everything really is important, no matter how small."

The professor smiled at him.

"If you have much to do with studying fish," he said, "or, indeed, with any kind of science, you will find out it is always the little things that tell the story. Take the grain of wheat again. If one kind of wheat ripens two days earlier on an average than another kind, you might think that so small a difference wouldn't be of great importance, but those two days might -- and often do -- make the difference between a good crop and one which is frost-bitten and spoiled."

"That's a lot easier to see," agreed the boy. "But, sir," he objected, "you can pick out one little bit of a field and work on that, and it will 'stay put.' Fishes wander all over the place."

"We want them to do so, my boy," was the reply.

"How can you work on separate fish? One looks so like another!"

"And for that very reason we're going to tag them."

"Tag them?"

"With a little aluminum button fastened to their tail, just as bad youngsters fasten a tin can to a dog's tail. Every tag has a number, and we use aluminum because it corrodes rapidly in salt water."

"Then I should think," said Colin, "that was the very reason why you shouldn't use it."

"Why not?" asked the professor mildly. "We know that the salmon are not going to stay in the salt water, because they are going up the river to spawn. If, therefore, we catch a fish in the nets higher up stream, with the tag bright and shining, we know that it hasn't been in salt water at all; if dull and just a little worn away, that the fish with that tag has been staying in the brackish water near the mouth of the river; but if it is deeply corroded, that the fish returned to sea for a time. As you see, a good deal of information is gathered that way. But in the morning you will have a chance to see how it is done, and then the results -- when they are published -- will seem more interesting."

"Have you been associated with the Bureau of Fisheries, Professor Podd?" Colin asked.

"Not directly," the other replied. "I should have enjoyed it, and it seems to me a work of the first importance, but every man is apt to think that about his own work, or work that is like his own. But I can tell you what decided me, nearly twenty years ago, to give all my spare time to the fishery question."

"What was that?" asked Colin.

"It was a phrase in a lecture that Dr. Baird, the founder of fish culture in America, was giving about the need of the work. He pointed out that there was more actual life in a cubic foot of water than in a cubic foot of land, and closed by saying, 'The work of conserving the Fisheries of the United States will not be finished until every acre of water is farmed as carefully as every acre or land.'"

"I never quite thought of it as farming," said the boy.

"Nor had I, before that time," the professor said. "But ever since then I have seen that we of the present time are the great pioneers, the discoverers, the explorers of this new world. Instead of blazing our trail through a wilderness of trees we dredge our way through a wilderness of waters; instead of a stockade around a blockhouse to protect us against wild beasts and wilder Indian foes, we have but a thin plank between us and destruction; instead of a few wolves and mountain-lions to prey upon the few head of stock we might raise, we have thousands of millions of fierce, finny pirates with which to do battle, and we work against odds the old pioneers could not even have estimated!"

"That's great!" cried Colin, his eyes shining.

"The surface of the sea," the professor continued, warming to his subject, "reveals no more of its mystery than the smoke cloud above the city tells the story of the wild race of life in its thronging streets, or than the waving tips of a forest of mighty trees reveal the myriad forms below. Each current of the ocean is an empire of its own with its tribes endlessly at war; the serried hosts of voracious fish prey on those about them, fishes of medium depth do perpetual war upon the surface fish, and some of these are forced into the air to fly like birds away from the Nemesis below."

"And much is still unknown, isn't it?"

"We are discovering a new world!" was the reply. "No one for a moment can deny the greatness of the finding of America, and Columbus and the other early navigators are sure of immortal fame, but even so, what was the New World they found to the illimitable areas of unknown life, in the bottom of the sea, that have been made known to man. Think of the wonder that has been revealed by the Challenger and other ships that have explored the ocean beds!"

"There is still a great deal unknown, isn't there?"

"Still an unknown universe! Lurking in the utter darkness of the scarce-fathomed deeps of the ocean, what Kraken may not lie, coil on coil; what strange black, slimy, large-eyed forms do their stealthy hunting in perpetual night by the light of phosphorescent lamps they bear upon their bodies? Many of these there are, every year teaches of new species. The land -- oh! the land is all well known, even the Arctic and Antarctic regions no longer hide their secrets, but the ocean is inscrutable. Smiling or in anger, she baffles us and her inmost shrines are still inviolate."

The professor checked himself suddenly, as though conscious of having been carried away by enthusiasm.

"We'll try and get at some of the secrets to-morrow," he said, "but it will mean early rising, as the trap is to be hauled at slack water."

Acting on the hint, Colin bade his host good-night, but his sleep was fitful and restless. The sudden passionate speech of the grave scholar had been a revelation to the boy, and whereas he had felt a desire for the Fisheries Bureau before, he knew now that it had been largely with the sense of novelty and adventure. But the professor's words had given him a new light, and he saw what an ideal might be. He felt like a knight of the olden time, who, watching his armor the vigil before the conferring of knighthood, had been granted a vision of all his service might mean. He knew that night that the question he was to ask his father could have but the one answer, that the great decision of his life was made, his work was cut out to do.

Shortly after daybreak the next morning, Colin was called and he dressed hurriedly. After a hearty breakfast in which steel-head trout figured largely, he went down to the pier on the water and was not sorry to have the chance of showing his host that he was a good canoeist.

"How large is the work of the Bureau now, Professor?" asked Colin, as the light craft shot down the magnificent stretches of the Columbia River.

"Over three and a half billion eggs and small fish were distributed last year, if I remember rightly," was the reply. "Of course, a large proportion of these fish did not reach maturity, but perhaps half a billion did so, and half a billion fish is an immense contribution to the food supply of the world."

"But aren't there always lots of fish in the sea?" asked Colin. "When you come to compare land with water it always looks as though there must be so many that the number we catch wouldn't make any sort of impression on them."

"Think a bit," said the professor. "You've just come down from the Pribilof Islands. How did you find matters up there? Had the catching of seals been harmful, or were there so many seals still in the sea that it didn't matter what line of hunting went on?"

"Of course, pelagic sealing had nearly killed off the entire species," said Colin, "but, somehow, fish seem different. Oh, yes, I know why. Seals only have one pup at a time and fishes have thousands of eggs."

"That's a very good reply," the professor agreed, "but why was it that pelagic sealing was so bad? Was it done all the year round?"

"No," said Colin, "principally when the females were coming to the spawning ground."

"And the Pribilof Islands are only a small place. Especially when compared to the range of oceans the seal cover during the rest of the year?"

"Very small."

"Then," said the other, "it is easy to see that the respective size of land and water has very little to do with the general fishery question. But if a seal or a fish must come to the land or to narrow rivers to spawn, it follows that man possesses the power to determine whether spawning shall continue or not, doesn't it?"

"Yes," agreed Colin, "I suppose it does."

"And if you protect the seals, the herd will increase."

"It ought to."

"Very good. That is just the work we are doing here. The salmon come into fresh water to spawn -- just like shad and a number of other species of fish -- and when you kill a salmon just about to ascend the river, you destroy at the same time the thousands of eggs she bears."

"But I thought salmon were always caught running up a stream?" said Colin in surprise.

"They are," was the quick response; "by far the larger number are caught that way, and as long as a certain proportion go up the stream there's no great harm done. But if every one of the salmon is caught, as happens when nets are put all the way across a stream, there will be none to spawn, and in a few years there will be no fish in that river."

"Do the fish always return, when grown up, to the river in which they spawned?"

"That is disputed. But the large proportion of such fish do not travel very far from the mouth of the river in which they were born and the natural impulse for fresh water at spawning-time leads them naturally to the nearest stream. So, it is imperative that some fish be allowed to go up-stream, or in other words, that salmon-catchers allow a certain proportion to escape their wheels and nets."

"They ought to be willing enough to do that, I should think," said Colin; "it's for their own good in the long run."

"A lot of them want quick profits now, without any regard for the future," his host said scornfully. "Of course, there are laws for fishery regulation in many of the States, but inspectors have their hands full in preventing violations. In Alaska, which is a territory still, that supervision is done by the government through the Bureau of Fisheries."

"It must be a little aggravating to the salmon men, just the same," said Colin thoughtfully, "when they are trying to keep their canning factories going full blast, to have to allow half the catch to go on up the stream. But," he continued, "why don't they catch the salmon coming down the stream again? I should think that would settle the whole question."

"It would," said the professor, "if they came down! But they don't. Every single salmon, male and female, that goes up the river in the spawning season dies up there. None of them ever comes down alive."

"I don't think they did that way in Newfoundland!" ejaculated Colin in surprise. "When I was staying with my uncle there I saw lots of salmon, and it seemed to me that they went down the river again."

"They did," was the reply. "The Atlantic or true salmon does not die after spawning, but not a single fish of any one of the five different kinds of Pacific salmon ever spawns twice. Every yard of the shores of the upper reaches of Pacific coast rivers is covered almost solidly with dead salmon from September to December!"

"How awful!"

"It makes some places uninhabitable," the professor replied. "Where a market is near enough, the dead fish are collected and sold for fertilizer."

"Is it the fresh water that kills them?"

"No," was the reply; "that is one of the most curious features of the life-history of the Pacific salmon. As soon as the fish are nearly ready for spawning, all their digestive parts shrivel up, so that they can't eat. In the male salmon, too, the end of the upper lip turns into a sort of hook so that the fish can't even open his mouth wide enough to eat anything. Then in the fresh water their scales turn slimy and, as they often get injured trying to leap falls and rapids, all sorts of skin diseases attack them. A salmon in the upper reaches of the Columbia headwaters is a pitiful wreck of the magnificent fish that entered it to spawn."

"Do they go far?"

"As much as a thousand miles," was the reply. "The quinnat and blue back -- or the spring and the sockeye, as they are generally known, take the long journeys, but the silver or coho, and the humpback and dog salmon keep to the small streams near the sea. The young fry cannot live in salt water and the instinct of the salmon is to swim up-stream as far as possible, no matter what obstacle is in the way. When they have gone to the very limit, the salmon make pits and holes in the gravel and sand at the bottom of the stream for nests, and drop the eggs in these. The male salmon immediately afterwards floats over the nests and does his share in making sure that the eggs will hatch out."

"How big are the salmon?" asked the boy.

"You'll have a chance to see," the professor answered, as he swung the canoe in to the wharf, at the state hatchery station, "because we're going to measure the ones we tag this morning."

The foreman and one of the men of the station were waiting for them in a good-sized motor boat, towing behind which was a curious-looking affair composed of two small barrels fastened together by long slats.

"Don't you know what that is?" queried the professor, noting Colin's puzzled look.

"No, sir."

"That's a live car. The barrels at each end have enough water in them to sink them to a certain depth. Then the slats, as you see, are nailed two-thirds of the way around the barrels, leaving just enough space for the water to flow in and out freely. They put the fish in that to tow them home alive. The slats are better than netting because sometimes the fishes catch their scales in the meshes and get hurt."

The run to the fish-trap was made in a few minutes, and the boat went inside to the 'pound,' the net was partly hauled up, and the professor took out his punch and the buttons. Colin had put on a pair of rubber boots and oilskin trousers, as had all the rest of the party, and he was ready for anything that came along.

"Do you want my slicker?" the professor asked him. "You're apt to get splashed."

"I don't mind a bit, thanks," answered the boy, rolling up his sleeves; "a little shower-bath will feel good on a hot day like this!"

"All right, then," the leader of the party declared, "we'll give you a chance to make yourself useful. Here you are!"

Colin took the large flat-bottomed net and awaited further instructions.

"Catch one of the salmon," he was told; "never mind the rest of the fish. And," he was warned, "don't bring the net clear out of the water."

"Very well, sir," the boy replied, then his curiosity getting the better of him, he asked, "Why not?"

"Because if you do, the salmon will struggle against the meshes of the net, bruise himself, and probably scrape off some scales. I told you how easy it is for a fish to get diseased if he loses any of his scales. If you keep the net about four inches below the water, the fish has the resistance of the water to fight against, and it will tire him out quickly without doing any harm."

"All right," Colin answered, and commenced scooping for the fish. In a minute or two he had a large twenty-pounder in the net and he raised it until the bottom was a little below the water, as he had been told.

"You're right about getting wet!" cried Colin, laughing, as the salmon began to whirl and plunge and dance in the net, sending a shower of water all over him and nearly blinding him by the force with which the drops of water struck as they were splashed upwards by the powerful strokes of the fish's tail.

The instant the salmon stopped struggling, the hatchery boatman seized it by the tail with a strong grip, swung it clear out of the net and over his left arm, laying it immediately on the measuring platform. This consisted merely of a wide board with an upright at one end, a rule giving both metrical and standard measures being nailed to the side of the board. Instantly the measurer called out the length and the professor noted it down, the hatchery foreman -- famous for his expertness in judging the weight of a fish -- calling out the weight to be recorded. Laying down his pencil, the professor then, with a small punch, made a tiny hole in the tail-fin of the salmon, the fish having been thrown over the captor's left arm again, slipped an aluminum button through the hole, and riveted it securely. The entire process took less than a minute and a half, and by the time the salmon had been released and tossed into the water again, Colin was ready with another fish.

"I don't see why the fish don't die as soon as they come out of the water!" exclaimed Colin.

"For nearly a minute, some fish breathe better out of the water than in it," the professor answered, "but after that the gills stick together and the fish strangles. Two or even three minutes will not injure salmon, and some fish will recover if they are out of water for hours. Indeed, there are some fish that live out of water most of the time."

"Live out of water?" the boy said in surprise.

"Certainly. Some kinds of fish, at least, can't stay in the water very long, but remain perched up on the rocks."

"Perching like birds?" Colin said incredulously.

"I know that sounds a little improbable, but it's true, just the same," the professor said, smiling. "This is a Fisheries story, not a 'fish story.' There's a difference. They come from Samoa and belong to the skippy family. Most of them live on the rocks, and they jump from rock to rock instead of swimming. Some of them even are vegetarians -- which is rare among fish -- and their gills are smaller and stouter. Plenty of them are only in the water for a little while at high tide, living in the moist seaweed until the tide rises again."

Colin was silenced, and he went on vigorously dipping up salmon.

"How many fish are you going to tag?" the boy asked, when a couple of hours had passed by.

"Sixty," the professor answered, "and we must be nearly through, for I have only a few buttons left."

Secretly the boy was much relieved, for his back was tired from stooping and netting heavy fish for two hours, but he would have worked to utter exhaustion rather than complain. However, within another quarter of an hour, the last fish was dropped over the side and the party was on its return journey.

"Why don't you stop and see the hatchery?" suggested the professor, in return to a host of questions put to him by the boy concerning salmon culture.

"I'd like to, ever so much, if I might," was the answer, and Colin looked up at the foreman.

"Come right along," was the latter's immediate response. "It isn't much of a place to look at, but you can see whatever there is to see."

The hatchery itself was simple and bare, as the foreman had suggested, consisting merely of a row of boxes arranged in such a way that water flowed through them constantly, bringing a steady supply of fresh water without carrying away the light eggs and tiny fry. Colin was thoroughly interested, and followed the foreman from place to place, eagerly watching the processes of hatching the fish and asking unending questions.

"Here," the man said, after he had answered a dozen or more queries. "I'll show you just how it's done and you'll learn more from watching than I could tell you in a week of talk."

He led the way to a large pond not far from the hatchery, which was connected with a small stream, the water of which was almost entirely fresh.

"It's a little early yet for the autumn run," the foreman said, "but maybe there's some salmon ready for their eggs to be taken. We'll have a look, anyway."

"Are there any chinook in there?" queried Colin, who was feeling a little proud of the knowledge he had acquired that morning as to the way of distinguishing the varieties of salmon.

"Don't want chinook," was the reply; "they have got to go away up the river to spawn and wouldn't be in shape if we tried to use them here. We only raise humpback and dog here, the hatcheries for chinook and silver salmon are away up the river."

"Run by the State or the Government?" queried the boy.

"Both," was the reply, "and quite a few are managed by commercial fish companies who are as anxious as any one to see that the annual salmon run does not grow smaller. Their living depends upon it."

At his request one of the men commenced scooping up some of the salmon in the pool to see if any of them were ripe, and meantime the foreman -- who was still wearing his oilskins -- picked up a tin pail, holding it between his knees. In a minute or two the man came in holding a ripe female salmon.

"Now watch," the foreman said to Colin, "and you can see the whole performance."

He seized the salmon by the tail, and all the eggs ran down toward the head. Then, holding the fish head upward, he pressed it slightly, and the eggs ran out from the vent rapidly, striking the bottom of the pan with considerable force. The foreman had hardly got the eggs when his assistant came in with a male salmon, and the same plan was repeated, the milt falling upon the eggs. Both male and female salmon then were returned to the pool. The eggs and milt were shaken violently from side to side until thoroughly mixed, a little water being added to help the mixture. Then he took the pail to the faucet.

"But you're washing the milt off again!" cried Colin, as the foreman filled the pail with water.

"It's had plenty of time to work," was the answer, and the eggs were poured into a flat pan and washed several times.

"Now we'll put just a little water in the pan," the foreman continued, "and leave it here to swell."

"Why should it swell?" asked Colin.

"The egg isn't really full when it comes from the mother fish," the foreman answered, "the yolk rattles around inside the shell, but after it has been mixed with the milt, it begins to suck up water, and in about half an hour it's full."

"What happens next?" queried Colin.

"That's about all. We put the eggs in frames so that the water has a chance to circulate freely, and then we go over the frames once or twice a week to pick out any eggs that may happen to die or not to grow just right."

"How long does it take before a fish comes out?" Colin asked interestedly. "About a couple of weeks?"

"Weeks!" was the surprised answer; "we look for hatching to begin in about five months, and during all that time every tray of eggs is picked over once or twice a week. That keeps dead eggs from infecting live ones."

"You must keep them a long time, then?"

"Nearly a year altogether. Those in that trough right behind you are just hatching, they're from the first batch of spawn in the early spring run. Most of them are hatched out now, for you see only a few eggs in the tray."

Colin looked in and saw, as the foreman said, only half a dozen eggs left in the tray, while in the shallow water of the trough below were hundreds of tiny fish, like transparent tadpoles still fastened to the yolk of the egg. Some, which were just hatched, were less than three-quarters of an inch long, and scarcely able to move about in the water because of the great weight of the yolk about the center of their bodies. A few had consumed a large part of the sac.

"It'll take them about six weeks to get rid of the yolk," the foreman said, anticipating the boy's question, "and if they were in a natural stream they would be able to look after themselves. We feed them tiny grubs and worms and small pieces of liver. From that time on it is merely a question of giving them the proper food and keeping the troughs clean. When they are five or six months old we set them free."

"Do you do any work except salmon hatching here?" Colin asked, as, after a morning spent in the station, they walked toward the pier.

"No," the foreman answered, "we distribute a million and a half young fish every year and that keeps us busy enough."

"Well," said Colin, shaking hands, "I'm ever so much obliged, and I really feel now as if I knew something about a hatchery. And I've had a share in one experiment, anyway!"

On his return to the cottage he found the professor getting out fishing-tackle.

"Going out again?" queried Colin.

"I thought you might like to try a little sport-fishing," was the answer; "you said you were going down to Santa Catalina, and you might as well get your hand in. You can stay over another day, can't you?"

"I suppose I could," Colin answered, "and I should like to catch a really big salmon with a rod and line, not only for the fun of it, but because I happen to know that Father's never caught one, and I'd like to beat him out on something. It's pretty difficult, though, to get ahead of Dad!"

The professor shook his head with mock gravity.

"That's not a particularly good motive," he said, "and I don't know that I ought to increase any boy's stock of conceit. It is usually quite big enough. But maybe you won't catch anything, and I'll chance it."

"Oh, but I will catch one," Colin declared confidently; "I'm going to try and get one of the hundred-pounders that I've read about."

"You'll have a long sail, then," his host replied, "because fish of that size don't come far south of Alaskan waters. Twenty-five or thirty pounds is as big as you can look for, and even those will give you all the sport you want."

"Very well," Colin responded, a little abashed, "I'll be satisfied."

"It's rather a pity," the professor said, when, after lunch, they had started for the fishing-grounds in a small catboat, "that you haven't had a chance to go up to The Dalles to see the salmon leaping up the falls and the rapids. I think it's one of the most wonderful sights in the world."

"I've seen the Atlantic salmon jump small falls," Colin said, "but I don't think I ever saw one larger than ten or twelve pounds."

"I have seen hundreds of them fifty to eighty pounds in weight leaping at falls in the smaller Alaskan rivers. I remember seeing twenty or thirty in the air at a time while the water below the falls was boiling with the thousands of fish threshing the water before their leap."

"How high can they jump?" asked Colin.

"About sixteen foot sheer stops even the best of them," the professor said, "but there are not many direct falls like that. Nearly all rapids and falls are in jumps of five or six feet, and salmon can take that easily. Still, there is a fall nearly twenty feet high that some salmon must have leaped, for a few have been found above it, and they must either have leaped up or walked round -- there's no other way."

"How do you suppose they did it?"

"In a very high wind, probably," the professor answered; "a gale blowing up the canyon might just give the extra foot or two at the end of a high leap."

As soon as they were about four miles out, the sail was taken in and, following the professor's example, Colin dropped his line over the stern. The shining copper and nickel spoon sank slowly, and the boy paid out about a hundred feet of line. Taking up the oars and with the rod ready to hand, Colin rowed slowly, parallel with the shore. Two or three times the boy had a sensation that the boat was being followed by some mysterious denizen of the sea, but though in the distance there seemed a strange ripple on the water, nothing definite appeared, and he forgot it for the moment as the professor got the first strike.

With the characteristic scream, the reel shrilled out, and the fish took nearly a hundred feet of line, but the angler held the brake so hard that the strain rapidly exhausted the fish, and when it turned toward the boat, the professor's deft fingers reeled at such a speed that the line wound in almost as rapidly as the rush of the fish. As soon as the salmon saw the boat it tried to break away, but its captor had caught a glimpse of the fish, and seeing that it was not too large for speedy action, reeled in without loss of time, and gaffed him promptly.

"Small chinook," he said, as he tossed him into the boat.

He had hardly finished speaking before Colin made a grab for his rod, and the catch was repeated in almost the same manner. This went on until five fish had been caught, the last one, which fell to the professor, putting up the most gamy fight of them all. But still it was too easy for real sport.

The ripple which Colin had been watching had come nearer, and in the catching of the last fish, the boat had been brought quite close to it.

Then, noiselessly, and like a strange vision, out from the undulating ripples rose slowly a creature more fantastic than the boy's wildest dreams. The head was green, with large unwinking, glittering eyes. In slow contortions, the body, of a transparency that showed the light through, writhed like a tremendous ribbon-snake, and a sharp row of serrated fins surmounted all its length, from which, near the head, scarlet streamers floated like a mane. A moment thus it held its head erect, then sank below the surface. The boy sat with his eyes fixed upon the spot where he had seen this weird appearance, unknown and ghostly-seeming.

"Colin," said the professor, and his tone was so imperative that the boy turned sharply, "what is the matter? What are you watching?"

"I don't know, sir," said the boy; "I don't know much about fish, and I was waiting until it came nearer. I was going to say --  -- "

He stopped suddenly.

"What?" asked the professor, a little impatiently.

"You'd laugh at me," the boy answered.

"You saw --  -- "

"I saw a big green head with large eyes and spines on its back put its head out of the water," Colin said doggedly, "and it had a bright red mane. I couldn't think of anything but -- but," -- he hesitated and then gulped out, -- "a sea-serpent."

He half feared to look at his companion, feeling that a pitying smile would greet his news, but after a few seconds' silence, he glanced up and saw that his fellow-fisherman was looking grave and thoughtful. At that instant the boy felt a quick snap at his line and he struck, the salmon whirling away instantly. It was a good fight, and the fish was full of grit, sending a curious thrumming sensation up the line that set every nerve aquiver. At last he got the fish stopped, and had just started to reel the big salmon in, when the apparition thrust its head out of the water not twenty feet from the boat. It distracted Colin's attention, and a few seconds later his line snapped.

"The salmon's got away," said Colin disgustedly.

"What does that matter?" said the professor. "We've something else to do."

"What?"

"Catch your sea-serpent," was the reply, as the older man pointed to the green and scarlet gleam in the water.

"It must be thirty feet long," Colin said, then realizing that his tone suggested that he was afraid, he added boldly, "but I'm game. What is it, anyway?"

"You're not so far off in calling it a sea-serpent," his companion said; "at least, it's more like the fabulous monster than any other fish that we know."

"But how are you going to catch it?" the boy asked.

"By hand," the professor replied, slipping off his outer clothes.

"You mean you're going in after it?" queried the boy with amazement.

"Certainly," the other answered; "it's harmless enough."

"It doesn't look it," said Colin, but he was not to be outdone, and prepared to follow his host into the water.

They ran the boat close to the creature, which swam but feebly despite its immense length, and the professor plunged over the side, holding the loop of a rope. A few strokes took him to the long, ribbon-like form, which was not thicker than a man's body, and he threw his arms about it, back of the head. The fish struggled weakly, but the professor did not let go, and in a few seconds Colin had brought up the boat. He then took the rope, which had been passed around the soft and flabby body. Then, jumping overboard also, the boy helped the professor lift the fish from below, for the flesh was so soft that a rope would cut right through it. With great exertion, for the creature was heavy, they got it on board, half swamping the boat in doing so. Despite its size, the strange visitor from the deep seemed scarcely able to struggle and lay motionless in the boat.

"What is it?" asked Colin, as he gazed on the snake-body and the strange head which, with its brilliant crimson mane, was reminiscent of some fiery horse of ancient legend.

"What can it be?" he repeated wonderingly.

"An oarfish," the professor answered.

"That isn't what I think it is," Colin replied. "I'm sure it's something quite different."

"What?" asked the professor, smiling.

"I believe something has killed the sea-serpent at the bottom of the sea and this is its ghost!"



Chapter V

Clutched By A Horror Of The Deep


In order that the valuable specimen of the oarfish might be properly preserved, for the creature was so soft-fleshed that it would quickly shrivel in the hot sun, the professor accompanied Colin to Astoria the following morning, and shortly after they landed, the city was buzzing with news of the wonderful find. Before the boy left for Santa Catalina that evening he found his name in all the afternoon papers as being one of the men who had "caught the sea-serpent." As this was the first specimen in perfect preservation that had reached any city of the United States and, indeed, only the sixth ever reported from American shores, a great deal of interest was excited, and Colin was compelled to give an interview to a reporter, telling the story of the capture. He was sorry that his brother -- to whom he had sent the blue fox -- was not with the rest of the family in Santa Catalina, so that he could tell him all about it, but the younger lad was at a boys' camp.

Making a stay of only a couple of hours in Los Angeles, the boy went from there straight to San Pedro, where he took the steamer for Avalon, the only large town on Santa Catalina, and the most famous place in the entire world for taking big game fish with rod and reel.

The passage was only of two hours' duration, and the weather ideal. The water of the channel was like a mirror, but the daily breeze sprang up at eleven o'clock, its accustomed hour.

Although no more attentive to scenery than most boys of his age, Colin fairly cried aloud with admiration as the steamer rounded the point and turned into Avalon Bay. Almost a perfect semicircle, the beach of glistening white sand enclosed a basin of turquoise sea in which were reflected the dark, rich tones of the cliffs, all glowing like an opal beneath the sun, while above rose the hills covered with the wild lilac and greasewood of California. Even the tame sea-lions which frequent the harbor and follow incoming boats, and which frequently are to be seen hauled up on small fishing-craft, seemed to fit wonderfully into the scene. A passenger who heard the boy's exclamation of delight, turned to him.

"That's the way I feel about it," he said. "I think it more beautiful every time I come."

"It makes me think of an abalone shell," Colin remarked thoughtfully, "before the outside is polished; the bay looks just like the glow of the shell inside and the sand-hills resemble the rough outside of the shell, with barnacles growing on it."

"Perhaps that is why it is called Avalon?" his companion said; "abalone, Avalon -- it's not improbable, though I never heard such a derivation before; the Vale of Avalon in Pennsylvania is supposed to have been the prime factor in giving the name. But it's a wonderful place in itself, and besides, there's not one of those hundreds of boats moored in the harbor but could tell some thrilling tale of big game at sea. Look," he continued, as the steamer drew near to the entrance of the harbor, "there's a chap who's hooked to something big. By the way he's playing the fish it's probably a leaping tuna. Wait a minute and I'll tell you."

He unslung his fieldglasses and focused them on the boat.

"Yes, he's got a tuna," he continued, "for the flag is flying."

The news spread rapidly over the boat, for almost every one on board was going to Avalon for the angling, and the capture of a large tuna is an event. The glasses were handed from person to person, and presently were passed to Colin, who noted with eager interest the little motor-boat and the big flag. Then he turned the glass on the people in the boat, and flashed out excitedly:

"Why, that's Father!"

"He's in luck, then," said the boy's companion. "I hope I get a chance this season. Still, it's a good omen, seeing a catch like this when coming into the harbor."

"Sure thing," said Colin confidently, "there are probably lots of them this season. Do you suppose Father will land him?"

"About nine out of ten get away," was the reply, "and it takes a good fisherman to bring them to the gaff. Has your father been here before? Perhaps I may know him."

"He comes nearly every year," Colin answered. "Dare is his name, Major Dare."

"Oh, you're Dare's son, are you?" was the response, as the older man held out his hand. "I've known your father for years. He holds a blue tuna button, doesn't he?"

"I've never heard of it, if he does," Colin answered. "What's that for?"

"It is the greatest fishing honor that is to be got anywhere. Only about seventy members of the club have gained it; two, I believe, being women, and the second largest tuna ever caught on rod and line was brought to gaff by a woman angler. It is given for catching a tuna weighing over one hundred pounds, on a light rod."

"That must be fearfully hard to do," the boy said; "even a twenty-pound fish is a strain to a light rod."

"It is difficult," was the reply, "but the club rules require the use of a rod the tip of which shall be not less than five feet long, weighing not over sixteen ounces in weight, and a line not over a 'twenty-four' or smaller than the usual trout-line. With this equipment, to conquer a tuna weighing over one hundred pounds is an angling achievement of the highest rank, and for this the blue tuna button is given by the club."

"And Father never told me!" Colin said reproachfully, watching the contest with the fish as well as he could considering his distance from the scene of action.

"Major Dare is a thorough sportsman," the angler said, "and I suppose he thought it would look like boasting. What's happening there in the boat?"

"It looks as though they had started out to sea," Colin answered, handing back the glass.

"That's what's the matter!" the angler said. "By Jonah's whale, how she is flying through the water!"

The two watched the boat until a turn of the cliff hid it from sight and then, Colin, turning round, saw that the steamer was nearly at the pier, close enough for him to distinguish his mother and sister waiting there and waving to attract his attention. He signaled enthusiastically in reply, and in a few minutes the steamer was alongside the wharf.

The greeting was most exciting, for the boy was simply bursting with news, and there had been a good deal of anxiety felt by his parents on his behalf while he had been wandering in the Behring Sea. But their talk was broken in upon by an enthusiastic angler friend, who begged Mrs. Dare to come to the extreme end of the pier and watch the battle with the big tuna.

"Oh, Mother," eagerly said the boy, "do you mind if I jump in a boat so that I can go out and watch Father better? I'm sure he wouldn't object."

"I think I would like to have you with me for a little while, Colin," his mother said with a gentle smile, "after you have been away so long. But you are just the same, after all, eager to do everything immediately. I know you would be happier in going, so you can desert us if you like."

"I don't mean that, Mother!" said the boy, feeling a twinge of self-reproach.

"No, I know. But you can tell us all the rest of your adventures when you get back. Lucy quite thinks that you have become a sort of 'Robinson Crusoe.'"

Colin gave his little sister -- of whom he was very fond -- an unobserved hug, and then fairly sped down to the end of the pier and called a boatman to take him off. The boatman, who was a native of the place, and to whom everything connected with angling was an old story, laughed at the boy's excitement.

"Goin' to catch a tuna with your hands, sir?" he asked, seeing that the boy was not carrying any fishing-tackle.

"No," the boy answered, "but I just came in on the steamer and, as we passed the point, saw Father's boat, and he seemed to have something big on the line, so I want to go out and see the fun."

"I heard Major Dare had a tuna this mornin'," the boatman said, casting off and starting the little engine, "although there haven't many of 'em showed up yet this season. Are you his son?"

"Yes," Colin answered, "I'm the oldest."

"I hope you're goin' to take after him, then," the boatman said approvingly; "he's a fine angler. Looks like the tuna was comin' in," he continued a moment later, as the boat with the flag flying came speeding into the harbor. But the fish was darting from side to side in short rushes, and it was evident that he was tiring.

"Hullo, Father," called the boy, as they came within hearing; "are you going to land him?"

"Is that you, Colin?" his father answered, without taking his eyes from his line, however. "Glad to have you back. Yes," he continued, answering the boy's question, "I think I'll land him all right, but I'm pretty well tuckered out, I hooked him over three hours ago."

Even recalling what the angler aboard the steamer had told him about the sportsmanlike rules that obtain at Avalon, it seemed absurd to Colin for any one to try and catch so heavy a fish as the tuna seemed to be, with a rod and line that would be thought light for trout.

"How big do the fish run here?" he asked the boatman.

"'Bout a thousand pounds for the biggest game fishes, them's black sea-bass," the man answered; "leastways there was an eight-hundred pounder brought in, and lots of us have seen bigger ones."

"But how can they catch fishes that size on a little bit of a spindling rod and a line so fine you can hardly see it?"

"They don't," was the reply, "not that big. The record black sea-bass, rod and reel, that has been caught here was four hundred and thirty-six pounds in the season of 1905. The biggest tuna -- they're the hardest fighters of any fish that swims -- was two hundred and fifty-one pounds, caught in the season of 1900. I reckon Major Dare's fast to one that's just a good size for sport."

"You're getting him, Father!" cried Colin, who had been watching the contest with the fish, while listening to the boatman.

"He's a fair size," said the boatman critically, "but not one of the really big ones, probably only about eighty or ninety pounds."

The fight came to a close sooner than Colin expected. Dexterously, Major Dare reeled in his line during a moment's pause while the fish sulked, bringing him to the surface, and his boatman, quick as a flash of light, leaned over the side and slipped the long, slender hook, or gaff, into the gills. But the end was not yet, for the tuna, with a powerful shake of his head, nearly pulled the man overboard, shook out the gaff, and commenced another panic-stricken rush.

Colin's father, however, with thumb on the brake of the reel, gave him absolutely no leeway, and the tuna was stopped within twenty feet, to be reeled in again. In the meantime, the gaffer had recovered his weapon, and as the big fish was brought to the side of the boat, he struck again, this time succeeding in holding against the rush of the fish, though he was pulled elbow-deep into the water. Then, standing on the gunwale, the gaffer lifted the head of the tuna and tilted the boat over as far as was safe, sliding in the fish as he did so, accompanied by the cheers of Colin. As soon as the tuna was fairly secure, a big square of canvas was thrown over it to keep it from pounding and threshing in the bottom of the boat.

"That was bully, Father!" said Colin, reaching out and shaking hands; "I'm glad I got here in time."

His father looked at him with a twinkle in his eye.

"How the deuce did you know I was out here?" he asked; "I thought the steamer was only just about due."

"I saw you as we came into the harbor," Colin answered, "and I yelled loud enough to be heard 'way back in Los Angeles, but you didn't pay any attention."

"I thought I heard some one shouting a while back," his father said, "but I was busy then and didn't have time to see who it was."

"How big is the tuna, do you think?"

"Not big enough to be listed. About eighty-five, I should say. What about it, Vincente?"

"Little more," the boatman said; "I think perhaps ninety."

"Nothing of a record, you see, Colin," his father said, "just a good morning's sport. But I want to hear all about your doings. It seems to me that you're developing into quite a sensational person with your fights with whales, and your sea-serpents, and all the rest of it. You've been writing good letters, too, my boy. I'm glad to see that you make use of your eyes when you're in strange places. Tell me how you got to Astoria, I didn't quite follow that salmon business."

Colin started his yarn, but was only fairly launched into it when they arrived at the wharf. There quite a crowd had gathered to welcome the incoming boat, for a big tuna catch always arouses interest in Avalon, and one of its features is the manner in which it is regarded as a personal triumph for the angler. The promenaders gather to see the prize weighed by the officials of the club, and it is rare that the customary photograph of fish, angler, and gaffer is omitted. As for Colin, he was as proud over the fish he had seen caught as though he had held the rod himself.

"I had thought of going to the other side of the island for black sea-bass to-morrow, Colin," his father said, "and I purposed going with Colonel Roader. I suppose you would like to come instead, and from what I hear I think I'll put off that trip and try tuna again to-morrow. You want to come along?"

"I certainly should, Father," the boy said gratefully, "if it wouldn't be spoiling your fun."

"Not a bit, my boy," was the kindly reply, "I've been looking forward to teaching you something about real fishing. Beside which, I have an idea that you and I will have enough to talk about to keep us going for a good while. I'd like to take you up to the club-house now, but you'll probably want to get back home, and we'll go along together. I can get the boatman to look after notification at the club, and all that sort of thing."

"I'll wait, if you like."

"No; Vincente knows all the ropes as well as I do. I judge from your letters that you've enjoyed running around the way you have?"

"I wish you'd been along, Father," the boy replied. "I've had a bully time. I never expected anything like it when I got aboard the Gull."

"I didn't either," said Major Dare dryly; "if I had thought of the possibility of the ship being rammed by a whale, you'd never have put a foot on her deck. But Captain Murchison said that whales were entirely harmless, and so I let you go."

"But, Father, you should have seen the way the old whale charged" -- and the lad plunged into the thick of the story. He was fairly out of breath when they reached the little cottage Major Dare had rented for a couple of months, but the boy was by no means out of material, and nothing short of an absolute command could keep him silent long enough to eat his lunch. In the afternoon he unpacked his trunk, revealing little quaint articles he had picked up on his travels as gifts for the various members of the family. But the excitement of home-coming had tired the boy, and quite early in the evening he found himself getting sleepy, so that not long after his little sister had been snugly tucked up, Colin announced his readiness to go to bed, on the ground that he was to get up early the next day, as he was going tuna-fishing.

The morning broke hot and hazy. The gray-green of the foliage on the mountains had a purple tinge in the early morning light, and the sea took on a mother-of-pearl gleam behind its amethyst, as it reflected the changing hues of the roseate sunrise. Over San Antonio and San Jacinto the sun rose gloriously, and in the freshness of the morning air the giant flying-fish of the Pacific leaped and gleamed across the mirror-smooth sea.

Colin drew a long breath and expanded his lungs to the full, as though he could breathe in the glow of color and the wonder of it all.

"It always feels good to be alive at this hour of the morning!" he said.

His father smiled appreciatively.

"You're generally asleep," he said. "But it's a good thing we did get up in time to-day, for unless my eyes are failing me, I think I can see in the distance the tunas coming in. Say, Vincente, doesn't that look like them over there?"

"Yes, sair, I t'ink dat's a school. I overheard a man on ze pier telling of a beeg one he caught yesterday," said the boatman.

"That was Mr. Retaner," was the answer, "one of the most famous anglers and authorities on fishing in America. That's why I came out this morning; he said he thought the school would arrive soon, and what Retaner doesn't know about fishing isn't worth knowing. He practically created deep-sea angling in America, so that as an industry it is worth millions of dollars annually to the country, and as a sport it has been put in the first rank."

Across the sea of glass with its rose reflections of the sunrise and the deep underglow of richly-colored life beneath the transparent water, there came a quick shiver of ripples. Then half a mile away, but advancing rapidly, appeared a strange turmoil, and in the sunlight, a stretch of sea, acres in extent, was churned into white foam, looking like some fairy ice - or snow-field. Above this, at a height of about ten feet, glittered a palpitating silver canopy, almost blinding in its sparkle and its sheen.

"What is that?" asked Colin, wondering.

"The tuna feeding and coming down the coast," was the reply.

As it drew nearer, Colin saw that the gleaming silver canopy was formed of thousands upon thousands of flying-fish, skimming through the air, dropping to the water every fifty yards or so, then, with a single twist of the screw-like tail, rising in the air for another soaring flight.

Below, from the surface of the water broken to foam by the tumult, would leap those tremendous jumpers of the sea, the tuna, plunging through the living cloud of flying-fish, and dropping to feed upon those which fell stunned under their impetuous charges. Occasionally, but very rarely, a tuna would seize its fish in midair, and it was marvelous to see a fish nearly as large as a man spring like a bolt from a cross-bow out of the sea, often until it was ten feet above the water, then turn and plunge back into the ocean.

"We'd better get out of here, I think," Major Dare said to the boatman; "this is getting to be too much of a good thing."

But, as he said the word, the school of flying-fish swerved right in the direction of the boat, and in a minute the anglers were surrounded. The silent, skimming flight of the long-finned flying-fish, the boiling of the sea, lashed to fury by the pursuing tuna, and these living projectiles, hurled as a silvered bolt into the air, frightened Colin not a little, although he was enjoying the experience thoroughly.

"Look out you don't get struck by a flying-fish," his father called to him, bending low in his seat. Colin, who had not thought of this possibility, followed suit rapidly, because the California flying-fish, unlike his Atlantic cousin, is a fish sometimes eighteen inches long, and he saw that if he were struck by one in the full speed of its skimming flight, he might easily be knocked overboard.

"Can't they see where they are going?" asked the boy.

"They can see well enough," his father answered, "but they have little or no control over their flight. They can't change the direction in which they are going until they touch water again. That's how the tuna catches them, it swims under in a straight line and grabs the fish as it comes down to get impetus for another flight."

"But I thought flying-fish went ever so much higher than that!" said the boy. "I'm sure I've read of their landing on the decks of vessels!"

"They do," was the answer; "they are attracted by the glare of the lights and fall on board. But that is generally on sailing vessels with a low freeboard. You don't often hear of flying-fish falling on the deck of a modern liner, and in the few cases in which they have, it has been because they happened to come out of the water with a rush against a slant of wind which carried them up twenty or thirty feet. They go with an awful force, and I knew an angler once who was pitched head first overboard by a flying-fish, and was nearly drowned before his boatman could get him aboard. He had been struck square between the shoulders and the blow had stunned him for the moment."

"Suppose a chap got hit by a tuna?" queried the boy.

"That's less likely," the father answered, "because, you see, the tuna comes nearly straight up and down; he leaps, he doesn't skim."

"Zere was one went t'rough a boat last season, Major Dare," the boatman interjected. "It was late in ze year, after you had gone, I t'ink, sair."

"Had it been hooked?" asked Colin.

"No, sair," the boatman answered; "tuna don't leap after zey are hooked. It was when zey were chasing a school, just like this."

"You're thinking of the tarpon, Colin," his father said; "it leaps wildly after it has been hooked. The tuna, although a wonderful leaper, hardly ever rises from the water after it is fast to the line. But the tarpon is a vicious fighter. A couple of years ago a boat was found drifting in the Galveston fishing-ground off Texas, with a dead angler and a dead tarpon. The fish had been hooked and had tried to leap over the boat, striking the angler and breaking his neck, then had fallen into the boat itself and had not been able to get out."

"There's some excitement to fishing when it's like that!" Colin commented.

"It's as good as big-game hunting any day, I think," his father answered; "and you don't have to travel for weeks out of civilization to find it. Well, now, we'll give you a chance to show how much of the angler you've got in you."

He handed Colin a rod and the boy looked at it. It was nearly seven feet long, and the whole weight of it, except for the short butt which held the reel, was not more than sixteen ounces. The line was thin enough to be threaded through a big darning-needle, it was known as '21 thread' as it had that number of strands, each strand being tested to a breaking strain of two pounds.

"Something will smash, sure," said Colin, examining the outfit carefully; "that looks as though it wouldn't hold a trout!"

"The rod is a split bamboo," his father said, "and if the line breaks it will be because you've allowed the fish to jerk. Anybody can catch fish with a heavy line, but the fish hasn't got any chance, and there's no sport in it. It's on a par with shooting quail sitting instead of flushing them. Good angling consists in landing the heaviest fish with the lightest tackle, not in securing the greatest amount of fish. Why, here in Avalon, there isn't a single boatman who would allow his boat to be used by a 'fish-hog' who wanted to use heavy tackle."

He had hardly finished speaking when there came a quiver on the line, and excitedly Colin jerked up his rod.

"Don't strike with a jerk!" his father cried, but Colin was in fortune, and the line did not break. The reel screamed "z-z-z-ee" with the speed of its revolutions as the tuna sped to the bottom, and the older angler, leaning forward, wetted thoroughly the leather brake that the boy was holding down with his right thumb.

"Easy on the brake," came the warning; "don't put too much strain on the line or she'll snap!"

But Colin had the makings of an angler in him and he was able instinctively to judge the amount of pressure that was needed. The tuna, followed by a sheet of spume-blue water churned by the rapidly-towed line, plunged on and on, until two hundred and fifty feet of line had been run out. Then, from the ice-cold bottom, rising as a meteor darts across the sky, the great fish clove the water to the surface.

"What will I do when he leaps?" asked Colin breathlessly, reeling for dear life as soon as he felt the upward dash of the tuna.

"He won't leap after he's hooked," his father said; "they very seldom do. I told you that before. It's the tarpon that plunges and leaps after being hooked."

The tuna reached the surface with a speed that seemed incredible to the boy, and though he had been reeling as rapidly as he could make his fingers fly, even the big multiplier on the reel had failed to bring in all the slack. The tuna, panic-stricken by the strange line that hissed behind him and which he could neither outrace nor shake off, tried to charge the loops of twine that the reel had not yet been able to bring in. The sea fairly seemed to boil as the fin of the tuna cut through the water at the surface.

"Look out now, Colin," the boy's father called. "He'll see the boat in a minute!"

He did. On the instant he saw the launch and the three men in it, and in the very midst of his charge, the body bent and shot into the depths again.

"Watch out for the jerk!" the older angler cried, and as the fish reached the end of the slack line there was a sudden tug which Colin felt sure meant a lost fish. But his father's warning had come in time, and by releasing the thumb-brake entirely when the tug came, the reel was free, and it rattled out another fifty feet, the boy gradually beginning to apply the pressure again and to feel the tuna at the end of the line.

One hundred, two hundred, three hundred feet of line reeled out at this second great rush, and the older man began to look grave as the big reel grew empty.

"Ought I to try and stop him with the brake, Father?" asked the boy.

"Better not try too hard," came the cautious answer, "the weight of the line that is out is a heavy pull on him. Unless he's a monster he'll have to stop soon."

Fifty feet more of line ran out before the rush stopped, and then a change of action at the other end of the line telegraphed the message to the boy's fingers that the tuna, for the first time in its life, had felt fatigue. From over four hundred feet away Colin felt the call and realized that now he might expect a victory if only he could keep up the fight to the end and never make a slip. One error, he knew, would be fatal; one jerk, and the line would snap, one strain too great, and the strands would give way.

He began to reel in. His back ached and his fingers became cramped, but still he reeled, every fifty feet or so having to let the line run out as the tuna made a rush, so that a quarter of an hour's careful bringing in would be spoiled in thirty seconds. In forty minutes of heartbreaking strain, the boy had gained not more than forty feet of line, but he was game and stuck to it manfully. Reeling in carefully, the fish either sulking or resting, in the next few minutes he won his greatest gain and pulled in until there was not more than one hundred feet of line out. His heart was beating high with hope, when the tuna sighted the boat again and darted away, apparently as fresh and full of fight as when he had at first been hooked.

At this last rush, when it appeared that there was no immediate slackening of the powers of the splendid fish, Major Dare said:

"Do you want me to finish him for you?"

In his inmost heart Colin feared that he would have to give up, but he did not want to admit it. He was utterly inexperienced in the sport and knew nothing of the many ways whereby older anglers relieve themselves of much of the strain, but the boy's nerve was untouched, and he set his teeth and answered:

"I want to bring him in all by myself, if I can, Father. I'm not done yet, not by a long shot. But if you think I ought to let you finish it, why, I suppose I'll have to."

"No, I want to see you bring him in," his father said; "only don't kill yourself at it. It's just as well not to overstrain yourself; it's easy to have too much energy without judgment."

The boy's grit was soon rewarded, for after this rush, the tuna changed his tactics, and sinking down to about thirty feet from the surface, began a steady powerful swim, not a rush, but a straightaway, having about two hundred feet of line out. To the boy's surprise the boat began to slip along at a fair rate of speed, and he saw that miracle of angling, a hundred-pound fish, frightened and angry, towing a heavy boat with three people in it at a rate of five miles an hour by a line no thicker than a hairpin. With constant watchfulness and deft management, the boy was able to gain a few inches at a time. But a few inches make but little difference when there is two hundred feet of line out!

For over twenty minutes the tuna towed the boat, and then his mood changed. Though not by any means exhausted, the first undaunted freshness had worn off and, sulky and savage, the fish charged back at the line again, that strange white thing in the water that he could not shake off and that followed him no matter where he went. But in charging back at the line, as before, he found the boat at the other end of it. The return charge had been slower than before, and the big multiplier on the reel had done its work, so that when the tuna came near the boat not more than seventy feet of line was out, and the boy determined to hold on to this.

Reaching the surface of the water, the tuna turned. But this time there was no slack and the fish could not begin a rush. He would not plunge in the direction of his captor, and Colin kept a steady strain upon the line, forcing the tuna to swim round and round the boat. This was fatal to the fish, for Colin was able to keep a sidewise drag upon the line, giving the tiring creature no chance to turn its head and dash away.

"You're playing very well!" the boy's father approvingly said, as he saw how, unconsciously, the lad was adopting tricks of angling some experienced fishermen never really learn.

Colin flushed at the praise, and kept closer watch of the constant strain on his line. The boatman, seizing every opportunity, ever and again thrust the boat forward, giving the lad a chance to take in more slack, so that the tuna swam in ever lessening circles. Suddenly he made a sharp flurry and tried to dive. But the line was tight and the brake held him closely, the lifting action curving the giant body in spite of itself and preventing the dive.

The attempt had cost the fish full thirty feet of liberty, and the boat was very near. With a little pumping -- that is, raising the rod slowly, then dropping the point quickly and reeling in the foot or so gained, the boy's father showing him how this should be done -- Colin brought the fish still nearer. Once more the tuna came up to the surface with a rush in order to get slack enough for a plunge. This might mean that the whole performance would have to be done over again, but again the fish was checked, Colin having the line reeled up almost to the wire leader, and with a quickness that was wonderful in its accuracy, the boatman neatly dropped the gaff under the jaws of the tuna. There was a short, sharp flurry, but Vincente knew every trick of the game and speedily brought the gallant fish on board.

"Two hours an' ten minutes, sair," said the boatman. "An' I t'ink, sair, zat it's over a hundred."

"You did splendidly, Colin," began his father. "Why, what's the matter?" he continued in alarm, as the boy sank back in his seat, looking pale and sick.

"I'm a bit done up, that's all," the boy answered, gasping. His hands were trembling so that he could not hold the rod, and his face was ashen.

"Buck fever, I suppose?"

"Yes, sair; he's all right in a minute," said the boatman. "It does zat every little sometimes, Major Dare. I've seen even ze old angler get very much tired out after ze strain."

"It's the reaction," said Colin's father, as he laved the boy's forehead, and just as Vincente had said, in a moment or two the color came back into the lad's cheeks and he straightened up.

"Silly to act like that," he said. Then, seeing his father's look of concern, he added, "I feel as though I'd like some grub."

Kindly refraining from increasing the boy's embarrassment by commenting on his exhaustion spell, the older man reached for the basket and handed out a package of sandwiches. Two hours of excitement and exertion in the hot sun, following a very early breakfast, had affected Colin sharply, but boy-like, he was always ready for eating.

"That was what I wanted," he said, as a few bites disposed of the first sandwich and he took another.

The boatman nodded approvingly.

"He's goin' to be fine angler, all right," he said. "Major Dare, if zat tuna's over a hundred, ze boy ought to get ze button. Zat's ze right rod an' line an' it was caught accordin' to ze rules of ze club."

"Could I really get a button?" asked Colin excitedly, the very thought driving away the last remnants of his attack of weakness. "Is it really a tuna? And is it over a hundred pounds?"

"It's a tuna without question," his father answered, "but I'm not so sure about the weight. If Vincente says it is, he's likely to be right."

"Near one hundred and ten, I t'ink," the boatman answered, "an' I'm sure over one hundred. 'Bout one hundred, six or seven, I should t'ink."

"Do you want to put out the line again, Colin?" his father asked.

"Thank you, I've had enough for one day," the boy replied. "Let's see you get one, Father!"

It was a great delight to lie back on the seat with the consciousness of a great feat achieved, to watch the gulls and sea-birds overhead and the flying-fish skimming the rippling sea. Major Dare had excellent sport with a couple of yellowtail -- one of which was played fifty minutes and the other thirty-five -- but the honors of the day rested with Colin. It was nearly noon as the little launch came up to the pier, and the sun was burning hot, but there were a score of loungers on the beach to welcome them.

"Any luck, Vincente?" called a friendly boatman, as the little craft sped by.

"Good luck," was the reply. "Boy got a hundred-pounder!"

"Did, eh?" exclaimed the other boatman, turning round to stare, and Colin felt that this really was fame. Word was sent to a member of the weighing committee of the club, and in his presence the fish was put on the scales. It proved not to be as large as Vincente had thought, being but one hundred and four pounds, but this was a clear margin over the hundred, and Colin was just as well pleased as if it had been a hundred and forty.

He was eager beyond words to know what would be the verdict of the club, but as the catch had been officially registered, was thoroughly within the rules, and Major Dare was a valued member of the club, it was unanimously agreed that a blue button should be awarded to Colin. He was accordingly elected to junior membership and so received it. The next two weeks passed all too quickly for the boy, for he got the fishing fever in his veins, and if he had not been held in check, he would have stayed on the water night and day. He made a very creditable record, getting a thirty-pound yellow-tail and several good-sized white sea-bass and bonito. But he never even got a bite from one of the big black sea-bass, though his father made a splendid four-hour fight, landing a two-hundred-pounder. The lad's tuna of a hundred and four pounds, also, was far outdone by one his father caught ten days later, which scaled exactly one hundred and seventy pounds.

Three times, in the next two weeks, Colin found himself again fast to a tuna, but was unable to land any of the three. His first he lost by jerking too quickly at the strike. The second walked away with his entire six hundred feet of line at the first rush, and probably was a fish beyond the rod and reel capacity, and the third broke the line suddenly in some unexplained way, possibly, the boatman said, because the tuna had been seized by a shark when down in thirty fathoms of water.

"Does the tuna live on flying-fish only, Vincente?" asked Colin of the boatman, a couple of days before he was going to leave.

"Mos'ly zey do, sair, I t'ink," was the reply, "zat is, when zey can get dem. But zey'll eat nearly any fish an' zey are quite fon' o' squid. Some fishermen use squid for tuna bait, but I don't t'ink much of ze idea."

"Let's see," said the boy thoughtfully, "a squid is something like an octopus, isn't it?"

"Well, no, sair, not exac'ly," the boatman answered. "Bot' of zem have arms wavin' around, but zey look quite diff'rent, I t'ink. An' a squid has ten arms, but an octopus has jus' eight."

"Eight's enough, it seems to me," said Colin. "And are there many of them here? I suppose there must be if they use them for bait."

"Yes, sair, zere is plenty of zem hidin' in ze kelp and ozzer seaweed."

"But how do you catch them?" asked the boy. "Isn't it dangerous?"

"Not a bit, sair," answered the boatman. "I t'ink a squid can't do any harm. In Newfoun'land, so some one tell me, zey run as big as sixty and seventy feet, but in Santa Cat'lina, four or five feet from ze tail to ze end of ze arms is as long a one as I have seen, I t'ink."

"I'd like to go catching squid, just to see how it's done," said the boy. "The squid I've seen on the Atlantic coast don't often grow bigger than twelve inches."

"Catch plenty of zem, any evening you say," the boatman answered; "ze easiest way is to spear zem."

"Bully!" the boy answered; "let's go to-night! I'll get leave, when I go back to lunch."

When Colin proposed a squid-hunt, at first his mother objected, saying she was sure such ugly-looking creatures must be poisonous, but the father knew that this was not the case, and having every confidence in Vincente, who was his regular boatman, he gave the desired permission. Accordingly, after an early supper, Colin started out with Vincente to a section of the shore. The tall, sharp cliffs jutted straight out of the water, and far upon the crest were the characteristic flock of goats browsing along paths impassable to any other animal. Below the water lay the forest of giant kelp.

"We s'all find some squid 'round here," the boatman said; "and sometimes zere are octopus, too, though ze mos' of zem are on ze rocks a little furzer along."

"We'd better get busy, I think," said Colin, "it won't be so very long before it begins to get dark."

"We'll see," was the reply, and picking up his gaffing-hook, Vincente prodded here and there amid the kelp. "T'ought so," he added a minute later, and pointed at the water.

"I don't see anything," said Colin, looking closely. "The water's too muddy."

"No mud," said the boatman, "zat's sepia ink ze squid has squirted so as to hide. Zey always do zat. Zere's probably a lot of zem zere, for zey always keep togezzer."

"Is that the real sepia ink, do you know, Vincente?" the boy asked.

"Ze squid, no; ze octopus, yes. Zere is two or t'ree people here zat catch ze octopus an' sen' ze ink bags to Frisco. See, zere's squid!"

As his eyes became a little accustomed to the reflections in the weed, Colin was able to see ghostlike brown forms that seemed to slide rather than swim through the water.

"Do they swim backwards?" he asked in surprise.

"Always, I t'ink," said the boatman. "Zey take in water at ze gills and zey shoot it out from a pipe near ze mout', an' zat way zey push zemselves along tail first. I'll bring ze boat closer to ze shore for zey'll back away from ze boat an' get into shoal water where we can spear zem."

Moving very slowly and beating the seaweed as they went, little by little the two drove the hosts of squid back through the kelp to a narrow bay, the water being turned to a muddy brownish-black by the discharge of the ink-bags. The squid were of fair size, ranging from one to four feet in length, of which the body was about one-third. Presently Vincente's hand shot back a little and, with a quick throw, he cast the 'grains,' as the small-barbed harpoon was called, into the midst of them. Colin's eyes were not quick enough to see the squid, but the boatman smiled.

"Got him zat time!" he said. "Pull him in."

Without a moment's hesitation Colin grasped the rope that was attached to the small harpoon.

"Don't jerk," the boatman warned him; "ze flesh isn't very tough an' unless you pull steady ze spear will draw right out."

Suddenly Colin felt the rope tauten.

"What's the matter?" he said. "I can't move it."

"Ze squid has got hold of ze bottom," said the boatman with a laugh. "No, you can't move him. Nozzing move a squid, after he's got hold of somet'ing. He'll hang on to ze bottom till ze end of ze world, an' he'd let himself be cut to pieces before he'd let go his hold. Better jerk ze spear out!"

Colin gave a quick yank and the barbed harpoon came up with the blade as clean as though it had never been plunged into anything.

"Zere!" the boatman cried, as Colin stood holding the 'grains,' "one great big one right under you!"

Colin had no time for aim, but seeing a vague shadow below the boat, he allowed for the refraction of the water, and threw the small barbed spear with all his might. His cast was as clean as though he were experienced, and as he grasped the rope he cried to the boatman with a laugh:

"Beginner's luck!"

"Don't let him get to anyt'ing solid," the boatman warned him. "Jus' keep him from zat an' you're all right. Don't play him like a fish. Jus' pull him in."

This was child's play, for the squid's queer method of going through the water offered no resistance and he was pulled up to the boat. But no sooner had the cephalopod come within reach than the tables were turned. With the speed of light the creature swung over, threw two of its arms under the boat; one clasped the gunwale and others fixed themselves on the boy's bare arms, while two waved freely as though waiting a chance to twine around his neck and strangle him.

Colin yelled with fright. As the cold, clammy suckers crinkled themselves into his flesh, the skin all over his body seemed to creep in disgust. He had been bending over as he hauled up the rope and the squid's tentacles around his arms held him poised half out of the boat, his head not more than a foot and a half from the surface of the water, looking straight into the hypnotic, black, unwinking eyes of the sea-monster.

The instinct of fright arose. Using all his strength, he raised his right arm and grasped the tentacle that had been wound around his left arm. To his surprise he found that a moderate amount of force only was needed to pull the grasp of the tentacle free, and he released himself from the creature almost without difficulty. Nor, except for a slightly reddened spot on his arms, was there any outward evidence of the encounter.

Vincente reached down for the cephalopod, allowing it to wrap some of the tentacles about him, then pried its grasp from the boat with the handle of the gaff. He made no attempt to free himself from the squid, but as he stood still for a minute or two, the creature voluntarily released its hold, falling to the bottom of the boat.

"Zey haven't any strengt' at all out of ze water," the boatman said, "but while swimming zey have a good deal. See, ze whole body of zat squid isn't more zan two feet long, an' yet if he'd got a hold of you in ze water, specially with ze bigger suckers on ze t'ick part of ze arms, you might have had some trouble. Zose big fellows wit' bodies twenty feet long an' arms t'irty feet, mus' be one horrible t'ing to meet on a dark night."

"But would they attack you?"

"Never, I t'ink," said the boatman. "Ze biggest of zem hasn't a beak large enough to take in a herring."

"Well," Colin said, "I suppose that really wasn't as exciting as it seemed, but I tell you, for a while, I felt as if I was having all the thrill I wanted."

"You ought to try ze octopus, now," said the boatman with a chuckle; "zat is, if you've had enough of ze squids. It's early yet an' we might go after some of zose octopuses zat hunt crabs."

"I'm ready," said Colin. "They won't get me by surprise, like that squid did!"

The sun was near the horizon when Colin and the boatman landed on the rocky shore, and the sunset colors were gorgeous. But Colin did not want to run any chances of being caught napping, and he followed Vincente, watching every move. Presently the boatman stopped and pointed, like a dog flushing a covey of partridges.

About eight feet away was a crab of fair size, perhaps six inches across the shell. Half-way between where they stood and the crab, right on the edge of the water, was a small octopus with its large, glaring, green eyes fixed on the crab. This was at first the only sight Colin could get of the creature, but by looking into the water closely, he was able to make out the vague shape of the octopus. The cuttlefish had changed from its natural color to the exact hue of the sandy bottom on which it was crawling, and it was advancing so slowly that its progress could hardly be seen.

Suddenly, as a wave washed it within a few feet of the crab, two of the tentacles darted out so swiftly that Colin could scarcely follow the move until they were upon the crab, the rest of the body of the octopus flattening itself upon the sand as though to secure a greater purchase. The crab set both its claws into the soft flesh of the tentacles, whereupon, with a series of horrible convulsions, the cuttlefish lumbered entirely out of the sea and, with two or three repulsive and sinuous gyrations, it forced itself bodily over the crab. By this means the outstretched membranes at the base of the tentacles smothered the movements of the prey and prevented escape, while at the same time the mouth and biting beaks were brought into position where they could find a vital part.

"Do you want zat one as a specimen?" asked the boatman.

Colin was conscious inwardly that he would have preferred to have nothing at all to do with the repulsive object, but as he had come out in pursuit of an octopus, he would not, for the world, have shown the white feather before the boatman.

"Yes, unless we find a bigger," he said, with an overdone assumption of ease.

"I t'ink, sair," Vincente responded, "zat we'd better be satisfied wit' zis one. Shall I take it or will you?"

There was just a hint of irony in the boatman's tone, and remembering the timidity he had shown when clutched by the squid, Colin felt that this was the chance to redeem himself.

"I don't mind taking it," he said. "You say these things are quite harmless."

"Quite, sair, I t'ink," the boatman replied.

"All right," was the boy's rejoinder, and he walked forward boldly toward the octopus. The green eyes regarded him steadily, and just as the boy stooped to grasp the slimy body, it seemed to gather itself in a heap and started for the sea.

This was an unexpected move, but Colin, having stated that he wanted that octopus, did not propose to be cheated out of it. He was surprised that the cuttlefish could move so fast, and his repugnance gave way to excitement as he started running after the writhing eight-armed creature. He was just about to grab it when he tripped on a rock, covered with slippery seaweed, and fell headlong, the fall throwing him immediately upon the octopus. For a moment the boy was staggered, and he never knew whether he had grabbed the cephalopod or whether it had grasped him, all he knew was that he was lying on the ground with six of the eight arms of the octopus around him.

The boy was just in time to throw up his hands to protect his eyes, as a torrent of the inky fluid deluged him from head to foot. He struggled to get up, but the two tentacles of the cuttlefish held fast to adjacent rocks, and Colin might have found difficulty in freeing himself, owing to the awkward attitude in which he had been caught, but for Vincente, who wrenched the tentacles away from their hold.

"Are you all right, sair?" the boatman asked.

"All right," said Colin stoutly, as he got up.

Seldom had he been such a sight! He was black from head to foot with the sepia fluid, his clothes were torn where he had fallen on the rocks, and he was smothered in the nauseous embrace of the uncanny and diabolical eight-armed creature clinging to his shoulder. Once, on the way to the boat, the cuttlefish seemed ready to drop off, but, at Vincente's warning, Colin made believe to force apart the other tentacles, and the octopus renewed its hold. As soon as they reached the boat and the boy stood still a moment, the cuttlefish let go, and fell to the bottom of the boat.

Colin looked down at himself and laughed, then jumped overboard in all his clothes, threshing around in the water to remove as much of the sepia as he could, clambering in when he had washed off the worst of it.

Vincente looked at him.

"I t'ink, sair," he said, smiling, "you ought to be photograph' wit' ze catch!"



Chapter VI

Defeated By A Spotted Moray


Colin's brilliant success at Santa Catalina, signalized by his receipt of the tuna button, had so increased Major Dare's pride in him that when the boy renewed his request that he be allowed to enter the Bureau of Fisheries, his appeal received attention. The inspiration that he had gained from the whole-hearted enthusiasm of the professor was evident in all that the boy said, and his father was surprised to find how much the lad really had learned about the work of the Government during his experiences in the Behring Sea and on the Columbia River.

"It doesn't appeal to me particularly," his father said quietly, when the boy closed a somewhat impassioned petition, "but we are each built upon a different pattern. To me, fish are of interest as a food and for sport. I couldn't be satisfied to take them up as a lifework. There's no money in it; of course, you can see that."

"There isn't in any government work, is there?"

"No," was the reply, "big fortunes are always made in individual ways. But when you're starting out in life, it is much more important to be able to do the work you like than it is to seek only for money. The principal thing I'm afraid of is that you will find it tiresome and monotonous after a while. It's very hard work with a good deal of manual labor involved, and there is nothing particularly attractive in a bushel of fish-eggs!"

"But it's only on the start that you have to do the steady grind," Colin objected, "and one has to do that in every line of work. I know you would very much rather I took to farming or lumbering, but I think a fish is a much more interesting thing to work with than a hill of corn or a jack-pine."

"But don't you think you would find it tame after a while?"

Colin leaned forward eagerly.

"I know I wouldn't," he said confidently. "I've heard you say, Father, that everything was interesting if you only went into it deeply enough. Now, there's more chance for real original work with fish than in any other line I've ever heard of. The professor gave me an idea of all the different problems the Bureau was trying to solve, and each of them was more interesting than the last. You've got to be a doctor to study fish diseases, an engineer to devise ways and means for stream conditions, a chemist to work on poisons in the water that comes from factories, and all sorts of other things beside. It looks to me as though it had the best of all the professions boiled down into one!"

"That's an exaggerated statement, of course," was the reply; "but you seem in earnest. No," he continued, as Colin prepared to burst forth again, "you've said enough."

The boy waited anxiously, for he felt that the answer would decide his career.

"If your heart is set on the Fisheries," his father rejoined thoughtfully, after a few minutes' reflection, "I presume it would be unwise to stop you. But remember what I have told you before -- I'm perfectly willing to fit you for any profession in life you want to take up, but only for one. If you begin on anything you have got to go through with it. I'll have no quitting. As you know, I would rather you had taken up lumbering, but I don't want to force you into anything, and perhaps your brother Roderick may like the woods. You're sure, however, as to what you want?"

"I want fishes!" said Colin firmly.

"I've been looking up the question a little since you wrote to me from Valdez," Major Dare continued, "because I saw that your old desires had increased instead of dying out. You know, Colin, I want to help you as much as I can. You realize that there's no school of fisheries, like the forestry schools, don't you?"

"Yes, Father."

"And that if you go into the Bureau the only way you can learn is by the actual work, hard work and dirty work, too, it will be often."

"Yes, sir," the boy answered, "I was told that, too."

"I wrote to the Commissioner," said Major Dare, "and explained the whole position to him. He answered my letter in a most friendly way, and showed me just what I've been telling you this morning. He pointed out frankly that the Bureau had so much to do and so little money appropriated to do it on, that such a thing as a 'soft job' wasn't known in the service."

"I'm not looking for that," said Colin, a trifle indignantly.

"I don't think you are, my boy, but you want to be sure before you take the plunge," was the warning answer. "You oughtn't to wait until you are in college before you make up your mind."

Colin looked across the table at his father and met his glance squarely.

"There's nothing else that I want to do," he said firmly, "and I do want that. Of course, I'll do whatever you say, but I feel that the Bureau of Fisheries is where I'm bound to land in the end."

"No going back?"

"No going back, Father!"

Major Dare reached out his hand, and the boy grasped it warmly.

"Very well, my boy, that's a compact. I'm not sure just what will need to be done to enter you in the Bureau, but whatever is necessary, we'll do. I think you have decided on a life that will be hard and sometimes thankless, but at least it is a man's job, and will have its own compensations. You couldn't possibly do anything more useful. We'll go home by way of Washington, visit the Fisheries Bureau together, and see what arrangements we can make."

"That's bully, Father," said Colin earnestly; "thank you ever so much."

"Make good, my boy," his father answered, "that's all you have to do. You'll only have yourself to thank, for it will be all your own fight."

It was fortunate for Colin that this was not decided until the day before they left Santa Catalina, for he became so impatient that the intervening hours before they started for the East seemed like weeks to the boy. His enthusiasm was so genuine that, although his mother was already very tired of the interminable 'angling' conversation in Santa Catalina, she succeeded nobly in evincing an intense interest in the whole fish tribe.

When they arrived in Washington, which chanced to be in the afternoon, Colin wanted to start off for the Bureau of Fisheries immediately, even before he went to the hotel, and he seemed to feel quite aggrieved when the visit was put off. Major Dare had some important business to look after and he purposed to leave the question of the boy's arrangements open for a couple of days, but he saw there would be no peace for any one until Colin's fate was settled, and at the boy's importunity he 'phoned to the Bureau and made an appointment with the Commissioner for the following day.

Next morning, accordingly, the two started off together for the Fisheries Building, an antiquated structure standing in the magnificent park behind the National Museum and but a short distance from the Smithsonian Institution. They entered on the ground-floor, seeing to the left a number of hatching troughs, to the right models of nets and fishing-vessels, at the far end a small aquarium, while in the center was a tank in which were the two fur seals that the boy had heard about in the Pribilof Islands.

He pulled his father's arm.

"Oh, Father!" he cried; "there are the fur seals. Come over and see them!"

But his father shook his head smilingly.

"They are not personal friends of mine, as they seem to be of yours," he said, "and I have no time to waste. Besides, we have an engagement with the Commissioner. You can come down and chat with your seal acquaintances after our talk."

The Commissioner greeted them cordially, and without waste of words.

"So this is the boy!" he said, after the customary greetings. "He'll need to grow a bit, eh?"

"So did both of us once," said Major Dare, looking at his own height and the Commissioner's burly frame. "We haven't done so badly."

"That's true. Well, boy, tell me just what you want to do."

"Everything that there is to do in the Bureau, Mr. Glades," answered Colin promptly.

The Commissioner rubbed his hand over his chin, with a short laugh.

"That's a big order," he said. "Willing to work?"

"Yes, sir," the boy replied; "I don't mind work."

"This is the place for it. There's just two kinds of people in the world," the Commissioner went on; "those who do just what they learn to do and nothing else, and those who do the work because they want to."

"Yes, sir," again responded the boy, wondering what was coming.

"The first lot keep things running and that's all. The others are the real men. The last are the men we've got in the Bureau and everybody has to be up to the standard. So, there you are."

"I don't know whether I can come up to the standard, but I'm one of those that want to!" the boy said emphatically, rightly judging that the Commissioner was not the sort of man who liked long speeches.

"Good! Going to college?"

The boy looked at his father.

"I had thought of sending him to Brown," he said, "since he got this Fisheries idea. One of my friends told me that it was an excellent university for biology."

"Do it!" said the Commissioner. "Send him to college in the winter, let him work with us in the vacation. That'll give him four summers' training with us. When he comes out of college he ought to be worth something to the Bureau. But don't start and then give up."

"Colin won't do that," his father said, then added pointedly, "I'll see to it that he doesn't."

"Very well," said the Commissioner, "that's settled." He rang a bell, and a messenger appeared at the door. "Ask Dr. Crafts to step here a minute if he is disengaged. Dr. Crafts," he continued, turning to Major Dare, "is perhaps one of the most valuable men we have on the Bureau. Oh, by the way, boy, when do you want to start?"

"Right away, sir, if possible," Colin replied.

"Is that novelty or enthusiasm?"

"Enthusiasm, I think," Major Dare answered, smiling.

In a moment the door opened again, and the Deputy Commissioner came in.

"Dr. Crafts," the Commissioner said, after introductions had been made, "here's an enthusiastic youngster who wants the Commissionership! Not right away, perhaps," he added as the newcomer smiled at the boy, "but perhaps in a couple of decades or so. And he thinks he ought to start this minute. Have we anything for him to do?"

"I don't know of anything especially," said the Deputy Commissioner thoughtfully; "it's so late in the season."

"Let him have something to work off his animal spirits," the Commissioner said; "it's a pity to let so much energy go to waste."

"Very well," the other said genially; "we'll see what we can do. Will you join us, Major Dare?"

"I think not," the boy's father answered; "I will leave him entirely in your hands, and he can tell me all about it afterwards. I want just a word or two more, Commissioner," he added, "and then I must be going."

"What's your name, lad?" asked his new chief, as they walked along the hall.

"Colin Dare, sir," the boy responded.

"Which is it to be," the official asked with a pleasant smile, "'Colin' or 'Dare'?"

The boy looked up at him and felt instantly the thorough kindliness and fine worth of his companion, and answered promptly:

"'Colin,' sir, if you don't mind. That is, at least, to you."

"All right, Colin," was the reply; "I suppose we must see what we can find for you to do. Tell me," he continued, as they entered his office, "how you came to think of entering the Fisheries Bureau?"

Thus adjured, Colin told briefly how his father had tried to interest him first in lumbering and then in engineering, but that neither had appealed to him. Then he told of his whaling adventures and of the few days he had spent on the Pribilof Islands, recounting the Japanese raid with great gusto. The Deputy Commissioner, who had heard nothing but the official account of the fracas was intensely interested and he questioned Colin closely, noting carefully the boy's clear understanding of the seal question.

"You have a head for facts, Colin," he said approvingly, when the whole adventure had been told, "because you really have noted the important points in that sealing business, and it is more complicated than it looks. Go on, now, and tell me how you came down from Valdez."

So Colin took up the story again, described his meeting with the lieutenant of the revenue cutter and the kindness he had received from him. The Deputy Commissioner smiled, for the officer in question was a close personal friend. Then Colin told of the salmon tagging and of his visit to the hatchery, not forgetting the capture of the sea-serpent.

"It seems to me," Dr. Crafts said jokingly, "that you have become a public personage in connection with Fisheries even before you come into the Bureau. To figure in a Japanese seal raid and to capture a sea-serpent in the same summer is enough fame for anybody!"

Colin laughed and answered:

"After that it would seem a little like boasting, but --  -- " he reached into his pocket and pulled out the tuna button, safely stowed away in a tightly-closed box.

The Deputy Commissioner whistled softly in surprise.

"And did you win this, too?" he asked. "You went to Santa Catalina, then?"

"Yes, Dr. Crafts," the boy replied, and related his experiences while there. He told the story well, and the Deputy Commissioner -- who was a master in that art -- nodded appreciatively.

"So far as I can judge," he said, "the Bureau is the place for you. But I don't know where to fit you in. It is getting on towards the middle of August, and not only is the work all arranged for the summer, but most of it is done."

"I just want to be at work," pleaded the boy, "for the experience, not for what I can get out of it, of course."

"That sort of arrangement is impossible," answered the Deputy Commissioner; "there is plenty of volunteer work done in the Bureau, but such work is always along the line of special investigation, and it is given to those who are equipped for research, usually university professors. The assistants are always paid, and you see I couldn't very well create a precedent on your account!"

"No, Dr. Crafts," answered Colin, quite disheartened; "I suppose not."

The Deputy Commissioner tapped on the desk thoughtfully.

"It happens," he said, "that a friend of mine who is attached to the American Museum of Natural History -- that's the New York museum, you know -- sails for Bermuda next Saturday to get some material. He wants to take a helper along, and the Museum provides him with funds for engaging help on the island."

"Yes, sir," the boy said, wondering what was coming.

"Now," the Fisheries official continued, "if he has got to have help it might be a good experience for you to go with him, but you may have to pay your way across. What salary you receive over there would just about meet the expenses of the trip, so that you would break even. Would you like to do it?"

"I'd rather start in on the Bureau," Colin answered, but he was wise enough not to refuse an opportunity, and continued, "but if you think it would be a good thing for me to do, why, of course, I'm ready."

"I think it would be an excellent chance," the Deputy Commissioner said, "because we do very little work around the Bahamas, and none at all in Bermuda, so that it would give you an idea of the fish-life there which, otherwise, you might never get. And if you tried any Bureau work now, you would be handicapped by not having started with the other boys, and you'd be so far behind that you might feel badly about it. So the Bermuda opportunity seems to me the best chance."

"What is the purpose of the trip, sir?" asked the boy.

"To prepare a model for the Museum which will give people an idea of the sea-gardens as they really are. Part of the model will be of prepared specimens, I believe, and some will be copies made of spun glass. I understand that Mr. Collier wants to study especially the sea anemones, the corals, the sponges, and the sea-fans; also, to note the habits of the fish peculiar to the coral reefs, and show them in the model as though they were swimming about in their natural habitat."

"That would be awfully interesting!" said Colin.

"It will teach you a lot," rejoined the Deputy Commissioner, "and you can't ever know too much about sea-life. The real backboned fishes, with which the Bureau principally deals, are only a small part of the population of the ocean."

"Shall I go and call on this gentleman, then, Dr. Crafts?" the boy asked.

"You had better drop in and see me this afternoon," was the reply. "I'll telephone to Mr. Collier and ask him to take lunch with me and we'll talk it over then. Suppose you come in about half-past two o'clock, and if he takes kindly to the scheme I'll have him meet you here. If he has other plans, why, there's no harm done, and we'll try and think of something else."

Thanking his new-found friend heartily, but not quite sure whether he liked this way of shelving him from the Bureau for a season, Colin made his way to the lower story of the building, where he felt that the two young fur seals were old friends. As it happened, a couple of boys about his own age came along and, overhearing their remarks, Colin joined in, realizing that they had all sorts of wrong ideas about the seals. He waxed so enthusiastic that, as other people came in, they gathered around him and, before Colin was really conscious of it, he had quite an audience. Among them was an old attendant of the Bureau who, as it happened, had been on the Pribilof Islands with Dr. Brown Goode, in 1872. He listened for a while, then said:

"I beg your pardon, sir, but have you been in St. Paul recently?"

"I was there this spring," Colin replied.

"It's just forty years this summer, sir, since I was on the islands. They tell me there's been great changes." And, without further ado, he commenced to question Colin closely concerning the place, the boy having equal interest in learning what the rookeries were like when the first investigation was made. It was not until lunch-time that he could tear himself away.

Promptly, at the hour appointed, Colin presented himself at the Deputy Commissioner's office and was met by Dr. Crafts' secretary. His pulse was beating like a trip-hammer, and he probably looked nervous, for the secretary glanced once or twice in his direction. Then, wishing to give news that would be welcome, she said formally, of course, but betraying a sincere kindliness:

"I think Mr. Collier is with Dr. Crafts now."

On the instant Colin detected that the secretary knew something about the matter and wanted to reassure him, so he smiled back, saying:

"Thank you. I hope it will be all right, then."

The two men were chatting earnestly, and the wait seemed long to Colin, but after a while the Deputy Commissioner called him in.

"This is the boy, Robert," he said. "Colin," he continued, "let me present you to Mr. Collier."

"So you're coming along with me to Bermuda and Florida, I hear," the museum curator said, shaking hands.

Colin looked up at the tall, gaunt figure and caught a twinkle of good-humor in the deeply-sunk gray eyes.

"I was hoping to before, sir," he answered, "and I'm hoping to, even more now."

"That's the way to talk, never lose a chance for a happy phrase," was the reply. "Well, Dr. Crafts here seems willing to go bail for you -- although I understand he never saw you before to-day -- and I think we could get along all right, so if you're satisfied, I guess we'll call it a deal. There's one difficulty, though."

"What's that, sir?" asked the boy.

"I shall probably need to go to Florida as well, and I should like to have my assistant stay with me clear through."

"So much the better," the boy responded.

"But I understand you're going to start your freshman year in college?"

"Yes, sir," the boy answered, "I'm going to Brown."

"That's what I thought. But you see I don't expect to get back much before the tenth of October, and college will have started by then. I don't want," he continued, his eyes twinkling with fun, "to rob the other fellows of the fun of hazing you."

"I don't think there's much hazing at Brown, sir, and perhaps I shall miss some of the fun of the opening of the year," Colin replied, after thinking for a minute or two; "but I'd much rather take the trip with you, sir, and I can soon catch up with my class in any subject the first few lectures of which I may have missed."

"But aren't you supposed to be in attendance on a certain day?"

"Yes, Mr. Collier," the boy replied, "I believe I should be. But Father can fix that all right."

"You think your father can arrange anything, Colin," said the Deputy Commissioner, smiling.

"Well, he always has!" the boy declared.

"If the Florida trip is no barrier," the curator said, "I think that we can call the matter settled. Dr. Crafts told you that you would have to pay your own passage?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'll like Bermuda, I think. Everything there's so much worth while."

"There you go again, Robert," said the Deputy Commissioner; "always in superlatives."

"Of course! Who would want to be otherwise?" said the curator. He turned to Colin. "Come and take dinner with me to-night, and we'll talk over the details. Here's my card," and he penciled his address on the pasteboard. "I'll give you some seaweed pudding, carrageen, you know."

Colin didn't know, but he thanked his host heartily, and then turned to the Deputy Commissioner.

"What is it, Colin?" he was asked.

"Please, sir," the boy replied, "you haven't said anything about my chances in the Bureau."

The Fisheries official looked straight at him with a long, level glance.

"We need high-grade, well-trained men," he said; "the more so because there are no really good ichthyological schools. And no matter how well-trained a man may be he's got to have the practical experience and the grit behind it. If you show in this trip that you're made of the right kind of stuff and if your college work is up to standard, I'll promise you a summer job for next year and for each year that you're at college. You'll be advanced just exactly as fast as you deserve, and not a bit faster. If you want to go into the Bureau your record will be watched, and you'll sink or swim by that!"

"Very well, sir," said Colin, a little taken aback by this straight-from-the-shoulder statement. "I'll do my best, anyhow." He shook hands heartily, and thanking his new chief, hurried excitedly to the hotel where his family was staying to tell of his success and of the unexpected addition of the Florida trip.

His father was quite well satisfied that the boy should have so pleasant an initiation into the life he had chosen, and was quite content that this semi-holiday opportunity had arisen instead of hard work in one of the hatchery stations. Major Dare felt that Colin had already had a strenuous summer and that it was advisable for him to do something a little less adventurous before beginning his college work.

The evening that the lad spent with the scientist-artist was a revelation to him, for his host not only knew the life of the bottom of the sea as though he had always lived there, but he was a marvelous designer in glass, and possessed some of the most exquisite models of fragile sea forms, all of which had been made under his direction. Several of these were magnified many times and were more beautiful even than any the boy had ever seen pictured.

There were no half-way measures in Colin's enthusiasm, and he begged Mr. Collier to lend him books, so that during the days that were to elapse before starting on the trip, he could get an idea of the life histories of sea anemones, jellyfish, and the like, with which he would be working. His friend was both amused and pleased by the lad's eagerness.

Mrs. Dare had visited friends in the Bermudas once or twice, so that she was able to give Colin many suggestions which he found went far to increase the pleasure of his stay. A meeting was arranged, and Major Dare liked his son's new friend immensely, quite a pleasant relationship being established between the two men, so that Colin's departure for Bermuda was under the happiest auspices. He soon learned that the museum curator was not only an authority on his own subject of marine invertebrates, but that he was interested to the utmost in all sorts of affairs, and he admitted confidentially to the boy that he was an inveterate baseball fan. Best of all, perhaps, Colin gained from him the feeling that science and scholarship were two windows whereby one might see how much good there is in the world.

"Enthusiasm," Mr. Collier said, "is one of the best forces I know. A boy without enthusiasm is like a firecracker without a fuse. The powder may be there all right, but it will never have a chance to make itself heard."

The lesser-known life of the sea, in which the boy's interest was centered for the especial purposes of this trip, seemed to Colin at first even more interesting than that of fishes and the voyage to Bermuda was practically a continuous revelation of wonders. The scientist realized that he had not only an assistant, but a disciple, and went to much trouble to teach the lad. This was one of Colin's great characteristics, his interest was always so genuine and so thorough that others would do everything they could to help him.

The Bermuda Islands were sighted for the first time under a cloudy sky, and Colin thought he had never seen a more disappointing sight. Compared to Santa Catalina, the islands lay low and without sharp contrast, no cliffs rising bluff upon the shore, no mountains looming purple in the distance. The land was parched -- for it was late in the summer -- and the scattered foliage looked small and spindling after the gigantic forests of California. The "beautiful Bermudas" seemed plain and uninviting as the steamer passed St. David's Head. Moreover, as they steamed down along the north shore, the same appearance was visible throughout, its low undulating sea-front of black, honeycombed rock lacking character, the rare patches of sandy beach and sparse sunburned vegetation seeming bare and dreary.

Reaching Grassy Bay, however, past the navy yard and rounding Hog-fish Beacon, the sun came out and swiftly the scene became transfigured. As the steamer drew nearer and began to run between the islands in the channel, the undulating shores showed themselves as hills and valleys in miniature. The bare, white spots were revealed as white coral houses set in masses of flowers, the foliage -- sheltered from the north -- gleamed dark and luxuriant, while the shallowing crystal water glinted from the white sand below as though the steamer were sailing through a translucent gem. Before the vessel had passed the length of the Great Sound and had warped into Hamilton, Colin had changed his mind, and was willing to admit that, after all, Bermuda might be quite a pretty place.

But he could not have believed the transformation scene through which he seemed to pass on landing. Freed from the glare of the waterfront of Hamilton and on the road to Fairyland Bay, he seemed to have entered a new world. It was a Paradise of Flowers, even the Golden State could not outdo it. Hedges of scarlet hibiscus flamed ten feet high, clusters of purple bougainvillea poured down from cottage-porches, while oleander in radiant bloom formed a hedge twenty feet high for as much as half a mile at a stretch. At one moment the road would pass a dense banana plantation with the strange tall poles of the pawpaw trees standing sentinel, the next it would pass the dark recesses of a mangrove bay, where the sea ebbs and flows amid an impenetrable thicket of interlacing roots. And at frequent intervals a slight rise of ground would show the emerald sea beyond, gleaming as though lit with living light.

"'The land where it is always afternoon,'" quoted Mr. Collier softly, as they drove up to the house where they were to stay, a small hotel overlooking a narrow fiord of rock, into which the translucent water rippled. Beyond, upon the gleaming bay rested three or four tiny islands.

"It's almost the loveliest place I ever saw," said Colin; "but it isn't as grand and wild as Santa Catalina."

"I never want to leave Bermuda," said the other; "every time I visit the islands I decide that some day I must come and live here. And even when I am away, its memories haunt me. Everything seems so much worth while here."

"What's the programme, Mr. Collier?" asked Colin, after lunch, when they were comfortably settled.

"You are at liberty this afternoon," was the reply, "as I have a number of small things to look after, so that if you want to get a glimpse of the islands, you had better make good use of your time. You ride a wheel, of course?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then walk into Hamilton and rent one; bicycling is the only way to see Bermuda properly. And you'd better go to Devil's Hole this afternoon and see the fish there. Try and persuade the old keeper of the place to talk, and if you can get him started, he will tell you a good deal about Bermuda fishes. They're worth knowing about, too!"

Acting on this advice, Colin strolled into the little city and rented a bicycle. The roads, he found, were perfect for wheeling, there being only one hill too steep for riding, but in spite of all that he had heard about the absence of distances, it seemed incredible that an hour's easy wheeling should enable him to cover almost half the entire length of the main island. Everything was in miniature, and having a camera with him, he took snapshots recklessly everywhere, each turn in the road seeming to give a picture more attractive than the last. He was to find, however, that the charm of Bermuda is too subtle for the photographic plate.

On the way to Devil's Hole, taking the south-shore road, Colin had an opportunity of noticing its amazing contrast to the north shore, which had seemed so desolate and uninviting as the steamer came in. The conformation was widely different, marked by higher cliffs, rocks jutting out boldly into the sea, with the waves boiling over them and throwing up the spray, wide stretches of fine white sand, and as far as the eye could see, small circular atolls of coral level with the surface of the water. He paused for a little while at the house where the Irish poet, Thomas Moore, once dwelt while a government employee on the island, and -- like every visitor -- he sat for a while under the famous Calabash Tree, renowned in verse. Nor did he fail to visit the marvelous stalactite caves of which Bermuda has five beautiful examples, lighted with electricity to display their wonders. The boy was greatly interested in the most recently discovered one of all, where the stalactites branch like trees in a manner but little understood by geologists. But, greatly though he wished to investigate this problem, Colin's objective point was the Devil's Hole; and fish, not stalactites, were his first consideration.

Devil's Hole was a strange place. Lying inland, a little distance from Harrington Sound, and with no visible connection with the sea, it seemed a creation of its own. It was a pool, sunk in a bower of trees, almost exactly circular and over sixty feet deep. Silent and reflecting every detail of trees and sky above, the dark water was filled with fishes of many varieties, nearly a thousand fish living near the surface or in its depths. Underground channels connected it with the Sound, that great inland sea of Bermuda, and the water in the pool ebbed and flowed with the tide, changing in level, however, but a couple of inches. A tiny bridge spanned the water.

The old keeper of the place greeted Colin and proceeded to deliver himself of a humorous rigmarole, designed for the benefit of tourists. It was pure 'nature-faking,' since it ascribed human characteristics to some of the fish in the pool, the various specimens being called the "bride" and "groom" and so forth. The screed was rather wearisome to Colin, but when he tried to interrupt, the old keeper seemed so hurt and so confused that the boy let him go on to the end.

The feeding of the fish was a matter of more interest, and it was striking to observe that the angel-fish and groupers were able to recognize their respective summons to food, for when the keeper tapped one portion of the bridge it gave a sharp cracking sound to which the angel-fish came flocking, while in calling the groupers and other fish, he hit another portion of the bridge, which reverberated in a different tone, and the larger fish dashed through the water to the appointed places. After this performance was over the keeper was willing to talk less idly, and showed a very considerable knowledge of the species found in Bermuda waters.

"I noticed," Colin said, "that you fed the angel-fish with sea-urchin. I don't see how they can eat it with their tiny mouths, I should think the spines would get in the way."

"I crushes the spines before I throws 'em in," the keeper answered; "but they eats 'em in the nateral state. I don't know how they gets at 'em. They has lots of savvy, sir, angel-fish has, and for a small fish they can 'old their own. Why, even the big groupers lets 'em alone."

"Are the groupers fierce?" the boy asked, with his arms on the rail, looking over at the fish.

"Fierce enough, sir," said the old man. "I was tellin' a party once, just what I was tellin' you a while ago about the fish --  -- "

"Yes," said Colin wearily, realizing that the same nonsense about the bride fish and the bridegroom fish and the "old bachelor" and all the rest of it had probably been given as a dose to every visitor for twenty years back, "and what then?"

"There was an officer in the party, sir," the keeper continued, "and when I spoke of the fish as bein' savage 'e laughed and said 'e didn't believe it. 'E said 'e'd swam around among sharks and never got hurt, but I told 'im 'e wouldn't be willin' to take a plunge in the pool."

Colin looked down at the fish.

"They don't look very bad," he said; "but I don't think I'd like to chance it."

"You're right, sir; I wouldn't go in, not for a thousand pound. Well, this officer -- 'e was a captain, I think -- made some remark about it all bein' nonsense, and said that even 'is dog would scare the fish so that they wouldn't as much as come up from the bottom."

"That sounds reasonable enough," said Colin; "a fish wouldn't try to attack a dog."

"That's what 'e said," the keeper continued; "and 'e bet me a 'arf sovereign on it. I didn't want to see the dog 'urt, but a bet's a bet, and there weren't no ladies present, so I took 'im up."

"Well?" queried Colin, as the keeper stopped.

"'E threw the dog in," the keeper answered; "it was a spaniel and quite at 'ome in the water."

"What happened?"

"In about ten seconds the water was just alive with fish, swimmin' round and round, comin' up by the 'undred from the deep water. Then they all turned black, like they do always before they're goin' to feed. Remember, I showed you that."

"Yes, I know; but go on."

"Then they all at once made a dash for the poor beast. I tried to pull 'im out, but there was a couple of 'undred of 'em there, and 'e 'ad no chance. 'E gave just one yelp and then was pulled under, and the groupers jolly well ate him clear down to the bones. We never saw 'ide nor 'air of 'im agen!"

Colin shuddered a little as he looked at the groupers swimming idly about and said:

"Don't you suppose it was just because there were so many of them in this small pool? I hardly think a grouper would attack anything as large as a dog out in the open sea. They're much the same sort of fish as bass, you know."

"No, sir," the keeper answered; "I never 'eard of a grouper bein' dangerous out at sea. But there is a fish that's very bad around the coral on the reef."

"You mean sharks?" Colin queried.

"No, sir," the keeper answered; "sharks ain't no fish."

Colin elevated his eyebrows a little at this somewhat surprising way of stating that the sharks belonged to a lower order of marine species than any other fish, but he let it pass unchallenged.

"What fish do you mean, then?" asked the boy.

"Not sharks," the keeper replied; "there ain't no sharks near Bermuda anyway, they can't get near enough. The reefs run ten mile out and they never come away inside 'ere. No, sir, it's the moray I'm talkin' of."

"The moray?" echoed Colin thoughtfully. "Seems to me I've heard about that fish somewhere. Isn't it green? It's called the green moray?"

"Yes, sir; that's the fish. But there's more spotted morays around than green ones."

"But that's hardly more a fish than a shark is," objected Colin. "Isn't a moray a kind of eel?"

"Yes, sir, but an eel's a fish. Leastways so I was always told, when I used to work over at the Aquarium on Agar's Island."

"All right," said Colin good-humoredly, "I guess you're in the right about it. Go ahead and tell me about the moray."

"I was just sayin', sir, that they were the only ugly things around Bermuda. And they stay quite a bit from shore out around the coral atolls. You see lots of 'em around the sea-gardens. They 'ides in 'oles of the rocks and strikes out at other fishes like a snake. I knew a diver once, who was goin' down after specimens from one of the sea-garden boats, and was nearly drowned."

"How?" queried Colin a little incredulously. "The moray couldn't bite through the diving-bell."

"No, sir, -- no, sir, -- not through the diving-bell. But the india-rubber tube that put air into the 'elmet came swingin' past a 'ole in a rock in which a six-foot moray was waitin' for anything that might come along, and 'e darted out at it."

"Did he bite it through?" cried Colin.

"No, sir; a moray's teeth ain't set that way. 'Is teeth set backwards so they 'old anything solid. 'E started to swallow the tube, the moray did, and jerked the diver on 'is back so that 'e couldn't pull the signal-cord. 'E would have been drowned sure, for 'e was forty feet down, but the water was so clear that some one on board the boat saw the fish attack 'im, and they pulled 'im up."

"How about the moray?"

"'E was 'angin' on," was the reply; "'e wouldn't let go, and by the time they 'ad the diver on board agen, the fish 'ad chewed up the air-tube pretty well. But that wasn't the worst, sir," said the talkative old man, growing garrulous, as he saw the boy look at his watch. "Did you ever 'ear 'ow a big moray 'ad a fight with two men, one of 'em a fisherman from New York, and jolly well beat 'em both?"

"No," Colin answered; "how could that be?"

"I didn't see it myself," the keeper began, "but from all I 'ear the story's straight enough. The fishin' party 'ad gone out on the reefs after rockfish, which is one of the gamiest fighters we 'ave 'ere, and some of 'em runs up to fifty and sixty pounds. They 'ad 'ooked several fine 'ogfish -- you want to 'ave a look at some of 'em; crimson fish they are with long sweepin' spines -- and the next bite turned out to be a chub. They could see 'im plainly enough through the clear water. When pretty nigh the surface, just near'a large dome of brain coral, a long spotted fish shot out and seized the chub, swallowin' the 'ook into the bargain."

"Did they have a strong line?" Colin asked. "A moray is a powerful fish, isn't he?"

"'E's all muscle and teeth," the keeper answered. "Yes, sir, it was 'andline fishin' and they 'ad a good strong line, so it was a sure thing that they could land 'im if 'e didn't wrap the line around a rock. Israel, the boatman, wanted to cut the line, but the New Yorker 'e said, no; 'ad never caught a moray before and 'e 'oped to get this one. So they got the boat out into deeper water, Israel keepin' it clear of the reefs and the fisherman tryin' to 'aul in the line."

"It must have been good fun!" exclaimed Colin. "I wish I'd been there!"

"Just you wait till you've 'eard what 'appened, young sir," the old man warned him, "and then p'r'aps you'll be glad you weren't."

"All right," the boy prompted him; "go ahead."

"'E was plucky, though, this chap, so Israel told me, for while 'is 'and was cut with the line two or three times when the moray made a vicious rush, still 'e 'ung on and that's not as easy as it sounds. But in about 'alf an hour the fish was seemin'ly done for and the New Yorker pulled 'im in, 'and over 'and, as easy as you please. Just as 'e got 'im to the gunwale, though, the moray gave an extra wriggle, and bein' afraid that 'e might get away agen, the fisherman gave a sudden pull and brought 'im on board without waitin' to stun 'im."

Colin grinned appreciatively.

"I've heard of a chap who got into trouble with a conger eel that way," he said. "But go ahead with the story."

"For about a minute or two, so Israel told me," the old man went on, "the moray stayed quiet at the bottom of the boat. Then 'e put up 'is 'ead, with its gleamin', wicked teeth, and looked first at Israel and then at the New Yorker. 'E next sort of shook 'imself all along the spine, to make sure 'e was all there, and began to squirm 'is way toward the stern."

"That was where the angler was?" queried Colin.

"Yes, sir; Israel was in the bow. 'E said the New Yorker didn't seem to take it in at first, but that 'e suddenly gave a yell, jumped on one of the thwarts, and grabbed the boat-'ook. The fish was an ugly-lookin' brute, from what I 'ear, and a spotted moray over six feet long is as nasty a thing to face as anything I know of."

"But he didn't deliberately attack the men, did he?"

"That's just what 'e did! There wasn't no threshin' around and flurryin', but the vicious brute acted just like some kind of a sea-snake. The fisherman brought down the boat-'ook with all 'is might, but the moray just twisted sidewise as the blow came down, and the blunt-pointed 'ead, with its rows of sharp teeth, darted forward for the New Yorker's leg.

"This was too much for 'is nerves and, with a 'owl that could have been 'eard a mile away, the fisherman jumped from the dingey into the sea, the teeth of the moray closin' on the thwart where the man's foot 'ad been a minute before. There was a sound of splinterin', and the eel bit an inch of wood clear out of the board."

"My word, there must have been power behind that jaw!" ejaculated Colin.

"For a minute or two the moray was quiet, and then 'e turned round. But in turnin' 'e got imself twisted, the line which was still fast to 'is lower jaw becomin' entangled around one of the rowlocks. But this gave 'im 'is chance: with a sudden pull, 'e broke the line and was free. Then, so Israel says, the fish just looked at 'im, and began to slide along the boat. But Israel didn't wait to find out what the moray was after, 'e just decided to take no chances, and jumped for the mast."

"Why for the mast?" queried Colin. "He couldn't hang on there very long."

"No," the old keeper answered; "but supposin' he went overboard with the New Yorker, what could they do with the boat? Ask the moray to sail it into 'Amilton? No, Israel climbed up the light mast 'igh enough for 'is weight to capsize the dingey. As soon as the boat turned over on its side and the water came in, the moray saw the way to freedom, and dashed back to 'is 'ome in the reefs, 'avin' beaten two good men and gotten away 'imself."



Chapter VII

Harpooning A Giant Sea Vampire


Colin wakened early the following morning and got up promptly, planning to show his alertness, but when he came downstairs and sauntered out between the oleander bushes toward the water he heard a hail and found that his chief was already up and was busy unpacking some large boxes which had been delivered the night before. The boy hurried to help him.

"What are these, Mr. Collier?" he asked, as some large square boxes with a window in the bottom came into view.

"These are water glasses," the scientist answered, "not the kind that is used by tourists, but some I have had made specially -- lenses with reflecting mirrors; with them the bottom of the sea ought to show up clearly. As you notice, they are long enough to be usable from the deck of a fair-sized sailing boat. It's a shame only to half-see things as beautiful as the sea-gardens. When a thing's worth while, it is so much worth while."

"I thought you would probably have to dive," Colin said, "in order to see the submarine gardens thoroughly."

The curator shook his head.

"You'll find," he said, "that we can see almost as well with these as though you and I were a couple of angel fish, swimming in and out of the grottoes of the coral. The water -- as you noticed when we were coming into the harbor -- is as clear as crystal. There's nothing in coral sand to make it cloudy or muddy."

"Are we going out this morning?" the boy queried eagerly, as he helped in the unpacking of the various instruments that the museum expert had brought.

"The boat is to be here at half-past eight," was the reply, "and we're going to find the most beautiful spot that there is in the submarine Garden of Eden. Our darky boatman, 'Early Bird,' they call him, says he knows a place quite far out on the reef where there are wonderful groves and parterres unspoiled by tourists because they lie so distant that it is not worth while for the excursion boats to make the trip."

"I don't quite see," said Colin, "how the visit of tourists floating over a stretch of sea could harm the seaweeds and the coral growing on the bottom."

"But it does, because a number of the glass-bottomed boats carry a diver who goes down and breaks off specimens of coral at the tourists' request, selling them for a good sum. But the gardens to which we are going, I understand, are entirely out of the beaten track and are very much finer besides. Here is 'Early Bird' now."

As he spoke, a white sailboat with a large spread of sail came skimming into the little bay, heading for the private wharf of the hotel at a rapid clip. Colin held his breath as the craft came rushing in, for the inlet was not much wider than twice the length of the boat and it seemed certain that the vessel would crash full upon the rocks not twenty feet beyond the wharf. But at the very last second the tiller was put over, the sail jibed, and as gently as though she had crept up in a calm, the Early Bird glided up beside the wharf, her bowsprit narrowly missing the bushes on the bank as she turned.

"You sure can handle a boat!" cried Colin admiringly.

The owner of the vessel, a young colored man, of good address and with a clever face, showed his white teeth in a gratified smile as he replied:

"Yas, sah, Ah've sailed a boat roun' the harbor quite a good deal."

"It looked that time as though you were going to be smashed up, sure."

"Ah nevah even scraped the paint of a boat in ten yeahs o' sailin', sah," the colored boatman answered, "an' thar's lots o' shoals, too."

"It looks as if she were resting on the bottom now!" the boy said.

"No, sah," was the confident reply, "the tide's full in an' Ah knows this whahf right well. Thar's two feet of wateh under her, right now."

Early Bird -- for both boatman and boat answered to the same name -- deftly took aboard the glasses and other special material that had been prepared, not forgetting a large lunch basket that had been sent down from the hotel, and then he pushed off into the clear and shining water. The early morning breeze laid the little craft over on her side but she had a good pair of heels and in a few minutes the party was well on its way across Grassy Bay.

"Where are we going?" asked Colin.

Early Bird pointed beyond a group of small islands to where there seemed to be a depression in the land.

"Thar's a channel, sah," he said, "right in between those two islands. Thar's a swing bridge across, but the keepeh is always on the lookout and we can go right through."

A half hour's sail brought them to the gap between the islands. Though the bridge was shut Early Bird steered confidently straight for the center, and it swung just in time, the boat shooting by with undiminished speed and rounding a point to the open water beyond. Before them stretched an unbroken vista of ocean.

"The next land south of you, Colin," remarked the curator, "is Antarctica."

Colin thought for a moment, then said in a surprised voice:

"Why, yes. Bermuda is an isolated point, isn't it? I hadn't thought of that before. Nearly all islands are in chains, but this little bit of a place is set off all by itself. I wonder why that is?"

"Bermuda is the top of a submarine mountain," was the reply, "perhaps part of the lost Atlantis -- who knows? This stupendous peak rises almost fifteen thousand feet sheer from the ocean bed and its rugged top forms the basis of the islands. Think what a magnificent sight it would be if we could see its whole height rising from the darkness of the ocean deep."

"But I thought Bermuda was a coral island!"

"The coral polyp has got to grow on something, hasn't it?" the scientist reminded him. "Don't forget that the little creatures can't live in deep water. And, you see, Bermuda has gradually been sinking, the coral builders keeping pace with the subsidence, so that although the island is only two miles across at the widest point the reefs are ten miles wide."

"It really is coral, then?"

"As much as any island is. The base of any coral island is limestone, being made of the skeletons of coral polypi which have been broken and crushed by wind and weather and beaten into stone. Just as chalk is made of thousands of tiny shells, so coral limestone is made of myriads of coral skeletons."

"Why, that's like sandstone," cried Colin, in a disappointed tone. "I had an idea that coral was a sort of insect that lived in a shell and that colonies of these grew up from the bottom of the water like trees and when they died -- millions of them -- they left the shells and these stone forests grew up and up until they reached the top of the water and then soil was formed and that was how coral islands began."

"I'm not surprised at your thinking that," his chief replied, "lots of people do. And though that theory is all wrong, still if it has given folks an idea of the beauty and wonder of the world, there's no great harm done. Plenty of people still talk about the coral 'insect.' It never occurs to them to call an anemone an 'insect,' but they don't know that the coral polyp is more like an anemone than anything else."

"But an anemone is a soft flabby thing that waves a lot of jelly-like fingers about in the water."

"So does coral," was the reply, "and it eats and lives just in the same way, only that the coral polyp has a stony skeleton and most of the sea anemones have not. But every different one has some sort of a story to tell and I believe they get joy out of life just as we do. Else why should some of these forms be so beautiful? You note them closely when we pass over some of the reefs, and I should judge we are coming to them now."

Certainly if the coloration was any clue, the boat was coming to the great sea-gardens. Above the white bottom the water shone a vivid emeraldine green, changing to sharply marked browns over the shoals, while beyond the inner reefs it varied from all shades of sapphire blue to radiant aquamarine. Nowhere was the water of the same color for a hundred yards together, while every ruffling of the surface, every slant of sunlight gave it a new hue. Colin was entranced and wished to see more closely, but the boat was going too swiftly to let down a water glass and he was forced to wait a few minutes.

"Ah b'lieve, sah," said Early Bird presently, hauling in the sheet, "we might let the sail down heah. We'll drift just about fast enough fo' you to watch the bottom."

Mr. Collier handed one of the water glasses to the boatman. It was formed like a deep square box with a glass window for a bottom, and a specially prepared crystal had been used.

"That's an improvement on the old kind, Early Bird," he said; "what do you think of it?"

The Bermudian darky looked through the glass critically.

"Yes, sah," he said, "thar's no compah'son 'tween the two. The bottom looks bettah through that glass than it does when yo' down theh yo'self. Ah used to do a little diving at one time, but the reefs nevah showed up that cleah. It would be a big thing fo' the boats that take tourists out if they could have glasses like that one there."

"It would be, perhaps," the scientist said, laughing, "but they could almost build a boat for what one of these would cost."

"Isn't that the most gorgeous thing you ever saw!" cried Colin, as he set his eye to the glass, which Early Bird handed him. "There's no garden on land with such colors as that."

"There are no flowers in the garden you're looking at, remember," his friend reminded him.

"Don't need them," said the boy. "Look at that tall purple plant waving to and fro. Isn't that a sea-fan?"

"Yes," his companion answered, "that's a sea-fan, but it isn't a plant. It's a kind of coral."

"Is it? I always thought it was a seaweed."

"You'll be calling a sponge a plant next. See those red lumps, near the bottom of that rock? Those are sponges."

"Now there's some real coral!" the boy cried.

"All coral is real coral. What you are looking at is probably a form of the stag's horn variety," the curator said, "and that does look more like the coral of commerce. But everything you are looking at, nearly, is coral. These great dome-like stones, do you see them?"

"The ones that look like the pictures of a brain?"

"Yes, those are called brain-stone or brain-coral. And those others, just the same shape only with little holes, instead of grooves, that's star coral."

"Then there seem to be some that look like a bouquet of flowers all stuck together."

"That's rose coral," was the reply, "and those are the three forms you see more generally."

"But where's the pink and red coral? If it's as easy to get at coral as this, I don't see why people don't come here and make a fortune."

"Fortunes aren't quite as easy to pick up as that. This coral has no market value; the variety that is used for jewelry comes mainly from Japan and from the Mediterranean, and the governments of the various countries keep it under constant watch."

"That's why. I see now. Oh!" exclaimed the boy as some fish swam under the glass suddenly. "Just look at those angel-fish. They seem twice as brilliant as the ones I saw in Devil's Hole."

"Of course," the curator said, "you would expect them to look dull in dull surroundings. That is color protection. Here, everything is gaily colored and striped and streaked and dotted, so the fish are, too. That helps them to hide and be unnoticed. A plain-colored open sea fish could be easily seen."

"Look, sah," said Early Bird, turning to the boy, "Ah've got a little sailoh's choice, Ah caught this morning; Ah'll throw him in and yo' can notice how plain yo' can see him."

He tossed the fish overboard. The silver scales shone and gleamed brilliantly in the transparent water but Colin had barely time to notice what a conspicuous object it was when in a swirl of water a score of small fish of all sorts surrounded the morsel. But the groupers followed hotfoot and the little fish fled. Then came retribution, for, from a crevice in a near-by rock, out shot the eel-like form of a green moray and disposed of one of the groupers in short order.

"Did I tell you about the moray?" Colin asked, and on receiving a reply in the negative, he recounted the story he had heard in Devil's Hole. The boy rather feared that Early Bird might make light of it even if the museum curator did not, but the darky remarked that he thought it was a good thing to let morays alone and that he had heard the story from other sources before. In the meantime the leader of the expedition had found a section of the reef which appealed to him and at his request Early Bird put out a small kedge anchor, holding the boat fast. The wind had dropped a good deal as the morning wore on and now the little sailing boat rocked gently over the gorgeous gardens of the sea.

"You told me," the museum official said, "that you were fond of drawing. Here's a sketch block and some pastel crayons; see what you can do with them."

Colin lifted his eyebrows in surprise, but he took the sketch block and pad, hooking his water glass to the side of the boat as directed. His companion took a large water glass of a different character. It was right-angled with a lens at the end. In the joint of the angle was a reflector which threw the image upon a mirror immediately under the eye-piece.

"What's that for?" the boy asked.

"So that we can look at the reefs at their own level," was the reply. "No matter how much you allow for refraction and foreshortening, you'll find it almost impossible to get correct values by studying a reef from the top only. You know how queer a place looks in a picture that has been taken from an aeroplane?"

"Yes," the boy answered.

"That's what we've got to avoid here. We are looking down on the reefs just as an aviator looks down on a city. This glass, however, will give me the proper perspective. You see I have made it something like a telescope so that I can add segment after segment and watch conditions even in fairly deep water. Now I'll show you how I'm going to manage it."

He took the long L glass with which he was working and fastened it by little hooks to the direct overhead glass which Colin was using, and as he did so the boy noticed that the two glasses were so arranged that they focussed at the same point of the reef, only that one viewed it from above, the other from the side. A little device worked by a thumbscrew varied the angle in proportion to the depth.

"Now," he was instructed, "draw in and color -- as well as you know how -- everything you see in the field of your glass. You've got all day to do it in, so there's no need for hurry. Remember, I don't want the color you think the sea-fans and other forms would be out of the water, but the color that they seem to you to be when looked at through the water."

"But I don't draw so awfully well, Mr. Collier," said Colin.

"You don't need to," was the reply, "it's the color that I want. There isn't a tint known that you can't find in those pastels and I want it as exact as you can get it. I'm going to do the same thing, you see, only from the side. The light will cause a good deal of difference, and I want to determine just how the shadows fall."

The boy had never had such crayons to work with and he was naturally a good colorist. He became so absorbed that he was quite unaware of the passage of time and it was with something of a surprise that he heard the announcement of lunch. This was due to Early Bird, who, seeing that it was after noon, had unpacked the hamper and set out a good meal. Both artists dined heartily and Early Bird was not forgotten when the artists returned to their drawings. But although Colin worked as hard as he could, it was four o'clock before he felt that he had finished. The museum expert was also still at work when the sun began to fail to give a sufficiently direct light to pierce the water. Colin was eager to see his companion's sketch, but this was denied him.

"No," he was told. "We're coming here to-morrow, and I want you to do what I was doing to-day, while I do the overhead view."

"What's that for, Mr. Collier?" queried Colin, again.

"No two people see color values just alike," was the reply, "and while of course I don't expect you to make a perfect picture, still if your coloring and mine agree, we are nearly sure to have exactly the right shade."

"But if they don't?"

"Then we have two color conceptions, and it is easy for a third person to say which looks the most real to him. Early Bird, for example, could tell which looked the best to him, although, of course, he could not describe the color."

"Then we're coming back here to-morrow?"

"If the wind is suitable, yes."

Colin was simply aching with eagerness to see the other drawing but had to be content with the promise that he could see it as soon as he had done the duplicate, and not before, as he might be prejudiced thereby. Before going home that day they dropped as a marker a heavy lead disk about six inches across, painted white, to which was attached a buoy, so that they could find the identical place again; and the following morning, when they came out, the buoy was picked up without difficulty and the boat moored as before.

The second day on the reefs was an exact counterpart of the first, except that Colin found it much more difficult to work through the L glass. To look down at a picture which was reflected sidewise made the drawing of it quite tricky until he caught the knack. Also, shadows under the water did not behave the same way as above. But, as before, the entire day was given to it, and though the boy had a headache when evening came, he had turned out a very respectable piece of work. The fun came in comparing them.

"You're somewhat of an impressionist," the curator said, as he examined Colin's two pictures carefully, "and you've succeeded in making your sketches look more submarine than I have. But I think your perspective is all out."

"I was afraid that it was," the boy replied, "though I tried hard to get it."

"What do you think of them, Early Bird?" the museum expert asked, "I won't tell you which is which."

The boatman, who had a full share of the intelligence and alertness characteristic of the Bermuda colored population, so excellently governed under British rule, examined the four pictures carefully and then said:

"Wa'al, sah, Ah think Ah like these two the best."

He handed back Mr. Collier's drawing of the reef from the side and the boy's sketch of the reef taken from above.

"I believe you're right, Early Bird," the scientist said, laughing, "the lad beat me out on that one." Then, as he put the drawings away in the portfolio he added, "And now we'll see how near we both came to the right thing."

"How?" queried the boy.

"We'll search a while for perfect specimens. A diver is coming along with us to-morrow and we're going to scour the reefs for fine specimens of coral, sea-anemones, sea-whips, black rods, purple fans, and all the rest of them. Those that we can preserve we will, but the sea-anemones we'll have to work on in the Aquarium on Agar's Island, where they have some magnificent specimens."

"In glass, you mean?" queried Colin. "I should like to see how that's done."

"Come to my laboratory in New York some time and I'll show you," his companion answered, "but I can't do that here. I have a specially prepared black paper here and I'll copy some of the anemone forms so that I can plan them in glass from my drawings. I'll go with you to-morrow, but after that you'll have to go out alone."

Accordingly, Colin and the diver went out with Early Bird every day for a week, Colin spending the entire day peering through the water glass for perfect specimens, which, when sighted, the diver would descend to get. He secured an especially fine example of a long-spined black and white striped sea-urchin, with spines nearly seven inches in length, a number of pale-blue starfish (an unusual color in that genus), and one superb sea-fan of a glowing purple color nearly five feet across. Of sea-anemones he found a large variety, and those he brought to the aquarium, where Mr. Collier was working steadily; several kinds of "sea-puddings," closely allied to the famous beche-de-mer -- the table delicacy of China -- also were within his discoveries. The boy's eyesight was keen, and the collecting fever found him an easy victim, but it was back-breaking work to stoop over the water glass all day.

After about a week of this, however, a surprise awaited him. He noticed, as they sailed into the bay, a very handsome steam yacht lying at anchor, a sea-going craft flying the New York Yacht Club's burgee. On his return to the hotel Colin found his chief waiting for him, a little impatiently.

"We're going to dinner on the Golden Falcon," he said, as soon as he saw the boy, "she belongs to a friend of mine. He is going down to Florida and has offered to take us along. If I can arrange it, that will save us at least a week's time."

"Bully, fine!" Colin exclaimed. "Is that the yacht down there?"

"Yes."

"She's a beauty. All right, Mr. Collier, I'll get ready just as fast as I can. And you ought to see a feather star I got to-day. It wasn't so awfully deep down either."

"I'll see it later," was the reply, "hurry and get ready now; I don't want to be late going over there. Their launch is to come at half-past six and it is twenty after now, so that you need to move as fast as you know how."

"Right, sir," answered Colin, and off he sped.

The yacht was the finest of its kind that the boy had ever boarded and he spent a very pleasant evening, the more so as the owner of the vessel had his family aboard, including his son Paul, a lad almost the same age as Colin. Mr. Murren was a wealthy capitalist, who had financed a chain of drug-stores throughout the country and still kept a large amount of stock in them. This corporation used many thousands of sponges annually, needing moreover a high-grade article which was found difficult to procure. It had been thought wise to investigate the question of buying a sponge farm, and he had been asked to look into the matter. Accordingly, he was taking a run down the coast, but had come first to see the American Vice Consul at Bermuda -- to whom he was related by marriage.

"I heard a good deal about that sponge-farming business," said Colin, when the other boy told him this. "Dr. Crafts told me how it was worked."

"All the more reason for you to join us," his new friend responded. "I hope you're coming."

"I hope so, too," Colin answered, "and it's likely enough that we will, since you say your father has been kind enough to ask us. I think Mr. Collier has nearly finished what he wanted to do in Bermuda, and if you are going straight to Florida, it would save us a lot of time, as well as being a jolly trip in itself."

"Going to do more coral-hunting?" the other boy queried, for Colin had told him about his Bermuda work.

"A little of that, I think; but I believe Mr. Collier intends also to make an exhibit showing the way sponges grow. So you see he is as much interested as your father in reviewing the sponge question."

At this juncture Colin heard his name called.

"Yes, Mr. Collier," he answered.

"Do you think you have been over most of the reef?"

"Yes, sir, I think so," the boy answered; "Early Bird said yesterday that we had covered the sea-garden grounds fairly thoroughly. But, of course, there are miles of reef that we haven't seen."

"I think, Mr. Murren," the scientist said, turning to his host, "that I can finish up all my business here by to-morrow night and be ready for a start the following morning. If that's agreeable to you, we shall be very glad to accept your invitation."

"That's agreed, then," said the capitalist, "and now we'll have some music."

The trip to Florida on the Golden Falcon was one of the pleasantest Colin had ever known. The little craft fairly flew through the water. He liked his host and hostess immensely, both of whom were accomplished musicians, and he struck up quite a friendship with Paul. The capitalist's son, though but a month or two younger than Colin, was quite inclined to give the latter a little hero-worship. And it was significant of Colin's make-up that he was equally ready to take it. Little of note occurred on the voyage save that the yacht almost ran over a sunfish in the water, which turned a sluggish somersault and disappeared. What was of more interest to Colin and indeed to Paul also was the opportunity to use a very powerful microscope belonging to the museum curator and to find out about the almost invisible life of the ocean.

"You must remember," the scientist told them, "that these tiny forms, which look like the most wonderful figures in a fairyland of geometry, exist in such billions that as they die, their light shells fall through the sea like a perpetual rain. Some of them, too, are so very light that it takes them a month to sink to the bottom."

"But what can such tiny bits of things live on, Mr. Collier?" asked Paul; "other animals smaller still?"

"No, my boy," was the reply, "on plants called diatoms. There are over four thousand species of these plants known, which are so small that the microscopic animals readily engulf them. Where it is too cold for surface animal life, as in the Antarctic Ocean, these dead diatoms form the mud on the bottom of the ocean, and in the extremely deep parts, the sea-bed is red clay, but most of it is an 'ooze' -- 'Globigerina,' as it is called -- made up of the shells of those very creatures you have now been seeing on that microscope slide. You drop in and see me at New York, boys," he added kindly, "and I'll show you some models I have made of them."

On arrival at Key West one of the first things that impressed itself upon Colin was the sponge wharf, where tens of thousands of sponges of every sort were drying in the hot September sun. The conversation had run upon sponges very frequently during the voyage, and Mr. Collier, who knew the subject thoroughly from a theoretical point of view, had been of great help to his host. But the economic and commercial side of the question was another matter. From this aspect Colin found that the remembrance of his conversation with Dr. Crafts in Washington stood him in good stead.

"As I understand it, Mr. Murren," he said, as they stood on the wharf together, waiting for an approaching boat, "the government looks on the business of growing sponges much as it does on the growing of wheat or any other form of farming, only it is called aquiculture instead of agriculture. Sponge planting isn't so very different from potato planting."

"It looks entirely different to me," the boy's host replied, as he went down the wharf steps. "I'm sorry Mr. Collier was called away this afternoon, but I may as well give a preliminary look over this sponge-farming business and you boys might as well come along. There's a man here who wants me to buy his sponge farm. Since Mr. Collier is here I'm not going to decide anything without his advice. He doesn't want you this afternoon, does he?"

Colin hesitated a moment.

"Not as far as I know, Mr. Murren," he answered.

"I wish you would come, then," urged the capitalist. "You've picked up some ideas in Washington which may be of help."

"I'll be glad to come, if you feel I'm any use to you," the boy replied, flattered at this evidence that he could be of service, "I was only afraid that I'd be in the way."

Colin followed Paul and his father into the boat, where was waiting a negro as black as the proverbial black hat, a local fisherman who had taken up sponge growing, and who, while shrewd enough for a business deal, knew little about sponges.

"You were saying that the Bureau of Fisheries is going to take up sponge-farming?" the prospective buyer asked. "Do you know what success the government has had so far?"

"Enough to show that it can be done and that's about all," the boy replied. "Before long, I think, the Bureau will have a station down on the Keys here and that will be one of the first questions they will probably take up. As I heard it put, the Bureau aims to farm every acre of water as thoroughly as every acre of land."

"That," said the capitalist, "is an ideal that gives all sorts of chances for development."

Presently the boatman stopped and, resting on his oars, said:

"Lots o' sponges hyeh, boss."

The would-be buyer took the water glass and looked through it at the bottom, but he was unaccustomed to the appearance of growing sponges and also to the use of a water glass, so that he gained little from it.

"I don't see any," he said.

"Aren't there any round liver-colored lumps, Mr. Murren?" the boy asked.

"Yes, there are lots of those," was the reply.

"Those are sponges."

"They don't look like it."

"They are, sir, though. A skeleton doesn't ever look just like a man. The sponge, as you use it in a bath, is just an animal's skeleton, or it may be of several animals that have grown together."

"Yo' suah o' that, boss?" asked the boatman. "I allus hear' dat a sponge was a plant -- not any animal."

"It's an animal," Colin said shortly.

"But I thought," interjected Paul, "that the difference between a plant and an animal was that an animal can move around and a plant can't."

"Well, Paul," the boy answered, "the young of sponges are larve which swim in the water by threshing with short hairs until they find something suitable to stick on. Lots of animals which become fixtures are free-swimming when young, oysters, for instance."

"Then a sponge doesn't seed itself, like a plant?"

"No, Mr. Murren," said Colin; "so far as I understand, the larve, though of a very simple type, have a certain amount of choice. A seed has got to grow where it falls, or not at all, but a sponge larva, if it doesn't find a suitable place on the first thing it touches, can swim about blindly until it finds one that will do."

"Now about these sponges, Colin," his host said, impressed by the boy's clear though crude way of explaining himself, "look through the glass and tell me what you think about the bed."

"There are quite a lot of sponges there," the boy answered after a few minutes' examination, "some of good size, too, but a number of them are dead. See, the sand has drifted half over them. There's too much sand and too little rock."

"Should they have a rock bottom?" the manufacturer queried.

"Rock am de bes', suah," the owner of the ground put in, "but a li'l bit o' san' don' do no hahm. It shows dat de wateh am runnin'."

"Yes," said the boy, "the boatman is right there, Mr. Murren, sponges must be in a current after they have once taken hold. They can't swim around to get their food, so, like all the fixed forms of life, their food must come to them. If there is no current there is not enough food carried past for them to live on. If the current is too strong the sponge has to make an extra tough skeleton to brace itself against the rush of water and then it becomes too coarse for commercial use. Some of the polyps live on tiny animals with a lot of flint in their shells and the skeleton gets like glass. They call them glass sponges. Conditions have got to be just right for their development, they're a most particular sort of creature."

"But how do they feed?"

"A sponge is a jelly-like colony of cells with a fibrous skeleton," the boy explained; "the outside of him is toward the water and is full of small pores which branch all through his flesh and open at last into a big pore leading to the outside. All these pores are lined with tiny hairs that make a current of water go through the jelly-like flesh, which absorbs any microscopic life there may be. The water is taken in through the little pores and sent out through the big ones. Some sponge forms are of one animal, most are of colonies. But they are all on the same pattern, pumping water in and out again."

"Then is a growing sponge all full of jelly?" asked Paul.

"All that I have seen are," Colin replied.

"How do they get it out?"

"I c'n tell you 'bout that," interjected Pete. "A sponge is all slimy an' nasty. Yo' put him in de sun an' he dies quick an' all de slime runs out. Den yo' buries him in san' 'til his insides all decay. Den you puts him in a pon' an' takes him out, an' beats him wif a stick, lots o' times oveh, maybe, 'til all de jelly an' all de san' an' all de muck am out ob him. Den yo' wash him in fresh wateh 'til he's clean an' lets him dry an' he's done."

"But if sponges will reproduce themselves," the capitalist said, returning to his former point, "what is the need of planting them?"

"You don't have to work that way on their own beds, sir," the boy answered, "planting is done to get more out of the industry, using the sea bottom in shallow waters which now is lying unused."

"And you say only rocky land will do?"

"Any bottom that's hard enough to keep the sponge from being covered up, Mr. Murren. Soft sand will wash, mud will ooze up, and rank marine grass or seaweed will smother the young cells. But any hard bottom in warm salt water with a current is good for sponges."

"I see," was the rejoinder. "As you say, the situation is not unlike farming. You can either farm cultivated sponge land or plant uncultivated land."

"You can get land suitable for sponges for almost nothing, I suppose," Colin said, "and then if you had a small sponge ground you could plant a larger area from it."

"What do you think of this ground?"

The boy hesitated.

"I hardly think I know enough about it to say, Mr. Murren," he said; "you ought to get an expert."

"I'll get an expert before I pay cash," was the prompt answer, "but I want to know what you think."

"Well, then, sir," Colin answered, "I think it's good ground, but not good enough."

"Ah got a betteh one than this hyeh, boss," put in the boatman, "it's mah brotheh's, but he might be willin' to sell. Costs mo' than mine, though."

"Take us there," ordered the capitalist.

The boatman took to his oars with a will, but it was a long pull, almost an hour elapsing before he stopped, wiped his forehead on his arms, and said, as before:

"Lots o' sponges hyeh, boss."

At a nod from the prospective buyer, Colin took the water glass and watched the bottom carefully as the boatman rowed slowly over it. How the boy wished for the lenses in the glasses belonging to Mr. Collier which he had used in Bermuda! But still, though the afternoon was drawing on and the sun did not strike the water at the right angle, Colin could see that it was unusually fine sponge ground.

"Yes," he said, "that's more like."

Mr. Murren looked about him.

"How in the world do you know, Pete," he said to the boatman, "that this is your ground or anybody else's? I don't see any stakes or evidences of ownership."

"If Ah starts to haul up sponges on somebody else's groun' he'll come up and make me get off, suah," replied the boatman.

"But suppose he doesn't see you."

The boatman grinned.

"Dat certainly am his own lookout, boss," he said.

"What a cut-throat game," ejaculated the would-be buyer. "If a man bought a place he'd have to watch it all the time, then?"

"Suah, sah."

"Thank you," was the reply, "I'll take some place in shallow water where I can build a house and hire some fellow to watch it and work it."

"Ain' no trouble hyeh," the boatman said, shrugging his shoulders, "ev'body wo'k his own patch."

"But how do you get the sponges?" was the query. "You have to dive for them, don't you?"

The boatman shook his head.

"Sometimes, if de wateh's mo' than fifty feet deep. Not of'en. See, Ah show you."

He reached under the forward thwart and pulled out a light three-pronged hook and fitted it to a jointed pole, screwing the two sections together so that it made one long pole of about twenty-four feet in length. He took the water glass and rowed the boat until it was directly over a sponge.

"Yo' all keep de boat dere a li'l while," he said to Colin, and the lad took the oars.

Then very deftly the boatman pushed the long unwieldy pole into the water and nicked a sponge from the bed, bringing it up intact. On reaching the surface it was seen to be slimy and with a milky fluid dripping from the bottom.

"That's a ripe sponge, you see, Mr. Murren," the boy said, pointing to the milky fluid; "the slimy stuff that's dropping is full of germs of young sponges all ready to grow and swim and fix to something and then become proper sponges."

"That may be a sponge," said the prospective buyer, "but it looks more like a piece of liver."

"Fine sponge, sah, -- good yellow sponge," the boatman said, and Colin did not know enough either to affirm or deny.

"Now, Ah show yo' sheepswool sponge, quite diff'nt," the boatman said, and taking up his water glass he leaned over the edge.

Just as he did so, both Colin and his companion gave a cry.

"Sharks!"

The boatman looked around contemptuously.

"Nu'sing shahks," he said, "sleep all de time." He splashed his hand in the water and the sharks fled in all directions.

"You wouldn't feel that way if you had been in the water," hazarded the capitalist.

"Ah done ride on 'em," was the reply. "Lots o' boys 'round dese hyeh reefs think it fun to steal up ove' a lot o' nu'sing shahks, an' den dive down an' take a ride. Dey wouldn't bite nothin' biggeh than a sahdine."

"But you have got dangerous sharks here?"

"Yes, sah, you bet," the boatman answered; "dey was one ol' white shahk was a holy terror; he use' to show up hyeh reg'lah once a monf. Folks do say he eat up fo' men at diff'rent times."

"I thought Mr. Collier told us that those shark stories were exaggerated," said Paul, turning to Colin. "I didn't think so, now you see, they weren't."

"Oh, I guess the white shark is the real thing, all right," Colin answered. "Some fishermen found a fair-sized young sea lion almost whole in a shark's stomach about three years ago."

"That must have been the fish that swallowed Jonah," suggested Paul.

"He could have done it all right," the other boy agreed, "and he is about the only fish that could."

"There might be some in the bottom of the sea!"

"I don't think so, Paul. Mr. Collier told me on the steamer that in the very deepest parts of the ocean there were no fish, only worms and sea-cucumbers and things like that."

"If you'll listen a minute, sah," said the boatman, "yo'll heah somefin' wo'se than eveh come from de bottom ob de sea."

"Worse?"

"Worse!"

The two exclamations rang like one as the two boys strained into attention. They listened intently and then across the water came a whisking rushing sound followed by a deep 'boom' and a distant splash. It was several moments, too, before the swell from that splash reached the boat; when it did, the craft rocked noticeably.

"What is that?" asked Colin.

"Vampa, sah," answered the boatman, as he took his oars and started to row away in the opposite direction.

"Hold on a bit there," the sponge-buyer said, "I never saw a vampire. What does it look like?"

"Some calls 'em sea-bat or devil-ray," was the reply, "an' the're twenty, thirty feet 'cross sometimes. They looks lak a sting ray. Ah don' wan' to see 'em."

"Isn't that a harpoon down there in the boat?" the capitalist asked calmly.

"Yes, sah, oh, yes, sah, but Lordy, sah, yo' can' do nuffin wif a sea vampa. No, sah. Why, jes' oveh yondah dey was a big schooneh towed out to sea by a vampa."

"A schooner?"

"Yes, sah, a seven'y-ton schooneh. Yes, sah. He mus' ha' been a big fellah an' goin' swimmin' along he struck de anchoh chain wif his hohns. It made him mad, right mad, it did, an' he jes' heave up dat hyeh anchoh an' toted it off to sea, draggin' de ship wif him."

The owner of the Golden Falcon laughed.

"Can you beat that? That's the worst fish story I've heard, Colin. You tell some good ones, too!"

"It's an old story," the boy answered, "and I believe it's true. They have often run away with boats."

The capitalist took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

"I've harpooned dozens of porpoises from the Falcon," he said, "but I never had a chance at a sea vampire. This begins to look interesting."

"The devil ray, or manta as it is often called, will give you a run for your money," said Colin, "and after all we can cut the line."

"We'll not cut any line," was the response. "Now, Pete, get after him."

But the negro fairly blubbered in terror.

"Lordy, lordy," he cried, "an' what yo' goin' t' do to a po' ol' niggeh. Ah'll do an'thin' yo' say, Ah'll tell yo' de troof about de sponge fahms, an'thin', onl' don' go afteh dat vampa."

"You'll tell me the truth about the sponge farms, eh?" the prospective buyer remarked sternly. "So you were trying to put up a crooked deal. I'll attend to you when we get ashore. Now you row after that 'vampa,' as you call it, and as quick as you know how."

The negro was about to refuse, but he did not dare.

"Oh, Lordy, boss," he cried, "don' go any neaheh. Yas, sah, yas, sah," he added as he saw the yachtsman make a move towards him, "yas, sah, Ah'll row. But we all gwine to be smoddehed alive. Ah jes' knows it."

Again, close at hand, came the swish and the dull 'boom,' and the negro shivered. Colin was conscious that his heart was pounding a little and he caught himself wishing that it were the middle of the day instead of evening. Then out of the water not ten feet from the boat a dark witch-like specter swooped into the sky, black, horned, with bat-like wings and a long naked tail like a gigantic rat.

Pete gave a squeal of fright.

The monster rose till he was almost three feet clear of the surface, then turned so as to strike the water absolutely flat, and just before the crash and splash of the fall, Murren hurled the harpoon into the fish, and sprang back to clear the line. Although drenched and gasping from the torrent of water thrown over the boat by the devil ray, Colin took a bight of the line from the second coil and passed it around the foremost thwart. He was just in time, for a few seconds later the rope tautened. There was just one jerk and the boat started flying through the water, sending up a green wall on either side that threatened to swamp it every instant.

With the fight really begun, Colin became at once quite calm. Paul, who was an absolutely fearless youngster, was laughing in glee.

"Which way are we going, Pete?" asked the capitalist.

"Lordy, Lordy, don' as' me; gwine to de bottom, boss. Ah knows we'he gwine to de bottom."

The negro crouched down in the bottom of the boat, and the sponge buyer roared at him:

"Sit up and watch where we're going, you coward! You know these reefs."

"It don' matteh, boss, de vampa tuhn roun' in a minute an' jump on de boat an' smoddeh we all."

It was not a pleasant suggestion. The ray was undoubtedly big enough to do that very thing, and everybody in the boat had seen its power to leap. But even the little study that Colin had given to fishes came to his aid.

"All rays live on shellfish," he said, "and they have small mouths with plates instead of teeth to crush the shells with. So that it really couldn't do us any harm, any way."

"It's de smoddehin', boss, de smoddehin'. Oh, why did Ah try an' make trouble ober dem durn sponge beds? Ef Ah eber gets on sho' again Ah'll be a betteh man. Lordy, Lordy, what am Ah gwine to do?"

His voice rose in a shriek.

"He's a-comin' now!"

The pointed fin jerked suddenly and a third of the gigantic shape heaved itself into the air as the devil ray whirled. There was an instant of suspense, but the giant went past, one huge fin beating the air like the waving of some uncanny monstrous moth born in the terrors of a nightmare, and the boat was wrenched around sharply, half filling it and almost throwing Colin out.

Over almost exactly the same course that he had taken, the ray raced back, the weight of the boat seeming to make no difference to its speed; and then a second time the creature turned. It seemed impossible that with a speed of not less than twenty miles an hour so huge a creature -- the size of one side of a tennis court -- could twist about in its own length. How the rope and the frame of the boat stood the strain no one ever knew.

Once more the vampire turned; the boat nearly went over, but she was a staunch little craft, and the fish started down the lagoon between the reefs at its top speed. Often the creature put its two horn-like tentacles down for a dive, but the water was everywhere shallow and there was no chance to drag the boat under.

"It doesn't seem to be tiring much," the capitalist remarked, "but I don't see what more we can do."

"No," Colin answered, "I don't think the ray feels our weight at all. I believe it's going faster."

"We's all gwine to de bottom," wailed the negro. "Lordy, Ah been a bad man, but ef Ah ebeh gets mah two feet asho' Ah'll nebeh do nuffin again!"

There was no doubt of it, the vampire was going faster and faster every minute. The line hissed as it cut through the water, and Pete, despite his moaning, was baling for dear life. Darkness was closing in and the ray sped on. On either side were reefs, and many times the boat grazed sharp coral which would have ripped the bottom out of her if she had struck. Mr. Murren stood by the bow with knife in hand ready to cut, waiting to the last minute.

Presently a line of breakers, between two islets, appeared directly ahead. It was only a matter of seconds till they would be reached, but remembering how the ray had turned before, Colin clutched the gunwale of the boat to prevent being flung out of it like a stone from a catapult when the creature swerved.

"It's a-comin', now!" shrieked Pete. "We's a-gwine to be smoddehed. Oh, Lordy, Lordy, Ah's a dead niggeh."

"Hold on tight, all, look out for yourself, Paul," Mr. Murren cried; "he's turning!"

But he was wrong.

Instead of the black fin edging its way up, the whole great bulk of the uncanny creature heaved itself above the water like a great cloud and fell into the surf on the rocks, flapped upon them, although half stranded, and with a heave that seemed to make the reef tremble, plunged into the sea beyond.

"Better cut!" cried Colin.

But before the word was fairly out of his lips, the bright steel gleamed in the dark, and with a grinding crash that seemed like the end of the world to Colin, the boat crumpled into splinters on the reef and the three men were thrown in a heap among the breakers.

The negro gave a yell that was enough to scare any one out of a year's growth and lay spread out upon a rock as though he was some ungainly kind of black crab, arms and legs in every direction, while he fairly gibbered with fright.

"Lordy, Lordy, don' let de debbil come an' take me now! Lordy, Ah ain' fit to die! Don' let him come back an' smoddeh us on de rocks! Ah ain' never goin' to get in a boat agen! On'y let me get home dis once!"

Paul, though the youngest of the party, had escaped the most easily. He had pitched clear against Pete and thus had broken his fall, while at the same time the impact of his weight had knocked nearly all the breath out of the negro's body. He had enough left, however, with which to make a powerful complaint.

Bruised, even bleeding in one or two places, Colin picked himself out of the wreckage and looked across in the faint light at the owner of the Golden Falcon, who seemed to have escaped with a few scratches and who was standing on the reef looking out to sea as though he wished that the fight were still on.

"I wonder," he said, as he saw that the boys were not hurt, "if the vampire had as much sport out of that as we did."



Chapter VIII

Finding A Fortune In A Pearl


Resisting a strong temptation to kick the blubbering negro, Mr. Murren succeeded in getting the fellow's attention by shouting in his ear, and yanked him up on his feet. The boat was quite unusable, the bow having been crumpled into matchwood by the force with which the sea-bat had dragged it upon the reef, so the question of reaching the shore was not an easy one. However, Pete knew the keys thoroughly and, in response to much questioning, admitted that it was possible with only a short swim here and there, to reach a lighthouse about four miles away.

The negro would have preferred to stay on the reef until morning, for he could sleep as easily on the sand as in a bed, but Mr. Murren knew that the two boys were not inured to hardship, Paul especially, and he compelled the boatman to show the way. It was a toilsome but not particularly dangerous journey, and when they reached the lighthouse, and had done full justice to a quickly-prepared meal, they were quite willing, as Paul declared, to tackle another sea-bat. There was a small motor-boat owned by the lighthouse-keeper, and the party borrowed this, reaching the Golden Falcon without further misadventure, the capitalist recompensing the cowardly negro for the loss of his boat.

Owing to the thorough work that had been done at Bermuda, and having the assistance of his capitalist friend, Mr. Collier speedily secured the specimens and the drawings he needed of the Florida reefs. He kept Colin hustling, but found time to enter into the question of the proposed sponge-farm with a great deal of interest, and went with a party to Anclote Key, where the Bureau of Fisheries had established a station for the investigation of the sponge industry, with especial regard to the transplanting of sponges. The government expert welcomed them heartily, and an arrangement was entered into whereby the Bureau accepted Mr. Murren's offer to use for its experiments a part of such sponge-ground as he should acquire, while he, at the same time, had the benefit of the advice of the investigators.

"It seems to me," the capitalist said, when the details had been concluded, "that's about the best kind of investment I know, getting expert opinion for yourself in such a way that it benefits the whole nation."

"It is, I think," the Fisheries official replied; "but you can't always get people to realize that. Why, even the State governments in many cases are not always ready to co-operate, and only last year the Assembly of a certain State refused to permit the establishment of a hatchery, because a relative of one of the assemblymen owned a summer hotel in the district, and he thought it might reduce the number of fish in a lake near the hotel."

"How absurd!"

"Of course, it's absurd, but it's amazing how often that sort of thing happens. Still, even State governments are becoming more intelligent now, and some, like Rhode Island, for instance, have been in the very forefront of Fishery administration."

"Yet it means money in the pockets of the people to conserve fish!"

"But also it means a certain small outgo from the Assembly," was the reply; "there's the rub. But," he added, turning to Colin, for the boy had told him of his plans, "by the time you're through college and on the permanent rolls of the Bureau that sort of ignorance about the value of Fisheries control will probably all have passed away."

"I hope so," the boy answered, "and I'm glad that I haven't seen anything except hearty support. Going to Brown University, of course, is a whole lot in my favor, because I understand they've always been strong on the Fisheries side."

"You're going to leave us to-night, then, Colin?" asked his host.

"Yes, Mr. Murren," the boy replied; "by taking the evening train, I can get to Providence in time for the opening of college, and Mr. Collier is kind enough to let me start right away. I can't be grateful enough to you, sir, for all your kindness on this trip."

"That's all right," his friend said heartily, "I've enjoyed having you, and so has Paul, I know. I shall hear from you occasionally, I hope, and maybe the Golden Falcon will have you on board for some other trip."

"Thank you ever so much, sir," Colin answered; "but I guess I'm booked for college steadily until next summer, and the Bureau of Fisheries during vacation."

But Colin was mistaken in his idea that almost a year would elapse before he was busy again with Fisheries work, for shortly before the end of his first term, he received a letter from his father in which the suggestion was made that the boy should spend a week on the Great Lakes during the Christmas vacation, to get an idea of what winter work was like. Colin smiled as he read the letter, for he knew well that he was 'in for it,' since his father would make him go through every step of the training.

Accordingly, one cold day, he found himself aboard the steamer Mary N. Lewis, which had been chartered by the Bureau for a couple of weeks' trawling in Lake Michigan. A bitter wind was blowing and lumps of ice floated near the shores. The whitefish were not plentiful that winter, and when the nets came up and Colin had to pick fish out, b-r-r-r, but it was cold! A great many of the fish were not ripe for spawning and had to be thrown back again, which delayed matters greatly and kept the party on the water for several days.

Frequently Colin's lips were blue and his fingers numb, while his ears and cheekbones and chin felt as though they were being sliced off gradually by the blasts blowing down from icy Canada, but he knew that, to a certain extent, he was on trial, and he laughed and joked and managed to keep his spirits up, though his teeth chattered. There was no great amount of excitement in catching the whitefish and securing the spawn for development in the hatchery, but it was a test of endurance, and incidentally the boy learned much about the fishes of the Great Lakes.

"There's one thing I don't quite see, though," he said one day to the government fish culturist, with whom he was working; "and that is, why we need to do this."

"How do you mean, Dare?"

"Well, in the West, they hatch young salmon because the old salmon are caught going up the river before they spawn, and they die, anyway; but here they have all the room they want for spawning, and I should think Nature would look after it."

"You don't want to forget," the fish culturist replied, "that Nature is very exact. Everything has to balance. The whitefish born are ten times as many as those that mature, but the number that matures is just precisely enough to keep the supply going."

"I see that, all right," the boy answered.

"Well, then, if you disturb this balance by extensive fishing, isn't it easy to see that you've got to make up for it somewhere? We don't have to worry over keeping up the supply of catfish, for example, because Nature is being left alone, and she has worked the problem out. But if suddenly a big catfish market developed -- as it easily might, because, in spite of popular opinion, catfish is good eating -- and if thousands of them were caught, it would be necessary to find some way to help Nature in keeping up the supply.

"Now, the whitefish," he continued, "isn't like the salmon, which spawns carefully. The lake fish does that in a sort of hit-or-miss manner, with the result that only a small percentage of the eggs get a fair start. It is not difficult for us to put hundreds of millions of young fish into the lakes every year, and the proportion of these that survive will not merely keep the supply constant, but will even increase it."

"Then that will disturb the balance in another way?"

"Yes," was the reply, "but it will be at the expense of other species which are of no use to man. Nature is like the proverbial Irishman, she can't be drove, but she's mighty easy to lead. When you return to the university, get hold of some books on the means by which all the various kinds of living creatures in the world are kept on an even balance, how they all get their food, and how every tiny speck fits into the whole world scheme. You'll find that sort of reading has more grip to it than any novel -- except, perhaps, those of a few of the really great writers, of whom there are some in every age."

"I found that out," answered Colin, "when I was working with Mr. Collier. He was always saying that things were 'so much worth while,' and when he started to explain them, they certainly were! It's just like this, I've only seen a little bit of this inland water work, but you handle other species beside whitefish in this work on the Great Lakes, don't you?"

"Yes," was the culturist's reply; "lake trout and pike perch among others. One station alone has handled seventy-one million trout eggs in a season. But the pike perch is a more difficult fish to propagate artificially, though nearly half a million eggs were distributed last year. We gave Canada six million pike perch fry. There's no wasted energy in the Bureau of Fisheries, it's practical all the way through, and you're learning to see it from the right angle -- doing the work and seeing the results."

It was this personal contact with the fish-culture work, this direct demonstration of the money value to the country of scientific knowledge, which became Colin's stimulus. His college-mates outdistanced him in many studies, for the boy was not at heart of a scholarly type, but in his scientific work he was far in advance of them all. Seeing his interest and his perseverance, several of the professors and instructors in the scientific department took a liking to Colin, and the lad was sure to be found on every kind of field expedition for which he was eligible. He was quite an athlete, too, but he settled down to swimming as his share in the athletic work of the university. Already quite at home in the water, he worked at improving his stroke with such energy, and was in the tank so much, that before the end of his freshman year, he was by long odds the best swimmer in the college. With his devotion to fish and his prowess in the water, it was a common saying that "Dare's growing fins!" and the college paper took to calling him "Fins," a nickname which stuck to him ever after.

As he had intimated to his father long before, Colin was especially anxious to go to Woods Hole, the great marine station of the Bureau of Fisheries, situated on the southwestern corner of Cape Cod, and the most famous marine biological laboratory in the New World. The work of the Fisheries appealed to him a great deal more when it bore a relation to the sea, rather than to rivers and inland waters, and his application for a position on the summer force at Woods Hole had been sent to headquarters shortly after the New Year. Accordingly, just as soon as the term was over, he hurried to Washington.

Disappointment awaited him. His heart had been set on that especial feature of the work, but when he asked Dr. Crafts about it, the Deputy Commissioner shook his head.

"I have thought the matter over," he said, "and if you are equally anxious next year to go to Woods Hole you shall go. But this season I'm going to send you to the Mississippi to do some work on mussels."

"Very well, sir," Colin answered, his expression betraying his regrets, but his will determining that he would make no seeming complaint. "I wish I'd known this winter, and I would have given more attention to the mollusks."

The Deputy Commissioner, who had friends in Brown University, had heard indirectly once or twice about Colin, and smiled to himself. He was pleased by the lad's self-control, and continued:

"The mussel question is of a great deal more interest than you think. I'm not sure, of course, but there are signs of a pearl-fever, and if there is one, you'll certainly see something doing. The Mississippi and Ohio were like a Klondike in 1903!"

"What is a 'pearl-fever,' Dr. Crafts?" asked the boy.

"A silly infatuation that seems to strike the farmers of the river valleys every few years on hearing that a valuable pearl has been found in a mussel. The get-rich-quick hope is very general, and it seems so much easier to dredge mussels and open them until a fortune is found in one than it does to farm for a living. In 1903, thousands upon thousands of farms were deserted or sold for next to nothing by people who believed that within a week they could be made millionaires by the pearls they would find in Mississippi River mussels."

"But I thought pearls came from oysters!" exclaimed Colin in surprise.

"So they do, but they come from mussels, as well, and clams occasionally. But you ought to remember," the Deputy Commissioner continued, "that the finding of an occasional pearl in an oyster or a mussel is of comparatively little importance, because it's an irregular sort of thing. The mother-of-pearl industry, however, is of big importance, it has an economic value to the country, and consequently it's our business to see that the natural resources are as wisely used as possible. We'll start a party out there on June fifteenth, so you can report here by that time."

"But, sir --  -- "

"Well?"

"That's three weeks away!"

"Is that too long to wait? I'm afraid you'll have to learn patience, Colin; that's as important as any knowledge of fish culture."

"But I was wondering, Dr. Crafts," the boy urged, "if I had three weeks to spend, why I couldn't go down to Beaufort?"

"What for?"

"One of my instructors in biology is there," Colin said. "I believe the Bureau gave him table-room in the laboratory there for some work on turtles, and he said I could help him if you were willing to have me go. I didn't say anything about it, because I wanted to go to Woods Hole right away, but if I have this time to spare, don't you think I ought to use it?"

"I think you ought to use it for a holiday," the Deputy Commissioner answered.

"But I'd rather be doing something!" protested Colin.

"Perhaps," was the firm reply; "but not necessarily at Beaufort. Aside from the hatching of diamond-back terrapin, there's nothing going on there in which you could be of any service. Besides, you'll get 'stale' unless you have a vacation. 'All work and no play,' you know."

Colin was eager to urge the Deputy Commissioner, but he could see it would be useless.

"I'd read up on turtles, too!" he returned in a disappointed tone.

"H'm -- by your instructor you mean Mr. Lark, do you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Look here, Colin," said the Deputy Commissioner, "since you have practically joined the Bureau by our promise to accept you if you make good, don't forget that we are after results first. I've been a boy myself, and I think I can see what you're driving at. I suppose Lark has been telling you some of his stories about riding diving turtles."

"Yes, Dr. Crafts," the boy replied; "he told me a lot about it."

"I thought so," was the reply. "I remember some magazine articles he did. And I suppose you thought you wanted to take a ride?"

"I'm a good swimmer, sir," Colin answered a little proudly.

"You mean you can swim," the Deputy Commissioner responded a little sharply, for being modest himself, he disliked any appearance of boasting.

"Yes, sir," the boy said; "that was what I meant."

"Well, there's no turtle-riding at Beaufort. If you knew a little more about these subjects, you wouldn't make such breaks, whether you have been reading up on them or not. The leather turtle, the big one on which men dive by holding on to the shell, is an aquatic species and never comes into brackish water. The terrapin lives in the mud, and is only to be found in marshy places. If you want to go turtle-riding for your vacation, why, go ahead, no one's going to stop you, but you can hardly do that while officially or even unofficially acting as an assistant at Beaufort. It's almost as far from Beaufort to the Florida Keys as it is from here to Hudson's Bay."

"I hadn't realized that, sir," Colin answered, surprised.

"Very few people do," was the reply. "Why, the State of Florida alone is as long as the distance from New York to Nova Scotia, or Washington to Detroit. You can't go after leather-turtle from Beaufort unless you've got -- not seven-leagued boots, but seven-leagued fins."

"I'm sorry I bothered you about it, Dr. Crafts," the boy answered. "I really hadn't given the distances much thought."

"Wait a bit," said the Deputy Commissioner, as the boy turned to go. "I don't want you to feel badly about your summer. What do you know about mussels?"

"Very little, sir," the boy answered; "hardly anything."

"Let me tell you a story about them," the Deputy Commissioner said, smiling as the boy's face lighted up at the word "story." "Seven or eight centuries ago," his friend began -- "that is, if you want to hear it?"

"Oh, yes, sir," came the reply.

"That's a long way back -- a small trading-vessel was wrecked in the Bay of Biscay on the west coast of France, near the little village of Esnandes. All hands were lost except one sailor, an Irishman, called Walton."

"Sure to be an Irishman who got ashore," commented the boy.

"This was a particularly ingenious son of Erin," the other continued. "Although he did not speak a word of French, with the likeableness that seems to have been the chief note of the Irish character then, and which they have never lost, Walton speedily became popular in the little French village. This was the more remarkable, as there was a great scarcity of food in the village, the inhabitants depending entirely on fishing, and the fishing-grounds having become worked out. Hence the presence of a stranger for whom to provide food became a serious problem.

"But the Irish had not been the teachers and scholars of Europe during the five preceding centuries for nothing, and though Walton was but a sailor, he shared the quick-wittedness of his race. He had heard somewhere that people often starved in the midst of plenty, and he started exploring for food on his own account. The village was built near a wide stretch of mud, which was covered by the sea at high tide, but dry when the water went down, and he noticed that numbers of land - and sea-birds were in the habit of skimming over the mud at low tide, apparently picking up worms.

"Birds could be eaten, he thought. Accordingly, patching together all the old bits of net that could be found and mending the holes, the Irishman made a huge net two or three hundred yards long. Then he drove a number of stakes into the mud, working almost night and day, and stretched the net vertically about ten feet above the mud. The net was made something like a fish-trap, so that birds flying under would find it difficult to get out. On the very first night the net was spread, he caught enough birds to feed the village for a week."

"Bully for him!" cried Colin.

"That was only the beginning," the Deputy Commissioner continued. "The ingenious stranger now began to consider what food it was that attracted these birds, and to his surprise, instead of worms, found that they lived on an unknown black shellfish, now called mussels. If the birds ate mussels and the birds were good to eat, Walton reasoned that mussels must be fit for food. He ate some in order to find out."

"That's the real scientific spirit," said Colin, laughing.

"He was Irish and willing to take a chance," was the smiling rejoinder. "However that may be, he not only found that they were good to eat, but that they were good eating. He had hard work to persuade the villagers to his point of view, although his success with the birds had made him a sort of hero. Soon, however, mussels came to be in great demand. Then Walton noticed that young mussels in great numbers were gathering on the submerged stakes of his net, and being prolific of ideas, he promptly had several hundred more stakes cut and driven into the mud. He found, then, that mussels thus suspended over the mud grew fatter and of better flavor, and accordingly designed frames with interlacing branches which collected them by hundreds. This system, known as the 'buchot' system, has been practiced continuously at the village of Esnandes during all the centuries since that time, and the income to the little village last year was over one hundred and twelve thousand dollars as a result of the ingenuity of the castaway Irishman."

"Then mussels are fit for food," Colin said in surprise. "I thought they were only used for bait."

"Mussels, sea-mussels that is, are as good a food as clams, -- some people claim that they are better, -- and they have just about three times as much food value as the oyster. That's why I told you the story. We expect to make the mussel industry as important as the clam fishery, giving employment to thousands of people and establishing what is practically a new food supply in the United States, although it is common throughout the shore countries of Europe."

"But the pearl mussels," queried Colin, "can you eat those, too?"

"It is doubtful," was the reply, "but their value lies so largely in their use for mother-of-pearl in the button industry, that their food value would be of only secondary importance, unless they could be pickled or canned, as is done sometimes with the sea-mussels. But, Colin," he added, "if you think that the mussel doesn't sound an interesting subject, let me tell you that I think it is, in itself, one of the most interesting creatures in the water. Its life history is astounding, and there are scores of problems yet to be worked out. Read this," he added, handing the lad a Bulletin of the Bureau; "it has only just come out, and if I have judged you rightly, you'll come here on June fifteenth so eager to get to a mussel-bed that there will be no holding you!"

Two hours later, the Deputy Commissioner, leaving the office for the day, started on his walk home, going through the park in the direction of the Smithsonian Museum. On his way he was surprised to see Colin sitting on a bench near the Fisheries Building, absolutely engrossed in a gray, paper-covered folio. Dr. Crafts recognized it as the Bulletin he had given the lad early in the afternoon, and he laughed aloud at the boyish impatience which had made it impossible for Colin even to wait until he got the book home. The Deputy Commissioner had to speak twice before he was heard.

"Well, Colin," he said, "are you learning it off by heart?"

The boy jumped up as soon as he saw his friend, fairly stuttering with all the questions he wanted to ask.

"I've got to go home," the Deputy Commissioner said, when Colin stopped to take breath; "and you've put queries enough to keep a staff of men answering for a week! Didn't I tell you that there's a world of work to be done over the mussel? But if you like to walk along, why, I'll tell you anything I can."

"Thanks, ever so much," the boy said; "but what puzzles me in this Bulletin is the mussel's marsupium, or pouch. Has a fresh-water mussel really got a pouch like a kangaroo?"

The Deputy Commissioner pushed his hat back over his forehead.

"Colin," he said, "you have a knack of putting questions in the most awkward fashion. I suppose, in a way, the answer is 'not quite,' because in the kangaroo, the baby is almost completely formed when it is placed in the pouch, while in the mussel, only the egg goes there. The word 'marsupium' was what threw you off. What really happens is that the egg passes into this pouch or pocket in the gills, and is there fertilized as the current of water flows in and out over the gills."

"And it stays there until it has a shell of its own, doesn't it?" asked the boy.

"It does," was the reply.

"Well," said the eager questioner, "if it has a shell and is able to look out for itself, why doesn't it? Yet the book says that it always attacks a fish and lives as a parasite for a while."

"It doesn't attack a fish, Colin," the other answered; "it only fastens on to one. Besides which, although the mussel has a shell, it isn't able to look out for itself. There is a change of form while it is fastened to the fish."

"But doesn't it hurt the fish?"

"Not permanently. It causes a local sore or a cyst, like the tiniest kind of a blister, in the middle of which the larva of the mussel is safely curled up and stays there until fully developed. Then the cyst breaks, the mussel drops out, and the tiny wound heals rapidly. Even a small fish, four inches in length, can carry five hundred of these little creatures on its fins and in its gills without serious injury."

"Suppose it can't find a fish?"

"That's the end of the mussel, then! There is one kind of mussel that develops without going through the parasite stage, but it is not as common as the others. Curiously enough, the only way to raise the mussel artificially is by means of parasitism on the fish. As you read there, it is a simple matter to get these tiny creatures from the 'pouch' of the mother mussel, put them in an aquarium with some fish, and keep the water stirred up. In a few minutes the larve will have fastened themselves on. It is wise to keep these fish in a hatchery for a month or so and then simply release them; when the mussels are ready they will drop off, and a new crop of mussels is on the way. By this means you can start them without much trouble in rivers and streams where there were none before, so that you see what chances there are for the development of the industry."

"Are all mussels equally good for making mother-of-pearl?"

"No," was the reply. "There are two chief commercial varieties, of different species, one larva having a hook on the shell, so that it can attach to fins or tail, the other being smaller and without hooks and making its way into the gills. But you'll go into all that when you get to Fairport, and even after you have worked at mussels all summer there will be a lot of problems you won't have touched. Don't forget now, the fifteenth."

"Never fear, Dr. Crafts," Colin answered; "I won't forget. I wish it were here now."

Time did not hang heavily on the boy's hands, for he was interested in all phases of fishing, and spent a couple of weeks on a trout stream in Northern Maine, not only catching the fish, but -- as he had been advised -- making notes of any peculiarities he saw in those he caught. Many stories had been told him of the finding of new species by young investigators, and he was amazed to see what wide differences existed in fish of the same species.

Colin examined so carefully every one he caught, that he began to think that if the fish were thrown back into the stream and hooked out again, he could recognize each one of them. His eagerness to be at work reached boiling point when a newspaper arrived at the camp with a brief item telling of the excitement caused by the finding of pearls near Fairport. Fortunately, it was only a day or two before the date set for his departure, and Colin was on the point of starting for Washington, when he received a letter ordering him to his post on the Mississippi immediately. He took the next train, and reported two days later at the hatchery.

"Are you coming for any special line of work?" the superintendent asked him. "I was informed from Washington that you were coming, but nothing was said as to the nature of your duties."

"Nothing more than that Dr. Crafts said I should probably be working on mussels, sir," the boy answered. "I was just told to report."

"The Deputy Commissioner states," the superintendent continued, looking over the letter, "that you expect to join the Bureau permanently, and that you have been doing some work at college on fishes."

"I haven't done very much, as yet, sir."

"I suppose not. But I want to find out what you know about mussels."

This put the boy on his mettle.

Colin told briefly, but quite clearly, what he remembered of the life-history of the fresh-water mussel as described in the Bulletin that had been given him, and added the information he had secured from the Deputy Commissioner. The superintendent of the station put a few leading questions to him, and nodded his head with satisfaction.

"So far as theory goes," he said, "I think you have a fairly good idea of it, although here and there you made some statements showing the need of a good deal of practical work with mussels. But, since you seem to have a general idea of the anatomy and physiology, I think I will put you in as Dr. Edelstein's assistant."

"What is he doing, sir?" queried Colin.

"He is working on pearl formations," was the answer. "You have heard, I suppose, that there has been some excitement over pearl finds?"

"Yes, I heard that away up in Maine," the boy replied.

"It's exaggerated a good deal," the superintendent said; "but as a matter of fact, there have been a few good finds. Dr. Edelstein is studying the differences between oyster and mussel pearls. Of course, when one of these 'rushes' comes, a very large number of inferior pearls are found, which are of no commercial value but which afford good material to work on. Just now," he added, "I think it is the most interesting part of the work. Come along, and I'll introduce you to Dr. Edelstein."

Colin's new chief was an entirely different type from any of the scientists whom he had met in the Bureau. In the first place, he was a gem expert by profession, and consequently, more of a mineralogist than biologist. Tall, powerfully built, black-bearded, and abrupt, he gave an impression of volcanic force, and at the same time of great keenness. A scientist of remarkable discernment, he possessed with all his broad views a marvelous capacity for detail, and Colin soon learned that the somewhat slipshod methods of a college laboratory would not be accepted by Dr. Edelstein.

"It iss of no use to think that a result iss right!" he said, when Colin betrayed a hint of impatience at performing the same experiment over and over again, scores of times. "It iss to know for certainly, that we work."

"I really believe, Dr. Edelstein," Colin said, "that you would like to see this fail once or twice."

"Of gourse! Then we find out why it iss a failure. That iss a good way to learn."

But in spite of the strictness of the discipline under which he was kept by his chief, Colin enjoyed the work. His duties were manifold. Some days he would spend entirely in the laboratory preparing microscope slides or observing mussel parasites through the microscopes, and making copious notes. His power as a colorist stood him in good stead again, and more than once he received a rare word of praise, feeling quite elated when, one day, late in the summer, Dr. Edelstein said to him:

"I have much gonfidence in your golor sense, Golin."

At the same station, one of the younger men was finishing a monograph on the spoonbill-cat, a sturgeon of the lower Mississippi, often six feet in length and a hundred pounds in weight, just coming into commercial importance as the source of caviare. The 'paddle-fish,' as the creature is often called by the negroes, because of its long paddle-shaped jaw, or 'nose,' formed an interesting study to Colin, for he knew enough about the make-up of fishes to realize that this was a very ancient form, midway between the sharks and the true bony fishes. The paddle-fish is closely allied to the sturgeon, and its roe has recently been found to be almost as good for caviare as the Russian variety. Thus, within ten years, a new fishing industry has developed on the Mississippi River.

In addition to his laboratory work and to his share in the investigations of his friend who was studying the paddle-fish, Colin frequently took short trips up or down the river for Dr. Edelstein, the latter being anxious to procure measurements and other data on every pearl found. It was on one of these trips that Colin had the opportunity of seeing the panicky side of a 'pearl fever,' of which he had heard so much. The report had come to the station that a pearl of fair size, valued at about five hundred dollars, had been found, four miles below the station, and Colin was told to go down and make a report on it as soon as he had finished his afternoon's work. Accordingly, after supper, he took a small power-boat and ran downstream, taking with him a very sensitive pair of scales to determine the exact weight of the pearl, calipers to ascertain its size, and other instruments especially designed by Dr. Edelstein. At the same time, he was ordered to secure the shell from which the pearl had been taken, should it be obtainable.

The pearl was measured carefully and found to be a fine one, not large and not unusual in any way, though a certain irregularity in the position of its formation on the shell gave it a scientific interest. The lucky finder was entirely willing to yield up the shell of the mussel from which the pearl had been taken, and was glad to be informed as to its weight and purity. It was pleasant to Colin to see -- as he so often did -- the success of the pearl-hunters. But while the boy was examining the stone, a loud knock at the door, was heard, and a neighbor came in, breathless and excited.

"I've got one," he cried. "I've got a big one!"

Every one present crowded round with cries of congratulation.

Slowly the newcomer opened his hand and revealed a large pearl almost twice the size of the gem Colin had been examining, and, therefore, if of equal purity, worth eight times as much. The finder handed it around, and in course of time it reached the boy, who scrutinized it carefully.

"Isn't it a beauty?" the newcomer cried. "And just on the very last day! I haven't a penny left in the world, and I sold my old farm to come up here. It's been getting harder and harder for me every day, and we had decided to give it all up. I hadn't a bit of hope left, and now --  -- !"

The cottager whose pearl Colin had come down to inspect, slapped the farmer on the back, and without a trace of enviousness -- for he himself had been lucky -- joined in his delight. The farmer's wife had followed him more sedately, and she came in to share the general enthusiasm.

But Colin sat silent.

Over and over again, with a childish persistence, the farmer told how he had sold his farm, how he had come up with every penny he owned, how, little by little, it had all oozed away, and how in disgust he had decided to sell his boat, which would give him just enough money to get back to Missouri.

"But now, Mary," he said, "we can go back and get a better farm than we ever had, and we'll have a house in the village so that the children can go to a good school, and you'll have lots o' friends, and pretty things about you. It's been hard, neighbors, I tell you," he said, looking round; "but the luck has turned at last."

Colin said not a word, but kept his eyes fixed on the table. His host, the mussel-gatherer, whose stone he had been examining, noticed this, but the newcomer was boisterous in his joy. He babbled of the wealth that was his, until if the stone had been a diamond of equal size, it would not have sufficed to have financed his dreams.

But the boy with the instruments on the table before him, said not a word of congratulation or delight. He had only seen the pearl for a moment, but he knew.

With hearty and jovial hospitality, the farmer invited every one in the room to come and stay with him as soon as he was settled down. He would show them, he said, what real life was like on a farm.

Suddenly he stopped.

"Mister!" he said, in an altered voice.

Colin, sitting alone, still beside his testing instruments, did not look up.

"Mister!" he said again.

In spite of himself the boy raised his eyes. Do what he might, he could not keep the sorrow out of them, and those of the finder of the pearl met his fairly.

The room was full of people but it grew still as death.

The woman clasped her husband's arm and gave a low moan. He touched her shoulder gently.

"Mister," he said again, with a humbleness that seemed strangely gentle after all his bluster and brag, "will you look at this and tell me what you think it's worth?"

"I'm not an expert," the boy said hastily. "I couldn't judge its value. You ought to take it to some one that knows all about these things."

"I can see what you think," the farmer said with a pitiful, sad smile; "you think it isn't worth much. Is it worth anything at all?"

Colin took the discolored pearl and looked at it closely. He put it on the scales and weighed it carefully, measured it, and scrutinized it as closely as he could in the lamplight, but he knew himself that these were devices to gain time. The pearl showed all too clearly a flaw that would make it valueless. Every one waited for his verdict. He was conscious that his voice was a little shaky, but he answered as steadily as he could:

"I'm afraid, sir --  -- "

"Well?"

"I don't believe, sir --  -- "

"That it's worth anything at all?" the farmer interrupted.

A solemn dignity, the accompaniment of great trouble, came to the man's aid and gave him strength. "Thank you," he said; "I understand."

He looked around with a troubled glance and saw the far smaller but more valuable pearl that his neighbor had found, which was still lying on the table beside the instruments. A strong shiver shook him, but he made no other sign. He turned to Colin.

"I see that it's no good," he said, "but I shall keep it just the same. If you have finished with it --  -- "

Colin stood up and placed the pearl in his hand.

"Please take it to some one else right away," he said. "I couldn't sleep -- suppose I were wrong!"

The old farmer looked at him gravely.

"No man would do as you have done and say what you have said, unless it was so clear that he couldn't help but know," he replied. He turned to the neighbors. "I'm afraid," he said, "I have in part spoiled your pleasure, and," he added, with a twitch of the muscles of his face, "made a fool of myself, besides. Come, Mary, we'll go home."

The others pressed forward with words of sympathy, but the stricken man paid no heed and passed out of the door. Colin sat heavily back in his chair staring moodily at the instruments, his heart sore within him, but he knew he could have done nothing else. Yet the thought of the old farmer's sorrow was powerfully before him, and he had to keep a strong grip on himself to keep from showing an unmanly emotion.

Outside the little cottage could be heard a murmur of voices, as the old farmer tried to comfort his wife, while inside the house no one spoke lest he should seem careless of the grief and disappointment of those who were still within hearing. Suddenly a third voice was heard outside, speaking excitedly. Once again that tense clutch of suppressed emotion permeated the room and Colin, with his heart in his mouth, looked up. No one moved. Outside the voices ceased.

Then, through the open door, rushed a boy about twelve years old, muddy from head to foot, but with his two eyes shining like lights from his grimy face. The mussel-gatherer recognized instantly the farmer's son.

"What is it, John?" he asked.

"I was goin' over some shells father hadn' opened, after he'd found that other pearl, an' I got this! Father he says the other one's no good an' that this isn' likely to be any better! But I don' know! It looks all right!"

He glanced down at the object in his hand.

"Father said it was no good," he repeated, a little less certainly; "but I don' know."

He held out his hand and passed the pearl to the mussel-gatherer, who glanced at it hastily.

"Mr. Dare!" he said excitedly.

Colin looked up and caught his glance, then tried to take the stone. But his hand shook as though he were in a violent fever, and the mussel-gatherer placed it on the table beside his own, in front of the boy. Clear, flawless, and of fair size, it gleamed like a star of hope before them all. A moment's examination was enough. Leaping from his seat Colin seized the pearl and rushed out of the door.

"It's real, sir; it's real!" he cried. "And will do all you said!"

The old farmer never looked at him. He turned his face toward the stars and reverently removed his hat.



Chapter IX

A Tussle With The Monarch Of The Sea


In spite of his interest in the pearl work, Colin began to feel the strain of the steady and persistent grind required from him by Dr. Edelstein, who himself seemed absolutely untiring. At the beginning of July, moreover, the weather turned wet, and the rain poured down steadily, not heavily, but soaking the ground thoroughly. For a week or so no notice was taken of the rain, other than the discomfort it caused, but one day Colin overheard one of the head workers saying to the superintendent:

"It looks as though we might have trouble unless there's a let-up to the rain soon!"

"I'm afraid of it," was the reply, and the grave tone of the answer surprised Colin; "and I hear that it's raining in torrents in Montana."

"We're safe enough, I suppose," was the comment.

"Yes," the superintendent answered, "but hundreds of other people are not. Floods always catch some of them."

This was an idea that had not occurred to Colin. The word "flood" called up a host of graphic ideas, and a flood on the Mississippi, the largest river in the world flowing through a populated country, seemed a serious matter. He spoke of it to his friend of the paddlefish investigation.

"Yes," the other answered, "there have been many scores of lives lost and many millions of dollars swept away on the 'Father of Waters,' and I doubt if the time will ever come when the flood danger will be at an end. Remember that the Mississippi River Valley is the only water outlet for two-thirds of the entire United States."

"It's protected by levees, too, isn't it?" Colin queried. "At least, during the flood on the Mississippi, you always hear of the levees breaking or just going to break."

"They give way very seldom now," his chief replied, "and that means wonderful engineering, for there are sixteen hundred miles of levee, the river banks being built up clear from Illinois to the Gulf."

"Then where are the floods one hears of so often?"

"There are bad floods on the Ohio," was the reply, "and there is always danger when a flood tide comes down the Mississippi. You see, if part of a levee does give way, or as they say, if a 'crevasse' comes, thousands of square miles are inundated, hundreds of people made homeless, and the property loss is incalculable. All the land around the lower part of the Mississippi is just a flood plain which used to be covered with water every year. That land has been rescued from the river just as Holland has been rescued from the sea."

"Then there is danger every year?"

"There is always danger," was the reply, "and the levees are carefully patrolled. But during the high water of early summer there is more danger, and a week's rain means trouble. We're going to have a bad flood this year unless the rain stops soon."

"But the river isn't rising?"

"Not yet. Why should it? It isn't the water that flows directly into the Mississippi, but that which floods the tributaries that causes disaster. From the Rocky Mountains on the one side to the Alleghanies on the other, and from the Gulf of Mexico to Canada -- nearly every drop of rain that isn't evaporated or used by plants has to be carried to the sea by the Mississippi."

"It seems like a big job for one river bed," Colin agreed. "But how can it be made safer?"

"The way is easy," was the answer, "but costly. If big reservoirs are built on all the headwater streams so that -- no matter what the rainfall may be -- only a constant amount is allowed to flow out of these reservoirs, then floods will be avoided, there will be plenty of water for irrigation, and a steady depth of water in the channel will extend navigation that is now stopped during low-water periods. Besides which, it will make the Mississippi fish question a great deal easier."

"I don't quite see what it has to do with the fish!" the boy said.

"Supposing five thousand square miles of land are flooded. When the water goes down, at least half that amount of land is still flooded, though no longer connected with the river, but forming shallow lakes and pools. These are all full of fish. As the pools dry up, everything that is in them dies, and millions of food fish are lost."

"But how can we stop that?"

"The Bureau of Fisheries does a great deal to stop it," was the answer, "and if this rain holds -- though we are all praying that it won't -- you'll probably have a chance to see. The Bureau seines as many as it can of those bayous and pools and lakes to save the fish and return them to the river. If a couple of men can save several thousand fish a day, isn't that worth while? Think of a farmer who could get a thousand bushels of wheat in a day! And that's about the proportion of food value."

"Well," said Colin, as he was leaving the laboratory to take up another piece of work he had been told to do, "I don't want a flood to come, of course, but if there is one, I'd like to have a chance to see how the Bureau handles that sort of fish rescue work."

The reports the next morning were no more encouraging, -- the Weather Bureau reporting heavy rain in Montana and the Milk River in flood. Fortunately the weather was fine in the eastern States, but a flood on the Milk River usually means a Missouri River flood, and that takes in nearly two-fifths of the Mississippi basin. Around the Iowa station the rain still poured heavily. By the end of the week more hopeful reports came from the west. As the southwest had escaped entirely no serious trouble was expected, but in the region near the laboratory the rain was coming down in torrents and the Wapsipinicon and Cedar Rivers were overflowing their banks.

The neighboring stations at Bellevue, Iowa, and North MacGregor, Iowa, were reported to be preparing for collecting black bass, crappies, sun-fishes, yellow perch, pike, buffalo-fish, and catfish as soon as the water should recede and leave the fish stranded in lakes and pools. One Sunday, Colin took the power-boat up the river and had a chat with the men at Bellevue regarding the nature of the work. He found that the flood dangers were small above the junction of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, and when an opportunity arrived to do some fish collection in the overflows, the boy thanked the superintendent of the station, and said he would rather keep to the mussel work. This, a day or two later, came to the notice of Dr. Edelstein.

"I haf observed," his chief said, "that you haf been taking much more interest lately in your work. Why is it?"

"I have been trying to do a little investigating on my own account," Colin said confusedly, "and there's a lot of fun in working things out all by yourself."

"Haf you any objegtions to telling me what you haf been gonsidering?"

"Not at all, sir," Colin answered. "I'd be glad to show you, if you'd care to see. I've been trying to find out the cause of the difference in the secretions of the mussels that have very bright pearly shells and those that are dull. But I haven't got very far along yet."

"Fery good subject," was the reply; "let me see your notebooks."

Colin brought him a number of small notebooks filled with records of experiments that he had been doing in the evenings, and over some of them the gem expert smiled.

"You haf done a great deal of unnecessary work," he said, "work that I gould haf told you had no bearing on the results, but it isn't time wasted at all, for you will haf learned more that way than if I had told you. And you haf two series of eggsperiments that are very useful. If you only had time to make the series gomplete, the information would be of value to the Bureau."

"Would you include them in your report, sir, if I completed the series?"

His chief leaned back in his chair.

"Seriously," he said, "I think your eggsperiments on the garacter of the secretions are very interesting. You don't know as much organic gemistry as you should, but if you will take a few suggestions from me, I think your work would be worth publigation."

"You mean in your article?" asked Colin.

"No," was the answer, "in your own."

"My article! You mean that I should write it up?"

"Why not?"

"But I don't know enough!"

"If we all waited until we thought we knew enough about a subject," the scientist answered, "there never yet would haf been a line written. Don't gif any opinions, Golin, for they will not be worth much, nor any gonglusions, because you hafn't reached any. But make a simple statement of what was the problem you had, how you went about it, and the results of your eggsperiments so far. Remember, too," he added, "that a negative result is often of just as much value as a positive, for it solves the problem to the eggstent of eliminating that partigular fagtor."

"And you really think I should write it up, Dr. Edelstein?"

"Of gourse."

"But would the Bureau take it?"

"That is for the Gommissioner to say, and he would decide on its merits. If it is not too long -- just two or three pages, perhaps, I feel sure he would aggsept it. If you like I will go over the manuscript and advise you about it."

"Would you really do that for me?" asked Colin.

"Very gladly," was the reply; "but you will need a series almost twice as large as you haf now in order to make it of any value."

"Indeed I'll complete the series, Dr. Edelstein," Colin said. "I'll work at it every minute of spare time I can get."

From that moment time seemed to Colin all too short -- the days appeared to fly. He was up long before breakfast getting out specimens both for himself and his chief and till late in the evening he would sit over his microscope working out the details of his experiments. The expert, who had realized earlier in the summer that Colin was restless, now saw that the reason was that none of the work he had been given to do possessed an individual note, and perceiving -- as did every one -- the enthusiastic nature of the lad, he helped him in every way possible. Thus it came about that before the day set for the reopening of college, Colin had finished the series of experiments which had been thought necessary, and had sent the manuscript of his article to Washington. And in the very first batch of letters that he received on his arrival at college was one from the Commissioner accepting his report and promising publication in the Bulletin.

Colin ever afterward declared that this was a great stimulus during his college work. He had done well the first year, but his late training under Dr. Edelstein and the spur of research had taught him how to concentrate upon his studies. He did not neglect the out-of-doors life, however, and he still had the swimming championship to defend, but every minute that he was not actively at play he was hard at work. Idle minutes were scarce. Nor did he fail of his reward. Just before the spring examination he received a letter from the Bureau of Fisheries telling him that his application for the next summer had been accepted and assigning him to duty at Woods Hole, the station where he had long desired to be.

Immediately after the close of the college year, and a few weeks spent at home, Colin betook himself to Washington, where he received the necessary credentials. As still a week intervened before the time of the opening of the laboratory, he spent several days in New York, visiting the American Museum daily and assisting his friend, Mr. Collier, with whom he had gone to Bermuda. The sea-garden exhibits were all completed and were among the museum's most popular cases, and the curator was engaged in preparing some exquisite models of the Radiolaria, those magical creatures of the sea, which are so small that they can be seen only with a powerful microscope, but which look like living snow-crystals, although a thousand times more beautiful. Some were already installed in the museum, but a large series was planned.

On his arrival at Woods Hole, Colin found work in the hatchery division of the station almost at an end. Hundreds of millions of cod, pollock, haddock, and flatfish fry had been hatched from eggs and planted in favorable places for their further development, and tens of millions of lobster fry as well. A few of the hatching troughs were in use, but most of them had been emptied and prepared for the work of the biological department of the Bureau, to which the station was given over during the summer months.

Colin found that he was not unknown to the director, who, being especially interested in mollusks, had read the lad's paper on the mussel-shells. Accordingly he was quite heartily welcomed and set right at work.

"You will take charge of the fish-trap crew, Dare," he was informed, the director's quick, snappy eye taking in the lad. "I suppose you know enough about fish to tell the various species apart?"

"I'm not sure, sir," said the boy, "but I think I know most of the common kinds. That is, theoretically, Mr. Prelatt, through studying them. I have never done any fishing of consequence off the New England coast."

"You can haul the trap at slack water this afternoon," the director said. "I will ask Mr. Wadreds to go with you. He knows every kind of fish that swims and more about each one than three or four of the rest of us put together."

"What will be my duties, sir?" asked Colin. "I don't want to trouble you, but if I am to take charge of the crew I ought to know what I have to do."

"The trap is to be hauled daily," was the reply, "except when the water is very rough. You will be given a list of the needs of the laboratory for experimental purposes, and as far as possible, you will fill those needs. Sometimes you may have to assist in the collecting trip besides, as for green sea-urchins and the like; or perhaps you may have to draw a seine for silversides and small fish. Sometimes you may be needed to haul some of the lobster pots, because we shall have two men at least doing research work on lobsters. Again, you may have to get mussels for some work that is being done on shellfish for food. There will be two other students working with you in maintaining the supply of specimen material, under the direction of the head collector."

"Very well, Mr. Prelatt," the boy replied, "I'll see that things are kept up as far as possible. Am I to come to you for information as to where to go for special fish and so forth?"

"Mr. Wadreds knows more about that than I do," the director said; "he can usually tell you just where to find anything you're after. You'll soon find it easy, because collecting narrows down to a few species. The M. B. L. boat does collecting, too, and sometimes each party is able to help the other."

"What is the M. B. L., sir?" asked Colin.

"The Marine Biological Laboratory," was the reply, "which owns all the land on the other side of the street, just as we do on this. It is a summer college supported by a number of leading universities, to which graduate students come for courses in biology and marine life. There is some research work done also, and at the present moment Professor Jacques Loeb is doing some wonderful work over there on fish hybridization. We are entirely distinct organizations, one being a summer school and the other being a government marine hatchery with a biological laboratory attached. They have their own boats and we have ours, but we grant them the privilege of using our wharves, and there is a great deal of friendly cooperation between the two."

"You spoke of sea-mussels, sir," suggested Colin.

"Well?"

"I was wondering, Mr. Prelatt, whether I would have any time aside from the fish-traps and the collecting, and if so, if I might work with the man who is going to take that up."

The director shook his head.

"No," he answered, "there are two men working on that subject together. Besides which, you will have but very little time, at least for a couple of weeks. Then, if you feel that you would like some research work, I'll tell you what I want done."

Colin soon found that the demands upon him by the chief of the collecting staff not only were very heavy, but that they required considerable ingenuity. Frequently he would be asked for starfish and it would be necessary to go to a well-known shoal at some little distance, perhaps in the Phalarope or other of the government boats. There they would dredge with 'tangles,' a tangle being an iron frame with yards and yards of cotton waste dragging behind in which the spines of sea-urchins and the rough convolutions of starfish easily become entangled. Occasionally more distant trips, such as those to the Gulf Stream, would be made on the Fish Hawk, the largest of the Bureau's boats, named like all the others, after sea birds.

The hauling of the fish-trap, usually done in boats from the Blue Wing, never palled in interest. Every day the visit to the trap had the expectant thrill the miner finds when prospecting in a new stream. There was always the excitement of possibly finding new species, true gold to the scientist.

"I've found at least three new species," said Mr. Wadreds to him one day, "right out of the same trap you're haulin'. And sometimes, when there has been a long-continued storm and the wind's settin' in from the southeast, the traps have jest had numbers o' tropical fish."

"Why should the wind bring the fish?" asked Colin.

"They come up with the weed, lad," was the old collector's reply. "When a storm rises the big masses o' gulf weed are broken up an' drift on the surface before the wind. A great many semi-tropical fish live on the weed an' the little creatures that make their homes in it, an' so they come followin' it away up here. Then we find them in the traps and by seinin'. We've caught butterfly fish an' parrot fish in the seines up here several times."

"We get menhaden in the trap principally now," the boy said; "why aren't they used for food? They look all right. Are they poisonous, or something?"

"Oily," was the reply; "an Eskimo might like 'em, but no one else. But the menhaden fishery is valuable just the same, for there's more oil and better oil got every year from menhaden than there is whale oil. Nearly all fish manure is menhaden, too. But they're not a food fish."

"Nor are dogfish," said Colin, "but I see that the M. B. L. mess table has them once in a while. We get lots of mackerel and other varieties that are good eating. I wonder why they eat dogfish?"

"Partly to try it out," the collector said. "A dogfish is a shark, as you know, and mos' people don't like the idea of eatin' any kind o' shark. But it is a waste to have a good article o' food entirely neglected by the public an' so the Bureau and the M. B. L. have tried usin' dogfish on the table as an experiment to get an idea of its value as food."

"It tastes all right, too," said the boy. "I had some yesterday."

"O' course it does, but the name is against it. Both dogfish and catfish are good eatin', but there is a prejudice against 'em, because people don't eat cats an' dogs. But they have been canned an' sold under various names, such as 'ocean whitefish,' 'Japanese halibut,' an' 'sea bass.'"

"They have a vicious look, though!"

"They are vicious," was the reply, "but you mustn't believe all you hear. Why, at the last International Fishery Congress a speaker told of a plague o' dogfish which not only attacked lobsters, but swallowed pots an' all."

Colin looked incredulously at his friend.

"That's the story," the other said; "you don't have to believe it. I don't."

"But after all, a dogfish is a shark, and aren't sharks the most vicious creatures o' the sea?"

"I shouldn't say so," the old collector answered. "I reckon the moray is really more vicious. He's always huntin' trouble. A shark is always hungry, that's all. Fishes have different kinds o' tempers, you know, an' often it's the smallest creature that's the meanest."

"Common fishes?"

"There isn't anythin' that swims that's meaner than a 'mad-Tom,' an' they're frequent in all the rivers o' the middle west an' south. A 'mad-Tom,'" he continued in answer to the boy's questioning look, "is a small catfish with spines. Most boys in riverside villages have their hands all cut up by 'mad-Toms.' O' course there are scorpion-fish an' toad-fishes in tropical waters, an' their poison will cripple a man for a while, but there's no fish that's fatal."

"I thought there were lots of poisonous things in the water," Colin said, "jellyfish and other things like that."

"Well," replied the collector, "a jellyfish can be tolerable poisonous. The Portuguese man-o'-war, pretty enough to look at when it floats on the water, with long streamers o' purple threads flowin' out behind, is the only thing that I ever heard of that killed a man."

"A jellyfish? How?"

"It was all his own fault," was the reply. "It was down in the Bahamas, off Nassau, as I remember. The sea was just alive with jellyfish, an' this young fellow that I'm tellin' about, he swam around a good deal an' once or twice had run into a jellyfish without gettin' stung. There's only some o' them that sting."

"I thought all of them did a little?"

"No, only a few. Well, this chap knew enough, I reckon, to keep away from a Portuguese man-o'-war usually, but either he had got reckless or didn't think of it. Some of his friends shouted out to him to take care, but he laughed back, tellin' them they were foolish to believe old stories, and to show that he didn't care, in a spirit o' 'dare' he dived plumb under the jellyfish. But he misjudged his distance an' came up clean in the middle of it an' the stingin' hairs just closed all over on him."

"There are hundreds of them, too, aren't there?"

"Thousands of stingin' filaments in some o' them. He gave one wild scream an' went down. When he came up and his friends were able to grasp him he was paralyzed as though he had suffered an electric shock, an' before they could get him to shore his body had broken out in a violent rash. The doctors couldn't do anythin' for him an' he died three days later."

"Have you ever been stung?"

"I know enough to keep away from a jellyfish," was the blunt rejoinder; "but I had a nasty time with a torpedo once."

"The electric ray?" queried Colin. "That fish that looks like a small sea vampire only it hasn't a whip-like tail?"

"That's it," said the older man. "It was when I was just a youngster, I was haulin' in a net, when my feet slipped from under an' I went headlong into the middle o' the net, and a torpedo landed on the back o' my neck. I reckon he must have shocked the spinal cord or something because I was fair paralyzed for an hour or two. You're sure to get one yourself," he continued, "because they use torpedoes for research work a good deal, but a shock in the hand or on the arm passes away in a few minutes, so that you don't need to worry about that. The electric eels -- which are not eels at all, though they look like it -- are the worst of all, but since they live only in South American rivers, I suppose they won't bother you much."

"As long as I don't find any in the fish-trap," said Colin, laughing, as Mr. Wadreds nodded and went on his way, "I won't mind, and I'd just as soon not have to handle any dogfish that swallow lobster-pots as a habit, but if I do I'll come to you for help."

All in all, Colin thought Woods Hole the most interesting place in which he had ever been. Unlike other summer resorts, a spirit of earnest vigor pervaded the little settlement. The houses nestled in the wooded low hills behind the town, and though so near the sea, flowers could be made to grow luxuriantly, as a famous and beautiful rose garden bore witness. To the southeast, over a spit of land that was little wider than a causeway, the road ran to the Marine Biological Laboratory and the Bureau of Fisheries station, holding their commanding positions overlooking the harbor. The great government pier smacked of the stormy sea, for it was used also by the Lighthouse Service and huge red buoys lay in dozens on it awaiting their hour to warn the tempest-driven mariner of the perils that lay below them.

Nearer in, where the pier was severed from the shore, the opening being crossed by a short swing bridge, was a small inclosed inner harbor where lay the launches and boats of the two laboratories. Upon the shore itself was a stone-walled tank, set between the Residence building and the Laboratory proper, and therein large fish which had been caught in traps or elsewhere, and which were too big for the indoor tanks, flitted as dark shadows within the pool. Smaller fish were in the Aquarium in the first floor of the laboratory opposite the wide space where stood the serried rows of hatching troughs.

Here were many most interesting fish -- among them that constant delight of the landsman, the puffer, which, when disturbed, rapidly inflates itself, rising to the surface of the water until it becomes apparently so large a mouthful that its would-be devourer is fooled into believing the morsel too big to swallow. Then, the danger removed, the puffer releases the gulped-down water and swims away. Here also were strange fish, like the eighteen-spined sculpin and the sea-robin, walking over the bottom on three free rays of each of the pectoral fins. Upon the top story of the same building were preserved in a rough museum various other strange forms, not all from Woods Hole waters; the remora, or sucking fish, that fastens on sharks and becomes a constant passenger enjoying a free ride, specimens of which were often in the Aquarium; the deal-fish, which alone among its tribe has a long slim fin projecting upwards from the tail almost at right angles to it; the blenny, whose facial expression has caused it to be known as the sarcastic blenny; the graceful sea-horse, who swings on seaweed with a prehensile tail like that of a monkey -- and the male of which hatches the eggs instead of the mother, and not the least extraordinary, the three-cornered trunk-fish whose front view is the most unfishlike apparition possible. These and hundreds of others Colin learned to know from the collections.

It was with great delight that Colin heard of the presence of his friend Mr. Collier, who was working on the plans for a model of Bryozoa, and who had with him his staff of glass-workers and modelers. The boy found it hard to tear himself away from this laboratory and struck up quite a friendship with a Japanese colorist on the staff. Also, he was fortunate in meeting and knowing Mr. Cavalier, the artist of animal life, and from him the boy learned a great deal of the picturesque and esthetic elements of the life which he painted and modeled with such surpassing skill. Scores of other workers, writers, and scientists of all kinds had rooms in the wonderfully interesting workshops of Woods Hole.

Beyond the laboratory building was the wharf to which the two steam yachts attached respectively to the station and the M. B. L. were tied up. Beyond that again was a second pier, that of the Revenue Cutter service, where lay, with banked fires, one of the guardians of American seas, a man ever on duty at the wireless receiver. Beyond the pier the land curved to the point opposite the Elizabeth Islands, while in the narrow strait or 'hole' between, the tide for all Buzzards Bay surged out or in as the ebb and flow compelled.

As captain of the fish-trap crew and active in collection, Colin had the run of both laboratories and the day always seemed too short for him. Every investigator's work was a matter of personal interest to him and he talked 'research' all the day long, though too tired to dream of it at night. Nor did he forget his swimming, and at the beach in Buzzards Bay he swam a mile or so each day, the admiration and the envy of all the M. B. L. students. But Colin speedily won their friendship, for he never hesitated to help other swimmers in every way he could, even teaching little tricks of style that were all his own and which had gone far to win him his championship.

As Director Prelatt had promised, Colin was given an opportunity to keep some research work in hand, although he found -- as had been foretold -- that he had but little time for it. The director was engaged upon a most interesting and important investigation, which, like all those that were in progress at the laboratory, had a strong economic value. This was the study of the life history of the whelk.

"At first sight," the director said to him, when explaining the problem, "it does not seem as though the biology of a sea-snail were a matter of much importance to the country, but as a matter of fact, to a great extent the oyster industry -- which reaches millions of dollars annually and gives employment as well as food to thousands of people -- depends upon that very thing."

"Just how, Mr. Prelatt?" inquired Colin.

"All creatures have their own special enemies," the director answered; "and everything is so equally balanced that there are enough oysters born to keep up the supply in spite of the attacks of the whelk, or oyster-drill as it is termed. When man comes on the scene, however, and commences to dredge the oysters, the combination of the market and the drill together is too much for the oyster-beds and they soon become depleted."

"That's the way it is with fish, too!"

"With everything," was the assenting answer. "Now there are two ways to overcome this condition. One is the way in which we handle the same question with fish -- by artificially hatching millions more eggs every year than would have been hatched during a state of nature. The other is by attacking the enemy of the oyster and thus enlarging the chances of those that hatch naturally. The latter we can't do with fish."

"Why not, sir?"

"Because the enemies of fish are numerous and free-swimming," was the answer, "and also because fish produce an enormous amount of eggs. Oysters do also, but fertilization is so largely a matter of chance that but a few of the tens of thousands of eggs ever really have a chance to become young oysters. You can help that in two ways, one by preparing the ground so that everything is made easy for the young oysters to have a chance, the other by thinning them out or transplanting the young oysters or 'spat' as they are called, improving and enlarging the beds."

"That ought to help settle it, I should think."

"It is not enough. Enemies also must be kept at bay."

"I should think the oyster, in its tough shell, would be practically free from enemies," remarked Colin.

"On the contrary, it has a large number. A great many kinds of fish, such as skates, for example, will eat oysters, and many owners of oyster-beds have surrounded their holdings with an actual stockade of stakes."

"Like the pioneers had against the Indians?"

"Just the same," assented the director. "Drum-fish are hostile on the Atlantic coast, and on the Pacific a very substantial stockade is required against the invasion of sting-rays. More destructive still are the starfish."

Colin stared at the director in surprise.

"Starfish!" he said, "those little starfish? Why, they're soft and they haven't any teeth or anything to crush an oyster shell with."

"They're small and they're soft and they haven't any teeth at all," said the director, "but starfish cost the oyster industry at least five million dollars a year."

"But how?" queried Colin; "I don't see how they can work it."

"What is a starfish?"

The boy thought for a moment.

"It's an echinoderm," he said, "generally with five arms, that lives only in the sea, has a simple stomach, and feeds on the minute organisms in the water."

"There you're wrong," said the director. "It lives only in the sea, that's right enough, but you haven't proper regard for a starfish's powers of digestion. It feeds on mussels, oysters and other shellfish. Can it swim?"

"I don't think so, sir," said Colin, after a moment's thought, "it crawls."

"How?"

"I don't know, Mr. Prelatt."

"By thousands of sucker-like feet on the under side of it," he was told. "So you see it can crawl to and over an oyster-bed."

"But even so, wouldn't an oyster shut tight at the approach of danger?" suggested Colin.

"That doesn't make any difference to the starfish," was the reply, "he'll open the oyster."

"How, sir?"

"What keeps an oyster closed?"

"The muscle, sir, because when it is dead it flies open."

"Very good. Do muscles grow tired?"

"Mine do," said Colin, smiling, "and I suppose the muscles of oysters are the same way."

"Exactly. Now what happens is this. The starfish crawls along until he finds an oyster which he thinks will suit his taste. As he crawls near or on it, the oyster closes up tight. The starfish -- taking plenty of time -- fastens himself to the shell, having two of his 'arms' on one shell and the suckers of the other three 'arms' attached to the other shell. Then the starfish starts to pull."

"But isn't the oyster stronger?"

"Much stronger," agreed the director, "but the starfish doesn't know enough to quit. The pull he exerts is not so powerful but it is relentless and unceasing and no oyster muscle can resist it for more than a few hours. Presently the shell gapes open. The starfish lumbers over and commences to feed, other starfish often coming to enjoy the feast."

"And are there starfish enough to injure the beds?"

"Myriads of them. A starfish is not easy to kill, moreover, because if any of the arms are cut off he will grow a new one."

"How do the oystermen fight them?"

"By catching them in tangles. The snarled cotton waste does no harm to the oyster, but, as it is pulled over the bed, picks up hundreds of starfish and sea-urchins. Up-to-date vessels engaged in that work have a vat of boiling water on deck, into which the tangle is plunged when it is pulled up from the bottom. This kills the starfish and is a great gain over the old system of picking them out of the tangle by hand.

"But the worst of all the oyster's enemies," the director continued, "and the one on which I am working, is the oyster-drill. At least eighty per cent of the possible oyster crop is destroyed by this sea-snail. This creature, usually about half an inch long, crawls on an oyster -- usually a young one -- and with a rasp-like tongue files a hole in the shell, through which it sucks the juices out of the oyster. The only thing that keeps the oyster-drill in check at all is that as soon as it is big enough for a younger drill to climb on its shell, it is apt to suffer the same fate. It is a case of reversed cannibalism, the stronger falling to the weaker."

"What can be done to stop it?"

"Nothing so far," said the director; "that is my chosen problem. Because the drill prefers the thin-shelled mussel to the thicker-shelled oyster it has been suggested that mussels should be planted outside oyster-beds, so that the drills would stay there. But the cure would be worse than the disease, for the mussels would spread over the oyster-bed and the drills with them, since they would have so excellent a breeding ground. No, the problem is still unsolved, and the people of the United States are looking to the Bureau of Fisheries to solve it. The Bureau has given it to me. That's the fascination of this work, that on your own toil and your own skill and ingenuity a factor of world-wide importance may depend."

"Perhaps --  -- "

"What is it, Colin?"

"It just occurred to me, sir," the boy answered, "that perhaps some parasite which would prey on the drill might be found."

"It might -- but I have as yet found none."

"Or perhaps," Colin again suggested, "some chemical which would unite with lime might be put into the water so that the oyster shell might be poisonous to the drill, but not for food, because we eat the oyster and not the shell."

The director laughed.

"That suggestion is new, at least," he said, "but I don't think it would work because this is a marine question and the water changes continuously. There must be some solution, there's always a way of doing everything, and some one will find it out. I'm going to stick at it till I do, that is, when I'm not engaged on other Bureau work. But I'm always glad of suggestions, and when you can help me in any way I'll let you know."

"Thank you ever so much, Mr. Prelatt," Colin answered; "I'll be glad to do anything I can."

The boy had a fertile brain, and, before a week had passed by, a line of experiment suggested itself to him in connection with the oyster-drill problem and he explained it to the director.

"To work that out properly would take several years!" the latter said tentatively.

"I thought it would," said Colin, "but perhaps some one else could carry it on, and the work ought to be done, anyway."

"You have the right idea," the director replied; "it's the problem, not the man who solves it. Now," he continued, "I have a surprise for you. Dr. Jimson, who has been working on swordfish for some time, is anxious to try and capture a large specimen and is going out with a swordfish sloop next week. I can probably arrange for the trap to be looked after, if you are off for a day or two. Do you want to go?"

"Indeed I do," said Colin. "Mr. Wadreds was telling me some stories just the other day about swordfish-catching."

"I suppose he told you the famous story of the swordfish which charged a vessel and drove its sword through 'copper sheathing, an inch board under-sheathing, a three-inch plank of hard wood, the solid white oak timber twelve inches thick, then through another two and a half-inch hard-oak ceiling, and lastly penetrated the head of an oil cask, where it stuck, not a drop of the oil having escaped?'"

"Yes, Mr. Prelatt," Colin answered, "and if he hadn't told me that the record was authentic and that the sword and section of timber had been in the National Museum, I might have doubted it."

"They're enormously powerful, one of the best boatmen I ever knew was killed by a swordfish," said the director.

"How was that, sir?"

"He had harpooned the swordfish and had gone out in the small boat to lance it, when the huge fish dived under the craft and shot up from the bottom like a rocket, his sword going through the timbers as though they were paper and striking the boatman with such force that he was killed almost instantly. Boats used often to be sunk by the rushes of a swordfish, but nowadays the greater part of the work is done directly from the deck of a schooner. No amount of changes, however, can take all the excitement out of a swordfish capture."

"Will they attack a boat unprovoked?"

"There are lots of cases in which they are supposed to have done so," the director replied, "but I think any such instances were probably swordfish who had been wounded -- but not fatally. You knew that the swordfish was the Monarch of all the Fish?"

"No," Colin answered, "I didn't."

"He was so elected at one of the meetings of the International Congress of Fisheries," said the director, smiling. "We were waiting for the chairman or the speaker or somebody and in casual conversation the query arose as to who was the real master of the seas, in the same way that the lion is regarded as the King of Beasts."

"And the swordfish got the award?"

"After quite a little debate. Plenty of people had their own favorites, the white shark and the killer whale among others, but when it came to a sort of informal vote, the swordfish was chosen almost unanimously."

"I shall be glad to pay my respects to His Majesty," answered Colin with a laugh, as the director wheeled his chair to his desk, "and I'm ever so much obliged for the opportunity."

The next morning, after having hauled the trap, Colin jumped aboard the Phalarope, which was going to New Bedford for supplies for the station, and which was to take him there to join Dr. Jimson on a swordfish schooner. A large portion of the surface of Buzzards Bay was dotted with billets of wood, about six inches thick and painted in all manner of colors. Some were red, some white, some black, some yellow and blue, some striped in all manner of gaudy hues.

"I've been wondering," said Colin, as he stood in the pilot house chatting to the captain of the little steamer, "what all those sticks in the water are?"

The captain took his pipe out of his mouth to stare at him in surprise, as he turned the wheel a spoke or two.

"Don't you know that?" he said. "Those are lobster-pot buoys."

"You mean there's a lobster-pot attached to every one of those?"

"Yes, of course."

"But there are thousands of them! Why, right now, I can probably see forty or fifty, and they're not so awfully easy to catch sight of with a little sea running. And why are they painted all different colors?"

"Different owners," was the reply, "every man has his own color. Every day, or every other day at least, he sails out to the grounds -- some of 'em now have motor-boats -- and makes a round of his pots. A chap whose buoy is yellow has perhaps a hundred or two yellow buoys scattered about the harbor."

"That sounds like work," said Colin.

"It's hard work," was the reply. "A lobster-pot is weighted with bricks and it's a heavy load to pull up in a boat. It's an awkward thing to handle, too. Then a lobsterman has to rebait his traps, and as he does that with rotten fish, it's not a sweet job. And he can only bring in lobsters over a certain size; anything less than nine and a half inches in length he has to throw back. Sometimes it'll happen that the traps are full of lobsters that are too short or too small, 'shorts' they call 'em, and his day's work won't bring him in much. There's a living in it, but that's about all."

Finding that the captain of the Phalarope knew the lobster business well, as do most men who are natives of the region, Colin kept him busy answering questions until they ran into New Bedford. As the old center of the whaling industry, the harbor had a great interest for Colin, but there was but one of the whaling ships in at the time, and the ancient fisher-town atmosphere was greatly marred by extensive cotton mills that had been built along the river, just below where the whaling piers used to be. The swordfish schooners were at the pier, however, large as life, and Colin felt quite a thrill of excitement as he stepped aboard the little vessel on which he was to live for the next couple of days, and saw the narrow dark bunks in the entirely airless cabin in which four men were to sleep. Dr. Jimson and Colin practically were going as members of the crew, the two men, whose places they were taking, staying home from the trip.

Long before sunrise the following morning they were up, and by daybreak the schooner was standing out of the harbor for Block Island, one of the famous haunts of the swordfish. Colin, who had good eyesight, and who was always eager to be up and doing, volunteered to go to the crow's-nest and keep a lookout for the dorsal fin of a swordfish, which, he was told, could be seen a couple of miles away. There was no advantage in going aloft, however, until toward noon, when, the water being still, the swordfish come up to sun themselves.

Once Colin was quite sure that he saw a swordfish, but just as he was about to shout, there flashed across his mind a sentence that he had read somewhere of the likelihood of confusing a shark's fin with that of a swordfish, and soon he was able to make out that it was a shark. As it grew toward noon and the sun's rays beat directly on him, Colin began to realize that sitting on a scantling two inches by four at the top of a schooner's mast in a bobbing sea, under a broiling sun, was a long way from being a soft snap, but he would have scorned to make a complaint. He was more than glad, though, when the cook hailed all hands to dinner, and one of the sailors went to the crow's-nest.

At dinner Colin turned the conversation to swordfish and their ways.

"There's one thing I don't quite understand, Dr. Jimson," he asked, "is a spear-fish the same as a swordfish, only that the weapon is shorter?"

"Not at all," was the reply, "the spear-fish is a variety of the great sailfish, which you see in West Indian waters six or seven feet long, with a huge dorsal fin, blue with black spots, looming above the water like the sail of a strange craft. But the real difference is in the spear or sword. In the case of the spear-fish it is bony, being a prolongation of the skull; in the case of the swordfish it is horny, and horns, as you probably know, are formations of skin rather than bone. Now the narwhal's tusk," he continued, "is again an entirely different thing."

"That's a tooth, isn't it?"

"Yes," was the reply, "it seems to be the mark of the male narwhal. Sometimes a narwhal has two tusks, but generally only one -- on the left side. The females have none at all. You know the unicorn is always represented with a narwhal's tusk? One of the early travelers, Sir John de Mandeville or Marco Polo, I forget which, brought back a narwhal's tusk which, he had been told, had been taken from a kind of horse. I really suppose that the native who sold it believed it was from some species of antelope. But to this day the arms of Great Britain show a horse having a fish's tooth sticking out from his forehead like an impossible horn."

"Way-o!" suddenly came the cry from the masthead.

"Where away?" called the captain, jumping up and looking around.

"Three points on the starboard bow, sir," answered the sailor, pointing his finger.

"That's right enough. You're in luck, Dr. Jimson," he added, turning to his passengers, "you won't have had long to wait if we catch this one for you."

The captain walked aft, saw that everything was clear on deck, then stepped forward and walked out on the bowsprit to the 'pulpit,' the characteristic feature of a swordfish schooner. This was a small circular platform about three feet across, built at the end of the bowsprit, with a rail waist high around it and a small swinging seat. Triced up to the jib stay was the long harpoon with its head, known as the 'lily-iron.'

The schooner, having the wind abeam, danced smartly over the waves toward the long lithe fin, gliding swiftly through the water. The captain, standing like a statue, waited until the craft was within ten feet of the unconscious swordfish, then thrust downward with all his might. It was a thrust -- not a throw -- and the muscular strength behind the blow caused the steel to pierce the thick skin of the swordfish. At the same instant the keg around which the line had been wound was thrown overboard, and the water flew up like a fine jet from the rapid revolutions of the barrel as the swordfish sped away with the line.

"How in the world are you going to haul him in now?" asked Colin, when he saw the keg thrown overboard.

"Did you think we pulled him in, same as you would a cod?" asked the captain.

"Why not?"

"Too much chance of sinking the schooner!" was the reply. "That isn't the way to get a swordfish."

As soon as the line on the barrel became unwound, it tightened with a jerk and the barrel disappeared under the surface. But the resistance that the barrel full of air at the end of the long line gave was great and even the powerful swordfish could not tow it for long. In a few minutes he slackened his speed and the barrel bobbed to the surface. But the swordfish was still traveling like a railroad train, in short rushes, however, here and there.

"See him charge it!" cried Colin.

There was a swirl of water and with a speed which seemed incredible the huge body launched itself at the barrel. But there was no resistance, the keg revolved as the sword struck it, and the swordfish shot into the air. Again and again he charged, and Colin realized what danger lay behind that ton and a half of muscle backed by a power that could drive such a weight at sixty miles an hour through the water.

Again the Monarch of the Sea shot away, towing the barrel, but it was a disheartening drag, even upon the magnificent strength of the great swordfish. Little by little the rushes became shorter, the spurts less frequent, as exhaustion and loss of blood began to tell. The captain ordered out the boat and, at his earnest appeal, Colin was allowed to go.

"You're light," the captain of the schooner said, as he picked up a lance not unlike a whale lance, "and we don't want much weight in the boat because it might pull the barb out of the fish if he starts to run."

"This reminds me," said the boy, "of the time I was spearing whales in the Behring Sea," and he recounted the adventure briefly as they pulled toward the swordfish. The Monarch of the Sea, who had never had a chance to show his powers, being handicapped by the barrel dragging back his every movement, caught sight of the boat. He did not wait to be attacked, but rushed with renewed fury at this new foe. The captain, apparently unmoved, waited until the fish rose at the boat and then he thrust in the lance with all his strength. The force acting against both fish and boat drove the latter sideways a foot or more, so that the giant rose in the air not two feet from the gunwale of the boat, the spray stinging like fine rain as the wind of his leap whistled by.

"He'll charge again in a minute," the captain said quietly, "look out always for the second rush."

The words were scarcely out of his lips when the fin appeared. Once again, as before, that great mass of dynamic energy hurled itself at the boat, but twenty yards away there came a sudden check and the swordfish dived. A second passed -- so long that it seemed like a minute, while Colin waited shiveringly to hear the crashing of the timbers and to see that fearful weapon flash up between them, but as silently as a shadow the lithe gray fighting machine shot up from the deep a yard or two astern of the boat and, falling limply, turned on his side, dead.

The captain smiled.

"If he had lived about a half a second longer," he said, "I reckon this boat would be on its way to the bottom now."



Chapter X

Run Down During A Squall


On the way back to New Bedford, Colin begged for the 'sword' of the swordfish as a trophy, and, permission being given, one of the boatmen volunteered to prepare it for him, offering to clean and polish it so that the weapon would show to best advantage. Dr. Jimson had been excessively courteous to Colin throughout the trip, and his fellow-feeling was greatly increased when he learned that the boy also was a holder of the blue tuna button, for he himself was an enthusiastic angler.

"I'm a trout-fisher by preference," said Dr. Jimson, settling himself down for a chat as the schooner sailed quietly on its way to New Bedford, with a dropping wind, "and I believe that the steelhead trout, in the streams that flow through the redwood forests, are the finest fish alive."

"I thought the rainbow trout was supposed to have the call," said Colin; "at least, Father always declares so, and he goes up to the Klamath region nearly every year."

"The rainbow is a very gamy trout," agreed the angler, "and it runs large, up to twenty pounds sometimes, but pound for pound, there's more fight in a steelhead."

"What's the Dolly Varden?" Colin queried. "I never can get the various kinds of trout clear in my mind."

"If you can keep them clear when you have them hooked," said the other, with a jolly laugh, "that's much more important. But a Dolly Varden isn't a trout at all, it's really a char. It's a beautiful fish, too, and you find it in cold, clear streams, such as the upper waters of the Sacramento and Alaskan rivers. In Alaska it swarms in millions. But the most beautiful trout in the country, indeed the most beautiful fish in the world, perhaps, are found in three little streams on the very top of the Sierra Nevada. Did they tell you the story, in Washington, about the three forms of golden trout?"

"No, Dr. Jimson," the boy replied; "Dr. Crafts mentioned it, but something came up to turn the conversation."

"I went up on that expedition a few years ago," the trout-lover said, "because I've done a good deal of work for the Bureau on the whole salmon family. Trout and salmon are very near relatives, and the trout will go up streams and leap small falls just as the salmon do. But, as you can easily see, in the headwaters of streams rising high in the Sierras, there are sure to be falls that trout cannot leap."

"Yes, sir, of course."

"Now, my boy," the other said impressively, "a few years ago, it was found out that there were trout in these streams above falls which would be absolutely impassable to any fish. How could they get there? It was a riddle. The only possible answer was that the fish must be older than the falls, that the stream had worn away its bed, bit by bit, until an impassable barrier from below had been created, but that the trout had gone on in the upper creeks, developing in their own way, for hundreds of centuries.

"The rocks over which these streams flow are a granite formation, very brightly colored, principally gray and red. The swiftly-flowing stream removes the debris, so that the clear water flows limpidly over this gorgeous coloring. In such a stream, where the natural enemies of the trout are the fish-hawk and the eagle, it is essential as a matter of protection that the fish should resemble the hue of the bottom, and accordingly, the most superb coloring in the world is theirs. But each of the three small streams that are cut off from the rivers below are also separate from each other, and in the ages during which this has been so, each of these streams has seen a different coloration develop in the trout. All are bright golden, all have orange fins and an orange stripe along the side, all are spotted with black, but they vary in many small particulars. Nowhere else in the world but in these three creeks -- Volcano Creek, Soda Creek, and Aqua Bonita or Gracious Water Creek -- can these fish be found; nowhere else would they retain their gorgeous coloring.

"Accordingly, the United States Government sent a party up to the very summit of the Sierra Nevada to study these fish, and of this party I was one. It was there that I saw the most marvelous storm that has perhaps ever been recorded. An electrical disturbance of great magnitude was passing over the country at the time, and it reached its vivid climax on the Sierras. Our camp was struck, several animals killed, and a couple of the teamsters severely injured, but for nearly two hours the whole world seemed set in a coronal of lightning flashes.

"We stayed up there with the trout for several weeks, and when we reached Washington, there was not a man in the party but was determined to fight, heart and soul, to save these rare fish from extinction. One or two summers during which 'fish-hogs' were permitted on the upper reaches of the Kern River, would have destroyed the trout forever, and, indeed, in one month a party of those reckless near-sportsmen destroyed almost one thousand of them. But the President's interest was enlisted, the Bureau of Fisheries made a firm stand, and to-day the region containing these most exquisite and most wonderful of all fresh-water fish is a part of the Mount Whitney National Park, and the golden trout are saved from extinction."

"Bully for the Bureau!" cried Colin. "Every time I learn more of its work, it seems to be doing something finer."

Following out the lad's interest in the whole trout question, Dr. Jimson taught him nearly all there was to know about the various members of the salmon and trout family, one of the most important food-fish groups of the world. Both being ardent fishermen, they were startled, however, by the sudden announcement:

"Big halibut off starboard quarter!"

"Yes," said Dr. Jimson, "there it is! Don't you see it," he continued, pointing with his finger, "flapping its tail on the water?"

"I see," said Colin; "but what is it doing that for?"

"Probably attacking a fish," was the reply. "Are you going after it, Captain?"

"No," the fisherman answered; "I've heard that people sometimes catch them without a net, but I never did."

"One of the biggest halibut that was ever brought ashore was caught in just such a way," the trout expert said, turning to Colin. "It was out near Sable Island, and the halibut was attacking a big cod by repeated blows with its tail. A boat was sent out with a couple of men carrying gaff-hooks, and the fight between the two fish was so fierce that neither of them paid any attention to the boat. The fishermen gaffed the halibut and pulled him into the dory, though it nearly swamped them, for the fish weighed over three hundred and fifty pounds. It's rather a queer story, I think, but it is reported as official."

Colin whistled.

"My word!" he said. "It must have been a big one, because a halibut is flat, like a flounder, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's the largest of the flatfish. There's a record of one halibut having been caught weighing a trifle over five hundred pounds. Usually a fish one-fifth of that size is considered large."

"Flatfish are funny creatures," said Colin. "I've often wondered how the eyes in various species wander around in their heads."

"Other people have wondered, too," said his companion.

"Well, but we know something about it, don't we?" protested the lad. "Aren't the eyes all right in the young fish?"

"Certainly," was the reply, "and, what's more, the young fish swims upright."

"How does the eye move round, then? Does the eye on one side go blind and another one grow on?"

"No," answered his friend; "your first idea was the right one, the eye moves round. But, as a matter of fact, it goes through the body. The young flatfish is thin and almost transparent, and when it begins to be time for the eye to change from one side of the body to the other it sinks in. A thin, transparent skin grows over the socket and the eye sinks in and in, the bones moving away from before it, until it has come near the proper place on the other side. Then a new socket opens for the eye, and it finally arrives at the end of its journey through the head, thus coming on the same side as the other eye. At the same time, too, the flatfish gets the habit of swimming on its side, and its color scheme changes, one side -- which has become the bottom -- being white, while the upper side is dark and spotted to look like the stones on the bottom of the sea."

"What do flatfish eat?"

"Everything," was the reply, "from a clam to a codfish. But the favorite food of the halibut, for instance, is sting-ray, and consequently it is a good friend of the oysterman; where there is plenty of halibut, there will be few sting-rays, and these last are destructive to a good oyster-bed."

"It seems to me," said Colin, "that the whole story of the seas is that fish eat fish, while the few that escape from their own kind are gobbled up by seagulls and terns and other birds."

"Yet," said the other, smiling, "the birds don't have it all their own way. Sometimes the fish gobble them!"

"Can they eat birds?"

"It's a little rare," was the reply, "but there's one authentic case on record in which a fish's stomach was found to contain no less than seven wild ducks."

"Why, I always thought that fish had a small mouth in proportion to their size. It must have been a monstrous big one!"

"It was not much more than four feet long," was the reply; "but it is one of the few fishes having a huge mouth. They sometimes call it a goosefish, because it attacks wild geese, but the right name is fishing-frog or angler. It glides along the bottom until directly beneath where ducks are feeding, and when one dives for worms in the mud -- you know the way ducks go down -- the angler catches it by the neck and drags it down and then swallows it at leisure. You see the bird hasn't a chance, because all the angler-fish has to do is to hold it until it strangles."

This led to a discussion of the food of fishes, and under the spur of the boy's questions, the scientist outlined for him the dietary of almost every fish that swims, together with all the various ways in which water is aerated, such as the growth of water-plants and the currents of streams.

"It still seems to me," said Colin, "that nearly every fish lives by fighting some other fish. It's a wonder," he added, with a laugh, "that there aren't some professional fighters among them."

"There are," his friend replied; "that is to say, in the sense you mean. There's a fish which is called the fighting-fish, that is regularly trained by the fishermen, and the combats are so famous that when one is scheduled to come off a big crowd gathers."

"Where?" asked Colin incredulously. "That sounds a little as if you thought I was one of the marines, Dr. Jimson."

"It is absolutely the case," was the reply. "And, what is more, they advertise these fights widely and get big gate receipts, just like a baseball game here. The sum of money taken in for admissions, too, has become so large that the Crown refuses to allow the fights to be held unless a certain percentage is paid over to the king."

"Where can that be?"

"In Siam," was the reply. "The fighting-fish is distantly related to the perch, but it has been used for public combats for so long that it has become highly specialized. It is really a sort of gamecock among fish, and the money expended in licenses in Siam brings in a comfortable revenue to the Crown. The owner of a champion fighting-fish never needs to work for a living, he can easily be supported by the winnings of his possession. Often a fish or a team of fishes is owned by a village and the rivalry between communities is intense. The Siamese are inveterate gamblers, also, and in more than one instance the Siamese Government has had to send supplies to a village which was threatened with famine because all the villagers had lost their crops through betting upon the success of their team of fighting-fish."

"You say it's a kind of perch?"

"Only distantly," was the reply; "it belongs to a very curious group of fishes which cannot live long in the water unless they can breathe air once in a while, nor can they live very long in air, unless they breathe water occasionally. The fish that climbs tall trees is a member of the same sub-order."

"You mean the skippy?"

"No," the scientist answered; "it's a much better climber than the skippy. It will run up the trunk of a palm tree."

"Now come, Dr. Jimson," expostulated Colin. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Certainly, when it is true," came the reply. "The statement often has been made and then disbelieved, but there is plenty of scientific evidence now to arm its truth."

"Does it climb up to the top and crack cocoa-nuts?" queried the boy, still incredulously.

"Not quite that," his friend said, smiling. "I believe seven feet is as high a climb as is known, that being recorded officially by one of the staff of the Madras Government Central Museum. The creature usually only climbs during a heavy tropical rainstorm, and it is believed that the fish, accustomed to ascending tiny streams, is stimulated to climb the tree by the rush of water flowing down the bark. The gill cover is movable, and the spines of the ventral fins very sharp. It doesn't go up head first, you know, but sideways."

"How does the fish climb down, then?" queried Colin.

"Tumbles," was the laconic reply.

"And starts up again?"

"No, it usually hops sideways over land to a mud-bank again, not to have another climbing fit until the next big tropical shower comes after a period of drought. But if you wanted to find out all the strange habits of fishes," continued his friend, as the schooner ran into New Bedford harbor, "it would take more time than one swordfish trip would give you."

On the way back to Woods Hole, going down the harbor, Colin questioned the captain of the M. B. L. boat, the Cayadetta, -- which happened to have been at New Bedford that afternoon, and on which he had been given the courtesy of a passage -- why there seemed to be two different kinds of boats scattered over the harbor oystering.

"That feller's not oysterin'," the captain answered; "he's rakin' quahogs."

"Quahogs?"

"That's clams," was the explanation; "the right name for what the people down in New York call a 'little-neck clam.' The 'neck' is a foot, and it's little because the quahog doesn't burrow deep. The long or soft clam does."

"And he just pulls them up with a rake?"

"Yep," was the reply; "big rake with curved tines to it. You see he jerks his rake along until he feels it full, then pulls it up. Now, this feller, over on the other side here, he's not goin' after clams at all. He's oysterin'. Ef you'll notice, he has two poles an' he works 'em apart an' together again like a pair o' shears, an' then when he feels he has a load, he hauls it up the same way, picks out the oysters that are big enough, an' throws the small ones back together with the stones an' other rubbish that he has brought up. They call that 'tonging' oysters, an' the thing he uses is called the 'tongs.'"

"I've been wondering," said Colin, as they passed over the bay and he noted again all the lobster-pot buoys which had interested him so greatly on the way to New Bedford, "I've been wondering whether there was any crabbing done up this way?"

"Not much," the captain answered; "there's one caught now an' again, but all the good eatin' crabs belong further south. New Jersey's the place f'r crabs, an' I reckon most o' the soft-shell crabs o' the country come from there, but the business o' cannin' crabs is done way down in Chesapeake Bay, where there's crabs no end."

"A soft-shell crab is just the same species as the regular blue crab, isn't it," asked the boy; "only it has cast its shell?"

"Jus' the same," was the reply, "but for the market, an' there it's worth four or five times as much."

"When you come to think of it," said Colin, "there isn't much in the sea that isn't fit for food. Even the swordfish is good eating."

"There's some poisonous fish down in the tropics," was the reply, "but I reckon that but for a few of those, a hungry man could eat nigh anythin' that came out o' the water, fish or shellfish or anythin'. An' you know," he added, "some folks, like the Japanese an' South Sea Islanders, prefer 'em raw."

"Doesn't sound good to me at all," the boy said with a laugh, as the little steamer turned into the 'hole.' "I'm satisfied to eat oysters and clams raw, but not much else."

The rest of the month passed all too rapidly for Colin, who was becoming greatly attached to Woods Hole. The sense of accomplishment was strong throughout the place, every one was conscious that time was well spent, and the atmosphere of the little village was one of entire content. The boy made any number of friends, but above all, he took his greatest delight in knowing that he had really found the work that he wanted to do, and in trying as hard as he could to fit himself for it. Every day he spent in the Bureau he saw more clearly the value of the work it had done and the opportunities for other great advances. The exportation of live fish to foreign streams had a great attraction for him.

"You know, Colin," the director said to him one day, when he was speaking of the Bureau work, "all over the world there are fish which we ought to be able to acclimatize in American waters, and there are American fish which would thrive abroad. It has always been an idea of mine that we could probably prevent famines in large parts of Asia by looking after the fish supply. You hardly ever find a bad crop and a bad fish year come together, the one always makes up for the other. Just think what a gain it would have been in some of these Chinese and Indian famines if they could have had all the fish they wanted. Millions of lives could have been saved. The Bureau of Fisheries of this and other countries won't have finished its work until every river and stream of fresh water, every lake, and every square mile of the ocean is stocked with the very finest of the food fishes, and the undesirables are weeded out."

"Weeded out, like a garden?"

"Just exactly! Every hogfish and lamprey in American waters -- that's a near-fish that sucks the blood of other fish, you know -- should be exterminated just in the same way that the farmers of the country are making away with the Canada thistle. Against the sharks -- the tigers of the sea, the killers -- the wolves of the sea, and all the other predatory forms, relentless war should be waged until the wild fishes of the sea are destroyed, as the wild beasts of the forest have fled before the face of man."

"Could that ever be done?"

"It will be done," the director answered, "but not in my time nor in yours. It is a piece of work in which every step counts, and just one summer's work may bring results that will help millions of people in the years yet to come."

"And I shall have a share!" cried Colin, his enthusiasm kindling.

"Every one has a share; in the Fisheries, no work is wasted, no energy is lost. Whether it be such research as that which you have seen me doing upon the oyster drill, or the spectacular administration of the seal herds on the Pribilof Islands, or the dry statistical work of estimating the value of a fishery -- on which work Dr. Crafts writes me he is going to send you -- each part has its place and a big place. The aims of the Bureau are on so vast a scale that nothing is petty. We think in terms of millions and tens of millions, and Nature responds. There are more showy ways of helping the world, but for the accomplishment of great results I know of none superior."

"You said, sir," said Colin, who had been startled by the reference to himself, "that Dr. Crafts had some other work for me?"

"Yes," was the reply. "You know that the Laboratory here only keeps open until the first of September, don't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Prelatt."

"What had you thought of doing between then and college?"

"I hadn't made any plans."

"I have a letter from the Deputy Commissioner, here," the director continued, "in which he asks me if there is any one of the young fellows whom I have had for the summer who would like to go with one of the statistical field agents, and he suggests your name, should you wish to go. It will be a short stay, not more than ten days or so, and won't interfere with your getting back to college."

"I should like to go, ever so much," said Colin, "and I think it's awfully good of Dr. Crafts to think of me."

"Very well, then," answered the director; "I'll write to him about it. I thought you would accept, unless you had made other plans."

"I don't think I know much about the statistical side of the Bureau," said Colin; "just what does that take up?"

"Statistics mainly, but I can explain its value best by what I know it has done," the director said thoughtfully. "One of the very best things it accomplished, I think, was an investigation into the cause of the heavy loss of life among the crews of New England fishing-vessels."

"What was the cause, sir?"

"The statistical division of the Bureau ascribed a great many of the fatalities to badly-built vessels, so that a number of them foundered at sea in bad weather."

"How could the Bureau help that?"

"It did help it wonderfully," the director answered. "A thorough investigation was set on foot and all kinds of vessels examined. The experts of the country were consulted and hundreds of models made to find out just which was the most seaworthy. The fishing-fleets of all the world were visited, and as a result a schooner was built and called the Grampus, which became a model for all that was most to be desired in fishing-vessels. The boat-builders of the country since then have followed that type, and the loss of life from vessels of the Grampus type in the last ten years has been less than one-fourth of that from the older vessels in the ten years preceding. From the port of Gloucester alone, this has meant in the ten years a saving of over six hundred lives."

"That's getting results!" said Colin admiringly.

"And the commercial results, while they don't compare in importance with the saving of life, of course, are even bigger. The winter cod-fishery of New England was absolutely revolutionized by the introduction of gill-nets with glass-ball floats, the catch becoming three times as large, while at least one hundred thousand dollars was saved annually in the single item of bait. Scores of new fishing-grounds have been located, and apparatus has been devised which enables the fishermen to exploit grounds which they previously had been unable to reach.

"There are so many different things being accomplished that it's hard to name them all, but you can see for yourself that some one has got to collect the figures on fisheries in order to determine how the industry is progressing. If a town reports a bad season, when all the other ports have been fortunate, the Bureau finds out why. If the catch of a certain fish is decreasing all over the country, then this species must be turned over to the fish culturists for artificial hatching and increase of supply, and so on in a thousand directions. The statistical end has to get the figures. We base all our work on those."

"I wonder what I shall have to do?" said Colin, with a note of query.

"That I don't know anything about," the director answered. "As director of the Biological Laboratory, I'm on the scientific division, and really can't tell you much about the cultural and statistical ends. I understand, however, that the Deputy Commissioner plans to send you to the mackerel fishery."

"From Gloucester, Mr. Prelatt?"

"No, from Boston. At least that is where you are to meet Mr. Roote. Rather a full review of the mackerel fishery has been made, so I suppose this is some special inquiry. The regular statistics of Boston and Gloucester fish-markets are so important that local agents are appointed to make monthly reports. You have not been called on much for extra collecting recently, have you?"

"No, sir," answered Colin; "almost all the research workers have enough specimens for the work they're doing, because it's too near the end of the time to start any new details. So I haven't much to do except to look after the trap."

"We'll get a few days together on the oyster drill, then," said the director, "before you go away."

When the time came for Colin to leave Woods Hole he found himself most reluctant to go, and he rather regretted that he had accepted the mackerel fishery investigation, because he saw that he could have got permission to work on with Mr. Prelatt for a week or two. But the matter had been arranged, and when the boy arrived in Boston, he was alert with the interest of a new experience.

The statistician was a silent man. He greeted Colin with few words and eyed him critically.

"Hm! You can handle a boat?"

"Yes, sir," said Colin in surprise.

"Get aboard the Shiner at seven-thirty to-morrow, at the dock next to Gray's," and he nodded his head and walked off, leaving Colin to stare after him.

"Well," the boy said aloud, "that's short enough and clear enough, only I don't happen to know where Gray's is!"

A little questioning around the waterfront, however, enabled him to find the vessel, and as the lad had been in Boston a couple of times before, the search was not long. The Shiner hailed from Gloucester and was "the real thing," as Colin said under his breath. One hundred and twelve feet long she was, with an air, as she sat on the water, of knowing every little wickedness of the ocean and understanding the way to conquer it too; her mainmast cleared eighty-five feet, and was stepped well forward, with a boom that Colin did not overestimate greatly when he put it at eighty feet. Although the boy was not a keen judge, he thought the bowsprit immensely long, and noticed what a narrow nose the seiner possessed.

Early the next morning she put out. The weather was ugly, but the captain of the Shiner was a Gloucester fisherman, and he went slap down Boston Harbor with every inch of canvas set alow and aloft. The seiner lay well over on her side, and Colin, while he had often sailed in small boats with the lee rail under, found it a new sensation to go tearing along at such speed. He knew nothing of his new chief, and stole a glance at him, finding the statistician smoking a pipe with entire unconcern.

Colin smiled to himself. For a moment he had forgotten, the statistician was a Bureau man, too. The Shiner sped out to sea, cleaving the water at thirteen knots an hour easily, although her thirty-six-foot seine-boat was towing after her.

"She certainly can sail, Mr. Roote!" exclaimed the boy, but he only got a grunt in reply.

The evening of the third day had come before Colin gained any idea as to the purpose of this trip. He saw that it would be no use asking questions, and waited until he should be told what he was to do. In the meantime, he was enjoying the sail immensely, for the craft seemed instinct with life, and Colin learned from the other fishermen aboard that she was one of the fastest vessels out of Gloucester. Colin had settled himself under the blankets for the night and just dropped off to sleep when there came a hail from the masthead.

"Fish! Lyin' nor'-nor'-east."

Every man stirred in his bunk, but none made a move. Colin, who had wakened instantly with muscles tense and ready to spring out, followed the example of the others round him, and waited. Indeed he dropped off to sleep again, when the voice of the captain came from the wheel:

"Pass the word to oil up."

There was no need to say "Pass the word," for every man below heard the order, and tumbled up at once, sliding into sea-boots, oilskins, and sou'westers. Most of the men lighted a pipe, and one or two took a 'mug-up' from the coffee-kettle. Evidently the mackerel were not far away, for in less than five minutes the captain called again:

"All on deck!"

Up the ladder went the fishermen with a rush. There was not a star visible, and the night was as black as though the ship were plunging into a cave. Even the phosphorescence or 'fire' at the ship's bow was not especially brilliant, and Colin tumbled over half a dozen different things in as many yards on deck, while only the fact that he had sea-boots on saved him from barking his shins on the fore-hatch.

"Drop over the dory, haul up the boat!"

The commands came ringing out sharply. Colin had been aboard a man-of-war, but there was no such discipline as this. The words were scarcely spoken, when four of the men had the dory over the starboard rail, while eight of the men tailed on to the painter of the seine-boat and brought it to the port fore-rigging.

"Tops'l halyards. Lively now!"

With a rattle and whir the two great sails went soaring up in the darkness, and the Shiner leaped forward, her lee rail almost flush to the sea.

"She's a great boat," said Colin to one of the men near him; "I shouldn't have thought she could have stood the tops'ls."

The fisherman looked at him.

"Jerry Fitzgerald is the skipper o' this craft," he said, "an' he's got the reputation o' carryin' all canvas in a full gale. See the lights around us?"

"I saw one or two," Colin answered. "Other seiners?"

"O' course, an' do you think Jerry's goin' to lose a chance o' the school because o' canvas? Wait a bit an' you'll see!"

Not a minute had passed by before another order came.

"Give her the stays'l. Run up the balloon, too!"

Colin gasped, but he lent a hand. As the Shiner felt the added sail she poked her nose in and took the water green. But the narrow build forward threw off the load, and she rose like a duck. The seiner was carrying a fearful press of sail, but she stood up stiffly under it, all the red and green lights of the other seiners falling astern; it was evident that the skipper meant to keep them there. Before long, occasional flashes of light, being the phosphorescence churned up by the tails of a pod of mackerel, could be seen from the deck.

"Into the boat!" cried the skipper.

For just a second Colin hesitated, but he saw Mr. Roote go into the seine-boat and he followed immediately. The seine-master, who had been aloft, came down with a rush. Colin could hear the rustle of the oilskins as he partly touched the stays, but he landed on the deck with a 'thump' as great as though he had leaped down the last ten feet. The seine-boat was dropping astern as fast as one of the crew, who remained on deck, could pay out the painter, but the seine-master gave no heed to the rapid departure of the boat. He took half a dozen quick steps to the stern and leaped over the quarter, judging the distance so accurately that he landed fair on the foremost thwart of the seine-boat as she dropped astern, a couple of the men catching him as he jumped.

"Easy on the painter!" he cried. Then, next moment:

"Stand by the dory," as the smaller of the boats, with two men aboard, came sliding by and was almost thrown on top of the seine-boat by a cross-sea.

There came a fire of orders from the captain, which Colin could hardly follow, and he wondered how the helmsman and one man on deck could keep up with them.

"Ease off the main-sheet! Dave," -- that was the man at the wheel, -- "swing her away a bit. Steady there! Slack the foretops'l and stays'l halyards. Lively now! Jibe her over, Dave! Down with the balloon, there! Quick as the Lord'll let you! Over she comes! Stand by in the boat and dory! Keep her down, Dave! Down, man, down! It's a good school."

There was a moment's pause.

"You in the boat and dory?"

"All ready, sir," answered the seine-master.

"Ready, dory?"

"All ready."

"Hard up, Dave! Steady a little. A little! Don't you know what a little is? Ready in the boat, there! Steady with that wheel! Now you've got her. You in the boat, there. Got that new-fangled net ready?"

"Ready," cried the statistician shortly. Then Colin understood. The trip was for the purpose of testing out a new net devised by the Bureau and the Fisheries man was a net expert. No wonder he knew a boat!

"Stand by the boat. Ready, the dory! When I give the word! Hold on a bit with the painter! Now let her go! You in the dory there, show your lantern! All your own way now!"

Colin tugged at his oar. Never, in all his experience in rowing, had he tackled anything like an oar of that size, but he pulled for all he was worth, and a glow ran through him to feel that he was holding up his end. The light dory with two men aboard, came racing after them. It was nearly a half-mile pull before the seine-master cried:

"Over with the buoy!"

And the buoy was tossed overboard for the dory to pick up and hold to windward.

Then the silent Fisheries officer got busy. Without a word, he reached for the net. It was made of a lighter twine than customary, and not thickly tarred, having also different corks to the usual type, and sinkers all over the net. It looked like a fearfully complicated thing to handle and Roote was a small man, but that net went flying out as though tossed by a giant.

"You're a jim-dandy with the twine, all right," said the seine-master admiringly. He turned to the rowers, "Put your backs into it, boys," he said; "drive her for all you know how. We've got to give this new contraption a fair chance."

"How much net out now, sir?" he asked the statistician in a few minutes.

"Quarter of a mile," was the reply.

"Shall we close in then, eh?"

"You'd better."

The seine-master, feeling that the school of mackerel had been inclosed, turned the seine-boat towards the dory and, under the powerful arms of the fishermen, the circle was soon completed. It was a perfect set.

The wind had been rising rapidly, and just as the seine-boat reached the dory a sharp rain squall struck. But the cry was, "Purse up!" for until a seine is partly pursed up, there is no telling whether the fish are really in or not. For a moment, however, it was almost impossible to purse up, the wind and rain were beating so savagely.

"Pull!" said Roote, suiting the action to the word, and all hands joined him. The net was light, far lighter than the old fishermen's nets, and there was more than one audible comment to the effect that the net would break, and that it was too bad they hadn't one of the old-style nets around the school, but the pursing in continued, and the net showed no signs of breakage. Presently first one, then another, fish flashed above the water, and a minute later the shine of the mackerel showed, and then the whole school, including thousands of fish, rose in a body to the surface, beating the water with their forked tails, and threshing in mad confusion from side to side.

The seine-master turned to the Fisheries official with a good deal of concern.

"That's a big haul," he said; "will your net stand it?"

There was no hesitation in the reply.

"Yes," he said.

"Then I'm willin' to admit," said the seine-master, "that you win. I'd never ha' believed that you could get as big a net as light as that an' able to hold the fish. That'll save us fishermen a pile o' labor."

But the official was not to be tempted into talk, even on the question of his own invention. He simply nodded, and went on pursing in. Presently the Shiner came pelting down the breeze, still carrying quite a bit of canvas, there being not enough hands on board to reef. The weather was getting dirtier every minute.

"Hello there the boat!" hailed the captain.

"All right," the seine-master called back. "A couple o' hundred barrels."

"Net holding?"

"Looks like it."

"Better get on board soon's you can," the captain advised; "we may have a bit of a blow."

Colin thought to himself that there was a great deal more than a "bit of a blow" at the time, but he said nothing. The worst of it was the way the rain came pelting down, for it was as thick as a fog, and dispiriting. It was a cold rain, too, and although it was September, the northeast gale was chill. Colin shivered in his oilskins. The pursing in done, the seine-master waved a torch, but it could not be seen in the rain.

"It's a good thing we've got a cap'n like Jerry on board, boys," said the seine-master. "He'll have to smell us out, because he can't see anythin'."

But it was a longer wait than any one expected, for the schooner had faded into the rain and could not be seen. Suddenly a hail was heard, and the Shiner passed to leeward of the boats, dimly visible. Every one shouted, and an answering cry came back.

"He'll beat up to wind'ard a bit an' then pick us up," said the seine-master cheerfully.

Colin wondered how any man could run a schooner about in a gale of wind and come back to a certain spot, but he need not have been incredulous, for in about five minutes' time the Shiner came sliding down as though to run over the boats, being thrown up into the wind in the nick of time. As the schooner settled beside the boat, all the men but two streamed aboard her, one remaining at the bow, to shackle the seine-boat to the iron that hung from the hook at the fore-rigging on the port side, while the other, grabbing hold of the long steering-oar, did his best to fend off the stern. The seine, thus being between the boat and the schooner, was held by Roote and the seine-master. Colin climbed aboard with the rest of the men, and within two minutes' time, the big dip-net -- which would hold a barrel at a time -- was scooped in among the fish.

Ten or eleven times the dip-net had descended and come up full of fish, and the work was proceeding rapidly in spite of the pitching and heaving of the vessel, when suddenly every one was stopped by the long wail of a foghorn near by. Not a sound of one had been heard before, and all hands were so busy that the direction from which the sound came had not been noted. Exactly half a minute elapsed.

Then mournfully and very close, the long "Who-o-o-o" sounded almost upon them, and the captain sprang to the wheel. As he set a hand upon the spokes and spun them round, a tall gray ship towered above them from the side on which was the seine-boat, and seemed to hang poised a moment on the crest of a sea before the final crash. Colin, who was leaning over the rail watching the dipping of the net, was able to see everything. The fisherman at the bow of the seine-boat jumped for the boom and clasped it safely. Then, as the sailing vessel lurched upon them, the boy noted that the seine-master and the fisherman at the stern of the seine-boat leaped for the martingale shrouds and held them.

But that instant's delay, as the bark had seemed to be poised upon the wave, had been enough for the Shiner. Having her canvas up, the fraction of time gave her the chance to answer to her helm, and she spun round like a teetotum, seeming almost to wriggle from under the bow of the ship like a live creature. Roote, the only one left in the seine-boat, had been the last to see the oncoming ship. He gave one quick look upward, and plunged from the seine-boat into the sea. Even so, the chances were in his favor, but as he touched the water the ship crashed into the seine-boat, and a piece of the wreckage hit him on the head.

It all happened in a flash, but at the instant that he was struck, Colin, still in his oilskins and sea-boots, dived into the water. Fortunately, he cleared the vortex. In a few seconds Roote came up, and Colin grabbed him by the hair. The statistician was insensible, which made matters easier for the boy. But the oilskins and sea-boots were an impossible load, and it was only by great exertion that he managed at last to get them off and still keep Roote afloat. Soon after this relief, too, the statistician showed signs of life, and after successfully fending off a struggle, Colin succeeded in getting the injured man to rest his weight on him in the least tiring manner.

"I don't swim much," said the net expert. "How about you? How long can you keep afloat?"

"Long enough twice over for them to find us," said Colin cheerfully. "I'm a regular fish in the water."

But the boy soon found out that it was a far different thing swimming under normal conditions and really having to battle for his life in a fair seaway. Roote, too, soon relapsed once more into unconsciousness, and the boy had to support his weight. He was a swimmer, a champion swimmer, and it was rather a shock to him to find how difficult it was even to keep afloat. He realized how valueless a casual knowledge of swimming would be for use in the open sea.

He had not been more than half an hour in the water when his strength began to fail. He swam around expecting to find some piece of wreckage which would aid him, but not a thing could he see. His arms grew heavy and his feet hung down as though leaded weights were fastened to them. Black spots began to dance before his eyes, and Roote's weight became a torture. But he still hung on and kept afloat.

An hour passed of buffeting with the sea, and the boy began to grow light-headed. He had swallowed quite a little salt water, and presently he began singing, although he had a feeling as though a double self told him not to sing. A choking took his throat and startled him into full consciousness. He had nearly been down that time! But the training of years stood him in good stead now that he needed it, and he still swam on.

Then he began to dream. Once or twice he came to himself and smiled sadly to think that this was the end of all his hopes in the Bureau of Fisheries, but this consciousness did not last for more than a minute before he fell dreaming again, still, however, swimming heavily and keeping afloat. And it seemed to him that the last and the most real of his dreams was that a boat came by. But this, he thought, must be drowning and it was not hard to drown, to dream of being rescued and to go down, down, down, to the cold, strange tideless depths of sea from which no one ever comes up alive. Still, there was the boat in his dream, but it had come too late, and it seemed to Colin, that with his last effort he pushed Roote toward the outstretched arms of the men in the boat, waved a feeble farewell and sank. The water gurgled in his ears, there was a horrible strangulation, he tried to cry out, his lungs filled with water, and he knew no more.

Hours passed. Then, with a sense of suddenly arriving from a far-off place, Colin opened his eyes. He was in the cabin of a ship, and despite his exhaustion, he tried to rouse himself at the sound of voices. Roote, and another man, the captain of the bark, were standing beside his bunk.

"He's a plucky youngster, as well as a great swimmer," he heard the captain say. "Who is he?"

And Colin heard the other reply, with a note of pride in his voice:

"That's Colin Dare. He's one of our men. We think a lot of him in the Bureau of Fisheries!"

And the boy, wanly, but happily smiling, fell into a deep but healthy sleep.

<eob>

Stories From The Ballads

By

Mary Macgregor



The Young Tamlane


The young Tamlane had lived among mortals for only nine short years ere he was carried away by the Queen of the Fairies, away to live in Fairyland.

His father had been a knight of great renown, his mother a lady of high degree, and sorry indeed were they to lose their son.

And this is how it happened.

One day, soon after Tamlane's ninth birthday, his uncle came to him and said, 'Tamlane, now that ye are nine years old, ye shall, an ye like it, ride with me to the hunt.'

And Tamlane jumped for joy, and clapped his hands for glee. Then he mounted his horse and rode away with his uncle to hunt and hawk.

Over the moors they rode, and the wind it blew cold from the north. Over the moors they rode, and the cold north wind blew upon the young Tamlane until he grew cold and stiff.

Then the reins they fell from his hands and down from his horse slipped Tamlane, and laid himself down to rest, so weary, so cold was he. But no sooner had he lain down on the bare earth than he closed his eyes and fell fast asleep. And no sooner had he fallen fast asleep than the Queen of the Fairies came and carried Tamlane off to Fairyland.

For long years Tamlane dwelt among the little green folk, yet ofttimes he would come back to visit the land of his birth.

Now many were the hills and dells haunted by the fairy folk. Yet neither hill nor dell pleased them more than the lone plain of Carterhaugh, where the soft-flowing rivers of Ettrick and Yarrow met and mingled.

Many a long day after fairies were banished from the plain of Carterhaugh would the peasant folk come to gaze at the circles which still marked the green grass of the lone moor. The circles had been made, so they said, by the tiny feet of the fairies as they danced round and round in a ring.

Well, in the days before the fairies were banished from the plain of Carterhaugh, strange sights were to be seen there by the light of the moon.

Little folk, dressed all in green, would flit across the moor. They would form tiny rings and dance on their tiny toes until the moonlight failed.

Little horsemen dressed in green would go riding by, the bells on the fairy bridles playing magic music the while. Sounds too, unknown to mortals, would tremble on the still night air.

Full of mischief too were these little elfin folk, and wise mortals feared to tread where fairy feet were tripping.

Wise mortals would warn the merry children and the winsome maidens lest they should venture too near the favourite haunts of fairydom.

To Carterhaugh came, as I have told you, many of the fairy folk; but more often than any other came a little elfin knight, and he was the young Tamlane, who had been carried away to Fairyland when he was only nine years old.

Beyond all other of the little green folk was the elf knight feared. And little was that to be wondered at, for well was it known that over many a fair-haired child, over many a beauteous maiden, he had used his magic power. Nor would he let them go until they promised to come back another moonlit eve, and as a pledge of their promise he would seize from the children a toy, from the maidens a ring, or it might be their mantle of green.

Now about two miles from the plain of Carterhaugh stood a castle, and in the castle there lived a fair maiden named Janet.

One day her father sent for his daughter and said, 'Janet, ye may leave the castle grounds, an ye please, but never may ye cross the plain of Carterhaugh. For there ye may be found by young Tamlane, and he it is who ofttimes casts a spell o'er bonny maidens.'

Now Janet was a wilful daughter. She answered her father never a word, but when she had left his presence she laughed aloud, she tossed her head.

To her ladies she said, 'Go to Carterhaugh will I an I list, and come from Carterhaugh will I an I please, and never will I ask leave of any one.'

Then when the moonbeams peeped in at her lattice window, the lady Janet tucked up her green skirt, so that she might run, and she coiled her beautiful yellow hair as a crown above her brow. And she was off and away to the lone plain of Carterhaugh.

The moonlight stole across the moor, and Janet laughed aloud in her glee. She ran across to the well, and there, standing alone, riderless, stood the steed of the little elfin knight.

Janet put out her hand to the rose-tree that grew by the well and plucked a dark red rose. Sweet was its scent and Janet put out her hand and plucked another rose, but ere she had pulled a third, close beside her stood a little wee man. He reached no higher than the knee of the lady Janet.

'Ye have come to Carterhaugh, Janet,' he cried, 'and yet ye have not asked my leave. Ye have plucked my red roses and broken a branch of my bonny rose-tree. Have ye no fear of me, Janet?'

The lady Janet tossed her head, though over her she felt creeping slow the spell of the little elfin knight. She tossed her head and she cried, 'Nay, I have no fear of you, ye little wee man. Nor will I ever ask leave of you as I come to and fro across the plain of Carterhaugh. Ye shall know that the moor belongs to me, me!' and Janet stamped her foot. 'My father made it all my own.'

But the young Tamlane took the white hand of the lady Janet in his own, and so gentle were his words, so kind his ways, that soon the maiden had no wish to leave the little wee man. Hand in hand they wandered through the red rose-bushes that grew by the side of the well. And in the light of the moon the elf knight wove his spell and made the lady Janet his own.

Back to the castle sped Janet when the moonlight failed, but all her smiles were gone. Lone and sad was she, all with longing for her little elfin knight.

Little food would Janet eat in these days, little heed would she take of the gowns she wore. Her yellow hair hung down uncombed, unbraided around her sad, pale face.

Janet had been used to join in the games her four-and-twenty maidens played. She had run the quickest, tossed the ball the highest, nor had any been more full of glee than she.

Now the maidens might play as they listed, little did the lady Janet care.

When evening fell, her four-and-twenty ladies would play their games of chess. Many a game had Janet won in bygone days.

Now the ladies might win or lose as they pleased, little did the lady Janet care. Her heart was away on the plain of Carterhaugh with her little wee elfin knight, and soon she herself would be there.

Once more the moonbeams peeped in at her lattice window, and Janet smiled, put on her fairest gown, and combed her yellow locks. She was off and away to Carterhaugh.[1]

[Footnote 1: See Frontispiece.]

She reached the moor, she ran to the well, and there as before, there, stood the steed of the little elfin man.

And Janet put out her hand and plucked a red red rose, but ere she had plucked another, close beside her stood the young Tamlane.

'Why do ye pluck my roses?' asked the little elf man. But Janet had not come to talk about the roses, and she paid no heed to his question.

'Tell me, Tamlane,' said the lady Janet, 'tell me, have ye always been a little elfin man? Have ye never, in days gone by, been to the holy chapel, and have ye never had made over you the sign of the Holy Cross?'

'Indeed now, Janet, the truth will I tell!' cried the young Tamlane.

Then the lady Janet listened, and the lady Janet wept as the little wee knight told her how he had been carried away by the Queen of the Fairies.

But yet a stranger tale he told to the maiden.

'Ere I was carried off to Fairyland, Janet,' said young Tamlane, 'we played as boy and girl in the old castle grounds, and well we loved each other as we played together in those merry merry days of long ago. Ye do not forget, Janet?'

Then back into the lady Janet's mind stole the memory of her childhood's merry days, and of the little lad who had shared her toys and played her games. Together they had made the walls of the old castle ring with their laughter.

No, the lady Janet had not forgotten, and she knew that now, as in the days of long ago, she loved the young Tamlane.

'Tell me,' she said, 'tell me how ye do spend your day in Fairyland?'

'Blithe and gay is the life we lead,' cried the little wee knight. 'There is no sickness, no pain of any kind in Fairyland, Janet.

'In earth or air I dwell as pleases me the best. I can leave this little body of mine an it pleases me, and come back to it an I will. I am small, as you see me now, but when I will, I grow so small that a nut-shell is my home, a rosebud my bed. But I can grow big as well, Janet, so big that I needs must make my home in some lofty hall.

'Hither and thither we flit, bathe in the streams, frolic in the wind, play with the sunbeams.

'Never would I wish to leave Fairyland, Janet, were it not that at the end of each seven years an evil spirit comes to carry one of us off to his dark abode. And I, so fair and fat am I, I fear that I shall be chosen by the Evil one.

'In earth or air I dwell as pleases me the best,'

'But weep not, Janet; an you wish to bring me back to the land of mortals, I will e'en show you how that may be done. Little time is there to lose, for to-night is Hallowe'en, and this same night must the deed be done.

'On Hallowe'en, at the midnight hour, the fairy court will ride a mile beyond Carterhaugh to the cross at Milestone. Wait for me there, Janet, and ye will win your own true knight.'

'But many a knight will ride amid the fairy train. How shall I know you, my little wee man?' cried Janet.

'Neither among the first nor among the second company shall ye seek for me,' said young Tamlane. 'Only when ye see the third draw nigh give heed, Janet, for among them ye will find me.

'Not on the black horse, nor yet on the brown horse, shall I ride. Let them pass, and keep ye quiet. But as the milk-white steed goes by, seize ye the bridle, Janet, and pull me down, and keep your arms ever around me. For on the milk-white steed I ride.

'On my right hand ye will see a glove, my left will be uncovered. Now, by these signs, ye will know your own true knight.

'Hold me fast, Janet, hold me fast, as you pull me down from my milk-white steed. For while your arms are around me, the fairy folk will change me into fearful shapes.

'Into an adder, and into a snake they will change me. Yet, an ye love me, Janet, fear ye nought, but hold me fast.

'They will change me into a lion, and into a bear. Yet, as I love you, Janet, fear ye nought, but hold me fast.

'A toad, an eel I shall become, yet do not let me slide from your arms, Janet, but hold me fast.

'But, an the fairy folk change me into a blazing fagot, or a bar of hot iron, then throw me far from you, Janet, into the cold, clear well, throw me with all your speed.

'There will I change into your own true knight, Janet, and ye shall throw over me your mantle of green velvet.'

Dark was the night and full of gloom as the lady Janet hastened to the cross at Milestone, but her heart was glad and full of light. She would see her own true knight in mortal form before the dawn of Hallowday.

It was between the hours of twelve and one o'clock when Janet stood alone at the spot where the fairy train would pass.

Fearsome it was there alone in the gloom, but the lady Janet was heedful of nought. She had but to wait, to listen. Yet not a sound did she hear, save only the wind as it whistled through the long grass.

Not a sound save the wind did she hear? Ah yes, now strange noises were blown to her eager ears. The bells on fairy bridles tinkled, the music of the tiny fairy band piped each moment more clear.

Janet looked, and by the light of Will o' Wisp she could just catch sight of their little oaten pipes. Shrill were the notes they blew on these, but softer were the sounds they blew through tiny hemlock pipes. Then deeper came the tones of the bog-reeds and large hemlock, and Janet, looking, saw the little green folk draw nigh.

How merry the music was, how glad and good! Never was known a fairy yet who sang or played of aught but joy and mirth.

The first company of the little folk passed Janet as she stood patient, watchful by the cross; the second passed, and then there came the third.

'The black steed! Let it go,' said Janet to herself.

'The brown steed! It matters not to me, she whispered.

'The milk-white steed!' Ah, Janet had seized the bridle of the milk-white steed and pulled the little rider off into her strong young arms.

A cry of little elfs, of angry little elfs, rang out on the chill night air.

Then as he lay in Janet's arms the angry little imps changed their stolen elfin knight into an adder, a snake, a bear, a lion, a toad, an eel, and still, through all these changes, the lady Janet held him fast.

'A blazing fagot! Let him change into a blazing fagot!' cried the angry little folk. 'Then this foolish mortal will let our favorite knight alone.'

And as young Tamlane changed into a blazing fagot the little folk thought they had got their will. For now the lady Janet threw him from her, far into the clear, cold well.

But the little angry imps were soon shrieking in dismay. No sooner was the fagot in the well than the little elfin knight was restored to his own true mortal form.

Then over the tall, strong knight Janet threw her green mantle, and the power of the fairies over the young Tamlane was for ever gone. Their spell was broken.

Now, the Queen of the Fairies had hidden herself in a bush of broom to see what would happen. And when she saw her favourite knight change into his own true mortal shape, she was very cross, very cross indeed. The little fairy band was ordered to march home in silence, their pipes thrust into their tiny green girdles, and there were no more revels in the fairy court for many and many a long day to come.



Hynde Etin


May Margaret did not love to sew, yet here in the doorway of her bower she sat, her silk seam in her hand.

May Margaret sat with her seam in her hand, but she did not sew, she dreamed, and her dream was all of Elmond wood.

She was there herself under the greenwood gay. The tall trees bowed, the little trees nodded to her. The flowers threw their sweetest scents after her as she passed along; the little birds sang their gladdest that she might hear. How fair and green and cool it was in the wood of Elmond!

On a sudden, Margaret sat upright in the doorway of her bower. She dreamed no more. The sound of the hunting-horn rang in her ear. It was blown in Elmond wood.

Then down on her lap slipped the silken seam, down to her feet the needle. May Margaret was up and away to the greenwood.

Down by the hazel bushes she hastened, nor noticed that the evening shadows fell; on past the birch groves she ran, nor noticed that the dew fell fast.

No one did May Margaret meet until she reached a white-thorn tree. There, up from the grass on which he lay, sprang Hynde Etin.

'What do ye seek in the wood, May Margaret?' said he. 'Is it flowers, or is it for dew ye seek this bonny night of May?'

But Margaret did not care to answer. She only shook her head.

Then said Hynde Etin, 'I am forester of Elmond wood, nor should ye enter it without my leave.'

'Nay now,' cried the lady Margaret, 'leave will I ask of no man, for my father is earl of all this land.'

'Your father may be earl of all the land, May Margaret, yet shall ye die, because ye will not ask my leave to come to Elmond wood.' And he seized her fast and tied her to a tree by her long, yellow locks.

Yet did Hynde Etin not kill the maiden, but this is what he did.

He pulled up by the root the tallest tree he could see, and in the hollow he dug a deep deep cave, and into the cave he thrust May Margaret.

'Now will ye wander no more in my woods!' cried Hynde Etin. 'Here shall ye stay, or home shall ye come with me to be my wife.'

'Nay, here will I rather stay!' cried May Margaret, 'for my father will seek for me and will find me here.'

But the cave was dark and cold, and the earl sought yet did not find his daughter.

No bed was there in the cave for May Margaret, no bed save the rough earth, no pillow save a stone.

Poor May Margaret! She did not like the dark or the cold. Ere many days had passed away, she thought it would be better to live with Hynde Etin than to stay longer alone in so dismal a cave.

'Take me out, take me out!' then cried May Margaret.

Hynde Etin heard the maiden's call and he came and took her out of the cave. Deep into the greenwood he carried her, where his own home had been built, and there he made May Margaret, the earl's daughter, his wife.

For twelve long years Margaret lived in the greenwood. And Hynde Etin was kind to her and she grew to love him well.

Seven little sons had Margaret, and happy and gay was their life in their woodland home. Yet oft did Margaret grieve that her little wee sons had never been taken to holy church. She wished that the priest might christen them there.

Now one day Hynde Etin slung his bow across his shoulder, placed a sheath of arrows in his belt, and was up and away to the hunt. With him he took his eldest wee son.

Under the gay greenwood they paced, Hynde Etin and his eldest son, and the thrush sang to them his morning song. Upward over the hills they climbed, and they heard the chimes of church bells clear.

Then the little wee son said to his father, 'An ye would not be angry with me, father, there is somewhat I would ask.'

'Ask what ye will, my bonny wee boy,' said Hynde Etin, 'for never will I be cross with you.'

'My mother ofttimes weeps, father. Why is it that she sobs so bitterly?'

'Your mother weeps, my little wee son, for sore she longs to see her own kin. Twelve long years is it and more since last she saw them, or heard the church bells ring.

'An earl's daughter was your mother dear, and if I had not stolen her away one bonny night in May she might have wedded a knight of high degree.

'The forester of Elmond wood was I, yet as I saw her standing by the white-thorn tree I loved her well. And ere many days had gone by thy mother loved me too, and I carried her away to our greenwood home.

'Dear to your mother are her seven little sons, dear to her, too, am I. Yet oft will the tears run down her cheek as she dreams of her old home and her father the earl.'

Then upward glanced the little wee son as he cried aloud, 'I will shoot the linnet there on the tree and the larks as they wing their flight, and I will carry them home to my mother dear that she may weep no more.'

Yet neither with linnet nor with lark could her little wee son woo the smiles back to his dear mother's face.

Now a day came when Hynde Etin in his greenwood home thought the hours passed but slow, and that same day he took his gun and his dog and off he went alone to hunt. His seven little wee sons he left at home with their mother.

'Mother,' said the eldest little son, 'mother, will ye be angry with me an I tell you what I heard?'

'Nay now, my little wee son,' said she, 'I will never be cross with you.'

'I heard the church bells ring as I went hunting over the hill, mother. Clear did they ring and sweet.'

'Ah, would I had heard them too, my little dear son,' cried Margaret, 'for never have I been in the holy church for twelve long years and more, and never have I taken my seven bonny sons to be christened, as indeed I would they were. In the holy church will my father be, and there would I fain go too.'

Then the little young Etin, for that was the name of Margaret's eldest son, took his mother's hand and called his six little brothers, and together they went through Elmond wood as fast as ever they could go. It may be that the mother led the way, it may be that so it chanced, but soon they had left the greenwood far behind and stood on an open heath. And there, before them, stood a castle.

Margaret looked and Margaret smiled. She knew she was standing once again before her father's gate.

She took three rings from her pocket and gave them to her eldest wee boy.

'Give one,' she said, 'to the porter. He is proud, but so he sees the ring, he will open the gate and let you enter.

'Give another to the butler, my little wee son, and he will show you where ye are to go.

'And the third ye shall hand to the minstrel. You will see him with his harp, standing in the hall. It may be he will play goodwill to my bonny wee son who has come from Elmond wood.'

Then young Etin did as his mother had said.

The first ring he gave to the porter, and without a word the gate was opened for the little wee boy.

He gave the second ring to the butler, and without a word the little wee boy was led into the hall.

The third ring he gave to the minstrel, and without a word he took his harp and forthwith played goodwill to the bonny wee boy from the greenwood.

Now, when the little Etin reached the earl, he fell on his knee before him.

The old earl looked upon the little lad, and his eyes they were filled with tears.

'My little wee boy, ye must haste away,' he cried. 'An I look upon you long my heart will break into three pieces, for ye have the eyes, the hair of my lost May Margaret.'

'My eyes are blue as my mother's eyes, and my yellow hair curls as does hers,' cried the little wee boy.

'Where is your mother?' then cried the earl, and the tears rolled down his cheek.

'My mother is standing at the castle gate, and with her are my six little wee brothers,' said the bonny young Etin.

'Run, porter boys, run fast,' said the earl, 'and throw wide open the gates that my daughter may come in to me.'

Into the hall came Margaret, her six little sons by her side. Before the earl she fell upon her knee, but the earl he lifted her up and said, 'Ye shall dine with me to-day, ye and your seven bonny little sons.'

'No food can I eat,' said Margaret, 'until I see again my dear husband. For he knows not where he may find me and his seven dear little sons.'

'Now will I send my hunters, and they shall search the forest high and low and bring Hynde Etin unto me,' said the earl.

Then up and spake the little wee Etin.

'Search for my father shall ye not, until ye do send to him a pardon full and free.'

And the earl smiled at the young Etin.

'In sooth a pardon shall your father have,' said he.

With his own hand the earl wrote the pardon, and he sealed it with his own seal. Then the hunters were off and away to search for Hynde Etin. They sought for him east and they sought for him west, they sought all over the countryside. And at length they found him sitting alone in his home in Elmond wood. Alone, and tearing his yellow locks, was Hynde Etin.

'Get up, Hynde Etin, get up and come with us, for the earl has sent for you,' cried the merry hunters.

'The earl may do as he lists with me,' said Etin. 'He may cut off my head, or he may hang me on a greenwood tree. Little do I care to live,' moaned Etin, 'now that I have lost my lady Margaret.'

'The lady Margaret is in her father's hall, Hynde Etin,' said the hunters, 'nor food will she eat until ye do come to her. There is a pardon for you here sealed by the earl's own hand.'

Then Hynde Etin smoothed his yellow locks, and gay was he as he went with the hunters to the castle.

Down on his knee before the earl fell Hynde Etin. 'Rise, Etin, rise!' cried the earl. 'This day shall ye dine with me.'

Around the earl's table sat the lady Margaret, her husband dear, and her seven little wee sons. And the little Etin looked and looked and never a tear did he see on his mother's face.

'A boon I have to ask,' cried then the little wee boy; 'I would we were all in the holy church that the good priest might christen me and my six little brothers. For in the greenwood gay never a church did we see, nor the sound of church bells did we hear.'

'Soon shall your boon be granted,' cried the earl, 'for this very day to the church shall ye go, and your mother and your six little wee brothers shall be with you.'

To the door of the holy church they came, but there did the lady Margaret stay.

'For twelve long years and more,' she cried, and bowed her head, 'for twelve long years have I never been within the holy church, and I fear to enter now.'

Then out to her came the good priest, and his smile was sweet to see. Come hither, come hither, my lily-white flower,' said he, 'and bring your babes with you that I may lay my hands upon their heads.'

Then did he christen the lady Margaret's seven little wee sons. And their names, beginning with the tiniest, were these -- Charles, Vincent, Sam, Dick, James, John. And the eldest little wee son was, as you already know, named after his father, Etin.

And back to the earl's gay castle went the lady Margaret with Hynde Etin and her seven little new-christened sons. And there they lived happy for ever after.

'For twelve long years have I never been within the Holy Church, and I fear to enter now'



Hynde Horn


Hynde Horn was a little prince. It was because he was so courteous, so kind a little lad that Prince Horn was always called Hynde Horn. For hend or hynde in the days of long ago meant just all the beautiful things which these words, courteous, kind, mean in these days.

Hynde Horn lived a happy life in his home in the distant East. For it was in the bright glowing land of the sun that his father, King Allof, reigned.

The Queen Godylt loved her little son too well to spoil him. She wished him to learn to share his toys, to play his games with other boys.

Thus, much to the delight of little Prince Horn, two boys, almost as old as he was, came to live with him in the palace. Athulph and Fykenyld were their names.

They were merry playmates for the little prince, and, as the years rolled by, Athulph and Fykenyld thought there was no one to equal their prince Hynde Horn. They would serve him loyally when he was king and they were men.

All went well in the palace of this far-off eastern land until Hynde Horn was fifteen years of age. Then war came, without warning, into this country of blue sky and blazing sun.

Mury, King of the Turks, landed in the kingdom of King Allof, who was all unprepared for fight. And King Mury, with his fierce soldiers, pillaged the land, killed the good King Allof, seized his crown, and placed it on his own head.

Then poor Queen Godylt fled from the palace, taking with her Hynde Horn and his two playmates Prince Athulph and Prince Fykenyld.

I cannot tell you what became of the beautiful queen, but Mury, the cruel king, captured Hynde Horn and made him and his two playfellows prisoners.

What should he do with Prince Horn, who was heir to the kingdom he had seized?

Should he kill the lad, he wondered. Yet cruel as King Mury was, he could not do so dastardly a deed.

But Hynde Horn was tall and strong, and Hynde Horn was loved by the people. He must certainly be sent out of the country.

So King Mury planned, and King Mury plotted, and at length he thought of a way, by which he hoped to be for ever rid of the gallant prince and his two companions.

He ordered the prisoners to be brought down to the seashore, and there the lads were thrust into an open boat, and pushed out to sea. It seemed as though they must perish, for King Mury had given orders that no provisions were to be placed in the boat.

There was neither helm nor oar for the little craft. The lads could do nothing to guide her on her dangerous course. Now they would drift gently on the swell of the quiet sea, now they would whirl giddily on the crest of a storm-tossed wave. Faint and weary grew Hynde Horn and his two companions. It seemed to them that they would perish from hunger or be devoured by the storm.

Yet every day the little boat was drifted by soft breezes or driven by wild storm-clouds westward and always westward. At length one day a great wave came and lifted it high up on to the coast. The boys had reached Scotland, the country over which King Alymer ruled.

Now it chanced that King Alymer was passing along the sea-coast, and seeing the lads lying there, pale and bruised, he ordered that they should be carried to the palace, that they might be fed and that their wounds might be bathed.

So carefully were they tended in the palace of King Alymer that soon roses bloomed again on the cheeks of Hynde Horn and his two companions, strength crept back to their bruised bodies.

Ere many weeks had passed all in the palace loved Hynde Horn and knew that he was a prince worthy of his name.

When the prince was well, King Alymer listened to the story the lad had to tell, the story of his ruined home, his lost kingdom, his suffering at the hands of the cruel King Mury.

And King Alymer, for he was gentle at heart, shed a tear as he heard.

'Thou shalt stay at our court, Hynde Horn,' he said, 'and learn all that a prince should learn. Then, when thou art older, thou shalt go to war with Mury, the cruel king of the Turks. Thou shalt win back thine own kingdom and rule over it.'

Then the king called for Athelbras, his steward, and bade him care for Prince Horn and his two companions.

A suite of rooms was given to the prince in the palace, and here he and his playfellows were trained in all courtly ways.

When his studies were over, Hynde Horn would go out to hawk and hunt. Often, too, he would wrestle and tilt with his companions, so that in days to come he would be able to take his place in battle and in tournament.

But one day King Alymer heard the young prince's voice as he sang. So pure, so sweet rang the voice that the king said to himself, 'Hynde Horn shall be trained by the best harpist in our land.'

Then happy days began for the young prince. Rather would he sing, as he touched softly the cords of the harp, than would he fight or tilt; rather would he sing and play, than go to hunt and hawk. Yet well had he loved these sports in former days.

Now, King Alymer had one daughter, the Princess Jean. Dearly did the king love his daughter, and ofttimes he stroked her hair and wished that she had a playfellow to cheer her in his absence. For when the king would journey from city to city to see that justice and right ruled throughout the land, his child was left alone.

But now that Hynde Horn and his companions had come, the king knew that the Princess Jean would no longer be dull while he was away.

She, too, in the early days after the prince came to the palace, would ride to hunt and hawk, Hynde Horn by her side. And later she would listen as he talked to her of his beautiful home under the eastern sky, of his dear lost mother, Godylt, and his father, King Allof, who was slain by the cruel Mury.

She would listen, her eyes dim with tears, for she knew how well he had loved his home in the far-off East.

But her eyes would flash as he told of the cruel King Mury, and of how one day he would go back to his kingdom and win it from the hand of the evil king.

Her eyes would flash and her heart would beat, yet when she was alone she would weep. For what would she do if Hynde Horn went away to the far East and she was left alone? To the Princess Jean it seemed that the palace would be empty were Prince Horn no longer dwelling there.

Well, the years rolled on and Hynde Horn was no longer a boy, Princess Jean no longer a girl. They both had changed in many ways, but in one way both were still as they had been when they were boy and girl together. They had loved each other then, they loved each other now. So well did they love one another that they went to King Alymer and told him that they wished to marry, and that without delay.

Now the king was well pleased that Hynde Horn should marry his beautiful daughter the Princess Jean, but he was not willing that the wedding should be at once.

'Thou must wait, my daughter,' said the king; 'thou must wait to wed Hynde Horn until he has journeyed to the far East and won back the kingdom Mury so unjustly wrested from him. Then, when he has shown himself as brave as he is courteous, then shall the wedding be without delay.'

Thus it was that a few days later Hynde Horn and Princess Jean stood together to say farewell one to another. Hynde Horn was going away to win his spurs, to show himself worthy of the lady whom he loved.

Before he left her, he gave her a beautiful silver wand, and on the wand were perched seven living larks. They would warble to the Princess Jean when Hynde Horn was no longer near to sing to her, as had been his wont, in his soft sweet voice.

And the Princess Jean drew from her own finger a ring, and seven diamonds shone therein. She placed it on the finger of her dear Hynde Horn, and said, 'As long as the diamonds in this ring flash bright, thou wilt know I love thee as I do now. Should the gleam of the diamonds fade and grow dim, thou wilt know, not that my love grows less, for that may never be, but thou wilt know that evil hath befallen me.'

Then sadly they parted and Hynde Horn, the ring on his finger, hastened down to the shore. Swiftly he embarked in the ship that awaited him, and sailed away. On and on for many a long day he sailed, until he reached the kingdom which Mury the king had seized when he killed King Allof.

Here Hynde Horn warred against King Mury until he overcame him and won again the kingdom of the East for himself, the rightful heir. And the people over whom he ruled rejoiced, for Hynde Horn, though he no longer was prince but king, did not forget his kind and courteous ways.

For seven years King Horn ruled in this distant land, doing many a deed of daring meanwhile, and winning both gold and glory for himself.

Ofttimes during these long years he would glance at the diamond ring which the Princess Jean had given to him, and always the diamonds flashed back bright. Then one day, when his work was over and he knew he was free to go again to the princess, his heart wellnigh stopped for fear. He had looked downward at his ring, and lo! the diamonds were dull and dim. Their lustre had vanished.

The Princess Jean must be in trouble, or already evil had befallen her.

Hynde Horn hastened down to the seashore, and there he hired a ship to sail speedily to Scotland, where King Alymer ruled.

The ship sailed swiftly, yet the days seemed long to King Horn. Oft he would gaze at his ring, but only to find the diamonds growing always more dull, more dim. Hynde Horn longed as he had never longed before to be once more beside the Princess Jean that he might guard her from all harm.

Fair blew the wind, onward sailed the ship, and at length Hynde Horn saw land, and knew that he was drawing near to Scotland.

A little later he had reached the coast and had begun his journey towards the palace.

As he hastened on, King Horn met a beggar man.

'Old man,' cried Hynde Horn, 'I have come from far across the sea. Tell me what news there is in this country, for it is many a long day since I have been in Scotland.'

'There is little news,' said the beggar, 'little news, for we dwell secure under our gracious King Alymer. To be sure, in the palace there is rejoicing. The feast has already been spread for forty days and more. To-day is the wedding-day of the king's daughter, the Princess Jean.'

Ah, now Hynde Horn understood why his diamonds had grown dull and dim. His beautiful princess had not forgotten him. Of that he was quite sure. But King Alymer and his people had grown weary of waiting for his return. Seven years had seemed a long, long time, and now the king was anxious that his daughter should marry and wait no longer for the return of Hynde Horn.

And, but this King Horn did not know, Fykenyld, his old companion, loved the princess, and had wooed her long and was waiting to marry her. False to Hynde Horn was Fykenyld, for ever did he say, 'Hynde Horn is dead,' or 'Hynde Horn hath forgotten the Princess Jean,' or 'Hynde Horn hath married one of the dark-haired princesses in the far-off East.' And never did he leave the palace to go in search of his old playfellow, whom he had once longed to serve.

Now King Alymer had listened to Fykenyld's words, and though he did not believe Hynde Horn would forget his daughter, he did believe that Hynde Horn might be dead. Thus it was that he commanded Princess Jean to look no longer for the return of Hynde Horn, but without more delay to marry Prince Fykenyld.

And the princess, pale and sad, worn out by long waiting, promised to look no more for Hynde Horn. To please her father and his people, she even promised to marry Hynde Horn's old playfellow, Prince Fykenyld.

Ah, but had they only known, King Horn was already hastening towards the palace. Already he had learned that the wedding had not yet taken place.

Now he was speaking to the beggar again, quickly, impatiently.

'Old man, lend me your torn and tattered coat. Thou shalt have my scarlet cloak in its place. Thy staff, too, I must have. Instead of it thou shalt have my horse.'

You see the young king had made up his mind to go to the palace dressed as a beggar.

But the old man was puzzled. Could the young prince from across the sea really wish to dress in his torn rags? Well, it was a strange wish, but right glad would he be to have the scarlet cloak, the gallant steed.

When King Horn had donned his disguise, he cried, 'Tell me now, how dost thou behave thyself when thou comest to the palace to beg?'

'Ah, sir,' said the old man, 'thou must not walk thus upright. Thou must not look all men boldly in the face. As thou goest up the hill, thou must lean heavily on thy staff, thou must cast thine eyes low to the ground. When thou comest to the gate of the palace, thou must tarry there until the hour for the king to dine. Then mayest thou go to the great gate and ask an alms for the sake of St. Peter and St. Paul, but none shalt thou take from any hand, save from the hand of the young bride herself.'

Hynde Horn thanked the old beggar man, and, bidding him farewell, set off up the hill toward the palace gate. And no one looking at him in the tattered coat, bending half double over his staff, no one could have guessed that this beggar man was the brave and courteous Hynde Horn.

Now when at length King Horn reached the palace gate, the wedding feast was spread.

Princess Jean was sitting on the throne beside her father, Prince Fykenyld on her other side, smiling to himself.

He would soon be wedded to the princess, he thought, and in days to come he would reign with her over King Alymer's wide domains. Fykenyld had no thought to spare for his old playmate, save to be glad that he had never returned from the far East to claim his bride.

But though seven long years had rolled away, Princess Jean had not forgotten Hynde Horn. Forgotten! Nay, day and night he was in her thought, in her heart. Yet was she sure that he would never now return.

It is true that in her despair she had yielded to her father's wishes; she had promised to wed Prince Fykenyld that very day. It was no wonder then that she sat on the throne sad at heart, pale of face.

Hynde Horn had knocked at the palace gate. It was no humble beggar's rap he gave, but a bold, impatient knock. King Horn had forgotten for the moment that he was only a beggar man.

The palace gate was flung wide. One of the noble guests had arrived, thought the porter. But when he saw a beggar standing before him, he wellnigh slammed the gate in the poor man's face.

Before he could do this Hynde Horn spoke, and his voice made the porter pause to listen, so sweet, so soft it was. It brought back to the rough old man the thought of Hynde Horn, for he had been used to speak in just such a tone.

The porter cleared his voice, wiped his eyes, for he, as all others who dwelt in the palace, had loved Hynde Horn, and grieved sorely for his absence.

For the sake of Hynde Horn it was that the porter listened to the beggar man's request.

'I have come to ask for alms, yet will I take them from none save from the hand of the Princess Jean herself, and from across the sea,' said the beggar man.

Still hearing the sound of the lost prince's voice, the porter bade the beggar wait, and stealing up into the hall unnoticed, he passed through the crowd of gay lords and ladies until he reached the princess.

'A beggar from across the sea begs alms, yet none will he have save from the hand of the Princess Jean herself,' said the porter boldly. Then -- for he had known the princess from the time that she was only a tiny little girl -- then he added in a whisper: 'The man hath a voice soft and sweet as that of our lost Prince Horn.'

Princess Jean heard, and not a moment did she pause.

She stepped down from the throne, took a cup of red wine in her hand, and heeding not the astonished stare of lord and lady, she hastened out to the palace gate.

Very beautiful she looked in her long white robe, her gold combs glinting in her hair.

'Drink,' she said gently, as she stood before the beggar, 'drink, and then haste to tell me what tidings thou dost bring from across the sea.'

'Drink,' she said gently, 'drink'

The beggar took the cup of wine and drank. As he handed back the cup to the princess he dropped into it the diamond ring, which had been dull and dim for many a long day now.

Princess Jean saw the ring. She knew it was the very one she had given to Hynde Horn. Her heart bounded. Now at least she would hear tidings of her long-lost love.

'Oh tell me, tell me quick,' she cried, 'where didst thou find this ring? Was it on the sea or in a far-off country that thou didst find it, or was it on the finger of a dead man? Tell me, oh tell me quick!' cried the Princess Jean.

'Neither by sea nor by land did I find the ring,' answered the beggar, 'nor on a dead man's hand. It was given to me by one who loved me well, and I, I give it back to her on this her wedding-day.' As Hynde Horn spoke he stood up, straight and tall, and looked straight into the eyes of the Princess Jean.

Then, in a flash, she understood. In spite of the tattered coat, she knew her own Hynde Horn.

Her pale cheeks glowed, her dim eyes shone.

'Hynde Horn!' she cried, 'my own Hynde Horn, I will never let thee leave me again. I will throw away my golden combs, I will put on my oldest gown, and I will come with thee, and together we will beg for bread.'

King Horn smiled, and his voice was soft as he answered, 'No need is there to take the gold combs from thy hair or to change thy white robe for one less fair. This is thy wedding-day, and I have come to claim my bride.' And King Horn flung aside the old torn coat, and the Princess Jean saw that beneath the rags Hynde Horn was clothed as one of kingly rank.

Then throughout the palace the tidings spread, 'Hynde Horn hath come back, Hynde Horn hath come back, and now is he king of his own country.'

And that very day King Horn was wedded to the beautiful Princess Jean, with her father's blessing, and amid the rejoicings of the people.

And Prince Fykenyld slunk away, ashamed to look his old playmate in the face.

Not many months passed ere King Horn and Queen Jean sailed away to reign together in the far East. And never again in the years to come did the diamonds on King Horn's ring grow dull or dim.



Thomas The Rhymer


It is six hundred years ago since Thomas the Rhymer lived and rhymed, and in those far-off days little need was there to tell his tale. It was known far and wide throughout the countryside.

Thomas was known as Thomas the Rhymer because of the wonderful songs he sang. Never another harper in all the land had so great a gift as he. But at that no one marvelled, no one, that is to say, who knew that he had gained his gift in Elfland.

When Thomas took his harp in his hand and touched the strings, a hush would fall upon those who heard, were they princes or were they peasants. For the magic of his music reached the hearts of all who stood around him. Were the strains merry, gleeful? The faces of those who heard were wreathed in smiles. Were they sad, melancholy? The faces of those who looked upon the harpist were bathed in tears. Truly Thomas the Rhymer held the hearts of the people in his hand.

But the minstrel had another name, wonderful as the one I have already told to you.

Thomas the Rhymer was named True Thomas, and that was because, even had he wished it, Thomas could not say or sing what was not true.

This gift too, as you will hear, was given to him by the Queen of Elfland.

And yet another name had this wonderful singer.

He was born, so the folk said, in a little village called Ercildoune. He lived there, so the folk knew, in a castle strongly built on the banks of a little river. Thus to those who dwelt in the countryside the Rhymer was known as Thomas of Ercildoune. The river which flowed past the castle was the Leader. It flowed broader and deeper until two miles beyond the village it ran into the beautiful river Tweed. And to-day the ruins of an old tower are visited by many folk who have heard that it was once the home of the ancient harpist.

Thomas of Ercildoune, Thomas the Rhymer, and True Thomas were thus only different names for one marvellous man who sang and played, never told an untruth, and who, moreover, was able to tell beforehand events that were going to take place.

Listen, and I will tell you how Thomas of Ercildoune came to visit Elfland.

It was one beautiful May morning that Thomas felt something stirring in his heart. Spring had come, spring was calling to him. He could stay no longer in the grim tower on the banks of the Leader. He would away, away to the woods where the thrush and the jay were singing, where the violets were peeping forth with timid eyes, where the green buds were bursting their bonds for very joy.

Thomas hastened to the woods and threw himself down by the bank of a little brook.

Ah yes! spring has come. How the little birds sing, how the gentle breezes whisper! Yet listen! what is it Thomas hears beyond the song of the birds, the whisper of the breeze?

On the air floats the sound of silver bells. Thomas raises his head. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle! The sound draws nearer, clearer. It is music such as one might hear in Elfland.

Beyond the wood, over the lonely moors, rode a lady. So fair a lady had Thomas never seen.

Her palfrey was dapple-grey and she herself shone as the summer sun. Her saddle was of pure ivory, bright with many precious stones and hung with cloth of richest crimson.

The girths of her saddle were of silk and the buckles were each one a beryl. Her stirrups of clear crystal and adorned with pearls hung ready for her fairy feet. The trappings of her palfrey were of finest embroidery, her bridle was a chain of gold.

From the palfrey's mane hung little silver bells, nine-and-fifty little silver bells. It was the fairy music of the bells that had reached the ears of Thomas as he lay dreaming on the bank of the little brook.

The lady's skirt was green, green as the leaves of spring, her cloak was of fine velvet. Her long black hair hung round her as a veil, and her brow was adorned with gems.

By her side were seven greyhounds, other seven she led by a leash. From her neck hung a horn and in her belt was thrust a sheath of arrows.

It seemed as though the lady gay were on her way to the hunting-field.

Now she would blow her horn until the echoes answered merrily, merrily; now she would trill her songs, until the wild birds answered gaily, gaily.

Thomas of Ercildoune gazed, and Thomas of Ercildoune listened, and his heart gave a great bound as he said to himself, 'Now, by my troth, the lady is none of mortal birth. She is none other than Mary, the Queen of Heaven.'

Then up sprang Thomas from the little woodland brook and away sped he over the mountain-side, that he might, so it were possible, reach her as she rode by the Eildon tree, which tree grew on the side of the Eildon hills.

'For certainly,' said Thomas, 'if I do not speak with that lady bright, my heart will break in three.'

And in sooth, as she dismounted under the Eildon tree, Thomas met the lady, and kneeling low beneath the greenwood, he spoke, thus eager was he to win a benison from the Queen of Heaven.

'Lovely lady, have pity upon me, even as thou art mother of the Child who died for me.'

'Nay now, nay now,' said the lady gay, 'no Queen of Heaven am I. I come but from the country thou dost call Elfland, though queen of that country in truth I am. I do but ride to the hunt with my hounds as thou mayest hear.' And she blew on her horn merrily, merrily.

Now Thomas did not wish to lose sight of so fair a lady.

'Go not back to Elfland; stay by my side under the Eildon tree,' he pleaded.

'Nay,' said the Queen of Elfland, 'should I stay with thee, a mortal, my fairness would fade as fades a leaf.'

But Thomas did not believe her, and, for he was a bold man, he drew near and kissed the rosy lips of the Elfland Queen.

Alas, alas! no sooner had he kissed her than the lady fair changed into a tired old woman.

She no longer wore a skirt of beautiful green, but a long robe of hodden grey covered her from head to foot. The light, bright as the summer sun that had shone around her, faded, and her face grew pale and thin. Her eyes no longer danced for joy, they gazed dull and dim before her. And on one side of her head the long black hair had changed to grey.

Under the Eildon tree Thomas met the lady

It was a sight to make one sad, and Thomas, as he gazed, cried, as well he might, 'Alas, alas!'

'Thyself hast sealed thy doom, Thomas,' cried the lady. 'Thou must come with me to Elfland. Haste thou therefore to bid farewell to sun and moon, to trees and flowers, for, come weal, come woe, thou must e'en serve me for a twelvemonth.'

Then Thomas fell upon his knees and prayed to Mary mild that she would have pity upon him.

But when he arose the Queen of Elfland bade him mount behind her, and Thomas could do nought save obey her command.

Her steed flew forward, the Eildon hills opened, and horse and riders were in the caverns of the earth.

Thomas felt darkness close around him. On they rode, on and yet on; swift as the wind they rode. Water reached to his knee, above and around him was darkness, and ever and anon the booming of the waves.

For three days they rode. Then Thomas grew faint with hunger and cried, 'Woe is me, I shall die for lack of food.'

As he cried, the darkness grew less thick, and they were riding forward into light. Bright sunlight lay around them as they rode toward a garden. It was a garden such as Thomas had never seen on earth.

All manner of fruit was there, apples and pears, dates and damsons, figs and currants, all ripe, ready to be plucked. In this beautiful garden, too, there were birds, nightingales building their nests, gay popinjays flitting hither and thither among the trees, thrushes singing their sweetest songs.

But these Thomas neither saw nor heard. Thomas had eyes only for the fruit, and he thrust forth his hand to pluck it, so hungry, so faint was he.

'Let be the fruit, Thomas,' cried the lady, 'let be the fruit. For dost thou pluck it, thy soul will go to an evil place, nor shall it escape until the day of doom. Leave the fruit, Thomas, and come lay thy head upon my knee, and I will show thee a sight fairer than ever mortal hath seen. And Thomas, being fain to rest, lay down as he was bid, and closed his eyes.

'Now open thine eyes, Thomas,' said the lady, 'and thou shalt see three roads before thee. Narrow and straight is the first, and hard is it to walk there, for thorns and briars grow thick, and spread themselves across the pathway. Straight up over the mountain-tops on into the city of God runs this straight and narrow road. It is named the path of Goodness. And ever will the thorns prick and the briars spread, for few there be who tread far on this rough and prickly road.

'Look yet again, Thomas,' said the lady. And Thomas saw stretching before him a long white road. It ran smooth and broad across a grassy plain, and roses blossomed, and lilies bloomed by the wayside. 'That,' said the lady, 'is named the path of Evil, and many there be who saunter along its broad and easy surface.'

Thomas said no word, but lay looking at the third pathway as it twisted and twined in and out amid the cool, green nooks of the woodland. Tiny rills caught the sunlight and tossed it back to the cold, grey rock down which they trickled; tiny ferns waved a welcome from their sheltered crevices. 'This,' said the lady, 'this is the fair road to Elfland, and along its beauteous way must thou and I ride this very night. But speak thou to none, Thomas, when thou comest to Elfland. Though strange the sights you see, the sounds you hear, speak thou to none, for never mortal returns to his own country does he speak one word in the land of Elfs.'

Then once again Thomas mounted behind the lady, and hard and fast did they ride until they saw before them a castle. It stood on a high hill, fair and strong, and as it came in sight the lady reined in her white steed.

'See, Thomas, see!' she cried, 'here is the castle that is mine and his who is king of this country. None like it is there, for beauty or for strength, in the land from which thou comest. My lord is waited on by knights, of whom there are thirty in this castle. A noble lord is mine, nor would he wish to hear how thou wert bold and kissed me under the Eildon tree. Bear thou in mind, Thomas, that thou speak no word, nay, not though thou art commanded to tell thy tale. I will say to my courtiers that I took from thee the power of speech ere ever we crossed the sea.'

Thomas listened, and dared not speak. Thomas stood still, still as a stone, and gazed upon the lady, and lo! a great wonder came to pass.

Once more the lady shone bright as the sun upon a summer's morn, once more she wore her skirt of green, green as the leaves of spring, and her velvet cloak hung around her shoulders. Her eyes flashed and her long hair waved once more black in the breeze.

And Thomas, looking at his own garments, started to see that they too were changed. For he was now clothed in a suit of beautiful soft cloth, and on his feet were a pair of green velvet shoes.

Clear and loud the lady fair blew her horn, clear and loud, and forward she rode toward the castle gate.

Then down to welcome their queen trooped all the fairy court, and kneeling low before her, they did her reverence.

Into the hall she stepped, Thomas following close at her side, silent as one who had no power to speak.

They crowded around him, the knights and squires; they asked him questions about his own country, yet no word dared Thomas answer.

Then arose great revelry and feasting in the castle of the Elfin Queen.

Harps and fiddles played their wildest and most gladsome tunes, knights and ladies danced, and all went merry as a marriage bell.

Across the hall Thomas looked, and there a strange sight met his glance. Thirty harts and as many deer lay on the oaken floor, and bending over them, their knives in their hands, were elfin cooks, making ready for the feast. Thomas wondered if it were but a dream, so strange seemed the sights he saw.

Gaily passed the days, and Thomas had no wish to leave the strange Elfland. But a day came when the queen said to Thomas, 'Now must thou begone from Elfland, Thomas, and I, myself, will ride with you back to your own country.'

'Nay now, but three days have I dwelt in thy realm,' said Thomas, 'with but little cheer. Give me leave to linger yet a little while.'

'Indeed, indeed, Thomas,' cried the Queen of Elfland, 'thou hast been with me for seven long years and more, but now thou must away ere the dawn of another day. To-morrow there comes an evil spirit from the land of darkness to our fair realm. He comes each year to claim our most favoured and most courteous guest, and it will be thou, Thomas, thou, whom he will wish to carry to his dark abode. But we tarry not his coming. By the light of the moon we ride to-night to the land of thy birth.'

Once again the lady fair mounted her white palfrey, and Thomas rode behind until she brought him safe back to the Eildon tree.

There, under the leaves of the greenwood, while the little birds sang their lays, the Queen of Elfland said farewell to Thomas.

'Farewell, Thomas, farewell, I may no longer stay with thee.'

'Give me a token,' pleaded Thomas, 'a token ere thou leavest me, that mortals may know that I have in truth been with thee in Elfland.'

'Take with thee, then,' said the lady, 'take with thee the gift of harp and song, and likewise the power to tell that which will come to pass in future days. Nor ever shall thy tales be false, Thomas, for I have taken from thee the power to speak aught save only what is true.'

She turned to ride away, away to Elfland. Then Thomas was sad, and tears streamed from his grey eyes, and he cried, 'Tell me, lady fair, shall I never meet thee more?'

'Yea,' said the Elf Queen, 'we shall meet again, Thomas. When thou art in thy castle of Ercildoune and hearest of a hart and hind that come out of the forest and pace unafraid through the village, then come thou down to seek for me here, under the Eildon tree.'

Then loud and clear blew she her horn and rode away. Thus Thomas parted from the Elfin Queen.

On earth seven slow long years had passed away since Thomas had been seen in the little village of Ercildoune, and the villagers rubbed their eyes and stared with open mouth as they saw him once again in their midst.

Ofttimes now Thomas was to be seen wandering down from his grim old castle down to the bonny greenwood. Ofttimes was he to be found lying on the bank of the little brook that babbled to itself as it ran through the forest, or under the Eildon tree, where he had met the Elf Queen so long before.

He would be dreaming as he lay there of the songs he would sing to the country folk. So beautiful were these songs that people hearing them knew that Thomas the Rhymer had a gift that had been given to him by no mortal hand.

He would be thinking, too, as he lay by the babbling brook, of the wars and dangers that in years to come would fall upon his country. And those who hearkened to the woes he uttered found that the words of True Thomas never failed to come to pass.

Seven long years passed away since Thomas had parted from the Elfland Queen, and yet another seven.

War had raged here and there throughout the land, when on a time it chanced that the Scottish army encamped close to the castle of Ercildoune where Thomas the Rhymer dwelt.

It was a time of truce, and Thomas wished to give a feast to the gallant soldiers who had been fighting for their country.

Thus it was that the doors of the old castle were flung wide, and noise and laughter filled the banquet-hall. Merry were the tales, loud the jests, bright the minstrel strains that night in the castle of Ercildoune.

But when the feast was over Thomas himself arose, the harp he had brought from Elfland in his hand, and a hush fell upon the throng, upon lords and ladies, and upon rough armed men.

The cheeks of rugged warriors that day were wet ere ever Thomas ceased to sing. Nor ever in the years to come did those who heard forget the magic of his song.

Night fell, those who had feasted had gone to rest, when in the bright moonlight a strange sight was seen by the village folk.

Along the banks of the Leader there paced side by side a hart and a hind, each white, white as newly fallen snow.

Slowly and with stately steps they moved, nor were they affrighted by the crowd which gathered to gaze at them.

Then, for True Thomas would know the meaning of so strange a sight, then a messenger was sent in haste to the castle of Ercildoune.

As he listened to the tale the messenger brought, Thomas started up out of bed and in haste he put on his clothes. Pale and red did he grow in turn as he listened to the tale, yet all he said was this: 'My sand is run, my thread is spun, this token is for me.'

Thomas hung his elfin harp around his neck, his minstrel cloak across his shoulders, and out into the pale moonlight he walked. And as he walked the wind touched the strings of the elfin harp and drew forth a wail so full of dole that those who heard it whispered: 'It is a note of death.'

On walked Thomas, slow and sad, and oft he turned to look again at the grim walls of the castle, which he knew he would never see again.

And the moonbeams fell upon the grey tower, and in the soft light the walls grew less grim, less stern, so thought Thomas.

'Farewell,' he cried, 'farewell. Nor song nor dance shall evermore find place within thy walls. On thy hearthstone shall the wild hare seek a refuge for her young. Farewell to Leader, the stream I love, farewell to Ercildoune, my home.'

As Thomas tarried for a last look, the hart and the hind drew near. Onward then he went with them toward the banks of the Leader, and there, before the astonished folk, he crossed the stream with his strange companions, and nevermore was Thomas the Rhymer seen again.

For many a day among the hills and through the glens was Thomas sought, but never was he found. There be some who say that he is living yet in Elfland, and that one day he will come again to earth.

Meanwhile he is not forgotten. The Eildon tree no longer waves its branches in the breeze, but a large stone named the Eildon-tree stone marks the spot where once it grew. And near to the stone flows a little river which has been named the Goblin Brook, for by its banks it was believed that Thomas the Rhymer used to talk with little men from the land of Elf.



Lizzie Lindsay


In the fair city of Edinburgh there lived many many years ago a beautiful maiden named Lizzie Lindsay. Her home was in the Canongate, which is now one of the poorest parts of the city.

But in the days when Lizzie danced and sang, and made her father's and mother's heart rejoice, the Canongate was the home of all the richest lords and ladies.

For close to the Canongate was Holyrood, the palace where the king held his court. And it was well, thought the lords and ladies of long ago, to live near the palace where there were many gay sights to be seen.

Lizzie had been a bonny wee girl, and as she grew up she grew bonnier still, until, not only in Edinburgh, but far and wide throughout the country, people would speak of her beauty. Even the folk who dwelt away over the hills in the Highlands heard of the beauty of Lizzie Lindsay.

Dame Lindsay loved her daughter well, and gave her beautiful gowns of silk and velvet. Her father, too, would bring her home many a sparkling jewel, many a brilliant gem. It seemed as though Lizzie Lindsay had all that her heart could wish.

Certainly she did not wish to leave her home in the Canongate, for though lord after lord, noble after noble begged for her hand, Lizzie but tossed her beautiful head high in the air as she said them nay.

But though it was well known that the lovely maiden had kind looks and gentle words to spare for none save only her dear father and her doting mother, yet still the lords and nobles would dance more gladly with Lizzie than with any other maiden. And a ball, even a ball given by the court at the palace of Holyrood, seemed to be less gladsome were it known that the fair maiden would not be there.

Now, as I have told you, the fame of Lizzie Lindsay's beauty had spread even to the Highlands. And Donald, the young laird of Kingcaussie, heard that she was fairer than any other maiden in the land, and that she was haughtier and more wilful as well. For she would have nought to say, to any of the rich suitors who surrounded her.

Then Donald, who was tall and handsome, and who was used to have his own way, smiled as he heard of Lizzie's wilful spirit and her great beauty. He made up his mind that he would go to Edinburgh and try to win as his bride the bonnie lassie who would have nought to do with noble or with lord.

The young laird lived with his father and mother in a castle built high amid the heather-covered hills, and little until now had Donald cared for city ways or city walls. To hunt the deer, to chase the roe, to spend the long hours from early morn until even among the heathery moors which were all his own, had been happiness enough for him.

But now, now the glory faded from the heather, and the hunt and chase lost their delight. Sir Donald's heart was in the fair city of Edinburgh with beautiful Lizzie Lindsay, whom, though he had not seen, he loved.

At length one day the young laird went to his lady mother and, kissing her hand right courteously, he begged her to grant him a boon. For Donald had been well trained, and, though he was no longer a boy, he did not dream of leaving his home among the hills until he had gained his mother's consent.

'Grant me a boon, lady mother,' said the young laird. 'Send me away to the fair city of Edinburgh, for it is there that my true love dwells. And if ye will do this I will bring you home a daughter more beautiful than any other maiden in the land.'

Now the young laird's mother had heard of Lizzie Lindsay, and it may be that she was glad that her son should wish to bring to the castle so beautiful a bride. Yet she had no wish for the maiden to be won by aught save by love for her dear son alone.

Lizzie had refused to wed with lord or noble, it was true, yet the broad lands, the ancient castle of the MacDonalds, might please her fancy. But the Lady of Kingcaussie determined that neither for land nor for castle should bonnie Lizzie Lindsay come to the Highlands.

When she saw young Donald at her side, and heard him begging leave to go to the fair city of Edinburgh, she smiled as she looked into his eager face, and answered slowly, 'My son, ye shall go to Edinburgh an it please you, and so ye are able ye shall bring back with you Lizzie Lindsay as your bride. A fairer maiden, I can well believe, has never graced these walls. Yet, if ye go, it shall not be as Sir Donald MacDonald, the heir to broad lands and ancient castles, but as a simple stranger, without riches and without rank. Then, if ye do win your bride, it will be through love alone,' said his mother gravely. But her eyes shone bright and glad, for she thought that there was not a maiden in all the land who would not be proud to wed her son, though he had neither riches nor lands.

As for the old laird, he laughed when he heard why his son had grown weary at the hunt and listless at the chase. He laughed and cried, 'Let the lad go to the city; before a year has passed away he will be home again and the beautiful Lizzie Lindsay with him.' For his old father, too, thought that no maiden could refuse to love his bonny self-willed son.

Well, young Donald was too anxious to be off and away to Edinburgh to be grieved to go as a simple Highlander. Before the day was over he had said farewell to his light-hearted old father and to his gentle lady mother, and clad in a rough tartan kilt and without a servant to follow him, the young laird was off to the fair city of Edinburgh.

When Donald reached Edinburgh he wondered how he would see the maiden of whose beauty and of whose cleverness he had so often heard.

He had not long to wait, for he had scarce been a day in the city when he heard that a great ball was to be given and to be graced by the presence of the fair maiden whom he hoped to win as his bride.

Donald made up his mind that he too would go to the ball, and it was easy for him to do this, as there were many in the city who knew the young laird.

When he entered the ballroom he saw that the lords and nobles were dressed in suits of velvet or silk and satins, while he wore only his kilt of rough tartan.

The lords and ladies too stared at the tall handsome young Highlander in his strange garments, and some, who did not know him, forgot their good manners and smiled and nudged each other as he passed down the room.

But the young laird had no thought to spare for the crowd. He was making his way to the circle, in the midst of which stood Lizzie Lindsay. He had heard too often of the beautiful maiden not to be sure it was she as soon as his eyes fell upon her face.

Young Donald, in his homespun tartan, stood on the outskirt of the little crowd that surrounded her, listening. The lords in their gay suits were doing their utmost to win the goodwill of the maiden, but their flattery and foolish words seemed to give her little pleasure. Indeed she was too used to them to find them aught but a weariness.

Soon Donald was bowing before the maiden he had left his home to win, and begging her to dance with him. And something in the bright eyes and gallant bearing of young Donald pleased the petted maiden, and, despite his rough suit, she had nought but smiles for the young stranger from the Highlands.

The lords, in their silks and velvets, opened their eyes wide in astonishment as Lizzie glided past them with young Donald; the ladies smiled and flouted her, but the maiden paid no heed to their words or looks.

Donald was not flattering her as she was used to be flattered, he was telling her of the country in which he dwelt. And Lizzie as she listened heard the hum of the bees, smelt the fragrance of the heather. Nay, she even forgot the ballroom, and she was out on the silent moorland or climbing the steep mountains side by side with the young stranger whose face was so eager, whose eyes were so bright. She was stooping to pluck the wildflowers that grew in the nooks of some sheltered glen, or she was kilting her dainty gown and crossing the mountain streamlets, and ever the tall, young stranger was by her side.

Before the ball was over Donald knew that Lizzie Lindsay's home was in the Canongate, and he had begged to be allowed to see her there.

Lizzie had no wish to lose sight of the bright young Highlander, and she told him gaily that if he came to the Canongate to see her he should be welcome, both to her and her dear father and mother.

When the dance ended the young laird went to his lodgings, and his heart was light and his dreams glad. His old father had thought he might be in Edinburgh a year ere he won his bride. But young Donald murmured to himself that it would scarce be twelve long months before he was back again to the Highlands with his bonny Lizzie Lindsay.

The next day Donald was at the Canongate betimes, and Lizzie welcomed him merrily, and her father and mother looked in kindly fashion at the young stranger, for indeed Donald had the gift of winning hearts.

But neither father nor mother dreamed that the country clad youth would win their beautiful daughter's hand, for had she not refused it to many a lordly earl and noble knight.

Yet the more Lizzie heard about the Highlands, the more she longed to be there with young Donald by her side.

At length a day came when Donald, with little fear and much hope in his heart, asked the maiden if she would go with him to the Highlands.

'We will feed on curds and whey,' cried the daring young Donald; 'your cheeks will grow more pink, and your brow more white with our simple fare. Your bed shall be made on the fresh green bracken and my plaid shall wrap you round. Will ye come to the Highlands with me, Lizzie Lindsay?'

Now Lizzie had listened to young Donald's words with joy, but also with some fear. Her food had been of the daintiest, her bed of the softest down, and the young stranger, who was indeed scarce a stranger now, had, it seemed, but little to offer her save his love. Yet Lizzie still wished to go to the Highlands.

'Will ye come to the Highlands with me, Lizzie Lindsay?'

But when Dame Lindsay heard what young Donald had said she hardened her heart against the bonny young Highlander.

'Ye shall speak no more to my daughter,' she cried, 'until ye have told me where your home is, and how many broad lands are your own?' For it seemed to the old dame that a penniless lad would never dare to win her daughter, when lords and nobles had wooed her in vain.

But Donald's head was high, and he seemed to feel no shame as he answered the old dame bravely -- 

'My name is Donald MacDonald, and I hold it high in honour. My father is an old shepherd and my mother a dairymaid. Yet kind and gentle will they be to your beautiful daughter if she will come with me to the Highlands.'

Dame Lindsay could scarce believe she had heard aright. Her daughter marry a shepherd lad! Nay, that should never be, though indeed the lad was a bonny one and brave.

Then in her anger she bade young Donald begone. 'If ye do steal away my daughter, then, without doubt ye shall hang for it!' she cried.

The young laird turned haughtily on his heel. He had little patience, nor could his spirit easily brook such scorn as the old Dame flung at him.

He turned on his heel and he said, 'There is no law in Edinburgh city this day which can hang me.'

But before he could say more Lizzie was by his side. 'Come to my room, Donald,' she pleaded; and as he looked at the beautiful girl the young laird's wrath vanished as quickly as it had come. 'Come to my room for an hour until I draw a fair picture of you to hang in my bower. Ye shall have ten guineas if you will but come.'

'Your golden guineas I will not have!' cried Donald quickly. 'I have plenty of cows in the Highlands, and they are all my own. Come with me, Lizzie, and we will feed on curds and whey, and thou shalt have a bonnie blue plaid with red and green strips. Come with me, Lizzie Lindsay; we will herd the wee lambs together.'

Yet, though Lizzie loved young Donald MacDonald, she still hesitated to leave her kind parents and her beautiful home.

She sat in her bower and she said to her maid, 'Helen, what shall I do, for my heart is in the Highlands with Donald?'

Then the maid, who was wellnigh as beautiful as her mistress, cried, 'Though I were a princess and sat upon a throne, yet would I leave all to go with young Donald MacDonald.'

'O Helen!' cried Lizzie, 'would ye leave your chests full of jewels and silk gowns, and would ye leave your father and mother, and all your friends to go away with a Highland laddie who wears nought but a homespun kilt?'

But before her maid could answer her, Lizzie had sprung from her chair, saying, 'Yet I think he must be a wizard, and have enchanted me, for, come good or come ill, I must e'en go to the Highlands.'

Then early one morning Lizzie tied up her silk robes in a bundle and clad herself in one of Helen's plain gowns. With her bundle over her arm, Lizzie Lindsay was off to the Highlands with Donald MacDonald.

Donald's heart was glad as he left the fair city of Edinburgh behind him, Lizzie by his side. He had so much to tell his beautiful bride, so much, too, to show her, that at first the road seemed neither rough nor long.

But as the hours passed the way grew rougher, the hills steeper, and Lizzie's strength began to fail. Her shoes, too, which were not made for such rough journeys, were soon so worn that her feet grew hot and blistered.

'Alas!' sighed Lizzie Lindsay, 'I would I were back in Edinburgh, sitting alone in my bower.'

'We are but a few miles away from the city,' said Donald; 'will you even now go back?'

But the tears trickled slowly down the maiden's cheeks, and she sobbed, 'Now would I receive no welcome from my father, no kiss from my mother, for sore displeased will they be that I have left them for you, Donald MacDonald.'

On and on they trudged in silence, and as evening crept on Donald cried aloud, 'Dry your tears now, Lizzie, for there before us is our home,' and he pointed to a tiny cottage on the side of the hill.

An old woman stood at the door, gazing down the hill, and as they drew near she came forward with outstretched hands. 'Welcome, Sir Donald,' she said, 'welcome home to your own.'

'She spoke in Gaelic, as Highlanders do, so Lizzie did not know what she said.

Sir Donald whispered quickly in the same language, 'Hush, call me only Donald, and pretend that I am your son.' The old woman, though sore dismayed at having to treat the young laird in so homely a way, promised to do his bidding.

Then Donald turned to Lizzie. 'Here mother,' he said, 'is my lady-love, whom I have won in the fair city of Edinburgh.'

The old woman drew Lizzie into the cottage, and spoke kindly to her, but the maiden's heart sank. For a peat fire smouldered on the hearth and the room was filled with smoke. There was no easy chair, no couch on which to rest her weary body, so Lizzie dropped down on to a heap of green turf.

Her sadness did not seem to trouble Donald. He seemed gayer, happier, every moment.

'We are hungry, mother,' he said; 'make us a good supper of curds and whey, and then make us a bed of green rushes and cover us with yonder grey plaids.'

The old woman moved about eagerly as though overjoyed to do all that she could for her son and his young bride.

Curds and whey was a supper dainty enough for a queen, as Lizzie whispered to her shepherd lad with a little sigh. Even the bed of green rushes could not keep her awake. No sooner had she lain down than, worn out with her long journey, she fell fast asleep, nor did she awake until the sun was high in the sky.

As she awoke she heard Donald's voice. He was reproaching her, and she had not been used to reproach.

'It would have been well,' said Donald, 'that you had risen an hour ago to milk the cows, to tend the flock.'

The tears gathered in Lizzie's eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

'Alas, alas!' she sighed, 'I would I had never left my home, for here I am of little use. I have never milked a cow, nor do I know how to begin, and flocks have I never tended. Alas that I ever came to the Highlands! Yet well do I love Donald MacDonald, and long and dull would the days have been had he left me behind him in Edinburgh.'

'Shed no more tears, Lizzie,' said Donald gently. 'Get up and dress yourself in your silk gown, for to-day I will take you over the hills of Kingcaussie and show you the glens and dales where I used to play when I was but a little lad.'

Then Lizzie dried her tears and soon she was up and dressed in her finest gown, and leaning on Donald's arm she wandered with him over the heathery hills until they reached a noble castle.

Joyously then laughed the young laird, as he bade Lizzie gaze all around her and be glad.

'I am the lord of all you see, Lizzie,' cried he, 'for this castle is my home and the mountains are my own broad lands.'

Then joyously too laughed Lizzie Lindsay, for she knew that her shepherd lad was none other than the far-famed Sir Donald MacDonald.

At that moment the castle gates were flung wide, and the old Laird of Kingcaussie came out to greet the bride.

'Ye are welcome, Lizzie Lindsay, welcome to our castle,' he said right courteously. 'Many were the lords and nobles who begged for your hand, but it is young Donald, my son, who has won it, with no gift save the glance of his bonny blue eyes.' And the old laird laughed merrily as he looked up at his son.

The laird's gracious mother too came down to greet her, and well was she pleased that her boy had won the beautiful maiden he loved.

As for Lizzie Lindsay, she sent to Edinburgh to fetch her father and mother, that they might see for themselves how wise their daughter had been to follow Donald MacDonald to the Highlands.



The Gay Goshawk


Lord William sat alone in his grey northern castle. He had come but lately from the sunny South, and the room in which he sat struck chill after the sun-warmed rooms to which he had grown used. Little joy had Lord William in his old grey castle, for his heart was far away in the sunny South.

All alone he sat save for his favourite bird, the gay goshawk. And it, for it loved its master well, blinked a tear from its eye as it peered into Lord William's gloomy face, blinked and peered again, so pale and lean had his master grown.

'Now what ill has befallen,' thought the bird, and it ruffled its feathers in its distress.

Lord William looked up and stroked the glossy plumage of his gay goshawk.

'Be still, my bonny bird, be still,' said Lord William, 'and I will smooth your ruffled wings.'

The goshawk blinked and peered more close into the tired face of his master. Then he began to speak.

'Have you lost your sword or spear in the tournament, have you lost them in sunny England?' asked the bird, 'or are you pale with grief because your true love is far away?'

'By my troth!' cried Lord William, 'I have lost nor sword nor spear, yet do I mourn, for my true love whom I fain would see.

'You shall carry a message to her, my gay goshawk, for you can fly over hill and dale. You shall carry a letter to my love, and you shall e'en bring me an answer,' said Lord William, 'for you can speak as well as fly, my bonny bird.'

'But how shall I know your true love?' said the bird. 'Never have I seen her face or heard her voice.'

'O well will you know my true love,' cried Lord William, 'for in all England lives there none so fair as she. The cheeks of my love are red as the red red rose, and her neck, it is whiter than new-fallen snow.

'Near to her lattice window grows a birch, whose leaves tremble in the breeze. There shall you sit, my gay goshawk, and you shall sing to her as she goes to holy church.

'With four-and-twenty maidens will she go, yet well will you know my own true love, for she is the fairest of them all. You shall know her, too, by the gold that bedecks her skirt, by the light that glimmers in her hair.'

Then Lord William sat down and wrote a letter to his love, and fastened it firm under the pinion of his gay goshawk. Away flew the bird, swift did it fly to do its master's will. O'er hill and dale it winged its flight until at length it saw the birch-tree that grew near the lady's bower.

There, on the birch-tree, did the goshawk perch, and there did he sing his song as the lady with her four-and-twenty maidens passed beneath its branches towards the church.

The sharp eyes of the goshawk glanced at each beautiful maiden, and quick was he to see Lord William's love, for sweet was she as the flowers that spring in May. Gold was embroidered on her skirt, sunlight glistened in her beautiful yellow hair.

When another day dawned the gay goshawk left the birch-tree and alighted on the gate, a little nearer to the lattice window where sat the beautiful lady to whom he had been sent. Here again he sang his song. Loud and clear he sang it first, loud and clear that all might hear. Soft and sweet he sang it after, soft and sweet that only Lord William's lady might catch the note of love. And ever, loud or soft, the last words of his song were these, 'Your true love cannot come to you here.'

Then said the lady to her four-and-twenty maidens, 'Eat, my merry maidens, eat and drink, for the feast is spread. I go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds, for hark! they are singing their evensong.'

But in her heart the lady knew there was only one song she longed to hear. Wide she opened her lattice window and, leaning out, she hearkened to the song of the gay goshawk.

'Sing on, ye bonny bird,' she cried, 'sing on, for I know no song could be so sweet that came not from my own true love.'

A little nearer flew the gay goshawk, and first his song was merry as a summer morn, and then it was sad as an autumn eve.

As she listened, tears dropped from the eyes of the beautiful lady. She put out her hand and stroked the pinions of the gay goshawk, and lo! there dropped from beneath his wing Lord William's letter.

'Five letters has my master sent to you,' said the bird, 'and long has he looked for one from you, yet never has it come, and he is weary with long waiting.'

Then the lady sighed, for no letter had she ever had from her true love. 'My stepmother has hidden the letters, for never one have I seen,' she cried.

'I go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds'

Her fingers tore open the letter which had dropped from beneath the bird's wing, and she read, and as she read she laughed aloud.

Lord William had written a letter that was full of grief, because he could not come to the lady he loved, yet did the lady laugh. And this is why she laughed both long and glad. Because she had made up her mind that as he could not come to her she herself would go to Lord William.

'Carry this message to my own true love,' said she then to the gay goshawk.

'Since you cannot come to me, I myself will come to you in your cold northern country. And as a token of my love I send you by your gay goshawk a ring from off my finger, a wreath from off my yellow hair. And lest these should not please you I send my heart, and more than that can you not wish.

'Prepare the wedding feast, invite the guests, and then haste you to meet me at St. Mary's Church, for there, ere long, will you find me.

'Fly, gay goshawk, fly and carry with you my message to Lord William.'

And the bird flew o'er hill and dale until once again he reached the grey northern castle in which his master dwelt. And he saw his master's eye grow glad, his pale cheek glow as he listened to the message, as he held the tokens of his own true love.

Then the lady, left alone, closed her lattice window and went up to her own room followed by her maidens. Here she began to moan and cry as though she were in great pain, or seized by sudden illness. So ill she seemed that those who watched her feared that she would die.

'My father!' moaned the lady, 'tell my father that I am ill; bid him come to me without delay.'

Up to her room hastened her father, and sorely did he grieve when he saw that his daughter was so ill.

'Father, dear father,' she cried, holding his strong hand in her pale white one, 'grant me a boon ere I die.'

'An you ask not for the lord who lives in the cold north country, my daughter, you may ask for what you will, and it shall be granted.'

'Promise me, then,' said his daughter, 'that though I die here in the sunny South, you will carry me when I am dead to the cold grey North.

'And at the first church to which we come, tarry, that a mass may be said for my soul. At the second let me rest until the bells be tolled slow and solemn. When you come to the third church, which is named St. Mary's, grant that from thence you will not bear me until the night shades fall.'

Then her father pledged his word that all should be done as she wished.

Now as her father left her room, the lady sent her four-and-twenty maidens down to her bower that they might eat and drink. And when she was left alone she hastened to drink a sleeping draught which she had already prepared in secret.

This draught would make her seem as one who was dead. And indeed no sooner had she drunk it than she grew pale and still.

Her cruel stepmother came up into the room. She did not love the beautiful maiden, and when she saw her lying thus, so white, so cold, she laughed, and said, 'We shall soon see if she be really dead.'

Then she lit a fire in the silent room, and placing some lead in a little goblet, she stirred it over the flames with an iron spoon until it melted. When the lead was melted the stepmother carried a spoonful carefully to the side of the bed, and stood there looking down upon the still white form. It neither moved nor moaned.

'She is not dead,' murmured the cruel woman to herself; 'she deceives us, that she may be carried away to the land of her own true love. She will not lie there silent long.' And she let some drops of the burning lead fall on to the heart of the quiet maiden. Yet still the maiden never moved nor cried.

'Send for her father,' shouted the cruel stepmother, going to the door of the little room, for now she believed the maiden was really dead.

'Alas, alas!' cried her father when he came and saw his daughter lying on her white bed, so pale, so cold. 'Alas, alas, my child is dead indeed!'

Then her seven brothers wept for their beautiful sister; but when they had dried their tears, they arose and went into the forest. There they cut down a tall oak-tree and made a bier for the maiden, and they covered the oak with silver.

Her seven sisters wept for their beautiful sister when they saw that she neither stirred nor moaned. They wept, but when they had dried their tears they arose and sewed a shroud for the maiden, and at each stitch they took they fastened into it a little silver bell.

Now the duke, her father, had pledged his word that his daughter should be carried, ere she was buried, to St. Mary's Church. Her seven brothers therefore set out on the long sad journey toward the gloomy north country, carrying their sister in the silver-mounted bier. She was clad in the shroud her seven sisters had sewed, and the silver bells tinkled softly at each step her seven strong brothers took along the road.

The stepmother had no tears to shed. Indeed she had no time to weep, for she must keep strict watch over the dead maiden's seven sisters, lest they too grew ill and thus escaped her power.

As for the poor old father, he shut himself up alone to grieve for his dear lost child.

When the seven brothers reached the first church, they remembered their father's promise to their sister. They set down the bier and waited, that a mass might be sung for the lady's soul.

Then on again they journeyed until before them they saw another church.

'Here will we rest until the bell has been tolled,' they said, and again the bier was placed in the holy church.

'We will come to St. Mary's ere we tarry again,' said the seven brothers, and there they knew that their journey would be over. Yet little did they know in how strange a way it would end.

Slow and careful were the brothers' steps as they drew near to the church of St. Mary, slow and sad, for there they must part from their beautiful pale sister.

The chime of the silver bells floated on the still air, dulling the sound of the seven strong brothers' footsteps.

They were close to St. Mary's now, and as they laid the bier down the brothers started, for out of the shadows crept tall armed men, and in their midst stood Lord William. He had come as he had been bidden to meet his bride. The brothers knew him well, the lord from the cold grey country, who had stolen the heart of their beautiful sister.

'Stand back,' commanded Lord William, and his voice was stern, for not thus had he thought to meet the lady he loved. 'Stand back and let me look once more upon the face of my own true love.'

Then the seven brothers, though they had but little goodwill for the northern lord, lifted the bier and laid it at his feet, that once again he might look upon the face of their pale cold sister.

And lo! as Lord William took the hand, the cold white hand, of his true love in his own, it grew warm, as his lips touched hers they grew rosy, and the colour crept into her cheeks. Ere long she lay smiling back at her own true love with cheeks that bloomed and eyes that shone. The power of the sleeping draught was over.

'Give me bread, dear lord,' cried the lady, 'for no food have I tasted for three long days and nights, and this have I done that I might come to you, my own true love.'

When the lady had eaten she turned to her seven strong brothers. 'Begone, my seven bold brothers,' she cried, 'begone to your home in the sunny South, and tell how your sister has reached her lord.'

'Now woe betide you,' answered her bold brothers, 'for you have left your seven sisters and your old father at home to weep for you.'

'Carry my love to my old father,' cried the lady, 'and to my sisters seven. Bid them that they dry their tears nor weep for me, for I am come to my own true love.'

Then the seven brothers turned away in anger and went back to their home in the South. But Lord William carried his own true love off to the old grey castle where they were married. And the gay goshawk sang their wedding song.



The Laird O' Logie


It was when James the Sixth was king in Scotland that the young Wemyss of Logie got into sore trouble.

Wemyss of Logie was one of the king's courtiers; a tall, handsome lad he was, and a favourite with both king and queen.

Now King James had brought his wife, Queen Anne, across the sea to Scotland. Her home was in Denmark, and when she came, a royal bride, to Scotland, she brought with her a few fair Danish maids. She thought it would be dull in her new home unless she had some of her own country-folk around her.

Among these maids was a tall, beautiful girl named Margaret Twynlace. Her the queen loved well, and oft would she speak with Margaret of their old free life in the country over the sea.

It chanced on a day that the young Laird of Logie was in attendance upon the king, and the Danish maid, Margaret Twynlace, in waiting upon the queen; and that day they two looked at each other, and yet another day they two talked to each other, indeed many were the times they met. And before long it was well known at court that the young Laird of Logie loved the Danish maid Margaret, and would marry her an he could.

But now trouble befell the young laird. He had been seen talking with the Earl of Bothwell, and he a traitor to the king. Nor was it alone that Wemyss of Logie had been seen to speak with Bothwell. It was even said that he had letters written by the traitor in his room at Holyrood.

No sooner had this rumour reached the king than orders were given to search both young Logie himself and the room in which he was used to sleep.

On his person no letters were found, but in his room, flung carelessly into his trunk, lay a packet of letters tied and sealed. And the seal was that of the traitor, the Earl of Bothwell.

The young laird was taken at once before the king. He spoke in his usual fearless tones.

'It is true,' said he, 'that I have ofttimes spoken to the Earl of Bothwell, and it is true that I received from him the sealed packet which was found in my trunk. But of that which is written in the packet know I nought. The seal is, as you see, unbroken. Nor knew I that the earl was still acting as traitor,' added the lad, as he saw displeasure written on the face of the king.

But despite all he could say, the young laird was arrested as a traitor and thrown into prison. Margaret Twynlace with her own eyes saw Sir John Carmichael, keeper of the prison, turn the key in the lock.

Margaret went quickly to the queen's house, but there did she neither sew nor sing. She sat twining her fingers in and out, while she cried, 'Woe is me that ever I was born, or that ever I left my home in Denmark. I would I had never seen the young Laird of Logie.' And then Margaret wept bitterly, for having seen the young laird, she loved him well.

When the queen came to her bower, she was grieved to see her favourite maid in tears. Yet had she no comfort to offer her, for well she knew that, even should he wish it, little power had the king to save the young Laird of Logie.

But the queen spoke kindly to the maid, and told her that she, Margaret, might e'en go herself to King James to beg for the life of the young Laird of Logie. For it was well known that the sentence passed on him would be death.

Then Margaret Twynlace wiped from her face all traces of her tears. She put on her soft green silk gown, and she combed out her bonny yellow hair. Thus she went into the presence of the king and fell on her knee before him.

'Why, May Margaret,' said the king, 'is it thou? What dost thou at my feet, my bonny maid?'

'Ah, sire,' cried she, 'I have come to beg of thee a boon. Nor ever since I came over the sea have I begged of thee until now. Give me, I beseech of thee, the life of the young Laird of Logie.'

'Alas, May Margaret,' cried the king, 'that cannot I do! An thou gavest to me all the gold that is in Scotland yet could I not save the lad.'

Then Margaret Twynlace turned away and crept back to the queen's bower. Yet now no tears fell from her blue eyes, for if neither king nor queen could help the young Laird of Logie, she herself would save him from death.

She would wait until night, when the king and queen slumbered, and then she would carry out her plan. A brave plan it was, for Margaret Twynlace was no coward maid.

Quiet and patient she waited in the little ante-room, close to the queen's bedchamber, waited until she felt sure the royal pair were fast asleep. Then tripping lightly on tiptoe, she stole into the bedroom, where, as she had guessed, both king and queen were slumbering sound.

She crossed the room, quiet as any mouse, and reached the toilet table. There lay the king's gold comb, and close to it the little pearl knife, the king's wedding gift to his queen.

Back tripped Margaret, still on tiptoe, to the ante-room, and stood, her breath coming quick.

Had she roused the king or queen? Was that the bed creaking?

No, there was not a sound. The royal pair slept sound as before.

Then downstairs in the dark fled Margaret, down to the room where Sir John Carmichael lay slumbering, without a thought of his prisoner, the young Laird of Logie.

Loud did the maiden knock at his door, loud and long, until at last Sir John was roused.

'Sir John,' cried the maid, 'haste thee and wake thy prisoner, the young Laird of Logie, for the king would speak to him this very moment. Open the door, for here be the tokens he sends to thee,' and Margaret held out to Carmichael the gold comb and the pearl knife.

Now, when Sir John had opened the door, he saw the tokens that the maid held out to him. He knew them well and hastened to do the king's will, rubbing his sleepy eyes the while, and muttering under his breath, 'The king holds audience at strange hours; yet must his orders be obeyed.'

He took the great key in his hand and went to the prison door. Margaret followed close, her heart bounding, not wholly in fear, nor yet wholly in hope.

Sir John turned the prison lock and roused the young Laird of Logie from his dreams, saying only, 'The king would speak with thee, without delay.'

Thus in the dead of night Margaret led the captain and his prisoner to the door of the ante-room.

'Wait thou here, Sir John,' said the maid, until thy prisoner returns.'

The young laird started as Margaret spoke. He had not guessed that the maid wrapped in the rough cloak was his own dear Margaret Twynlace.

But Sir John noticed nothing. He was wondering how long it would be ere he would be again in his comfortable bed.

Margaret drew the prisoner into her own little room. He tried to speak, but not a word would she let him utter. She led him to the window, and shewed him a rope which she herself had fastened there.

She pushed a purse of gold into his hand, a pistol into his belt, and bade him shoot when he was free, that she might know that he was safe. 'Then haste,' said Margaret, 'haste with all thy might to the pier at Leith. Ships wilt thou find there in plenty to carry thee into a safe haven.'

The young Laird of Logie would fain have tarried with the brave Danish maid, but not a moment was there to lose. The king might wake, Sir John might grow impatient and come in search of his prisoner; thus whispered the maid as she urged young Wemyss of Logie to flee.

He knew she spoke the truth, and he slipped down the rope, and in a moment was standing on the ground. He hastened to the palace gates, and getting safely through, he stayed only to fire his pistol that Margaret Twynlace might know that no evil had befallen.

When Margaret heard the shot she stole softly downstairs and stood at the hall door gazing wistfully after the young Laird of Logie. Yet not long dare she tarry there, lest the queen should need her services. Noiselessly she crept back into the ante-room. Hark! what was that? The king was moving! Indeed, the pistol-shot had roused King James, and he jumped out of bed crying, 'That pistol was fired by none other than the young Laird of Logie.'

She stood at the hall door gazing wistfully after the young Lard of Logie

He shouted for his guards and bade them go send their captain, Sir John Carmichael, to his presence.

Sir John, fearing nothing, came before the king, and falling on his knee before him he said, 'Sire, what is thy will?'

'Where is thy prisoner, where is the young Laird of Logie?' demanded the king.

Sir John stared. Had not the king himself sent for his prisoner?

'The young Laird of Logie!' he said. 'Sire, thou didst send thy tokens to me, a golden comb, a pearl knife. See, they are here,' and Sir John drew them from his pocket and held them up before the bewildered king.

'And with the tokens came an order to send my prisoner at once to thy presence. I brought him to the door of the ante-room, where I was bidden to wait thy will.'

'If thou hast played me false, Carmichael, if thou hast played me false,' said the king, 'thou shalt thyself be tried to-morrow in the court of justice in place of the prisoner, the young Laird of Logie.'

Then Carmichael hastened to the door of the ante-room as fast as ever he could go. And he called out, 'O young Wemyss of Logie, an thou art within, come out, for I must speak to thee.'

Margaret Twynlace smiled to herself as she opened the door of the ante-room. Carmichael stepped into the room, stopped short, and stared. The open window, the rope that hung there, told him all he had come to ask. He stared, but never a word did he find to say.

Then maid Margaret laughed aloud and clapped her hands for glee.

'Dost wish thy prisoner, the Laird of Logie?' she cried. 'Thou shalt not see him again for many a long day. Long ere the morning dawned he was on board one of the ships at Leith, and now he is sailing on the sea. He is free, he is free!'

King James did not punish the brave Danish maid. Nor when he heard from Queen Anne all that the maid had done did he blame Sir John Carmichael.

Indeed ere many months had passed away the king sent a pardon to the young laird. Then was he not long in coming back to bonny Scotland to marry brave Margaret Twynlace, who had saved his life.

<eob>

Boy Scouts In The North Sea

Or

The Mystery Of A Sub

By

G. Harvey Ralphson



Chapter I

A Package Vanishes


"Good night!" exclaimed a lad of about eighteen peering from the window in a railway coach. "This train's running on a regular lake!"

"What's that, Jimmie?" asked a companion approaching the first speaker. "Are we on a ferry? I still feel the wheels hit the rail joints."

"Oh, yes, now and again we crawl along a rail's length or two," admitted the boy, "but it's mighty slow work! I'm getting tired!"

"What place is this, anyway?" inquired a third boy coming to the window. "It looks as if we're going out into the ocean!"

"We can't be headed for Holland at this rate!"

"We surely are!" assured the one addressed as Jimmie. "I'll bet I can tell you what that is! The Belgians cut their dikes and flooded the country to drive out the Germans. My dream book says that's it!"

A general laugh greeted this assertion. Moving about in the limits of the none too commodious compartment of a European railway carriage four boys dressed in the well-known khaki uniforms of the Boy Scouts of America endeavored to observe the scenery through the windows.

To those of our readers who have followed the adventures of this group of boys as related in the previous volumes of this series no introduction is necessary. However, for the benefit of those who have not been so fortunate, a word of explanation may not be out of place at this time. The lads had very recently been engaged in a man hunt that led through parts of France and Belgium. They had visited the trenches of both the French and German forces and had several times faced death.

Just now they were practically prisoners, having been accorded passage from the German lines to a neutral port in Holland, where they expected to take ship for their home town of New York.

Ned Nestor, a fine, manly lad, was the Leader of the Wolf Patrol of New York City, Boy Scouts of America. He had been often selected for difficult work by the Chief of the United States Secret Service because of his aptitude for the work. His coolness and sound judgment had carried himself and his companions through many difficulties. It was a mission of this character upon which the boys had recently engaged and from which they were now returning.

Jimmie McGraw, freckle-faced and red-headed, was a member of the Wolf Patrol of which Ned was leader. He was an ardent adherent of Ned's. Brought up a newsboy on the Bowery of New York the boy had come under the observation of the older lad, who had found him indeed worthy of all the care which had been bestowed.

Jack Bosworth, the son of a prominent corporation attorney, and Harry Stevens, whose father was a well-known automobile manufacturer, were the other members of the group. These latter two were members of the Black Bear Patrol of New York. All the lads appeared to be about eighteen years old. Their tidy uniforms, their well-knit frames and their alert attitudes bespoke the constant training of their leader.

As they looked from the windows of the car in which they now found themselves they discovered that the situation was even as Jimmie had stated. The country was flooded with water released from the dikes.

"Tell you what," declared Jack Bosworth, after a prolonged inspection of the landscape, if it may be so called, "this is some wet!"

"You win the argument," announced Jimmie, wrinkling his freckled nose at his companion. "I always said you were the wise little fox!"

Jack's answer to this pleasantry was an attempt to box the younger lad's ears. Jimmie's resentment of the procedure drew the others into a friendly scuffle that terminated only when the contestants paused for breath.

"I wish they'd hurry up and let us get onto dry land again!" said Jimmie, when he next found himself able to draw a long breath.

"You won't find much dry land when it rains like it's going to right now!" stated Harry, pointing out of the window. "Watch it come down!"

"I hope they don't get to the border while it rains like this," answered Ned, with an involuntary shiver. "I don't fancy standing out in such a drizzle as this appears to be. We'd be wet through in no time!"

"Why, do they make us get out?" queried Harry.

"Yes, I understand from what the officer said back there at the old castle that we'll be searched body, boots and baggage."

"And what if they find something they don't like?"

"Perhaps they'll put us in jail for a few months or until the war has ceased," replied Ned. "I'm sure I don't know what they'll do."

"Br-r-rh!" shivered Jimmie. "I wouldn't turn our old friend The Rat out into a rain like this! That would be cruelty to animals!"

"Small chance anyone'll have to turn him out now!" spoke up Jack. "That dynamite fixed him so he won't be turned out for some time!"

"Don't speak of it, boys," protested Ned. "I see him yet!"

"Let's change the subject," proposed Jimmie, out of consideration for his chum's feelings. "I think I see some land. Can we be coming to the border I wonder? I hope we are and that we can soon be starting home!"

"Train's slackening speed," announced Harry. "They're stopping!"

It was even as the boy had said. With many a bump and groan of grinding brakes the train crawled to a standstill beside a hut built upon a rise of ground. Here was stationed a force of soldiers detailed to the work of searching and examining all who attempted to pass from Belgium to Holland. Those who were not certified as refugees or in other ways vested with proper authority to pass were promptly rejected and turned back.

A guard came running along the foot board opening doors. He shouted instructions to the inmates of the carriages, who promptly began scrambling out of the uncomfortable cars. All baggage was placed along the track to facilitate examination. The train itself was searched.

Gesticulating and conversing rapidly two soldiers approached the little group of Boy Scouts. Apparently an argument of some sort was in progress, but the boys could not determine the nature of it.

One of the men pointed to the uniforms and to the medals upon the sleeves of the boys' jackets. Gradually his companion seemed to be convinced by the flow of words. At length he nodded his head, as if surrendering his last doubts. The two men fell to examining the luggage.

"Go as far as you like, Old Scout!" scorned Jimmie, as he observed the rough manner in which his belongings were being tossed about. "I'll bet I'd punch your dome a little, though, if you could talk English!"

"Ah, ha!" cried one of the soldiers, tapping his comrade on the shoulder, as if his argument had been conclusively supported. "Anglaise!"

A torrent of words from the other seemed to meet a receptive ear. The first speaker nodded energetically. His satisfaction was all too evident. From his appearance he was expecting nothing short of a medal.

"Judging from their motions," Jimmie remarked, "these two fellows are about to fight a duel. I'll bet on the shorter one!"

"Not much!" declared Harry. "They're merely telling one another what a nice day it was yesterday and how fine the weather'll be when it clears up. They are using the sign language, that's all!"

"Don't you kid yourself!" protested Jimmie, uneasily. "I smell Old Man Trouble coming around the corner right now!"

"Go on, Jimmie!" scorned Jack. "You're dreaming again!"

"I know I am!" replied the younger lad. "Last night I dreamed of eating salt mackerel and my dream book says that means trouble!"

"Here they come now!" cautioned Ned. "Hush a minute, boys!"

Addressing the boys in German the soldier was evidently asking some question which demanded an answer. Ned as spokesman shook his head. The other soldier spoke rapidly in the French language.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Ned said, lifting a protesting hand, "we cannot understand the language you are using. We speak only English!"

"Ah, ha! Anglaise!" cried the soldier, gesticulating.

"There, you put your foot in it!" declared Jimmie. "Why didn't you say: 'Come across with some good old United States, Bo'?"

"They probably don't understand your slang, Jimmie!" replied Ned.

"So-o-o," exclaimed one of the men in poor English, "you speak English, do you? And from what part of England do you come?"

"We are not from England at all," explained Ned, "but from the United States. We are being sent home by the kindness of a German officer, who has been most considerate. See, here are our passports!"

"Bah!" scornfully protested the man. "Passports are most easily forged. And information may be carried still more easily!"

"But I assure you," continued Ned, "we are speaking the truth!"

"So say all spies!" replied the other. "We shall see for ourselves just what information you have in your possessions!"

"Go as far as you like," replied Ned, somewhat nettled at the soldier's insolence. "You won't find a thing that shouldn't be there!"

One of the men was already bending over the bags containing such articles as the boys had deemed necessary for their trip. Without regard for the owners' rights he was rapidly taking out every piece separately. After carefully examining it he threw the article on the ground. He was evidently annoyed at not finding something incriminating.

Submitting to the search with poorly concealed dislike of the man and his methods, the boys waited with what patience they could muster until the ordeal should be ended. Ned endeavored to distract their thoughts by commenting on the others, who were meeting similar treatment.

He was interrupted by an exclamation of delight from the searcher.

"Ah!" cried that worthy, standing upright. "Nothing contraband! Nothing to be concealed! No information! These are not spies!"

He held in his hand a flat packet wrapped in heavy oiled silk, tied with many wrappings of stout twine and sealed carefully with wax.

"Gather your possessions quickly and follow me!" commanded the soldier triumphantly, drawing a revolver. "We shall visit the commander!"

"What is that thing and where did it come from?" questioned Ned.

"Search me!" declared Jimmie, excitedly. "Maybe this gink had it up his little sleeve and dropped it in there at the right minute!"

"He looks equal to it!" stated Jack stoutly. "He's a villain!"

"Better be careful what you say!" cautioned Ned. "We are not out of the woods, and these fellows understand English pretty well!"

"I wish I had my automatic and about ten yards start!" stormed Jimmie, gathering up wearing apparel and jamming it into his kit. "I could beat that slow-footed camel in a straightaway without half trying!"

"Better wait and see it out," advised Ned, replacing his own belongings. "It's only a mistake and can surely be explained."

"Maybe we can be examined and go ahead on this same train," offered Jack consolingly. "Anyhow, we won't gain anything by arguing with these fellows. They have no sense of humor and don't want one!"

Following their two captors the lads trudged down the track toward the hut. Carefully they picked their way between groups of genuine refugees rearranging their meagre possessions in the coaches.

In a short time the boys were duly presented before a gray-haired officer seated at a table placed against the wall of the hut. It was darker in the room than out of doors. A single oil lamp served to dispel the gathering gloom of the early twilight.

Reporting volubly in German, with many gesticulations, the soldier presented the four boys. At the conclusion of his recital he laid the parcel upon the table. Drawing himself to his full height and assuming a tragic air he surveyed his captives with complacency.

"Look at that mark!" whispered Jimmie hoarsely. "What is it?"

"It says 'U-13' as plainly as the freckles on your nose," replied Harry, who stood nearest the table. "I don't know what it means!"

A challenge from the sentry at the door drew the attention of those within the hut. For a moment every eye turned toward the entrance.

Ever on the alert, Jimmie saw a hand thrust through the open window. It seized the package and noiselessly disappeared.



Chapter II

Difficulties And Dangers


Finding that the disturbance had been caused by the approach of one of the refugees, who demanded an audience with the commander, but who had quickly been satisfied by the explanation of the sentry, the officer again gave his attention to the group before him.

"Proceed!" he ordered. "You may speak English for the benefit of these young gentlemen. Let us have the story, now!"

"Myself and my comrade searched the baggage of these fellows," began the soldier, directing a contemptuous glance at the boys. "When we reached the kit of that one there," here he pointed at Ned, "we discovered what seemed to us to be suspicious goods. Here it is -- !"

A gasp of astonishment terminated the triumphant recital.

"Go on!" ordered the officer without emotion.

"But a moment ago the package was lying on your table!" almost shouted the soldier. "Now it is gone!"

"So I perceive!" replied the officer. "If you have evidence, please produce it. Otherwise I shall examine the passports of the young gentlemen, and if they are found correct I shall permit them to depart."

He reached out a hand for the passports, which were quickly presented. After a minute scrutiny and careful comparison of descriptions he returned them to the lads. Again he turned to the soldier.

"Have you any evidence of their guilt?" he inquired.

"I believe they have stolen the package!" stormed the soldier.

"Search them!" commanded the officer. "With respect!" he added.

During the hasty but thorough search of the lads' clothing Jimmie grinned maliciously into the faces of the soldiers. His delight knew no bounds. Their discomfiture upon failing to find the package was exceeded only by the delight of the lad, who prudently held his own counsel.

"There must have been a mistake!" at length declared the officer impatiently. "We cannot delay the train longer. Permit them to proceed!"

"But I swear I discovered in their luggage a suspicious parcel!"

"It is not here! The young gentlemen do not seem to have it! In the face of their apparently correct passports and this courteous request from their friend, von Moltke, I am not justified in holding them longer! Young men, you may resume your journey!"

Thanking the officer in grateful acknowledgment of his courtesy the lads again found their compartment. Scarcely had they regained their former position before the train again began to move.

"Now, Ned," began Harry, as the wheels once more clicked over the rail joints, "produce! Let's have the secret!"

"Produce nothing!" declared Ned. "I have nothing to produce!"

"The package, man, the mysterious package of contraband spy literature!" demanded Harry in a serious tone. "What secrets are you carrying out of this country to help the English?"

"I tell you I have nothing at all! I don't know what that package contained, nor do I know where it came from!"

"That's all right, too!" declared Jack. "But where did it go to so suddenly? That's the interesting part! What did you do with it?"

"Honestly, boys," protested Ned, "I haven't got it. I saw that fellow fish it out of my kit. I saw him put it on the table. When I turned back after glancing at the door the package was gone!"

"We know that!" continued Harry. "Now, who took it?"

"I'd give a good deal to know that myself!" declared Ned.

"Just how much would you give?" queried Jimmie from his seat in a corner from whence he had been listening. "I'd like to make a stake!"

"Jimmie pinched it!" cried Harry, pouncing upon his comrade.

"Deliver that package!" shouted Jack, going to the assistance of his chum. "Search him, Ned!" he continued, as Jimmie was dragged to his feet. "Go through him carefully while we hold him."

"Go as far as you like," grinned Jimmie teasingly. "It's not here!"

"Where is it, Jimmie?" questioned Ned, seriously, "let's have it!"

"I tell you I haven't got it!" declared Jimmie, still grinning. "But I saw it when it disappeared and I know where it went!"

"Hurry up!" shouted Jack, impatiently. "Say something!"

"It went out of the window of the shanty!" declared Jimmie.

"Aw, go on!" scorned Harry. "Just jumped up and flew away!"

With a laugh Jimmie then related what he had seen at the moment when all the other occupants of the hut had been giving their attention to the disturbance at the front door. The tale astonished his chums.

"I saw the hand as plainly as I see my own!" declared Jimmie, holding his hand up to the light of the single oil lamp. "It was the hand of a gentleman, I should say. I mean by that, it was soft and well kept -- not hard and calloused. The peculiar mark by which I shall know it again if I see it was a scar extending clear across the back. I somehow connected that scar with a saber or sword cut. It was an ugly wound."

"Did you see anything of the man?" asked Ned, eagerly.

"No, I wasn't turned far enough and I didn't dare move," replied Jimmie. "All at once I seemed to comprehend that the thief was saving us a lot of troublesome delay, and I just let him make his getaway without raising a holler! I thought he was helping us as well as himself!"

"I think we ought to vote Jimmie a credit mark!" declared Ned.

"He certainly exercised wonderful self-control in not making a noise at a critical time," added Jack. "I wonder, now, if the chap at the door made the disturbance to assist the other fellow in grabbing the parcel. It would almost seem as if they were working together!"

"It does seem like that!" stated Ned, thoughtfully. "But what puzzles me most is the fact that the package was in our baggage!"

"I wonder what on earth could have been in the old 'U-13'!"

But ponder and speculate as they might the lads were unable to arrive at a solution of the mysterious presence and disappearance of the package bearing the curious mark. Weary with the exertion of attempting to solve the problem the boys at length composed themselves for sleep.

Mile after mile the train bumped jerkily along the uneven track. Occasionally a guard opened the door to scrutinize the compartment, but upon finding the little party at rest he again proceeded to his duties.

Gradually the train drew away from the inundated section. To the southward, whence they had come, the boys were leaving the scene of the mighty conflict, the like of which history had never seen. Behind them were the trenches filled with soldiers -- some happy and gay even in the presence of death, others disheartened and downcast. There, too, they were leaving the great cannon with their roaring, screaming shells, the vicious crack of rifles and the wasp-like singing of bullets.

Before them in fancy they saw a great ship upon which they would take passage to the peace and quietness of their own country. Their dreams were filled with scenes of New York and their beloved club room, hung with trophies of the prowess of the members of their patrol.

At Amsterdam they would embark speedily, and after a week or ten days of ocean travel would see again the Goddess of Liberty holding up to the world a beacon to guide their ships into a haven of peace and plenty.

Could the boys have pierced the veil and looked upon the scenes through which they were soon to pass their rest that night might not have been so tranquil, their dreams would perhaps have been less pleasant.

Thanks to the consideration extended them at the instance of their friend, von Moltke, the German officer in whose charge they had been placed during the last exciting scenes of their stay in the war zone, the lads had been accorded the privilege of a whole compartment. Due to this fact they found room in which to stretch out as they slept. This exceptional advantage was fully appreciated.

Toward morning the boys were awakened by the bustle surrounding the arrival of the train at Utrecht. At this point another passenger was thrust unceremoniously into the compartment. After performing this duty the guard hastened away to perform similar services for others.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said the newcomer pleasantly.

"Top of the morning to you!" smiled Jimmie, rising and endeavoring to smooth out the wrinkles in his uniform. "How's the weather outside?"

"Clearing rapidly, but there's promise of some wind," replied the newcomer. "May I ask how far you are going?"

"New York!" declared Jimmie with a grin. "That is," his added, "if this old ark holds together until we get to Amsterdam and we can find a ship there. It would be just our luck to find the last canal boat gone!"

"Been having tough luck?" inquired the other solicitously.

"Rotten!" stated the boy. "How far do you go?" he asked.

"Amsterdam is my present destination," was the reply. "My name's Mackinder -- Robert Mackinder, and I'm trying to get out of this forsaken country, don't you know. I'm in hopes I'll be able to find some craft destined to a point where I'll be able to get home."

Introductions of the four lads followed. Mackinder proved himself an entertaining talker. Listening to his tales of adventure in various lands the boys were soon at ease. The man apparently had traveled over the whole world for he seemed familiar with all lands.

"I say," declared Jimmie, as their new found friend concluded a tale of privation through which he had passed in South Africa, "that story of starvation reminds me that I am hungry. I haven't eaten in a week!"

"Jimmie, Jimmie!" cautioned Ned. "Get down to recent dates!"

"Well, it feels that way, anyhow," persisted the boy.

"Can you tell us where we'll be able to find a lunch counter?" asked Ned. "We have nothing in our kits except some hard tack."

"There is no place short of Amsterdam where one can get anything like a decent meal," replied Mackinder. "There I can show you the way to a restaurant that is all right. It is not far from the docks."

"Then we'll get one good, solid, square meal!" shouted Jimmie.

"And after breakfast," put in Harry, "we'll go aboard the steamer and let 'em sail as soon as they like! What shall we eat?"

"I want a limburger cheese sandwich," announced Jimmie. "I'd like it to be on rye bread with plenty of mustard. Then with a couple of cups of real old Dutch coffee I guess I'd last until noon."

"By noon we'll be out on the North Sea, I hope," stated Harry.

"You don't get onto the North Sea direct from Amsterdam!" scorned Jack. "You have to go through some sort of lake or bay first!"

"Leave it to Mr. Mackinder here!" protested Harry.

"Your friend is right, Harry," smiled Mackinder, thus appealed to. "Amsterdam is on the Zuider Zee. If we get a vessel at that place we will pass northward through that water, thence between some of the Friesian Islands into the North Sea. From that point it is but a short distance to my destination. Any port in England will be suitable for my purpose."

"Nix on England for mine!" declared Jimmie. "I'm for the little old United States every time. We are neutral there without having to think about it. I'm about done with war. I've seen enough!"

"Too much is plenty, as the Dutchman says," put in Harry. "But about this Amsterdam place, now. Do you know the town, Mr. Mackinder?"

"Indeed I do!" was the reply. "I have been there many times."

"Then perhaps you'd be good enough to give us a little help. You see, we're strangers there and since we've lost our airship we're almost helpless. We're not accustomed to finding our way about where the inhabitants don't speak English. Besides, we're not provided with a map."

"I shall be delighted to help you in any way possible," continued the man. "I think that if you follow me you'll have little trouble."

The lads gladly availed themselves of this offer, and shortly after their arrival at the city they found themselves in a room plainly but comfortably furnished. From their windows they could see the shipping in the harbor. Before them a busy street teemed with traffic.

Watching the strange sights below the boys were startled to hear:

"I'll trouble you now for the 'U-13' package!"

Wheeling quickly they were frightened to observe that Mackinder had them covered with a revolver. His look was stern and determined.



Chapter III

The Man With The Scar


"What package is it you want?" inquired Ned in amazement as he saw that Mackinder evidently intended to enforce his demand at all costs.

"I shall countenance no delay!" spoke the man sharply. "You may step to your luggage there and produce that package instantly. If you refuse I shall summon assistance and it will be taken forcibly."

"You have the wrong pig by the ear this time, partner!" put in Jimmie. "Just put up your little cannon. It won't do you any good here."

"Enough!" snapped Mackinder. "You will gain nothing by attempting such methods. I am not to be balked by trivialities!"

"Well, Boss," smiled Jimmie, "we haven't got any 'U-13' package and we haven't got any of those other things, either!"

"I warn you," went on Mackinder in a menacing tone, "it has become known to the authorities that you have this package. I have been commissioned to secure it. If you surrender it before leaving this country you will lose nothing. If you refuse it will be taken by force. In that case you need not expect to receive any degree of clemency in the matter!"

"Mr. Mackinder," began Ned with dignity, "we don't understand what you mean. If you intend to infer that we have some mysterious package that we should not have you are not fair to us. Perhaps you would like to examine our luggage and be sure it is not there."

"Very well," stated Mackinder grimly. "If you insist."

Keeping the revolver leveled in the direction of the group the man stepped to the side of the room. He grasped the old-fashioned bell-pull. In answer to his summons steps were heard approaching the door.

"Ah, there you are, Norton," sighed Mackinder in a relieved tone as a man in uniform appeared. "Just keep an eye on these chaps, will you. I'm going through their luggage. Look sharp, now!"

From Norton's appearance the boys judged that the task was much to his liking. He fingered a wicked looking revolver, as if anticipating trouble and hoping that would come quickly. His manner was that of an eager hunting dog scenting game and only waiting a command to attack.

Thinking it best to offer no resistance and understanding that arguments would not avail under the present circumstances Ned seated himself in a convenient chair. He began to divert the minds of his comrades by talking of the shipping and the traffic which they could see.

Hastily Mackinder tossed the luggage about in his efforts to locate the article he sought. Finally he turned to Ned.

"Where have you concealed it?" he asked with some display of anger.

"Concealed what?" asked Ned impatiently. "I tell you, Mr. Mackinder, I don't like this idea of your holding us up in this manner without apparent authority. You are imposing on good nature!"

"Perhaps I have been a little hasty," stated Mackinder, "but I have been commissioned to secure a certain package which is alleged to contain information vital to two countries. It may possibly concern more. You are said to have had possession of this package at the time you left the castle in Flanders. Where is it now?"

"Do you mean the flat package the soldier found in our baggage at the frontier where we were searched?" inquired Jimmie.

"No doubt it is the same one," stated Mackinder.

"Then," declared the boy, pointing at Mackinder's hand, "I have every reason to believe that you know more about the whereabouts of that package than do we. I recognize that peculiar scar on your hand!"

Quick glances of inquiry were directed by the boys at the hand toward which Jimmie was pointing. It bore a scar running clear across the back -- an ugly, jagged scar that they had heard Jimmie describe.

"What did you mean by coming here and trying to throw a bluff into us about the package still being in our kits when you yourself took it from the table in the hut?" demanded Jimmie aggressively.

"You're mistaken, boys, I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Then you've got a mighty poor memory!" declared the lad.

"Mr. Mackinder," Ned said in a low tone vibrant with indignation, "if you've quite satisfied yourself that we have not got the package you seem to be seeking we'll excuse you. We don't want your company any more, and we shall try to proceed upon our journey alone."

"But, see here, boys -- " Mackinder attempted to explain.

"Not another word!" cried Ned rising. "There is the door and you are at liberty to use it quickly. You are welcome to the package!"

"You will find out later on," Mackinder said, as he started to leave the room in company with Norton, "that I've been trying to help you out of mighty suspicious circumstances. You are ungrateful!"

"Good-bye!" called out Jimmie. "Don't slam the door!"

For a moment the boys gazed at one another in amazement after the two men had left the room. They were excited and puzzled.

"Well, this is a stunner!" declared Ned at length.

"Who is this Mackinder, who is Norton, what is in this 'U-13' package that he wants, how did it get into our baggage, why was it put there, where are we going, when do we eat!" demanded Jimmie in a breath.

"That's the way to talk, Jimmie!" cried Harry, laughing in spite of the situation that the boys all felt to be a serious one.

"The last question is the most important!" stated Jack. "I'm in favor of the eats part and that without further delay."

"Come on, boys," suggested Ned. "Let's eat first and talk things over afterward. I'm nearly famished myself, and Jimmie is hungry, too!"

In a short time the lads were seated in a quaint restaurant ordering strange dishes. They were hungry, as only healthy, active boys can be. The food was well cooked and appetizing. They ate heartily.

"Now, I'm in favor of getting to the docks as quick as possible," announced Jimmie, pushing his plate away. "Let's get our passage settled."

All were in favor of this arrangement. After paying for their breakfast the lads set out in search of a ship upon which they might secure passage to the United States. But they were not to secure this easily.

Extended inquiry during the forenoon elicited the information that there was no vessel clearing from the port of Amsterdam for any place in America. Although they made every effort to find a steamer which would afford them the accommodations they sought none was found.

Inquiry at the railway station disclosed the fact that their airship, the Grey Eagle, now dismantled and packed in boxes, was at the freight sheds waiting a claimant. Until they could find a vessel to carry it home the boys preferred to let it remain in its present location.

After dinner they continued their inquiries for a vessel. At length they learned of a full-rigged three-masted ship that was to clear in a few days for New York. Regretting even this short delay the lads decided to attempt to secure passage, although the journey would be a long one.

Ned secured the services of a boatman, who offered to row them out to the ship, which lay at anchor in the harbor. The man charged them what the boys considered an extraordinary price for the service, but explained that the weather was unfavorable and that at any moment a storm might break. To this the boys could but agree. A glance at the sky convinced them that a storm of rather unusual violence was gathering.

"Take him up, anyhow, Ned!" urged Harry. "We want to get home!"

"All right, then, here goes!" declared Ned, stepping aboard the waterman's craft. "Pull away, my friend, we're all aboard."

In a short time the man was threading his way amongst the shipping in the harbor. From their position so low upon the water the masts and spars of the vessels looked to be of extraordinary height to the boys, who viewed every object with keen interest.

A hail from the boatman was answered by a man from the deck of the ship. He thrust his head over the rail inquiringly.

"Where's your captain?" asked Ned, as the man appeared.

"What do you want of the captain?" asked the man in a surly voice.

"We want to talk with him," replied Ned. "We'll explain to him."

"He's busy now and don't want to be disturbed. Tell me what you want and I'll give him your message. Maybe he'll see you!"

"We want to arrange passage on your ship to the United States."

"I'll see what he's got to say," replied the man, moving away.

While he was gone the boys examined the vessel closely. Jimmie pronounced the vessel very much to his liking. He admired the lines and pointed with pride to the modeling of the stern.

"Hello!" the boy cried excitedly, his arm extended still in the act of indicating the ship, "there goes our friend Mackinder in a launch!"

"Where?" asked Ned eagerly, turning about in his seat.

"Right astern of us!" replied Jimmie. "I wonder what he was doing aboard this ship. He seems to be in a hurry to get ashore."

"Maybe he wasn't on this ship at all," was Harry's objection. "He might have been out on the harbor for a pleasure ride."

"Sure, he's just the chap to take a pleasure ride on the harbor with a storm brewing! I've got a picture of that chap joy-riding!"

"I hope he doesn't see us," declared Jack. "He might have enough influence with the captain to prevent our securing passage on this ship."

The conversation was interrupted by the advent of the captain, who looked over the rail at the little craft riding alongside.

"What do you want?" he inquired in a business-like tone.

"We want to arrange passage on your ship to New York, Captain," stated Ned respectfully. "We understand you are to sail soon. We are citizens of the United States homeward bound. Can you help us out?"

"Not this trip!" decided the captain instantly.

"We are able to pay well for our accommodations," continued the boy. "It is rather important that we get home as quickly as possible."

"Possibly," returned the captain shortly.

Nonplussed, Ned was at a loss to find words with which to urge his request further. The captain's distant manner gave him no encouragement.

"We'll not be the slightest trouble, Captain," the lad presently continued. "We understand you'll be loaded in a few days and will sail for New York direct. Cannot you arrange to accommodate us?"

"This isn't a passenger vessel," stated the captain.

"Well, then, couldn't we sign articles and work our way over? We'd be willing to pay whatever you think is right for that privilege."

"You want to get me into trouble with the authorities, don't you?" replied the other, preparing to move away.

"But, Captain, just think a moment. There must be some way in which you can arrange it. Don't leave us in a foreign country!"

"You seem to have done pretty well in foreign countries as it is! If you can pull off the stunts you have just done I guess you'll get over to New York all right -- if that's where you want to go!"

"What do you mean? I don't understand you!"

"Oh, you don't, eh? Well, to put it plainly, this is a peaceable, neutral ship doing honest trading. I carry freight, not spies!"

With these words the captain disappeared. The boys gasped in astonishment at the words and looked at each other speechless.

Ned motioned to the boatman to return to the dock. His puzzled frown showed plainly that the boy was at a loss to understand the situation.

"I've got it!" almost shouted Jimmie, as the lads were once more on land. "I know what the answer is! I've been reading my little dream book!"

"All right, wise man, let's have it! Don't keep it bottled up!"

"Mackinder!" declared Jimmie impressively.

"You don't mean to say that he beat us to the ship and managed to get the captain to refuse us passage on his vessel?" asked Ned.

"I believe I'm right at that!" maintained Jimmie, stoutly.

"Then the only thing we can do is to try to find some coasting vessel to carry us out of the Zuider Zee into the North Sea and make a port in England. We can then go overland to Liverpool and get a ship from there home. Suppose we try that?" offered Ned.

The boys were passing along a covered dock at the moment. As they turned a corner they saw Mackinder standing near. A smile of triumph lighted his face.



Chapter IV

The Lena Knobloch


"What did I tell you?" inquired Jimmie, as the boys passed the man. "There he stands with his arms folded and grins like a cream stealing cat! I wish I had a half a brick! We'll have to watch out for him!"

"It surely looks as if you were right, Jimmie!" assented Ned.

"But what gets me," put in Harry, "is why he should be after us! What have we done? He seems to have information that we're criminals!"

"It looks mighty strange that he should have stolen the package out of that hut and then continue to insist that we have it," remarked Ned. "Are you sure he's the same fellow, Jimmie?"

"It's the very same hand," declared the lad, "and that hand is a dead give away! I wonder he didn't wear a glove or bandage!"

"Maybe he didn't have time when he got the package," explained Jack. "Can anyone tell me how the thing got into our kits?"

This question was unanswerable by any of the lads. Puzzling over the strange adventures they had recently encountered the lads proceeded to their hotel, where they spent some time in freshening both themselves and their uniforms and in rearranging their baggage.

At supper time they were tired and very hungry. At the first opportunity they proceeded to the restaurant where they had formerly eaten.

Jimmie's spirits revived as food was set before them. In a moment he was laughing and chatting away without a care in the world. His good humor was infectious. Soon all four boys were in a merry mood.

"I wish we could get a civilized paper," declared Jack at length. "I'd really like to see what's going on in the world."

"Maybe we can get one at the desk. Or possibly the cashier can tell us where they will have English papers for sale," suggested Harry.

"Here comes a man who looks as if he were a native," spoke up Jimmie. "I'll bet he can tell us a whole lot of things we want to know!"

The boys glanced up to observe a man approaching their table. He was evidently a seafaring man. His dress and manner betokened the deep sea mariner. A decided air of the ocean marked him to the boys' eyes.

"Goot efening, Chentlemen!" the stranger said as he approached.

"Howdy!" replied Jimmie, with a wave of his hand. "What'll you have?"

"Vell," replied the visitor, "schnapps vas goot, but you couldn't get 'em here. Dis isn't no blace for dot! No, sir!"

"I wasn't inviting you to have a drink," snapped Jimmie somewhat confusedly, "I meant to ask you what's on your mind."

"So-o-o-o!" exclaimed the newcomer with a long drawn expression of surprise. His shaggy eyebrows raised as he extended his chin and shrugged his shoulders, pantomiming an apology. "So, dot's it, eh?"

"Sure thing!" answered Jimmie, regaining his composure in a measure but with his face still flushed. "We want to know what you're after."

"Vell," went on the visitor, "my name's Captain Johannes von Kluck. Don'd forgot dot 'Captain' part, eider. Und I haf learned dot you chentlemans vas lookin' for a fine, fast ship. Und I have chust dot!"

As he made this announcement Captain von Kluck smiled a wide look of friendship at the entire party. It was a wonderful smile, beginning at the tiny wrinkles surrounding the corners of his eyes. From there it spread all over his face, gradually distorting the features until, as Jimmie afterward declared, the boys were forced to smile in spite of themselves.

"And where does your fine ship go, Captain von Kluck?" asked Ned.

"Chust vherefer you vant to go!" declared the captain solemnly. "Me, I am a goot navigator, und mine mate he is, too, a goot von!"

"We want to go to New York," continued Ned. "If you can arrange to furnish us passage to that port, we'll pay you well."

To this the captain answered by spreading his hands and shrugging his shoulders until they nearly reached his ears. Over his beaming face spread a look of despair. He slowly shook his head.

"To New York I cannot go!" he answered dolefully. "Bud I vill put you ashore in England, und from dere you can easy get a ship!"

"Well, that's better than nothing at all!" admitted Ned.

"Sure!" declared Jimmie. "Anything to get out of this place!"

"When can you be ready to sail, Captain?" inquired Ned.

"Who, me?" questioned the captain in a tone of surprise.

"Nobody else but you, your crew and we boys!" laughed Ned.

"Sure! Dot's all ridt!" nodded von Kluck. "Vhell, I'm ready now. Yet I haf some cheeses on board to put, und some odder tings!"

"Can you accommodate the boxes containing our airship?" asked Jimmie. "We have the Grey Eagle over here at the railroad station and don't want to leave it behind us when we leave the country."

"Maybe it vould on de schip go!" consented von Kluck.

"Hurrah!" exultantly cried the lads. "That's fine!"

"How big is your ship, Captain?" asked Ned, "and what's her name?"

"Mine schip is der Lena Knobloch!" smiled the captain. "Dot's vot you English beoples call garlic. Und id vas a goot schip alreaty!"

"Well, then," suggested Ned, "suppose the captain takes supper here as our guest. Two of us will remain with him to arrange details while the other two hasten away and get a truck to take the boxes to the dock. Can you give us directions for reaching the vessel, Captain?"

"Sure," assented the captain, seating himself. "Und I know a man vot vould haul your goots, too. I get him," he added.

"In that case, we'll all go over together," proposed Jack. "I don't like the idea of separating while we're in a strange town."

"Perhaps the captain can tell us where we can get some English papers," ventured Jimmie. "We'd like to get the latest news."

Wheeling in his chair the captain bawled out an order in Dutch. A waiter came bustling up with an air of deference. Evidently he knew the captain and understood that no delay would be tolerated.

A few words were rapidly spoken, whereupon the waiter hastened away to return presently with several newspapers. These were spread upon the table before the boys, who began a perusal of their contents.

"Gee whiz!" exclaimed Jimmie, glancing at the headlines of the paper which had fallen to his lot. "Listen to this -- three vessels sunk in the mouth of the Mersey river by a German submarine identified as the 'U-13.' Then there's been two vessels sunk at the mouth of the Thames!"

"What sunk them?" inquired Harry.

"It says here that they were sunk by a German submarine. In each case the diver has been identified as the 'U-13' by the crews of the ill-fated vessels. Now, that's going some!"

"Let's see," pondered Harry, "the Thames is the river leading to London, while the Mersey is the river leading to Liverpool."

"Right you are, Old Scout, go to the head of the class!"

"Hush, Jimmie, no nonsense!" cautioned Ned.

"What I was thinking about," continued Harry, "is the distance a boat would have to travel to get from one place to the other. It must be all of seven hundred miles around Land's End. A boat would have to be speedy to cover that distance so quickly!"

"How quickly?" demanded Jimmie. "The paper says the three ships were sunk at the Mersey on Wednesday morning. Those at the Thames, or rather 'off Margate,' as the article states, were sunk Thursday afternoon. That wouldn't be such an impossible feat after all!"

"Twenty miles an hour sustained speed for about twenty-eight hours is running along at a pretty good clip, just the same!"

"Well, the vessel did it!" declared Jimmie. "The paper says that about six o'clock Wednesday morning the Wanderer, a vessel laden with foodstuffs from Australia, was hailed by the crew of a submarine. They were permitted to take to the small boats and then the Wanderer was torpedoed, going down at once. The submarine was positively identified as the 'U-13.' Then the other paragraph says that at about eight o'clock on Thursday evening the steamer Adventure from Buenos Ayres with a cargo of flour for London was treated in the same manner off Margate by the 'U-13'!"

"Isn't it a little strange that the submarine should have attacked a peaceful merchant vessel?" inquired Jack. "That isn't war!"

"Evidently it is the intention to blockade all English ports and shut off the food supply of the nation," ventured Ned. "You see the article relates that all the ships were loaded with food and destined to English ports. It must be a blockade movement!"

"Here's an account," announced Harry, "that says a steamer was hailed by a submarine a few miles off the Lizard Head. It escaped by its superior speed, but only by a narrow margin, for the submarine launched a torpedo that barely missed striking the after portion of the ship!"

"Maybe it was the same little old 'U-13,'" suggested Jimmie.

"Oh, you 'U-13'!" laughed Jack. "You're some boat, all right!"

"Say!" shouted Jimmie, jumping quickly to his feet. The boy glanced about the group with startled looks. "What about that 'U-13' package? Do you suppose it was intended for the submarine?"

The boys exchanged puzzled looks. Perplexity was expressed in every face. A look of worry began to appear on Ned's countenance.

"I wonder who Mackinder is and what he has to do with that package," the lad said presently. "Boys, we're surely stumbling into a mess of something. We'll have to be careful!"

"Captain," demanded Jimmie, turning to von Kluck, "what do you know about this 'U-13' business? What is the 'U-13'?"

Leaning back in his chair the captain drew a long breath. He filled a great pipe from a capacious pouch. Gravely he packed the tobacco into the immense bowl, accompanying the procedure with sundry shakes of his head. Not until the pipe was drawing freely did he reply.

"Ach, id vas vot der Deutsch say it 'Unterseeboot'! You English say it submarine! Und dot liddle schip goes 'Boom'! und down goes der big schips under der vasser! Und dey stay, too!" he concluded.

"Yes, we know that," assented Jimmie, punctuating his statement with a poke at the paragraph he had just read, "but who owns it?"

"Vhell, der Chermans dey claim to haf a big share in id!"

"Then if we start out for England in this Lena Knobloch of yours how do we know that the 'U-13' won't come along and take a poke at us just out of pure spite?" questioned the lad.

"Vhell, maybe she vill," agreed von Kluck, between puffs. "Bud if you vhas like me, you iss willing to took a chance. I go, und das Lena goes, und by und by maybe we make blenty money und go ashore to shtay."

"You take it easy, I must say!" returned Jimmie, somewhat amused.

"Are you going out just the same, Captain?" inquired Jack.

"Sure!" proclaimed the captain, in no uncertain tones.

"Then let's be getting that truck and take the Grey Eagle boxes aboard the Lena Knobloch!" cried Jack. "The sooner it's over the easier I'll feel. I'm beginning to get nervous about all this 'U-13' business!"

After paying their bill the boys set out in company with the captain to find the trucker. That individual put up a strong protest at taking out his horses at the unseemly hour, but a piece of coin slipped into his hand at the opportune moment by Ned soon changed his mind.

Another piece of money changing hands at the proper moment secured the consent of the official in charge of the freight sheds to the delivery of the boxes containing the precious Grey Eagle.

Making the affair a pleasure jaunt the lads lost no time in loading the cases aboard the truck. Merrily they set off for the dock.

Upon arriving in the vicinity of his vessel the captain shed his jovial air like an overcoat. He bawled out orders to his crew, emphasizing his commands with sundry fistic punctuations. The men evidently knew with whom they had to deal, for they fell to the work with a will.

The boys turned back to the hotel to secure their hand baggage.

A small cart drawn by two huge dogs was approaching. In the vehicle were some milk cans. The figure of a woman guided the strange team.

"This is rather early for the milklady!" laughed Jimmie.

"That's no woman!" declared Jack. "Look at that walk!"

"That's Mackinder!" Jimmie cried. "See the scar on his hand!"



Chapter V

Two Mysterious Changes


"Hey, you!" shouted Jimmie, dashing across the street in the direction of the queer outfit. "Come here! I want to see you!"

The pseudo milk vendor gave a quick glance at the approaching boy. A street lamp cast a flickering glare upon the automatic which Jimmie had drawn from his pocket. Without waiting to explain or ask questions the person addressed deserted the dog team instantly.

With but a single look over its shoulder the figure darted toward a building at the head of the quay. Boots clattered on the pavement, while the long stride clearly indicated to the boys that Jimmie and Jack had been correct in their surmise that the garb of a woman milk vendor had been assumed as a disguise.

Although Jimmie's speed was great, the lad's sprint was not sufficient to permit him to overtake his quarry.

"He'll never make it!" declared Jack, tugging away at his own automatic and preparing to follow his comrade.

"Come on, fellows, let's get a move on!" suggested Harry. "That fellow will just about get into a corner somewhere and knock Jimmie over the head. He's capable of worse than that, I believe!"

All three lads hastened after the fleeing figure of their red-headed chum and the one whom he was pursuing.

An open door in the building indicated that the race had turned in that direction. Producing an electric searchlight Ned urged caution. Directly the lads heard the sound of a falling body. This was at once followed by an exclamation of surprise and disgust. They recognized the tones as those of their companion.

"Are you there, Jimmie?" called Ned, swinging the beam from his searchlight about the interior, lighting up a collection of merchandise piled in the warehouse. Jimmie was nowhere to be seen.

"Where could he have gone so suddenly?" queried Harry.

"Maybe Mackinder hit him over the head!" ventured Jack.

"Mackinder better be careful how he monkeys with this crew!" was Harry's belligerent comment. "Maybe that guy'll get all that's coming to him and get it right in the neck!"

For a moment the boys stood listening intently for some indication of the presence of their comrade. Once Ned thought he heard a soft footfall. He put out his hand to touch Jack on the arm.

"Ss-s-sh!" he hissed. "What was that?"

"Rat, maybe!" suggested Jack. "Turn your searchlight this way a minute. I want to see where this passage leads."

Ned swung the searchlight in the direction indicated. Its lance of flame pierced the gloom, revealing tiers of boxes and piles of bags and bales heaped up in orderly array. Sufficient space had been left between the heaps of merchandise to provide passageway.

"Come on," cried Jack, "we're losing time standing here!"

Scarcely had the boy uttered the words ere an object came hurtling through the air. It struck the searchlight fairly upon the lens. There was a quick cry of distress from Ned, a rattle of broken glass, the tinkle of the falling searchlight. For a moment complete silence reigned. The next instant there was a rush of a heavy body.

Taken by surprise the boys were not prepared for the onslaught. They went down like ten pins. Harry received a blow on the jaw that nearly put him out for the count. Jack declared afterwards that his stomach would never cease aching from the punch that landed there.

Ned had been bringing up the rear of the little party, hence suffered least. He felt about quickly for the searchlight as he lay on the floor. Before he could recover it the boys heard the outer door slam and knew that someone had passed out of the building after the sudden attack. Who it might have been they could only conjecture.

"Oh, my poor jaw!" groaned Harry. "I'm knocked out!"

"No, you're not!" protested Ned. "That only shook you up!"

"Sure!" agreed Jack. "Shook us all up so we'll get a little more 'pep'. Let's hurry up and follow that guy!"

"Wait a minute," objected Ned. "We want to find Jimmie first!"

"Right-O!" agreed Harry. "I think my jaw is better now. Where are we going, anyway? Do you suppose that was Jimmie that floored us just now? Maybe he thought Mackinder had pals coming in!"

"I don't believe it," stated Ned. "Jimmie must have known that Mackinder was alone with the milk wagon. He also knew that we would follow him here. Possibly the lad is farther along in the warehouse, lost amongst this merchandise. That must have been Mackinder!"

"You're right, Ned!" declared Jack. "He probably misled Jimmie in here and then dashed out as we came in!"

"But where is Jimmie now?" queried Harry. "I don't hear him!"

"Oh, Jimmie!" called Ned in a loud tone.

To this hail there was no answer. Complete silence reigned.

"That's mighty funny!" puzzled Harry. "Get your searchlight and let's hunt him up. He can't have gotten far away."

A short search by all three boys resulted in the recovery of the searchlight. Beyond the damaged lens the instrument had suffered no injury. It was still serviceable and cast a strong beam of light.

By its aid the lads followed the passage, stepping rapidly forward. They were becoming alarmed over the failure of their chum to respond to their calls. All feared that Mackinder might have done the lad harm. Momentarily their anxiety increased.

"Here's a side passage!" declared Harry, who brought up the rear of the little procession. "Where does this go?"

"Wait a minute with that searchlight, Ned!" called Jack, who followed Ned closely. "Throw it back here a minute for Harry!"

Before the light could be brought into service Harry had taken a step into the passage he had just discovered. A sharp cry of surprise brought Jack and Ned to his side in an instant.

The lads saw Harry bending over the form of their missing chum. Jimmie lay in a heap, blocking the passageway.

Fearful that their first suspicions had been correct, the boys scarcely dared investigate. Jack began growling out uncomplimentary remarks concerning Mackinder. Ned quickly forced his way to Harry's side.

"Here, let me see him!" Ned cried, throwing the flame of his searchlight on the recumbent form. "Why, he's all huddled up!"

"All in a bunch!" agreed Harry. "I wonder if he's hurt!"

"Roll him over," directed Ned. "Let's get him out of here!"

"Why, he's tied!" cried Harry, in a startled voice.

"Tied?" questioned Jack, pushing forward. "Who tied him?"

"And gagged!" went on Harry, his voice vibrating with indignation. "Mackinder will pay for this!" the lad continued. "We'll get him!"

Without the loss of a moment Harry was swiftly relieving Jimmie of the object which prevented speech. A small block of wood had been forced between Jimmie's teeth. This had been secured in place by tying a handkerchief over his face. The gag had been extremely effective, even though it was uncomfortable and crude.

As the gag was removed Jimmie wagged his jaw a few times to relieve the strained muscles. He nodded his appreciation.

"How are you feeling, Jimmie?" was Ned's solicitous inquiry.

"All right," replied the lad. "Untie my hands, will you?"

"Gee, but you're an artist, Jimmie!" cried Jack. "We'll get you a job as 'Tricko, The Handcuff King'! I want to say right now," the boy went on in mock seriousness, "there are very few people who can tie themselves up so completely and so quickly as this job has been done!"

"You win the argument!" decided Jimmie, ironically. "If I get my tutor where I can lay hands on him I'll show him a trick or two that wasn't in the first chapter. He's in for some instruction all right!"

"What happened, Jimmie?" asked Ned, carefully passing his knife through the bonds that confined the other's hands and feet.

"Well, when I came slamming along into the warehouse I was only a few feet behind the milk maid!" began Jimmie. "I at once crept in on tiptoe, because I reasoned that he would be slugging along, making considerable noise. I didn't know that there were goods in here.

"I couldn't see him anywhere. From that I concluded that he had either stopped or had taken to tiptoeing, too. I had my 'gat' ready and started in. I felt along the bales and boxes a ways. Just as I heard you fellows come into the door something tripped me and down I went.

"Before I could say a word he had shoved that thing into my mouth, pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket, tied it around my face and then tied my hands together under my knees. Say," the lad continued earnestly, "that guy never got his knowledge out of a correspondence course! He's been there and helped skin 'em! He's smooth!"

"Where's your automatic?" asked Harry.

"I don't know," replied Jimmie. "Let's have the bug a minute. I'm sure I heard it fall, but I can't say whether Mackinder got it or not!"

"Mackinder?" questioned Ned. "How do you know it was he?"

"Because as he was tying my hands together I had a chance to feel of the back of his right hand. I could feel the scar as plainly as could be. It was the same scar I saw before he started to run and the same scar I saw when the 'U-13' package was pinched!"

"I'd like to take a poke at him just for luck!" declared Jack.

"I don't know about that," stated Jimmie. "I can't help but admire a fellow as capable as he is. He tied me up so quickly and cleverly and yet so effectively. I'd like to take lessons of him!"

"Here's your gun!" joyously announced Harry. "And here's the milkmaid's dress he shed in here after he trussed you up."

"Now, then," began Ned, as the party was again complete and ready for action, "let's get out of here and get our baggage."

"Let's get Mackinder first," proposed Jack.

"I vote 'No' on that question, Mr. Chairman!" declared Jimmie.

"Why?" questioned Jack, with surprise. "What's the matter?"

"Well, there are several matters!" declared Jimmie. "I don't feel that we'd gain anything by chasing him. The 'U-13' package is not in our possession and he knows it. Besides, he's a clever guy and we might get the worst of it if we step out of our way to go after him."

"I agree with Jimmie," announced Ned. "Let's get aboard the Lena Garlic and get started on our way as soon as possible."

"You mean Lena Knobloch!" corrected Harry.

"It's the same thing!" declared Ned. "Knobloch means garlic!"

"All right, then, let's get going!" agreed Jack.

The boys lost little time in proceeding to their hotel, where they went directly to their room. Here a scene of confusion awaited them. Their possessions lay scattered around in disorder.

"Well, Great Frozen Hot Boxes!" cried Jimmie. "What's this?"

"Mackinder and Norton again, I'll bet my head!" said Jack.

"Weren't satisfied with their first search," agreed Jimmie.

"Came back here and went through everything. Then I'll bet Mackinder grabbed that milk cart and dogs, slipped on an old lady's dress and chased down to the dock to see if he could stop us!" put in Jack. "When he found we were armed he just cut it and ran away!"

"Boys, we will do well to pack up and get aboard that vessel as quickly as possible!" declared Ned. "Through a mistake we're under suspicion, and it won't pay us to remain here another minute!"

Replacing their belongings in the bags with skill and despatch the lads were soon ready. They at once proceeded to the dock.

Tramping aboard they proceeded to the cabin at the after end of the vessel. Entering they discovered Captain von Kluck seated at the little table. Before him was a bottle and a glass.

"Well, Captain," began Ned, "we're here and ready to go!"

"So-o-o?" queried von Kluck. "Vhell, if you're reatty to go, vhy go! But you don'd go on dis schip. Vhe don'd carry bassengers!"



Chapter VI

A Difficult Departure


Astounded at the statement of the captain, whom they had begun to regard as a friend but whose present manner indicated anything but friendship, the boys glanced at each other in some degree of alarm.

"Just what do you mean by that, Captain?" inquired Ned. "I thought it was understood that we were to have passage on your boat!"

"Vhell, den I forgot dot vhe don'd carry bassengers!"

"And I suppose it took Mackinder to refresh your memory!" snapped Jimmie, stepping forward with an outward thrust of his chin.

At the mention of Mackinder's name the captain gave a quick start. His glance at Jimmie was one of uneasiness and alarm.

"Vot do you know about Mackinter?" he inquired.

"I know this," stated Jimmie, angrily. "He's a fake and if you know when you're well off you'll let go your lines right now!"

"Yes, Captain," added Ned, "we found Mackinder trying to detain us because he fancies we have done something wrong or because he thinks we have something he wants. Who he may be we don't know!"

"I know!" stated the captain, stoutly. "I know dot feller is a officer in der British army, und vhen he says shtay, den I shtay!"

"An officer in the British army!" gasped Jimmie.

"I think I see now why he wants that package!" declared Ned. "He thinks that we are bringing some instructions or something to the submarine named 'U-13' and he's trying to intercept the despatches!"

"Well, he's welcome to the 'U-13' package as far as we're concerned!" maintained Jimmie. "What we want is to get home to the little old U. S. A., and that right quick. So, Captain, we'll go now, if you please!"

"No!" decided the captain bluntly. "Vhe don'd go!"

"But you may listen to reason!" said Jimmie, drawing his automatic. "I don't like to hold you up, but you're going to get out of town right now and we're going with you!"

"Put dot gun oop!" cried the captain, starting from his seat.

"I will on one condition!" declared the boy. "If you get under way at once without any more monkey business I'll keep it in my pocket. If you don't I'll use it! We are neutral and we're going to remain neutral if we have to fight to do so!"

"Vhell, I guess dere's no real goot reason vhy vhe shouldn't go, anyhow!" decided the captain. "Mackinter don'd got no license to shtop us. Aber he don'd like id, he couldt lump id!"

"Now you're talking sense!" declared Jimmie. "But, remember! No tricks, or we'll feel like starting something ourselves!"

"All right!" consented von Kluck, secretly anxious to help the boys. "Chust come along und make me leaf port. Dot let's me ouid!"

Upon von Kluck's appearing at the companionway the crew immediately assumed an air of attention. Some were grouped about the capstan, where they were watching the sky and speculating on the character of the approaching storm. Others were occupied at various duties about the vessel. Every man seemed to stand in fear of the captain.

Bawling out a hoarse order, von Kluck at once assumed command of the deck. Lines were thrown down from the belaying pins. A group of men tailed onto the halyards, hoisting the foresail, staysail and jib.

The Lena Knobloch was a schooner-rigged vessel with two masts. The boys noted with a considerable degree of satisfaction that she was built along clipper lines, vastly different from the round-bowed type of vessel commonly seen in those waters.

Under jib, staysail and foresail the vessel swung around as the dock lines were let go. Gathering speed with the force of a favorable wind the little vessel plunged ahead. Von Kluck was evidently planning on leaving the harbor without the use of a tug -- a somewhat difficult, if not dangerous, experiment.

Urged by the vociferous driving of the mate men were already hauling on the halyards of the mainsail. With the added press of sail the Lena Knobloch heeled over until her lee rail was nearly awash.

A strong wind was coming out of the northwest, favoring the maneuver of von Kluck, but kicking up considerable commotion on the harbor. Waves were running so high as to make navigation of small craft exceedingly difficult if not dangerous.

Carrying full staysail, jib, foresail and mainsail the schooner plunged into the waves, sending cascades of water over her forecastle with every leap. She was loaded deeply and the boys could see that she would prove to be what the sailors term a "wet ship."

Every moment the speed was increasing. The mate had trimmed the sheets to the exact point for greatest efficiency.

Suddenly all hands were startled by a hail from a point on the starboard bow. They saw a small motor boat riding dizzily upon the crest of a wave one moment to be dropped out of sight in the trough the next.

"Ahoy, the Knobloch!" came a cry.

"Ahoy, the launch!" bawled out the mate in a voice of thunder. "What do you want? Stand off or we'll run you down!"

"We want those passengers of yours!" was the reply.

"All right, come on and get 'em!" yelled the mate above the noise of singing wind in the rigging. "We can't stop now!"

"If you don't heave to I'll fire!" was the answer.

"Good night!" cried Jimmie from a position near the lee rail, where he could look out beneath the main boom. "That's Mackinder!"

A revolver shot sounded amidst the tumult of rushing waters and singing rigging. The echo was quickly bitten off by the rising wind. The shot sounded dully above the humming and roaring.

Before Ned could detain him Jimmie fired. Faintly the boys heard a crash aboard the motor boat. The green starboard sidelight of the launch disappeared. Urged on by the tremendous press of wind in her sails the Lena Knobloch was fast dropping the launch astern.

No other shots were fired at the schooner. Scrambling from his position at the starboard rail Jimmie made his way aft to a point beside the helmsman. Here he peered eagerly into the darkness astern.

"I can't see them at all!" he announced, turning presently to his companions, who were grouped about the little skylight.

"Perhaps we've shaken them off for keeps!" ventured Jack. "Did you see who that was with Mackinder?"

"I thought," said Harry, "that it was his pal, Norton!"

"Well, they're safely out of reach now!" declared Ned. "I'm glad of it, too! If we can hold on at this gait we'll soon reach a port in England, where we can transship the Grey Eagle and get home."

"I only hope the real 'U-13' doesn't come along and demand that package from us!" laughed Harry. "They might take a notion to send us to the bottom if we don't deliver it on demand!"

"Let us hope they're busy on the west coast of England by this time!" suggested Jack. "I don't want any more 'U-13' in mine!"

"Vhat's dot about der 'U-13'?" inquired von Kluck, coming up to the little group. "Is id der 'U-13' dot you're skipping?"

In a few words Ned related the important details of their experience with the 'U-13' package and with Mackinder.

"And so," the boy concluded, "we were just hoping that the real 'U-13' wouldn't show up and claim the package that we haven't got!"

"No danger!" reassured von Kluck. "Dis vindt keeps dose fellers under vasser deep! Dey like rough vedder not at all!"

"Hurrah!" joyfully cried Jimmie. "Blow, winds; blow hard!" the lad continued, stretching his hands to windward in an appealing attitude. "Blow hard enough to keep the submarines submarooned!"

A laugh went round as the boys listened to Jimmie's coined word. They were all heartily in sympathy with the expressed wish that the wind would blow hard enough to keep the submarines from the surface.

"But, den," continued von Kluck, with a frown that wrinkled his heavy brows, "dot's not all. Dere's mines floatin' round der Nord Sea dot dem verdom Deutsches blanted. Maybe vhe hit one of dem und if vhe do -- "

Here the captain shrugged his shoulders, spreading his hands palm upward and extending them with a final toss aloft to indicate the hopelessness of a situation such as he intimated might befall them.

"Can't we dodge a mine?" queried Jimmie.

"Sure, if vhe can see id!" declared von Kluck.

"That's the trouble," explained Ned. "These mines float deep and before a ship can know of its danger -- Bang!"

"Well, Ned," announced Jimmie with a grin, as he wrinkled his freckled nose, "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll bet you my old hat that if we do hit a mine and get blown up I go higher than you do!"

"All right," agreed Ned, laughing in spite of the seriousness of the situation. "We'll ask von Kluck to be the judge."

"Von Kluck don't seem to be very much worried over the prospect of hitting a mine!" declared Jimmie. "I guess we're all right!"

"Und now," announced the captain, "come to der cabin und eat!"

The boys needed no second invitation. They were soon seated about the little table, where they found great slabs of cheese set out on a plate. Loaves of hard, black bread were placed upon the table by the steward, who withdrew to presently reappear bearing a great pot of steaming coffee. Von Kluck refreshed himself with a glass of his beloved "schnapps," then fell to heartily upon the bread and cheese, motioning to the boys to do likewise.

With considerable relish the lads made a good lunch off the bread and cheese and coffee. Hard and dark, but possessing considerable nutriment, the bread was not at all unpleasant to the taste. It had been plentifully seasoned with small seeds, which lent an appetizing flavor.

Shortly after finishing their lunch the boys again gained the deck, to find the mate actively driving the men in their various duties. The wind still came out of the northwest with a stinging snap. Ned declared that he could feel rain approaching.

"Feels to me more like snow!" stated Jimmie, sniffing to windward. "We'll be getting outside the Friesian Islands soon and then we'll find out what's coming. We're somewhat protected here."

"How long will it be before we pass into the North Sea, Captain von Kluck?" asked Ned of the captain, who approached.

"Vhe might make id by morning," stated the captain. "I vish I make a swift voyage dis time. If Mackinter gets news to England ahead of me, maybe he makes droubles by das Lena Knobloch."

"So you're carrying all the canvas you dare?" asked Harry.

"Chust now, yes! Maybe vhen vhe come about und head up into der vindt vhe get oop der tops'ls und put oop uuder vun chib. I reach off a goot vays und leaf Amsterdam und der vest coast of der Zuider Zee, den I make vun straight reach und run ouid by Eijerlandsche Gut."

"Then I'm going below to try for a little sleep!" declared Jimmie. "I'm not needed on deck and this wind is too cold for comfort!"

"I'll go with you and keep you company," volunteered Jack.

"We'll all go," added Harry. "Come on, Ned."

Clinging to hand rails the lads scrambled below. The deck leaned at an angle that made walking almost impossible. Every plunge sent shivers through the little vessel. Tons of water broke over the bows and dashed along the planks to rush hissing through the scuppers.

In the cabin a lamp swung wildly from a beam overhead, throwing weird, dancing shadows on the bulkheads. Here the noises of the wind were hushed. Only a moaning from the taut rigging reached the ears of the four lads. But the cabin was full of eerie sounds of creaking timbers and straining planks. For some time the boys lay on lockers listening to the confusion of noises. Presently they fell asleep.

They were wakened by the sound of tramping feet on deck, and knew that some maneuver was about to be executed. Coils of rigging were flung on deck. The stentorian voice of the mate bawled out orders.

"Stand by to come about!" roared you Kluck over their heads.



Chapter VII

A Warning From The Sea


Springing from their resting places the four boys staggered up the unsteady companionway. As they gained the deck they were assailed by terrific gusts of wind carrying sleet and snow. During their stay below the weather had turned colder, bringing fitful dashes of sleet out of the north. The schooner presently rode easier.

A hoarse order from forward was followed by a clanking of the cable through the hawse pipes. The sails rattled with great slapping noises as the Lena Knobloch rode to her anchor.

Men were instantly aloft securing the lighter topsails. With a run the foresail and mainsail were lowered and furled. The staysail and jib had but a moment before been lowered as the schooner was headed into the wind. Under bare poles they rode on gentler swells.

"Where are we?" asked Harry, throwing up an arm to protect his face. "Have we reached England yet? Where is the captain?"

"Vhell, how do you like id now?" roared the voice of von Kluck almost at Harry's elbow. "Vhat you tink of dis for some shtorm?"

"This is fierce!" replied the lad, bracing himself against the wind. "Where are we now, Captain von Kluck?"

"Under der lee of one of der Friesian Islands," replied the captain. "I see some rocks aheadt und dere is a big shteamer in drouble oop to vindvard. I hope she makes id into safety, bud I don'd know!"

Shaking his head doubtfully the captain went away forward. Presently he returned, still shaking his head. The crew except the captain and the mate were gathered forward round the capstan.

"Dere's rocks dere -- lots of dem!" announced von Kluck. "Dot wessel looks like she's lost her rutter, und if she gets off dem rocks dot captain needs a medal. I tink he's a goner, sure!"

It did, indeed, appear as if von Kluck was right. A big cargo steamer, now dimly discernible to the boys, was rolling in the trough of a heavy sea, urged on by a vicious wind from the northwest. Her range lights showed clearly at the mast heads. A gleam of red indicated that the vessel was showing her port side. With every roll great masses of water boarded the weather rail, sweeping the decks of every movable object.

"Look!" cried the mate, excitedly pointing toward the steamer.

There was no need of explanation. A great mass of rock directly in the path upon which the steamer was drifting sent gigantic columns of water into the air with every wave. Although the eastern sky showed a tinge of gray the blackness upon the water was intense. It was lightened momentarily by the white smother of spray and foam cast upward as wave after wave broke upon the black and threatening menace lying immediately before the apparently doomed vessel.

"Py golly, he's all right!" yelled von Kluck in a moment. "He's lost dot rutter und he's backing on his enchines! He'll make id!"

Surely enough the steamer's captain was executing the very maneuver at which von Kluck had guessed. By backing on his engines he succeeded in drawing the vessel so far to one side of the dangerous rock that it was passed. Only a margin extremely narrow intervened.

But the danger had not passed. Another rock threatened to tear to pieces the all but helpless vessel. With straining eyes and beating hearts the lads watched anxiously as this danger was also cleared.

They clung to the weather shrouds in spite of the whip-like sting of sleet and spray, watching the struggle against wind, wave and rock.

At length the vessel won through the dangerous places. It was now so close that the boys could make out the details of the rigging. Ned procured a pair of binoculars and spelled out the name.

"That steamer is the Anne of Melbourne," he announced. "I wonder if it isn't an Australian vessel. They have had a hard time of it."

"She's close to us now," cried Harry. "I wonder what they'll do."

"If they're wise they'll let go an anchor and ride it out," answered Jimmie. "If I had sense enough to bring a vessel through a tight place like that I'd get a hook overboard as soon as I could."

"That's just what they are doing!" announced Ned. "There's a group of men at the forward end preparing to get the anchor over."

Directly the boys heard the rattle of the cable in the steamer's hawse pipes, followed instantly by a great splash at the bow that told as plainly as words that the ground tackle was out.

Still feeling the heave of waves surging around the head of the island the steamer slowly swung to her cable. The range lights shifted their position. The red side light disappeared.

"She's safe now!" cried Ned, in a tone of relief. "I'm glad they made it all right. I wonder how they got crippled."

"Let me take the glasses a minute, Ned," requested Harry.

"Can you see what's the matter with her?" queried Jimmie.

"Yes," replied the boy, with the glasses to his eye. "Von Kluck was right. It looks as if the rudder stock is twisted and bent badly out of shape. As the stern lifts I can see the blades of the propeller all right, but the rudder seems to be missing."

"The Anne of Melbourne," mused Ned. "I wonder now what that vessel is doing away off up here. If they had a cargo destined for an English port they should have been much farther south."

"You don't suppose the captain lost his reckoning and got this far out of his course, do you?" suggested Jimmie.

"I don't know," replied Ned. Then turning to Captain von Kluck the lad continued: "Captain, what do you think about it?"

"Mit der var doing so many tings, I don'd know what to tink!"

"I can see men moving about on deck now, apparently clearing up the recent damage," stated Harry. "And I see a Boy Scout, too!"

"No!" objected Jimmie. "Don't say that! I don't want any more Boy Scouts mixed up in this! It isn't fair!"

"Just the same, he's there!" laughed Harry.

"Well, then," stated Jimmie, with a sigh of resignation, "we are in for another siege of it. I never knew it to fail! Just as quickly as we get going somewhere and a Boy Scout shows up there's trouble ahead and lots of it! Why can't they stay home?"

"Now, Jimmie," cautioned Ned, "you know we've never in all our adventures found a Boy Scout that really brought us ill luck. Sometimes they've caused us a lot of trouble, but usually they help!"

"That's true, too, but I wish we could get home to the little old U. S. A. without mixing up in this 'U-13' business with the Boy Scouts!"

"Maybe it'll come out all right after all," soothed Ned.

"Maybe," reluctantly agreed Jimmie. "I say, Harry," he continued, "let me take those glasses. I want to see what that fellow's like."

Long and eagerly the lad peered through the binoculars.

"I see him!" he cried, presently. "He's going up the foreshrouds! I'll bet he's working his passage on that steamer!"

"What's he doing on the foreshrouds?" asked Ned.

"It looks as if something had fouled at the fore top," replied Jimmie. "He's going up to clear it, I guess. Oh, look!" the boy shouted. "He's falling! He's broken one of the ratlines and is falling!"

"I see him!" cried Ned. "I can see him!"

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Jimmie, the next moment. "He hit the shrouds and the steamer rolled at the right minute, throwing him clear of the deck. See that splash in the water?"

"I see it!" answered the others, together.

"Are they trying to help him?" asked Harry.

"Yes, they are," stated Jimmie. "They've thrown him a ring buoy!"

"Can you see him now?" asked Ned.

"Yes, and he's swimming. There must be a current in here that's dragging him away from the steamer. The buoy fell short and he's swimming directly away from the steamer. He's coming towards us!"

Intently the lad watched the one in the water. He swam a good stroke resting easily, even though somewhat impeded by his clothing.

Now and again as the crest of a wave approached the swimmer his head was submerged, only to reappear again in the yeasty froth following the racing monster. Eagerly his progress was noted by all on board the schooner. They were at a loss to understand why he had left his own vessel to swim toward a strange craft.

Presently, however, as he approached the Lena Knobloch the lad's strokes became more feeble. He was evidently tiring rapidly.

"Captain, what do you say to getting a boat over?" asked Ned.

"Vhait!" grunted von Kluck. "Id's lots of vork to do id!"

"But the lad may need help!" urged Ned, eagerly.

"Vhell, if he needs id, I put him ofer. Nod before!"

Jimmie ran forward into the very eyes of the schooner. In his hands he grasped a ring buoy, to which was attached a goodly length of line. This he coiled ready to heave the buoy to the one in the water as soon as he should come within reach.

Just as Jimmie was measuring with his eye the distance separating the swimmer from his goal and preparing for a mighty throw of the buoy he noted that the other's stroke was fast weakening.

With a jerk the Wolf unfastened and kicked loose a shoe. In an instant the other followed. A rapid movement loosened his jacket. A backward twist of his shoulders helped him slip from the garment.

One look over the rail showed that the swimmer was losing control of his muscles. Both hands went up into the air only to disappear beneath the crest of an oncoming wave. The boy stayed under.

"Stand by to get me, boys!" shouted Jimmie.

A splash told that he had gone overboard. His companions crowded eagerly to the rail, watching for his reappearance. In a moment they were relieved to see his red head come up close to the spot where the other had sunk. Emptying his lungs of the pent up air with a loud "Whoosh!" the boy instantly refilled them to plunge again under water.

To the intense satisfaction of those on board the schooner he again came quickly to the surface, this time dragging by the hair the boy to whose rescue he had gone. Swimming on his back, using but one hand, Jimmie slowly brought the other lad to a position where he could reach the buoy flung to him by Ned's strong arm.

Harry had already made a bowline in a bight at the end of a line. This he passed over the side to Jimmie, who succeeded without difficulty in getting the loop over the shoulders of the rescued lad.

Soon both were on deck, where they received the attentions of all hands. Captain von Kluck insisted upon giving the newcomer a draught of "schnapps" to assist in the reviving process. As the fiery liquor burned its way down his throat the lad coughed violently.

Choking and spitting the lad clawed at his burning mouth and throat. Evidently he thought the cure worse than the disease.

"Let's get into the cabin," suggested Jimmie. "I'm freezing!"

"Sure enough!" cried Ned. "How thoughtless of us! Captain," he added, "can you have the steward bring us some coffee?"

Roaring for the steward to perform this service, the captain picked up the nearly drowned lad in his strong arms. He deposited the boy on a locker in the cabin, then stood aside to permit his passengers to administer such assistance as they might.

Ned stepped forward to begin operations. With a cry he bent over the boy. Wonderingly the others crowded forward.

"Frank!" cried Ned, seizing the lad by the shoulders. "Frank! Speak to me! Frank, how did you get here?"

"Who is it?" asked Jimmie, elbowing his way into the group to a position where he could see the recumbent figure. "Why," continued the boy in a tone of amazement, "if it ain't old Frank Shaw of New York!"

A cup of steaming coffee at this moment brought by the steward was offered to the newcomer, who drank eagerly. He glanced about the group with a faint smile in answer to their puzzled looks.

"Look out for the 'U-13', boys!" he said.



Chapter VIII

More About The "U-13"


"Frank Shaw!" cried Jimmie, crowding close to the lad lying on the locker. "What's that you're saying about the 'U-13'?"

"I say 'Look out for it,' that's all!"

"No, it isn't all!" protested the boy. "Take another drink of this coffee and then brace up and tell us what you know! How did you get here and what and who and where and why is this 'U-13'?"

Frank smiled as he struggled to a sitting posture.

"If you'll rub the cramp out of that leg, boys, I'll 'fess up' everything," he began. "That leg feels as if some one were trying to pull some teeth out of it by the roots. A cramp is fierce."

Two lads began massaging the offending member.

"If I'd known it was you swimming to us, I'd have lowered a boat myself and come to your assistance!" declared Jimmie.

"And if I'd known you were on board this schooner," replied Frank, "I'd have left that ship long before I did!"

"Why, what's the matter on that ship, Frank?" asked Ned.

"Oh, nothing, only it's one of these 'work-houses' just exactly like we have read of. The captain is a hard nut and the mates are both of the 'bucko' type. There isn't a man aboard who hasn't got a mark from one or the other of the mates. They're a tough crowd!"

"I'll bet you didn't just fall overboard, then!" shrewdly guessed Jimmie. "You missed your footing purposely! You know you did!"

"How do you know?" grinned Frank, nursing his cramped leg.

"I was watching through the binoculars," answered Jimmie. "But go ahead and tell us something. We're dying from curiosity!"

"Well," began Frank, "you know I wasn't quite satisfied to be left behind when you four lads left in chase of the fellow who had stolen the Panama plans. I wanted to go along in the Grey Eagle."

"We know that, and we're sorry we didn't take you!" cried Ned.

"I went to see Mr. Bosworth about following you," continued young Shaw. "He was opposed to that plan, but you know I usually get my own way somehow. I put together a kit and started out. I had little difficulty in securing passage on a ship loaded with miscellaneous cargo for England. The vessel was a British tramp -- a 'bucko' ship.

"We got close to Land's End after a rather uneventful voyage across the Atlantic. I was dreaming of getting ashore in a short time and then hiking across the channel into France to hunt you up.

"One fine morning we were all startled to hear a hail from the lookout informing the deck that a submarine was approaching. We hove to at the command of the submarine people. They commanded our captain to get his crew into the boats as quickly as possible, for in five minutes they intended torpedoing the ship. They wouldn't take 'No' for an answer."

"That was going some, I must say!" put in Jimmie.

"You needn't be told, of course," went on Frank, "that we lost little time making preparations. One of the sailors disputed my right to take my kit into the small boat. I objected and he cracked me on the jaw. When I recovered I was alone on the vessel. The boats were at some little distance away, with the crew pulling like racers.

"For a moment I was quite desperate, not knowing how to escape. I thought of trying to signal the submarine, but could see the vessel just launching a torpedo. Seemingly the whole after end of the ship was shattered by the explosion. As soon as I could I tried to signal the enemy, but they were just turning about to leave the spot.

"Maybe I didn't hustle about some. The ship was already filling rapidly. The stern was settling fast. All the boats were gone. I could see nothing to serve as a float. Desperately I seized a capstan bar and knocked the wedges and battens off a hatch cover. Then I got a small piece of line. I passed it through a ring bolt and made fast. I figured that when the ship went down the cover would float free for a raft on which I could keep up. Before I was fully ready the compressed air blew the cover off with a 'boom'. It landed close to the rail.

"Just as the hull took a last slant I jumped overboard. After swimming quite a distance away I saw the ship go down. I turned back. There was my hatch cover floating just as I expected."

Here Frank paused to extend his hand for another cup of coffee.

"You're the wise little Scout!" declared Jimmie, admiringly.

"Sure!" agreed Frank. "Then," he continued, "I floated around for the rest of the day on that hatch cover. Toward evening I saw a smoke off to the southwest. It was just out of the glare of the sun. When it got nearer I knew it was a steamer bound for England or some nearby place. It was the Anne of Melbourne. So here I am!"

"But what about this 'U-13'?" inquired Harry, eagerly.

"Oh, yes, I nearly forgot," said Frank. "The submarine that torpedoed the ship was marked 'U-13' on the side!"

"They've been doing a lot of that, according to the newspapers!" stated Ned. "But why do you warn us to look out for her?" he asked.

"When I told the captain of the Anne of my experience," went on Frank, "he decided to head north, intending to go to the westward of Ireland, around between Scotland and the Shetland Island into the North Sea, in the hopes of dodging the submarine, which seemed to be working the waters of the English Channel. Yesterday morning we were hailed by a submarine. I could see that it was the same old 'U-13'!"

"How did it get way up here?" questioned Ned, incredulously.

"Search me!" replied Frank. "They ordered us to heave to, but that captain is a daredevil. He cracked on all steam full speed ahead, declaring that if they took him they'd have to catch him.

"The submarine launched a torpedo at us, but it only smashed our rudder. We had good headway on. That, of course, put us in a mighty bad fix, as the submarine could then have easily sent a torpedo into us, but for some unknown reason they turned and left us.

"The captain was nearly crazy when he discovered what damage had been done. The vessel had been bad enough before, but it became ten times worse. I got a crack or two with a rope's end that sting yet!"

"How could they navigate?" asked Jimmie.

"They couldn't!" answered Frank. "We just lay in the trough of the seas and let the old tub roll. They even put preventer stays on the masts and on the boilers to keep them from rolling out of the crazy old wagon. You never saw such a place as that ship was!"

"And then when the captain got her under the lee of this land and you saw this schooner you just concluded that you'd jump the ship?"

"Exactly!" agreed Frank. "I had lost my kit when the sailing vessel went down, so I left nothing on the steamer."

"I'm awful glad you got here safely," stated Ned, grasping Frank's hand in a hearty clasp that spoke eloquently of the friendship between the two boys. "But you're too late to help capture the Panama Canal plan thief. He's out of his misery quite a while ago!"

"But he's just in time to get mixed up in this 'U-13' business!" urged Jimmie. "He's right in the midst of the excitement!"

"But since you don't want any more Boy Scouts along we'll pitch Frank overboard again!" declared Harry, with mock gravity.

"Aw, you go on!" scorned Jimmie. "I didn't know it was Frank!"

Laughing at Jimmie's confusion the boys related to their chum the salient points of their experience up to the time of their strange meeting. Frank was greatly puzzled over the circumstances of the strange package, for the presence of which in their kits the boys could not account.

For some time the lads remained in the cabin, drying the uniforms of the swimmers and exchanging experiences. It was the opinion of all that they would be adopting a wise course to return at once to New York.

Captain von Kluck was greatly interested in his strange passengers. He listened eagerly to Frank's account of the doings of the strange submarine. At the conclusion of the recital he paced the deck nervously.

Not until midafternoon did the wind decrease sufficiently to permit the Lena Knobloch to venture forth from her position of shelter.

Through the binoculars the boys made long examinations of the steamer lying to windward of their position. They determined that preparations were being made to send a boat's crew to some port for assistance in towing the crippled vessel to a harbor.

At one bell, or half past four o'clock, Captain von Kluck came from his cabin. He stepped to the rail, sniffing at the wind. Presently he turned to join the mate in his walk across the deck.

For some minutes the two conversed in low tones. Directly the mate stepped forward, bawling out orders to his men.

At once all was commotion on the Knobloch's decks. Men tumbled eagerly about, hauling a line here, letting go another there, until they had set the double reefed mainsail, foresail and a mere rag of jib.

When this had been accomplished all hands seized capstan bars. To the tune of a Dutch sailors' "chanty" the links of the cable slowly clanked inboard. With a lurch the Lena Knobloch swung as the anchor broke ground. Like a storm driven bird she was off in the wings of a northwester, lying far over even under the greatly reduced sail.

"Where to now, Captain?" asked Ned as von Kluck stepped along the deck with head bent forward. By his manner of nervous intentness Ned guessed that the captain was carrying a load on his mind.

Von Kluck's only response was a growl as he passed the boys.

"Captain's grouchy!" declared Jimmie. "Leave him alone, Ned!"

"Sure, don't bother him!" added Frank. "He's worried enough!"

"Just the same, I don't like his looks!" stated Ned with some degree of apprehension. "He seems to have soured after hearing about the 'U-13.' Didn't you fellows notice how he listened to Frank's story?"

"Sure we did," Jimmie replied, "but then, it's only natural that he should be worried over the possibility of losing his vessel!"

"Well, his getting under way in this weather shows that he intends to be square and land us in an English port as he agreed!"

"I guess von Kluck is a pretty good sort of a chap, after all!" ventured Harry. "He has tried to treat us as right as he could!"

"I think you're right. We can't blame him for feeling somewhat worried under the circumstances. We'd be grouchy, too!"

Under a port helm the Lena Knobloch swung to starboard leaping forward into the waves as if glad to again be battling with the sea.

Ned and his companions felt that they could be of no service in handling the schooner. They, therefore, retired to the shelter of the cabin, where they were protected from the stinging blasts of sleet and snow that came screaming out of the northwest.

Scarcely had the schooner won clear of the jagged ledges when the full force of the tumbling waves was felt. It seemed to the boys that the stern of the little vessel was hurled to an unbelievable height only to drop so far they feared nothing could save them.

But Captain von Kluck and his mate were expert navigators. They had sailed the ocean since large enough to handle a line. They knew the Lena Knobloch's ability to withstand the buffeting of the elements.

As night drew on the boys expected to witness a cessation of the storm. Their prediction was fulfilled. Gradually the gale blew itself out, leaving but a strong sailing breeze, although the water still continued rough. Captain von Kluck took advantage of this change to shake out the reefs in his canvas and to spread more sail.

Just as the moon showed in the east between masses of cloud the lookout reported a ship in sight off the port bow. In a short time the two vessels had approached within about two miles of each other.

"They're apparently heaving to!" cried Ned who had been using the binoculars. "It looks as if they're getting the boats over!"

From the waist of the other vessel the boys saw a great cloud of dark smoke appear. The small boats had scarcely gone a ship's length away from the scene. The crew were rowing with the greatest haste.

"I see the conning tower of a submarine!" cried Ned.



Chapter IX

A Strange Visit


Clearly visible to the members of the crew on the Lena Knobloch the great cloud of smoke slowly spread over the vessel.

Directly a sullen "Boom" reached their ears. As the smoke spread away the lads could see a great rent in the side through which water was rushing. Already the ship was listing heavily.

Two small boats were being pulled away from the vicinity by the crew of the doomed vessel. The small craft were handled in a seamanlike manner. They made good progress in spite of the still heavy sea.

"By golly!" ejaculated Von Kluck, drawing a long breath. "Maybe vhe get id next, vhat? Dere ain'd no vay of tellin'!"

"Why do you think that, Captain?" questioned Ned.

"Dot verdom 'U-13'!" grunted Von Kluck. "Vhe'll pe lucky," -- here his excitement grew so intense that he delivered himself of several great sailor's oaths -- "if vhe make a port in England alretty!"

"Keep a sharp lookout, boys," said Ned. "Maybe we can get a sight of the 'U-13' if it's still in this neighborhood."

Scarcely had the boy uttered the words before the lookout hailed the deck. His voice vibrated with excitement and fear.

"Vot is, aloft, dere?" roared Von Kluck.

Excitedly jabbering in his intense emotion the lookout frantically pointed in the direction of the sinking ship. Without waiting for orders he came sliding down the halliards. As he landed on deck he turned an ashen face toward the captain. Again he pointed seaward.

"The 'U-13'!" he gasped in an agony of terror.

A glance in the direction indicated showed the boys an object like a spar buoy apparently standing upright in the water. The next moment a swell rolled over something beneath the upright object.

The next wave disclosed a long, rounded steel hull. In the center the conning tower showed plainly. A moment later the outlines of the dreaded submarine were distinguishable as the craft was propelled to the surface. Each wave broke clear over the arched back of this terror of the seas leaving the black hull gleaming in the faint light. Only the upper portion of the conning tower escaped a ducking.

Presently the hatch was opened. A man in uniform stepped out onto the narrow confines of the small deck. His attention was directed toward the schooner. After what seemed to the boys to be an almost endless examination of their vessel the man turned to address a remark to some one evidently close to the hatch but out of their vision.

"What is he saying?" Ned asked von Kluck.

"He iss telling dot odder feller dot vhe iss das Lena Knobloch!"

"What next, I wonder?" speculated Jimmie aloud.

"Next?" almost screamed von Kluck. "Next, vhe iss ordered to get by our boats into und row far enough avhay so dey couldt blow up us!"

In his intense agitation the captain began pacing up and down the deck. The submarine drew close alongside the schooner easily keeping pace with the sailing vessel at the rate they were progressing.

"Von Kluck is certainly worked up about it," remarked Harry as he noted the captain's distracted manner. "He's almost bughouse!"

"Well, so would you be, too, if all you had were about to be sent to the bottom of the ocean!" declared Ned. "It's tough luck!"

"Maybe we'd better be getting our kits in shape," suggested Jack moving toward the cabin. "I don't want to leave everything!"

"I had to leave everything," put in Frank, "when they sunk the ship I was on. I felt lucky to get away with my life!"

"Let's make a try for it, anyway," continued Jack.

"Wait a minute!" cried Ned, "let's see what they're going to do. The man is going below again! Why don't he hail us?"

Strangely enough the officer was descending the hatchway without speaking a word to those on board the schooner.

This procedure puzzled von Kluck, but did not serve to reduce in any degree the excitement under which he was laboring.

"Lay aft a couble of handts und make reaty der boats!" he shouted. "Come on, hurry oop! Lifely, now, men!"

In obedience to this command two members of the crew sprang towards the stern of the schooner to make preparations for launching the boat lashed at the stern. Two others frantically loosened the lashings of the upturned boat lying amidships.

A clanking sound indicating that the hatchway of the "U-13" had been closed attracted the attention of the boys in that direction.

"What are they going to do now?" questioned Jimmie eagerly.

"I fancy they are going to pull away a little so as to launch a torpedo at us," stated Ned. "It don't look as if they're going to be kind enough to let us get off the vessel before they blow it up!"

"Then it isn't the same crew I met!" declared Frank firmly. "They treated the men fine! While I must admit that I don't admire their way of sinking merchant ships, I will have to say that they gave the people a chance to get out of danger!"

"Well, is it the same submarine you saw?" asked Ned.

"It looks exactly like it. Besides," the boy continued, "I see the figures 'U-13' painted on the side of this one, too. I believe it is the very same vessel. Maybe they won't sink us!"

With hatch closed the submarine was preparing to execute some maneuver. Gathering speed the craft plunged ahead quickly leaving the schooner alone. Scarcely had the bow of the sailing vessel been passed ere the submarine was so far beneath the water as to show only the periscope. In a moment there was but a swirl to indicate where that had been. Presently it, too, disappeared. The "U-13" was gone.

For some time the boys stood at the rail eagerly scanning the water to discover evidence of the submarine's return. Their search was fruitless. Nothing was found to indicate the presence of their late visitor. The waves rose and fell without hint of its location.

"Oh, Captain von Kluck!" Ned called. "They have gone!"

"Vhat?" asked the captain in a tone expressing doubt.

"Yes," continued the boy. "They have slipped back into the ocean again and have left us. Possibly they think we're too small for them to waste a torpedo on. Torpedoes cost a lot of money, you know!"

"Vhell, dot's lucky!" answered the captain, much relieved.

"Sure is!" assented Jimmie, throwing out his chest. "You see, Captain, we're mascots for you. We've brought you good luck!"

Joining in the laugh that greeted this remark the captain ordered the men who had been at work upon the boats to cease their operations. A hand was again posted aloft to act as lookout.

After a short consultation between von Kluck and the mate it was decided to proceed on the course traveled by the steamer from which Frank Shaw had recently escaped. They intended to pass between the Shetland islands and the coast of Scotland in an attempt to make a port on the west side of England, believing that there would be less danger in this procedure. Accordingly all sail possible was made.

As if understanding the necessity for haste the vessel leaned far over under the press of canvas and sprang forward with increased speed.

"We ought to make the west coast of England in a short time, Captain, at this rate," said Ned as he noted with satisfaction the rate at which the Lena Knobloch was traveling through the water.

"I don'd know!" declared von Kluck. "Dere's nasty vedder oop dere!" he added, pointing to the western sky. "I don'd like id!"

"It can't very well blow hard enough to stop us, can it?"

"Don'd you tink it can't blow hard in dese vatters! Ask me -- I know!" replied the captain sagely wagging his head.

With eager looks the boys watched the gathering clouds to westward. The captain's prediction seemed about to be verified.

An uncommonly strong puff of wind struck the schooner heeling her far over to starboard. The blast bore a chill as of ice.

"Oh, boys," cried Jimmie turning his head away from the biting blast, "look up to windward and see how smooth the ocean is getting!"

"That's wind coming!" shouted Ned.

An order was roared out by von Kluck. Men sprang to the lines. The sails were stowed with a speed that seemed scarcely credible. Heeling round on a port helm the Lena Knobloch turned from the approaching blast.

Leaving only the shortened jib von Kluck and the mate stood on the after deck peering anxiously at the violent disturbance overtaking the little vessel. Now and again the mate glanced apprehensively at the schooner's masts or along the decks.

With a shriek the storm struck. For a moment the very weight of wind seemed to settle the schooner farther into the water. The next instant they were tearing along with the speed of a race horse.

Flattened by the pressure of the wind the waves no longer gave her motion. By reason of her being headed directly away from the blast the schooner rode on an even keel. Every line, every shroud hummed like the strings of a gigantic harp. The noise was terrific.

A glance at the compass in the binnacle showed Ned that they were headed nearly northeast. They were fast leaving England astern.

Conversation was almost impossible in the howling gale that tore and fretted at the vessel. Yet Ned managed to shout to the captain:

"How much sea room have we got in this direction?"

A shrug of the shoulders indicated the captain's doubt. He accompanied this movement with a wagging of the head.

"Vhe'll get into der lee of somedings bretty soon," he replied.

"I surely hope so!" declared Ned, cupping his hands to carry his voice to the other's ear. "I'd hate to hit anything at this rate!"

Nodding an acknowledgment to this assertion the captain by signs indicated to the mate that he desired a hand sent aloft as lookout.

In a short time it seemed to the boys that the terrific force of the gale had somewhat spent itself. Waves began to toss the vessel at an alarming rate. Each mountain of water appeared about to board the schooner at the stern, threatening to crush the craft by its weight.

Anxious for the safety of the vessel and for their own welfare the lads, nevertheless, understood that they could do little good on deck. They, therefore, made their way into the cabin, where they sat on lockers.

Here the noises of the tempest were somewhat stilled, but the creaking and groaning of the timbers was far more noticeable. It seemed to the lads that the vessel was being torn asunder by every billow.

"I wonder what weather the old 'U-13' is making of it about now?" said Frank, as the boys grouped themselves about the little table.

"She's in smoother water than this, I'll venture to say," put in Jimmie, clutching the edge of the table in an effort to support himself.

"If they are not in better water than this," remarked Harry, "they're getting shaken up some! I'd like to be under water right now!"

"Why, Harry," spoke up Ned, "you shouldn't say that!"

"I mean in a tight little submarine!" explained Harry.

"I wish we had the Sea Lion over here!" cried Jimmie. "We could have more fun than we had when we tried to rescue the papers out of that ship in the Gulf of Tong King with Moore and his nosey son butting in!"

"That was sure some fine boat!" declared Ned. "Just as easy to ride in as a rocking chair. And it was always smooth and -- "

The boy's speech was cut short by a violent roll of the vessel. All the lads were thrown in a heap to the cabin floor. Directly the schooner righted herself, but began pitching with a violent motion. From the sounds the boys knew that the captain had hove to, bringing the vessel into the wind. Apparently he intended riding out the storm.

Waves were breaking over the bows, falling with tremendous blows upon the forward deck. The scuppers were not able to release the flood.

Suddenly a terrific crash sounded directly beneath the cabin floor. The stern seemed to lift bodily into the air. A shudder ran through the fabric. Again the boys fell to the deck.



Chapter X

Shipwreck And Rescue


Above the noises of the tempest and the straining timbers sounded cries from the deck that told of confusion amongst the crew. Von Kluck's hoarse voice was bawling out orders mixed with great sea oaths. He was driving the men to some duty.

The tramping of feet above the boys sounded for a moment, then ceased. Judging from the sounds they thought the men had gathered in the waist of the vessel. Puzzled, they looked at each other in fear.

"What's up?" inquired Jimmie, attempting to rise to his feet.

Ned steadied himself at the table as he tried to peer out of the little skylight overhead. He could see nothing.

"We just about struck something!" declared Jimmie.

"Maybe we hit another vessel," ventured Harry.

"Or a rock, perhaps," continued Jack. "We surely struck something solid. I hope we don't hit it again like that first crack!"

"Look here, boys!" cried Ned in alarm. "The motion of this ship is much less than it was a minute ago! Notice it?"

"It surely is!" agreed Jack. "Is the wind going down?"

"We are getting into some sort of shelter," guessed Harry. "Probably von Kluck has navigated the schooner behind a breakwater."

"Boys, the ship is sinking!" shouted Ned. "See the water coming into this cabin! We've struck a floating mine!"

In alarm the boys sprang to their feet. As Ned had said, the motion was lessening rapidly. They found little difficulty now in keeping their footing without support. With one accord they made a break for the companionway, crowding out in a body.

The sight that met their gaze brought consternation to every heart. The schooner lay head to the wind. The mainsail had been set with a double reef, to help keep the vessel in that position. The seas seemed alarmingly higher than when they had been last on deck.

This was due, of course, to the difference in perspective, owing to the fact that they were fast settling into the water.

Above the stern clung traces of heavy, black smoke. A disagreeable odor pervaded the atmosphere in spite of the strong wind.

"There goes von Kluck and the crew!" shouted Harry, pointing to leeward. "They're scared to death. That mine settled them!"

A short distance away the boys could see the larger of the two boats that had been carried by the schooner. In it were the members of the crew, accompanied by the captain and the mate.

Tossed about by the angry waters the little shell seemed about to be engulfed at any moment. However, skillful hands were at the oars. Rising and falling, now on top of a wave, now out of sight, the boat soon put considerable distance between the two parties.

"Well, Great Frozen Hot Boxes!" exclaimed Jimmie in disgust. "What do you know about that? They've gone and left us!"

"And the ship is settling fast!" cried Ned, in alarm. "We'd better get busy if we don't want to go down with it!"

"What can we do?" asked Harry. "The boat's gone!"

"Suppose we try to patch up the leak," suggested Jimmie. "Maybe we could keep the old tub afloat until the storm dies down!"

"No chance!" decided Ned. "Von Kluck and his crew would have done that if they could. We'd better get busy!"

"What's the matter with using the small boat at the stern?"

"That's a good idea unless it is broken too badly. Let's have a look at it anyway," replied Ned, hastening toward the stern.

A brief examination of the small boat indicated that it would be more seaworthy than the hull upon which they were standing. No time was lost in preparations for launching the craft.

"When folks get shipwrecked," suggested Jimmie, "don't they take water and food with them if they have it?"

"They surely do, little man!" cried Ned. "Hustle about and see what you can get. Try to find something in which to carry fresh water."

Jimmie dashed back into the cabin to raid the pantry. There he found the water gaining rapidly. It was almost knee deep.

Splashing his way about with the aid of the swinging lamp the boy found several loaves of the hard, black bread with which the vessel was provisioned. These he wrapped in an oilskin coat from the captain's room. He tucked the parcel under one arm. With his free hand he seized a huge piece of the captain's beloved cheese.

Hastening quickly to the deck he deposited his burden in the boat. Another trip to the cabin failed to locate any vessel in which fresh water could be carried. The boy then dashed forward to the galley.

There he found a huge kettle used by the cook for boiling beef. This Jimmie filled with water from the barrel on deck. The cover of the kettle was provided with a clever device for fastening it in place. This Jimmie secured, then staggered toward the stern with his burden.

Working with desperate speed the four boys had succeeded in launching the small boat. It now hung bobbing about to a short length of painter under the schooner's stern. It was not far below the taffrail.

Ned and Harry made a hurried trip to the cabin to secure the kits, returning just as Jimmie succeeded in placing his kettle of water aboard.

"Hurry up, Ned," cautioned Jack. "The little wagon is just about to say 'Goodby'! We'll have to go some to escape the suction!"

"All aboard!" replied Ned, tossing his kit into the boat.

Harry pitched the luggage he was carrying to waiting hands. Both boys then watched for an opportune moment when the small boat swung close to the sinking stern. A quick leap carried them safely aboard.

"Oh, I forgot!" cried Ned. "I was going to bring the compass!"

"Never mind the compass now, Ned!" cried Jimmie, seizing an oar.

"No," put in Frank, "we don't know where we are at anyhow, and the compass wouldn't be of any use to us in such a case as this!"

"Goodby, Lena Garlic!" shouted Jimmie a moment later as he pulled manfully at the oar. "Goodby and good luck!"

The others turned to see the schooner now with decks awash. A loud detonation marked the blowing off of the hatches by the compressed air in the hold. That incident seemed to mark the passage of the vessel.

Gradually settling by the stern the schooner quietly slipped backward, settling deeper and deeper, until a large wave overwhelmed the craft, leaving only the masts projecting above water. In another instant these, too, had disappeared, leaving but a few floating pieces of wreckage to mark the spot where the boys had only a short time before been standing.

"And goodby, Grey Eagle!" almost sobbed Ned. "No more flying in that little airship! I wish we could have saved the machine!"

This seemed to be the sentiment of all, but they knew that their sturdy aeroplane was now gone forever.

"The Germans needn't think we'll ever trouble them again in that airship!" declared Jimmie. "We can't be pinched for that!"

For a moment the disappointment of their recent experiences sat heavily on all the lads. At length, however, Ned roused himself and tried to cheer his comrades. He knew that nothing could be gained by bemoaning the fate that had happened to them.

"We can't be far from land," the lad stated presently. "Von Kluck and his crew seemed to be heading the same way we are. They evidently knew about where they were and have made for the nearest port."

"Let's keep right on after them, then," suggested Frank.

"Second the motion!" panted Jimmie, straining at his oar. "But this is hot work! Wish I had a drink of water!"

"You'll have to go slow on the water, boys," cautioned Ned. "That kettle holds only about three gallons, and we can't drink sea water."

"Let me take the oar a while, Jimmie," volunteered Harry. "I guess you've worked about hard enough, anyway. You rest a bit."

Cautiously the boys changed places. What with their kits, the bundle of bread and the cheese the little boat was carrying all that could be conveniently stowed. They were glad that no more had remained to accompany them. Soon all had settled themselves quite comfortably.

"Now," spoke up Jack, presently, "all we've got to do is to let this wind blow us along. We'll just keep the boat straightened into the seas and take it easy. We can't do a thing to help matters."

"Right you are, Scout!" agreed Jimmie. "I think it's getting gray over there," the lad continued, pointing toward the east. "Morning will be along shortly and we can see what time it is."

"Maybe we'll meet some ship that will pick us up," ventured Harry, hopefully. "There are plenty of vessels in these parts."

"I see a smoke astern of us now, I think!" declared Frank. "It seems to be from a vessel low in the water."

"Let me take a look," cried Ned, standing and balancing himself by clinging to Jimmie's shoulder. "Yes, I can see it, too! It seems to be overhauling us quite rapidly," he added. "Maybe they'll help us!"

Ceasing their efforts to propel the boat the boys handled the oars only enough to keep their tiny craft properly riding the seas.

"It looks to me like a tug!" stated Jimmie, presently.

"A tug wouldn't come smashing along at that rate!" objected Ned.

"Well, then, what can it be?" queried the other. "It is too low in the water for a battleship and no freight steamer ever made such good time as they are clipping off! They're coming up fast!"

The boys were not long left in doubt. Rapidly overhauling them the strange vessel did, indeed, seem to be at first glance a tug tearing along through the waves at a great rate. The bow was lost in a smother of foam and spray. But a tiny speck of deck house was visible. The stacks were low. Great billows of black smoke vomited forth from the short funnels came drifting down the wind.

In a short time the vessel approached near enough so that the boys could distinguish a small gun mounted at the bow.

"I know what that ship is!" announced Jimmie, directly. "That's what they call a torpedo boat destroyer or despatch boat!"

"I believe you're right, Jimmie," decided Ned. "They certainly have got the speed!" he added admiringly as the craft approached.

"Get ready to hail 'em!" cried Frank. "Get out a flag!"

"Haven't got a flag aboard this wagon!" scorned Jimmie. "What do you think this is -- a dreadnaught with full equipment?"

"Then take off your shirt and wave that at 'em!"

"Just the idea!" agreed Jimmie, proceeding to follow the advice.

Bracing himself against a thwart amidships Jimmie waved the improvised distress signal. His efforts were not unavailing.

"They see you, Jimmie!" shouted Jack, presently. "There's a man on the bridge looking at you with glasses. They're shifting the helm!"

"I can see two or three men standing on the bridge!" announced Ned. "They are examining us pretty closely. Wonder who they are?"

The boys were not long left in doubt. Way was checked on the stranger. As the vessel drew close to the small boat a churning of foam at the stern told the lads that the engines were reversed in an effort to stop. Presently the stranger ranged alongside. A line was flung to the boys. They were towed beside the other under bare steerageway.

Fending their craft off the larger vessel Ned explained their plight to an officer. They were invited aboard the steamer. Their boat was hoisted aboard, where it was carefully stowed.

The lads found themselves upon the steel deck of a peculiarly long and narrow vessel. Guns were mounted forward and aft. Only a cursory examination was necessary to determine that they were quick firers.

"Now, boys," said the officer who had invited them aboard, "I shall ask you to step to the cabin. The commander will hear your story."

As the boys entered the cabin in response to the other's request they saw a familiar face. Beside the commander seated at the table was none other than their one time acquaintance, Mackinder.



Chapter XI

A Fleet Of Submarines


Upon seeing Mackinder's face, Ned halted in amazement.

A smile spread over the other's countenance as he noted Ned's look of wonder. But beneath the appearance of amused indifference the lad's quick eye detected a look of care. He was not the same Mackinder.

For a brief moment nothing was said. Then the officer saluted the commander, who recognized the act. The boys were presented.

"So, my friends," the commander began, "you were adrift on the North Sea in an open boat? Have you suffered greatly?"

"No, thank you," replied Ned, acting as spokesman. "We have not been adrift very long. The vessel on which we were riding struck something which we took to be a floating mine. The crew got away quickly in one of the boats, while we left a little later in another."

The shrewd eyes of the commander narrowed perceptibly.

"And what was the name and rig of the vessel?"

"The Lena Knobloch, a schooner, of Amsterdam," replied Ned.

"And the name of her captain?" continued the commander.

"Von Kluck," the boy answered.

"Ah, a Hollander! I believe he is a peaceful trader in small cargoes. He is what the English call a 'tramp' of the sea."

"May I ask what boat this is and where you are bound?" asked Ned. "We would like to get to the United States, you know," he added.

"Yes," smiled the commander. "But you are far from that country now and we think your company delightful. This vessel is the Sturmvogel, a destroyer of the German navy. We have been doing some small tasks upon the high seas and are returning to a base of supplies."

"Can you put us in touch with some means whereby we can secure passage on a vessel leaving for the United States?" asked Ned.

"I am afraid that is impossible for the present," slowly replied the other, with apparent reluctance. "We like your company, you see. We also are favored with the presence of one of your countrymen," here he indicated Mackinder, "who has consented to pay us a brief visit."

"Pardon me, sir!" stated Mackinder, half rising. "These are not countrymen of mine! I must disclaim that honor!"

"So-o-o?" drawled the other. "Then you do not know them?"

"No!" stated Mackinder positively. "They are strangers to me!"

"Then you did not mean what you said a few moments ago?"

"I was mistaken!" replied the other, briefly.

"As you please," responded the commander with a wave of his hand. "Perhaps I misunderstood your statements concerning them!"

An order was given to the officer who had conducted the boys to the cabin. The German language was used. Saluting the officer approached Mackinder. Without a word that gentleman rose and stepped from the room.

As Mackinder was conducted from the apartment the commander motioned the boys to seats about the table. He smiled at them kindly.

"Do you know what von Kluck's cargo consisted of?" he asked.

"Mostly cheeses," replied Ned. "Also an airship!" he added.

"An airship?" was the questioning response. "An airship?"

Ned smiled a trifle regretfully as he related briefly the adventures of the four lads with those who have read the previous volume of this series are already familiar. He concluded by saying:

"We were trying to get ourselves and the airship back to the United States, when this man Mackinder seemed bound to delay us on some flimsy pretext. Unfortunately our Grey Eagle went down with the schooner."

"Yes. And now you are headed directly away from your desired destination. For you, at least, the situation is unfortunate!"

"We think we are lucky to be afloat!" declared Ned.

"Yes. You are indeed fortunate in that respect. But I wish to make some inquiries," went on the commander.

"We shall be pleased to give you any information possible," answered the lad heartily. "We highly appreciate your kindness to us!"

"Perhaps my act of picking you up was not altogether prompted by such a noble sentiment," smiled the other. "I want some information."

"I hope we can help you out," replied the boy.

"What I want to know is this: What did you do with the package?"

"What package?" puzzled Ned, unable to grasp the other's meaning.

"The package so much desired by your friend Mackinder!"

Instantly the boys comprehended the statement. They were unable to understand how this man should know anything of the mysterious package unless Mackinder had told him. They glanced at each other in apprehension.

"Haven't we got clear of that thing yet?" spoke up Jimmie.

"If you please, sir," said Ned, "we don't really know anything about the package. A package was found in our baggage when we were searched at the border between Belgium and Holland. It was stolen by some person whom we believe to be this man Mackinder, who has since been trying to get us to deliver it to him, although we have not had it."

"I presume that you understand him to be an officer in the British army?" inquired the commander kindly.

"We heard so from von Kluck," replied the boy.

"Do you know what was in the package?"

"No. We had not seen it until the time it was taken from our kits by the soldiers who were searching them. All we know is that it was marked 'U-13' on the outside. We have seen it but that once."

"I cannot understand why Mackinder should be trying to take the package out of the possession of his own countrymen!"

"But I beg to say that we are not countrymen of his!" declared Ned. "We are citizens of the United States. Here are our passports!"

"I beg your pardon!" apologized the commander. "Circumstances seemed to indicate that you were Englishmen. The mistake is mine!"

"I admit that the mistake was natural," said Ned. "But can you tell me if there is any connection between the package marked 'U-13' and the submarine vessel of the same name? If there is, why should Mackinder, an Englishman, have anything to do with the package?"

A smile greeted this query. Clearly the officer was amused.

"If, as I suspect," he stated presently, "the package contained information valuable for the 'U-13' do you not understand why Mackinder would be glad to get possession of it? The 'U-13' is a German craft!"

"Oh, yes," cried Ned. "And the two countries are at war!"

"And you will also understand why, under the circumstances, we must feel honored by your presence, as well as that of Mackinder, for a little time. Just now we should hate to see you go!"

"Then we are going to be prisoners?" asked Jimmie.

"Oh, no! Nothing so harsh as that!" reassured the other. "We will call it simply guests for the time being. That sounds better!"

"Would you mind telling us what Mackinder had to say about us?" inquired Ned. "We would like very much to know that!"

"Consider," temporized the officer, "how little time there has been since we first sighted you for conversation of any sort!"

"Yes," agreed the lad, "but he has told you something!"

"Nothing of importance!" declared the other, rising to indicate that the interview was at an end. "You will be given quarters forward, where you will receive every consideration until we reach our destination."

"Where are you bound, Captain?" asked Jimmie.

"Our destination just now is a lonely island in the North Sea," answered the other. "It is heavily guarded, so you will be in no danger."

"Does Mackinder go ashore, too?" Jimmie continued.

"That has not been decided yet," replied the commander. He touched a button, summoning an orderly. "Take these young gentlemen forward and see that they want no comfort. They are our guests!" he ordered.

In a few minutes the boys were seated at a table in the forecastle, where they were provided with a great profusion of well-cooked food from the sailors' mess. With sharpened appetites they fell to eagerly.

Since none of the members of the crew with whom they came in contact seemed able to speak English the boys were forced to content themselves with speculating on their destination.

They knew that the torpedo boat destroyer had been headed nearly northeast when it overhauled, and picked them up. They also knew that in this direction lay the entrance to the river Elbe and the Kiel ship canal, but whether the boat was making for some port in that vicinity they were unable to learn.

Keenly as the lads regretted their lack of definite information they were not inclined to become despondent. They found it possible by using signs to carry on a sort of desultory conversation with the members of the crew, who had gathered out of curiosity in their vicinity.

At length Frank jumped from his seat with an exclamation.

"I'll bet I know where we're going!" he announced, gleefully.

"So do I!" stated Jimmie in a nonchalant manner.

"Where?" asked Frank, somewhat crestfallen. "Aw, you don't either!" he declared, after searching his comrade's face intently.

"All right," admitted Jimmie, laughing. "I just wanted to take some of that overconfidence out of your system, that's all!"

"Where do you think we are bound for, Frank?" inquired Ned.

Frank placed a finger on his lips, glancing about to make sure that no one was close enough to overhear his whispered words.

"Helgoland!" he said, cautiously.

Instantly the others jumped to their feet, slapping Frank's shoulders, shaking his hands and otherwise showing their appreciation of his shrewdness. Their enthusiasm could scarcely be restrained.

"Sherlock Shaw, The Scout Sleuth!" shouted Jimmie.

"Frank, you're the real, old-fashioned guesser!" declared Jack.

"How did you do it, Frank?" asked Harry, admiringly.

"Well, the commander said we were destined for a lonely island in the North Sea that was heavily guarded. I guess Helgoland fits that description right enough. Besides, as I remember the geography of these parts, that's about the first land we'd strike going on this course."

"But I understand that is a sort of naval base," put in Harry. "Isn't that the island where the Germans are fitting out so many of their Zeppelins? Seems to me I read something about that in a paper."

"That's the very place!" put in Ned. "The paper said it was a lonely, rocky island, difficult of approach and quite well fortified."

"And book agents, canvassers, peddlers and rag men are not allowed there at all!" asserted Jimmie, gravely.

"Take his pie away!" shouted Jack. "He's raving again!"

"And you have to deliver all goods in the rear," added Jimmie, as Jack reached for the plate containing the lad's breakfast.

"Hurry up, let's finish this food and get out on deck, where we will be able to see something," suggested Harry. "This is interesting!"

Directly the boys were standing in the lee of a deck house eagerly scanning the horizon for some sign of the island where they expected to be landed as prisoners of war.

The gale gave no hint of abating. Indeed, the motion of the waves was much more noticeable. Jack attributed this partly to the build of the craft, whose lines were sharper than those of the Lena Knobloch. The sharp prow cut the water like a knife, while the slender, tapering stern slipped through the seas without making a roller of large proportions.

Presently, just as Jack declared he could see a blue smudge in the distance, indicating the presence of land, the lads were joined by Mackinder. He glanced at the group without speaking.

Speedily the vessel approached the object that had been sighted.

An officer drew near. He conducted Mackinder toward the stern.

As the craft slowed slightly to enter a harbor Jimmie grasped Ned's arm. He pointed eagerly toward several large objects on land.

"There is a whole flock of Zeppelins," he declared. "And as I live," he continued, "I see a bunch of submarines at that dock over there!"

"There must be a dozen or more!" gasped Frank, in amazement.



Chapter XII

A New "U-13" Appears


Eagerly the lads gazed at the strange sights before them. On their right rose several huge buildings; evidently workshops. On the left they could see a field devoted to the erection and testing of several gigantic dirigibles. Everywhere they saw bustling activity on the part of the numerous workmen. Sentries paced about with arms in readiness.

"That fleet of submarines looks to me as if Germany were preparing to destroy every ship in the world!" stated Jack presently, as the destroyer on which they stood passed the undersea craft.

"The workmen seem to be fitting out some of the divers, too!" ventured Jimmie. "See them carrying packages aboard that outside one!"

"Maybe the grocer is coming to deliver the goods in the rear!" laughed Ned. "Those packages look like groceries in disguise!"

"I'll bet Mackinder would like to see those submarines!" Harry said. "He'd give his eyes almost for one good long look at them!"

"Mackinder won't see enough to carry any news back home from this place!" declared Frank. "Didn't you see the officer take him below?"

"Yes, I did! I also saw the black look he gave us as he was being taken away from this deck house. He likes us a lot -- nit!"

"I believe the commander of this craft is favorably disposed toward us," put in Ned. "He probably realizes that we want to be neutral and that our presence in this neighborhood is due to our misfortune and not to our fault. I do wish, though," the lad added, "that we could leave!"

"How much would you give to get away?" questioned Jimmie.

"I'd give a good deal!" replied Ned. "I don't like the idea of remaining on this island a prisoner for any length of time!"

"Well, if you'll make it worth while," Jimmie offered, "I'll take you along as a passenger. You must behave, though!"

"Ah!" smiled Ned, thinking Jimmie was indulging in another of his jokes. "May I ask when your ship leaves?"

"I'm thinking of leaving about midnight or a little after," stated Jimmie, gravely. "It will depend somewhat on the wind and weather. If it comes on to blow and the sea is rough I believe we'll get out on time. However, if this breeze should die away, we may not go!"

"You're rather reversing the order of things," commented Ned. "Most captains want clear weather and smooth seas for their departure!"

"Well, if it remains stormy, as it has every prospect of doing and you want a swift ride, you just keep watch of your uncle!"

"Thanks!" laughed Ned. "You may surely count on me!"

"May we go along, too, Jimmie?" asked Harry.

"Sure, you may all go!" answered the lad. "But I warn you right now," he added, "that you'll have to work your passage!"

"That suits me!" returned Harry, greatly amused at carrying on what he considered as a pleasant joke to while away the time.

But to Jimmie, at least, the matter was not by any means to be regarded as anything but a serious proposition. The lad had quickly formulated a plan of escape. The very daring of his intended action was its best guarantee of success. Failure meant disaster, but Jimmie was prepared to risk all in the attempt.

For a time the lad said no more. His tightly shut jaws showed the determination that possessed him. The others became absorbed in observing and discussing the monster Zeppelin dirigibles, hence they said nothing more upon the subject. There was much to attract their attention.

Directly they were summoned before the commander. As they entered the cabin the Sturmvogel drew up alongside a dock.

"Young men," the officer began as the lads entered the cabin, "I regret keenly the circumstances that seem to make it necessary for us to detain you. I understand how anxious you must be to reach your homes, but it is not possible to permit you to depart at this time. You will be given every consideration during your stay at this place."

"Can't we go with you when you leave here?" asked Frank.

"No, that is impossible!" the other replied, shaking his head.

"Then maybe some other vessel will call and we can get passage on it? We are not particular about the class of accommodations!"

"You forget that for some distance in every direction the sea is mined. No vessels approach this island unless they know the channels."

"Then I guess we'll have to be contented," sighed the lad.

"Is Mackinder going to remain here also?" questioned Ned.

"I am very sure of it!" smiled the commander. "I believe that several members of the guard are quite prepared to insist upon his staying here until the knowledge he now possesses would be of no use to his own country. Yes," he added, "Mackinder will remain!"

"I hope matters will be arranged so that we shall soon be able to leave for home," stated Ned. "We are not anxious to leave good company, but we would like to get away from the scene of so much trouble. We want to remain strictly neutral, and think the best place for that is at home!"

"I haven't a doubt of your neutrality!" declared the officer heartily. "You may be assured that I shall do everything to help you. I believe I can arrange so that certain privileges will be granted. It will not be necessary, I am sure, to confine you to one of the buildings."

"Thank you!" replied Ned, gratefully. "You are most kind."

"And now, if you please, we will go ashore to meet the officer in charge of this place," stated the other. "You will like him, I'm sure."

Congratulating themselves on the kindness shown in their behalf the boys prepared to leave the Sturmvogel. They collected the kits of the four who had left Amsterdam on the Lena Knobloch. As they gained the dock they found the small boat in which they had left the schooner. It was evidently being preserved as evidence of the circumstance of the rescue.

Already the work of provisioning and fitting the vessel was in progress. The wireless had been busily used during the last few hours of their voyage to the end that just the supplies needed were waiting at the wharf. A huge coal barge fitted with a "whirlie" had drawn up alongside. Great buckets of coal were pouring into the bunkers, while porters carried all sorts of stores and supplies aboard. Cases of ammunition were being hoisted aboard and stowed in their proper compartments.

Stepping along the dock, dodging wagons loaded with fresh provisions and stores, the boys kept pace with their friend, the commander.

Presently they reached one of the buildings given over to the use of offices. Here they were admitted into a room, where they found the officer in command of the island.

A short conversation in German served to inform this gentleman of the situation so far as the commander of the destroyer could report. At the end of the recital the boys were addressed by the one they had been brought to visit, who had been introduced as General Gruenwold.

"I understand that you young gentlemen lost an airship when the schooner sank?" he inquired of Ned, motioning the boys to chairs.

"Yes, sir!" replied Ned. "It was, of course, a complete loss."

"Then you understand machinery pretty well?"

"We have always thought so," was the modest reply.

"And electricity?"

"Yes, sir. We understand wireless, also."

"Then I am fortunate. Perhaps you would consent to assist us in some difficult technical tasks we have on hand."

"We shall be glad to do what we may to reimburse you for our keep if you will be good enough to assist us to return to the United States!"

"Let us discuss that at another time, if you please," replied Gruenwold. "Just now we are short of practical electricians. If you will offer your services in that direction we shall be very grateful. You may be sure that we shall not be forgetful when it is possible to reciprocate."

"Thank you," replied Ned in acknowledgment of the indirect promise. "Now, if you will show us what you want done we shall be most happy to proceed. I believe we have nothing else to do."

"Here are some plans," stated the other, opening a cabinet at one side of the room. "In these compartments are plans of certain vessels. You will observe on these sheets marked 'elek.' complete diagrams of the plan of wiring. Take this one, for instance. Do you think you could understand what is meant by these tracings?"

Ned studied the diagram for a few moments. The other boys leaned over his shoulder. Presently, after conferring with his friends, the lad announced that he understood the drawings perfectly, even though he was unable to read the explanations which were in the German language.

A smile lighted the face of Gruenwold as this statement was made. Evidently the need for completing the work was urgent.

"In that case, we will ask you to accompany this orderly on board the vessel and proceed with the work. I will write an order directing the ones in charge of the vessel to admit you and render such aid as may be necessary. Later I will send a man who can speak English."

While the general was writing the necessary order to the ones in charge of the vessel to which he had referred the boys were busy communicating with each other by means of the mute language, in which they were quite adept. By supreme efforts they were able to suppress the excitement under which they were laboring.

"What a piece of luck!" rapidly signalled Jimmie to Ned.

"Keep cool!" cautioned Ned in reply. "Don't give it away!"

"Insist that we stay together on the job," returned Jimmie.

"You may be sure I shall do that!" came the answer instantly.

"I hope the storm increases!" was Jack's contribution.

"Now, gentlemen," announced the general, "if you are ready to proceed you may accompany this man. He will direct you to the work."

Ned bowed in acknowledgment and the party turned to accompany the orderly, who appeared in answer to the summons of his superior.

They were led away from the dock at which the Sturmvogel lay. In a short time they had traversed a goodly distance toward the mouth of the harbor. Their destination proved to be the building adjacent to the group of submarine vessels. By inquiries both direct and indirect Ned and his companions decided that the orderly was unable to comprehend English, but for the sake of absolute safety they continued to use the sign language largely in their conversation as they proceeded.

In a short time they had been admitted to the outermost craft, which lay moored to its fellows. Communication had been established between the vessels by means of a row of planks laid from deck to deck.

Once inside the submarine the boys made a hurried yet thorough examination of every part, taking a complete inventory of the exact state of affairs. Frank and Jimmie managed to overhaul the stores. Harry and Jack looked over the mechanical equipment. Ned, with the plans in his hands, went carefully over every detail of the electric system.

"I say, fellows," announced Ned at length, as all the lads met beneath the hatch, "this wagon is nearly complete. It looks a lot like the 'U-13'!"

"That's what it does!" agreed Jimmie. "What more is needed?"

"A few pieces of wire and about an hour's work for me."

"Frank and I have found enough food to last a couple of months if we can count hardtack, sausage, and the supply of canned goods."

"Jack and I," announced Harry, "have found the engines and pumps apparently ready for duty in a moment. My idea is that they are trying to get this vessel ready for a cruise at the first possible moment."

"It looks as if they are expecting a crew from some place and want the boat ready for duty as soon as the crew arrives!" stated Ned.

Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of the orderly.

"Essen?" he inquired, pointing at his mouth and rubbing his belt.

"Don't say it twice!" cried Jimmie. "We heard you the first time!"

The boys prepared to follow the orderly, who evidently intended to escort them to the mess hall, where they would secure dinner.

As they turned toward the iron ladder leading to the hatch Jimmie, who had followed close upon the orderly's heels, cried out:

"Hello, Mackinder, where you from?"



Chapter XIII

A Threatening Situation


"Who's there, Jimmie?" asked Ned, pressing forward.

"Nobody now," answered the other. "I thought I saw our friend Mackinder looking down the hatchway, but possibly I was mistaken. At any rate he's gone now and we'd better hurry on for dinner."

"Mackinder's a prisoner here," stated Ned, positively.

"Maybe he broke loose," suggested Harry.

"All right, I'm going up to the deck and look about," said Ned.

As the boys reached the narrow confines of the small deck at the top of the conning tower they saw a figure hastening along the foot planks that led from vessel to vessel. The fleeing person was now almost at the building on the wharf. In a moment the shelter of this structure had been gained. The figure dodged out of sight.

"Now, that's a funny thing to do!" mused Ned. "I wonder just what the fellow wanted. Are you sure it was Mackinder, Jimmie?"

"No, I'm not," admitted the lad. "Of course, the face was in shadow as he looked down the hatch. I'm not positive, but thought it was he."

"Well, let's not bother about it any more," said Ned, apparently dismissing the subject. "We're too hungry for any more mysteries!"

As only hungry boys can the five attacked the ample dinner provided for them. The dishes were strange but appetizing. Jimmie declared that he intended to remain in that location for some time in order to become acquainted with the chef. He said that he would be the envy of the entire Wolf Patrol if he could cook in German style.

After dinner the boys gathered in the lee of a small building, where they would be protected from the chilling blasts. Puffy squalls, bearing dashes of snow, sleet or rain, came threshing out of the west. It appeared to the lads that the weather was growing decidedly worse.

In spite of the inclement weather a number of the hardy workmen were indulging in out of door sports during their rest hour.

For some time the lads watched the games as the hardy men relaxed their work-tensed muscles. The sullen booming of surf on the rocky coast constantly sounded in their ears.

"There goes our late rescuer!" announced Jimmie presently.

"Where?" asked Frank. "Whom do you mean?"

"The Sturmvogel!" answered Jimmie, pointing toward the harbor, where could be seen the speedy destroyer slipping quietly out to sea.

"Here's hoping you have a good voyage, friend!" said Frank.

"Yes," added Jimmie, "we'll see you a little later!"

"That reminds me," put in Ned, "we might as well get back to the 'U-13' and begin work. There's no use delaying the game!"

"That's right," agreed Harry. "These fellows are probably in a hurry for that submarine. We might as well be decent."

"Wait a minute," suggested Jimmie. "You've given me an idea! Your mention of the name of a certain undersea craft started a train of thought in my alleged brain. Take it easy for a moment!"

"Yes," cried Jack, in mock sympathy, "stand back! Give him air! If Jimmie is really going to think, let's give him lots of room!"

"Aw, you go on!" scorned Jimmie. "I've got a right to think if I want to, haven't I? I guess that's my privilege!"

"Not unless you have a union card!" protested Jack, laughing.

"That's all right," retorted Jimmie with a grin as he wrinkled a freckled nose at the other. "I was going to think about a scab, anyhow, so I don't need a card. Besides, this is on overtime!"

"All right, you win!" declared Jack, submissively. "Go ahead!"

"If you'll promise to never, never tell, I'll let you in on the scheme!" whispered Jimmie, glancing about to make sure that no strangers were within earshot. "Do you solemnly promise?"

"I do!" answered the boys in chorus, anxious to receive the news.

"Then here it is: If we could paint the name 'U-13' on that tub there's nothing to prevent our getting away in it!"

"Hush, Jimmie!" cautioned Ned, in a startled tone.

"Hush nothing!" declared the other boldly. "It's now or never! The destroyer's gone -- everything's gone that could chase us. Mackinder's loose on this island. He'll make us trouble if we stay. If we go now we are safe from pursuit until another German boat comes in unless they flash the news by wireless. In that case, we have an even chance of getting away. If we don't go now tell me when we can get home?"

"I guess you're right, Jimmie, but how are you going to work it?"

"Simply putter along this afternoon," explained the lad, "fixing the wiring and so on. If necessary, rip out some and replace it. We can get in one another's way enough to kill a lot of time. After supper we'll manage to slip back to the submarine, paint 'U-13' on the side, every man to his post, let go lines easy and skedaddle for the open sea."

"It sounds easy enough," assented Harry.

"Yes, unless you happen to get caught!" agreed Ned.

"What is there to catch us?" asked Jimmie, bristling at this hint of opposition. "The guards are all wise to the fact that the channel is mined. They will be sleepy and lazy. They know that the torpedoes are not aboard yet and believe it impossible for the submarine to leave without a crew. The weather looks as if it were going to be rough. What more can you want? It looks to me as if we'd never have another chance like it!"

"Right you are, Mr. Wolf!" declared Frank. "I, for one, am willing to take a chance. I'll go with you to the limit!"

"Here, too!" heartily agreed Ned. "How about it, boys?"

Eagerly the others signified their willingness to undertake the task suggested. They felt no compunction over the seizure of the boat.

"Now, we'll have to do some tall thinking before night comes!" stated Jimmie. "Each of us'll have his station and we must know just what to do at the proper time. I had this in mind ever since we came up the harbor past those boats. I noticed particularly the buoys marking the safe channel leading into this harbor."

"Good for you!" cried Ned, administering an affectionate slap upon Jimmie's shoulder. "I knew you had something up your sleeve!"

"So did I!" added Jack. "I couldn't guess what it was, though!"

"It was my arm!" declared Jimmie, with mock gravity. "Now, let's go back to this 'Untervasserbootschiff' and stall around a while."

"Correct!" cried Harry. "We'll rehearse for this evening. We shall depend on Jimmie to be the pilot, though!"

"Leave it to me!" declared the younger lad. "I know where the buoys are! I have them all located in my head!"

"But we must be mighty careful," declared Ned. "We don't know how much English these fellows understand. They must not suspect!"

"Mum's the word!" put in Frank. "Everybody mum!"

First visiting the warehouse at the wharf, where they procured a quantity of supplies, such as might be needed to carry out the work which they were supposed to be doing, the lads proceeded aboard the submarine.

Upon their arrival they found a painter at work inscribing the vessel with identifying marks. He had proceeded so far as to place "U-1 -- " on each side of the vessel. Jimmie joyfully declared that fortune was playing into their hands in this respect, and that if something would compel the man to quit work for a while the disguise could be quickly made.

At Ned's request Harry began fitting wires from the storage batteries to the motors used for propelling the vessel. The boys were startled to hear him utter an exclamation of dismay. They found upon inquiry that he had endeavored to strip the insulation from a wire by using his pocket knife and had cut a finger badly.

"Pooh, pooh!" stated Jimmie, upon discovering the wound. "Don't make so much fuss over a little thing like that. We'll soon have you fixed up. Here, just hold the wound closed with your other hand while I hunt up some bandages. You'll be all right in a minute!"

But Harry declared that the wound pained excessively. He refused to treat the matter lightly, but gathered up the tools with which he had been working. These he deposited in a canvas bag in which they had been brought aboard the vessel.

Presently Jimmie located a first aid kit among the stores. He was not long in cleansing and bandaging the wound.

"There you are!" he stated. "Just as good as new! Now go lie down for a little while. I'll finish this job if I know enough."

Chatting together in a somewhat nervous manner the boys anxiously awaited the approach of evening. As the time wore on their restlessness increased. Again and again they carefully went over each detail of their proposed plan for escape in the submarine.

It was decided that Jimmie should take the wheel while Harry stood watch at the engines. The others were assigned to various other duties at favorable positions. Nothing remained except to wait for night.

A short time before darkness settled an orderly visited the craft. He was able to converse slightly in English.

"How are you getting along, boys?" he asked, as he stepped down the iron ladder. "Can we put the torpedoes aboard tomorrow?"

"Yes, I think you will be able to place the torpedoes after tomorrow morning," replied Ned. "We will have our work all done then."

"That is good!" was the other's comment. "Where is Mackinder?" was his next question. "He will have to come ashore now!" he added.

"Mackinder?" was Ned's startled response. "He's not here."

"But he was here!" firmly declared the orderly. "He was seen by one of the sentries to come aboard this vessel, and has not since been noticed going ashore, although a close watch has been kept!"

"We haven't seen him at all!" stated Ned, just as firmly.

"We shall have to search the vessel!" affirmed the orderly. "You will please remain aboard for a short time."

Quickly ascending the ladder the man summoned another soldier from the shore. Together the two made a hasty examination of the boat.

Unable to discover any trace of the missing prisoner they shook their heads as if greatly puzzled. Now and again they glanced at the boys, exchanging at the same time comments in German.

"Come with us," finally said the first visitor.

Obediently the lads followed ashore. They were conducted to the office building, where they were shown into the presence of General Gruenwold at once. In a few words the orderly stated the case.

"This looks serious, boys," commented the General. "Can you not explain the whereabouts of Mackinder? He is a prisoner, you know!"

"We know nothing of the man!" declared Ned, earnestly. "We don't like him and surely would not think of assisting him to escape!"

"If you please, sir," began the orderly, "it is the opinion of my comrade and myself that the boys have done away with Mackinder!"

"What!" almost shouted Gruenwold, rising from his chair.

"Yes, sir," continued the man. "There was found in the boat much blood. A hammer in their tool kit was also blood-stained. We think they possibly made away with him and might have dropped his body into the harbor very quietly without being seen from shore!"

"This is serious, indeed!" gasped Gruenwold. "We shall investigate this in the morning. Meanwhile, search the vessel again. The boys will be put in the guardhouse until tomorrow."

Protests on the part of the lads were unavailing. Gruenwold was determined in his decision. Ned's explanation of the presence of the blood in the vessel was listened to, but without influencing the general.

Directly the lads found themselves in a room used for the accommodation of such prisoners as might need confinement for a time. The island boasted no regular prison, but a house not far from the water had been utilized for the purpose. A guard paced a beat in the vicinity.

Disappointed and angry at the turn of affairs the lads made but a poor supper of the food that was brought to them. Presently they composed themselves to sleep on the floor.

A tapping at the window attracted their attention.



Chapter XIV

Helped By An Enemy


"What's that?" inquired Ned, startled at the unexpected sound.

"Loose board, I guess," replied Jimmie, rather disgruntled at the turn affairs had taken. "The wind's ripping everything loose!"

Again the tapping was repeated in an insistent manner.

"I'm going to see what's going on here!" declared Ned, rising from his position. "Some one is trying to communicate with us!"

"Some bloomin' Dutchman's tryin' to ask us whether we want sausage with our pancakes for breakfast!" growled Jimmie. "Let 'em alone!"

Disregarding this statement the older lad proceeded toward the window, where fitful gusts of sleet beat. Outside the darkness covered everything. Only an occasional point of light indicated a sentry hut.

"Who's there?" demanded Ned in a low tone.

"Sh-h-h!" came a hiss from the darkness. "Open the window!"

Ned fumbled a moment at the fastening. Presently he found the catch sliding the sash back in its channel. An exclamation escaped him as he did so. The face of the visitor was none other than that of their missing acquaintance, Mackinder. Ned was astounded.

"Thought you were dead!" he cried in amazement.

"Hush!" cautioned the other. "Not so loud. Now, if you lads want to get out of here this is your time. Everybody's busy or asleep!"

"How do you know we want to get out of here?" demanded Jimmie in a low tone as he approached the opening.

"Don't you suppose I have eyes? I saw what you were up to!"

"Oh, you did, eh? Then what do you want us to do?"

"If you want to get away from this place according to your plan, now is the time to take action," replied Mackinder in a whisper. "If you prefer to wait until tomorrow and stand trial for an offense of which you are innocent I cannot offer any objection of course."

"Ned, I think we'd better make our getaway while the going's good!"

"Second the motion!" declared Harry, who had softly approached the window. "Let's make a noise like a drum!"

"I'm with you!" stated Frank, raising a foot to the window sill.

"Easy there!" cautioned Jimmie. "Mind your step!"

Frank was through the window in an instant. He landed on the earth with Mackinder's assistance without noise. Quickly the others followed. Ned took the precaution to slide the window shut.

Cautiously the little group of six made their way in the direction of the wharf where the submarines were moored. Mackinder took the lead as if familiar with the ground. Once he paused, extending a warning hand to Jimmie, who was directly behind him. The lad performed a similar service for those in the rear. A sentry was approaching.

Mackinder sank upon the ground. Although the night was too dark for the lads to see this action they were close enough to be aware of the movement. Instantly all followed suit.

In a moment they breathed more freely. The sentry had passed within a few paces of their position. Evidently his feeling of security in the isolation of the island had made him somewhat negligent of his duties. He proceeded against the storm with head bent low.

Again Mackinder rose to his feet. Cautiously he crept forward.

On tiptoe the party gained the shelter of the warehouse.

"Gee!" declared Jimmie as the edge of the wharf was gained, "I clean forgot my kit! What shall we do?"

"Hush!" warned Ned. "Don't even dare think of your kit!"

"I should say not!" put in Harry. "Think of your head instead!"

"And the mines at the harbor entrance," added Frank.

"All right!" submissively agreed Jimmie. "I'll keep quiet!"

The wind had risen to such an extent that walking on the narrow planking was not only uncertain but extremely dangerous. Mackinder solved the problem by dropping to all fours. The boys followed suit.

Directly they gained the submarine, the hatch was placed quietly in position for prompt closing and the lines which held the boat were let go.

Owing to the movement of the boats caused by the roughened surface of the harbor creakings and groanings of the fenders had served to drown any noise the party had made in crossing the narrow bridge of planks.

Jimmie held the wheel as Ned gave the signal for casting off the lines. A touch of Harry's hand on the lever started the engines. The submarine began to move. Suddenly a loud splash alongside attracted the attention of all. Frank came scuttling down the ladder.

"Now I've done it!" he gasped. "I forgot to shove the plank back onto the next boat and it fell into the water as we started!"

"Wonder if the guard has heard it!" speculated Ned. "Let me up!"

Under protests from his companions the lad mounted the iron ladder and thrust his head through the hatch.

"I hear someone running along the dock!" he announced presently. "I'll bet they have heard that noise! I see a light!" he added.

"What are they doing?" inquired Jimmie, holding the boat directly in the center of the channel as he peered anxiously ahead.

"A fellow with a lantern is running out along the planks," replied Ned. "They've got to the outside boat now. Now they're turning back."

"Better get that hatch closed so we can dive," admonished Jimmie. "This is our time for getting out of sight in a hurry!"

"There goes their searchlight!" shouted Frank, who had crowded up the ladder close beside Ned. "They're going to spot us in a hurry!"

"Ah," cried Ned as a sullen roar came to their ears. "They're taking a chance shot at us from that cannon on the hill. Let's dive!"

Quickly the two boys adjusted the hatch. As they signaled to their companions that this task was completed Harry and Jack turned the deflecting rudders. The half-manned submarine slowly began to descend.

"Get some water into the tanks quick, Harry!" called Jimmie.

"Pump's going right now!" declared the other. "We're going down!"

"Take a look through the periscope, Ned," requested the pilot, "and let me know what you can make out. Can you see any buoys ahead?"

"Try to see if they've located us with their searchlight," suggested Mackinder. "Maybe they are getting our range with that gun!"

"Never mind about that searchlight," snapped Jimmie. "I want to find out what's ahead, not what's behind us. We'll run this boat!"

"I simply wanted to know," objected Mackinder somewhat ruffled at the lad's peremptory manner. "No objection, is there?"

"All the objection in the world!" declared Jimmie. "You're quite welcome aboard as a passenger, but we'll navigate the vessel, please!"

Scarcely knowing whether to be amused or defiant at this attitude Mackinder chose the wiser course and refrained from further comment.

Although the boys could not be sure that the persons on the island were making efforts to hinder their escape they felt the better course was to remain beneath the surface until well out of the harbor.

Directly Jimmie called the attention of his comrades to an object in the water at no great distance ahead. The rays of the searchlight with which the submarine was provided indistinctly revealed a huge bulk slightly above the level at which they were traveling.

"What is that, a ship?" asked Harry wonderingly.

"I'll bet a cookie that's a mine!" declared Jimmie positively. "I'm going to give it a little more leeway, anyhow. It pays to be safe!"

Ned was working the periscope in an effort to locate the buoys as directed by Jimmie. Occasionally he turned the glass toward the group of buildings they had just left.

"They're shooting at us, I guess!" he stated presently. "I can see the flash of that cannon. It seems to be pointed this way!"

"Let 'em shoot, they can't see anything but the periscope and they'd have an awful time hitting that!" boasted Jimmie.

Scarcely had the lad spoken before the vessel was shaken by the force of a mighty concussion. A gigantic wave tossed the craft up and forward with a heave that threw the boys off their feet.

"What was that?" gasped Jimmie glancing at his companions with a terrified face. "Has one of the fuel tanks blown up?"

"Nothing doing!" replied Harry. "I think that cannon hit the mine we just passed. I'm glad we were no closer!"

"We'll soon be out of their range!" stated Jimmie. "Shut up your periscope and we'll go deeper. Give us a little more speed, Harry!"

In an hour Jimmie declared that they should be out of sight of the island altogether. The engines had been working at full speed ahead. Harry nursed the machinery constantly, knowing that it was new and would, therefore, require considerable care. Their urgent need for speed induced the lads to crowd the machinery to the limit, and Harry was gratified to note that every part responded properly to its task.

"Well, Mackinder," stated Ned as the tension on their nerves began to relax with the increasing distance traveled, "we're surely grateful to you for suggesting that we get away as you did!"

"My motive was largely a selfish one, I must confess," returned Mackinder. "I wanted very badly to get away from that island."

"How did they ever get hold of you, anyhow?" questioned Jack.

"I left Amsterdam the same evening you did. After the Lena Knobloch went past us as she did I knew there was little use trying to delay you. Therefore, my aide and myself left at once on a train for Rotterdam. There we found a fishing boat which we thought would answer our purpose. We induced the captain to take us aboard, intending to cross to England. After traveling some distance the storm overtook us. We were blown far out of our course. The vessel was badly battered. The crew left in a panic, leaving me on board. Just in time the German destroyer came along and took me off. That's it in a nutshell."

"Yes, and then when you discovered us in our little boat you went and told the captain of the destroyer a lot of nonsense, didn't you?" questioned Jimmie in a somewhat aggressive manner. "Why did you do it?"

"I only told him that you had at one time a package that belonged to me. I wanted the package badly. I thought he would assist me."

"That wasn't a very nice way to go about it," declared Jimmie with emphasis. "After searching our baggage twice, and after we had told you how the package was in our kits without our knowledge, also that it had been stolen away from our possession, why didn't you believe us?"

"There is an old saying that all is fair in love and war!" replied Mackinder. "You know that my country and Germany are at war. As an officer in the British army, it is my duty to do everything possible to assist my country. I believe that package contains information that my country could use. That is my justification for my acts, and I hope you boys are fair-minded enough to hold no resentment."

"I'm just fair-minded enough to be neutral," declared Jimmie, "if I have to fight for the right to remain that way. I'm just a little sore at you for supposing that four boys who are citizens of a neutral country would be carrying information around for another country at war!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way," said Mackinder. "I assure you there was nothing personal in my acts. I simply tried to do my best!"

"Well, you did a lot, at that!" returned the lad.

"All right, folks, let's drop the subject," spoke up Ned. "I feel that the air in here is getting bad. Suppose we go to the surface."

"Right you are," agreed Harry. "Let's rise and fill the tanks!"

Jimmie, in compliance with this wish, steered the craft upward.

At the surface the boys found the water much smoother than they had expected would be the case. Jimmie declared that he intended painting the balance of the name "U-13" on the vessel while the other lads were occupied in airing out the vessel and refilling the compressed air tanks.

Slung in a boatswain's chair over the sloping deck the lad soon completed this task. Feeling a considerable degree of elation at the success of his undertaking Jimmie returned with his brush and paint.

"If you're ready now we'll dive again and proceed!"

"Wait a minute, Mackinder's still on deck!" stated Jack.

"He wasn't there when I came below!" protested Jimmie.



Chapter XV

Mistaken Identity


Ned looked at Jimmie in astonishment. He could scarcely credit his senses. He began ascending the iron ladder leading to the deck.

Eagerly the lad glanced about the upper portion of the submarine which now showed black and gleaming above the surface of the water.

"Harry," he called down the hatchway, "didn't Mackinder say he was coming on deck to see if he could be of service to Jimmie?"

"He certainly did!" answered Harry. "Then we went on working at the pumps. I was busy with the starboard pump because it wasn't working just as it should. I saw him start up the ladder!"

"And I saw him when he was about half way up!" put in Jack.

"I'm equally certain he didn't return, but it may be well enough to stop a minute to search the interior. Perhaps he came back."

In a moment all five boys were busily going over every corner of the craft. From stem to stern they ransacked every place where it would have been at all possible for their guest to have hidden.

At length they met in the space directly below the hatchway.

"Find anything?" queried Ned glancing about the group.

"Not a hint of anything at all resembling an Englishman!" stated Jimmie. "Perhaps it would be a good idea to put an ad. in the paper."

"Yes," scorned Jack. "Like this: 'Lost -- one perfectly good Englishman. Finder please return to the "U-13" and receive reward'!"

"Sure!" agreed Jimmie. "Have them charge it, please!"

"Hush this nonsense, boys!" cried Ned. "This may be serious!"

"Well, where is he?" protested Jimmie. "We haven't got him!"

"Maybe he fell overboard!" suggested Ned. "Let's have a look."

Again the lad mounted the ladder. As he reached the small deck he peered anxiously about the vessel seeking what he hoped he might not find.

The others came crowding after their chum, filling the space.

"There he goes!" cried Jimmie pointing away to the north.

"Where?" inquired Ned looking in the direction indicated. "Oh, I see him," the lad went on. "He's swimming a good stroke, too!"

"Is he crazy or just disgusted with the company on board the 'U-13'?"

"Perhaps he thinks he'll be picked up by that boat!" stated Jimmie again directing the attention of his comrades to a small fishing craft. "They seem to be heading a course that will reach Mackinder."

"He was wise enough to take one of the life preservers," said Harry indicating a space from which a buoy was missing.

"Sure enough!" agreed Ned. "He's no fool at any rate!"

"Let's wait a while to see if they pick him up," suggested Jimmie.

"If they don't get him, we'll chase over there and take him aboard again. What do you say?" asked Ned of the others.

There was no dissenting voice raised to this suggestion. Eagerly the lads watched the boat momentarily drawing nearer the swimmer.

In a short time the boat rounded to, losing her way in the water. A sharp skiff was quickly launched over the side. Into this tumbled two men. They soon covered the distance between their vessel and the swimmer. Without difficulty they succeeded in assisting Mackinder into the skiff, then put quickly back to the sailing vessel.

"Ah, he's safe at any rate!" gladly stated Ned. "Now we can go on and finish our voyage in peace! I'm glad he's gone!"

"So am I!" declared Jimmie. "He's a good fellow as one might say, but he's too awfully stuck on getting some information for that bloomin' Hinglish Harmy, don't you know!"

"That's hardly fair, Jimmie!" laughed Ned. "He didn't drop his 'H's' and he did only what he considered his duty."

"He will probably get that fisherman to set him ashore on English soil as soon as possible," conjectured Jack. "Suppose we follow them."

"What for?" asked Harry. "Why should we chase after those chaps?"

"Unless we do something of the sort, we'll have to go at it blindly!" urged Jack. "We don't really know where we are!"

"That's so," admitted Harry reluctantly. "We haven't a chart nor a course. We don't know how far we are from anywhere at all!"

"We might keep on steering just as we started," stated Frank. "I believe southeast was the course we used coming away from Helgoland."

"That course would surely bring us up somewhere," put in Ned, "but it would be much better if we could find out exactly where we are. Then we could steer a course with intelligence."

"Aw, what do we need of a chart?" scorned Jimmie. "We know that England lies to the southwest of us. It's big enough so we can't miss it. If we blunder into the coast we can just cruise along a ways until we come to some place or other and then head in."

"That's a good idea, too," agreed Frank. "When we get to a port we can turn the submarine over to the English authorities as a prize of war. They'll probably be glad enough to get the machine."

"Then we'll head for the little old U. S. A.!" cried Jimmie.

"You're right we will. When we get there, we'll chase ourselves out to Long Island. The first thing I'll do will be to get the factory started on another engine like the Grey Eagle's!" declared Harry.

"Good enough! Now let's be 'wenting'!" added Jimmie.

"But, boys," objected Ned, "this hit or miss fashion of navigating is not correct. Something may happen to change our course. If we don't know what we are doing, we might get into lots of trouble!"

"Maybe you're right, Ned!" assented Frank. "What shall we do?"

"I think we'd better cruise carefully along on the surface until we see a ship. We can ask them for our latitude and longitude. From that we'll be able to lay a course to any point."

"Maybe they'll give us a chart, too!" put in Harry.

"All right, then, here goes!" shouted Jimmie preparing to slide down the ladder. "Somebody'll have to keep on deck."

Harry at once followed Jimmie into the interior. The engines responded to his touch. The new "U-13" sprang forward half submerged.

"We've got plenty of gas in the tanks, Harry," stated Jimmie to his chum as the latter moved about the interior looking after the machinery. "We're making only about fifteen miles now by this log."

"I'll give them another touch," responded Harry. "The sooner we get there, the quicker we'll arrive, so here goes!"

The increased speed of the engines urged the submarine ahead at a goodly rate. Jimmie presently declared that the log indicator showed a good twenty-five miles an hour. Those on the little deck above the conning tower found the increased speed uncomfortable by reason of the dashing spray, but all felt that this was not unendurable.

"Sail, ho!" Ned presently called down the hatchway.

"Where away?" asked Harry, looking up at his comrade.

"Almost dead ahead!" replied Ned. "We're overhauling them fast. It looks to be a three masted ship as nearly as I can make out!"

"Hold your course, Jimmie!" directed Jack. "We'll come up close enough to hail them in a little while just as we are heading!"

In a few minutes the ship was so close that all could make out the details of her rigging. It was a large three masted square-rigged vessel evidently in ballast for the hull was high out of water.

"I believe they see us!" announced Frank, using a pair of binoculars he had found among the fittings of the submarine.

"Can you make out the flag at the peak?" asked Jack.

"Yes, I think so. I believe it is the British flag."

"Then, they'll be glad to help us out, especially if they find that we intend to turn the 'U-13' over to their government!"

"I don't know about that!" doubted Frank. "I see men running aloft. It looks as if they're rigging out studding sail booms on the main yards. And I see others on the topsail yards," declared the boy.

"Why, in that case, they're trying to get away from us!"

"It certainly looks that way. Now I can see men setting the studding sails on the booms. They are putting on every rag the old hooker will carry!" cried the lad excitedly.

"I know why," stated Harry. "They think we're a German submarine chasing them and they're trying to get away!"

"Let's run up a white flag, then," urged Ned. "They ought to know what that means. They'll stop for that!"

In response to this suggestion the lads quickly overhauled the flag locker finding just what they sought. The white flag was at once brought to the deck where it was bent on to the halliards. It fluttered gaily at the top of the short flagstaff. Some difficulty was experienced in securing the staff because of an improperly fitting socket.

"Do they seem to be making any change?" inquired Harry presently.

"Yes," answered Ned. "They're crowding on more sail!"

"Then we might as well give it up!" stated the other. "They'll never stop for us. Our only hope is to dive and come up close to some vessel so they can't get away before we ask the questions."

"Maybe that would be a good idea," admitted Ned. "Anyhow, we'll have to take down this flag. The signal staff don't fit!"

Disappointed because their efforts had been unavailing, the lads regretfully folded the flag. It was restored to its proper place.

Harry, however, continued to urge the engines forward in the hope of eventually overhauling the ship. This seemed to be within the range of possibilities, but the boys all knew the maxim concerning a stern chase, and were somewhat discouraged. Knowing that their intentions were of the best, they felt slightly aggrieved that the other did not stop.

"I see a smoke away ahead of the ship!" announced Frank after a few moments. "I can't tell which way they are headed, though!"

"At this rate of traveling, we'll soon find out!" declared Jack.

Evidently the smoke had been discovered by those aboard the sailing vessel, for the course was altered slightly in that direction.

This change was noted by the boys. Jimmie shifted the helm slightly in order to keep the submarine directly in the track of the ship.

"I wonder what that other vessel can be," puzzled Ned. "Let me take the glasses a moment, Frank. I wish we were higher in the water," he added, "then we could get a better range of vision."

Long and earnestly the boy inspected the strange vessel. Presently he returned the glasses to Frank with a sigh.

"What is it?" asked Jack with keen interest.

"I believe it is a warship of some sort!" replied Ned.

"Then they'll capture us and take us to port mighty quick!"

"I guess they'll capture us all right!" put in Frank. "I can see the sailing vessel making signals. They've got a string of flags flying from the foretopmast head. I don't know what they mean, but they're calls for help, or I'll miss my guess! They are something like the U. S. flags!"

Those on board the steamer had evidently seen the string of flags or else by the peculiar actions of the sailing vessel guessed that something was wrong, for the boys saw that their course was at once altered. From the clouds of dense black smoke pouring from the funnels they knew that the stokers were being urged to their best efforts.

In a short space of time the combined speeds of the two vessels brought them close together. As the other approached, Harry shut off the power of the engines, checking them to little more than steerageway.

As the steamer passed the ship Ned could see that some communication had been made between the two. The steamer came quickly on.

"Pass me up that white flag again, Harry," requested Ned. "I think they're coming up to speak to us, and I'd just as soon have that handy. Maybe these fellows might misunderstand our motives, too!"

"I wish now I hadn't painted that 'U-13' quite so plainly on the sides!" grumbled Jimmie. "I'll bet they've seen that!"

"Of course, they've seen it, but if we show a white flag they won't do anything to us. They'll let us ask questions!"

In answer to this statement, a shot echoed across the water. A ball striking the crest of a wave sent a cloud of spray over the "U-13."



Chapter XVI

A Strange Discovery


"Get down that hatchway!" ordered Ned, wiping the spray from his face. "Those fellows see the name 'U-13'!"

"Won't they observe the white flag if we put it up?" asked Jack.

"I don't believe they will!" Ned stated. "Better get below!"

As if to emphasize the boy's opinion another report echoed over the space of water separating the battleship from the new "U-13."

This time the shell had been aimed a trifle too high. It went directly over the lads on the diminutive deck. Instinctively they all ducked their heads as the missile screamed wickedly in its useless flight.

If anything was needed to decide the matter, this last offering seemed to serve the purpose. All three lads hastened down the ladder without further parley. Ned lingered a moment to close the hatch.

"Hang onto your hats!" cried Jimmie the next instant.

"Let's get down quick!" urged Jack. "Those fellows up there seem to mean business. My stars!" he added breathlessly, "that last one was certainly a beauty! They are getting the range, too!"

Already Harry had started the pumps, filling the ballast tanks with water to assist the "U-13" in the evolution of the dive. The rudders were deflected to their extreme range. With decks inclined to an alarming angle, the submarine fled toward the bottom like a hunted creature. Until the gauges showed a depth of twelve fathoms, Jimmie held the levers in position. Then he brought the craft to an even keel.

"It's plain to be seen that we'll not get much help from any ship on the North Sea!" declared Jack at length, as the ballast tanks were found to trim the vessel. "They're scared of us, I believe!"

"They haven't any reason to be scared of us!" stoutly protested Jimmie. "We have never done a thing to them. We're absolutely neutral!"

"It seems to be one thing to be neutral," laughed Ned, "and quite another thing to convince other folks of the fact!"

"They might at least have given us a chance to explain!" grumbled Jimmie. "We had a white flag flying for them to see!"

"Yes," argued Ned, "but did you stop to think that we were showing ourselves in a bad light? Remember the newspaper accounts of all the damage done by a submarine? I'm not surprised they ran away."

"And then we come along in a submarine! Of course, we couldn't expect them to wait for a German undersea craft to come popping out of the ocean and waltz up alongside so they could say: 'Good morning, Mr. Dutchman! Won't you please accept this fine ship?'" added Jack.

"Well, I'm it!" declared Jimmie, joining in the laugh that followed Jack's facetious remark. "The joke's on me, all right! If I hadn't painted that figure 'three' in the name, we would have been on our way to England by this time! Oh, well," the boy added, "we'll get to England before long, anyhow, so I should worry!"

"It all shows, boys," spoke up Ned, "that we've got to be mighty careful about our appearance and the company we keep. We have gotten into this scrape largely because we were found in possession of goods we had no business to have. This last incident came about because we pretended to be something we were not!"

"I think that ought to be a good lesson to us," stated Jimmie. "It will be for me, I know! I'm sure I'll take it to heart!"

"I'm mighty glad we're away from that inquisitive gunboat!" put in Frank. "Now, what's the next thing for us to do?"

"I move that we keep below the surface for a while. If we hold on a general southeasterly course, as has been suggested, we can't fail to bring up somewhere on the English coast."

"That sounds like the most reasonable plan," agreed Frank. "I propose that we put on speed and hurry along. Let's get somewhere!"

"Here we go!" cried Harry, increasing the speed with a touch on the levers. "Let's keep a sharp lookout, though!"

About half past three o'clock the boys decided to rise to the surface for the necessary airing of the vessel and storing of another supply of fresh air in the tanks provided for that purpose.

In furtherance of this plan, the rudders were shifted while Harry slowed the engines. Directly the craft ascended. The gauges indicated a depth of about eight fathoms when Jimmie, who was at the helm, requested that the rudders be again deflected.

"What's the matter?" questioned Ned, stepping forward.

"I can see the light reflected down through the water, and there's a big shadow up there!" declared Jimmie.

"What do you think it can be?" asked Ned wonderingly.

"Probably it's a big vessel of some sort. It may be a war ship, or it may be only a cargo carrier. In either event I don't want to get tangled up in the propellers. Let's sheer off a bit."

"All right," agreed Ned. "I'll go to the periscope. Maybe I can find out something as we rise slowly to the surface."

Cautiously creeping nearer the surface, the lads put the periscope into action. By its aid Ned made out that the craft was an armed vessel. The new "U-13" lay just submerged about a ship's length to starboard of the stranger. They maintained about the same speed.

Ned declared that he could make out the British flag at the stern of the other vessel. He stated that he could also notice a number of people aboard the steamer.

"Can you see what they look like?" asked Jimmie.

"They are regular sailors and marines," answered Ned. "Why," went on the lad excitedly, "that looks like Mackinder at the rail!"

Curiously the others crowded about the object glass of the periscope. Each declared in turn that they recognized Mackinder.

"Now, I wonder what he's doing aboard that vessel!" mused Jack.

"Quite likely this ship met the fishing boat and took him off so as to save the other the trouble of going clear back to England!"

"No doubt that's it," agreed Jack. "But look!" he continued, "he's discovered us! See him pointing toward us!"

"Better get ready to dive, then," cautioned Harry. "If he's able, he'll get them to shoot at us. If they hit the 'U-13' it'll be a long way to Tipperary for us! We don't know how thick this armor is!"

"Down we go!" shouted Jimmie, seizing the wheel. "Lively, now!"

Even as the boy spoke, a muffled roar was distinctly heard by the lads in the submarine. A crash that reverberated through every portion of the vessel told that they had been hit by a projectile.

With a quick, startled glance at his companions, Ned hastened aft to examine the possible damage. He could discover no leak.

"I guess we're lucky, after all!" he stated presently. "We're not taking in water, so I'm sure they didn't do very much damage."

"It might have been more serious, though!" commented Jack.

"Maybe the shot just carried away some of the light work like railings and so on around the deck. I don't think the shot struck the hull, or we'd have heard more racket," went on Ned.

"Let's keep below the surface for a while. Maybe we can get away from those fellows far enough to be out of their sight while we change air. They're not the least bit sociable!"

"Full speed ahead, Harry!" cried Frank. "Let's hurry on!"

"Better take it easy," cautioned Jimmie. "We may not be out of the woods yet. Let's just go along slowly for a while."

"Aw, go on!" scorned Frank. "What's there out here to bother?"

"Sure!" chimed in Jack. "We're away out in the North Sea where we can find nothing but warships and sailing vessels and such!"

"Maybe we might run into the real 'U-13'," countered Jimmie. "Then, what would you do if you should meet that fellow?"

"Why, put on steam and run away from him, of course!"

"All right, go ahead if you want to," submitted Jimmie unwillingly, "but I don't think it wise. It's taking considerable risk!"

Since the majority seemed to be in favor of more speed, the engines were again urged to greater effort. Suddenly all were startled by a cry from Jimmie. The boat swerved sharply to starboard, rolling until the deck was at an acute angle. Harry reached for the levers, prepared to stand by the engines for orders from the pilot.

Directly Jimmie rang a stop bell. The vessel came again to an even keel. The boys were once more able to stand upright.

"What's the matter, Jimmie?" cried Ned, as he scrambled to his feet. "Is it a whale, or did you nearly have a collision?"

"Collision is exactly the word!" declared the other. "I saw the masts of a ship standing right in our path. I got this little craft turned just in time! That's what we get for blundering along so fast!"

"What kind of a ship is it?" asked Frank, peering from one porthole after another. "Are you sure it was the mast of a vessel?"

"Why, certainly, I am sure!" was Jimmie's decisive answer. "Don't I know a ship's masts? I surely do!" the lad answered his own question.

"Let's swing around and see what it was," proposed Frank.

"All right, turn the deflecting rudders and down we go!"

Swinging in a broad circle, the submarine was directed downward to a level equal with that of the hull of the ship, whose masts had so nearly proven disastrous to the boys. As the craft sank deeper the crew watched with a great deal of curiosity from the thick glasses over the portholes. Carefully they studied every detail of rig.

Although the sunshine penetrated to some distance below the surface, they found that at the depth where the hull lay a semi-twilight prevailed. The upper portions of the masts had been clearly visible, but the decks lay in a haze that prevented their seeing well.

"Looks like the ship is almost new!" stated Frank.

"Possibly it has been sunk only a short time," ventured Jack.

"Can you make out what ship it is?" asked Ned.

"Wait a minute until we pass the stern again," said Frank.

"I can see it!" declared Harry in a moment. "It's the Wanderer of Sydney! That will be an Australian vessel!"

"And that great gap in the port side indicates that the sinking was the work of our namesake!" stated Ned. "This is another victim of the German 'U-13'. Probably it is only one of many!"

"No wonder the other fellows don't seem inclined to be any too sociable!" said Jack. "They really cannot be blamed!"

"Right you are, Jack," responded Ned. "When anyone hits at the pocketbook we're apt to consider everybody under suspicion."

"Let's get closer and examine the damage done by the torpedo," suggested Frank. "I'd like to observe the effects of the attack."

Shortly the misnamed "U-13" was creeping alongside the hull of the sunken vessel. Jimmie handled the wheel dexterously, ever alert for possible danger. Harry stood by the engines, ready at a moment's notice to assist in executing any maneuver desired.

"Looks as if the whole side of the ship had been torn away," stated Ned, as the submarine crept slowly past the jagged wound.

"Those torpedoes surely are powerful," agreed Frank. "I hope everybody got away from the ship before the explosion took place."

"They probably gave the crew plenty of time to escape if this is the work of the 'U-13'," commented Ned. "You say they gave the crew on your vessel ample time to get safely away?"

"Yes, but the men let themselves become panic-stricken. They lost their heads and consumed a good deal of time. Besides that, they forgot they were civilized. One of them hit me an awful clip."

"And pretty nearly left you on board to be drowned!"

"These fellows did the same thing!" announced Jack, peering out.

"Did what?" queried Ned, wondering what the other meant.

"Left a man aboard when the ship sank," stated Jack, pointing through the little port hole. "There he is, walking about!"

Clearly the boys saw a figure apparently crossing the deck.



Chapter XVII

Alone And Helpless


"Good night!" almost shrieked Frank. "That's uncanny! Whoever heard of a man walking about at the bottom of the ocean?"

"Where did he come from, Jack?" asked Ned.

"I saw that figure come out of the companionway," stated Jack. "I thought I was mistaken at first, because of the dim light. I looked again as you boys were talking. Then I saw that it was the figure of a man, apparently. He seems to be carrying something in his arms!"

"There he goes over the side of the vessel!" whispered Harry in an awestruck voice. "What sort of deal is this, anyway?"

"Did you notice the knapsack thing he was wearing on his back?" asked Frank. "If I was superstitious, I'd say it was the ghost of a soldier who had been drowned and was seeking his way back home!"

"We don't take any stock in that ghost business!" declared Ned stoutly. "Some things may look supernatural because we don't understand them, but there's always an explanation if we seek it!"

"What is your explanation of this thing, Ned?" questioned Jack.

"Probably some mass of seaweed or some other substance got caught in a current and lodged against the cabin on the Wanderer. When we circled about the wreck we set up counter currents that may have released this mass. It then floated along in the current to finally sink on the other side of this submerged hull. That's all there is to it!"

"I wonder what sort of a current is bringing the bloomin' thing back again!" announced Jack as Ned concluded his explanation. "It's moving its lower edges most remarkably like a man walking!"

Ned's look of bewilderment increased. Clearly the boy was puzzled. Even he, himself, was not quite satisfied with the explanation of the strange sight which had greeted the boys.

Slowly forging ahead, the submarine passed toward the stern of the Wanderer, shutting the strange figure out of sight.

"Turn around the stern again, Jimmie," requested Ned. "Go easy on the engines, and we'll have a look from a new angle. This is getting rather spooky, I must say. I want to examine into it!"

Again the false "U-13" rounded the stern of the wreck. Slowly the craft nosed along the port side to a point abreast the mizzen chains. Directly at a signal from the pilot, Harry shut off power altogether.

The strange magnetism that seems to exist in all objects at sea slowly drew the submarine toward the ship. Its drift had been sufficient to bring the vessel to a point abreast the main rigging before it stopped.

By this time the craft had approached close to the wreck. A very slight jar told the boys that their vessel had touched the other. Eagerly all watched from the portholes, now but a short space above the level of the rail across which they looked. Directly all was still. At this depth, no movement of water was discernible.

Feeling awed by the strangeness of the situation, the boys refrained from speech. They watched for the reappearance of the strange figure.

Soon Jimmie hissed a warning. He reached out a hand to turn the switch controlling the lights. The boat lay in utter darkness.

A figure stepped out of the Wanderer's companionway.

It appeared to be that of a person of medium build. The boys could now see that it was clothed in what seemed to be a diver's suit. The helmet, however, was not connected to any air pipe. Neither was there a line leading upward to indicate the presence of assistance. A hump on the shoulders, giving the impression of a knapsack, afforded much wonderment and increased the mysterious look of the newcomer.

"Sh-h-h!" warned Ned in a sibilant hiss, as the figure came directly toward their position. "Keep quiet!" he whispered.

A few steps carried the stranger to the rail. The boys saw him give a start of amazement as he prepared to go over the side of the ship. Clearly the strange diver was surprised to see the craft in that position. He stepped back a pace, then came gingerly forward.

Evidently the man was astonished to observe the "U-13". He climbed slowly into the main shrouds. From that position he surveyed the craft more completely. Again he returned to the deck.

During this examination the lads had remained quietly at their posts, not caring to make their presence known until they were sure of the identity of the other. They still remained with their faces at the portholes, where they observed, so far as possible, every move of the stranger.

Directly they observed the diver pick up the burden he had brought from the cabin. He hastened to the rail of the wreck. In a moment he had clambered overboard, letting himself down by means of a line secured to a belaying pin at the mainmast.

"That's funny!" observed Ned, as the other disappeared from view. "What do you suppose made him scuttle out of sight so hurriedly?"

"Maybe he, like the warship, saw our name -- 'U-13' -- on the side of the vessel!" ventured Jimmie. "They all run away from that!"

"It surely doesn't make us many friends!" declared Ned.

"You're right!" answered the other. "It's the original killjoy!"

"Let's dive a little deeper," suggested Jack. "Perhaps we can find out where this new chap is going with those bundles."

"Perhaps we'll find out how he got here!" added Frank.

"And while you fellows are 'perhapsing'," put in Jimmie, "I'll say that perhaps we'd better stick out! Perhaps he doesn't want us nosing around his property, and perhaps he'll touch off a bomb!"

"What's the matter with you lately?" inquired Frank. "You're getting to be a regular little 'fraid-cat'! You never used to be so timid about sticking your nose into other people's business!"

"I'm not afraid to go looking into things now, only I've got a hunch that we'd better not do it, that's all!" answered the lad. "Just because I happen to want to leave a fellow alone is no sign I'm a 'fraid-cat'. If you lads want to go anywhere, you tell me the name of the place. I'm game to stick with you until they turn out the lights!"

"Spoken like a man, Jimmie!" declared Frank. "That sounds like the old Jimmie we used to know. Now, let's go down a ways."

Harry sprang to the levers. A few shifts of the control brought the storage batteries to work operating the pumps. With the additional water admitted by this process, the false "U-13" sank until far below the level of the rail of the wreck. Still deeper and deeper it settled.

Presently the boys at the port holes could discover the bends of the sides, indicating that they were nearly to the ocean floor. In another moment a slight bump told them that the craft rested on bottom.

"I saw a flash of light just now!" stated Jimmie.

"Where did it come from?" asked Ned, stepping forward.

"Just ahead of us on this side of the ship. The shadow lies heavily there, so I can't make out what's located in that place!"

The boys had not long to wait, however, to discover the cause of the flash which Jimmie had seen. Almost following the boy's words came a dazzling beam of light, piercing the dark shadow like an arrow. For a moment the boys were blinded as the searchlight's flame played on the forward part of their vessel.

Presently the light shifted. It was turned against the side of the sunken Wanderer. Up and down the light traveled, revealing the rugged sides of the hull, with its covering of barnacles below what had been the water line. Outward the beam went, showing nothing but ocean floor. Fishes were illuminated and dazzled by the strong ray.

Finally the light returned to the false "U-13", where it settled for a moment. Directly the light was turned off.

Jimmie had been shading his eyes with a protecting hand. He was, therefore, not so much blinded by the glare as the others had been.

"There they go!" he cried, as the light was removed from the port hole through which it had been shining. "They're rising!"

"Who can it be, I wonder?" questioned Ned.

"I'll never tell you!" declared Jimmie. "Oh, yes, I will, too!" he amended his statement. "If you want to know, it's the 'U-13'!"

"The 'U-13'?" questioned the lads in chorus.

"The 'U-13'!" positively stated Jimmie. "Here," he cried, turning a switch leading to the searchlight. "Take a look!"

The powerful storage batteries on the vessel occupied by the boys generated a ray of light that pierced the darkness of the undersea world with ease. Sharply outlined in the circle of flame the lads clearly saw the form of a submarine vessel similar in many respects to their own. There was the same sharp prow, the same tapering stern with conning tower, keel, port lights, and every essential feature of the vessel upon which they were located.

Outlined upon the side, in letters fully the same size as those upon their own vessel, the lads saw distinctly the mark "U-13."

"What do you know about that?" gasped Frank. "That's fierce!"

"Is it the same vessel you saw off Land's End, Frank?" asked Ned.

"I'm sure I can't say," returned the other. "I think it is! Of course, we're somewhat below it. Besides the difference in perspective from this angle the water has a great deal to do with changing the appearance of everything. The general outlines appear similar, however."

"Then we're in a ticklish position!" declared Ned. "Suppose those fellows take it into their head to torpedo us?"

"If they do," stated Frank decisively, "they'll play havoc!"

"They're going over the wreck!" stated Jimmie in a whisper.

"Let's rise a little and see which way they head for," proposed Frank. "We can then go in the opposite direction for a while."

"I think we'd better slide right along to the southwest," stated Jimmie. "I know I'm meeting a good deal of opposition, but I've a hunch that we'll be better off if we get right away from this spot!"

"Been reading that dream book again, little man?" asked Ned, with a laugh. "Sorry, Jimmie, but the majority seems to be against you!"

"All right, Boss!" returned Jimmie with a smile. "I'm game to stick with the bunch! You'll find me right here smiling all the while!"

"Jimmie," gravely stated Ned, "I wish we could all get some of that sunny disposition of yours. We need a lot of your optimism."

"Thanks!" was Jimmie's reply, delivered with an excess of politeness. "Now, I'm at the wheel, Captain. Where to, sir?"

"Let's rise first and see what the other is doing!"

"Ding, ding!" cried Jimmie. "Touch up the mule, Harry!"

Harry's manipulations of the levers brought the false "U-13" rapidly to a level with the Wanderer's deck. Through the port lights the boys could see the other submarine across the sunken ship. It seemed to be gradually descending toward the bottom.

"Let's follow them and see where they go!" proposed Jack.

"At your service, sir!" cried Jimmie, saluting. "We'll proceed to proceed!" he added with a grin. "Here goes after the real 'U-13'!"

"Go ahead slowly, Harry," cautioned Ned. "We don't want to overtake them yet. We're in the shadow here, so they probably won't see us if we hang back a little. Just give the wheel a little kick."

Slowly the vessel carried the boys over the sunken Australian. They were passing between the main and mizzen rigging at a level slightly lower than that of the main yard.

"What's that just ahead of us?" queried Jack, at the porthole.

"I don't see anything," replied Ned. "What and where is it?"

"Right here," declared Jack, pointing. "No, you're too late! I thought it looked like a snake in the water at first, but I see it was only a piece of rope hanging from the rigging. It's all right!"

"Possibly it has been hanging down all the time but the current caused by the passage of the other vessel swung it outward," ventured Ned. "It will no doubt slip past in a moment!"

But this prediction was not fulfilled. With a sudden lurch, the stern of the false "U-13" rose, tilting the deck sharply forward.

With a groan the propellers stopped.



Chapter XVIII

Help From A Stranger


Harry uttered a sharp cry as he stumbled forward along the steep incline of the floor. It seemed as if some huge power had grasped the stern of the craft, raising it until the vessel tilted forward at an angle which rendered walking impossible.

All the boys were thrown toward the forward end of the vessel, where Jimmie was located. Ned and Jack lost their footing. They rolled awkwardly to the forward bulkhead. Harry and Frank managed to remain upright by hurriedly grasping at parts of the machinery or at stanchions. Their progress was undignified as well as sudden.

"What's up?" sharply questioned Jimmie, regaining his feet.

"The stern's up!" facetiously replied Jack, also struggling to a standing position. "Is anybody hurt?" the boy continued.

A brief examination disclosed the fact that beyond a few minor bruises none of the boys had been seriously injured. Their first care was for each other. All were glad to find no one badly hurt.

"What on earth can have happened to us?" asked Ned, peering from a port light on the starboard side. "Did we collide with something?"

"I don't believe we did," returned Harry. "There wasn't any bump as if we'd run into another object. We just stopped!"

"And then the stern went up into the air and stayed there!" put in Jack. "Something's got us by the stern and won't let go!"

"I think I know what it is!" announced Frank. "What is it they call these fishermen with a big net dragging around?"

"Fishermen!" answered Jimmie, with a grin.

"Stop your nonsense!" ordered Frank, administering a friendly punch to his red-headed comrade. "I mean the fellows with a big drag net!"

"Trawlers is the word you want, Frank!" said Jimmie.

"That's it!" agreed Frank. "I'll bet we're tangled in one of their nets. Maybe we can't get loose again, either," he added.

"Don't you believe it!" scorned Jimmie. "If it was a fisherman had hold of us, we'd be yanked around pretty lively. I think it is that rope we saw hanging in front of the port light!"

"I believe you're right, Jimmie!" Ned put in as he gazed through the heavy glass on the port side. "I can see that we're swinging close to the mainmast. There is no motion to the boat, so that makes me think your solution is about right. Now to get loose!"

"Yes, I agree with you!" stated Harry. "But how? If your assumption is correct, we've got a big piece of line wound around the outboard end of the shaft. It is probably more or less tangled up in the propeller also. We can't turn the engines over!"

"Maybe we could throw out the clutch and turn the shaft backwards enough to unwind the line!" suggested Frank.

"I'm in favor of rising to the surface if the slack of line will permit," offered Jack. "We could then open the hatchway. It would be easy enough from there to clear the line from the screw."

"That's probably the best way out of it," commented Ned. "Suppose we try that. Harry, can we rise as Jack suggests?"

"I don't know," came Harry's hesitating reply. "I'll try!"

Accordingly the boy clambered from his position near the forward bulkhead to the compartment amidships, where the pumps were located. A shift of valves followed by a touch on the levers connecting the storage batteries with the electric pumps started the process of emptying the ballast tanks.

Almost instantly the forward end of the craft began to rise. Very shortly the deck was in a level position. Then, as Harry continued to empty the water ballast, Frank and Ned, assisted by Jimmie and Jack, threw the clutch on the propeller shaft out of contact in order to permit the tail shaft to turn without moving the engines.

They then endeavored to turn the portion of the shaft which projected through the stern bearing in the back up motion to free the propeller. They hoped thus to release the rope which they believed to be wound around the outboard portion of the shaft.

Strive as they might, however, the shaft stubbornly refused to move. Their utmost efforts were unavailing.

At length, out of breath and exhausted, Ned sank back upon a locker. He looked at his companions with a curious expression.

"What's the matter, Ned?" inquired Jack anxiously. "Are you ill?"

"I feel badly, boys," replied Ned. "Unless we can devise some means to free that line from the shaft, we are in a pretty tight fix!"

"How near the surface can you bring the boat, Harry?" asked Frank.

"The gauges show that we're about two and a half fathoms down at present," replied Harry. "I have pumped a lot more water out than would ordinarily be required to bring us to the surface."

"Then we must be held by that line!" declared Ned.

"Let's try some other maneuver with the ship before we give up!" put in Jack. "We're not half though our experiments yet!"

"All right, what'll you try?" asked Ned in a despairing tone.

"I don't know," was the answer. "But we're going to do something to help get us out of this fix. How would it do to fill the tanks to sink us as far as we can go? Then we could empty them in a hurry, which would make the boat rise swiftly. The jounce would perhaps break the line and let us up so we could get some fresh air."

"If we don't get some fresh air pretty soon, we'll have to do something desperate. The reserve tank is nearly exhausted!"

In compliance with Jack's suggestion, the ballast tanks were again filled. Gradually the "U-13" descended to the bottom. As the deck began to tilt forward, as it had done when the craft was first stopped, Harry threw into operation every pump that could be used to empty the water from the ballast tanks. The boat rose rapidly.

With a jerk that nearly threw the boys off their feet, the "U-13" came to a rest. The gauges still showed the same depth as before.

Ned's face turned ashen as he sank upon a locker. The others gathered around him, expressing sympathy. The boy was clearly distressed.

"Never mind, Ned!" spoke up Frank. "We're coming out all right! The only trouble is that we haven't tried the right thing yet!"

"But I can't seem to think of a thing to do in this case," protested the other. "I'm all out of ideas! I'm sorry that we tried to follow that other submarine. I wish we had taken Jimmie's advice!"

"Never mind that now, Ned. We're close to the surface. If it becomes necessary, I will volunteer to be shot out of the torpedo tube. I can rise to the surface, swim about until I get my wind again, and then dive and cut the rope. That will release the whole ship!"

"Jimmie, that's awfully good of you to offer that, but I feel that I should be the one to do it," was Ned's reply.

"No, sir!" declared Jimmie promptly. "You're in no condition to attempt anything like that. You're worried, and your heart action is not right just now. My mind is a blank, and my heart is as sound as a bullet! I'm just the one for the job!"

As if the matter were understood, Jimmie began divesting himself of his clothing. He deposited his jacket on the locker beside Ned.

"Harry," he said, turning to his chum, "will you see that the torpedo tube is connected up and in working order? You might try a discharge for practice. We can spare a little of this air!"

By the time Jimmie had stripped and secured a knife to a belt about his waist, Harry pronounced the tube ready for operation.

"Now, fellows," said Jimmie, shaking hands with his chums, "there's about one chance in a million that I won't get through this all right. If you are not up to the surface in five minutes, you may know that I've failed. Then you'd better send out another lad!"

"Me next!" shouted Jack, beginning to remove his shoes.

Harry was peering from the heavy glass protecting the forward porthole. As Jimmie stepped forward to enter the torpedo tube, Harry held up a warning hand. He turned an anxious face to his friends.

"There's something outside here!" he announced in an anxious tone. "I saw it once, but didn't get a clear view!"

"What did it look like?" asked Jimmie. "Is it alive?"

"I'm not sure, but I think it's another submarine!"

"Probably the real 'U-13' come up to look us over. Never mind those fellows. I'm going ahead and cut this wagon loose!"

"Wait a minute!" cried Ned. "I see the craft over here to starboard. It's a peculiar vessel, too! I think I see a man!"

"I see him, too!" declared Frank from a porthole a short distance aft. "Do you suppose he's trying to get us to descend again?"

"Maybe that's it! Let's try it, anyway!" offered Harry.

"Go ahead!" agreed Ned in a tone that showed he was again taking heart. "Let's act on the suggestion. We can try our scheme later!"

Harry's hand had already found the levers. In a moment the ballast tanks were being filled with water. Gradually the vessel sank.

As the light grew more dim at the increased depth, Jimmie declared he could see the other vessel descending at about the same speed.

Presently the two craft were at the limit of their travel. The visitor rested on the deck of the Wanderer, while the 'U-13', in which the boys were imprisoned, hung again at an angle from the line.

Directly the lads saw the figure that had formerly attracted their attention. It was climbing the main shrouds of the wrecked ship. When the man reached a position level with their craft he began making signs and motions. In his hand he flourished a knife.

"Looks rather bad for us!" commented Jack.

"Don't you get him?" asked Jimmie impatiently. "He understands our predicament and intends to help us! He motioned out that he is going to climb the rigging until he can find the rope. Then he'll slide down it until he lands on our stern. If we'll agree not to start the engines while he's there, he'll cut the rope. But we must be ready at the ballast tanks to let the vessel settle slowly to the deck of the ship, so he can get off and clear the line from the propeller!"

"I don't believe it!" stated Jack. "I think he meant to cut the line as soon as he gets to it and let us settle down slowly. What would be the sense of his riding around the ocean seated on the stern of a disabled submarine? He's got too much sense for that!"

"Maybe you're right!" admitted Jimmie. "Let's float the boat on an even keel and see. I'm going to dress again!"

Even as the lad hastened to put on his clothes the boys felt a sudden dip made by the submarine. Gradually they descended.

"Hurrah, he did it!" exultantly cried Ned. "Now, where has he gone? I do hope he'll free the propeller wheel at once!"

"We could rise to the surface even if the propeller is stuck!" declared Harry. "I can pump the ballast all out of the tanks!"

"But if we do that we'll have to dive overboard to clear the wheel!" protested Frank. "I know that water is good and cold!"

"Wait a minute, boys, and see what the fellow does," cautioned Ned. "Maybe he wants to help us, so it wouldn't be nice to run away!"

"Here he is, now!" cried Jack from his position near a porthole. "He's looking through the glass, and making motions again!"

"I know what he wants!" declared Harry. "He's making motions for us to unscrew a pipe! He wants us to let in a lot of the ocean!"

"Wait a minute, Harry!" put in Ned. "He's walking toward his own boat. Let's see what he's going to do!"

In a short time their rescuer had reached the side of his own vessel. He stepped into an open door in the side and disappeared.

"An air lock!" cried Ned. "Did you see that, boys?"

"Just like the little old Sea Lion we used in the China Sea!"

"Here he comes again with a line!" announced Harry. "Now what?"

The boys heard a hammering and thumping near one of the sea cocks.



Chapter XIX

Mackinder Again


Even as the five boys glanced at each other with startled and wondering looks, the thumping ceased abruptly. In a short space it was resumed. Instinctively the boys gathered near the spot.

While they stood there trying to determine the cause for the strange procedure, the noise ceased. They heard a tapping at one of the portholes. Jimmie rushed across the compartment to investigate.

"Hey, fellows, come over here a minute!" he called out.

"What have you found now?" questioned Ned, obeying the request.

"Here's this chap, and he's making all sorts of signals!"

"That's funny!" puzzled Ned. "Can you make out what he wants?"

"He's making his hands go in the strangest way! I'm sure I can't interpret such motions unless he wants us to turn around while he places a bomb or something close enough to blow us out of the water."

"I know what he wants!" shouted Harry, who had been closely observing the stranger's repetition of the strange motions. "He wants us to open the valve leading from that sea cock where he has been working!"

"Fine business!" scorned Jimmie. "Open up the sea cock and let the ocean come running all over our nice carpets! I guess not!"

"I'm going to try it, anyway!" declared Harry. "If a little water does come in, the pumps will take care of it before it becomes dangerous. At least, it's well worth trying!"

"Go ahead, then, but don't blame me if anything happens!"

Harry moved to the vicinity of the spot where the stranger had been occupied but a few moments before. Jimmie was at the porthole.

A turn of the valve resulted in a sudden short inrush of water.

This ceased abruptly, bringing forth an exultant cry from Harry, while the other boys crowded around, speculating on the cause.

"I've got it!" cried Harry, dancing about the compartment. "I know what he's going to do. Go to the porthole, Jimmie, and see where our friend is now. Tell me just what he's doing. I'm going to stand guard over this valve here for a while in case something happens."

"He's going back into his little cage!" stated Jimmie from his position. "He's just shutting the outer door."

"Stand by to see something happen now, boys!" announced Harry.

"What's going to happen, Harry?" asked Jack.

Before Harry could answer, a sputter of water and air was observed at the open valve. A small quantity of water was blown out of the pipe. Following this came a rush of sweet, pure air that was very grateful to the boys after they had been using the vitiated atmosphere of their craft.

In fact, the lads were much nearer the complete exhaustion of their supply of usable atmosphere than they really comprehended.

"Um-m-m!" exclaimed Jimmie, inhaling great draughts of the incoming current. "Smell that, will you? It's just like a posy bed!"

"That's quite remarkable!" declared Ned, as he, too, sniffed the new atmosphere. "It does really seem to carry the odor of flowers!"

"Maybe it's a sort of gas that he's unloading on us to render us unconscious, so he can capture the whole outfit!" conjectured Jack.

"I don't believe it!" protested Ned. "I'm quite convinced that this is pure air. He seems to have quite a lot of it stored up!"

"Let's pump out some of this foul air and change with the new!"

"Go ahead!" consented Ned. "It's a good move, I'm sure!"

In a short time the boys began to feel the effects of the inflow of vitalized atmosphere. They were livelier, with less depression.

Directly their attention was attracted to the porthole again by a tapping. The stranger was once more trying to convey some information by signs. He repeated the motions of a short time before.

"I got you!" cried Harry, holding up a hand as a sign of understanding. "He wants us to shut the valve off. Perhaps he's given us all the nice fresh air that he feels it possible to spare!"

"Shut the valve, then," directed Ned.

"What's next?" spoke up Jimmie, listening to a slight hammering outside of the hull. "He's disconnecting the pipe now!"

"Better wait a bit and see what he wants us to do," cautioned Ned. "Maybe he's going to cut the line out of our propeller."

The lad's prediction was correct. In a very few moments they could hear the stranger working away at the encumbering line which held their propeller in a vise-like grip.

Not many minutes passed before the stranger again appeared at the porthole. Making a few signals easily comprehended by all, he repaired to his own craft, entering and closing the door of the air lock.

Almost immediately the other craft began to ascend perpendicularly.

"Guess we may as well make a mooch!" stated Jimmie, as he watched the other submarine rise out of their range of vision. "We're done here!"

"All right, let's get going!" agreed Harry, stepping toward the levers and preparing to start the motors at the pilot's command.

At once Jimmie sprang to the wheel. He gave a pull at the bell cord, jangling out a "go ahead" signal to Harry. As the latter touched the levers a startling crash at the stern of the craft was heard.

The motors spun the shaft around futilely without making headway.

With blanched faces the lads glanced about the craft. Harry's hand instinctively sought the levers again to turn off the current.

"What's the matter?" called Jimmie from his position.

"I don't know!" declared Harry. "It sounded as if that fellow had tied a can to us and we'd set it going! What did he do?"

"Let's pump the ballast out and rise straight to the surface," suggested Ned. "I noticed that he did that. Maybe there's a reason!"

Harry lost no time in acting on this suggestion. The electric pumps were not long in emptying the ballast tanks. With this weight removed, the boat quickly shot upward to the surface.

As the conning tower portholes rose above the surface, the boys noticed that the afternoon was far spent. Darkness already was gathering.

Ned was working frantically at the clamps securing the hatch cover. With a cry of delight he swung the cover out of position, admitting a cool breeze. The wind had died down, leaving the surface of the ocean comparatively smooth. Sufficient breeze was moving, however, to serve the purpose of airing out the interior of the craft without putting the great fans into commission. All the boys came to the tiny deck.

Lying but a few fathoms from their port side they discerned the other submarine. Clearly distinguishable on the sides were the great letters "U-13" painted in almost exact duplicate of those on their own boat.

"What do you know about that?" was Jimmie's surprised exclamation. "If that fellow isn't a dead ringer for this ship, I'm a Dutchman!"

"He surely does look a whole lot like us!" agreed Ned.

"I say, Frank," put in Harry eagerly, "is that the fellow that sank the ship you were on? Can you identify it now?"

Frank shook his head hesitatingly before he answered slowly: "Boys, I hate to say it, but it looks as like the other as two peas. I would not like to make an affidavit, but I'm willing to say that it bears a most remarkable resemblance to that other one, if it is 'other'!"

"Then, I guess we're done for!" despaired Jack. "If that's a German craft, we may as well hoist the white flag now and surrender!"

"Think they'll take us back to Germany?" asked Ned quizzically.

"I'm sure of it!" declared the boy. "And we won't stand much show, either, when they find that we've stolen this ship away from Helgoland!"

"Goodness!" exclaimed Ned suddenly. "I declare I'd actually forgotten that we were on board a stolen submarine. That does make it look rather dubious for us. We are in a pretty mess!" he added.

"Here comes someone now!" announced Jimmie. "Watch the hatch!"

A movement of the hatch cover on the other vessel indicated that someone was about to appear on deck. Slowly a figure stepped forth.

The stranger was of medium build, and wore a suit of blue with a round hat to match. He was carefully dressed. After taking a long survey of the group on the deck of the false "U-13," he waved a hand in welcome.

"He wants us to come over and pay him a visit!" stated Jimmie.

"Why don't you accept, then?" inquired Ned. "We're into it now and may as well be sociable. Being balky won't help matters any!"

"I would if we had a boat," announced the other.

"Maybe the real 'U-13' there has a boat they'd spare," suggested Jack. "Why don't you hail and ask him if he won't send a boat?"

"Hail him yourself if you want to! Maybe he don't talk English!"

"Try him on United States then!" laughed Jack. "I would!"

"Help yourself!" said Jimmie, leaning back against the rail.

"Ahoy the submarine!" shouted Jack in response to this suggestion. "We haven't a boat or we'd come over. Can you send a boat to us?"

Waving an arm as if comprehending the lad's statement and inquiry the figure on the other vessel clambered quickly to the after deck. After a moment's fumbling at what appeared to be a lock, he lifted a cover. In a short time the boys saw him drag from its place a small, light, steel boat.

This was at once launched over the side. Running out upon a light iron ladder the man dropped into the rowboat. He sculled the small craft quickly over the intervening distance and was soon alongside.

"Come aboard, sir," invited Ned, reaching out a hand to assist.

"Good night!" ejaculated Jimmie. "How did you ever get here so quickly, Mackinder? We thought you were aboard that warship!"

"I've been here a long time!" laughed the other, looking at the lad.

"You've made a quick trip, all right!" returned Jimmie.

The others crowded forward with eager, questioning looks. Upon the face of each was to be seen amazement, wonder and perplexity.

"Come aboard, Mackinder," invited Ned. "We'd like to hear an explanation of the strange goings on hereabouts. Can you help us?"

"First, I'd like to hear your explanations," stated the newcomer. "But before you start your story, please tell me why you call me Mackinder."

"Isn't that your name?" asked Jimmie. "Tell us that!"

"Yes, that's my name, you know!" replied the stranger, smilingly. "But how did you happen to know it? I'm rather puzzled, you know!"

"Why, you told us yourself on the train running into Amsterdam!" stated Jimmie, with rising indignation. "Then we called you by that name while you were trying to delay our start. Also Captain von Kluck used that name when he referred to you. I guess it's your name all right!"

"I don't deny that!" stated the newcomer. "What puzzles me is how you chaps know it so quickly, don't you know."

"It don't make much difference how we know the name so quickly," went on Jimmie. "We'd know you anywhere we saw you. We'd especially recognize that hand with the scar! That's a dead giveaway!"

The newcomer glanced quickly at his right hand, which Jimmie had indicated. As he brought it up to view, the boys could see a jagged scar running clear across the back. They had seen such a scar before.

With an accusing finger pointing at the disfigurement, Jimmie snapped out in crisp accents that indicated plainly his excitement:

"That's the same hand that tied and gagged me in the warehouse in Amsterdam, and the same hand that I saw shoved into the window of the frontier hut to get the 'U-13' package. Deny it if you can!"

"I am not going to deny anything, you know!" returned the other coolly. "You seem so positive about it there's little use denying!"

"You bet there's no use denying anything like that!" declared Jimmie with some heat. "You can't deny that you tried to sic the German torpedo boat destroyer onto us, either. You can't deny that you sneaked away from this very submarine when I was painting the name on the bow. You'd better not try to deny that you showed us to the British gunboat a while ago and got them to fire at us. If you start denying anything," the boy went on, "I'm going to deny that I'm neutral!"

With a laugh the newcomer threw back his head in amused fashion.

"Have your own way about it, you know," he replied, "but I'm going to tell you one thing. I'm not Mackinder!"



Chapter XX

A Mysterious Craft


The surprise of the lads at this declaration of their visitor was profound. They stared at the stranger who bore such a striking resemblance to Mackinder and who had just declared that he was not that person. Speechless at the apparent untruth, they could only stare.

Seeing their looks of astonishment at his declaration, the man laughed loudly, apparently enjoying hugely the joke that the boys could not see. Supporting himself against the rail, he gave vent to peals of merriment at the expense of the five young lads.

"So you don't believe me, eh?" he inquired at length, controlling himself with an effort. "I can't blame you, don't you know!"

"Say, Mackinder, you ought to be in vaudeville!" declared Jimmie in reply. "For a lightning change artist, you're decidedly it!"

"Thank you!" acknowledged Mackinder, choosing to accept the boy's words as a compliment. "You're almost too kind, don't you know!"

"And then," the boy went on, "as a monologue artist, you'd certainly have them all backed off the boards. I know a place in New York where you could draw down your two fifty per without half trying!"

"An engagement, do you mean?" queried the man, with interest.

"Just that!" stated Jimmie. "And then, there's another place up the Hudson a ways where you ought to be making little ones out of big ones. They give a fellow a long engagement there and supply costumes!"

"All of which means that you're spoofing me a bit, don't you know!" returned their visitor without resentment. He was apparently enjoying the situation hugely, and meant to make the most of it.

Seeing that his words failed to arouse or draw out the other, Jimmie turned disgustedly away to lean over the rail.

Ned began to question their guest, but was interrupted by Jimmie, who announced that he saw a steamer's smoke on the horizon.

"This water is quite thickly sprinkled with vessels of all sorts," said the alleged Mackinder. "Perhaps we'd better get out, you know!"

"What do you make that vessel out to be?" asked Ned.

"It doesn't make any difference what it is," replied the other, "we shall be better off if they don't find us! We don't need them!"

"Very well," put in Jimmie, "then we'll get up steam on this wagon and slide along. I'm going to say this to you, though, that Mackinder or no Mackinder, we're very grateful for your help. If we get an opportunity to reciprocate, we'll be only too glad to do it!"

With this, the boy turned and offered his hand to the man. It was grasped with a hearty grip that conveyed a sense of friendliness.

"You can help me right now," was the response. "Come aboard my vessel and give me a hand on a little project I have under way."

"I don't think we'd better do that right now," stated Jimmie. "You see, we're neutral, and we don't want to take sides either way!"

"So am I neutral! I care nothing for this awful war except to see it stop. I shall do nothing for either side, so rest easy on that score. But your propellor is broken by having that line jammed in it. You cannot navigate your vessel, and would better come aboard mine!"

Doubting this statement, Jimmie clambered into the small boat and sculled toward the stern of the false "U-13". There he could look into the water to a depth sufficient to confirm the other's statement.

"It's no use, boys," he declared, returning to the conning tower. "The blades of the propellor are damaged beyond use. We might as well go!"

Securing a line to the bow of the false "U-13" the man proposed to tow it to a safe place where it could be anchored to await repairs. Two trips were necessary to transfer the boys to the craft which had been of such signal service in their hour of extreme need.

Led by their recent guest, who was now their host, the lads descended into the interior of the vessel. Here a strange sight met their gaze. In cages canaries were twittering gaily while all about the bulkheads had been fastened pots of plants, some of which were in bloom.

"Now I understand why the air you so kindly pumped into our vessel had the odor of flowers and growing things!" declared Ned as he turned to their host. "You have things fixed pretty cozy here!"

"Just a touch now and again to make it look home-like!" said the man. "I prefer the sight of a flower to that of a cold steel bulkhead. Besides, it's more healthful to have a few plants about."

Harry was lost in admiration of the machinery which he declared to be far superior to that of the vessel they had lately abandoned.

With a touch their strange host sent the craft forward at a good speed. He explained to the lads a gyroscope arrangement by which he controlled the steering gear that kept the vessel on any chosen course and at any desired depth after once being adjusted.

"And now, if you please, Mr. Mackinder," questioned Jimmie at length, "will you be so good as to tell us what your mission may be?"

"Certainly!" replied the other frankly. "I see the steamer is not following us so I will take plenty of time to give you details."

"Thanks!" drily responded the lad. "We'll appreciate it!"

With a laugh the man seated himself on a locker and motioned the lads to do likewise. They listened intently as he proceeded:

"You perhaps all realize that the possession of wealth is the desire of almost every human being. I am not different from the rest in that respect at least. Owing to some family trouble which I shall not at this time detail, I was not given the advantages that accrue ordinarily to heirs. I think you will understand what I mean?"

"You were left out in the cold when they passed the dough?" asked Jimmie with a knowing look. "Just shoved one side?"

"That's about it!" replied the man. "But I resolved to get some money, nevertheless. I had a fertile imagination, some education and a very small amount of money. I did not want to take so cheap a way as to rob or cheat my fellow men. I was not shrewd enough to enter the business world. Therefore, I turned my attention to lost or buried treasure."

Jimmie delivered a broad wink toward Ned. It was not lost by their observant entertainer, who laughed much to the boy's confusion.

"Amongst other inventions that were in my brain was an instrument for detecting the presence of gold similar to the instrument called a compass. In this instance electricity had nothing to do with its action.

"To make a long story short, you know, I finally succeeded in perfecting the arrangement. It was an amusing circumstance that I had a very hard struggle preserving my last gold piece with which to test the device," he went on with a laugh at the recollection of his trials.

"At last, I thought I had my instrument perfected. I next needed only something on which to practice. With my precious treasure carefully guarded I succeeded in reaching the Gulf of Mexico, where it is said so much pirate gold has been buried. Wonderful to relate, I actually located and recovered a small amount. It was not large but helped me to fit out a vessel in which to make other cruises."

"And it really worked?" inquired Jimmie in a tone of unbelief.

"How well I shall presently demonstrate, you know," was the reply. "But I found that the crew was tricky. They helped me get a treasure aboard then calmly turned pirates themselves and ran away with the treasure. For nearly a year I had hard luck. Then I succeeded in locating a large sum of gold that had been buried by a man's grandfather.

"My past experiences had taught me that I could not trust anyone. Therefore I determined to prosecute my search in other channels.

"Piece by piece in different shops I had this vessel constructed after my own designs. The pieces were assembled in a part of the Gulf of Mexico little frequented. There I tried out the undersea boat, named it the 'U-13' -- the 'U' standing for Undersea and the '13' in defiance of the popular superstition. But I found a new difficulty.

"The instrument, although working perfectly on land, was not reliable under the ocean, for as you know there is a large amount of suspended gold in sea water. That made the instrument unreliable."

"What did you want to go under water for, anyway?" asked Ned.

"Gold!" was the curt reply. "So I had to construct another device that would neutralize the local attraction of the sea water just on the same principle that the mariner has the two iron balls near his compass to overcome the local attraction on his vessel.

"Then I was prepared to pursue my quest for treasure undisturbed. My first venture was the recovery of a large sum from a sunken ship in Havana harbor. This provided me sufficient funds so that I put stores aboard and came across to seek for the vessels of the Spanish Armada."

"How did you get across the Atlantic?" asked Jimmie incredulously.

"In this vessel!" was the reply. "And most of the way under water, too, you know! I didn't want anyone to see me!"

"But you had to come up once in a while to get air!"

"Oh, no! Here is a contrivance," indicating a huge box-like affair, "with which I separate the oxygen from the hydrogen by electricity. Water, as you know, is composed of two gases -- oxygen and hydrogen. Two atoms of hydrogen combined with one atom of oxygen and make a tiny bit of water. By the aid of this special device I segregate the two gases, use the oxygen and discharge the hydrogen overboard."

"I'm going to take my hat off to you!" declared Jimmie. "But you had to have some means to prevent discomfort from the storage batteries!"

"Not with these!" smiled the other. "I'm using, without permission, of course, a new storage battery that does away with the lead-sulphuric acid type of battery. The inventor is a man whose name is familiar to you all. He uses a nickel, iron oxide and steel combination in a solution of potash. This battery, instead of causing inflammation or even proving deadly as is the case with the old type, is actually a benefit to a person. It is exactly opposite in its effect to the old style."

"And you manage to make a cruise of days and days under water?"

"Surely!" smiled their host. "There's nothing to prevent it!"

"That's going some!" declared Jimmie. "But I don't believe you managed to dig up a lot of gold from the bottom of the ocean!"

"What is there to hinder?" questioned the other.

"Everything!" declared Jimmie. "In the first place there is all the water about. Then, too, it would be easier to take this instrument into the regions where gold is usually discovered on land. You could prospect with it in almost the positive knowledge that you would locate a vein. Digging then would be easy."

"Yes, but I don't like to dig!" laughed the other. "Perhaps I'm too lazy to do that sort of thing!"

"There's something queer here that I don't quite get," stated Jimmie. "Can't you explain a little more in detail?"

"Why, certainly, I'll be glad to elucidate!" was the answer. "You have in mind the securing of free gold in nuggets and dust. I go about it in quite another way. My purpose is to recover the minted coins that have been placed aboard ships. When the ships sink, no diver yet has been able to reach those in deep water. Therefore, most of the gold that has been carried to the bottom in sunken vessels is forever lost. I intend to recover a great deal of it!"

"Then when you know approximately where the vessel was wrecked or sunk," put in Ned, "you go to that neighborhood. Your instrument indicates the presence of gold and you follow its directions until the exact spot is reached. Then you step out and carry the money aboard your own craft. Is that the correct explanation?"

"You have it exactly. And I have done pretty well so far!"

"I don't believe it!" declared Jimmie flatly. "The whole thing sounds mighty fishy -- not meaning any disrespect," he added addressing the man who sat leaning back against a bulkhead.

"But I assure you that what I have said is absolutely true!"

"I'm from Missouri!" stated Jimmie in a tone of doubt.

Their host stepped to a locker which he opened.

"Great Frozen Hot Boxes!" cried Jimmie.



Chapter XXI

A Mystery Explained


"Why, boys, look at this!" cried Jimmie, his voice rising to a shriek then trailing off into a whisper. "Did you ever see the like?"

"Let's see!" put in Frank, crowding forward. "What is it?"

Eagerly the boys gathered around the open compartment. They heard distinctly the tinkle of coins as Jimmie seized a handful and let them slip one by one back into place. Again and again the boy dived his hands into the yellow mass of metal. He raised handfuls of coin to look at them a moment, then let them drop from his grasp.

"Good Night!" he ejaculated at length, turning a round-eyed face to the man who stood smiling beside the group. "Why, you must have enough here to buy a farm and build a fence clear around it!"

"Quite likely I have!" declared the other quietly. "But there are two or three other wrecked vessels that I wish to visit before I stop. I have the exact locations charted and have examined the interiors."

"Why didn't you take the gold away with you, then?"

"For the very simple reason that I found one pair of hands not enough to perform the task. I could have taken the gold away from the sunken wrecks, but the matter of getting it ashore was another thing!"

"Why, what's to prevent?" asked Ned wonderingly.

"Several things!" declared the other. "In the first place the peculiar phase of human nature that makes every man mad when he sees a lot of money would operate against my plan of taking the gold ashore. Who could I hire to move the heavy stuff with any assurance of their honesty if they once found out what might be in the packages?"

"That's so!" admitted Ned thoughtfully. "Human nature is crooked!"

"My plan has been to find some one who needs the money and who would work on a percentage basis -- share and share alike. We can then get the money ashore, negotiate the older coins that possess more than their face value, bank the current coins and be prepared to use the wealth exactly as we see fit. So long as it remains under water it is safe."

"But I can't understand how you get it aboard!" declared Jimmie.

"I have a tank of compressed air fixed to the back of a special diving suit," explained the man. "There's also a search light and a small storage battery provided. In this suit I step out through the air lock onto the wreck. The rest is easy. I return with the load of gold the same way I went out. The submarine is anchored. The whole thing is simple!"

"Sure enough!" exclaimed Jimmie. "Why didn't I remember our arrangement on the Sea Lion? And then, too, we saw you walking about on the decks of the Wanderer! I guess I'm going daffy!"

"What do you say, boys, will you join the expedition?"

"We don't stand much chance of getting home right away," stated Ned. "I guess we might as well -- " what he would say was cut short by the sound of a cannon shot booming through the gathering darkness.

"What's that?" inquired Jack anxiously, jumping to his feet.

"I'll bet it's that bloomin' steamer we saw!" cried Jimmie. "That must be another of those gun boats and they're chasing us!"

"I'll go up to the deck and see!" offered Ned.

"Be careful, don't let them get you!" warned Jack.

"I'll watch out for that," laughed Ned, mounting the iron ladder.

Directly the little group at the foot of the ladder were startled to hear their companion's voice. A note of anxiety vibrated through his words.

"Boys," Ned cried, "there's a gunboat out there, and I think I see another submarine. It looks to be like the 'U-13' for all the world. What shall we do?"

"Here," urged Jimmie, "take the glasses and have a good look. If it is that Dutchman, I'm for beating it out of here mighty quick!"

For a tense moment Ned gazed through the glasses at the strange vessels. At length he lowered the binoculars and turned toward his companions. With a shake of his head and a quick indrawing of breath, he said:

"It's the 'U-13' as sure as can be!"

"Let's go!" was Jimmie's only comment as he turned toward the switchboard with outstretched hand.

"I'm with you!" declared Ned, quickly descending the ladder to join the group. "Go ahead slow, though. Don't break the hawser, or we'd lose the other vessel."

"Perhaps we would do better to abandon your vessel," Mackinder suggested as he prepared to go on deck. "Let me have the glasses, if you please. I'll look them over."

Jimmie paused, with his hand on the starting switch.

Suddenly all were startled by a cry from their host.

"Go ahead! go ahead!" he shouted down the hatchway. "That other fellow has launched a torpedo at us!"

"Let go the line, then!" urged Ned. "We'll have to run for it! Full speed, Jimmie!" he added.

Mackinder was casting off the hawser with rapid motions. Jimmie, in response to Ned's command, threw the switch over. The "U-13" began to gather headway.

All were startled to hear the report of a cannon shot. This was followed almost instantly by a shriek from the man on deck.

"Mackinder's hit!" gasped Ned, turning a blanched face to his chums. "What shall we do?"

As if in answer to his query, the voice of Mackinder reached the ears of the lads.

"Bring an axe!" he shouted. "I'm fast in the bight!"

Wrenching an axe from its pocket on the bulkhead, Ned sprang up the ladder at his best speed. On deck he found Mackinder caught in a bight of the hawser by which the other vessel had been towed. His leg was jammed against the fairleader. Only one glance was required to show the boy that serious injury had been done.

Without waiting for words, the lad stepped to the side of the fallen man. Swinging his axe quickly, he struck at the taut bond of hemp. A shower of sparks followed the ringing thud of the axe upon the steel deck.

Mackinder dropped back upon the deck, limp and helpless, as the singing of the parted line told of his release.

With tender solicitude the boys mounted the ladder to assist their injured friend to the room below. Scarcely had the boys gained the deck when they were startled by a terrific explosion. As Ned afterward declared, it seemed as if they had been caught in a volcano of water.

"What has happened?" queried Jack, releasing his hold upon Mackinder.

A flood of sea water descending upon the little deck prevented an answer to his question. In a moment the lads were able to look about.

"Where's our 'U-13'?" asked Harry.

"Gone!" stated Ned, his voice trembling. "I'll bet that German torpedoed it! I'm glad we are on this 'U-13'!"

Echoing this sentiment, the lads hastily proceeded to lower Mackinder through the hatchway. This done, the injured man was deposited on a couch, the hatch was closed, and Ned began first-aid ministrations.

"What course shall I hold?" asked Jimmie.

"Better head on a southwest course," stated Ned, briefly glancing up from his work over Mackinder's leg.

"I can do that all right," responded Jimmie. "The gunboat and the submarine can fight it out alone."

"We've got a clear field, Jimmie, so shove the little wagon along for all she's worth," put in Jack.

Mackinder had been exercising wonderful command of himself, but in spite of his best efforts a groan now and again escaped. The injured leg was proving a painful matter.

"We'll do all we can for you, Mackinder," Ned offered, "but we need better skill than is available here. Would it not be best to make at once for some port where we can secure the services of a surgeon?"

Mackinder's only reply was a nod. His teeth were closed tightly to suppress the cry of anguish from his hurt.

"Keep on the surface, boys," urged Ned as he went about making the man comfortable with such simple means as were at hand. "I believe we are not far from the coast."

Surrendering the wheel to Frank, and with Jack at the engines, Jimmie insisted upon mounting to the deck again to look about them.

Cool and sweet the air gushed down the little open hatchway upon the injured man. Under its influence and aided by the ministrations of Ned, the proprietor of the third "U-13" rapidly gained control of himself.

"Head west southwest," he instructed Ned. "We'll be mighty apt to find the mouth of the Thames on that course. There are many places I'd rather go, but you are right -- we must have a surgeon!"

Giving the course to Harry, Ned proceeded to do everything in his power to ease the hurt of their friend.

"On deck, there!" announced Jimmie presently, his face at the hatchway.

"Hello!" answered Ned. "What is it?"

"I see a light about a point off the port bow!"

"What do you make it out to be?"

"I think it is a lighthouse!" declared Jimmie.

"Margate!" murmured Mackinder. "We are safe enough now, but be careful about the money, boys!"

"Sail ho!" rang out Jimmie's voice again.



Chapter XXII

More Mystery


"What do you see now, Jimmie?" asked Ned anxiously, stepping to the foot of the ladder.

"There's a small steamer coming up rapidly from the starboard side," replied the lookout.

"Perhaps we'd better dive again," suggested Ned.

"Aw, go on!" protested Jimmie. "What's the use of diving every time anything comes along? We're neutral!"

"We are, yes," agreed Ned, "but this 'U-13' name is not neutral, and if the steamer is an English vessel they'll probably not stop to ask questions."

"Why not swing a white light at 'em, then?"

"That's a good idea, too!" agreed Ned. "If they seem to be heading toward us, just get a white flag going."

"They are not showing any light at all," announced Jimmie. "They're just sneaking along like an express train."

"Let us know at once if anything happens," Ned responded, turning back to his patient.

The boys had not long to wait.

Out of the gathering darkness Jimmie saw a burst of flame which lighted up a portion of the approaching steamer. A bright flash in a wave some distance in advance of the "U-13" next attracted his attention. The sharp roar of a cannon came to the ears of all.

"Are they shooting at us?" asked Ned, again approaching the ladder.

"Don't know!" Jimmie replied briefly. "I saw the flash and heard the noise. There was a splash some distance ahead of us in the water. Maybe they can't aim straight."

Ned mounted the rungs of the ladder without further delay. He closed his eyes as he did so, the better to accommodate his vision to the change from the light below to the darkness outside. In a moment he was peering in the direction indicated by Jimmie.

"Can you make her out?"

"Yes," replied Ned. "I can just see a sort of thick place in the darkness. My eyes will be all right soon."

"I don't believe they were shooting at us at all!" commented Jimmie, musingly. "They can't see us!"

As if to disprove this statement, another flash lighted up the forward portion of the other vessel.

Ned grasped Jimmie's arm and pointed straight ahead.

Skipping from wave to wave, throwing up a fountain of spray from each, the shot from the steamer plowed its way across the path of the "U-13," passing so close that the boys were struck by the flying drops of water.

"That means that we are to stop!" declared Ned. "Next time they'll shoot at us!"

"And hit us, too!" excitedly put in the other.

Without waiting for orders from Ned, the lad leaned over the coaming of the little hatch.

"Shut her off, Jack!" he cried. "Back on your engines. That guy thinks we are Germans!"

Jack at once complied with the request, and soon the "U-13" was gently rolling in the trough of the sea.

Frank sprang from the wheel to the ladder, mounting to the deck just as a beam of flame from a powerful searchlight aboard the steamer swept the "U-13" from end to end.

In the glare of the light the three boys stood plainly visible. They could not, however, distinguish the details of the other vessel because of the flaming eye regarding them with unwinking stare.

For a few moments they stood close to each other, uncertain what to do. At length a voice hailed them.

"Submarine, ahoy! What vessel is that?"

"Shall I tell them our name?" asked Ned anxiously.

"No," urged Jimmie. "Don't say 'U-13'!"

"They've seen it on the side, anyhow!" scorned Frank.

"Don't let them think we're Germans. Don't you see they're English?" queried Jimmie.

"It doesn't signify they're English, even if they do speak the language," returned Ned. "Can't you answer?"

"Ahoy, there!" came an impatient voice.

"Steamer, ahoy!" replied Ned. "We're a peaceful submarine manned by neutral noncombatants!"

"A likely yarn, indeed!" laughed the stranger. "Stand by to receive a boat. I shall send an officer aboard to investigate."

"All right, Captain," consented Ned. "Glad to meet you!"

Still standing under the unwinking eye of the searchlight, the little group waited expectantly for the arrival of the boarding party.

A splash of oars preceded the boat which soon shot out of the darkness.

In another moment an officer in uniform had mounted the little deck. Wonderingly he glanced about the group, now augmented by the arrival of Jack and Harry.

"Where is your commander?" he inquired somewhat stiffly, addressing no one in particular.

Indicating Ned, the boys silently waited.

"Are you in charge of this vessel?" asked the officer, with just a trace of amusement.

"I am and I am not," replied Ned, with dignity.

"That's very enlightening, I'm sure," returned the other. "But time is short, and I must see the person who is in charge, and that at once."

"The owner is lying in the cabin with a broken leg which he received as we were escaping from a German submarine," explained Ned. "We boys are trying to get to some port where we can secure the services of a surgeon."

"Oh," exclaimed the officer, "escaping from a German?"

"Yes, sir. They torpedoed another submarine that we were towing, and in casting off the towing line the gentleman below was caught in the line. His leg is badly broken."

"Who is this other person?"

"He gave us the name of Mackinder."

A frown settled over the face of their questioner. Stepping forward, with flashing eyes he addressed Ned in a low voice vibrant with emotion.

"Now, if you have all the lies out of your system," he gritted, "we'll listen to the real story."

"That is the real story!" protested Ned. "Step below, if you don't believe me, and you may see for yourself."

"We have already seen enough to discredit such a wild yarn as that!" declared the other. "Too many of our brave sailors have been killed and set adrift by the 'U-13.' Besides, the man you mention is certainly not in the cabin. I can swear to that. Now, will you tell me the truth?"

"I say, Mister," put in Jimmie, "suppose you go fifty-fifty with us. Who are you, and what right have you to stop us?"

A short laugh was the man's only answer. He turned to hail the vessel from which he had just come.



Chapter XXIII

The Mystery Of The "U-13"


"Ahoy!" his hail rang out over the waters. "Send another boat aboard us. I will transfer the crew of this vessel!"

"Yes, you will!" scornfully replied Jimmie. "You'll do a lot, you will. We have something to say about that!"

"I am more astonished than I can say," the officer replied as he gazed at the lad. "I had supposed that Boy Scouts would not under any circumstances lend themselves to a project of an unworthy character."

"Well, who has done all that?" bristled Jimmie, wrinkling a freckled nose at the man. "You're taking a lot for granted, I must say! Who are you, anyhow?"

"You'll find out quickly enough!" was the answer.

Turning at the sound of approaching oars, the officer quickly issued a few short commands.

In obedience to his orders, the boys were required to enter the small boat without even an opportunity of going below.

"Dodson," ordered the officer, "take a couple of men and search the vessel for others. We were informed there were but five, but they may have confederates."

Wonderingly the lads sat in the boat as they were rowed across the intervening distance to the steamer. Scarcely had they set foot on deck before a line was passed to the submarine and the vessel was under way, towing their recent habitation.

An orderly conducted the lads directly to the cabin, where they were greeted by an officer seated at the head of a table. He arose as they entered and extended a hand to each.

Motioning to seats, the officer again busied himself with some papers on the table. For some time the boys glanced expectantly at each other, waiting for the officer to open the anticipated conversation.

Impatiently the boys waited, listening to the regular throbbing of the steamer's propellers that told they were again under way.

At length the silence was broken by the arrival of an orderly. Saluting, he reported briefly to the officer. A nod dismissed him.

"Boys," began the officer in a kindly tone, "we find ourselves rather puzzled by some mysterious circumstances which we hope you can explain. Will you assist us?"

"I assume from the looks of things aboard that you are English," answered Ned. "Am I correct?"

"You are. This is a scout vessel doing patrol duty along the coast. In common with others, we have been on the sharp lookout for a submarine named 'U-13,' which has been doing considerable damage to our shipping. We capture it without difficulty, to find it manned by Boy Scouts instead of Germans, as we had expected. Can you explain that?"

"Yes!" laughed Ned. "That is easy. The boat you have captured is owned by a private individual named Mackinder, who has been amusing himself in a perfectly innocent pastime. He, like ourselves, is neutral, but unfortunately has gotten into rather compromising situations."

"Mackinder?" repeated the officer, wonderingly.

"Yes, sir," continued Ned. "He rescued us from our disabled submarine. He is now aboard his vessel with a broken leg."

"We had him brought aboard this vessel, and find that his leg is really broken," explained the officer. "But," he continued, "you have not quite explained your presence on a submarine."

"That is easy -- " began Ned. He was interrupted by a sign from the officer.

"Just a moment," the other said. "We will have Mackinder in here, and perhaps he can explain a little of the mystery himself."

At a command from the man two orderlies approached. In a few moments the boys observed four sailors bearing a mattress upon which lay their late host.

At the same moment a group approached from the after part of the cabin. Glancing from one group to the other, the boys rose to their feet with exclamations of surprise.

"Well, Great Frozen Hot Boxes!" cried Jimmie. "How did you get here, Mackinder?"

A man from the small group behind the officer stepped forward, smiling.

"I was picked up by the fishing boat you probably saw when I swam away from the submarine you captured. They transferred me to this craft. We have since been looking for you."

"Well, I'm glad to see you, anyway," returned the lad. "But you couldn't prevent our leaving Holland, even if you did try good and hard. Have you found that package yet?"

The smile quickly faded from the face of the other.

"No, I haven't," he answered in a low voice. "I find that you boys have gotten me into a lot of trouble, too."

"Trouble?" puzzled Ned. "How have we done that?"

"By secreting that package," explained Mackinder. "You see, I was detailed to duty on the Holland frontier. When I saw that package, and knew that you had recently come from the German lines, I assumed, of course, that it contained information for the German submarine that has been causing so much havoc amongst the English shipping. Without waiting for orders, I tried to follow you and gain possession of the object. Now it seems I am disobeying regulations by absenting myself from my post of duty without leave. Further, I was seen aboard or coming from a German vessel. Hence circumstances look bad for me. I'm due for a court martial as soon as we land at Margate, which must be close aboard by now."

All were startled to hear a groan escape the man lying upon the mattress. He had raised himself upon one elbow.

"Oh, Robert!" he cried. "Not that!"

"Tom!" gasped Mackinder. Soon the two men were shaking hands at a great rate, tears in their eyes.

"Boys," Mackinder announced at length, "I must introduce my brother Tom."

"We have had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman," stated Ned. "In fact, we owe our lives to his kindness."

"But, see here," demanded Jimmie, stepping forward, "this needs an explanation. Which one of you fellows was at the little cabin on the Holland border?"

Tom Mackinder smiled, in spite of the pain of his crushed leg. He turned his glance toward his brother, whose hand he held.

"We both were there, Jimmie," he said. "I took the package from the window. You see," he continued, "it contained plans of my submarine, with which you are familiar. I tried to sell the plans to Germany, but found they had beaten me. So upon my return trip I slipped the package into your baggage, thinking to escape search and detention at the border. I have it here now."

As he ceased speaking he drew from his pocket the same flat package the boys had seen before.

"Hurrah!" cried Jimmie. "Now we can explain how your brother came to be captured by the Germans, and how under his direction we stole the other 'U-13' and escaped from Helgoland."

"If what you say is true, young man," put in the officer, "the anticipated court martial may never convene."

"We can prove it!" protested Jimmie vigorously.

"Then we have solved the Mystery of the 'U-13'!" declared the officer, with evident relief.

"And now we'll head for the little old U. S. A. and peaceful neutrality!" was Jimmie's joyful comment.

"But you'll first arrange to care for your share of the cargo aboard my boat," interposed the injured Mackinder.

He would not entertain any of the objections raised by the boys, but insisted that they share in the treasure which had been recovered from the ocean's grasp.

A few days later as the boys watched the chalk cliffs of Dover slip away into the eastern horizon Jimmie turned from the rail of the steamer upon which they had taken passage.

"Good by, England, and good by the Mackinders," he said. "I'm glad we are out of the war zone at last and that we solved the Mystery of the 'U-13'."

<eob>

Treasure Island

By

Robert Louis Stevenson



PART ONE -- The Old Buccaneer



1

The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow


SQUIRE TRELAWNEY, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17 and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof.

I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow -- a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest --  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and broken at the capstan bars. Then he rapped on the door with a bit of stick like a handspike that he carried, and when my father appeared, called roughly for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought to him, he drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste and still looking about him at the cliffs and up at our signboard.

"This is a handy cove," says he at length; "and a pleasant sittyated grog-shop. Much company, mate?"

My father told him no, very little company, the more was the pity.

"Well, then," said he, "this is the berth for me. Here you, matey," he cried to the man who trundled the barrow; "bring up alongside and help up my chest. I'll stay here a bit," he continued. "I'm a plain man; rum and bacon and eggs is what I want, and that head up there for to watch ships off. What you mought call me? You mought call me captain. Oh, I see what you're at -- there"; and he threw down three or four gold pieces on the threshold. "You can tell me when I've worked through that," says he, looking as fierce as a commander.

And indeed bad as his clothes were and coarsely as he spoke, he had none of the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast, but seemed like a mate or skipper accustomed to be obeyed or to strike. The man who came with the barrow told us the mail had set him down the morning before at the Royal George, that he had inquired what inns there were along the coast, and hearing ours well spoken of, I suppose, and described as lonely, had chosen it from the others for his place of residence. And that was all we could learn of our guest.

He was a very silent man by custom. All day he hung round the cove or upon the cliffs with a brass telescope; all evening he sat in a corner of the parlour next the fire and drank rum and water very strong. Mostly he would not speak when spoken to, only look up sudden and fierce and blow through his nose like a fog-horn; and we and the people who came about our house soon learned to let him be. Every day when he came back from his stroll he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the road. At first we thought it was the want of company of his own kind that made him ask this question, but at last we began to see he was desirous to avoid them. When a seaman did put up at the Admiral Benbow (as now and then some did, making by the coast road for Bristol) he would look in at him through the curtained door before he entered the parlour; and he was always sure to be as silent as a mouse when any such was present. For me, at least, there was no secret about the matter, for I was, in a way, a sharer in his alarms. He had taken me aside one day and promised me a silver fourpenny on the first of every month if I would only keep my "weather-eye open for a seafaring man with one leg" and let him know the moment he appeared. Often enough when the first of the month came round and I applied to him for my wage, he would only blow through his nose at me and stare me down, but before the week was out he was sure to think better of it, bring me my four-penny piece, and repeat his orders to look out for "the seafaring man with one leg."

How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you. On stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house and the surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs, I would see him in a thousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions. Now the leg would be cut off at the knee, now at the hip; now he was a monstrous kind of a creature who had never had but the one leg, and that in the middle of his body. To see him leap and run and pursue me over hedge and ditch was the worst of nightmares. And altogether I paid pretty dear for my monthly fourpenny piece, in the shape of these abominable fancies.

But though I was so terrified by the idea of the seafaring man with one leg, I was far less afraid of the captain himself than anybody else who knew him. There were nights when he took a deal more rum and water than his head would carry; and then he would sometimes sit and sing his wicked, old, wild sea-songs, minding nobody; but sometimes he would call for glasses round and force all the trembling company to listen to his stories or bear a chorus to his singing. Often I have heard the house shaking with "Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum," all the neighbours joining in for dear life, with the fear of death upon them, and each singing louder than the other to avoid remark. For in these fits he was the most overriding companion ever known; he would slap his hand on the table for silence all round; he would fly up in a passion of anger at a question, or sometimes because none was put, and so he judged the company was not following his story. Nor would he allow anyone to leave the inn till he had drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed.

His stories were what frightened people worst of all. Dreadful stories they were -- about hanging, and walking the plank, and storms at sea, and the Dry Tortugas, and wild deeds and places on the Spanish Main. By his own account he must have lived his life among some of the wickedest men that God ever allowed upon the sea, and the language in which he told these stories shocked our plain country people almost as much as the crimes that he described. My father was always saying the inn would be ruined, for people would soon cease coming there to be tyrannized over and put down, and sent shivering to their beds; but I really believe his presence did us good. People were frightened at the time, but on looking back they rather liked it; it was a fine excitement in a quiet country life, and there was even a party of the younger men who pretended to admire him, calling him a "true sea-dog" and a "real old salt" and such like names, and saying there was the sort of man that made England terrible at sea.

In one way, indeed, he bade fair to ruin us, for he kept on staying week after week, and at last month after month, so that all the money had been long exhausted, and still my father never plucked up the heart to insist on having more. If ever he mentioned it, the captain blew through his nose so loudly that you might say he roared, and stared my poor father out of the room. I have seen him wringing his hands after such a rebuff, and I am sure the annoyance and the terror he lived in must have greatly hastened his early and unhappy death.

All the time he lived with us the captain made no change whatever in his dress but to buy some stockings from a hawker. One of the cocks of his hat having fallen down, he let it hang from that day forth, though it was a great annoyance when it blew. I remember the appearance of his coat, which he patched himself upstairs in his room, and which, before the end, was nothing but patches. He never wrote or received a letter, and he never spoke with any but the neighbours, and with these, for the most part, only when drunk on rum. The great sea-chest none of us had ever seen open.

He was only once crossed, and that was towards the end, when my poor father was far gone in a decline that took him off. Dr. Livesey came late one afternoon to see the patient, took a bit of dinner from my mother, and went into the parlour to smoke a pipe until his horse should come down from the hamlet, for we had no stabling at the old Benbow. I followed him in, and I remember observing the contrast the neat, bright doctor, with his powder as white as snow and his bright, black eyes and pleasant manners, made with the coltish country folk, and above all, with that filthy, heavy, bleared scarecrow of a pirate of ours, sitting, far gone in rum, with his arms on the table. Suddenly he -- the captain, that is -- began to pipe up his eternal song:

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest --  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest --  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

At first I had supposed "the dead man's chest" to be that identical big box of his upstairs in the front room, and the thought had been mingled in my nightmares with that of the one-legged seafaring man. But by this time we had all long ceased to pay any particular notice to the song; it was new, that night, to nobody but Dr. Livesey, and on him I observed it did not produce an agreeable effect, for he looked up for a moment quite angrily before he went on with his talk to old Taylor, the gardener, on a new cure for the rheumatics. In the meantime, the captain gradually brightened up at his own music, and at last flapped his hand upon the table before him in a way we all knew to mean silence. The voices stopped at once, all but Dr. Livesey's; he went on as before speaking clear and kind and drawing briskly at his pipe between every word or two. The captain glared at him for a while, flapped his hand again, glared still harder, and at last broke out with a villainous, low oath, "Silence, there, between decks!"

"Were you addressing me, sir?" says the doctor; and when the ruffian had told him, with another oath, that this was so, "I have only one thing to say to you, sir," replies the doctor, "that if you keep on drinking rum, the world will soon be quit of a very dirty scoundrel!"

The old fellow's fury was awful. He sprang to his feet, drew and opened a sailor's clasp-knife, and balancing it open on the palm of his hand, threatened to pin the doctor to the wall.

The doctor never so much as moved. He spoke to him as before, over his shoulder and in the same tone of voice, rather high, so that all the room might hear, but perfectly calm and steady: "If you do not put that knife this instant in your pocket, I promise, upon my honour, you shall hang at the next assizes."

Then followed a battle of looks between them, but the captain soon knuckled under, put up his weapon, and resumed his seat, grumbling like a beaten dog.

"And now, sir," continued the doctor, "since I now know there's such a fellow in my district, you may count I'll have an eye upon you day and night. I'm not a doctor only; I'm a magistrate; and if I catch a breath of complaint against you, if it's only for a piece of incivility like tonight's, I'll take effectual means to have you hunted down and routed out of this. Let that suffice."

Soon after, Dr. Livesey's horse came to the door and he rode away, but the captain held his peace that evening, and for many evenings to come.



2

Black Dog Appears and Disappears


IT was not very long after this that there occurred the first of the mysterious events that rid us at last of the captain, though not, as you will see, of his affairs. It was a bitter cold winter, with long, hard frosts and heavy gales; and it was plain from the first that my poor father was little likely to see the spring. He sank daily, and my mother and I had all the inn upon our hands, and were kept busy enough without paying much regard to our unpleasant guest.

It was one January morning, very early -- a pinching, frosty morning -- the cove all grey with hoar-frost, the ripple lapping softly on the stones, the sun still low and only touching the hilltops and shining far to seaward. The captain had risen earlier than usual and set out down the beach, his cutlass swinging under the broad skirts of the old blue coat, his brass telescope under his arm, his hat tilted back upon his head. I remember his breath hanging like smoke in his wake as he strode off, and the last sound I heard of him as he turned the big rock was a loud snort of indignation, as though his mind was still running upon Dr. Livesey.

Well, mother was upstairs with father and I was laying the breakfast-table against the captain's return when the parlour door opened and a man stepped in on whom I had never set my eyes before. He was a pale, tallowy creature, wanting two fingers of the left hand, and though he wore a cutlass, he did not look much like a fighter. I had always my eye open for seafaring men, with one leg or two, and I remember this one puzzled me. He was not sailorly, and yet he had a smack of the sea about him too.

I asked him what was for his service, and he said he would take rum; but as I was going out of the room to fetch it, he sat down upon a table and motioned me to draw near. I paused where I was, with my napkin in my hand.

"Come here, sonny," says he. "Come nearer here."

I took a step nearer.

"Is this here table for my mate Bill?" he asked with a kind of leer.

I told him I did not know his mate Bill, and this was for a person who stayed in our house whom we called the captain.

"Well," said he, "my mate Bill would be called the captain, as like as not. He has a cut on one cheek and a mighty pleasant way with him, particularly in drink, has my mate Bill. We'll put it, for argument like, that your captain has a cut on one cheek -- and we'll put it, if you like, that that cheek's the right one. Ah, well! I told you. Now, is my mate Bill in this here house?"

I told him he was out walking.

"Which way, sonny? Which way is he gone?"

And when I had pointed out the rock and told him how the captain was likely to return, and how soon, and answered a few other questions, "Ah," said he, "this'll be as good as drink to my mate Bill."

The expression of his face as he said these words was not at all pleasant, and I had my own reasons for thinking that the stranger was mistaken, even supposing he meant what he said. But it was no affair of mine, I thought; and besides, it was difficult to know what to do. The stranger kept hanging about just inside the inn door, peering round the corner like a cat waiting for a mouse. Once I stepped out myself into the road, but he immediately called me back, and as I did not obey quick enough for his fancy, a most horrible change came over his tallowy face, and he ordered me in with an oath that made me jump. As soon as I was back again he returned to his former manner, half fawning, half sneering, patted me on the shoulder, told me I was a good boy and he had taken quite a fancy to me. "I have a son of my own," said he, "as like you as two blocks, and he's all the pride of my 'art. But the great thing for boys is discipline, sonny -- discipline. Now, if you had sailed along of Bill, you wouldn't have stood there to be spoke to twice -- not you. That was never Bill's way, nor the way of sich as sailed with him. And here, sure enough, is my mate Bill, with a spy-glass under his arm, bless his old 'art, to be sure. You and me'll just go back into the parlour, sonny, and get behind the door, and we'll give Bill a little surprise -- bless his 'art, I say again."

So saying, the stranger backed along with me into the parlour and put me behind him in the corner so that we were both hidden by the open door. I was very uneasy and alarmed, as you may fancy, and it rather added to my fears to observe that the stranger was certainly frightened himself. He cleared the hilt of his cutlass and loosened the blade in the sheath; and all the time we were waiting there he kept swallowing as if he felt what we used to call a lump in the throat.

At last in strode the captain, slammed the door behind him, without looking to the right or left, and marched straight across the room to where his breakfast awaited him.

"Bill," said the stranger in a voice that I thought he had tried to make bold and big.

The captain spun round on his heel and fronted us; all the brown had gone out of his face, and even his nose was blue; he had the look of a man who sees a ghost, or the evil one, or something worse, if anything can be; and upon my word, I felt sorry to see him all in a moment turn so old and sick.

"Come, Bill, you know me; you know an old shipmate, Bill, surely," said the stranger.

The captain made a sort of gasp.

"Black Dog!" said he.

"And who else?" returned the other, getting more at his ease. "Black Dog as ever was, come for to see his old shipmate Billy, at the Admiral Benbow inn. Ah, Bill, Bill, we have seen a sight of times, us two, since I lost them two talons," holding up his mutilated hand.

"Now, look here," said the captain; "you've run me down; here I am; well, then, speak up; what is it?"

"That's you, Bill," returned Black Dog, "you're in the right of it, Billy. I'll have a glass of rum from this dear child here, as I've took such a liking to; and we'll sit down, if you please, and talk square, like old shipmates."

When I returned with the rum, they were already seated on either side of the captain's breakfast-table -- Black Dog next to the door and sitting sideways so as to have one eye on his old shipmate and one, as I thought, on his retreat.

He bade me go and leave the door wide open. "None of your keyholes for me, sonny," he said; and I left them together and retired into the bar.

For a long time, though I certainly did my best to listen, I could hear nothing but a low gattling; but at last the voices began to grow higher, and I could pick up a word or two, mostly oaths, from the captain.

"No, no, no, no; and an end of it!" he cried once. And again, "If it comes to swinging, swing all, say I."

Then all of a sudden there was a tremendous explosion of oaths and other noises -- the chair and table went over in a lump, a clash of steel followed, and then a cry of pain, and the next instant I saw Black Dog in full flight, and the captain hotly pursuing, both with drawn cutlasses, and the former streaming blood from the left shoulder. Just at the door the captain aimed at the fugitive one last tremendous cut, which would certainly have split him to the chine had it not been intercepted by our big signboard of Admiral Benbow. You may see the notch on the lower side of the frame to this day.

That blow was the last of the battle. Once out upon the road, Black Dog, in spite of his wound, showed a wonderful clean pair of heels and disappeared over the edge of the hill in half a minute. The captain, for his part, stood staring at the signboard like a bewildered man. Then he passed his hand over his eyes several times and at last turned back into the house.

"Jim," says he, "rum"; and as he spoke, he reeled a little, and caught himself with one hand against the wall.

"Are you hurt?" cried I.

"Rum," he repeated. "I must get away from here. Rum! Rum!"

I ran to fetch it, but I was quite unsteadied by all that had fallen out, and I broke one glass and fouled the tap, and while I was still getting in my own way, I heard a loud fall in the parlour, and running in, beheld the captain lying full length upon the floor. At the same instant my mother, alarmed by the cries and fighting, came running downstairs to help me. Between us we raised his head. He was breathing very loud and hard, but his eyes were closed and his face a horrible colour.

"Dear, deary me," cried my mother, "what a disgrace upon the house! And your poor father sick!"

In the meantime, we had no idea what to do to help the captain, nor any other thought but that he had got his death-hurt in the scuffle with the stranger. I got the rum, to be sure, and tried to put it down his throat, but his teeth were tightly shut and his jaws as strong as iron. It was a happy relief for us when the door opened and Doctor Livesey came in, on his visit to my father.

"Oh, doctor," we cried, "what shall we do? Where is he wounded?"

"Wounded? A fiddle-stick's end!" said the doctor. "No more wounded than you or I. The man has had a stroke, as I warned him. Now, Mrs. Hawkins, just you run upstairs to your husband and tell him, if possible, nothing about it. For my part, I must do my best to save this fellow's trebly worthless life; Jim, you get me a basin."

When I got back with the basin, the doctor had already ripped up the captain's sleeve and exposed his great sinewy arm. It was tattooed in several places. "Here's luck," "A fair wind," and "Billy Bones his fancy," were very neatly and clearly executed on the forearm; and up near the shoulder there was a sketch of a gallows and a man hanging from it -- done, as I thought, with great spirit.

"Prophetic," said the doctor, touching this picture with his finger. "And now, Master Billy Bones, if that be your name, we'll have a look at the colour of your blood. Jim," he said, "are you afraid of blood?"

"No, sir," said I.

"Well, then," said he, "you hold the basin"; and with that he took his lancet and opened a vein.

A great deal of blood was taken before the captain opened his eyes and looked mistily about him. First he recognized the doctor with an unmistakable frown; then his glance fell upon me, and he looked relieved. But suddenly his colour changed, and he tried to raise himself, crying, "Where's Black Dog?"

"There is no Black Dog here," said the doctor, "except what you have on your own back. You have been drinking rum; you have had a stroke, precisely as I told you; and I have just, very much against my own will, dragged you headforemost out of the grave. Now, Mr. Bones -- "

"That's not my name," he interrupted.

"Much I care," returned the doctor. "It's the name of a buccaneer of my acquaintance; and I call you by it for the sake of shortness, and what I have to say to you is this; one glass of rum won't kill you, but if you take one you'll take another and another, and I stake my wig if you don't break off short, you'll die -- do you understand that? -- die, and go to your own place, like the man in the Bible. Come, now, make an effort. I'll help you to your bed for once."

Between us, with much trouble, we managed to hoist him upstairs, and laid him on his bed, where his head fell back on the pillow as if he were almost fainting.

"Now, mind you," said the doctor, "I clear my conscience -- the name of rum for you is death."

And with that he went off to see my father, taking me with him by the arm.

"This is nothing," he said as soon as he had closed the door. "I have drawn blood enough to keep him quiet awhile; he should lie for a week where he is -- that is the best thing for him and you; but another stroke would settle him."



3

The Black Spot

ABOUT noon I stopped at the captain's door with some cooling drinks and medicines. He was lying very much as we had left him, only a little higher, and he seemed both weak and excited.

"Jim," he said, "you're the only one here that's worth anything, and you know I've been always good to you. Never a month but I've given you a silver fourpenny for yourself. And now you see, mate, I'm pretty low, and deserted by all; and Jim, you'll bring me one noggin of rum, now, won't you, matey?"

"The doctor -- " I began.

But he broke in cursing the doctor, in a feeble voice but heartily. "Doctors is all swabs," he said; "and that doctor there, why, what do he know about seafaring men? I been in places hot as pitch, and mates dropping round with Yellow Jack, and the blessed land a-heaving like the sea with earthquakes -- what to the doctor know of lands like that? -- and I lived on rum, I tell you. It's been meat and drink, and man and wife, to me; and if I'm not to have my rum now I'm a poor old hulk on a lee shore, my blood'll be on you, Jim, and that doctor swab"; and he ran on again for a while with curses. "Look, Jim, how my fingers fidges," he continued in the pleading tone. "I can't keep 'em still, not I. I haven't had a drop this blessed day. That doctor's a fool, I tell you. If I don't have a drain o' rum, Jim, I'll have the horrors; I seen some on 'em already. I seen old Flint in the corner there, behind you; as plain as print, I seen him; and if I get the horrors, I'm a man that has lived rough, and I'll raise Cain. Your doctor hisself said one glass wouldn't hurt me. I'll give you a golden guinea for a noggin, Jim."

He was growing more and more excited, and this alarmed me for my father, who was very low that day and needed quiet; besides, I was reassured by the doctor's words, now quoted to me, and rather offended by the offer of a bribe.

"I want none of your money," said I, "but what you owe my father. I'll get you one glass, and no more."

When I brought it to him, he seized it greedily and drank it out.

"Aye, aye," said he, "that's some better, sure enough. And now, matey, did that doctor say how long I was to lie here in this old berth?"

"A week at least," said I.

"Thunder!" he cried. "A week! I can't do that; they'd have the black spot on me by then. The lubbers is going about to get the wind of me this blessed moment; lubbers as couldn't keep what they got, and want to nail what is another's. Is that seamanly behaviour, now, I want to know? But I'm a saving soul. I never wasted good money of mine, nor lost it neither; and I'll trick 'em again. I'm not afraid on 'em. I'll shake out another reef, matey, and daddle 'em again."

As he was thus speaking, he had risen from bed with great difficulty, holding to my shoulder with a grip that almost made me cry out, and moving his legs like so much dead weight. His words, spirited as they were in meaning, contrasted sadly with the weakness of the voice in which they were uttered. He paused when he had got into a sitting position on the edge.

"That doctor's done me," he murmured. "My ears is singing. Lay me back."

Before I could do much to help him he had fallen back again to his former place, where he lay for a while silent.

"Jim," he said at length, "you saw that seafaring man today?"

"Black Dog?" I asked.

"Ah! Black Dog," says he. "HE'S a bad un; but there's worse that put him on. Now, if I can't get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot, mind you, it's my old sea-chest they're after; you get on a horse -- you can, can't you? Well, then, you get on a horse, and go to -- well, yes, I will! -- to that eternal doctor swab, and tell him to pipe all hands -- magistrates and sich -- and he'll lay 'em aboard at the Admiral Benbow -- all old Flint's crew, man and boy, all on 'em that's left. I was first mate, I was, old Flint's first mate, and I'm the on'y one as knows the place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as if I was to now, you see. But you won't peach unless they get the black spot on me, or unless you see that Black Dog again or a seafaring man with one leg, Jim -- him above all."

"But what is the black spot, captain?" I asked.

"That's a summons, mate. I'll tell you if they get that. But you keep your weather-eye open, Jim, and I'll share with you equals, upon my honour."

He wandered a little longer, his voice growing weaker; but soon after I had given him his medicine, which he took like a child, with the remark, "If ever a seaman wanted drugs, it's me," he fell at last into a heavy, swoon-like sleep, in which I left him. What I should have done had all gone well I do not know. Probably I should have told the whole story to the doctor, for I was in mortal fear lest the captain should repent of his confessions and make an end of me. But as things fell out, my poor father died quite suddenly that evening, which put all other matters on one side. Our natural distress, the visits of the neighbours, the arranging of the funeral, and all the work of the inn to be carried on in the meanwhile kept me so busy that I had scarcely time to think of the captain, far less to be afraid of him.

He got downstairs next morning, to be sure, and had his meals as usual, though he ate little and had more, I am afraid, than his usual supply of rum, for he helped himself out of the bar, scowling and blowing through his nose, and no one dared to cross him. On the night before the funeral he was as drunk as ever; and it was shocking, in that house of mourning, to hear him singing away at his ugly old sea-song; but weak as he was, we were all in the fear of death for him, and the doctor was suddenly taken up with a case many miles away and was never near the house after my father's death. I have said the captain was weak, and indeed he seemed rather to grow weaker than regain his strength. He clambered up and down stairs, and went from the parlour to the bar and back again, and sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea, holding on to the walls as he went for support and breathing hard and fast like a man on a steep mountain. He never particularly addressed me, and it is my belief he had as good as forgotten his confidences; but his temper was more flighty, and allowing for his bodily weakness, more violent than ever. He had an alarming way now when he was drunk of drawing his cutlass and laying it bare before him on the table. But with all that, he minded people less and seemed shut up in his own thoughts and rather wandering. Once, for instance, to our extreme wonder, he piped up to a different air, a kind of country love-song that he must have learned in his youth before he had begun to follow the sea.

So things passed until, the day after the funeral, and about three o'clock of a bitter, foggy, frosty afternoon, I was standing at the door for a moment, full of sad thoughts about my father, when I saw someone drawing slowly near along the road. He was plainly blind, for he tapped before him with a stick and wore a great green shade over his eyes and nose; and he was hunched, as if with age or weakness, and wore a huge old tattered sea-cloak with a hood that made him appear positively deformed. I never saw in my life a more dreadful-looking figure. He stopped a little from the inn, and raising his voice in an odd sing-song, addressed the air in front of him, "Will any kind friend inform a poor blind man, who has lost the precious sight of his eyes in the gracious defence of his native country, England -- and God bless King George! -- where or in what part of this country he may now be?"

"You are at the Admiral Benbow, Black Hill Cove, my good man," said I.

"I hear a voice," said he, "a young voice. Will you give me your hand, my kind young friend, and lead me in?"

I held out my hand, and the horrible, soft-spoken, eyeless creature gripped it in a moment like a vise. I was so much startled that I struggled to withdraw, but the blind man pulled me close up to him with a single action of his arm.

"Now, boy," he said, "take me in to the captain."

"Sir," said I, "upon my word I dare not."

"Oh," he sneered, "that's it! Take me in straight or I'll break your arm."

And he gave it, as he spoke, a wrench that made me cry out.

"Sir," said I, "it is for yourself I mean. The captain is not what he used to be. He sits with a drawn cutlass. Another gentleman -- "

"Come, now, march," interrupted he; and I never heard a voice so cruel, and cold, and ugly as that blind man's. It cowed me more than the pain, and I began to obey him at once, walking straight in at the door and towards the parlour, where our sick old buccaneer was sitting, dazed with rum. The blind man clung close to me, holding me in one iron fist and leaning almost more of his weight on me than I could carry. "Lead me straight up to him, and when I'm in view, cry out, 'Here's a friend for you, Bill.' If you don't, I'll do this," and with that he gave me a twitch that I thought would have made me faint. Between this and that, I was so utterly terrified of the blind beggar that I forgot my terror of the captain, and as I opened the parlour door, cried out the words he had ordered in a trembling voice.

The poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of him and left him staring sober. The expression of his face was not so much of terror as of mortal sickness. He made a movement to rise, but I do not believe he had enough force left in his body.

"Now, Bill, sit where you are," said the beggar. "If I can't see, I can hear a finger stirring. Business is business. Hold out your left hand. Boy, take his left hand by the wrist and bring it near to my right."

We both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass something from the hollow of the hand that held his stick into the palm of the captain's, which closed upon it instantly.

"And now that's done," said the blind man; and at the words he suddenly left hold of me, and with incredible accuracy and nimbleness, skipped out of the parlour and into the road, where, as I still stood motionless, I could hear his stick go tap-tap-tapping into the distance.

It was some time before either I or the captain seemed to gather our senses, but at length, and about at the same moment, I released his wrist, which I was still holding, and he drew in his hand and looked sharply into the palm.

"Ten o'clock!" he cried. "Six hours. We'll do them yet," and he sprang to his feet.

Even as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, stood swaying for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole height face foremost to the floor.

I ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was all in vain. The captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy. It is a curious thing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart.



4

The Sea-chest

I LOST no time, of course, in telling my mother all that I knew, and perhaps should have told her long before, and we saw ourselves at once in a difficult and dangerous position. Some of the man's money -- if he had any -- was certainly due to us, but it was not likely that our captain's shipmates, above all the two specimens seen by me, Black Dog and the blind beggar, would be inclined to give up their booty in payment of the dead man's debts. The captain's order to mount at once and ride for Doctor Livesey would have left my mother alone and unprotected, which was not to be thought of. Indeed, it seemed impossible for either of us to remain much longer in the house; the fall of coals in the kitchen grate, the very ticking of the clock, filled us with alarms. The neighbourhood, to our ears, seemed haunted by approaching footsteps; and what between the dead body of the captain on the parlour floor and the thought of that detestable blind beggar hovering near at hand and ready to return, there were moments when, as the saying goes, I jumped in my skin for terror. Something must speedily be resolved upon, and it occurred to us at last to go forth together and seek help in the neighbouring hamlet. No sooner said than done. Bare-headed as we were, we ran out at once in the gathering evening and the frosty fog.

The hamlet lay not many hundred yards away, though out of view, on the other side of the next cove; and what greatly encouraged me, it was in an opposite direction from that whence the blind man had made his appearance and whither he had presumably returned. We were not many minutes on the road, though we sometimes stopped to lay hold of each other and hearken. But there was no unusual sound -- nothing but the low wash of the ripple and the croaking of the inmates of the wood.

It was already candle-light when we reached the hamlet, and I shall never forget how much I was cheered to see the yellow shine in doors and windows; but that, as it proved, was the best of the help we were likely to get in that quarter. For -- you would have thought men would have been ashamed of themselves -- no soul would consent to return with us to the Admiral Benbow. The more we told of our troubles, the more -- man, woman, and child -- they clung to the shelter of their houses. The name of Captain Flint, though it was strange to me, was well enough known to some there and carried a great weight of terror. Some of the men who had been to field-work on the far side of the Admiral Benbow remembered, besides, to have seen several strangers on the road, and taking them to be smugglers, to have bolted away; and one at least had seen a little lugger in what we called Kitt's Hole. For that matter, anyone who was a comrade of the captain's was enough to frighten them to death. And the short and the long of the matter was, that while we could get several who were willing enough to ride to Dr. Livesey's, which lay in another direction, not one would help us to defend the inn.

They say cowardice is infectious; but then argument is, on the other hand, a great emboldener; and so when each had said his say, my mother made them a speech. She would not, she declared, lose money that belonged to her fatherless boy; "If none of the rest of you dare," she said, "Jim and I dare. Back we will go, the way we came, and small thanks to you big, hulking, chicken-hearted men. We'll have that chest open, if we die for it. And I'll thank you for that bag, Mrs. Crossley, to bring back our lawful money in."

Of course I said I would go with my mother, and of course they all cried out at our foolhardiness, but even then not a man would go along with us. All they would do was to give me a loaded pistol lest we were attacked, and to promise to have horses ready saddled in case we were pursued on our return, while one lad was to ride forward to the doctor's in search of armed assistance.

My heart was beating finely when we two set forth in the cold night upon this dangerous venture. A full moon was beginning to rise and peered redly through the upper edges of the fog, and this increased our haste, for it was plain, before we came forth again, that all would be as bright as day, and our departure exposed to the eyes of any watchers. We slipped along the hedges, noiseless and swift, nor did we see or hear anything to increase our terrors, till, to our relief, the door of the Admiral Benbow had closed behind us.

I slipped the bolt at once, and we stood and panted for a moment in the dark, alone in the house with the dead captain's body. Then my mother got a candle in the bar, and holding each other's hands, we advanced into the parlour. He lay as we had left him, on his back, with his eyes open and one arm stretched out.

"Draw down the blind, Jim," whispered my mother; "they might come and watch outside. And now," said she when I had done so, "we have to get the key off THAT; and who's to touch it, I should like to know!" and she gave a kind of sob as she said the words.

I went down on my knees at once. On the floor close to his hand there was a little round of paper, blackened on the one side. I could not doubt that this was the BLACK SPOT; and taking it up, I found written on the other side, in a very good, clear hand, this short message: "You have till ten tonight."

"He had till ten, Mother," said I; and just as I said it, our old clock began striking. This sudden noise startled us shockingly; but the news was good, for it was only six.

"Now, Jim," she said, "that key."

I felt in his pockets, one after another. A few small coins, a thimble, and some thread and big needles, a piece of pigtail tobacco bitten away at the end, his gully with the crooked handle, a pocket compass, and a tinder box were all that they contained, and I began to despair.

"Perhaps it's round his neck," suggested my mother.

Overcoming a strong repugnance, I tore open his shirt at the neck, and there, sure enough, hanging to a bit of tarry string, which I cut with his own gully, we found the key. At this triumph we were filled with hope and hurried upstairs without delay to the little room where he had slept so long and where his box had stood since the day of his arrival.

It was like any other seaman's chest on the outside, the initial "B" burned on the top of it with a hot iron, and the corners somewhat smashed and broken as by long, rough usage.

"Give me the key," said my mother; and though the lock was very stiff, she had turned it and thrown back the lid in a twinkling.

A strong smell of tobacco and tar rose from the interior, but nothing was to be seen on the top except a suit of very good clothes, carefully brushed and folded. They had never been worn, my mother said. Under that, the miscellany began -- a quadrant, a tin canikin, several sticks of tobacco, two brace of very handsome pistols, a piece of bar silver, an old Spanish watch and some other trinkets of little value and mostly of foreign make, a pair of compasses mounted with brass, and five or six curious West Indian shells. I have often wondered since why he should have carried about these shells with him in his wandering, guilty, and hunted life.

In the meantime, we had found nothing of any value but the silver and the trinkets, and neither of these were in our way. Underneath there was an old boat-cloak, whitened with sea-salt on many a harbour-bar. My mother pulled it up with impatience, and there lay before us, the last things in the chest, a bundle tied up in oilcloth, and looking like papers, and a canvas bag that gave forth, at a touch, the jingle of gold.

"I'll show these rogues that I'm an honest woman," said my mother. "I'll have my dues, and not a farthing over. Hold Mrs. Crossley's bag." And she began to count over the amount of the captain's score from the sailor's bag into the one that I was holding.

It was a long, difficult business, for the coins were of all countries and sizes -- doubloons, and louis d'ors, and guineas, and pieces of eight, and I know not what besides, all shaken together at random. The guineas, too, were about the scarcest, and it was with these only that my mother knew how to make her count.

When we were about half-way through, I suddenly put my hand upon her arm, for I had heard in the silent frosty air a sound that brought my heart into my mouth -- the tap-tapping of the blind man's stick upon the frozen road. It drew nearer and nearer, while we sat holding our breath. Then it struck sharp on the inn door, and then we could hear the handle being turned and the bolt rattling as the wretched being tried to enter; and then there was a long time of silence both within and without. At last the tapping recommenced, and, to our indescribable joy and gratitude, died slowly away again until it ceased to be heard.

"Mother," said I, "take the whole and let's be going," for I was sure the bolted door must have seemed suspicious and would bring the whole hornet's nest about our ears, though how thankful I was that I had bolted it, none could tell who had never met that terrible blind man.

But my mother, frightened as she was, would not consent to take a fraction more than was due to her and was obstinately unwilling to be content with less. It was not yet seven, she said, by a long way; she knew her rights and she would have them; and she was still arguing with me when a little low whistle sounded a good way off upon the hill. That was enough, and more than enough, for both of us.

"I'll take what I have," she said, jumping to her feet.

"And I'll take this to square the count," said I, picking up the oilskin packet.

Next moment we were both groping downstairs, leaving the candle by the empty chest; and the next we had opened the door and were in full retreat. We had not started a moment too soon. The fog was rapidly dispersing; already the moon shone quite clear on the high ground on either side; and it was only in the exact bottom of the dell and round the tavern door that a thin veil still hung unbroken to conceal the first steps of our escape. Far less than half-way to the hamlet, very little beyond the bottom of the hill, we must come forth into the moonlight. Nor was this all, for the sound of several footsteps running came already to our ears, and as we looked back in their direction, a light tossing to and fro and still rapidly advancing showed that one of the newcomers carried a lantern.

"My dear," said my mother suddenly, "take the money and run on. I am going to faint."

This was certainly the end for both of us, I thought. How I cursed the cowardice of the neighbours; how I blamed my poor mother for her honesty and her greed, for her past foolhardiness and present weakness! We were just at the little bridge, by good fortune; and I helped her, tottering as she was, to the edge of the bank, where, sure enough, she gave a sigh and fell on my shoulder. I do not know how I found the strength to do it at all, and I am afraid it was roughly done, but I managed to drag her down the bank and a little way under the arch. Farther I could not move her, for the bridge was too low to let me do more than crawl below it. So there we had to stay -- my mother almost entirely exposed and both of us within earshot of the inn.



5

The Last of the Blind Man

MY curiosity, in a sense, was stronger than my fear, for I could not remain where I was, but crept back to the bank again, whence, sheltering my head behind a bush of broom, I might command the road before our door. I was scarcely in position ere my enemies began to arrive, seven or eight of them, running hard, their feet beating out of time along the road and the man with the lantern some paces in front. Three men ran together, hand in hand; and I made out, even through the mist, that the middle man of this trio was the blind beggar. The next moment his voice showed me that I was right.

"Down with the door!" he cried.

"Aye, aye, sir!" answered two or three; and a rush was made upon the Admiral Benbow, the lantern-bearer following; and then I could see them pause, and hear speeches passed in a lower key, as if they were surprised to find the door open. But the pause was brief, for the blind man again issued his commands. His voice sounded louder and higher, as if he were afire with eagerness and rage.

"In, in, in!" he shouted, and cursed them for their delay.

Four or five of them obeyed at once, two remaining on the road with the formidable beggar. There was a pause, then a cry of surprise, and then a voice shouting from the house, "Bill's dead."

But the blind man swore at them again for their delay.

"Search him, some of you shirking lubbers, and the rest of you aloft and get the chest," he cried.

I could hear their feet rattling up our old stairs, so that the house must have shook with it. Promptly afterwards, fresh sounds of astonishment arose; the window of the captain's room was thrown open with a slam and a jingle of broken glass, and a man leaned out into the moonlight, head and shoulders, and addressed the blind beggar on the road below him.

"Pew," he cried, "they've been before us. Someone's turned the chest out alow and aloft."

"Is it there?" roared Pew.

"The money's there."

The blind man cursed the money.

"Flint's fist, I mean," he cried.

"We don't see it here nohow," returned the man.

"Here, you below there, is it on Bill?" cried the blind man again.

At that another fellow, probably him who had remained below to search the captain's body, came to the door of the inn. "Bill's been overhauled a'ready," said he; "nothin' left."

"It's these people of the inn -- it's that boy. I wish I had put his eyes out!" cried the blind man, Pew. "There were no time ago -- they had the door bolted when I tried it. Scatter, lads, and find 'em."

"Sure enough, they left their glim here," said the fellow from the window.

"Scatter and find 'em! Rout the house out!" reiterated Pew, striking with his stick upon the road.

Then there followed a great to-do through all our old inn, heavy feet pounding to and fro, furniture thrown over, doors kicked in, until the very rocks re-echoed and the men came out again, one after another, on the road and declared that we were nowhere to be found. And just the same whistle that had alarmed my mother and myself over the dead captain's money was once more clearly audible through the night, but this time twice repeated. I had thought it to be the blind man's trumpet, so to speak, summoning his crew to the assault, but I now found that it was a signal from the hillside towards the hamlet, and from its effect upon the buccaneers, a signal to warn them of approaching danger.

"There's Dirk again," said one. "Twice! We'll have to budge, mates."

"Budge, you skulk!" cried Pew. "Dirk was a fool and a coward from the first -- you wouldn't mind him. They must be close by; they can't be far; you have your hands on it. Scatter and look for them, dogs! Oh, shiver my soul," he cried, "if I had eyes!"

This appeal seemed to produce some effect, for two of the fellows began to look here and there among the lumber, but half-heartedly, I thought, and with half an eye to their own danger all the time, while the rest stood irresolute on the road.

"You have your hands on thousands, you fools, and you hang a leg! You'd be as rich as kings if you could find it, and you know it's here, and you stand there skulking. There wasn't one of you dared face Bill, and I did it -- a blind man! And I'm to lose my chance for you! I'm to be a poor, crawling beggar, sponging for rum, when I might be rolling in a coach! If you had the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit you would catch them still."

"Hang it, Pew, we've got the doubloons!" grumbled one.

"They might have hid the blessed thing," said another. "Take the Georges, Pew, and don't stand here squalling."

Squalling was the word for it; Pew's anger rose so high at these objections till at last, his passion completely taking the upper hand, he struck at them right and left in his blindness and his stick sounded heavily on more than one.

These, in their turn, cursed back at the blind miscreant, threatened him in horrid terms, and tried in vain to catch the stick and wrest it from his grasp.

This quarrel was the saving of us, for while it was still raging, another sound came from the top of the hill on the side of the hamlet -- the tramp of horses galloping. Almost at the same time a pistol-shot, flash and report, came from the hedge side. And that was plainly the last signal of danger, for the buccaneers turned at once and ran, separating in every direction, one seaward along the cove, one slant across the hill, and so on, so that in half a minute not a sign of them remained but Pew. Him they had deserted, whether in sheer panic or out of revenge for his ill words and blows I know not; but there he remained behind, tapping up and down the road in a frenzy, and groping and calling for his comrades. Finally he took a wrong turn and ran a few steps past me, towards the hamlet, crying, "Johnny, Black Dog, Dirk," and other names, "you won't leave old Pew, mates -- not old Pew!"

Just then the noise of horses topped the rise, and four or five riders came in sight in the moonlight and swept at full gallop down the slope.

At this Pew saw his error, turned with a scream, and ran straight for the ditch, into which he rolled. But he was on his feet again in a second and made another dash, now utterly bewildered, right under the nearest of the coming horses.

The rider tried to save him, but in vain. Down went Pew with a cry that rang high into the night; and the four hoofs trampled and spurned him and passed by. He fell on his side, then gently collapsed upon his face and moved no more.

I leaped to my feet and hailed the riders. They were pulling up, at any rate, horrified at the accident; and I soon saw what they were. One, tailing out behind the rest, was a lad that had gone from the hamlet to Dr. Livesey's; the rest were revenue officers, whom he had met by the way, and with whom he had had the intelligence to return at once. Some news of the lugger in Kitt's Hole had found its way to Supervisor Dance and set him forth that night in our direction, and to that circumstance my mother and I owed our preservation from death.

Pew was dead, stone dead. As for my mother, when we had carried her up to the hamlet, a little cold water and salts and that soon brought her back again, and she was none the worse for her terror, though she still continued to deplore the balance of the money. In the meantime the supervisor rode on, as fast as he could, to Kitt's Hole; but his men had to dismount and grope down the dingle, leading, and sometimes supporting, their horses, and in continual fear of ambushes; so it was no great matter for surprise that when they got down to the Hole the lugger was already under way, though still close in. He hailed her. A voice replied, telling him to keep out of the moonlight or he would get some lead in him, and at the same time a bullet whistled close by his arm. Soon after, the lugger doubled the point and disappeared. Mr. Dance stood there, as he said, "like a fish out of water," and all he could do was to dispatch a man to B --  --  to warn the cutter. "And that," said he, "is just about as good as nothing. They've got off clean, and there's an end. Only," he added, "I'm glad I trod on Master Pew's corns," for by this time he had heard my story.

I went back with him to the Admiral Benbow, and you cannot imagine a house in such a state of smash; the very clock had been thrown down by these fellows in their furious hunt after my mother and myself; and though nothing had actually been taken away except the captain's money-bag and a little silver from the till, I could see at once that we were ruined. Mr. Dance could make nothing of the scene.

"They got the money, you say? Well, then, Hawkins, what in fortune were they after? More money, I suppose?"

"No, sir; not money, I think," replied I. "In fact, sir, I believe I have the thing in my breast pocket; and to tell you the truth, I should like to get it put in safety."

"To be sure, boy; quite right," said he. "I'll take it, if you like."

"I thought perhaps Dr. Livesey -- " I began.

"Perfectly right," he interrupted very cheerily, "perfectly right -- a gentleman and a magistrate. And, now I come to think of it, I might as well ride round there myself and report to him or squire. Master Pew's dead, when all's done; not that I regret it, but he's dead, you see, and people will make it out against an officer of his Majesty's revenue, if make it out they can. Now, I'll tell you, Hawkins, if you like, I'll take you along."

I thanked him heartily for the offer, and we walked back to the hamlet where the horses were. By the time I had told mother of my purpose they were all in the saddle.

"Dogger," said Mr. Dance, "you have a good horse; take up this lad behind you."

As soon as I was mounted, holding on to Dogger's belt, the supervisor gave the word, and the party struck out at a bouncing trot on the road to Dr. Livesey's house.



6

The Captain's Papers

WE rode hard all the way till we drew up before Dr. Livesey's door. The house was all dark to the front.

Mr. Dance told me to jump down and knock, and Dogger gave me a stirrup to descend by. The door was opened almost at once by the maid.

"Is Dr. Livesey in?" I asked.

No, she said, he had come home in the afternoon but had gone up to the hall to dine and pass the evening with the squire.

"So there we go, boys," said Mr. Dance.

This time, as the distance was short, I did not mount, but ran with Dogger's stirrup-leather to the lodge gates and up the long, leafless, moonlit avenue to where the white line of the hall buildings looked on either hand on great old gardens. Here Mr. Dance dismounted, and taking me along with him, was admitted at a word into the house.

The servant led us down a matted passage and showed us at the end into a great library, all lined with bookcases and busts upon the top of them, where the squire and Dr. Livesey sat, pipe in hand, on either side of a bright fire.

I had never seen the squire so near at hand. He was a tall man, over six feet high, and broad in proportion, and he had a bluff, rough-and-ready face, all roughened and reddened and lined in his long travels. His eyebrows were very black, and moved readily, and this gave him a look of some temper, not bad, you would say, but quick and high.

"Come in, Mr. Dance," says he, very stately and condescending.

"Good evening, Dance," says the doctor with a nod. "And good evening to you, friend Jim. What good wind brings you here?"

The supervisor stood up straight and stiff and told his story like a lesson; and you should have seen how the two gentlemen leaned forward and looked at each other, and forgot to smoke in their surprise and interest. When they heard how my mother went back to the inn, Dr. Livesey fairly slapped his thigh, and the squire cried "Bravo!" and broke his long pipe against the grate. Long before it was done, Mr. Trelawney (that, you will remember, was the squire's name) had got up from his seat and was striding about the room, and the doctor, as if to hear the better, had taken off his powdered wig and sat there looking very strange indeed with his own close-cropped black poll.

At last Mr. Dance finished the story.

"Mr. Dance," said the squire, "you are a very noble fellow. And as for riding down that black, atrocious miscreant, I regard it as an act of virtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach. This lad Hawkins is a trump, I perceive. Hawkins, will you ring that bell? Mr. Dance must have some ale."

"And so, Jim," said the doctor, "you have the thing that they were after, have you?"

"Here it is, sir," said I, and gave him the oilskin packet.

The doctor looked it all over, as if his fingers were itching to open it; but instead of doing that, he put it quietly in the pocket of his coat.

"Squire," said he, "when Dance has had his ale he must, of course, be off on his Majesty's service; but I mean to keep Jim Hawkins here to sleep at my house, and with your permission, I propose we should have up the cold pie and let him sup."

"As you will, Livesey," said the squire; "Hawkins has earned better than cold pie."

So a big pigeon pie was brought in and put on a sidetable, and I made a hearty supper, for I was as hungry as a hawk, while Mr. Dance was further complimented and at last dismissed.

"And now, squire," said the doctor.

"And now, Livesey," said the squire in the same breath.

"One at a time, one at a time," laughed Dr. Livesey. "You have heard of this Flint, I suppose?"

"Heard of him!" cried the squire. "Heard of him, you say! He was the bloodthirstiest buccaneer that sailed. Blackbeard was a child to Flint. The Spaniards were so prodigiously afraid of him that, I tell you, sir, I was sometimes proud he was an Englishman. I've seen his top-sails with these eyes, off Trinidad, and the cowardly son of a rum-puncheon that I sailed with put back -- put back, sir, into Port of Spain."

"Well, I've heard of him myself, in England," said the doctor. "But the point is, had he money?"

"Money!" cried the squire. "Have you heard the story? What were these villains after but money? What do they care for but money? For what would they risk their rascal carcasses but money?"

"That we shall soon know," replied the doctor. "But you are so confoundedly hot-headed and exclamatory that I cannot get a word in. What I want to know is this: Supposing that I have here in my pocket some clue to where Flint buried his treasure, will that treasure amount to much?"

"Amount, sir!" cried the squire. "It will amount to this: If we have the clue you talk about, I fit out a ship in Bristol dock, and take you and Hawkins here along, and I'll have that treasure if I search a year."

"Very well," said the doctor. "Now, then, if Jim is agreeable, we'll open the packet"; and he laid it before him on the table.

The bundle was sewn together, and the doctor had to get out his instrument case and cut the stitches with his medical scissors. It contained two things -- a book and a sealed paper.

"First of all we'll try the book," observed the doctor.

The squire and I were both peering over his shoulder as he opened it, for Dr. Livesey had kindly motioned me to come round from the side-table, where I had been eating, to enjoy the sport of the search. On the first page there were only some scraps of writing, such as a man with a pen in his hand might make for idleness or practice. One was the same as the tattoo mark, "Billy Bones his fancy"; then there was "Mr. W. Bones, mate," "No more rum," "Off Palm Key he got itt," and some other snatches, mostly single words and unintelligible. I could not help wondering who it was that had "got itt," and what "itt" was that he got. A knife in his back as like as not.

"Not much instruction there," said Dr. Livesey as he passed on.

The next ten or twelve pages were filled with a curious series of entries. There was a date at one end of the line and at the other a sum of money, as in common account-books, but instead of explanatory writing, only a varying number of crosses between the two. On the 12th of June, 1745, for instance, a sum of seventy pounds had plainly become due to someone, and there was nothing but six crosses to explain the cause. In a few cases, to be sure, the name of a place would be added, as "Offe Caraccas," or a mere entry of latitude and longitude, as "62o 17' 20", 19o 2' 40"."

The record lasted over nearly twenty years, the amount of the separate entries growing larger as time went on, and at the end a grand total had been made out after five or six wrong additions, and these words appended, "Bones, his pile."

"I can't make head or tail of this," said Dr. Livesey.

"The thing is as clear as noonday," cried the squire. "This is the black-hearted hound's account-book. These crosses stand for the names of ships or towns that they sank or plundered. The sums are the scoundrel's share, and where he feared an ambiguity, you see he added something clearer. 'Offe Caraccas,' now; you see, here was some unhappy vessel boarded off that coast. God help the poor souls that manned her -- coral long ago."

"Right!" said the doctor. "See what it is to be a traveller. Right! And the amounts increase, you see, as he rose in rank."

There was little else in the volume but a few bearings of places noted in the blank leaves towards the end and a table for reducing French, English, and Spanish moneys to a common value.

"Thrifty man!" cried the doctor. "He wasn't the one to be cheated."

"And now," said the squire, "for the other."

The paper had been sealed in several places with a thimble by way of seal; the very thimble, perhaps, that I had found in the captain's pocket. The doctor opened the seals with great care, and there fell out the map of an island, with latitude and longitude, soundings, names of hills and bays and inlets, and every particular that would be needed to bring a ship to a safe anchorage upon its shores. It was about nine miles long and five across, shaped, you might say, like a fat dragon standing up, and had two fine land-locked harbours, and a hill in the centre part marked "The Spy-glass." There were several additions of a later date, but above all, three crosses of red ink -- two on the north part of the island, one in the southwest -- and beside this last, in the same red ink, and in a small, neat hand, very different from the captain's tottery characters, these words: "Bulk of treasure here."

Over on the back the same hand had written this further information:

Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to the N. of N.N.E.

Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E.

Ten feet.

The bar silver is in the north cache; you can find it by the trend of the east hummock, ten fathoms south of the black crag with the face on it.

The arms are easy found, in the sand-hill, N. point of north inlet cape, bearing E. and a quarter N. J.F.

That was all; but brief as it was, and to me incomprehensible, it filled the squire and Dr. Livesey with delight.

"Livesey," said the squire, "you will give up this wretched practice at once. Tomorrow I start for Bristol. In three weeks' time -- three weeks! -- two weeks -- ten days -- we'll have the best ship, sir, and the choicest crew in England. Hawkins shall come as cabin-boy. You'll make a famous cabin-boy, Hawkins. You, Livesey, are ship's doctor; I am admiral. We'll take Redruth, Joyce, and Hunter. We'll have favourable winds, a quick passage, and not the least difficulty in finding the spot, and money to eat, to roll in, to play duck and drake with ever after."

"Trelawney," said the doctor, "I'll go with you; and I'll go bail for it, so will Jim, and be a credit to the undertaking. There's only one man I'm afraid of."

"And who's that?" cried the squire. "Name the dog, sir!"

"You," replied the doctor; "for you cannot hold your tongue. We are not the only men who know of this paper. These fellows who attacked the inn tonight -- bold, desperate blades, for sure -- and the rest who stayed aboard that lugger, and more, I dare say, not far off, are, one and all, through thick and thin, bound that they'll get that money. We must none of us go alone till we get to sea. Jim and I shall stick together in the meanwhile; you'll take Joyce and Hunter when you ride to Bristol, and from first to last, not one of us must breathe a word of what we've found."

"Livesey," returned the squire, "you are always in the right of it. I'll be as silent as the grave."



PART TWO -- The Sea-cook



7

I Go to Bristol

IT was longer than the squire imagined ere we were ready for the sea, and none of our first plans -- not even Dr. Livesey's, of keeping me beside him -- could be carried out as we intended. The doctor had to go to London for a physician to take charge of his practice; the squire was hard at work at Bristol; and I lived on at the hall under the charge of old Redruth, the gamekeeper, almost a prisoner, but full of sea-dreams and the most charming anticipations of strange islands and adventures. I brooded by the hour together over the map, all the details of which I well remembered. Sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room, I approached that island in my fancy from every possible direction; I explored every acre of its surface; I climbed a thousand times to that tall hill they call the Spy-glass, and from the top enjoyed the most wonderful and changing prospects. Sometimes the isle was thick with savages, with whom we fought, sometimes full of dangerous animals that hunted us, but in all my fancies nothing occurred to me so strange and tragic as our actual adventures.

So the weeks passed on, till one fine day there came a letter addressed to Dr. Livesey, with this addition, "To be opened, in the case of his absence, by Tom Redruth or young Hawkins." Obeying this order, we found, or rather I found -- for the gamekeeper was a poor hand at reading anything but print -- the following important news:

Old Anchor Inn, Bristol, March 1, 17 -- 

Dear Livesey -- As I do not know whether you are at the hall or still in London, I send this in double to both places.

The ship is bought and fitted. She lies at anchor, ready for sea. You never imagined a sweeter schooner -- a child might sail her -- two hundred tons; name, HISPANIOLA.

I got her through my old friend, Blandly, who has proved himself throughout the most surprising trump. The admirable fellow literally slaved in my interest, and so, I may say, did everyone in Bristol, as soon as they got wind of the port we sailed for -- treasure, I mean.

"Redruth," said I, interrupting the letter, "Dr. Livesey will not like that. The squire has been talking, after all."

"Well, who's a better right?" growled the gamekeeper. "A pretty rum go if squire ain't to talk for Dr. Livesey, I should think."

At that I gave up all attempts at commentary and read straight on:

Blandly himself found the HISPANIOLA, and by the most admirable management got her for the merest trifle. There is a class of men in Bristol monstrously prejudiced against Blandly. They go the length of declaring that this honest creature would do anything for money, that the HISPANIOLA belonged to him, and that he sold it me absurdly high -- the most transparent calumnies. None of them dare, however, to deny the merits of the ship.

So far there was not a hitch. The workpeople, to be sure -- riggers and what not -- were most annoyingly slow; but time cured that. It was the crew that troubled me.

I wished a round score of men -- in case of natives, buccaneers, or the odious French -- and I had the worry of the deuce itself to find so much as half a dozen, till the most remarkable stroke of fortune brought me the very man that I required.

I was standing on the dock, when, by the merest accident, I fell in talk with him. I found he was an old sailor, kept a public-house, knew all the seafaring men in Bristol, had lost his health ashore, and wanted a good berth as cook to get to sea again. He had hobbled down there that morning, he said, to get a smell of the salt.

I was monstrously touched -- so would you have been -- and, out of pure pity, I engaged him on the spot to be ship's cook. Long John Silver, he is called, and has lost a leg; but that I regarded as a recommendation, since he lost it in his country's service, under the immortal Hawke. He has no pension, Livesey. Imagine the abominable age we live in!

Well, sir, I thought I had only found a cook, but it was a crew I had discovered. Between Silver and myself we got together in a few days a company of the toughest old salts imaginable -- not pretty to look at, but fellows, by their faces, of the most indomitable spirit. I declare we could fight a frigate.

Long John even got rid of two out of the six or seven I had already engaged. He showed me in a moment that they were just the sort of fresh-water swabs we had to fear in an adventure of importance.

I am in the most magnificent health and spirits, eating like a bull, sleeping like a tree, yet I shall not enjoy a moment till I hear my old tarpaulins tramping round the capstan. Seaward, ho! Hang the treasure! It's the glory of the sea that has turned my head. So now, Livesey, come post; do not lose an hour, if you respect me.

Let young Hawkins go at once to see his mother, with Redruth for a guard; and then both come full speed to Bristol. John Trelawney

Postscript -- I did not tell you that Blandly, who, by the way, is to send a consort after us if we don't turn up by the end of August, had found an admirable fellow for sailing master -- a stiff man, which I regret, but in all other respects a treasure. Long John Silver unearthed a very competent man for a mate, a man named Arrow. I have a boatswain who pipes, Livesey; so things shall go man-o'-war fashion on board the good ship HISPANIOLA.

I forgot to tell you that Silver is a man of substance; I know of my own knowledge that he has a banker's account, which has never been overdrawn. He leaves his wife to manage the inn; and as she is a woman of colour, a pair of old bachelors like you and I may be excused for guessing that it is the wife, quite as much as the health, that sends him back to roving. J. T.

P.P.S. -- Hawkins may stay one night with his mother. J. T.

You can fancy the excitement into which that letter put me. I was half beside myself with glee; and if ever I despised a man, it was old Tom Redruth, who could do nothing but grumble and lament. Any of the under-gamekeepers would gladly have changed places with him; but such was not the squire's pleasure, and the squire's pleasure was like law among them all. Nobody but old Redruth would have dared so much as even to grumble.

The next morning he and I set out on foot for the Admiral Benbow, and there I found my mother in good health and spirits. The captain, who had so long been a cause of so much discomfort, was gone where the wicked cease from troubling. The squire had had everything repaired, and the public rooms and the sign repainted, and had added some furniture -- above all a beautiful armchair for mother in the bar. He had found her a boy as an apprentice also so that she should not want help while I was gone.

It was on seeing that boy that I understood, for the first time, my situation. I had thought up to that moment of the adventures before me, not at all of the home that I was leaving; and now, at sight of this clumsy stranger, who was to stay here in my place beside my mother, I had my first attack of tears. I am afraid I led that boy a dog's life, for as he was new to the work, I had a hundred opportunities of setting him right and putting him down, and I was not slow to profit by them.

The night passed, and the next day, after dinner, Redruth and I were afoot again and on the road. I said good-bye to Mother and the cove where I had lived since I was born, and the dear old Admiral Benbow -- since he was repainted, no longer quite so dear. One of my last thoughts was of the captain, who had so often strode along the beach with his cocked hat, his sabre-cut cheek, and his old brass telescope. Next moment we had turned the corner and my home was out of sight.

The mail picked us up about dusk at the Royal George on the heath. I was wedged in between Redruth and a stout old gentleman, and in spite of the swift motion and the cold night air, I must have dozed a great deal from the very first, and then slept like a log up hill and down dale through stage after stage, for when I was awakened at last it was by a punch in the ribs, and I opened my eyes to find that we were standing still before a large building in a city street and that the day had already broken a long time.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"Bristol," said Tom. "Get down."

Mr. Trelawney had taken up his residence at an inn far down the docks to superintend the work upon the schooner. Thither we had now to walk, and our way, to my great delight, lay along the quays and beside the great multitude of ships of all sizes and rigs and nations. In one, sailors were singing at their work, in another there were men aloft, high over my head, hanging to threads that seemed no thicker than a spider's. Though I had lived by the shore all my life, I seemed never to have been near the sea till then. The smell of tar and salt was something new. I saw the most wonderful figureheads, that had all been far over the ocean. I saw, besides, many old sailors, with rings in their ears, and whiskers curled in ringlets, and tarry pigtails, and their swaggering, clumsy sea-walk; and if I had seen as many kings or archbishops I could not have been more delighted.

And I was going to sea myself, to sea in a schooner, with a piping boatswain and pig-tailed singing seamen, to sea, bound for an unknown island, and to seek for buried treasure!

While I was still in this delightful dream, we came suddenly in front of a large inn and met Squire Trelawney, all dressed out like a sea-officer, in stout blue cloth, coming out of the door with a smile on his face and a capital imitation of a sailor's walk.

"Here you are," he cried, "and the doctor came last night from London. Bravo! The ship's company complete!"

"Oh, sir," cried I, "when do we sail?"

"Sail!" says he. "We sail tomorrow!"



8

At the Sign of the Spy-glass

WHEN I had done breakfasting the squire gave me a note addressed to John Silver, at the sign of the Spy-glass, and told me I should easily find the place by following the line of the docks and keeping a bright lookout for a little tavern with a large brass telescope for sign. I set off, overjoyed at this opportunity to see some more of the ships and seamen, and picked my way among a great crowd of people and carts and bales, for the dock was now at its busiest, until I found the tavern in question.

It was a bright enough little place of entertainment. The sign was newly painted; the windows had neat red curtains; the floor was cleanly sanded. There was a street on each side and an open door on both, which made the large, low room pretty clear to see in, in spite of clouds of tobacco smoke.

The customers were mostly seafaring men, and they talked so loudly that I hung at the door, almost afraid to enter.

As I was waiting, a man came out of a side room, and at a glance I was sure he must be Long John. His left leg was cut off close by the hip, and under the left shoulder he carried a crutch, which he managed with wonderful dexterity, hopping about upon it like a bird. He was very tall and strong, with a face as big as a ham -- plain and pale, but intelligent and smiling. Indeed, he seemed in the most cheerful spirits, whistling as he moved about among the tables, with a merry word or a slap on the shoulder for the more favoured of his guests.

Now, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of Long John in Squire Trelawney's letter I had taken a fear in my mind that he might prove to be the very one-legged sailor whom I had watched for so long at the old Benbow. But one look at the man before me was enough. I had seen the captain, and Black Dog, and the blind man, Pew, and I thought I knew what a buccaneer was like -- a very different creature, according to me, from this clean and pleasant-tempered landlord.

I plucked up courage at once, crossed the threshold, and walked right up to the man where he stood, propped on his crutch, talking to a customer.

"Mr. Silver, sir?" I asked, holding out the note.

"Yes, my lad," said he; "such is my name, to be sure. And who may you be?" And then as he saw the squire's letter, he seemed to me to give something almost like a start.

"Oh!" said he, quite loud, and offering his hand. "I see. You are our new cabin-boy; pleased I am to see you."

And he took my hand in his large firm grasp.

Just then one of the customers at the far side rose suddenly and made for the door. It was close by him, and he was out in the street in a moment. But his hurry had attracted my notice, and I recognized him at glance. It was the tallow-faced man, wanting two fingers, who had come first to the Admiral Benbow.

"Oh," I cried, "stop him! It's Black Dog!"

"I don't care two coppers who he is," cried Silver. "But he hasn't paid his score. Harry, run and catch him."

One of the others who was nearest the door leaped up and started in pursuit.

"If he were Admiral Hawke he shall pay his score," cried Silver; and then, relinquishing my hand, "Who did you say he was?" he asked. "Black what?"

"Dog, sir," said I. "Has Mr. Trelawney not told you of the buccaneers? He was one of them."

"So?" cried Silver. "In my house! Ben, run and help Harry. One of those swabs, was he? Was that you drinking with him, Morgan? Step up here."

The man whom he called Morgan -- an old, grey-haired, mahogany-faced sailor -- came forward pretty sheepishly, rolling his quid.

"Now, Morgan," said Long John very sternly, "you never clapped your eyes on that Black -- Black Dog before, did you, now?"

"Not I, sir," said Morgan with a salute.

"You didn't know his name, did you?"

"No, sir."

"By the powers, Tom Morgan, it's as good for you!" exclaimed the landlord. "If you had been mixed up with the like of that, you would never have put another foot in my house, you may lay to that. And what was he saying to you?"

"I don't rightly know, sir," answered Morgan.

"Do you call that a head on your shoulders, or a blessed dead-eye?" cried Long John. "Don't rightly know, don't you! Perhaps you don't happen to rightly know who you was speaking to, perhaps? Come, now, what was he jawing -- v'yages, cap'ns, ships? Pipe up! What was it?"

"We was a-talkin' of keel-hauling," answered Morgan.

"Keel-hauling, was you? And a mighty suitable thing, too, and you may lay to that. Get back to your place for a lubber, Tom."

And then, as Morgan rolled back to his seat, Silver added to me in a confidential whisper that was very flattering, as I thought, "He's quite an honest man, Tom Morgan, on'y stupid. And now," he ran on again, aloud, "let's see -- Black Dog? No, I don't know the name, not I. Yet I kind of think I've -- yes, I've seen the swab. He used to come here with a blind beggar, he used."

"That he did, you may be sure," said I. "I knew that blind man too. His name was Pew."

"It was!" cried Silver, now quite excited. "Pew! That were his name for certain. Ah, he looked a shark, he did! If we run down this Black Dog, now, there'll be news for Cap'n Trelawney! Ben's a good runner; few seamen run better than Ben. He should run him down, hand over hand, by the powers! He talked o' keel-hauling, did he? I'LL keel-haul him!"

All the time he was jerking out these phrases he was stumping up and down the tavern on his crutch, slapping tables with his hand, and giving such a show of excitement as would have convinced an Old Bailey judge or a Bow Street runner. My suspicions had been thoroughly reawakened on finding Black Dog at the Spy-glass, and I watched the cook narrowly. But he was too deep, and too ready, and too clever for me, and by the time the two men had come back out of breath and confessed that they had lost the track in a crowd, and been scolded like thieves, I would have gone bail for the innocence of Long John Silver.

"See here, now, Hawkins," said he, "here's a blessed hard thing on a man like me, now, ain't it? There's Cap'n Trelawney -- what's he to think? Here I have this confounded son of a Dutchman sitting in my own house drinking of my own rum! Here you comes and tells me of it plain; and here I let him give us all the slip before my blessed deadlights! Now, Hawkins, you do me justice with the cap'n. You're a lad, you are, but you're as smart as paint. I see that when you first come in. Now, here it is: What could I do, with this old timber I hobble on? When I was an A B master mariner I'd have come up alongside of him, hand over hand, and broached him to in a brace of old shakes, I would; but now -- "

And then, all of a sudden, he stopped, and his jaw dropped as though he had remembered something.

"The score!" he burst out. "Three goes o' rum! Why, shiver my timbers, if I hadn't forgotten my score!"

And falling on a bench, he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. I could not help joining, and we laughed together, peal after peal, until the tavern rang again.

"Why, what a precious old sea-calf I am!" he said at last, wiping his cheeks. "You and me should get on well, Hawkins, for I'll take my davy I should be rated ship's boy. But come now, stand by to go about. This won't do. Dooty is dooty, messmates. I'll put on my old cockerel hat, and step along of you to Cap'n Trelawney, and report this here affair. For mind you, it's serious, young Hawkins; and neither you nor me's come out of it with what I should make so bold as to call credit. Nor you neither, says you; not smart -- none of the pair of us smart. But dash my buttons! That was a good un about my score."

And he began to laugh again, and that so heartily, that though I did not see the joke as he did, I was again obliged to join him in his mirth.

On our little walk along the quays, he made himself the most interesting companion, telling me about the different ships that we passed by, their rig, tonnage, and nationality, explaining the work that was going forward -- how one was discharging, another taking in cargo, and a third making ready for sea -- and every now and then telling me some little anecdote of ships or seamen or repeating a nautical phrase till I had learned it perfectly. I began to see that here was one of the best of possible shipmates.

When we got to the inn, the squire and Dr. Livesey were seated together, finishing a quart of ale with a toast in it, before they should go aboard the schooner on a visit of inspection.

Long John told the story from first to last, with a great deal of spirit and the most perfect truth. "That was how it were, now, weren't it, Hawkins?" he would say, now and again, and I could always bear him entirely out.

The two gentlemen regretted that Black Dog had got away, but we all agreed there was nothing to be done, and after he had been complimented, Long John took up his crutch and departed.

"All hands aboard by four this afternoon," shouted the squire after him.

"Aye, aye, sir," cried the cook, in the passage.

"Well, squire," said Dr. Livesey, "I don't put much faith in your discoveries, as a general thing; but I will say this, John Silver suits me."

"The man's a perfect trump," declared the squire.

"And now," added the doctor, "Jim may come on board with us, may he not?"

"To be sure he may," says squire. "Take your hat, Hawkins, and we'll see the ship."



9

Powder and Arms

THE HISPANIOLA lay some way out, and we went under the figureheads and round the sterns of many other ships, and their cables sometimes grated underneath our keel, and sometimes swung above us. At last, however, we got alongside, and were met and saluted as we stepped aboard by the mate, Mr. Arrow, a brown old sailor with earrings in his ears and a squint. He and the squire were very thick and friendly, but I soon observed that things were not the same between Mr. Trelawney and the captain.

This last was a sharp-looking man who seemed angry with everything on board and was soon to tell us why, for we had hardly got down into the cabin when a sailor followed us.

"Captain Smollett, sir, axing to speak with you," said he.

"I am always at the captain's orders. Show him in," said the squire.

The captain, who was close behind his messenger, entered at once and shut the door behind him.

"Well, Captain Smollett, what have you to say? All well, I hope; all shipshape and seaworthy?"

"Well, sir," said the captain, "better speak plain, I believe, even at the risk of offence. I don't like this cruise; I don't like the men; and I don't like my officer. That's short and sweet."

"Perhaps, sir, you don't like the ship?" inquired the squire, very angry, as I could see.

"I can't speak as to that, sir, not having seen her tried," said the captain. "She seems a clever craft; more I can't say."

"Possibly, sir, you may not like your employer, either?" says the squire.

But here Dr. Livesey cut in.

"Stay a bit," said he, "stay a bit. No use of such questions as that but to produce ill feeling. The captain has said too much or he has said too little, and I'm bound to say that I require an explanation of his words. You don't, you say, like this cruise. Now, why?"

"I was engaged, sir, on what we call sealed orders, to sail this ship for that gentleman where he should bid me," said the captain. "So far so good. But now I find that every man before the mast knows more than I do. I don't call that fair, now, do you?"

"No," said Dr. Livesey, "I don't."

"Next," said the captain, "I learn we are going after treasure -- hear it from my own hands, mind you. Now, treasure is ticklish work; I don't like treasure voyages on any account, and I don't like them, above all, when they are secret and when (begging your pardon, Mr. Trelawney) the secret has been told to the parrot."

"Silver's parrot?" asked the squire.

"It's a way of speaking," said the captain. "Blabbed, I mean. It's my belief neither of you gentlemen know what you are about, but I'll tell you my way of it -- life or death, and a close run."

"That is all clear, and, I dare say, true enough," replied Dr. Livesey. "We take the risk, but we are not so ignorant as you believe us. Next, you say you don't like the crew. Are they not good seamen?"

"I don't like them, sir," returned Captain Smollett. "And I think I should have had the choosing of my own hands, if you go to that."

"Perhaps you should," replied the doctor. "My friend should, perhaps, have taken you along with him; but the slight, if there be one, was unintentional. And you don't like Mr. Arrow?"

"I don't, sir. I believe he's a good seaman, but he's too free with the crew to be a good officer. A mate should keep himself to himself -- shouldn't drink with the men before the mast!"

"Do you mean he drinks?" cried the squire.

"No, sir," replied the captain, "only that he's too familiar."

"Well, now, and the short and long of it, captain?" asked the doctor. "Tell us what you want."

"Well, gentlemen, are you determined to go on this cruise?"

"Like iron," answered the squire.

"Very good," said the captain. "Then, as you've heard me very patiently, saying things that I could not prove, hear me a few words more. They are putting the powder and the arms in the fore hold. Now, you have a good place under the cabin; why not put them there? -- first point. Then, you are bringing four of your own people with you, and they tell me some of them are to be berthed forward. Why not give them the berths here beside the cabin? -- second point."

"Any more?" asked Mr. Trelawney.

"One more," said the captain. "There's been too much blabbing already."

"Far too much," agreed the doctor.

"I'll tell you what I've heard myself," continued Captain Smollett: "that you have a map of an island, that there's crosses on the map to show where treasure is, and that the island lies -- " And then he named the latitude and longitude exactly.

"I never told that," cried the squire, "to a soul!"

"The hands know it, sir," returned the captain.

"Livesey, that must have been you or Hawkins," cried the squire.

"It doesn't much matter who it was," replied the doctor. And I could see that neither he nor the captain paid much regard to Mr. Trelawney's protestations. Neither did I, to be sure, he was so loose a talker; yet in this case I believe he was really right and that nobody had told the situation of the island.

"Well, gentlemen," continued the captain, "I don't know who has this map; but I make it a point, it shall be kept secret even from me and Mr. Arrow. Otherwise I would ask you to let me resign."

"I see," said the doctor. "You wish us to keep this matter dark and to make a garrison of the stern part of the ship, manned with my friend's own people, and provided with all the arms and powder on board. In other words, you fear a mutiny."

"Sir," said Captain Smollett, "with no intention to take offence, I deny your right to put words into my mouth. No captain, sir, would be justified in going to sea at all if he had ground enough to say that. As for Mr. Arrow, I believe him thoroughly honest; some of the men are the same; all may be for what I know. But I am responsible for the ship's safety and the life of every man Jack aboard of her. I see things going, as I think, not quite right. And I ask you to take certain precautions or let me resign my berth. And that's all."

"Captain Smollett," began the doctor with a smile, "did ever you hear the fable of the mountain and the mouse? You'll excuse me, I dare say, but you remind me of that fable. When you came in here, I'll stake my wig, you meant more than this."

"Doctor," said the captain, "you are smart. When I came in here I meant to get discharged. I had no thought that Mr. Trelawney would hear a word."

"No more I would," cried the squire. "Had Livesey not been here I should have seen you to the deuce. As it is, I have heard you. I will do as you desire, but I think the worse of you."

"That's as you please, sir," said the captain. "You'll find I do my duty."

And with that he took his leave.

"Trelawney," said the doctor, "contrary to all my notions, I believed you have managed to get two honest men on board with you -- that man and John Silver."

"Silver, if you like," cried the squire; "but as for that intolerable humbug, I declare I think his conduct unmanly, unsailorly, and downright un-English."

"Well," says the doctor, "we shall see."

When we came on deck, the men had begun already to take out the arms and powder, yo-ho-ing at their work, while the captain and Mr. Arrow stood by superintending.

The new arrangement was quite to my liking. The whole schooner had been overhauled; six berths had been made astern out of what had been the after-part of the main hold; and this set of cabins was only joined to the galley and forecastle by a sparred passage on the port side. It had been originally meant that the captain, Mr. Arrow, Hunter, Joyce, the doctor, and the squire were to occupy these six berths. Now Redruth and I were to get two of them and Mr. Arrow and the captain were to sleep on deck in the companion, which had been enlarged on each side till you might almost have called it a round-house. Very low it was still, of course; but there was room to swing two hammocks, and even the mate seemed pleased with the arrangement. Even he, perhaps, had been doubtful as to the crew, but that is only guess, for as you shall hear, we had not long the benefit of his opinion.

We were all hard at work, changing the powder and the berths, when the last man or two, and Long John along with them, came off in a shore-boat.

The cook came up the side like a monkey for cleverness, and as soon as he saw what was doing, "So ho, mates!" says he. "What's this?"

"We're a-changing of the powder, Jack," answers one.

"Why, by the powers," cried Long John, "if we do, we'll miss the morning tide!"

"My orders!" said the captain shortly. "You may go below, my man. Hands will want supper."

"Aye, aye, sir," answered the cook, and touching his forelock, he disappeared at once in the direction of his galley.

"That's a good man, captain," said the doctor.

"Very likely, sir," replied Captain Smollett. "Easy with that, men -- easy," he ran on, to the fellows who were shifting the powder; and then suddenly observing me examining the swivel we carried amidships, a long brass nine, "Here you, ship's boy," he cried, "out o' that! Off with you to the cook and get some work."

And then as I was hurrying off I heard him say, quite loudly, to the doctor, "I'll have no favourites on my ship."

I assure you I was quite of the squire's way of thinking, and hated the captain deeply.



10

The Voyage

ALL that night we were in a great bustle getting things stowed in their place, and boatfuls of the squire's friends, Mr. Blandly and the like, coming off to wish him a good voyage and a safe return. We never had a night at the Admiral Benbow when I had half the work; and I was dog-tired when, a little before dawn, the boatswain sounded his pipe and the crew began to man the capstan-bars. I might have been twice as weary, yet I would not have left the deck, all was so new and interesting to me -- the brief commands, the shrill note of the whistle, the men bustling to their places in the glimmer of the ship's lanterns.

"Now, Barbecue, tip us a stave," cried one voice.

"The old one," cried another.

"Aye, aye, mates," said Long John, who was standing by, with his crutch under his arm, and at once broke out in the air and words I knew so well:

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest -- "

And then the whole crew bore chorus: -- 

"Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

And at the third "Ho!" drove the bars before them with a will.

Even at that exciting moment it carried me back to the old Admiral Benbow in a second, and I seemed to hear the voice of the captain piping in the chorus. But soon the anchor was short up; soon it was hanging dripping at the bows; soon the sails began to draw, and the land and shipping to flit by on either side; and before I could lie down to snatch an hour of slumber the HISPANIOLA had begun her voyage to the Isle of Treasure.

I am not going to relate that voyage in detail. It was fairly prosperous. The ship proved to be a good ship, the crew were capable seamen, and the captain thoroughly understood his business. But before we came the length of Treasure Island, two or three things had happened which require to be known.

Mr. Arrow, first of all, turned out even worse than the captain had feared. He had no command among the men, and people did what they pleased with him. But that was by no means the worst of it, for after a day or two at sea he began to appear on deck with hazy eye, red cheeks, stuttering tongue, and other marks of drunkenness. Time after time he was ordered below in disgrace. Sometimes he fell and cut himself; sometimes he lay all day long in his little bunk at one side of the companion; sometimes for a day or two he would be almost sober and attend to his work at least passably.

In the meantime, we could never make out where he got the drink. That was the ship's mystery. Watch him as we pleased, we could do nothing to solve it; and when we asked him to his face, he would only laugh if he were drunk, and if he were sober deny solemnly that he ever tasted anything but water.

He was not only useless as an officer and a bad influence amongst the men, but it was plain that at this rate he must soon kill himself outright, so nobody was much surprised, nor very sorry, when one dark night, with a head sea, he disappeared entirely and was seen no more.

"Overboard!" said the captain. "Well, gentlemen, that saves the trouble of putting him in irons."

But there we were, without a mate; and it was necessary, of course, to advance one of the men. The boatswain, Job Anderson, was the likeliest man aboard, and though he kept his old title, he served in a way as mate. Mr. Trelawney had followed the sea, and his knowledge made him very useful, for he often took a watch himself in easy weather. And the coxswain, Israel Hands, was a careful, wily, old, experienced seaman who could be trusted at a pinch with almost anything.

He was a great confidant of Long John Silver, and so the mention of his name leads me on to speak of our ship's cook, Barbecue, as the men called him.

Aboard ship he carried his crutch by a lanyard round his neck, to have both hands as free as possible. It was something to see him wedge the foot of the crutch against a bulkhead, and propped against it, yielding to every movement of the ship, get on with his cooking like someone safe ashore. Still more strange was it to see him in the heaviest of weather cross the deck. He had a line or two rigged up to help him across the widest spaces -- Long John's earrings, they were called; and he would hand himself from one place to another, now using the crutch, now trailing it alongside by the lanyard, as quickly as another man could walk. Yet some of the men who had sailed with him before expressed their pity to see him so reduced.

"He's no common man, Barbecue," said the coxswain to me. "He had good schooling in his young days and can speak like a book when so minded; and brave -- a lion's nothing alongside of Long John! I seen him grapple four and knock their heads together -- him unarmed."

All the crew respected and even obeyed him. He had a way of talking to each and doing everybody some particular service. To me he was unweariedly kind, and always glad to see me in the galley, which he kept as clean as a new pin, the dishes hanging up burnished and his parrot in a cage in one corner.

"Come away, Hawkins," he would say; "come and have a yarn with John. Nobody more welcome than yourself, my son. Sit you down and hear the news. Here's Cap'n Flint -- I calls my parrot Cap'n Flint, after the famous buccaneer -- here's Cap'n Flint predicting success to our v'yage. Wasn't you, cap'n?"

And the parrot would say, with great rapidity, "Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" till you wondered that it was not out of breath, or till John threw his handkerchief over the cage.

"Now, that bird," he would say, "is, maybe, two hundred years old, Hawkins -- they live forever mostly; and if anybody's seen more wickedness, it must be the devil himself. She's sailed with England, the great Cap'n England, the pirate. She's been at Madagascar, and at Malabar, and Surinam, and Providence, and Portobello. She was at the fishing up of the wrecked plate ships. It's there she learned 'Pieces of eight,' and little wonder; three hundred and fifty thousand of 'em, Hawkins! She was at the boarding of the viceroy of the Indies out of Goa, she was; and to look at her you would think she was a babby. But you smelt powder -- didn't you, cap'n?"

"Stand by to go about," the parrot would scream.

"Ah, she's a handsome craft, she is," the cook would say, and give her sugar from his pocket, and then the bird would peck at the bars and swear straight on, passing belief for wickedness. "There," John would add, "you can't touch pitch and not be mucked, lad. Here's this poor old innocent bird o' mine swearing blue fire, and none the wiser, you may lay to that. She would swear the same, in a manner of speaking, before chaplain." And John would touch his forelock with a solemn way he had that made me think he was the best of men.

In the meantime, the squire and Captain Smollett were still on pretty distant terms with one another. The squire made no bones about the matter; he despised the captain. The captain, on his part, never spoke but when he was spoken to, and then sharp and short and dry, and not a word wasted. He owned, when driven into a corner, that he seemed to have been wrong about the crew, that some of them were as brisk as he wanted to see and all had behaved fairly well. As for the ship, he had taken a downright fancy to her. "She'll lie a point nearer the wind than a man has a right to expect of his own married wife, sir. But," he would add, "all I say is, we're not home again, and I don't like the cruise."

The squire, at this, would turn away and march up and down the deck, chin in air.

"A trifle more of that man," he would say, "and I shall explode."

We had some heavy weather, which only proved the qualities of the HISPANIOLA. Every man on board seemed well content, and they must have been hard to please if they had been otherwise, for it is my belief there was never a ship's company so spoiled since Noah put to sea. Double grog was going on the least excuse; there was duff on odd days, as, for instance, if the squire heard it was any man's birthday, and always a barrel of apples standing broached in the waist for anyone to help himself that had a fancy.

"Never knew good come of it yet," the captain said to Dr. Livesey. "Spoil forecastle hands, make devils. That's my belief."

But good did come of the apple barrel, as you shall hear, for if it had not been for that, we should have had no note of warning and might all have perished by the hand of treachery.

This was how it came about.

We had run up the trades to get the wind of the island we were after -- I am not allowed to be more plain -- and now we were running down for it with a bright lookout day and night. It was about the last day of our outward voyage by the largest computation; some time that night, or at latest before noon of the morrow, we should sight the Treasure Island. We were heading S.S.W. and had a steady breeze abeam and a quiet sea. The HISPANIOLA rolled steadily, dipping her bowsprit now and then with a whiff of spray. All was drawing alow and aloft; everyone was in the bravest spirits because we were now so near an end of the first part of our adventure.

Now, just after sundown, when all my work was over and I was on my way to my berth, it occurred to me that I should like an apple. I ran on deck. The watch was all forward looking out for the island. The man at the helm was watching the luff of the sail and whistling away gently to himself, and that was the only sound excepting the swish of the sea against the bows and around the sides of the ship.

In I got bodily into the apple barrel, and found there was scarce an apple left; but sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of the waters and the rocking movement of the ship, I had either fallen asleep or was on the point of doing so when a heavy man sat down with rather a clash close by. The barrel shook as he leaned his shoulders against it, and I was just about to jump up when the man began to speak. It was Silver's voice, and before I had heard a dozen words, I would not have shown myself for all the world, but lay there, trembling and listening, in the extreme of fear and curiosity, for from these dozen words I understood that the lives of all the honest men aboard depended upon me alone.



11

What I Heard in the Apple Barrel

"NO, not I," said Silver. "Flint was cap'n; I was quartermaster, along of my timber leg. The same broadside I lost my leg, old Pew lost his deadlights. It was a master surgeon, him that ampytated me -- out of college and all -- Latin by the bucket, and what not; but he was hanged like a dog, and sun-dried like the rest, at Corso Castle. That was Roberts' men, that was, and comed of changing names to their ships -- ROYAL FORTUNE and so on. Now, what a ship was christened, so let her stay, I says. So it was with the CASSANDRA, as brought us all safe home from Malabar, after England took the viceroy of the Indies; so it was with the old WALRUS, Flint's old ship, as I've seen amuck with the red blood and fit to sink with gold."

"Ah!" cried another voice, that of the youngest hand on board, and evidently full of admiration. "He was the flower of the flock, was Flint!"

"Davis was a man too, by all accounts," said Silver. "I never sailed along of him; first with England, then with Flint, that's my story; and now here on my own account, in a manner of speaking. I laid by nine hundred safe, from England, and two thousand after Flint. That ain't bad for a man before the mast -- all safe in bank. 'Tain't earning now, it's saving does it, you may lay to that. Where's all England's men now? I dunno. Where's Flint's? Why, most on 'em aboard here, and glad to get the duff -- been begging before that, some on 'em. Old Pew, as had lost his sight, and might have thought shame, spends twelve hundred pound in a year, like a lord in Parliament. Where is he now? Well, he's dead now and under hatches; but for two year before that, shiver my timbers, the man was starving! He begged, and he stole, and he cut throats, and starved at that, by the powers!"

"Well, it ain't much use, after all," said the young seaman.

"'Tain't much use for fools, you may lay to it -- that, nor nothing," cried Silver. "But now, you look here: you're young, you are, but you're as smart as paint. I see that when I set my eyes on you, and I'll talk to you like a man."

You may imagine how I felt when I heard this abominable old rogue addressing another in the very same words of flattery as he had used to myself. I think, if I had been able, that I would have killed him through the barrel. Meantime, he ran on, little supposing he was overheard.

"Here it is about gentlemen of fortune. They lives rough, and they risk swinging, but they eat and drink like fighting-cocks, and when a cruise is done, why, it's hundreds of pounds instead of hundreds of farthings in their pockets. Now, the most goes for rum and a good fling, and to sea again in their shirts. But that's not the course I lay. I puts it all away, some here, some there, and none too much anywheres, by reason of suspicion. I'm fifty, mark you; once back from this cruise, I set up gentleman in earnest. Time enough too, says you. Ah, but I've lived easy in the meantime, never denied myself o' nothing heart desires, and slep' soft and ate dainty all my days but when at sea. And how did I begin? Before the mast, like you!"

"Well," said the other, "but all the other money's gone now, ain't it? You daren't show face in Bristol after this."

"Why, where might you suppose it was?" asked Silver derisively.

"At Bristol, in banks and places," answered his companion.

"It were," said the cook; "it were when we weighed anchor. But my old missis has it all by now. And the Spy-glass is sold, lease and goodwill and rigging; and the old girl's off to meet me. I would tell you where, for I trust you, but it'd make jealousy among the mates."

"And can you trust your missis?" asked the other.

"Gentlemen of fortune," returned the cook, "usually trusts little among themselves, and right they are, you may lay to it. But I have a way with me, I have. When a mate brings a slip on his cable -- one as knows me, I mean -- it won't be in the same world with old John. There was some that was feared of Pew, and some that was feared of Flint; but Flint his own self was feared of me. Feared he was, and proud. They was the roughest crew afloat, was Flint's; the devil himself would have been feared to go to sea with them. Well now, I tell you, I'm not a boasting man, and you seen yourself how easy I keep company, but when I was quartermaster, LAMBS wasn't the word for Flint's old buccaneers. Ah, you may be sure of yourself in old John's ship."

"Well, I tell you now," replied the lad, "I didn't half a quarter like the job till I had this talk with you, John; but there's my hand on it now."

"And a brave lad you were, and smart too," answered Silver, shaking hands so heartily that all the barrel shook, "and a finer figurehead for a gentleman of fortune I never clapped my eyes on."

By this time I had begun to understand the meaning of their terms. By a "gentleman of fortune" they plainly meant neither more nor less than a common pirate, and the little scene that I had overheard was the last act in the corruption of one of the honest hands -- perhaps of the last one left aboard. But on this point I was soon to be relieved, for Silver giving a little whistle, a third man strolled up and sat down by the party.

"Dick's square," said Silver.

"Oh, I know'd Dick was square," returned the voice of the coxswain, Israel Hands. "He's no fool, is Dick." And he turned his quid and spat. "But look here," he went on, "here's what I want to know, Barbecue: how long are we a-going to stand off and on like a blessed bumboat? I've had a'most enough o' Cap'n Smollett; he's hazed me long enough, by thunder! I want to go into that cabin, I do. I want their pickles and wines, and that."

"Israel," said Silver, "your head ain't much account, nor ever was. But you're able to hear, I reckon; leastways, your ears is big enough. Now, here's what I say: you'll berth forward, and you'll live hard, and you'll speak soft, and you'll keep sober till I give the word; and you may lay to that, my son."

"Well, I don't say no, do I?" growled the coxswain. "What I say is, when? That's what I say."

"When! By the powers!" cried Silver. "Well now, if you want to know, I'll tell you when. The last moment I can manage, and that's when. Here's a first-rate seaman, Cap'n Smollett, sails the blessed ship for us. Here's this squire and doctor with a map and such -- I don't know where it is, do I? No more do you, says you. Well then, I mean this squire and doctor shall find the stuff, and help us to get it aboard, by the powers. Then we'll see. If I was sure of you all, sons of double Dutchmen, I'd have Cap'n Smollett navigate us half-way back again before I struck."

"Why, we're all seamen aboard here, I should think," said the lad Dick.

"We're all forecastle hands, you mean," snapped Silver. "We can steer a course, but who's to set one? That's what all you gentlemen split on, first and last. If I had my way, I'd have Cap'n Smollett work us back into the trades at least; then we'd have no blessed miscalculations and a spoonful of water a day. But I know the sort you are. I'll finish with 'em at the island, as soon's the blunt's on board, and a pity it is. But you're never happy till you're drunk. Split my sides, I've a sick heart to sail with the likes of you!"

"Easy all, Long John," cried Israel. "Who's a-crossin' of you?"

"Why, how many tall ships, think ye, now, have I seen laid aboard? And how many brisk lads drying in the sun at Execution Dock?" cried Silver. "And all for this same hurry and hurry and hurry. You hear me? I seen a thing or two at sea, I have. If you would on'y lay your course, and a p'int to windward, you would ride in carriages, you would. But not you! I know you. You'll have your mouthful of rum tomorrow, and go hang."

"Everybody knowed you was a kind of a chapling, John; but there's others as could hand and steer as well as you," said Israel. "They liked a bit o' fun, they did. They wasn't so high and dry, nohow, but took their fling, like jolly companions every one."

"So?" says Silver. "Well, and where are they now? Pew was that sort, and he died a beggar-man. Flint was, and he died of rum at Savannah. Ah, they was a sweet crew, they was! On'y, where are they?"

"But," asked Dick, "when we do lay 'em athwart, what are we to do with 'em, anyhow?"

"There's the man for me!" cried the cook admiringly. "That's what I call business. Well, what would you think? Put 'em ashore like maroons? That would have been England's way. Or cut 'em down like that much pork? That would have been Flint's, or Billy Bones's."

"Billy was the man for that," said Israel. "'Dead men don't bite,' says he. Well, he's dead now hisself; he knows the long and short on it now; and if ever a rough hand come to port, it was Billy."

"Right you are," said Silver; "rough and ready. But mark you here, I'm an easy man -- I'm quite the gentleman, says you; but this time it's serious. Dooty is dooty, mates. I give my vote -- death. When I'm in Parlyment and riding in my coach, I don't want none of these sea-lawyers in the cabin a-coming home, unlooked for, like the devil at prayers. Wait is what I say; but when the time comes, why, let her rip!"

"John," cries the coxswain, "you're a man!"

"You'll say so, Israel when you see," said Silver. "Only one thing I claim -- I claim Trelawney. I'll wring his calf's head off his body with these hands, Dick!" he added, breaking off. "You just jump up, like a sweet lad, and get me an apple, to wet my pipe like."

You may fancy the terror I was in! I should have leaped out and run for it if I had found the strength, but my limbs and heart alike misgave me. I heard Dick begin to rise, and then someone seemingly stopped him, and the voice of Hands exclaimed, "Oh, stow that! Don't you get sucking of that bilge, John. Let's have a go of the rum."

"Dick," said Silver, "I trust you. I've a gauge on the keg, mind. There's the key; you fill a pannikin and bring it up."

Terrified as I was, I could not help thinking to myself that this must have been how Mr. Arrow got the strong waters that destroyed him.

Dick was gone but a little while, and during his absence Israel spoke straight on in the cook's ear. It was but a word or two that I could catch, and yet I gathered some important news, for besides other scraps that tended to the same purpose, this whole clause was audible: "Not another man of them'll jine." Hence there were still faithful men on board.

When Dick returned, one after another of the trio took the pannikin and drank -- one "To luck," another with a "Here's to old Flint," and Silver himself saying, in a kind of song, "Here's to ourselves, and hold your luff, plenty of prizes and plenty of duff."

Just then a sort of brightness fell upon me in the barrel, and looking up, I found the moon had risen and was silvering the mizzen-top and shining white on the luff of the fore-sail; and almost at the same time the voice of the lookout shouted, "Land ho!"



12

Council of War

THERE was a great rush of feet across the deck. I could hear people tumbling up from the cabin and the forecastle, and slipping in an instant outside my barrel, I dived behind the fore-sail, made a double towards the stern, and came out upon the open deck in time to join Hunter and Dr. Livesey in the rush for the weather bow.

There all hands were already congregated. A belt of fog had lifted almost simultaneously with the appearance of the moon. Away to the south-west of us we saw two low hills, about a couple of miles apart, and rising behind one of them a third and higher hill, whose peak was still buried in the fog. All three seemed sharp and conical in figure.

So much I saw, almost in a dream, for I had not yet recovered from my horrid fear of a minute or two before. And then I heard the voice of Captain Smollett issuing orders. The HISPANIOLA was laid a couple of points nearer the wind and now sailed a course that would just clear the island on the east.

"And now, men," said the captain, when all was sheeted home, "has any one of you ever seen that land ahead?"

"I have, sir," said Silver. "I've watered there with a trader I was cook in."

"The anchorage is on the south, behind an islet, I fancy?" asked the captain.

"Yes, sir; Skeleton Island they calls it. It were a main place for pirates once, and a hand we had on board knowed all their names for it. That hill to the nor'ard they calls the Fore-mast Hill; there are three hills in a row running south'ard -- fore, main, and mizzen, sir. But the main -- that's the big un, with the cloud on it -- they usually calls the Spy-glass, by reason of a lookout they kept when they was in the anchorage cleaning, for it's there they cleaned their ships, sir, asking your pardon."

"I have a chart here," says Captain Smollett. "See if that's the place."

Long John's eyes burned in his head as he took the chart, but by the fresh look of the paper I knew he was doomed to disappointment. This was not the map we found in Billy Bones's chest, but an accurate copy, complete in all things -- names and heights and soundings -- with the single exception of the red crosses and the written notes. Sharp as must have been his annoyance, Silver had the strength of mind to hide it.

"Yes, sir," said he, "this is the spot, to be sure, and very prettily drawed out. Who might have done that, I wonder? The pirates were too ignorant, I reckon. Aye, here it is: 'Capt. Kidd's Anchorage' -- just the name my shipmate called it. There's a strong current runs along the south, and then away nor'ard up the west coast. Right you was, sir," says he, "to haul your wind and keep the weather of the island. Leastways, if such was your intention as to enter and careen, and there ain't no better place for that in these waters."

"Thank you, my man," says Captain Smollett. "I'll ask you later on to give us a help. You may go."

I was surprised at the coolness with which John avowed his knowledge of the island, and I own I was half-frightened when I saw him drawing nearer to myself. He did not know, to be sure, that I had overheard his council from the apple barrel, and yet I had by this time taken such a horror of his cruelty, duplicity, and power that I could scarce conceal a shudder when he laid his hand upon my arm.

"Ah," says he, "this here is a sweet spot, this island -- a sweet spot for a lad to get ashore on. You'll bathe, and you'll climb trees, and you'll hunt goats, you will; and you'll get aloft on them hills like a goat yourself. Why, it makes me young again. I was going to forget my timber leg, I was. It's a pleasant thing to be young and have ten toes, and you may lay to that. When you want to go a bit of exploring, you just ask old John, and he'll put up a snack for you to take along."

And clapping me in the friendliest way upon the shoulder, he hobbled off forward and went below.

Captain Smollett, the squire, and Dr. Livesey were talking together on the quarter-deck, and anxious as I was to tell them my story, I durst not interrupt them openly. While I was still casting about in my thoughts to find some probable excuse, Dr. Livesey called me to his side. He had left his pipe below, and being a slave to tobacco, had meant that I should fetch it; but as soon as I was near enough to speak and not to be overheard, I broke immediately, "Doctor, let me speak. Get the captain and squire down to the cabin, and then make some pretence to send for me. I have terrible news."

The doctor changed countenance a little, but next moment he was master of himself.

"Thank you, Jim," said he quite loudly, "that was all I wanted to know," as if he had asked me a question.

And with that he turned on his heel and rejoined the other two. They spoke together for a little, and though none of them started, or raised his voice, or so much as whistled, it was plain enough that Dr. Livesey had communicated my request, for the next thing that I heard was the captain giving an order to Job Anderson, and all hands were piped on deck.

"My lads," said Captain Smollett, "I've a word to say to you. This land that we have sighted is the place we have been sailing for. Mr. Trelawney, being a very open-handed gentleman, as we all know, has just asked me a word or two, and as I was able to tell him that every man on board had done his duty, alow and aloft, as I never ask to see it done better, why, he and I and the doctor are going below to the cabin to drink YOUR health and luck, and you'll have grog served out for you to drink OUR health and luck. I'll tell you what I think of this: I think it handsome. And if you think as I do, you'll give a good sea-cheer for the gentleman that does it."

The cheer followed -- that was a matter of course; but it rang out so full and hearty that I confess I could hardly believe these same men were plotting for our blood.

"One more cheer for Cap'n Smollett," cried Long John when the first had subsided.

And this also was given with a will.

On the top of that the three gentlemen went below, and not long after, word was sent forward that Jim Hawkins was wanted in the cabin.

I found them all three seated round the table, a bottle of Spanish wine and some raisins before them, and the doctor smoking away, with his wig on his lap, and that, I knew, was a sign that he was agitated. The stern window was open, for it was a warm night, and you could see the moon shining behind on the ship's wake.

"Now, Hawkins," said the squire, "you have something to say. Speak up."

I did as I was bid, and as short as I could make it, told the whole details of Silver's conversation. Nobody interrupted me till I was done, nor did any one of the three of them make so much as a movement, but they kept their eyes upon my face from first to last.

"Jim," said Dr. Livesey, "take a seat."

And they made me sit down at table beside them, poured me out a glass of wine, filled my hands with raisins, and all three, one after the other, and each with a bow, drank my good health, and their service to me, for my luck and courage.

"Now, captain," said the squire, "you were right, and I was wrong. I own myself an ass, and I await your orders."

"No more an ass than I, sir," returned the captain. "I never heard of a crew that meant to mutiny but what showed signs before, for any man that had an eye in his head to see the mischief and take steps according. But this crew," he added, "beats me."

"Captain," said the doctor, "with your permission, that's Silver. A very remarkable man."

"He'd look remarkably well from a yard-arm, sir," returned the captain. "But this is talk; this don't lead to anything. I see three or four points, and with Mr. Trelawney's permission, I'll name them."

"You, sir, are the captain. It is for you to speak," says Mr. Trelawney grandly.

"First point," began Mr. Smollett. "We must go on, because we can't turn back. If I gave the word to go about, they would rise at once. Second point, we have time before us -- at least until this treasure's found. Third point, there are faithful hands. Now, sir, it's got to come to blows sooner or later, and what I propose is to take time by the forelock, as the saying is, and come to blows some fine day when they least expect it. We can count, I take it, on your own home servants, Mr. Trelawney?"

"As upon myself," declared the squire.

"Three," reckoned the captain; "ourselves make seven, counting Hawkins here. Now, about the honest hands?"

"Most likely Trelawney's own men," said the doctor; "those he had picked up for himself before he lit on Silver."

"Nay," replied the squire. "Hands was one of mine."

"I did think I could have trusted Hands," added the captain.

"And to think that they're all Englishmen!" broke out the squire. "Sir, I could find it in my heart to blow the ship up."

"Well, gentlemen," said the captain, "the best that I can say is not much. We must lay to, if you please, and keep a bright lookout. It's trying on a man, I know. It would be pleasanter to come to blows. But there's no help for it till we know our men. Lay to, and whistle for a wind, that's my view."

"Jim here," said the doctor, "can help us more than anyone. The men are not shy with him, and Jim is a noticing lad."

"Hawkins, I put prodigious faith in you," added the squire.

I began to feel pretty desperate at this, for I felt altogether helpless; and yet, by an odd train of circumstances, it was indeed through me that safety came. In the meantime, talk as we pleased, there were only seven out of the twenty-six on whom we knew we could rely; and out of these seven one was a boy, so that the grown men on our side were six to their nineteen.



PART THREE -- My Shore Adventure



13

How My Shore Adventure Began

THE appearance of the island when I came on deck next morning was altogether changed. Although the breeze had now utterly ceased, we had made a great deal of way during the night and were now lying becalmed about half a mile to the south-east of the low eastern coast. Grey-coloured woods covered a large part of the surface. This even tint was indeed broken up by streaks of yellow sand-break in the lower lands, and by many tall trees of the pine family, out-topping the others -- some singly, some in clumps; but the general colouring was uniform and sad. The hills ran up clear above the vegetation in spires of naked rock. All were strangely shaped, and the Spy-glass, which was by three or four hundred feet the tallest on the island, was likewise the strangest in configuration, running up sheer from almost every side and then suddenly cut off at the top like a pedestal to put a statue on.

The HISPANIOLA was rolling scuppers under in the ocean swell. The booms were tearing at the blocks, the rudder was banging to and fro, and the whole ship creaking, groaning, and jumping like a manufactory. I had to cling tight to the backstay, and the world turned giddily before my eyes, for though I was a good enough sailor when there was way on, this standing still and being rolled about like a bottle was a thing I never learned to stand without a qualm or so, above all in the morning, on an empty stomach.

Perhaps it was this -- perhaps it was the look of the island, with its grey, melancholy woods, and wild stone spires, and the surf that we could both see and hear foaming and thundering on the steep beach -- at least, although the sun shone bright and hot, and the shore birds were fishing and crying all around us, and you would have thought anyone would have been glad to get to land after being so long at sea, my heart sank, as the saying is, into my boots; and from the first look onward, I hated the very thought of Treasure Island.

We had a dreary morning's work before us, for there was no sign of any wind, and the boats had to be got out and manned, and the ship warped three or four miles round the corner of the island and up the narrow passage to the haven behind Skeleton Island. I volunteered for one of the boats, where I had, of course, no business. The heat was sweltering, and the men grumbled fiercely over their work. Anderson was in command of my boat, and instead of keeping the crew in order, he grumbled as loud as the worst.

"Well," he said with an oath, "it's not forever."

I thought this was a very bad sign, for up to that day the men had gone briskly and willingly about their business; but the very sight of the island had relaxed the cords of discipline.

All the way in, Long John stood by the steersman and conned the ship. He knew the passage like the palm of his hand, and though the man in the chains got everywhere more water than was down in the chart, John never hesitated once.

"There's a strong scour with the ebb," he said, "and this here passage has been dug out, in a manner of speaking, with a spade."

We brought up just where the anchor was in the chart, about a third of a mile from each shore, the mainland on one side and Skeleton Island on the other. The bottom was clean sand. The plunge of our anchor sent up clouds of birds wheeling and crying over the woods, but in less than a minute they were down again and all was once more silent.

The place was entirely land-locked, buried in woods, the trees coming right down to high-water mark, the shores mostly flat, and the hilltops standing round at a distance in a sort of amphitheatre, one here, one there. Two little rivers, or rather two swamps, emptied out into this pond, as you might call it; and the foliage round that part of the shore had a kind of poisonous brightness. From the ship we could see nothing of the house or stockade, for they were quite buried among trees; and if it had not been for the chart on the companion, we might have been the first that had ever anchored there since the island arose out of the seas.

There was not a breath of air moving, nor a sound but that of the surf booming half a mile away along the beaches and against the rocks outside. A peculiar stagnant smell hung over the anchorage -- a smell of sodden leaves and rotting tree trunks. I observed the doctor sniffing and sniffing, like someone tasting a bad egg.

"I don't know about treasure," he said, "but I'll stake my wig there's fever here."

If the conduct of the men had been alarming in the boat, it became truly threatening when they had come aboard. They lay about the deck growling together in talk. The slightest order was received with a black look and grudgingly and carelessly obeyed. Even the honest hands must have caught the infection, for there was not one man aboard to mend another. Mutiny, it was plain, hung over us like a thunder-cloud.

And it was not only we of the cabin party who perceived the danger. Long John was hard at work going from group to group, spending himself in good advice, and as for example no man could have shown a better. He fairly outstripped himself in willingness and civility; he was all smiles to everyone. If an order were given, John would be on his crutch in an instant, with the cheeriest "Aye, aye, sir!" in the world; and when there was nothing else to do, he kept up one song after another, as if to conceal the discontent of the rest.

Of all the gloomy features of that gloomy afternoon, this obvious anxiety on the part of Long John appeared the worst.

We held a council in the cabin.

"Sir," said the captain, "if I risk another order, the whole ship'll come about our ears by the run. You see, sir, here it is. I get a rough answer, do I not? Well, if I speak back, pikes will be going in two shakes; if I don't, Silver will see there's something under that, and the game's up. Now, we've only one man to rely on."

"And who is that?" asked the squire.

"Silver, sir," returned the captain; "he's as anxious as you and I to smother things up. This is a tiff; he'd soon talk 'em out of it if he had the chance, and what I propose to do is to give him the chance. Let's allow the men an afternoon ashore. If they all go, why we'll fight the ship. If they none of them go, well then, we hold the cabin, and God defend the right. If some go, you mark my words, sir, Silver'll bring 'em aboard again as mild as lambs."

It was so decided; loaded pistols were served out to all the sure men; Hunter, Joyce, and Redruth were taken into our confidence and received the news with less surprise and a better spirit than we had looked for, and then the captain went on deck and addressed the crew.

"My lads," said he, "we've had a hot day and are all tired and out of sorts. A turn ashore'll hurt nobody -- the boats are still in the water; you can take the gigs, and as many as please may go ashore for the afternoon. I'll fire a gun half an hour before sundown."

I believe the silly fellows must have thought they would break their shins over treasure as soon as they were landed, for they all came out of their sulks in a moment and gave a cheer that started the echo in a faraway hill and sent the birds once more flying and squalling round the anchorage.

The captain was too bright to be in the way. He whipped out of sight in a moment, leaving Silver to arrange the party, and I fancy it was as well he did so. Had he been on deck, he could no longer so much as have pretended not to understand the situation. It was as plain as day. Silver was the captain, and a mighty rebellious crew he had of it. The honest hands -- and I was soon to see it proved that there were such on board -- must have been very stupid fellows. Or rather, I suppose the truth was this, that all hands were disaffected by the example of the ringleaders -- only some more, some less; and a few, being good fellows in the main, could neither be led nor driven any further. It is one thing to be idle and skulk and quite another to take a ship and murder a number of innocent men.

At last, however, the party was made up. Six fellows were to stay on board, and the remaining thirteen, including Silver, began to embark.

Then it was that there came into my head the first of the mad notions that contributed so much to save our lives. If six men were left by Silver, it was plain our party could not take and fight the ship; and since only six were left, it was equally plain that the cabin party had no present need of my assistance. It occurred to me at once to go ashore. In a jiffy I had slipped over the side and curled up in the fore-sheets of the nearest boat, and almost at the same moment she shoved off.

No one took notice of me, only the bow oar saying, "Is that you, Jim? Keep your head down." But Silver, from the other boat, looked sharply over and called out to know if that were me; and from that moment I began to regret what I had done.

The crews raced for the beach, but the boat I was in, having some start and being at once the lighter and the better manned, shot far ahead of her consort, and the bow had struck among the shore-side trees and I had caught a branch and swung myself out and plunged into the nearest thicket while Silver and the rest were still a hundred yards behind.

"Jim, Jim!" I heard him shouting.

But you may suppose I paid no heed; jumping, ducking, and breaking through, I ran straight before my nose till I could run no longer.



14

The First Blow

I WAS so pleased at having given the slip to Long John that I began to enjoy myself and look around me with some interest on the strange land that I was in.

I had crossed a marshy tract full of willows, bulrushes, and odd, outlandish, swampy trees; and I had now come out upon the skirts of an open piece of undulating, sandy country, about a mile long, dotted with a few pines and a great number of contorted trees, not unlike the oak in growth, but pale in the foliage, like willows. On the far side of the open stood one of the hills, with two quaint, craggy peaks shining vividly in the sun.

I now felt for the first time the joy of exploration. The isle was uninhabited; my shipmates I had left behind, and nothing lived in front of me but dumb brutes and fowls. I turned hither and thither among the trees. Here and there were flowering plants, unknown to me; here and there I saw snakes, and one raised his head from a ledge of rock and hissed at me with a noise not unlike the spinning of a top. Little did I suppose that he was a deadly enemy and that the noise was the famous rattle.

Then I came to a long thicket of these oaklike trees -- live, or evergreen, oaks, I heard afterwards they should be called -- which grew low along the sand like brambles, the boughs curiously twisted, the foliage compact, like thatch. The thicket stretched down from the top of one of the sandy knolls, spreading and growing taller as it went, until it reached the margin of the broad, reedy fen, through which the nearest of the little rivers soaked its way into the anchorage. The marsh was steaming in the strong sun, and the outline of the Spy-glass trembled through the haze.

All at once there began to go a sort of bustle among the bulrushes; a wild duck flew up with a quack, another followed, and soon over the whole surface of the marsh a great cloud of birds hung screaming and circling in the air. I judged at once that some of my shipmates must be drawing near along the borders of the fen. Nor was I deceived, for soon I heard the very distant and low tones of a human voice, which, as I continued to give ear, grew steadily louder and nearer.

This put me in a great fear, and I crawled under cover of the nearest live-oak and squatted there, hearkening, as silent as a mouse.

Another voice answered, and then the first voice, which I now recognized to be Silver's, once more took up the story and ran on for a long while in a stream, only now and again interrupted by the other. By the sound they must have been talking earnestly, and almost fiercely; but no distinct word came to my hearing.

At last the speakers seemed to have paused and perhaps to have sat down, for not only did they cease to draw any nearer, but the birds themselves began to grow more quiet and to settle again to their places in the swamp.

And now I began to feel that I was neglecting my business, that since I had been so foolhardy as to come ashore with these desperadoes, the least I could do was to overhear them at their councils, and that my plain and obvious duty was to draw as close as I could manage, under the favourable ambush of the crouching trees.

I could tell the direction of the speakers pretty exactly, not only by the sound of their voices but by the behaviour of the few birds that still hung in alarm above the heads of the intruders.

Crawling on all fours, I made steadily but slowly towards them, till at last, raising my head to an aperture among the leaves, I could see clear down into a little green dell beside the marsh, and closely set about with trees, where Long John Silver and another of the crew stood face to face in conversation.

The sun beat full upon them. Silver had thrown his hat beside him on the ground, and his great, smooth, blond face, all shining with heat, was lifted to the other man's in a kind of appeal.

"Mate," he was saying, "it's because I thinks gold dust of you -- gold dust, and you may lay to that! If I hadn't took to you like pitch, do you think I'd have been here a-warning of you? All's up -- you can't make nor mend; it's to save your neck that I'm a-speaking, and if one of the wild uns knew it, where'd I be, Tom -- now, tell me, where'd I be?"

"Silver," said the other man -- and I observed he was not only red in the face, but spoke as hoarse as a crow, and his voice shook too, like a taut rope -- "Silver," says he, "you're old, and you're honest, or has the name for it; and you've money too, which lots of poor sailors hasn't; and you're brave, or I'm mistook. And will you tell me you'll let yourself be led away with that kind of a mess of swabs? Not you! As sure as God sees me, I'd sooner lose my hand. If I turn agin my dooty -- "

And then all of a sudden he was interrupted by a noise. I had found one of the honest hands -- well, here, at that same moment, came news of another. Far away out in the marsh there arose, all of a sudden, a sound like the cry of anger, then another on the back of it; and then one horrid, long-drawn scream. The rocks of the Spy-glass re-echoed it a score of times; the whole troop of marsh-birds rose again, darkening heaven, with a simultaneous whirr; and long after that death yell was still ringing in my brain, silence had re-established its empire, and only the rustle of the redescending birds and the boom of the distant surges disturbed the languor of the afternoon.

Tom had leaped at the sound, like a horse at the spur, but Silver had not winked an eye. He stood where he was, resting lightly on his crutch, watching his companion like a snake about to spring.

"John!" said the sailor, stretching out his hand.

"Hands off!" cried Silver, leaping back a yard, as it seemed to me, with the speed and security of a trained gymnast.

"Hands off, if you like, John Silver," said the other. "It's a black conscience that can make you feared of me. But in heaven's name, tell me, what was that?"

"That?" returned Silver, smiling away, but warier than ever, his eye a mere pin-point in his big face, but gleaming like a crumb of glass. "That? Oh, I reckon that'll be Alan."

And at this point Tom flashed out like a hero.

"Alan!" he cried. "Then rest his soul for a true seaman! And as for you, John Silver, long you've been a mate of mine, but you're mate of mine no more. If I die like a dog, I'll die in my dooty. You've killed Alan, have you? Kill me too, if you can. But I defies you."

And with that, this brave fellow turned his back directly on the cook and set off walking for the beach. But he was not destined to go far. With a cry John seized the branch of a tree, whipped the crutch out of his armpit, and sent that uncouth missile hurtling through the air. It struck poor Tom, point foremost, and with stunning violence, right between the shoulders in the middle of his back. His hands flew up, he gave a sort of gasp, and fell.

Whether he were injured much or little, none could ever tell. Like enough, to judge from the sound, his back was broken on the spot. But he had no time given him to recover. Silver, agile as a monkey even without leg or crutch, was on the top of him next moment and had twice buried his knife up to the hilt in that defenceless body. From my place of ambush, I could hear him pant aloud as he struck the blows.

I do not know what it rightly is to faint, but I do know that for the next little while the whole world swam away from before me in a whirling mist; Silver and the birds, and the tall Spy-glass hilltop, going round and round and topsy-turvy before my eyes, and all manner of bells ringing and distant voices shouting in my ear.

When I came again to myself the monster had pulled himself together, his crutch under his arm, his hat upon his head. Just before him Tom lay motionless upon the sward; but the murderer minded him not a whit, cleansing his blood-stained knife the while upon a wisp of grass. Everything else was unchanged, the sun still shining mercilessly on the steaming marsh and the tall pinnacle of the mountain, and I could scarce persuade myself that murder had been actually done and a human life cruelly cut short a moment since before my eyes.

But now John put his hand into his pocket, brought out a whistle, and blew upon it several modulated blasts that rang far across the heated air. I could not tell, of course, the meaning of the signal, but it instantly awoke my fears. More men would be coming. I might be discovered. They had already slain two of the honest people; after Tom and Alan, might not I come next?

Instantly I began to extricate myself and crawl back again, with what speed and silence I could manage, to the more open portion of the wood. As I did so, I could hear hails coming and going between the old buccaneer and his comrades, and this sound of danger lent me wings. As soon as I was clear of the thicket, I ran as I never ran before, scarce minding the direction of my flight, so long as it led me from the murderers; and as I ran, fear grew and grew upon me until it turned into a kind of frenzy.

Indeed, could anyone be more entirely lost than I? When the gun fired, how should I dare to go down to the boats among those fiends, still smoking from their crime? Would not the first of them who saw me wring my neck like a snipe's? Would not my absence itself be an evidence to them of my alarm, and therefore of my fatal knowledge? It was all over, I thought. Good-bye to the HISPANIOLA; good-bye to the squire, the doctor, and the captain! There was nothing left for me but death by starvation or death by the hands of the mutineers.

All this while, as I say, I was still running, and without taking any notice, I had drawn near to the foot of the little hill with the two peaks and had got into a part of the island where the live-oaks grew more widely apart and seemed more like forest trees in their bearing and dimensions. Mingled with these were a few scattered pines, some fifty, some nearer seventy, feet high. The air too smelt more freshly than down beside the marsh.

And here a fresh alarm brought me to a standstill with a thumping heart.



15

The Man of the Island

FROM the side of the hill, which was here steep and stony, a spout of gravel was dislodged and fell rattling and bounding through the trees. My eyes turned instinctively in that direction, and I saw a figure leap with great rapidity behind the trunk of a pine. What it was, whether bear or man or monkey, I could in no wise tell. It seemed dark and shaggy; more I knew not. But the terror of this new apparition brought me to a stand.

I was now, it seemed, cut off upon both sides; behind me the murderers, before me this lurking nondescript. And immediately I began to prefer the dangers that I knew to those I knew not. Silver himself appeared less terrible in contrast with this creature of the woods, and I turned on my heel, and looking sharply behind me over my shoulder, began to retrace my steps in the direction of the boats.

Instantly the figure reappeared, and making a wide circuit, began to head me off. I was tired, at any rate; but had I been as fresh as when I rose, I could see it was in vain for me to contend in speed with such an adversary. From trunk to trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running manlike on two legs, but unlike any man that I had ever seen, stooping almost double as it ran. Yet a man it was, I could no longer be in doubt about that.

I began to recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was within an ace of calling for help. But the mere fact that he was a man, however wild, had somewhat reassured me, and my fear of Silver began to revive in proportion. I stood still, therefore, and cast about for some method of escape; and as I was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed into my mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenceless, courage glowed again in my heart and I set my face resolutely for this man of the island and walked briskly towards him.

He was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; but he must have been watching me closely, for as soon as I began to move in his direction he reappeared and took a step to meet me. Then he hesitated, drew back, came forward again, and at last, to my wonder and confusion, threw himself on his knees and held out his clasped hands in supplication.

At that I once more stopped.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Ben Gunn," he answered, and his voice sounded hoarse and awkward, like a rusty lock. "I'm poor Ben Gunn, I am; and I haven't spoke with a Christian these three years."

I could now see that he was a white man like myself and that his features were even pleasing. His skin, wherever it was exposed, was burnt by the sun; even his lips were black, and his fair eyes looked quite startling in so dark a face. Of all the beggar-men that I had seen or fancied, he was the chief for raggedness. He was clothed with tatters of old ship's canvas and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork was all held together by a system of the most various and incongruous fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry gaskin. About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather belt, which was the one thing solid in his whole accoutrement.

"Three years!" I cried. "Were you shipwrecked?"

"Nay, mate," said he; "marooned."

I had heard the word, and I knew it stood for a horrible kind of punishment common enough among the buccaneers, in which the offender is put ashore with a little powder and shot and left behind on some desolate and distant island.

"Marooned three years agone," he continued, "and lived on goats since then, and berries, and oysters. Wherever a man is, says I, a man can do for himself. But, mate, my heart is sore for Christian diet. You mightn't happen to have a piece of cheese about you, now? No? Well, many's the long night I've dreamed of cheese -- toasted, mostly -- and woke up again, and here I were."

"If ever I can get aboard again," said I, "you shall have cheese by the stone."

All this time he had been feeling the stuff of my jacket, smoothing my hands, looking at my boots, and generally, in the intervals of his speech, showing a childish pleasure in the presence of a fellow creature. But at my last words he perked up into a kind of startled slyness.

"If ever you can get aboard again, says you?" he repeated. "Why, now, who's to hinder you?"

"Not you, I know," was my reply.

"And right you was," he cried. "Now you -- what do you call yourself, mate?"

"Jim," I told him.

"Jim, Jim," says he, quite pleased apparently. "Well, now, Jim, I've lived that rough as you'd be ashamed to hear of. Now, for instance, you wouldn't think I had had a pious mother -- to look at me?" he asked.

"Why, no, not in particular," I answered.

"Ah, well," said he, "but I had -- remarkable pious. And I was a civil, pious boy, and could rattle off my catechism that fast, as you couldn't tell one word from another. And here's what it come to, Jim, and it begun with chuck-farthen on the blessed grave-stones! That's what it begun with, but it went further'n that; and so my mother told me, and predicked the whole, she did, the pious woman! But it were Providence that put me here. I've thought it all out in this here lonely island, and I'm back on piety. You don't catch me tasting rum so much, but just a thimbleful for luck, of course, the first chance I have. I'm bound I'll be good, and I see the way to. And, Jim" -- looking all round him and lowering his voice to a whisper -- "I'm rich."

I now felt sure that the poor fellow had gone crazy in his solitude, and I suppose I must have shown the feeling in my face, for he repeated the statement hotly: "Rich! Rich! I says. And I'll tell you what: I'll make a man of you, Jim. Ah, Jim, you'll bless your stars, you will, you was the first that found me!"

And at this there came suddenly a lowering shadow over his face, and he tightened his grasp upon my hand and raised a forefinger threateningly before my eyes.

"Now, Jim, you tell me true: that ain't Flint's ship?" he asked.

At this I had a happy inspiration. I began to believe that I had found an ally, and I answered him at once.

"It's not Flint's ship, and Flint is dead; but I'll tell you true, as you ask me -- there are some of Flint's hands aboard; worse luck for the rest of us."

"Not a man -- with one -- leg?" he gasped.

"Silver?" I asked.

"Ah, Silver!" says he. "That were his name."

"He's the cook, and the ringleader too."

He was still holding me by the wrist, and at that he give it quite a wring.

"If you was sent by Long John," he said, "I'm as good as pork, and I know it. But where was you, do you suppose?"

I had made my mind up in a moment, and by way of answer told him the whole story of our voyage and the predicament in which we found ourselves. He heard me with the keenest interest, and when I had done he patted me on the head.

"You're a good lad, Jim," he said; "and you're all in a clove hitch, ain't you? Well, you just put your trust in Ben Gunn -- Ben Gunn's the man to do it. Would you think it likely, now, that your squire would prove a liberal-minded one in case of help -- him being in a clove hitch, as you remark?"

I told him the squire was the most liberal of men.

"Aye, but you see," returned Ben Gunn, "I didn't mean giving me a gate to keep, and a suit of livery clothes, and such; that's not my mark, Jim. What I mean is, would he be likely to come down to the toon of, say one thousand pounds out of money that's as good as a man's own already?"

"I am sure he would," said I. "As it was, all hands were to share."

"AND a passage home?" he added with a look of great shrewdness.

"Why," I cried, "the squire's a gentleman. And besides, if we got rid of the others, we should want you to help work the vessel home."

"Ah," said he, "so you would." And he seemed very much relieved.

"Now, I'll tell you what," he went on. "So much I'll tell you, and no more. I were in Flint's ship when he buried the treasure; he and six along -- six strong seamen. They was ashore nigh on a week, and us standing off and on in the old WALRUS. One fine day up went the signal, and here come Flint by himself in a little boat, and his head done up in a blue scarf. The sun was getting up, and mortal white he looked about the cutwater. But, there he was, you mind, and the six all dead -- dead and buried. How he done it, not a man aboard us could make out. It was battle, murder, and sudden death, leastways -- him against six. Billy Bones was the mate; Long John, he was quartermaster; and they asked him where the treasure was. 'Ah,' says he, 'you can go ashore, if you like, and stay,' he says; 'but as for the ship, she'll beat up for more, by thunder!' That's what he said.

"Well, I was in another ship three years back, and we sighted this island. 'Boys,' said I, 'here's Flint's treasure; let's land and find it.' The cap'n was displeased at that, but my messmates were all of a mind and landed. Twelve days they looked for it, and every day they had the worse word for me, until one fine morning all hands went aboard. 'As for you, Benjamin Gunn,' says they, 'here's a musket,' they says, 'and a spade, and pick-axe. You can stay here and find Flint's money for yourself,' they says.

"Well, Jim, three years have I been here, and not a bite of Christian diet from that day to this. But now, you look here; look at me. Do I look like a man before the mast? No, says you. Nor I weren't, neither, I says."

And with that he winked and pinched me hard.

"Just you mention them words to your squire, Jim," he went on. "Nor he weren't, neither -- that's the words. Three years he were the man of this island, light and dark, fair and rain; and sometimes he would maybe think upon a prayer (says you), and sometimes he would maybe think of his old mother, so be as she's alive (you'll say); but the most part of Gunn's time (this is what you'll say) -- the most part of his time was took up with another matter. And then you'll give him a nip, like I do."

And he pinched me again in the most confidential manner.

"Then," he continued, "then you'll up, and you'll say this: Gunn is a good man (you'll say), and he puts a precious sight more confidence -- a precious sight, mind that -- in a gen'leman born than in these gen'leman of fortune, having been one hisself."

"Well," I said, "I don't understand one word that you've been saying. But that's neither here nor there; for how am I to get on board?"

"Ah," said he, "that's the hitch, for sure. Well, there's my boat, that I made with my two hands. I keep her under the white rock. If the worst come to the worst, we might try that after dark. Hi!" he broke out. "What's that?"

For just then, although the sun had still an hour or two to run, all the echoes of the island awoke and bellowed to the thunder of a cannon.

"They have begun to fight!" I cried. "Follow me."

And I began to run towards the anchorage, my terrors all forgotten, while close at my side the marooned man in his goatskins trotted easily and lightly.

"Left, left," says he; "keep to your left hand, mate Jim! Under the trees with you! Theer's where I killed my first goat. They don't come down here now; they're all mastheaded on them mountings for the fear of Benjamin Gunn. Ah! And there's the cetemery" -- cemetery, he must have meant. "You see the mounds? I come here and prayed, nows and thens, when I thought maybe a Sunday would be about doo. It weren't quite a chapel, but it seemed more solemn like; and then, says you, Ben Gunn was short-handed -- no chapling, nor so much as a Bible and a flag, you says."

So he kept talking as I ran, neither expecting nor receiving any answer.

The cannon-shot was followed after a considerable interval by a volley of small arms.

Another pause, and then, not a quarter of a mile in front of me, I beheld the Union Jack flutter in the air above a wood.



PART FOUR -- The Stockade



16

Narrative Continued by the Doctor: How the Ship Was Abandoned

IT was about half past one -- three bells in the sea phrase -- that the two boats went ashore from the HISPANIOLA. The captain, the squire, and I were talking matters over in the cabin. Had there been a breath of wind, we should have fallen on the six mutineers who were left aboard with us, slipped our cable, and away to sea. But the wind was wanting; and to complete our helplessness, down came Hunter with the news that Jim Hawkins had slipped into a boat and was gone ashore with the rest.

It never occurred to us to doubt Jim Hawkins, but we were alarmed for his safety. With the men in the temper they were in, it seemed an even chance if we should see the lad again. We ran on deck. The pitch was bubbling in the seams; the nasty stench of the place turned me sick; if ever a man smelt fever and dysentery, it was in that abominable anchorage. The six scoundrels were sitting grumbling under a sail in the forecastle; ashore we could see the gigs made fast and a man sitting in each, hard by where the river runs in. One of them was whistling "Lillibullero."

Waiting was a strain, and it was decided that Hunter and I should go ashore with the jolly-boat in quest of information.

The gigs had leaned to their right, but Hunter and I pulled straight in, in the direction of the stockade upon the chart. The two who were left guarding their boats seemed in a bustle at our appearance; "Lillibullero" stopped off, and I could see the pair discussing what they ought to do. Had they gone and told Silver, all might have turned out differently; but they had their orders, I suppose, and decided to sit quietly where they were and hark back again to "Lillibullero."

There was a slight bend in the coast, and I steered so as to put it between us; even before we landed we had thus lost sight of the gigs. I jumped out and came as near running as I durst, with a big silk handkerchief under my hat for coolness' sake and a brace of pistols ready primed for safety.

I had not gone a hundred yards when I reached the stockade.

This was how it was: a spring of clear water rose almost at the top of a knoll. Well, on the knoll, and enclosing the spring, they had clapped a stout loghouse fit to hold two score of people on a pinch and loopholed for musketry on either side. All round this they had cleared a wide space, and then the thing was completed by a paling six feet high, without door or opening, too strong to pull down without time and labour and too open to shelter the besiegers. The people in the log-house had them in every way; they stood quiet in shelter and shot the others like partridges. All they wanted was a good watch and food; for, short of a complete surprise, they might have held the place against a regiment.

What particularly took my fancy was the spring. For though we had a good enough place of it in the cabin of the HISPANIOLA, with plenty of arms and ammunition, and things to eat, and excellent wines, there had been one thing overlooked -- we had no water. I was thinking this over when there came ringing over the island the cry of a man at the point of death. I was not new to violent death -- I have served his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland, and got a wound myself at Fontenoy -- but I know my pulse went dot and carry one. "Jim Hawkins is gone," was my first thought.

It is something to have been an old soldier, but more still to have been a doctor. There is no time to dilly-dally in our work. And so now I made up my mind instantly, and with no time lost returned to the shore and jumped on board the jolly-boat.

By good fortune Hunter pulled a good oar. We made the water fly, and the boat was soon alongside and I aboard the schooner.

I found them all shaken, as was natural. The squire was sitting down, as white as a sheet, thinking of the harm he had led us to, the good soul! And one of the six forecastle hands was little better.

"There's a man," says Captain Smollett, nodding towards him, "new to this work. He came nigh-hand fainting, doctor, when he heard the cry. Another touch of the rudder and that man would join us."

I told my plan to the captain, and between us we settled on the details of its accomplishment.

We put old Redruth in the gallery between the cabin and the forecastle, with three or four loaded muskets and a mattress for protection. Hunter brought the boat round under the stern-port, and Joyce and I set to work loading her with powder tins, muskets, bags of biscuits, kegs of pork, a cask of cognac, and my invaluable medicine chest.

In the meantime, the squire and the captain stayed on deck, and the latter hailed the coxswain, who was the principal man aboard.

"Mr. Hands," he said, "here are two of us with a brace of pistols each. If any one of you six make a signal of any description, that man's dead."

They were a good deal taken aback, and after a little consultation one and all tumbled down the fore companion, thinking no doubt to take us on the rear. But when they saw Redruth waiting for them in the sparred galley, they went about ship at once, and a head popped out again on deck.

"Down, dog!" cries the captain.

And the head popped back again; and we heard no more, for the time, of these six very faint-hearted seamen.

By this time, tumbling things in as they came, we had the jolly-boat loaded as much as we dared. Joyce and I got out through the stern-port, and we made for shore again as fast as oars could take us.

This second trip fairly aroused the watchers along shore. "Lillibullero" was dropped again; and just before we lost sight of them behind the little point, one of them whipped ashore and disappeared. I had half a mind to change my plan and destroy their boats, but I feared that Silver and the others might be close at hand, and all might very well be lost by trying for too much.

We had soon touched land in the same place as before and set to provision the block house. All three made the first journey, heavily laden, and tossed our stores over the palisade. Then, leaving Joyce to guard them -- one man, to be sure, but with half a dozen muskets -- Hunter and I returned to the jolly-boat and loaded ourselves once more. So we proceeded without pausing to take breath, till the whole cargo was bestowed, when the two servants took up their position in the block house, and I, with all my power, sculled back to the HISPANIOLA.

That we should have risked a second boat load seems more daring than it really was. They had the advantage of numbers, of course, but we had the advantage of arms. Not one of the men ashore had a musket, and before they could get within range for pistol shooting, we flattered ourselves we should be able to give a good account of a half-dozen at least.

The squire was waiting for me at the stern window, all his faintness gone from him. He caught the painter and made it fast, and we fell to loading the boat for our very lives. Pork, powder, and biscuit was the cargo, with only a musket and a cutlass apiece for the squire and me and Redruth and the captain. The rest of the arms and powder we dropped overboard in two fathoms and a half of water, so that we could see the bright steel shining far below us in the sun, on the clean, sandy bottom.

By this time the tide was beginning to ebb, and the ship was swinging round to her anchor. Voices were heard faintly halloaing in the direction of the two gigs; and though this reassured us for Joyce and Hunter, who were well to the eastward, it warned our party to be off.

Redruth retreated from his place in the gallery and dropped into the boat, which we then brought round to the ship's counter, to be handier for Captain Smollett.

"Now, men," said he, "do you hear me?"

There was no answer from the forecastle.

"It's to you, Abraham Gray -- it's to you I am speaking."

Still no reply.

"Gray," resumed Mr. Smollett, a little louder, "I am leaving this ship, and I order you to follow your captain. I know you are a good man at bottom, and I dare say not one of the lot of you's as bad as he makes out. I have my watch here in my hand; I give you thirty seconds to join me in."

There was a pause.

"Come, my fine fellow," continued the captain; "don't hang so long in stays. I'm risking my life and the lives of these good gentlemen every second."

There was a sudden scuffle, a sound of blows, and out burst Abraham Gray with a knife cut on the side of the cheek, and came running to the captain like a dog to the whistle.

"I'm with you, sir," said he.

And the next moment he and the captain had dropped aboard of us, and we had shoved off and given way.

We were clear out of the ship, but not yet ashore in our stockade.



17

Narrative Continued by the Doctor: The Jolly-boat's Last Trip

THIS fifth trip was quite different from any of the others. In the first place, the little gallipot of a boat that we were in was gravely overloaded. Five grown men, and three of them -- Trelawney, Redruth, and the captain -- over six feet high, was already more than she was meant to carry. Add to that the powder, pork, and bread-bags. The gunwale was lipping astern. Several times we shipped a little water, and my breeches and the tails of my coat were all soaking wet before we had gone a hundred yards.

The captain made us trim the boat, and we got her to lie a little more evenly. All the same, we were afraid to breathe.

In the second place, the ebb was now making -- a strong rippling current running westward through the basin, and then south'ard and seaward down the straits by which we had entered in the morning. Even the ripples were a danger to our overloaded craft, but the worst of it was that we were swept out of our true course and away from our proper landing-place behind the point. If we let the current have its way we should come ashore beside the gigs, where the pirates might appear at any moment.

"I cannot keep her head for the stockade, sir," said I to the captain. I was steering, while he and Redruth, two fresh men, were at the oars. "The tide keeps washing her down. Could you pull a little stronger?"

"Not without swamping the boat," said he. "You must bear up, sir, if you please -- bear up until you see you're gaining."

I tried and found by experiment that the tide kept sweeping us westward until I had laid her head due east, or just about right angles to the way we ought to go.

"We'll never get ashore at this rate," said I.

"If it's the only course that we can lie, sir, we must even lie it," returned the captain. "We must keep upstream. You see, sir," he went on, "if once we dropped to leeward of the landing-place, it's hard to say where we should get ashore, besides the chance of being boarded by the gigs; whereas, the way we go the current must slacken, and then we can dodge back along the shore."

"The current's less a'ready, sir," said the man Gray, who was sitting in the fore-sheets; "you can ease her off a bit."

"Thank you, my man," said I, quite as if nothing had happened, for we had all quietly made up our minds to treat him like one of ourselves.

Suddenly the captain spoke up again, and I thought his voice was a little changed.

"The gun!" said he.

"I have thought of that," said I, for I made sure he was thinking of a bombardment of the fort. "They could never get the gun ashore, and if they did, they could never haul it through the woods."

"Look astern, doctor," replied the captain.

We had entirely forgotten the long nine; and there, to our horror, were the five rogues busy about her, getting off her jacket, as they called the stout tarpaulin cover under which she sailed. Not only that, but it flashed into my mind at the same moment that the round-shot and the powder for the gun had been left behind, and a stroke with an axe would put it all into the possession of the evil ones abroad.

"Israel was Flint's gunner," said Gray hoarsely.

At any risk, we put the boat's head direct for the landing-place. By this time we had got so far out of the run of the current that we kept steerage way even at our necessarily gentle rate of rowing, and I could keep her steady for the goal. But the worst of it was that with the course I now held we turned our broadside instead of our stern to the HISPANIOLA and offered a target like a barn door.

I could hear as well as see that brandy-faced rascal Israel Hands plumping down a round-shot on the deck.

"Who's the best shot?" asked the captain.

"Mr. Trelawney, out and away," said I.

"Mr. Trelawney, will you please pick me off one of these men, sir? Hands, if possible," said the captain.

Trelawney was as cool as steel. He looked to the priming of his gun.

"Now," cried the captain, "easy with that gun, sir, or you'll swamp the boat. All hands stand by to trim her when he aims."

The squire raised his gun, the rowing ceased, and we leaned over to the other side to keep the balance, and all was so nicely contrived that we did not ship a drop.

They had the gun, by this time, slewed round upon the swivel, and Hands, who was at the muzzle with the rammer, was in consequence the most exposed. However, we had no luck, for just as Trelawney fired, down he stooped, the ball whistled over him, and it was one of the other four who fell.

The cry he gave was echoed not only by his companions on board but by a great number of voices from the shore, and looking in that direction I saw the other pirates trooping out from among the trees and tumbling into their places in the boats.

"Here come the gigs, sir," said I.

"Give way, then," cried the captain. "We mustn't mind if we swamp her now. If we can't get ashore, all's up."

"Only one of the gigs is being manned, sir," I added; "the crew of the other most likely going round by shore to cut us off."

"They'll have a hot run, sir," returned the captain. "Jack ashore, you know. It's not them I mind; it's the round-shot. Carpet bowls! My lady's maid couldn't miss. Tell us, squire, when you see the match, and we'll hold water."

In the meanwhile we had been making headway at a good pace for a boat so overloaded, and we had shipped but little water in the process. We were now close in; thirty or forty strokes and we should beach her, for the ebb had already disclosed a narrow belt of sand below the clustering trees. The gig was no longer to be feared; the little point had already concealed it from our eyes. The ebb-tide, which had so cruelly delayed us, was now making reparation and delaying our assailants. The one source of danger was the gun.

"If I durst," said the captain, "I'd stop and pick off another man."

But it was plain that they meant nothing should delay their shot. They had never so much as looked at their fallen comrade, though he was not dead, and I could see him trying to crawl away.

"Ready!" cried the squire.

"Hold!" cried the captain, quick as an echo.

And he and Redruth backed with a great heave that sent her stern bodily under water. The report fell in at the same instant of time. This was the first that Jim heard, the sound of the squire's shot not having reached him. Where the ball passed, not one of us precisely knew, but I fancy it must have been over our heads and that the wind of it may have contributed to our disaster.

At any rate, the boat sank by the stern, quite gently, in three feet of water, leaving the captain and myself, facing each other, on our feet. The other three took complete headers, and came up again drenched and bubbling.

So far there was no great harm. No lives were lost, and we could wade ashore in safety. But there were all our stores at the bottom, and to make things worse, only two guns out of five remained in a state for service. Mine I had snatched from my knees and held over my head, by a sort of instinct. As for the captain, he had carried his over his shoulder by a bandoleer, and like a wise man, lock uppermost. The other three had gone down with the boat.

To add to our concern, we heard voices already drawing near us in the woods along shore, and we had not only the danger of being cut off from the stockade in our half-crippled state but the fear before us whether, if Hunter and Joyce were attacked by half a dozen, they would have the sense and conduct to stand firm. Hunter was steady, that we knew; Joyce was a doubtful case -- a pleasant, polite man for a valet and to brush one's clothes, but not entirely fitted for a man of war.

With all this in our minds, we waded ashore as fast as we could, leaving behind us the poor jolly-boat and a good half of all our powder and provisions.



18

Narrative Continued by the Doctor: End of the First Day's Fighting

WE made our best speed across the strip of wood that now divided us from the stockade, and at every step we took the voices of the buccaneers rang nearer. Soon we could hear their footfalls as they ran and the cracking of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket.

I began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest and looked to my priming.

"Captain," said I, "Trelawney is the dead shot. Give him your gun; his own is useless."

They exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool as he had been since the beginning of the bustle, hung a moment on his heel to see that all was fit for service. At the same time, observing Gray to be unarmed, I handed him my cutlass. It did all our hearts good to see him spit in his hand, knit his brows, and make the blade sing through the air. It was plain from every line of his body that our new hand was worth his salt.

Forty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and saw the stockade in front of us. We struck the enclosure about the middle of the south side, and almost at the same time, seven mutineers -- Job Anderson, the boatswain, at their head -- appeared in full cry at the southwestern corner.

They paused as if taken aback, and before they recovered, not only the squire and I, but Hunter and Joyce from the block house, had time to fire. The four shots came in rather a scattering volley, but they did the business: one of the enemy actually fell, and the rest, without hesitation, turned and plunged into the trees.

After reloading, we walked down the outside of the palisade to see to the fallen enemy. He was stone dead -- shot through the heart.

We began to rejoice over our good success when just at that moment a pistol cracked in the bush, a ball whistled close past my ear, and poor Tom Redruth stumbled and fell his length on the ground. Both the squire and I returned the shot, but as we had nothing to aim at, it is probable we only wasted powder. Then we reloaded and turned our attention to poor Tom.

The captain and Gray were already examining him, and I saw with half an eye that all was over.

I believe the readiness of our return volley had scattered the mutineers once more, for we were suffered without further molestation to get the poor old gamekeeper hoisted over the stockade and carried, groaning and bleeding, into the log-house.

Poor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise, complaint, fear, or even acquiescence from the very beginning of our troubles till now, when we had laid him down in the log-house to die. He had lain like a Trojan behind his mattress in the gallery; he had followed every order silently, doggedly, and well; he was the oldest of our party by a score of years; and now, sullen, old, serviceable servant, it was he that was to die.

The squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand, crying like a child.

"Be I going, doctor?" he asked.

"Tom, my man," said I, "you're going home."

"I wish I had had a lick at them with the gun first," he replied.

"Tom," said the squire, "say you forgive me, won't you?"

"Would that be respectful like, from me to you, squire?" was the answer. "Howsoever, so be it, amen!"

After a little while of silence, he said he thought somebody might read a prayer. "It's the custom, sir," he added apologetically. And not long after, without another word, he passed away.

In the meantime the captain, whom I had observed to be wonderfully swollen about the chest and pockets, had turned out a great many various stores -- the British colours, a Bible, a coil of stoutish rope, pen, ink, the log-book, and pounds of tobacco. He had found a longish fir-tree lying felled and trimmed in the enclosure, and with the help of Hunter he had set it up at the corner of the log-house where the trunks crossed and made an angle. Then, climbing on the roof, he had with his own hand bent and run up the colours.

This seemed mightily to relieve him. He re-entered the log-house and set about counting up the stores as if nothing else existed. But he had an eye on Tom's passage for all that, and as soon as all was over, came forward with another flag and reverently spread it on the body.

"Don't you take on, sir," he said, shaking the squire's hand. "All's well with him; no fear for a hand that's been shot down in his duty to captain and owner. It mayn't be good divinity, but it's a fact."

Then he pulled me aside.

"Dr. Livesey," he said, "in how many weeks do you and squire expect the consort?"

I told him it was a question not of weeks but of months, that if we were not back by the end of August Blandly was to send to find us, but neither sooner nor later. "You can calculate for yourself," I said.

"Why, yes," returned the captain, scratching his head; "and making a large allowance, sir, for all the gifts of Providence, I should say we were pretty close hauled."

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"It's a pity, sir, we lost that second load. That's what I mean," replied the captain. "As for powder and shot, we'll do. But the rations are short, very short -- so short, Dr. Livesey, that we're perhaps as well without that extra mouth."

And he pointed to the dead body under the flag.

Just then, with a roar and a whistle, a round-shot passed high above the roof of the log-house and plumped far beyond us in the wood.

"Oho!" said the captain. "Blaze away! You've little enough powder already, my lads."

At the second trial, the aim was better, and the ball descended inside the stockade, scattering a cloud of sand but doing no further damage.

"Captain," said the squire, "the house is quite invisible from the ship. It must be the flag they are aiming at. Would it not be wiser to take it in?"

"Strike my colours!" cried the captain. "No, sir, not I"; and as soon as he had said the words, I think we all agreed with him. For it was not only a piece of stout, seamanly, good feeling; it was good policy besides and showed our enemies that we despised their cannonade.

All through the evening they kept thundering away. Ball after ball flew over or fell short or kicked up the sand in the enclosure, but they had to fire so high that the shot fell dead and buried itself in the soft sand. We had no ricochet to fear, and though one popped in through the roof of the log-house and out again through the floor, we soon got used to that sort of horse-play and minded it no more than cricket.

"There is one good thing about all this," observed the captain; "the wood in front of us is likely clear. The ebb has made a good while; our stores should be uncovered. Volunteers to go and bring in pork."

Gray and Hunter were the first to come forward. Well armed, they stole out of the stockade, but it proved a useless mission. The mutineers were bolder than we fancied or they put more trust in Israel's gunnery. For four or five of them were busy carrying off our stores and wading out with them to one of the gigs that lay close by, pulling an oar or so to hold her steady against the current. Silver was in the stern-sheets in command; and every man of them was now provided with a musket from some secret magazine of their own.

The captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry:

Alexander Smollett, master; David Livesey, ship's doctor; Abraham Gray, carpenter's mate; John Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and Richard Joyce, owner's servants, landsmen -- being all that is left faithful of the ship's company -- with stores for ten days at short rations, came ashore this day and flew British colours on the log-house in Treasure Island. Thomas Redruth, owner's servant, landsman, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin-boy -- 

And at the same time, I was wondering over poor Jim Hawkins' fate.

A hail on the land side.

"Somebody hailing us," said Hunter, who was on guard.

"Doctor! Squire! Captain! Hullo, Hunter, is that you?" came the cries.

And I ran to the door in time to see Jim Hawkins, safe and sound, come climbing over the stockade.



19

Narrative Resumed by Jim Hawkins: The Garrison in the Stockade

AS soon as Ben Gunn saw the colours he came to a halt, stopped me by the arm, and sat down.

"Now," said he, "there's your friends, sure enough."

"Far more likely it's the mutineers," I answered.

"That!" he cried. "Why, in a place like this, where nobody puts in but gen'lemen of fortune, Silver would fly the Jolly Roger, you don't make no doubt of that. No, that's your friends. There's been blows too, and I reckon your friends has had the best of it; and here they are ashore in the old stockade, as was made years and years ago by Flint. Ah, he was the man to have a headpiece, was Flint! Barring rum, his match were never seen. He were afraid of none, not he; on'y Silver -- Silver was that genteel."

"Well," said I, "that may be so, and so be it; all the more reason that I should hurry on and join my friends."

"Nay, mate," returned Ben, "not you. You're a good boy, or I'm mistook; but you're on'y a boy, all told. Now, Ben Gunn is fly. Rum wouldn't bring me there, where you're going -- not rum wouldn't, till I see your born gen'leman and gets it on his word of honour. And you won't forget my words; 'A precious sight (that's what you'll say), a precious sight more confidence' -- and then nips him."

And he pinched me the third time with the same air of cleverness.

"And when Ben Gunn is wanted, you know where to find him, Jim. Just wheer you found him today. And him that comes is to have a white thing in his hand, and he's to come alone. Oh! And you'll say this: 'Ben Gunn,' says you, 'has reasons of his own.'"

"Well," said I, "I believe I understand. You have something to propose, and you wish to see the squire or the doctor, and you're to be found where I found you. Is that all?"

"And when? says you," he added. "Why, from about noon observation to about six bells."

"Good," said I, "and now may I go?"

"You won't forget?" he inquired anxiously. "Precious sight, and reasons of his own, says you. Reasons of his own; that's the mainstay; as between man and man. Well, then" -- still holding me -- "I reckon you can go, Jim. And, Jim, if you was to see Silver, you wouldn't go for to sell Ben Gunn? Wild horses wouldn't draw it from you? No, says you. And if them pirates camp ashore, Jim, what would you say but there'd be widders in the morning?"

Here he was interrupted by a loud report, and a cannonball came tearing through the trees and pitched in the sand not a hundred yards from where we two were talking. The next moment each of us had taken to his heels in a different direction.

For a good hour to come frequent reports shook the island, and balls kept crashing through the woods. I moved from hiding-place to hiding-place, always pursued, or so it seemed to me, by these terrifying missiles. But towards the end of the bombardment, though still I durst not venture in the direction of the stockade, where the balls fell oftenest, I had begun, in a manner, to pluck up my heart again, and after a long detour to the east, crept down among the shore-side trees.

The sun had just set, the sea breeze was rustling and tumbling in the woods and ruffling the grey surface of the anchorage; the tide, too, was far out, and great tracts of sand lay uncovered; the air, after the heat of the day, chilled me through my jacket.

The HISPANIOLA still lay where she had anchored; but, sure enough, there was the Jolly Roger -- the black flag of piracy -- flying from her peak. Even as I looked, there came another red flash and another report that sent the echoes clattering, and one more round-shot whistled through the air. It was the last of the cannonade.

I lay for some time watching the bustle which succeeded the attack. Men were demolishing something with axes on the beach near the stockade -- the poor jolly-boat, I afterwards discovered. Away, near the mouth of the river, a great fire was glowing among the trees, and between that point and the ship one of the gigs kept coming and going, the men, whom I had seen so gloomy, shouting at the oars like children. But there was a sound in their voices which suggested rum.

At length I thought I might return towards the stockade. I was pretty far down on the low, sandy spit that encloses the anchorage to the east, and is joined at half-water to Skeleton Island; and now, as I rose to my feet, I saw, some distance further down the spit and rising from among low bushes, an isolated rock, pretty high, and peculiarly white in colour. It occurred to me that this might be the white rock of which Ben Gunn had spoken and that some day or other a boat might be wanted and I should know where to look for one.

Then I skirted among the woods until I had regained the rear, or shoreward side, of the stockade, and was soon warmly welcomed by the faithful party.

I had soon told my story and began to look about me. The log-house was made of unsquared trunks of pine -- roof, walls, and floor. The latter stood in several places as much as a foot or a foot and a half above the surface of the sand. There was a porch at the door, and under this porch the little spring welled up into an artificial basin of a rather odd kind -- no other than a great ship's kettle of iron, with the bottom knocked out, and sunk "to her bearings," as the captain said, among the sand.

Little had been left besides the framework of the house, but in one corner there was a stone slab laid down by way of hearth and an old rusty iron basket to contain the fire.

The slopes of the knoll and all the inside of the stockade had been cleared of timber to build the house, and we could see by the stumps what a fine and lofty grove had been destroyed. Most of the soil had been washed away or buried in drift after the removal of the trees; only where the streamlet ran down from the kettle a thick bed of moss and some ferns and little creeping bushes were still green among the sand. Very close around the stockade -- too close for defence, they said -- the wood still flourished high and dense, all of fir on the land side, but towards the sea with a large admixture of live-oaks.

The cold evening breeze, of which I have spoken, whistled through every chink of the rude building and sprinkled the floor with a continual rain of fine sand. There was sand in our eyes, sand in our teeth, sand in our suppers, sand dancing in the spring at the bottom of the kettle, for all the world like porridge beginning to boil. Our chimney was a square hole in the roof; it was but a little part of the smoke that found its way out, and the rest eddied about the house and kept us coughing and piping the eye.

Add to this that Gray, the new man, had his face tied up in a bandage for a cut he had got in breaking away from the mutineers and that poor old Tom Redruth, still unburied, lay along the wall, stiff and stark, under the Union Jack.

If we had been allowed to sit idle, we should all have fallen in the blues, but Captain Smollett was never the man for that. All hands were called up before him, and he divided us into watches. The doctor and Gray and I for one; the squire, Hunter, and Joyce upon the other. Tired though we all were, two were sent out for firewood; two more were set to dig a grave for Redruth; the doctor was named cook; I was put sentry at the door; and the captain himself went from one to another, keeping up our spirits and lending a hand wherever it was wanted.

From time to time the doctor came to the door for a little air and to rest his eyes, which were almost smoked out of his head, and whenever he did so, he had a word for me.

"That man Smollett," he said once, "is a better man than I am. And when I say that it means a deal, Jim."

Another time he came and was silent for a while. Then he put his head on one side, and looked at me.

"Is this Ben Gunn a man?" he asked.

"I do not know, sir," said I. "I am not very sure whether he's sane."

"If there's any doubt about the matter, he is," returned the doctor. "A man who has been three years biting his nails on a desert island, Jim, can't expect to appear as sane as you or me. It doesn't lie in human nature. Was it cheese you said he had a fancy for?"

"Yes, sir, cheese," I answered.

"Well, Jim," says he, "just see the good that comes of being dainty in your food. You've seen my snuff-box, haven't you? And you never saw me take snuff, the reason being that in my snuff-box I carry a piece of Parmesan cheese -- a cheese made in Italy, very nutritious. Well, that's for Ben Gunn!"

Before supper was eaten we buried old Tom in the sand and stood round him for a while bare-headed in the breeze. A good deal of firewood had been got in, but not enough for the captain's fancy, and he shook his head over it and told us we "must get back to this tomorrow rather livelier." Then, when we had eaten our pork and each had a good stiff glass of brandy grog, the three chiefs got together in a corner to discuss our prospects.

It appears they were at their wits' end what to do, the stores being so low that we must have been starved into surrender long before help came. But our best hope, it was decided, was to kill off the buccaneers until they either hauled down their flag or ran away with the HISPANIOLA. From nineteen they were already reduced to fifteen, two others were wounded, and one at least -- the man shot beside the gun -- severely wounded, if he were not dead. Every time we had a crack at them, we were to take it, saving our own lives, with the extremest care. And besides that, we had two able allies -- rum and the climate.

As for the first, though we were about half a mile away, we could hear them roaring and singing late into the night; and as for the second, the doctor staked his wig that, camped where they were in the marsh and unprovided with remedies, the half of them would be on their backs before a week.

"So," he added, "if we are not all shot down first they'll be glad to be packing in the schooner. It's always a ship, and they can get to buccaneering again, I suppose."

"First ship that ever I lost," said Captain Smollett.

I was dead tired, as you may fancy; and when I got to sleep, which was not till after a great deal of tossing, I slept like a log of wood.

The rest had long been up and had already breakfasted and increased the pile of firewood by about half as much again when I was wakened by a bustle and the sound of voices.

"Flag of truce!" I heard someone say; and then, immediately after, with a cry of surprise, "Silver himself!"

And at that, up I jumped, and rubbing my eyes, ran to a loophole in the wall.



20

Silver's Embassy

SURE enough, there were two men just outside the stockade, one of them waving a white cloth, the other, no less a person than Silver himself, standing placidly by.

It was still quite early, and the coldest morning that I think I ever was abroad in -- a chill that pierced into the marrow. The sky was bright and cloudless overhead, and the tops of the trees shone rosily in the sun. But where Silver stood with his lieutenant, all was still in shadow, and they waded knee-deep in a low white vapour that had crawled during the night out of the morass. The chill and the vapour taken together told a poor tale of the island. It was plainly a damp, feverish, unhealthy spot.

"Keep indoors, men," said the captain. "Ten to one this is a trick."

Then he hailed the buccaneer.

"Who goes? Stand, or we fire."

"Flag of truce," cried Silver.

The captain was in the porch, keeping himself carefully out of the way of a treacherous shot, should any be intended. He turned and spoke to us, "Doctor's watch on the lookout. Dr. Livesey take the north side, if you please; Jim, the east; Gray, west. The watch below, all hands to load muskets. Lively, men, and careful."

And then he turned again to the mutineers.

"And what do you want with your flag of truce?" he cried.

This time it was the other man who replied.

"Cap'n Silver, sir, to come on board and make terms," he shouted.

"Cap'n Silver! Don't know him. Who's he?" cried the captain. And we could hear him adding to himself, "Cap'n, is it? My heart, and here's promotion!"

Long John answered for himself. "Me, sir. These poor lads have chosen me cap'n, after your desertion, sir" -- laying a particular emphasis upon the word "desertion." "We're willing to submit, if we can come to terms, and no bones about it. All I ask is your word, Cap'n Smollett, to let me safe and sound out of this here stockade, and one minute to get out o' shot before a gun is fired."

"My man," said Captain Smollett, "I have not the slightest desire to talk to you. If you wish to talk to me, you can come, that's all. If there's any treachery, it'll be on your side, and the Lord help you."

"That's enough, cap'n," shouted Long John cheerily. "A word from you's enough. I know a gentleman, and you may lay to that."

We could see the man who carried the flag of truce attempting to hold Silver back. Nor was that wonderful, seeing how cavalier had been the captain's answer. But Silver laughed at him aloud and slapped him on the back as if the idea of alarm had been absurd. Then he advanced to the stockade, threw over his crutch, got a leg up, and with great vigour and skill succeeded in surmounting the fence and dropping safely to the other side.

I will confess that I was far too much taken up with what was going on to be of the slightest use as sentry; indeed, I had already deserted my eastern loophole and crept up behind the captain, who had now seated himself on the threshold, with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and his eyes fixed on the water as it bubbled out of the old iron kettle in the sand. He was whistling "Come, Lasses and Lads."

Silver had terrible hard work getting up the knoll. What with the steepness of the incline, the thick tree stumps, and the soft sand, he and his crutch were as helpless as a ship in stays. But he stuck to it like a man in silence, and at last arrived before the captain, whom he saluted in the handsomest style. He was tricked out in his best; an immense blue coat, thick with brass buttons, hung as low as to his knees, and a fine laced hat was set on the back of his head.

"Here you are, my man," said the captain, raising his head. "You had better sit down."

"You ain't a-going to let me inside, cap'n?" complained Long John. "It's a main cold morning, to be sure, sir, to sit outside upon the sand."

"Why, Silver," said the captain, "if you had pleased to be an honest man, you might have been sitting in your galley. It's your own doing. You're either my ship's cook -- and then you were treated handsome -- or Cap'n Silver, a common mutineer and pirate, and then you can go hang!"

"Well, well, cap'n," returned the sea-cook, sitting down as he was bidden on the sand, "you'll have to give me a hand up again, that's all. A sweet pretty place you have of it here. Ah, there's Jim! The top of the morning to you, Jim. Doctor, here's my service. Why, there you all are together like a happy family, in a manner of speaking."

"If you have anything to say, my man, better say it," said the captain.

"Right you were, Cap'n Smollett," replied Silver. "Dooty is dooty, to be sure. Well now, you look here, that was a good lay of yours last night. I don't deny it was a good lay. Some of you pretty handy with a handspike-end. And I'll not deny neither but what some of my people was shook -- maybe all was shook; maybe I was shook myself; maybe that's why I'm here for terms. But you mark me, cap'n, it won't do twice, by thunder! We'll have to do sentry-go and ease off a point or so on the rum. Maybe you think we were all a sheet in the wind's eye. But I'll tell you I was sober; I was on'y dog tired; and if I'd awoke a second sooner, I'd 'a caught you at the act, I would. He wasn't dead when I got round to him, not he."

"Well?" says Captain Smollett as cool as can be.

All that Silver said was a riddle to him, but you would never have guessed it from his tone. As for me, I began to have an inkling. Ben Gunn's last words came back to my mind. I began to suppose that he had paid the buccaneers a visit while they all lay drunk together round their fire, and I reckoned up with glee that we had only fourteen enemies to deal with.

"Well, here it is," said Silver. "We want that treasure, and we'll have it -- that's our point! You would just as soon save your lives, I reckon; and that's yours. You have a chart, haven't you?"

"That's as may be," replied the captain.

"Oh, well, you have, I know that," returned Long John. "You needn't be so husky with a man; there ain't a particle of service in that, and you may lay to it. What I mean is, we want your chart. Now, I never meant you no harm, myself."

"That won't do with me, my man," interrupted the captain. "We know exactly what you meant to do, and we don't care, for now, you see, you can't do it."

And the captain looked at him calmly and proceeded to fill a pipe.

"If Abe Gray -- " Silver broke out.

"Avast there!" cried Mr. Smollett. "Gray told me nothing, and I asked him nothing; and what's more, I would see you and him and this whole island blown clean out of the water into blazes first. So there's my mind for you, my man, on that."

This little whiff of temper seemed to cool Silver down. He had been growing nettled before, but now he pulled himself together.

"Like enough," said he. "I would set no limits to what gentlemen might consider shipshape, or might not, as the case were. And seein' as how you are about to take a pipe, cap'n, I'll make so free as do likewise."

And he filled a pipe and lighted it; and the two men sat silently smoking for quite a while, now looking each other in the face, now stopping their tobacco, now leaning forward to spit. It was as good as the play to see them.

"Now," resumed Silver, "here it is. You give us the chart to get the treasure by, and drop shooting poor seamen and stoving of their heads in while asleep. You do that, and we'll offer you a choice. Either you come aboard along of us, once the treasure shipped, and then I'll give you my affy-davy, upon my word of honour, to clap you somewhere safe ashore. Or if that ain't to your fancy, some of my hands being rough and having old scores on account of hazing, then you can stay here, you can. We'll divide stores with you, man for man; and I'll give my affy-davy, as before to speak the first ship I sight, and send 'em here to pick you up. Now, you'll own that's talking. Handsomer you couldn't look to get, now you. And I hope" -- raising his voice -- "that all hands in this here block house will overhaul my words, for what is spoke to one is spoke to all."

Captain Smollett rose from his seat and knocked out the ashes of his pipe in the palm of his left hand.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Every last word, by thunder!" answered John. "Refuse that, and you've seen the last of me but musket-balls."

"Very good," said the captain. "Now you'll hear me. If you'll come up one by one, unarmed, I'll engage to clap you all in irons and take you home to a fair trial in England. If you won't, my name is Alexander Smollett, I've flown my sovereign's colours, and I'll see you all to Davy Jones. You can't find the treasure. You can't sail the ship -- there's not a man among you fit to sail the ship. You can't fight us -- Gray, there, got away from five of you. Your ship's in irons, Master Silver; you're on a lee shore, and so you'll find. I stand here and tell you so; and they're the last good words you'll get from me, for in the name of heaven, I'll put a bullet in your back when next I meet you. Tramp, my lad. Bundle out of this, please, hand over hand, and double quick."

Silver's face was a picture; his eyes started in his head with wrath. He shook the fire out of his pipe.

"Give me a hand up!" he cried.

"Not I," returned the captain.

"Who'll give me a hand up?" he roared.

Not a man among us moved. Growling the foulest imprecations, he crawled along the sand till he got hold of the porch and could hoist himself again upon his crutch. Then he spat into the spring.

"There!" he cried. "That's what I think of ye. Before an hour's out, I'll stove in your old block house like a rum puncheon. Laugh, by thunder, laugh! Before an hour's out, ye'll laugh upon the other side. Them that die'll be the lucky ones."

And with a dreadful oath he stumbled off, ploughed down the sand, was helped across the stockade, after four or five failures, by the man with the flag of truce, and disappeared in an instant afterwards among the trees.



21

The Attack

AS soon as Silver disappeared, the captain, who had been closely watching him, turned towards the interior of the house and found not a man of us at his post but Gray. It was the first time we had ever seen him angry.

"Quarters!" he roared. And then, as we all slunk back to our places, "Gray," he said, "I'll put your name in the log; you've stood by your duty like a seaman. Mr. Trelawney, I'm surprised at you, sir. Doctor, I thought you had worn the king's coat! If that was how you served at Fontenoy, sir, you'd have been better in your berth."

The doctor's watch were all back at their loopholes, the rest were busy loading the spare muskets, and everyone with a red face, you may be certain, and a flea in his ear, as the saying is.

The captain looked on for a while in silence. Then he spoke.

"My lads," said he, "I've given Silver a broadside. I pitched it in red-hot on purpose; and before the hour's out, as he said, we shall be boarded. We're outnumbered, I needn't tell you that, but we fight in shelter; and a minute ago I should have said we fought with discipline. I've no manner of doubt that we can drub them, if you choose."

Then he went the rounds and saw, as he said, that all was clear.

On the two short sides of the house, east and west, there were only two loopholes; on the south side where the porch was, two again; and on the north side, five. There was a round score of muskets for the seven of us; the firewood had been built into four piles -- tables, you might say -- one about the middle of each side, and on each of these tables some ammunition and four loaded muskets were laid ready to the hand of the defenders. In the middle, the cutlasses lay ranged.

"Toss out the fire," said the captain; "the chill is past, and we mustn't have smoke in our eyes."

The iron fire-basket was carried bodily out by Mr. Trelawney, and the embers smothered among sand.

"Hawkins hasn't had his breakfast. Hawkins, help yourself, and back to your post to eat it," continued Captain Smollett. "Lively, now, my lad; you'll want it before you've done. Hunter, serve out a round of brandy to all hands."

And while this was going on, the captain completed, in his own mind, the plan of the defence.

"Doctor, you will take the door," he resumed. "See, and don't expose yourself; keep within, and fire through the porch. Hunter, take the east side, there. Joyce, you stand by the west, my man. Mr. Trelawney, you are the best shot -- you and Gray will take this long north side, with the five loopholes; it's there the danger is. If they can get up to it and fire in upon us through our own ports, things would begin to look dirty. Hawkins, neither you nor I are much account at the shooting; we'll stand by to load and bear a hand."

As the captain had said, the chill was past. As soon as the sun had climbed above our girdle of trees, it fell with all its force upon the clearing and drank up the vapours at a draught. Soon the sand was baking and the resin melting in the logs of the block house. Jackets and coats were flung aside, shirts thrown open at the neck and rolled up to the shoulders; and we stood there, each at his post, in a fever of heat and anxiety.

An hour passed away.

"Hang them!" said the captain. "This is as dull as the doldrums. Gray, whistle for a wind."

And just at that moment came the first news of the attack.

"If you please, sir," said Joyce, "if I see anyone, am I to fire?"

"I told you so!" cried the captain.

"Thank you, sir," returned Joyce with the same quiet civility.

Nothing followed for a time, but the remark had set us all on the alert, straining ears and eyes -- the musketeers with their pieces balanced in their hands, the captain out in the middle of the block house with his mouth very tight and a frown on his face.

So some seconds passed, till suddenly Joyce whipped up his musket and fired. The report had scarcely died away ere it was repeated and repeated from without in a scattering volley, shot behind shot, like a string of geese, from every side of the enclosure. Several bullets struck the log-house, but not one entered; and as the smoke cleared away and vanished, the stockade and the woods around it looked as quiet and empty as before. Not a bough waved, not the gleam of a musket-barrel betrayed the presence of our foes.

"Did you hit your man?" asked the captain.

"No, sir," replied Joyce. "I believe not, sir."

"Next best thing to tell the truth," muttered Captain Smollett. "Load his gun, Hawkins. How many should say there were on your side, doctor?"

"I know precisely," said Dr. Livesey. "Three shots were fired on this side. I saw the three flashes -- two close together -- one farther to the west."

"Three!" repeated the captain. "And how many on yours, Mr. Trelawney?"

But this was not so easily answered. There had come many from the north -- seven by the squire's computation, eight or nine according to Gray. From the east and west only a single shot had been fired. It was plain, therefore, that the attack would be developed from the north and that on the other three sides we were only to be annoyed by a show of hostilities. But Captain Smollett made no change in his arrangements. If the mutineers succeeded in crossing the stockade, he argued, they would take possession of any unprotected loophole and shoot us down like rats in our own stronghold.

Nor had we much time left to us for thought. Suddenly, with a loud huzza, a little cloud of pirates leaped from the woods on the north side and ran straight on the stockade. At the same moment, the fire was once more opened from the woods, and a rifle ball sang through the doorway and knocked the doctor's musket into bits.

The boarders swarmed over the fence like monkeys. Squire and Gray fired again and yet again; three men fell, one forwards into the enclosure, two back on the outside. But of these, one was evidently more frightened than hurt, for he was on his feet again in a crack and instantly disappeared among the trees.

Two had bit the dust, one had fled, four had made good their footing inside our defences, while from the shelter of the woods seven or eight men, each evidently supplied with several muskets, kept up a hot though useless fire on the log-house.

The four who had boarded made straight before them for the building, shouting as they ran, and the men among the trees shouted back to encourage them. Several shots were fired, but such was the hurry of the marksmen that not one appears to have taken effect. In a moment, the four pirates had swarmed up the mound and were upon us.

The head of Job Anderson, the boatswain, appeared at the middle loophole.

"At 'em, all hands -- all hands!" he roared in a voice of thunder.

At the same moment, another pirate grasped Hunter's musket by the muzzle, wrenched it from his hands, plucked it through the loophole, and with one stunning blow, laid the poor fellow senseless on the floor. Meanwhile a third, running unharmed all around the house, appeared suddenly in the doorway and fell with his cutlass on the doctor.

Our position was utterly reversed. A moment since we were firing, under cover, at an exposed enemy; now it was we who lay uncovered and could not return a blow.

The log-house was full of smoke, to which we owed our comparative safety. Cries and confusion, the flashes and reports of pistol-shots, and one loud groan rang in my ears.

"Out, lads, out, and fight 'em in the open! Cutlasses!" cried the captain.

I snatched a cutlass from the pile, and someone, at the same time snatching another, gave me a cut across the knuckles which I hardly felt. I dashed out of the door into the clear sunlight. Someone was close behind, I knew not whom. Right in front, the doctor was pursuing his assailant down the hill, and just as my eyes fell upon him, beat down his guard and sent him sprawling on his back with a great slash across the face.

"Round the house, lads! Round the house!" cried the captain; and even in the hurly-burly, I perceived a change in his voice.

Mechanically, I obeyed, turned eastwards, and with my cutlass raised, ran round the corner of the house. Next moment I was face to face with Anderson. He roared aloud, and his hanger went up above his head, flashing in the sunlight. I had not time to be afraid, but as the blow still hung impending, leaped in a trice upon one side, and missing my foot in the soft sand, rolled headlong down the slope.

When I had first sallied from the door, the other mutineers had been already swarming up the palisade to make an end of us. One man, in a red night-cap, with his cutlass in his mouth, had even got upon the top and thrown a leg across. Well, so short had been the interval that when I found my feet again all was in the same posture, the fellow with the red night-cap still half-way over, another still just showing his head above the top of the stockade. And yet, in this breath of time, the fight was over and the victory was ours.

Gray, following close behind me, had cut down the big boatswain ere he had time to recover from his last blow. Another had been shot at a loophole in the very act of firing into the house and now lay in agony, the pistol still smoking in his hand. A third, as I had seen, the doctor had disposed of at a blow. Of the four who had scaled the palisade, one only remained unaccounted for, and he, having left his cutlass on the field, was now clambering out again with the fear of death upon him.

"Fire -- fire from the house!" cried the doctor. "And you, lads, back into cover."

But his words were unheeded, no shot was fired, and the last boarder made good his escape and disappeared with the rest into the wood. In three seconds nothing remained of the attacking party but the five who had fallen, four on the inside and one on the outside of the palisade.

The doctor and Gray and I ran full speed for shelter. The survivors would soon be back where they had left their muskets, and at any moment the fire might recommence.

The house was by this time somewhat cleared of smoke, and we saw at a glance the price we had paid for victory. Hunter lay beside his loophole, stunned; Joyce by his, shot through the head, never to move again; while right in the centre, the squire was supporting the captain, one as pale as the other.

"The captain's wounded," said Mr. Trelawney.

"Have they run?" asked Mr. Smollett.

"All that could, you may be bound," returned the doctor; "but there's five of them will never run again."

"Five!" cried the captain. "Come, that's better. Five against three leaves us four to nine. That's better odds than we had at starting. We were seven to nineteen then, or thought we were, and that's as bad to bear." [*]

* The mutineers were soon only eight in number, for the man shot by Mr. Trelawney on board the schooner died that same evening of his wound. But this was, of course, not known till after by the faithful party.



PART FIVE -- My Sea Adventure



22

How My Sea Adventure Began

THERE was no return of the mutineers -- not so much as another shot out of the woods. They had "got their rations for that day," as the captain put it, and we had the place to ourselves and a quiet time to overhaul the wounded and get dinner. Squire and I cooked outside in spite of the danger, and even outside we could hardly tell what we were at, for horror of the loud groans that reached us from the doctor's patients.

Out of the eight men who had fallen in the action, only three still breathed -- that one of the pirates who had been shot at the loophole, Hunter, and Captain Smollett; and of these, the first two were as good as dead; the mutineer indeed died under the doctor's knife, and Hunter, do what we could, never recovered consciousness in this world. He lingered all day, breathing loudly like the old buccaneer at home in his apoplectic fit, but the bones of his chest had been crushed by the blow and his skull fractured in falling, and some time in the following night, without sign or sound, he went to his Maker.

As for the captain, his wounds were grievous indeed, but not dangerous. No organ was fatally injured. Anderson's ball -- for it was Job that shot him first -- had broken his shoulder-blade and touched the lung, not badly; the second had only torn and displaced some muscles in the calf. He was sure to recover, the doctor said, but in the meantime, and for weeks to come, he must not walk nor move his arm, nor so much as speak when he could help it.

My own accidental cut across the knuckles was a flea-bite. Doctor Livesey patched it up with plaster and pulled my ears for me into the bargain.

After dinner the squire and the doctor sat by the captain's side awhile in consultation; and when they had talked to their hearts' content, it being then a little past noon, the doctor took up his hat and pistols, girt on a cutlass, put the chart in his pocket, and with a musket over his shoulder crossed the palisade on the north side and set off briskly through the trees.

Gray and I were sitting together at the far end of the block house, to be out of earshot of our officers consulting; and Gray took his pipe out of his mouth and fairly forgot to put it back again, so thunder-struck he was at this occurrence.

"Why, in the name of Davy Jones," said he, "is Dr. Livesey mad?"

"Why no," says I. "He's about the last of this crew for that, I take it."

"Well, shipmate," said Gray, "mad he may not be; but if HE'S not, you mark my words, I am."

"I take it," replied I, "the doctor has his idea; and if I am right, he's going now to see Ben Gunn."

I was right, as appeared later; but in the meantime, the house being stifling hot and the little patch of sand inside the palisade ablaze with midday sun, I began to get another thought into my head, which was not by any means so right. What I began to do was to envy the doctor walking in the cool shadow of the woods with the birds about him and the pleasant smell of the pines, while I sat grilling, with my clothes stuck to the hot resin, and so much blood about me and so many poor dead bodies lying all around that I took a disgust of the place that was almost as strong as fear.

All the time I was washing out the block house, and then washing up the things from dinner, this disgust and envy kept growing stronger and stronger, till at last, being near a bread-bag, and no one then observing me, I took the first step towards my escapade and filled both pockets of my coat with biscuit.

I was a fool, if you like, and certainly I was going to do a foolish, over-bold act; but I was determined to do it with all the precautions in my power. These biscuits, should anything befall me, would keep me, at least, from starving till far on in the next day.

The next thing I laid hold of was a brace of pistols, and as I already had a powder-horn and bullets, I felt myself well supplied with arms.

As for the scheme I had in my head, it was not a bad one in itself. I was to go down the sandy spit that divides the anchorage on the east from the open sea, find the white rock I had observed last evening, and ascertain whether it was there or not that Ben Gunn had hidden his boat, a thing quite worth doing, as I still believe. But as I was certain I should not be allowed to leave the enclosure, my only plan was to take French leave and slip out when nobody was watching, and that was so bad a way of doing it as made the thing itself wrong. But I was only a boy, and I had made my mind up.

Well, as things at last fell out, I found an admirable opportunity. The squire and Gray were busy helping the captain with his bandages, the coast was clear, I made a bolt for it over the stockade and into the thickest of the trees, and before my absence was observed I was out of cry of my companions.

This was my second folly, far worse than the first, as I left but two sound men to guard the house; but like the first, it was a help towards saving all of us.

I took my way straight for the east coast of the island, for I was determined to go down the sea side of the spit to avoid all chance of observation from the anchorage. It was already late in the afternoon, although still warm and sunny. As I continued to thread the tall woods, I could hear from far before me not only the continuous thunder of the surf, but a certain tossing of foliage and grinding of boughs which showed me the sea breeze had set in higher than usual. Soon cool draughts of air began to reach me, and a few steps farther I came forth into the open borders of the grove, and saw the sea lying blue and sunny to the horizon and the surf tumbling and tossing its foam along the beach.

I have never seen the sea quiet round Treasure Island. The sun might blaze overhead, the air be without a breath, the surface smooth and blue, but still these great rollers would be running along all the external coast, thundering and thundering by day and night; and I scarce believe there is one spot in the island where a man would be out of earshot of their noise.

I walked along beside the surf with great enjoyment, till, thinking I was now got far enough to the south, I took the cover of some thick bushes and crept warily up to the ridge of the spit.

Behind me was the sea, in front the anchorage. The sea breeze, as though it had the sooner blown itself out by its unusual violence, was already at an end; it had been succeeded by light, variable airs from the south and south-east, carrying great banks of fog; and the anchorage, under lee of Skeleton Island, lay still and leaden as when first we entered it. The HISPANIOLA, in that unbroken mirror, was exactly portrayed from the truck to the waterline, the Jolly Roger hanging from her peak.

Alongside lay one of the gigs, Silver in the stern-sheets -- him I could always recognize -- while a couple of men were leaning over the stern bulwarks, one of them with a red cap -- the very rogue that I had seen some hours before stride-legs upon the palisade. Apparently they were talking and laughing, though at that distance -- upwards of a mile -- I could, of course, hear no word of what was said. All at once there began the most horrid, unearthly screaming, which at first startled me badly, though I had soon remembered the voice of Captain Flint and even thought I could make out the bird by her bright plumage as she sat perched upon her master's wrist.

Soon after, the jolly-boat shoved off and pulled for shore, and the man with the red cap and his comrade went below by the cabin companion.

Just about the same time, the sun had gone down behind the Spy-glass, and as the fog was collecting rapidly, it began to grow dark in earnest. I saw I must lose no time if I were to find the boat that evening.

The white rock, visible enough above the brush, was still some eighth of a mile further down the spit, and it took me a goodish while to get up with it, crawling, often on all fours, among the scrub. Night had almost come when I laid my hand on its rough sides. Right below it there was an exceedingly small hollow of green turf, hidden by banks and a thick underwood about knee-deep, that grew there very plentifully; and in the centre of the dell, sure enough, a little tent of goat-skins, like what the gipsies carry about with them in England.

I dropped into the hollow, lifted the side of the tent, and there was Ben Gunn's boat -- home-made if ever anything was home-made; a rude, lop-sided framework of tough wood, and stretched upon that a covering of goat-skin, with the hair inside. The thing was extremely small, even for me, and I can hardly imagine that it could have floated with a full-sized man. There was one thwart set as low as possible, a kind of stretcher in the bows, and a double paddle for propulsion.

I had not then seen a coracle, such as the ancient Britons made, but I have seen one since, and I can give you no fairer idea of Ben Gunn's boat than by saying it was like the first and the worst coracle ever made by man. But the great advantage of the coracle it certainly possessed, for it was exceedingly light and portable.

Well, now that I had found the boat, you would have thought I had had enough of truantry for once, but in the meantime I had taken another notion and become so obstinately fond of it that I would have carried it out, I believe, in the teeth of Captain Smollett himself. This was to slip out under cover of the night, cut the HISPANIOLA adrift, and let her go ashore where she fancied. I had quite made up my mind that the mutineers, after their repulse of the morning, had nothing nearer their hearts than to up anchor and away to sea; this, I thought, it would be a fine thing to prevent, and now that I had seen how they left their watchmen unprovided with a boat, I thought it might be done with little risk.

Down I sat to wait for darkness, and made a hearty meal of biscuit. It was a night out of ten thousand for my purpose. The fog had now buried all heaven. As the last rays of daylight dwindled and disappeared, absolute blackness settled down on Treasure Island. And when, at last, I shouldered the coracle and groped my way stumblingly out of the hollow where I had supped, there were but two points visible on the whole anchorage.

One was the great fire on shore, by which the defeated pirates lay carousing in the swamp. The other, a mere blur of light upon the darkness, indicated the position of the anchored ship. She had swung round to the ebb -- her bow was now towards me -- the only lights on board were in the cabin, and what I saw was merely a reflection on the fog of the strong rays that flowed from the stern window.

The ebb had already run some time, and I had to wade through a long belt of swampy sand, where I sank several times above the ankle, before I came to the edge of the retreating water, and wading a little way in, with some strength and dexterity, set my coracle, keel downwards, on the surface.



23

The Ebb-tide Runs

THE coracle -- as I had ample reason to know before I was done with her -- was a very safe boat for a person of my height and weight, both buoyant and clever in a seaway; but she was the most cross-grained, lop-sided craft to manage. Do as you pleased, she always made more leeway than anything else, and turning round and round was the manoeuvre she was best at. Even Ben Gunn himself has admitted that she was "queer to handle till you knew her way."

Certainly I did not know her way. She turned in every direction but the one I was bound to go; the most part of the time we were broadside on, and I am very sure I never should have made the ship at all but for the tide. By good fortune, paddle as I pleased, the tide was still sweeping me down; and there lay the HISPANIOLA right in the fairway, hardly to be missed.

First she loomed before me like a blot of something yet blacker than darkness, then her spars and hull began to take shape, and the next moment, as it seemed (for, the farther I went, the brisker grew the current of the ebb), I was alongside of her hawser and had laid hold.

The hawser was as taut as a bowstring, and the current so strong she pulled upon her anchor. All round the hull, in the blackness, the rippling current bubbled and chattered like a little mountain stream. One cut with my sea-gully and the HISPANIOLA would go humming down the tide.

So far so good, but it next occurred to my recollection that a taut hawser, suddenly cut, is a thing as dangerous as a kicking horse. Ten to one, if I were so foolhardy as to cut the HISPANIOLA from her anchor, I and the coracle would be knocked clean out of the water.

This brought me to a full stop, and if fortune had not again particularly favoured me, I should have had to abandon my design. But the light airs which had begun blowing from the south-east and south had hauled round after nightfall into the south-west. Just while I was meditating, a puff came, caught the HISPANIOLA, and forced her up into the current; and to my great joy, I felt the hawser slacken in my grasp, and the hand by which I held it dip for a second under water.

With that I made my mind up, took out my gully, opened it with my teeth, and cut one strand after another, till the vessel swung only by two. Then I lay quiet, waiting to sever these last when the strain should be once more lightened by a breath of wind.

All this time I had heard the sound of loud voices from the cabin, but to say truth, my mind had been so entirely taken up with other thoughts that I had scarcely given ear. Now, however, when I had nothing else to do, I began to pay more heed.

One I recognized for the coxswain's, Israel Hands, that had been Flint's gunner in former days. The other was, of course, my friend of the red night-cap. Both men were plainly the worse of drink, and they were still drinking, for even while I was listening, one of them, with a drunken cry, opened the stern window and threw out something, which I divined to be an empty bottle. But they were not only tipsy; it was plain that they were furiously angry. Oaths flew like hailstones, and every now and then there came forth such an explosion as I thought was sure to end in blows. But each time the quarrel passed off and the voices grumbled lower for a while, until the next crisis came and in its turn passed away without result.

On shore, I could see the glow of the great camp-fire burning warmly through the shore-side trees. Someone was singing, a dull, old, droning sailor's song, with a droop and a quaver at the end of every verse, and seemingly no end to it at all but the patience of the singer. I had heard it on the voyage more than once and remembered these words:

"But one man of her crew alive, What put to sea with seventy-five."

And I thought it was a ditty rather too dolefully appropriate for a company that had met such cruel losses in the morning. But, indeed, from what I saw, all these buccaneers were as callous as the sea they sailed on.

At last the breeze came; the schooner sidled and drew nearer in the dark; I felt the hawser slacken once more, and with a good, tough effort, cut the last fibres through.

The breeze had but little action on the coracle, and I was almost instantly swept against the bows of the HISPANIOLA. At the same time, the schooner began to turn upon her heel, spinning slowly, end for end, across the current.

I wrought like a fiend, for I expected every moment to be swamped; and since I found I could not push the coracle directly off, I now shoved straight astern. At length I was clear of my dangerous neighbour, and just as I gave the last impulsion, my hands came across a light cord that was trailing overboard across the stern bulwarks. Instantly I grasped it.

Why I should have done so I can hardly say. It was at first mere instinct, but once I had it in my hands and found it fast, curiosity began to get the upper hand, and I determined I should have one look through the cabin window.

I pulled in hand over hand on the cord, and when I judged myself near enough, rose at infinite risk to about half my height and thus commanded the roof and a slice of the interior of the cabin.

By this time the schooner and her little consort were gliding pretty swiftly through the water; indeed, we had already fetched up level with the camp-fire. The ship was talking, as sailors say, loudly, treading the innumerable ripples with an incessant weltering splash; and until I got my eye above the window-sill I could not comprehend why the watchmen had taken no alarm. One glance, however, was sufficient; and it was only one glance that I durst take from that unsteady skiff. It showed me Hands and his companion locked together in deadly wrestle, each with a hand upon the other's throat.

I dropped upon the thwart again, none too soon, for I was near overboard. I could see nothing for the moment but these two furious, encrimsoned faces swaying together under the smoky lamp, and I shut my eyes to let them grow once more familiar with the darkness.

The endless ballad had come to an end at last, and the whole diminished company about the camp-fire had broken into the chorus I had heard so often:

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest --  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest --  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

I was just thinking how busy drink and the devil were at that very moment in the cabin of the HISPANIOLA, when I was surprised by a sudden lurch of the coracle. At the same moment, she yawed sharply and seemed to change her course. The speed in the meantime had strangely increased.

I opened my eyes at once. All round me were little ripples, combing over with a sharp, bristling sound and slightly phosphorescent. The HISPANIOLA herself, a few yards in whose wake I was still being whirled along, seemed to stagger in her course, and I saw her spars toss a little against the blackness of the night; nay, as I looked longer, I made sure she also was wheeling to the southward.

I glanced over my shoulder, and my heart jumped against my ribs. There, right behind me, was the glow of the camp-fire. The current had turned at right angles, sweeping round along with it the tall schooner and the little dancing coracle; ever quickening, ever bubbling higher, ever muttering louder, it went spinning through the narrows for the open sea.

Suddenly the schooner in front of me gave a violent yaw, turning, perhaps, through twenty degrees; and almost at the same moment one shout followed another from on board; I could hear feet pounding on the companion ladder and I knew that the two drunkards had at last been interrupted in their quarrel and awakened to a sense of their disaster.

I lay down flat in the bottom of that wretched skiff and devoutly recommended my spirit to its Maker. At the end of the straits, I made sure we must fall into some bar of raging breakers, where all my troubles would be ended speedily; and though I could, perhaps, bear to die, I could not bear to look upon my fate as it approached.

So I must have lain for hours, continually beaten to and fro upon the billows, now and again wetted with flying sprays, and never ceasing to expect death at the next plunge. Gradually weariness grew upon me; a numbness, an occasional stupor, fell upon my mind even in the midst of my terrors, until sleep at last supervened and in my sea-tossed coracle I lay and dreamed of home and the old Admiral Benbow.



24

The Cruise of the Coracle

IT was broad day when I awoke and found myself tossing at the south-west end of Treasure Island. The sun was up but was still hid from me behind the great bulk of the Spy-glass, which on this side descended almost to the sea in formidable cliffs.

Haulbowline Head and Mizzen-mast Hill were at my elbow, the hill bare and dark, the head bound with cliffs forty or fifty feet high and fringed with great masses of fallen rock. I was scarce a quarter of a mile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land.

That notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers spouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and falling, succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself, if I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore or spending my strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.

Nor was that all, for crawling together on flat tables of rock or letting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports I beheld huge slimy monsters -- soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness -- two or three score of them together, making the rocks to echo with their barkings.

I have understood since that they were sea lions, and entirely harmless. But the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the high running of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me of that landing-place. I felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront such perils.

In the meantime I had a better chance, as I supposed, before me. North of Haulbowline Head, the land runs in a long way, leaving at low tide a long stretch of yellow sand. To the north of that, again, there comes another cape -- Cape of the Woods, as it was marked upon the chart -- buried in tall green pines, which descended to the margin of the sea.

I remembered what Silver had said about the current that sets northward along the whole west coast of Treasure Island, and seeing from my position that I was already under its influence, I preferred to leave Haulbowline Head behind me and reserve my strength for an attempt to land upon the kindlier-looking Cape of the Woods.

There was a great, smooth swell upon the sea. The wind blowing steady and gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the current, and the billows rose and fell unbroken.

Had it been otherwise, I must long ago have perished; but as it was, it is surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could ride. Often, as I still lay at the bottom and kept no more than an eye above the gunwale, I would see a big blue summit heaving close above me; yet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and subside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.

I began after a little to grow very bold and sat up to try my skill at paddling. But even a small change in the disposition of the weight will produce violent changes in the behaviour of a coracle. And I had hardly moved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle dancing movement, ran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and struck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next wave.

I was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old position, whereupon the coracle seemed to find her head again and led me as softly as before among the billows. It was plain she was not to be interfered with, and at that rate, since I could in no way influence her course, what hope had I left of reaching land?

I began to be horribly frightened, but I kept my head, for all that. First, moving with all care, I gradually baled out the coracle with my sea-cap; then, getting my eye once more above the gunwale, I set myself to study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers.

I found each wave, instead of the big, smooth glossy mountain it looks from shore or from a vessel's deck, was for all the world like any range of hills on dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and valleys. The coracle, left to herself, turning from side to side, threaded, so to speak, her way through these lower parts and avoided the steep slopes and higher, toppling summits of the wave.

"Well, now," thought I to myself, "it is plain I must lie where I am and not disturb the balance; but it is plain also that I can put the paddle over the side and from time to time, in smooth places, give her a shove or two towards land." No sooner thought upon than done. There I lay on my elbows in the most trying attitude, and every now and again gave a weak stroke or two to turn her head to shore.

It was very tiring and slow work, yet I did visibly gain ground; and as we drew near the Cape of the Woods, though I saw I must infallibly miss that point, I had still made some hundred yards of easting. I was, indeed, close in. I could see the cool green tree-tops swaying together in the breeze, and I felt sure I should make the next promontory without fail.

It was high time, for I now began to be tortured with thirst. The glow of the sun from above, its thousandfold reflection from the waves, the sea-water that fell and dried upon me, caking my very lips with salt, combined to make my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the trees so near at hand had almost made me sick with longing, but the current had soon carried me past the point, and as the next reach of sea opened out, I beheld a sight that changed the nature of my thoughts.

Right in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld the HISPANIOLA under sail. I made sure, of course, that I should be taken; but I was so distressed for want of water that I scarce knew whether to be glad or sorry at the thought, and long before I had come to a conclusion, surprise had taken entire possession of my mind and I could do nothing but stare and wonder.

The HISPANIOLA was under her main-sail and two jibs, and the beautiful white canvas shone in the sun like snow or silver. When I first sighted her, all her sails were drawing; she was lying a course about north-west, and I presumed the men on board were going round the island on their way back to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more and more to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and were going about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the wind's eye, was taken dead aback, and stood there awhile helpless, with her sails shivering.

"Clumsy fellows," said I; "they must still be drunk as owls." And I thought how Captain Smollett would have set them skipping.

Meanwhile the schooner gradually fell off and filled again upon another tack, sailed swiftly for a minute or so, and brought up once more dead in the wind's eye. Again and again was this repeated. To and fro, up and down, north, south, east, and west, the HISPANIOLA sailed by swoops and dashes, and at each repetition ended as she had begun, with idly flapping canvas. It became plain to me that nobody was steering. And if so, where were the men? Either they were dead drunk or had deserted her, I thought, and perhaps if I could get on board I might return the vessel to her captain.

The current was bearing coracle and schooner southward at an equal rate. As for the latter's sailing, it was so wild and intermittent, and she hung each time so long in irons, that she certainly gained nothing, if she did not even lose. If only I dared to sit up and paddle, I made sure that I could overhaul her. The scheme had an air of adventure that inspired me, and the thought of the water breaker beside the fore companion doubled my growing courage.

Up I got, was welcomed almost instantly by another cloud of spray, but this time stuck to my purpose and set myself, with all my strength and caution, to paddle after the unsteered HISPANIOLA. Once I shipped a sea so heavy that I had to stop and bail, with my heart fluttering like a bird, but gradually I got into the way of the thing and guided my coracle among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bows and a dash of foam in my face.

I was now gaining rapidly on the schooner; I could see the brass glisten on the tiller as it banged about, and still no soul appeared upon her decks. I could not choose but suppose she was deserted. If not, the men were lying drunk below, where I might batten them down, perhaps, and do what I chose with the ship.

For some time she had been doing the worse thing possible for me -- standing still. She headed nearly due south, yawing, of course, all the time. Each time she fell off, her sails partly filled, and these brought her in a moment right to the wind again. I have said this was the worst thing possible for me, for helpless as she looked in this situation, with the canvas cracking like cannon and the blocks trundling and banging on the deck, she still continued to run away from me, not only with the speed of the current, but by the whole amount of her leeway, which was naturally great.

But now, at last, I had my chance. The breeze fell for some seconds, very low, and the current gradually turning her, the HISPANIOLA revolved slowly round her centre and at last presented me her stern, with the cabin window still gaping open and the lamp over the table still burning on into the day. The main-sail hung drooped like a banner. She was stock-still but for the current.

For the last little while I had even lost, but now redoubling my efforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase.

I was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came again in a clap; she filled on the port tack and was off again, stooping and skimming like a swallow.

My first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy. Round she came, till she was broadside on to me -- round still till she had covered a half and then two thirds and then three quarters of the distance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under her forefoot. Immensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the coracle.

And then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to think -- scarce time to act and save myself. I was on the summit of one swell when the schooner came stooping over the next. The bowsprit was over my head. I sprang to my feet and leaped, stamping the coracle under water. With one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged between the stay and the brace; and as I still clung there panting, a dull blow told me that the schooner had charged down upon and struck the coracle and that I was left without retreat on the HISPANIOLA.



25

I Strike the Jolly Roger

I HAD scarce gained a position on the bowsprit when the flying jib flapped and filled upon the other tack, with a report like a gun. The schooner trembled to her keel under the reverse, but next moment, the other sails still drawing, the jib flapped back again and hung idle.

This had nearly tossed me off into the sea; and now I lost no time, crawled back along the bowsprit, and tumbled head foremost on the deck.

I was on the lee side of the forecastle, and the mainsail, which was still drawing, concealed from me a certain portion of the after-deck. Not a soul was to be seen. The planks, which had not been swabbed since the mutiny, bore the print of many feet, and an empty bottle, broken by the neck, tumbled to and fro like a live thing in the scuppers.

Suddenly the HISPANIOLA came right into the wind. The jibs behind me cracked aloud, the rudder slammed to, the whole ship gave a sickening heave and shudder, and at the same moment the main-boom swung inboard, the sheet groaning in the blocks, and showed me the lee after-deck.

There were the two watchmen, sure enough: red-cap on his back, as stiff as a handspike, with his arms stretched out like those of a crucifix and his teeth showing through his open lips; Israel Hands propped against the bulwarks, his chin on his chest, his hands lying open before him on the deck, his face as white, under its tan, as a tallow candle.

For a while the ship kept bucking and sidling like a vicious horse, the sails filling, now on one tack, now on another, and the boom swinging to and fro till the mast groaned aloud under the strain. Now and again too there would come a cloud of light sprays over the bulwark and a heavy blow of the ship's bows against the swell; so much heavier weather was made of it by this great rigged ship than by my home-made, lop-sided coracle, now gone to the bottom of the sea.

At every jump of the schooner, red-cap slipped to and fro, but -- what was ghastly to behold -- neither his attitude nor his fixed teeth-disclosing grin was anyway disturbed by this rough usage. At every jump too, Hands appeared still more to sink into himself and settle down upon the deck, his feet sliding ever the farther out, and the whole body canting towards the stern, so that his face became, little by little, hid from me; and at last I could see nothing beyond his ear and the frayed ringlet of one whisker.

At the same time, I observed, around both of them, splashes of dark blood upon the planks and began to feel sure that they had killed each other in their drunken wrath.

While I was thus looking and wondering, in a calm moment, when the ship was still, Israel Hands turned partly round and with a low moan writhed himself back to the position in which I had seen him first. The moan, which told of pain and deadly weakness, and the way in which his jaw hung open went right to my heart. But when I remembered the talk I had overheard from the apple barrel, all pity left me.

I walked aft until I reached the main-mast.

"Come aboard, Mr. Hands," I said ironically.

He rolled his eyes round heavily, but he was too far gone to express surprise. All he could do was to utter one word, "Brandy."

It occurred to me there was no time to lose, and dodging the boom as it once more lurched across the deck, I slipped aft and down the companion stairs into the cabin.

It was such a scene of confusion as you can hardly fancy. All the lockfast places had been broken open in quest of the chart. The floor was thick with mud where ruffians had sat down to drink or consult after wading in the marshes round their camp. The bulkheads, all painted in clear white and beaded round with gilt, bore a pattern of dirty hands. Dozens of empty bottles clinked together in corners to the rolling of the ship. One of the doctor's medical books lay open on the table, half of the leaves gutted out, I suppose, for pipelights. In the midst of all this the lamp still cast a smoky glow, obscure and brown as umber.

I went into the cellar; all the barrels were gone, and of the bottles a most surprising number had been drunk out and thrown away. Certainly, since the mutiny began, not a man of them could ever have been sober.

Foraging about, I found a bottle with some brandy left, for Hands; and for myself I routed out some biscuit, some pickled fruits, a great bunch of raisins, and a piece of cheese. With these I came on deck, put down my own stock behind the rudder head and well out of the coxswain's reach, went forward to the water-breaker, and had a good deep drink of water, and then, and not till then, gave Hands the brandy.

He must have drunk a gill before he took the bottle from his mouth.

"Aye," said he, "by thunder, but I wanted some o' that!"

I had sat down already in my own corner and begun to eat.

"Much hurt?" I asked him.

He grunted, or rather, I might say, he barked.

"If that doctor was aboard," he said, "I'd be right enough in a couple of turns, but I don't have no manner of luck, you see, and that's what's the matter with me. As for that swab, he's good and dead, he is," he added, indicating the man with the red cap. "He warn't no seaman anyhow. And where mought you have come from?"

"Well," said I, "I've come aboard to take possession of this ship, Mr. Hands; and you'll please regard me as your captain until further notice."

He looked at me sourly enough but said nothing. Some of the colour had come back into his cheeks, though he still looked very sick and still continued to slip out and settle down as the ship banged about.

"By the by," I continued, "I can't have these colours, Mr. Hands; and by your leave, I'll strike 'em. Better none than these."

And again dodging the boom, I ran to the colour lines, handed down their cursed black flag, and chucked it overboard.

"God save the king!" said I, waving my cap. "And there's an end to Captain Silver!"

He watched me keenly and slyly, his chin all the while on his breast.

"I reckon," he said at last, "I reckon, Cap'n Hawkins, you'll kind of want to get ashore now. S'pose we talks."

"Why, yes," says I, "with all my heart, Mr. Hands. Say on." And I went back to my meal with a good appetite.

"This man," he began, nodding feebly at the corpse " -- O'Brien were his name, a rank Irelander -- this man and me got the canvas on her, meaning for to sail her back. Well, HE'S dead now, he is -- as dead as bilge; and who's to sail this ship, I don't see. Without I gives you a hint, you ain't that man, as far's I can tell. Now, look here, you gives me food and drink and a old scarf or ankecher to tie my wound up, you do, and I'll tell you how to sail her, and that's about square all round, I take it."

"I'll tell you one thing," says I: "I'm not going back to Captain Kidd's anchorage. I mean to get into North Inlet and beach her quietly there."

"To be sure you did," he cried. "Why, I ain't sich an infernal lubber after all. I can see, can't I? I've tried my fling, I have, and I've lost, and it's you has the wind of me. North Inlet? Why, I haven't no ch'ice, not I! I'd help you sail her up to Execution Dock, by thunder! So I would."

Well, as it seemed to me, there was some sense in this. We struck our bargain on the spot. In three minutes I had the HISPANIOLA sailing easily before the wind along the coast of Treasure Island, with good hopes of turning the northern point ere noon and beating down again as far as North Inlet before high water, when we might beach her safely and wait till the subsiding tide permitted us to land.

Then I lashed the tiller and went below to my own chest, where I got a soft silk handkerchief of my mother's. With this, and with my aid, Hands bound up the great bleeding stab he had received in the thigh, and after he had eaten a little and had a swallow or two more of the brandy, he began to pick up visibly, sat straighter up, spoke louder and clearer, and looked in every way another man.

The breeze served us admirably. We skimmed before it like a bird, the coast of the island flashing by and the view changing every minute. Soon we were past the high lands and bowling beside low, sandy country, sparsely dotted with dwarf pines, and soon we were beyond that again and had turned the corner of the rocky hill that ends the island on the north.

I was greatly elated with my new command, and pleased with the bright, sunshiny weather and these different prospects of the coast. I had now plenty of water and good things to eat, and my conscience, which had smitten me hard for my desertion, was quieted by the great conquest I had made. I should, I think, have had nothing left me to desire but for the eyes of the coxswain as they followed me derisively about the deck and the odd smile that appeared continually on his face. It was a smile that had in it something both of pain and weakness -- a haggard old man's smile; but there was, besides that, a grain of derision, a shadow of treachery, in his expression as he craftily watched, and watched, and watched me at my work.



26

Israel Hands

THE wind, serving us to a desire, now hauled into the west. We could run so much the easier from the north-east corner of the island to the mouth of the North Inlet. Only, as we had no power to anchor and dared not beach her till the tide had flowed a good deal farther, time hung on our hands. The coxswain told me how to lay the ship to; after a good many trials I succeeded, and we both sat in silence over another meal.

"Cap'n," said he at length with that same uncomfortable smile, "here's my old shipmate, O'Brien; s'pose you was to heave him overboard. I ain't partic'lar as a rule, and I don't take no blame for settling his hash, but I don't reckon him ornamental now, do you?"

"I'm not strong enough, and I don't like the job; and there he lies, for me," said I.

"This here's an unlucky ship, this HISPANIOLA, Jim," he went on, blinking. "There's a power of men been killed in this HISPANIOLA -- a sight o' poor seamen dead and gone since you and me took ship to Bristol. I never seen sich dirty luck, not I. There was this here O'Brien now -- he's dead, ain't he? Well now, I'm no scholar, and you're a lad as can read and figure, and to put it straight, do you take it as a dead man is dead for good, or do he come alive again?"

"You can kill the body, Mr. Hands, but not the spirit; you must know that already," I replied. "O'Brien there is in another world, and may be watching us."

"Ah!" says he. "Well, that's unfort'nate -- appears as if killing parties was a waste of time. Howsomever, sperrits don't reckon for much, by what I've seen. I'll chance it with the sperrits, Jim. And now, you've spoke up free, and I'll take it kind if you'd step down into that there cabin and get me a -- well, a -- shiver my timbers! I can't hit the name on 't; well, you get me a bottle of wine, Jim -- this here brandy's too strong for my head."

Now, the coxswain's hesitation seemed to be unnatural, and as for the notion of his preferring wine to brandy, I entirely disbelieved it. The whole story was a pretext. He wanted me to leave the deck -- so much was plain; but with what purpose I could in no way imagine. His eyes never met mine; they kept wandering to and fro, up and down, now with a look to the sky, now with a flitting glance upon the dead O'Brien. All the time he kept smiling and putting his tongue out in the most guilty, embarrassed manner, so that a child could have told that he was bent on some deception. I was prompt with my answer, however, for I saw where my advantage lay and that with a fellow so densely stupid I could easily conceal my suspicions to the end.

"Some wine?" I said. "Far better. Will you have white or red?"

"Well, I reckon it's about the blessed same to me, shipmate," he replied; "so it's strong, and plenty of it, what's the odds?"

"All right," I answered. "I'll bring you port, Mr. Hands. But I'll have to dig for it."

With that I scuttled down the companion with all the noise I could, slipped off my shoes, ran quietly along the sparred gallery, mounted the forecastle ladder, and popped my head out of the fore companion. I knew he would not expect to see me there, yet I took every precaution possible, and certainly the worst of my suspicions proved too true.

He had risen from his position to his hands and knees, and though his leg obviously hurt him pretty sharply when he moved -- for I could hear him stifle a groan -- yet it was at a good, rattling rate that he trailed himself across the deck. In half a minute he had reached the port scuppers and picked, out of a coil of rope, a long knife, or rather a short dirk, discoloured to the hilt with blood. He looked upon it for a moment, thrusting forth his under jaw, tried the point upon his hand, and then, hastily concealing it in the bosom of his jacket, trundled back again into his old place against the bulwark.

This was all that I required to know. Israel could move about, he was now armed, and if he had been at so much trouble to get rid of me, it was plain that I was meant to be the victim. What he would do afterwards -- whether he would try to crawl right across the island from North Inlet to the camp among the swamps or whether he would fire Long Tom, trusting that his own comrades might come first to help him -- was, of course, more than I could say.

Yet I felt sure that I could trust him in one point, since in that our interests jumped together, and that was in the disposition of the schooner. We both desired to have her stranded safe enough, in a sheltered place, and so that, when the time came, she could be got off again with as little labour and danger as might be; and until that was done I considered that my life would certainly be spared.

While I was thus turning the business over in my mind, I had not been idle with my body. I had stolen back to the cabin, slipped once more into my shoes, and laid my hand at random on a bottle of wine, and now, with this for an excuse, I made my reappearance on the deck.

Hands lay as I had left him, all fallen together in a bundle and with his eyelids lowered as though he were too weak to bear the light. He looked up, however, at my coming, knocked the neck off the bottle like a man who had done the same thing often, and took a good swig, with his favourite toast of "Here's luck!" Then he lay quiet for a little, and then, pulling out a stick of tobacco, begged me to cut him a quid.

"Cut me a junk o' that," says he, "for I haven't no knife and hardly strength enough, so be as I had. Ah, Jim, Jim, I reckon I've missed stays! Cut me a quid, as'll likely be the last, lad, for I'm for my long home, and no mistake."

"Well," said I, "I'll cut you some tobacco, but if I was you and thought myself so badly, I would go to my prayers like a Christian man."

"Why?" said he. "Now, you tell me why."

"Why?" I cried. "You were asking me just now about the dead. You've broken your trust; you've lived in sin and lies and blood; there's a man you killed lying at your feet this moment, and you ask me why! For God's mercy, Mr. Hands, that's why."

I spoke with a little heat, thinking of the bloody dirk he had hidden in his pocket and designed, in his ill thoughts, to end me with. He, for his part, took a great draught of the wine and spoke with the most unusual solemnity.

"For thirty years," he said, "I've sailed the seas and seen good and bad, better and worse, fair weather and foul, provisions running out, knives going, and what not. Well, now I tell you, I never seen good come o' goodness yet. Him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don't bite; them's my views -- amen, so be it. And now, you look here," he added, suddenly changing his tone, "we've had about enough of this foolery. The tide's made good enough by now. You just take my orders, Cap'n Hawkins, and we'll sail slap in and be done with it."

All told, we had scarce two miles to run; but the navigation was delicate, the entrance to this northern anchorage was not only narrow and shoal, but lay east and west, so that the schooner must be nicely handled to be got in. I think I was a good, prompt subaltern, and I am very sure that Hands was an excellent pilot, for we went about and about and dodged in, shaving the banks, with a certainty and a neatness that were a pleasure to behold.

Scarcely had we passed the heads before the land closed around us. The shores of North Inlet were as thickly wooded as those of the southern anchorage, but the space was longer and narrower and more like, what in truth it was, the estuary of a river. Right before us, at the southern end, we saw the wreck of a ship in the last stages of dilapidation. It had been a great vessel of three masts but had lain so long exposed to the injuries of the weather that it was hung about with great webs of dripping seaweed, and on the deck of it shore bushes had taken root and now flourished thick with flowers. It was a sad sight, but it showed us that the anchorage was calm.

"Now," said Hands, "look there; there's a pet bit for to beach a ship in. Fine flat sand, never a cat's paw, trees all around of it, and flowers a-blowing like a garding on that old ship."

"And once beached," I inquired, "how shall we get her off again?"

"Why, so," he replied: "you take a line ashore there on the other side at low water, take a turn about one of them big pines; bring it back, take a turn around the capstan, and lie to for the tide. Come high water, all hands take a pull upon the line, and off she comes as sweet as natur'. And now, boy, you stand by. We're near the bit now, and she's too much way on her. Starboard a little -- so -- steady -- starboard -- larboard a little -- steady -- steady!"

So he issued his commands, which I breathlessly obeyed, till, all of a sudden, he cried, "Now, my hearty, luff!" And I put the helm hard up, and the HISPANIOLA swung round rapidly and ran stem on for the low, wooded shore.

The excitement of these last manoeuvres had somewhat interfered with the watch I had kept hitherto, sharply enough, upon the coxswain. Even then I was still so much interested, waiting for the ship to touch, that I had quite forgot the peril that hung over my head and stood craning over the starboard bulwarks and watching the ripples spreading wide before the bows. I might have fallen without a struggle for my life had not a sudden disquietude seized upon me and made me turn my head. Perhaps I had heard a creak or seen his shadow moving with the tail of my eye; perhaps it was an instinct like a cat's; but, sure enough, when I looked round, there was Hands, already half-way towards me, with the dirk in his right hand.

We must both have cried out aloud when our eyes met, but while mine was the shrill cry of terror, his was a roar of fury like a charging bully's. At the same instant, he threw himself forward and I leapt sideways towards the bows. As I did so, I let go of the tiller, which sprang sharp to leeward, and I think this saved my life, for it struck Hands across the chest and stopped him, for the moment, dead.

Before he could recover, I was safe out of the corner where he had me trapped, with all the deck to dodge about. Just forward of the main-mast I stopped, drew a pistol from my pocket, took a cool aim, though he had already turned and was once more coming directly after me, and drew the trigger. The hammer fell, but there followed neither flash nor sound; the priming was useless with sea-water. I cursed myself for my neglect. Why had not I, long before, reprimed and reloaded my only weapons? Then I should not have been as now, a mere fleeing sheep before this butcher.

Wounded as he was, it was wonderful how fast he could move, his grizzled hair tumbling over his face, and his face itself as red as a red ensign with his haste and fury. I had no time to try my other pistol, nor indeed much inclination, for I was sure it would be useless. One thing I saw plainly: I must not simply retreat before him, or he would speedily hold me boxed into the bows, as a moment since he had so nearly boxed me in the stern. Once so caught, and nine or ten inches of the blood-stained dirk would be my last experience on this side of eternity. I placed my palms against the main-mast, which was of a goodish bigness, and waited, every nerve upon the stretch.

Seeing that I meant to dodge, he also paused; and a moment or two passed in feints on his part and corresponding movements upon mine. It was such a game as I had often played at home about the rocks of Black Hill Cove, but never before, you may be sure, with such a wildly beating heart as now. Still, as I say, it was a boy's game, and I thought I could hold my own at it against an elderly seaman with a wounded thigh. Indeed my courage had begun to rise so high that I allowed myself a few darting thoughts on what would be the end of the affair, and while I saw certainly that I could spin it out for long, I saw no hope of any ultimate escape.

Well, while things stood thus, suddenly the HISPANIOLA struck, staggered, ground for an instant in the sand, and then, swift as a blow, canted over to the port side till the deck stood at an angle of forty-five degrees and about a puncheon of water splashed into the scupper holes and lay, in a pool, between the deck and bulwark.

We were both of us capsized in a second, and both of us rolled, almost together, into the scuppers, the dead red-cap, with his arms still spread out, tumbling stiffly after us. So near were we, indeed, that my head came against the coxswain's foot with a crack that made my teeth rattle. Blow and all, I was the first afoot again, for Hands had got involved with the dead body. The sudden canting of the ship had made the deck no place for running on; I had to find some new way of escape, and that upon the instant, for my foe was almost touching me. Quick as thought, I sprang into the mizzen shrouds, rattled up hand over hand, and did not draw a breath till I was seated on the cross-trees.

I had been saved by being prompt; the dirk had struck not half a foot below me as I pursued my upward flight; and there stood Israel Hands with his mouth open and his face upturned to mine, a perfect statue of surprise and disappointment.

Now that I had a moment to myself, I lost no time in changing the priming of my pistol, and then, having one ready for service, and to make assurance doubly sure, I proceeded to draw the load of the other and recharge it afresh from the beginning.

My new employment struck Hands all of a heap; he began to see the dice going against him, and after an obvious hesitation, he also hauled himself heavily into the shrouds, and with the dirk in his teeth, began slowly and painfully to mount. It cost him no end of time and groans to haul his wounded leg behind him, and I had quietly finished my arrangements before he was much more than a third of the way up. Then, with a pistol in either hand, I addressed him.

"One more step, Mr. Hands," said I, "and I'll blow your brains out! Dead men don't bite, you know," I added with a chuckle.

He stopped instantly. I could see by the working of his face that he was trying to think, and the process was so slow and laborious that, in my new-found security, I laughed aloud. At last, with a swallow or two, he spoke, his face still wearing the same expression of extreme perplexity. In order to speak he had to take the dagger from his mouth, but in all else he remained unmoved.

"Jim," says he, "I reckon we're fouled, you and me, and we'll have to sign articles. I'd have had you but for that there lurch, but I don't have no luck, not I; and I reckon I'll have to strike, which comes hard, you see, for a master mariner to a ship's younker like you, Jim."

I was drinking in his words and smiling away, as conceited as a cock upon a wall, when, all in a breath, back went his right hand over his shoulder. Something sang like an arrow through the air; I felt a blow and then a sharp pang, and there I was pinned by the shoulder to the mast. In the horrid pain and surprise of the moment -- I scarce can say it was by my own volition, and I am sure it was without a conscious aim -- both my pistols went off, and both escaped out of my hands. They did not fall alone; with a choked cry, the coxswain loosed his grasp upon the shrouds and plunged head first into the water.



27

"Pieces of Eight"

OWING to the cant of the vessel, the masts hung far out over the water, and from my perch on the cross-trees I had nothing below me but the surface of the bay. Hands, who was not so far up, was in consequence nearer to the ship and fell between me and the bulwarks. He rose once to the surface in a lather of foam and blood and then sank again for good. As the water settled, I could see him lying huddled together on the clean, bright sand in the shadow of the vessel's sides. A fish or two whipped past his body. Sometimes, by the quivering of the water, he appeared to move a little, as if he were trying to rise. But he was dead enough, for all that, being both shot and drowned, and was food for fish in the very place where he had designed my slaughter.

I was no sooner certain of this than I began to feel sick, faint, and terrified. The hot blood was running over my back and chest. The dirk, where it had pinned my shoulder to the mast, seemed to burn like a hot iron; yet it was not so much these real sufferings that distressed me, for these, it seemed to me, I could bear without a murmur; it was the horror I had upon my mind of falling from the cross-trees into that still green water, beside the body of the coxswain.

I clung with both hands till my nails ached, and I shut my eyes as if to cover up the peril. Gradually my mind came back again, my pulses quieted down to a more natural time, and I was once more in possession of myself.

It was my first thought to pluck forth the dirk, but either it stuck too hard or my nerve failed me, and I desisted with a violent shudder. Oddly enough, that very shudder did the business. The knife, in fact, had come the nearest in the world to missing me altogether; it held me by a mere pinch of skin, and this the shudder tore away. The blood ran down the faster, to be sure, but I was my own master again and only tacked to the mast by my coat and shirt.

These last I broke through with a sudden jerk, and then regained the deck by the starboard shrouds. For nothing in the world would I have again ventured, shaken as I was, upon the overhanging port shrouds from which Israel had so lately fallen.

I went below and did what I could for my wound; it pained me a good deal and still bled freely, but it was neither deep nor dangerous, nor did it greatly gall me when I used my arm. Then I looked around me, and as the ship was now, in a sense, my own, I began to think of clearing it from its last passenger -- the dead man, O'Brien.

He had pitched, as I have said, against the bulwarks, where he lay like some horrible, ungainly sort of puppet, life-size, indeed, but how different from life's colour or life's comeliness! In that position I could easily have my way with him, and as the habit of tragical adventures had worn off almost all my terror for the dead, I took him by the waist as if he had been a sack of bran and with one good heave, tumbled him overboard. He went in with a sounding plunge; the red cap came off and remained floating on the surface; and as soon as the splash subsided, I could see him and Israel lying side by side, both wavering with the tremulous movement of the water. O'Brien, though still quite a young man, was very bald. There he lay, with that bald head across the knees of the man who had killed him and the quick fishes steering to and fro over both.

I was now alone upon the ship; the tide had just turned. The sun was within so few degrees of setting that already the shadow of the pines upon the western shore began to reach right across the anchorage and fall in patterns on the deck. The evening breeze had sprung up, and though it was well warded off by the hill with the two peaks upon the east, the cordage had begun to sing a little softly to itself and the idle sails to rattle to and fro.

I began to see a danger to the ship. The jibs I speedily doused and brought tumbling to the deck, but the main-sail was a harder matter. Of course, when the schooner canted over, the boom had swung out-board, and the cap of it and a foot or two of sail hung even under water. I thought this made it still more dangerous; yet the strain was so heavy that I half feared to meddle. At last I got my knife and cut the halyards. The peak dropped instantly, a great belly of loose canvas floated broad upon the water, and since, pull as I liked, I could not budge the downhall, that was the extent of what I could accomplish. For the rest, the HISPANIOLA must trust to luck, like myself.

By this time the whole anchorage had fallen into shadow -- the last rays, I remember, falling through a glade of the wood and shining bright as jewels on the flowery mantle of the wreck. It began to be chill; the tide was rapidly fleeting seaward, the schooner settling more and more on her beam-ends.

I scrambled forward and looked over. It seemed shallow enough, and holding the cut hawser in both hands for a last security, I let myself drop softly overboard. The water scarcely reached my waist; the sand was firm and covered with ripple marks, and I waded ashore in great spirits, leaving the HISPANIOLA on her side, with her main-sail trailing wide upon the surface of the bay. About the same time, the sun went fairly down and the breeze whistled low in the dusk among the tossing pines.

At least, and at last, I was off the sea, nor had I returned thence empty-handed. There lay the schooner, clear at last from buccaneers and ready for our own men to board and get to sea again. I had nothing nearer my fancy than to get home to the stockade and boast of my achievements. Possibly I might be blamed a bit for my truantry, but the recapture of the HISPANIOLA was a clenching answer, and I hoped that even Captain Smollett would confess I had not lost my time.

So thinking, and in famous spirits, I began to set my face homeward for the block house and my companions. I remembered that the most easterly of the rivers which drain into Captain Kidd's anchorage ran from the two-peaked hill upon my left, and I bent my course in that direction that I might pass the stream while it was small. The wood was pretty open, and keeping along the lower spurs, I had soon turned the corner of that hill, and not long after waded to the mid-calf across the watercourse.

This brought me near to where I had encountered Ben Gunn, the maroon; and I walked more circumspectly, keeping an eye on every side. The dusk had come nigh hand completely, and as I opened out the cleft between the two peaks, I became aware of a wavering glow against the sky, where, as I judged, the man of the island was cooking his supper before a roaring fire. And yet I wondered, in my heart, that he should show himself so careless. For if I could see this radiance, might it not reach the eyes of Silver himself where he camped upon the shore among the marshes?

Gradually the night fell blacker; it was all I could do to guide myself even roughly towards my destination; the double hill behind me and the Spy-glass on my right hand loomed faint and fainter; the stars were few and pale; and in the low ground where I wandered I kept tripping among bushes and rolling into sandy pits.

Suddenly a kind of brightness fell about me. I looked up; a pale glimmer of moonbeams had alighted on the summit of the Spy-glass, and soon after I saw something broad and silvery moving low down behind the trees, and knew the moon had risen.

With this to help me, I passed rapidly over what remained to me of my journey, and sometimes walking, sometimes running, impatiently drew near to the stockade. Yet, as I began to thread the grove that lies before it, I was not so thoughtless but that I slacked my pace and went a trifle warily. It would have been a poor end of my adventures to get shot down by my own party in mistake.

The moon was climbing higher and higher, its light began to fall here and there in masses through the more open districts of the wood, and right in front of me a glow of a different colour appeared among the trees. It was red and hot, and now and again it was a little darkened -- as it were, the embers of a bonfire smouldering.

For the life of me I could not think what it might be.

At last I came right down upon the borders of the clearing. The western end was already steeped in moonshine; the rest, and the block house itself, still lay in a black shadow chequered with long silvery streaks of light. On the other side of the house an immense fire had burned itself into clear embers and shed a steady, red reverberation, contrasted strongly with the mellow paleness of the moon. There was not a soul stirring nor a sound beside the noises of the breeze.

I stopped, with much wonder in my heart, and perhaps a little terror also. It had not been our way to build great fires; we were, indeed, by the captain's orders, somewhat niggardly of firewood, and I began to fear that something had gone wrong while I was absent.

I stole round by the eastern end, keeping close in shadow, and at a convenient place, where the darkness was thickest, crossed the palisade.

To make assurance surer, I got upon my hands and knees and crawled, without a sound, towards the corner of the house. As I drew nearer, my heart was suddenly and greatly lightened. It is not a pleasant noise in itself, and I have often complained of it at other times, but just then it was like music to hear my friends snoring together so loud and peaceful in their sleep. The sea-cry of the watch, that beautiful "All's well," never fell more reassuringly on my ear.

In the meantime, there was no doubt of one thing; they kept an infamous bad watch. If it had been Silver and his lads that were now creeping in on them, not a soul would have seen daybreak. That was what it was, thought I, to have the captain wounded; and again I blamed myself sharply for leaving them in that danger with so few to mount guard.

By this time I had got to the door and stood up. All was dark within, so that I could distinguish nothing by the eye. As for sounds, there was the steady drone of the snorers and a small occasional noise, a flickering or pecking that I could in no way account for.

With my arms before me I walked steadily in. I should lie down in my own place (I thought with a silent chuckle) and enjoy their faces when they found me in the morning.

My foot struck something yielding -- it was a sleeper's leg; and he turned and groaned, but without awaking.

And then, all of a sudden, a shrill voice broke forth out of the darkness:

"Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" and so forth, without pause or change, like the clacking of a tiny mill.

Silver's green parrot, Captain Flint! It was she whom I had heard pecking at a piece of bark; it was she, keeping better watch than any human being, who thus announced my arrival with her wearisome refrain.

I had no time left me to recover. At the sharp, clipping tone of the parrot, the sleepers awoke and sprang up; and with a mighty oath, the voice of Silver cried, "Who goes?"

I turned to run, struck violently against one person, recoiled, and ran full into the arms of a second, who for his part closed upon and held me tight.

"Bring a torch, Dick," said Silver when my capture was thus assured.

And one of the men left the log-house and presently returned with a lighted brand.



PART SIX -- Captain Silver



28

In the Enemy's Camp

THE red glare of the torch, lighting up the interior of the block house, showed me the worst of my apprehensions realized. The pirates were in possession of the house and stores: there was the cask of cognac, there were the pork and bread, as before, and what tenfold increased my horror, not a sign of any prisoner. I could only judge that all had perished, and my heart smote me sorely that I had not been there to perish with them.

There were six of the buccaneers, all told; not another man was left alive. Five of them were on their feet, flushed and swollen, suddenly called out of the first sleep of drunkenness. The sixth had only risen upon his elbow; he was deadly pale, and the blood-stained bandage round his head told that he had recently been wounded, and still more recently dressed. I remembered the man who had been shot and had run back among the woods in the great attack, and doubted not that this was he.

The parrot sat, preening her plumage, on Long John's shoulder. He himself, I thought, looked somewhat paler and more stern than I was used to. He still wore the fine broadcloth suit in which he had fulfilled his mission, but it was bitterly the worse for wear, daubed with clay and torn with the sharp briers of the wood.

"So," said he, "here's Jim Hawkins, shiver my timbers! Dropped in, like, eh? Well, come, I take that friendly."

And thereupon he sat down across the brandy cask and began to fill a pipe.

"Give me a loan of the link, Dick," said he; and then, when he had a good light, "That'll do, lad," he added; "stick the glim in the wood heap; and you, gentlemen, bring yourselves to! You needn't stand up for Mr. Hawkins; HE'LL excuse you, you may lay to that. And so, Jim" -- stopping the tobacco -- "here you were, and quite a pleasant surprise for poor old John. I see you were smart when first I set my eyes on you, but this here gets away from me clean, it do."

To all this, as may be well supposed, I made no answer. They had set me with my back against the wall, and I stood there, looking Silver in the face, pluckily enough, I hope, to all outward appearance, but with black despair in my heart.

Silver took a whiff or two of his pipe with great composure and then ran on again.

"Now, you see, Jim, so be as you ARE here," says he, "I'll give you a piece of my mind. I've always liked you, I have, for a lad of spirit, and the picter of my own self when I was young and handsome. I always wanted you to jine and take your share, and die a gentleman, and now, my cock, you've got to. Cap'n Smollett's a fine seaman, as I'll own up to any day, but stiff on discipline. 'Dooty is dooty,' says he, and right he is. Just you keep clear of the cap'n. The doctor himself is gone dead again you -- 'ungrateful scamp' was what he said; and the short and the long of the whole story is about here: you can't go back to your own lot, for they won't have you; and without you start a third ship's company all by yourself, which might be lonely, you'll have to jine with Cap'n Silver."

So far so good. My friends, then, were still alive, and though I partly believed the truth of Silver's statement, that the cabin party were incensed at me for my desertion, I was more relieved than distressed by what I heard.

"I don't say nothing as to your being in our hands," continued Silver, "though there you are, and you may lay to it. I'm all for argyment; I never seen good come out o' threatening. If you like the service, well, you'll jine; and if you don't, Jim, why, you're free to answer no -- free and welcome, shipmate; and if fairer can be said by mortal seaman, shiver my sides!"

"Am I to answer, then?" I asked with a very tremulous voice. Through all this sneering talk, I was made to feel the threat of death that overhung me, and my cheeks burned and my heart beat painfully in my breast.

"Lad," said Silver, "no one's a-pressing of you. Take your bearings. None of us won't hurry you, mate; time goes so pleasant in your company, you see."

"Well," says I, growing a bit bolder, "if I'm to choose, I declare I have a right to know what's what, and why you're here, and where my friends are."

"Wot's wot?" repeated one of the buccaneers in a deep growl. "Ah, he'd be a lucky one as knowed that!"

"You'll perhaps batten down your hatches till you're spoke to, my friend," cried Silver truculently to this speaker. And then, in his first gracious tones, he replied to me, "Yesterday morning, Mr. Hawkins," said he, "in the dog-watch, down came Doctor Livesey with a flag of truce. Says he, 'Cap'n Silver, you're sold out. Ship's gone.' Well, maybe we'd been taking a glass, and a song to help it round. I won't say no. Leastways, none of us had looked out. We looked out, and by thunder, the old ship was gone! I never seen a pack o' fools look fishier; and you may lay to that, if I tells you that looked the fishiest. 'Well,' says the doctor, 'let's bargain.' We bargained, him and I, and here we are: stores, brandy, block house, the firewood you was thoughtful enough to cut, and in a manner of speaking, the whole blessed boat, from cross-trees to kelson. As for them, they've tramped; I don't know where's they are."

He drew again quietly at his pipe.

"And lest you should take it into that head of yours," he went on, "that you was included in the treaty, here's the last word that was said: 'How many are you,' says I, 'to leave?' 'Four,' says he; 'four, and one of us wounded. As for that boy, I don't know where he is, confound him,' says he, 'nor I don't much care. We're about sick of him.' These was his words.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Well, it's all that you're to hear, my son," returned Silver.

"And now I am to choose?"

"And now you are to choose, and you may lay to that," said Silver.

"Well," said I, "I am not such a fool but I know pretty well what I have to look for. Let the worst come to the worst, it's little I care. I've seen too many die since I fell in with you. But there's a thing or two I have to tell you," I said, and by this time I was quite excited; "and the first is this: here you are, in a bad way -- ship lost, treasure lost, men lost, your whole business gone to wreck; and if you want to know who did it -- it was I! I was in the apple barrel the night we sighted land, and I heard you, John, and you, Dick Johnson, and Hands, who is now at the bottom of the sea, and told every word you said before the hour was out. And as for the schooner, it was I who cut her cable, and it was I that killed the men you had aboard of her, and it was I who brought her where you'll never see her more, not one of you. The laugh's on my side; I've had the top of this business from the first; I no more fear you than I fear a fly. Kill me, if you please, or spare me. But one thing I'll say, and no more; if you spare me, bygones are bygones, and when you fellows are in court for piracy, I'll save you all I can. It is for you to choose. Kill another and do yourselves no good, or spare me and keep a witness to save you from the gallows."

I stopped, for, I tell you, I was out of breath, and to my wonder, not a man of them moved, but all sat staring at me like as many sheep. And while they were still staring, I broke out again, "And now, Mr. Silver," I said, "I believe you're the best man here, and if things go to the worst, I'll take it kind of you to let the doctor know the way I took it."

"I'll bear it in mind," said Silver with an accent so curious that I could not, for the life of me, decide whether he were laughing at my request or had been favourably affected by my courage.

"I'll put one to that," cried the old mahogany-faced seaman -- Morgan by name -- whom I had seen in Long John's public-house upon the quays of Bristol. "It was him that knowed Black Dog."

"Well, and see here," added the sea-cook. "I'll put another again to that, by thunder! For it was this same boy that faked the chart from Billy Bones. First and last, we've split upon Jim Hawkins!"

"Then here goes!" said Morgan with an oath.

And he sprang up, drawing his knife as if he had been twenty.

"Avast, there!" cried Silver. "Who are you, Tom Morgan? Maybe you thought you was cap'n here, perhaps. By the powers, but I'll teach you better! Cross me, and you'll go where many a good man's gone before you, first and last, these thirty year back -- some to the yard-arm, shiver my timbers, and some by the board, and all to feed the fishes. There's never a man looked me between the eyes and seen a good day a'terwards, Tom Morgan, you may lay to that."

Morgan paused, but a hoarse murmur rose from the others.

"Tom's right," said one.

"I stood hazing long enough from one," added another. "I'll be hanged if I'll be hazed by you, John Silver."

"Did any of you gentlemen want to have it out with ME?" roared Silver, bending far forward from his position on the keg, with his pipe still glowing in his right hand. "Put a name on what you're at; you ain't dumb, I reckon. Him that wants shall get it. Have I lived this many years, and a son of a rum puncheon cock his hat athwart my hawse at the latter end of it? You know the way; you're all gentlemen o' fortune, by your account. Well, I'm ready. Take a cutlass, him that dares, and I'll see the colour of his inside, crutch and all, before that pipe's empty."

Not a man stirred; not a man answered.

"That's your sort, is it?" he added, returning his pipe to his mouth. "Well, you're a gay lot to look at, anyway. Not much worth to fight, you ain't. P'r'aps you can understand King George's English. I'm cap'n here by 'lection. I'm cap'n here because I'm the best man by a long sea-mile. You won't fight, as gentlemen o' fortune should; then, by thunder, you'll obey, and you may lay to it! I like that boy, now; I never seen a better boy than that. He's more a man than any pair of rats of you in this here house, and what I say is this: let me see him that'll lay a hand on him -- that's what I say, and you may lay to it."

There was a long pause after this. I stood straight up against the wall, my heart still going like a sledge-hammer, but with a ray of hope now shining in my bosom. Silver leant back against the wall, his arms crossed, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, as calm as though he had been in church; yet his eye kept wandering furtively, and he kept the tail of it on his unruly followers. They, on their part, drew gradually together towards the far end of the block house, and the low hiss of their whispering sounded in my ear continuously, like a stream. One after another, they would look up, and the red light of the torch would fall for a second on their nervous faces; but it was not towards me, it was towards Silver that they turned their eyes.

"You seem to have a lot to say," remarked Silver, spitting far into the air. "Pipe up and let me hear it, or lay to."

"Ax your pardon, sir," returned one of the men; "you're pretty free with some of the rules; maybe you'll kindly keep an eye upon the rest. This crew's dissatisfied; this crew don't vally bullying a marlin-spike; this crew has its rights like other crews, I'll make so free as that; and by your own rules, I take it we can talk together. I ax your pardon, sir, acknowledging you for to be captaing at this present; but I claim my right, and steps outside for a council."

And with an elaborate sea-salute, this fellow, a long, ill-looking, yellow-eyed man of five and thirty, stepped coolly towards the door and disappeared out of the house. One after another the rest followed his example, each making a salute as he passed, each adding some apology. "According to rules," said one. "Forecastle council," said Morgan. And so with one remark or another all marched out and left Silver and me alone with the torch.

The sea-cook instantly removed his pipe.

"Now, look you here, Jim Hawkins," he said in a steady whisper that was no more than audible, "you're within half a plank of death, and what's a long sight worse, of torture. They're going to throw me off. But, you mark, I stand by you through thick and thin. I didn't mean to; no, not till you spoke up. I was about desperate to lose that much blunt, and be hanged into the bargain. But I see you was the right sort. I says to myself, you stand by Hawkins, John, and Hawkins'll stand by you. You're his last card, and by the living thunder, John, he's yours! Back to back, says I. You save your witness, and he'll save your neck!"

I began dimly to understand.

"You mean all's lost?" I asked.

"Aye, by gum, I do!" he answered. "Ship gone, neck gone -- that's the size of it. Once I looked into that bay, Jim Hawkins, and seen no schooner -- well, I'm tough, but I gave out. As for that lot and their council, mark me, they're outright fools and cowards. I'll save your life -- if so be as I can -- from them. But, see here, Jim -- tit for tat -- you save Long John from swinging."

I was bewildered; it seemed a thing so hopeless he was asking -- he, the old buccaneer, the ringleader throughout.

"What I can do, that I'll do," I said.

"It's a bargain!" cried Long John. "You speak up plucky, and by thunder, I've a chance!"

He hobbled to the torch, where it stood propped among the firewood, and took a fresh light to his pipe.

"Understand me, Jim," he said, returning. "I've a head on my shoulders, I have. I'm on squire's side now. I know you've got that ship safe somewheres. How you done it, I don't know, but safe it is. I guess Hands and O'Brien turned soft. I never much believed in neither of THEM. Now you mark me. I ask no questions, nor I won't let others. I know when a game's up, I do; and I know a lad that's staunch. Ah, you that's young -- you and me might have done a power of good together!"

He drew some cognac from the cask into a tin cannikin.

"Will you taste, messmate?" he asked; and when I had refused: "Well, I'll take a drain myself, Jim," said he. "I need a caulker, for there's trouble on hand. And talking o' trouble, why did that doctor give me the chart, Jim?"

My face expressed a wonder so unaffected that he saw the needlessness of further questions.

"Ah, well, he did, though," said he. "And there's something under that, no doubt -- something, surely, under that, Jim -- bad or good."

And he took another swallow of the brandy, shaking his great fair head like a man who looks forward to the worst.



29

The Black Spot Again

THE council of buccaneers had lasted some time, when one of them re-entered the house, and with a repetition of the same salute, which had in my eyes an ironical air, begged for a moment's loan of the torch. Silver briefly agreed, and this emissary retired again, leaving us together in the dark.

"There's a breeze coming, Jim," said Silver, who had by this time adopted quite a friendly and familiar tone.

I turned to the loophole nearest me and looked out. The embers of the great fire had so far burned themselves out and now glowed so low and duskily that I understood why these conspirators desired a torch. About half-way down the slope to the stockade, they were collected in a group; one held the light, another was on his knees in their midst, and I saw the blade of an open knife shine in his hand with varying colours in the moon and torchlight. The rest were all somewhat stooping, as though watching the manoeuvres of this last. I could just make out that he had a book as well as a knife in his hand, and was still wondering how anything so incongruous had come in their possession when the kneeling figure rose once more to his feet and the whole party began to move together towards the house.

"Here they come," said I; and I returned to my former position, for it seemed beneath my dignity that they should find me watching them.

"Well, let 'em come, lad -- let 'em come," said Silver cheerily. "I've still a shot in my locker."

The door opened, and the five men, standing huddled together just inside, pushed one of their number forward. In any other circumstances it would have been comical to see his slow advance, hesitating as he set down each foot, but holding his closed right hand in front of him.

"Step up, lad," cried Silver. "I won't eat you. Hand it over, lubber. I know the rules, I do; I won't hurt a depytation."

Thus encouraged, the buccaneer stepped forth more briskly, and having passed something to Silver, from hand to hand, slipped yet more smartly back again to his companions.

The sea-cook looked at what had been given him.

"The black spot! I thought so," he observed. "Where might you have got the paper? Why, hillo! Look here, now; this ain't lucky! You've gone and cut this out of a Bible. What fool's cut a Bible?"

"Ah, there!" said Morgan. "There! Wot did I say? No good'll come o' that, I said."

"Well, you've about fixed it now, among you," continued Silver. "You'll all swing now, I reckon. What soft-headed lubber had a Bible?"

"It was Dick," said one.

"Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers," said Silver. "He's seen his slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to that."

But here the long man with the yellow eyes struck in.

"Belay that talk, John Silver," he said. "This crew has tipped you the black spot in full council, as in dooty bound; just you turn it over, as in dooty bound, and see what's wrote there. Then you can talk."

"Thanky, George," replied the sea-cook. "You always was brisk for business, and has the rules by heart, George, as I'm pleased to see. Well, what is it, anyway? Ah! 'Deposed' -- that's it, is it? Very pretty wrote, to be sure; like print, I swear. Your hand o' write, George? Why, you was gettin' quite a leadin' man in this here crew. You'll be cap'n next, I shouldn't wonder. Just oblige me with that torch again, will you? This pipe don't draw."

"Come, now," said George, "you don't fool this crew no more. You're a funny man, by your account; but you're over now, and you'll maybe step down off that barrel and help vote."

"I thought you said you knowed the rules," returned Silver contemptuously. "Leastways, if you don't, I do; and I wait here -- and I'm still your cap'n, mind -- till you outs with your grievances and I reply; in the meantime, your black spot ain't worth a biscuit. After that, we'll see."

"Oh," replied George, "you don't be under no kind of apprehension; WE'RE all square, we are. First, you've made a hash of this cruise -- you'll be a bold man to say no to that. Second, you let the enemy out o' this here trap for nothing. Why did they want out? I dunno, but it's pretty plain they wanted it. Third, you wouldn't let us go at them upon the march. Oh, we see through you, John Silver; you want to play booty, that's what's wrong with you. And then, fourth, there's this here boy."

"Is that all?" asked Silver quietly.

"Enough, too," retorted George. "We'll all swing and sun-dry for your bungling."

"Well now, look here, I'll answer these four p'ints; one after another I'll answer 'em. I made a hash o' this cruise, did I? Well now, you all know what I wanted, and you all know if that had been done that we'd 'a been aboard the HISPANIOLA this night as ever was, every man of us alive, and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold of her, by thunder! Well, who crossed me? Who forced my hand, as was the lawful cap'n? Who tipped me the black spot the day we landed and began this dance? Ah, it's a fine dance -- I'm with you there -- and looks mighty like a hornpipe in a rope's end at Execution Dock by London town, it does. But who done it? Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and you, George Merry! And you're the last above board of that same meddling crew; and you have the Davy Jones's insolence to up and stand for cap'n over me -- you, that sank the lot of us! By the powers! But this tops the stiffest yarn to nothing."

Silver paused, and I could see by the faces of George and his late comrades that these words had not been said in vain.

"That's for number one," cried the accused, wiping the sweat from his brow, for he had been talking with a vehemence that shook the house. "Why, I give you my word, I'm sick to speak to you. You've neither sense nor memory, and I leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you come to sea. Sea! Gentlemen o' fortune! I reckon tailors is your trade."

"Go on, John," said Morgan. "Speak up to the others."

"Ah, the others!" returned John. "They're a nice lot, ain't they? You say this cruise is bungled. Ah! By gum, if you could understand how bad it's bungled, you would see! We're that near the gibbet that my neck's stiff with thinking on it. You've seen 'em, maybe, hanged in chains, birds about 'em, seamen p'inting 'em out as they go down with the tide. 'Who's that?' says one. 'That! Why, that's John Silver. I knowed him well,' says another. And you can hear the chains a-jangle as you go about and reach for the other buoy. Now, that's about where we are, every mother's son of us, thanks to him, and Hands, and Anderson, and other ruination fools of you. And if you want to know about number four, and that boy, why, shiver my timbers, isn't he a hostage? Are we a-going to waste a hostage? No, not us; he might be our last chance, and I shouldn't wonder. Kill that boy? Not me, mates! And number three? Ah, well, there's a deal to say to number three. Maybe you don't count it nothing to have a real college doctor to see you every day -- you, John, with your head broke -- or you, George Merry, that had the ague shakes upon you not six hours agone, and has your eyes the colour of lemon peel to this same moment on the clock? And maybe, perhaps, you didn't know there was a consort coming either? But there is, and not so long till then; and we'll see who'll be glad to have a hostage when it comes to that. And as for number two, and why I made a bargain -- well, you came crawling on your knees to me to make it -- on your knees you came, you was that downhearted -- and you'd have starved too if I hadn't -- but that's a trifle! You look there -- that's why!"

And he cast down upon the floor a paper that I instantly recognized -- none other than the chart on yellow paper, with the three red crosses, that I had found in the oilcloth at the bottom of the captain's chest. Why the doctor had given it to him was more than I could fancy.

But if it were inexplicable to me, the appearance of the chart was incredible to the surviving mutineers. They leaped upon it like cats upon a mouse. It went from hand to hand, one tearing it from another; and by the oaths and the cries and the childish laughter with which they accompanied their examination, you would have thought, not only they were fingering the very gold, but were at sea with it, besides, in safety.

"Yes," said one, "that's Flint, sure enough. J. F., and a score below, with a clove hitch to it; so he done ever."

"Mighty pretty," said George. "But how are we to get away with it, and us no ship."

Silver suddenly sprang up, and supporting himself with a hand against the wall: "Now I give you warning, George," he cried. "One more word of your sauce, and I'll call you down and fight you. How? Why, how do I know? You had ought to tell me that -- you and the rest, that lost me my schooner, with your interference, burn you! But not you, you can't; you hain't got the invention of a cockroach. But civil you can speak, and shall, George Merry, you may lay to that."

"That's fair enow," said the old man Morgan.

"Fair! I reckon so," said the sea-cook. "You lost the ship; I found the treasure. Who's the better man at that? And now I resign, by thunder! Elect whom you please to be your cap'n now; I'm done with it."

"Silver!" they cried. "Barbecue forever! Barbecue for cap'n!"

"So that's the toon, is it?" cried the cook. "George, I reckon you'll have to wait another turn, friend; and lucky for you as I'm not a revengeful man. But that was never my way. And now, shipmates, this black spot? 'Tain't much good now, is it? Dick's crossed his luck and spoiled his Bible, and that's about all."

"It'll do to kiss the book on still, won't it?" growled Dick, who was evidently uneasy at the curse he had brought upon himself.

"A Bible with a bit cut out!" returned Silver derisively. "Not it. It don't bind no more'n a ballad-book."

"Don't it, though?" cried Dick with a sort of joy. "Well, I reckon that's worth having too."

"Here, Jim -- here's a cur'osity for you," said Silver, and he tossed me the paper.

It was around about the size of a crown piece. One side was blank, for it had been the last leaf; the other contained a verse or two of Revelation -- these words among the rest, which struck sharply home upon my mind: "Without are dogs and murderers." The printed side had been blackened with wood ash, which already began to come off and soil my fingers; on the blank side had been written with the same material the one word "Depposed." I have that curiosity beside me at this moment, but not a trace of writing now remains beyond a single scratch, such as a man might make with his thumb-nail.

That was the end of the night's business. Soon after, with a drink all round, we lay down to sleep, and the outside of Silver's vengeance was to put George Merry up for sentinel and threaten him with death if he should prove unfaithful.

It was long ere I could close an eye, and heaven knows I had matter enough for thought in the man whom I had slain that afternoon, in my own most perilous position, and above all, in the remarkable game that I saw Silver now engaged upon -- keeping the mutineers together with one hand and grasping with the other after every means, possible and impossible, to make his peace and save his miserable life. He himself slept peacefully and snored aloud, yet my heart was sore for him, wicked as he was, to think on the dark perils that environed and the shameful gibbet that awaited him.



30

On Parole

I WAS wakened -- indeed, we were all wakened, for I could see even the sentinel shake himself together from where he had fallen against the door-post -- by a clear, hearty voice hailing us from the margin of the wood:

"Block house, ahoy!" it cried. "Here's the doctor."

And the doctor it was. Although I was glad to hear the sound, yet my gladness was not without admixture. I remembered with confusion my insubordinate and stealthy conduct, and when I saw where it had brought me -- among what companions and surrounded by what dangers -- I felt ashamed to look him in the face.

He must have risen in the dark, for the day had hardly come; and when I ran to a loophole and looked out, I saw him standing, like Silver once before, up to the mid-leg in creeping vapour.

"You, doctor! Top o' the morning to you, sir!" cried Silver, broad awake and beaming with good nature in a moment. "Bright and early, to be sure; and it's the early bird, as the saying goes, that gets the rations. George, shake up your timbers, son, and help Dr. Livesey over the ship's side. All a-doin' well, your patients was -- all well and merry."

So he pattered on, standing on the hilltop with his crutch under his elbow and one hand upon the side of the log-house -- quite the old John in voice, manner, and expression.

"We've quite a surprise for you too, sir," he continued. "We've a little stranger here -- he! he! A noo boarder and lodger, sir, and looking fit and taut as a fiddle; slep' like a supercargo, he did, right alongside of John -- stem to stem we was, all night."

Dr. Livesey was by this time across the stockade and pretty near the cook, and I could hear the alteration in his voice as he said, "Not Jim?"

"The very same Jim as ever was," says Silver.

The doctor stopped outright, although he did not speak, and it was some seconds before he seemed able to move on.

"Well, well," he said at last, "duty first and pleasure afterwards, as you might have said yourself, Silver. Let us overhaul these patients of yours."

A moment afterwards he had entered the block house and with one grim nod to me proceeded with his work among the sick. He seemed under no apprehension, though he must have known that his life, among these treacherous demons, depended on a hair; and he rattled on to his patients as if he were paying an ordinary professional visit in a quiet English family. His manner, I suppose, reacted on the men, for they behaved to him as if nothing had occurred, as if he were still ship's doctor and they still faithful hands before the mast.

"You're doing well, my friend," he said to the fellow with the bandaged head, "and if ever any person had a close shave, it was you; your head must be as hard as iron. Well, George, how goes it? You're a pretty colour, certainly; why, your liver, man, is upside down. Did you take that medicine? Did he take that medicine, men?"

"Aye, aye, sir, he took it, sure enough," returned Morgan.

"Because, you see, since I am mutineers' doctor, or prison doctor as I prefer to call it," says Doctor Livesey in his pleasantest way, "I make it a point of honour not to lose a man for King George (God bless him!) and the gallows."

The rogues looked at each other but swallowed the home-thrust in silence.

"Dick don't feel well, sir," said one.

"Don't he?" replied the doctor. "Well, step up here, Dick, and let me see your tongue. No, I should be surprised if he did! The man's tongue is fit to frighten the French. Another fever."

"Ah, there," said Morgan, "that comed of sp'iling Bibles."

"That comes -- as you call it -- of being arrant asses," retorted the doctor, "and not having sense enough to know honest air from poison, and the dry land from a vile, pestiferous slough. I think it most probable -- though of course it's only an opinion -- that you'll all have the deuce to pay before you get that malaria out of your systems. Camp in a bog, would you? Silver, I'm surprised at you. You're less of a fool than many, take you all round; but you don't appear to me to have the rudiments of a notion of the rules of health.

"Well," he added after he had dosed them round and they had taken his prescriptions, with really laughable humility, more like charity schoolchildren than blood-guilty mutineers and pirates -- "well, that's done for today. And now I should wish to have a talk with that boy, please."

And he nodded his head in my direction carelessly.

George Merry was at the door, spitting and spluttering over some bad-tasted medicine; but at the first word of the doctor's proposal he swung round with a deep flush and cried "No!" and swore.

Silver struck the barrel with his open hand.

"Si-lence!" he roared and looked about him positively like a lion. "Doctor," he went on in his usual tones, "I was a-thinking of that, knowing as how you had a fancy for the boy. We're all humbly grateful for your kindness, and as you see, puts faith in you and takes the drugs down like that much grog. And I take it I've found a way as'll suit all. Hawkins, will you give me your word of honour as a young gentleman -- for a young gentleman you are, although poor born -- your word of honour not to slip your cable?"

I readily gave the pledge required.

"Then, doctor," said Silver, "you just step outside o' that stockade, and once you're there I'll bring the boy down on the inside, and I reckon you can yarn through the spars. Good day to you, sir, and all our dooties to the squire and Cap'n Smollett."

The explosion of disapproval, which nothing but Silver's black looks had restrained, broke out immediately the doctor had left the house. Silver was roundly accused of playing double -- of trying to make a separate peace for himself, of sacrificing the interests of his accomplices and victims, and, in one word, of the identical, exact thing that he was doing. It seemed to me so obvious, in this case, that I could not imagine how he was to turn their anger. But he was twice the man the rest were, and his last night's victory had given him a huge preponderance on their minds. He called them all the fools and dolts you can imagine, said it was necessary I should talk to the doctor, fluttered the chart in their faces, asked them if they could afford to break the treaty the very day they were bound a-treasure-hunting.

"No, by thunder!" he cried. "It's us must break the treaty when the time comes; and till then I'll gammon that doctor, if I have to ile his boots with brandy."

And then he bade them get the fire lit, and stalked out upon his crutch, with his hand on my shoulder, leaving them in a disarray, and silenced by his volubility rather than convinced.

"Slow, lad, slow," he said. "They might round upon us in a twinkle of an eye if we was seen to hurry."

Very deliberately, then, did we advance across the sand to where the doctor awaited us on the other side of the stockade, and as soon as we were within easy speaking distance Silver stopped.

"You'll make a note of this here also, doctor," says he, "and the boy'll tell you how I saved his life, and were deposed for it too, and you may lay to that. Doctor, when a man's steering as near the wind as me -- playing chuck-farthing with the last breath in his body, like -- you wouldn't think it too much, mayhap, to give him one good word? You'll please bear in mind it's not my life only now -- it's that boy's into the bargain; and you'll speak me fair, doctor, and give me a bit o' hope to go on, for the sake of mercy."

Silver was a changed man once he was out there and had his back to his friends and the block house; his cheeks seemed to have fallen in, his voice trembled; never was a soul more dead in earnest.

"Why, John, you're not afraid?" asked Dr. Livesey.

"Doctor, I'm no coward; no, not I -- not SO much!" and he snapped his fingers. "If I was I wouldn't say it. But I'll own up fairly, I've the shakes upon me for the gallows. You're a good man and a true; I never seen a better man! And you'll not forget what I done good, not any more than you'll forget the bad, I know. And I step aside -- see here -- and leave you and Jim alone. And you'll put that down for me too, for it's a long stretch, is that!"

So saying, he stepped back a little way, till he was out of earshot, and there sat down upon a tree-stump and began to whistle, spinning round now and again upon his seat so as to command a sight, sometimes of me and the doctor and sometimes of his unruly ruffians as they went to and fro in the sand between the fire -- which they were busy rekindling -- and the house, from which they brought forth pork and bread to make the breakfast.

"So, Jim," said the doctor sadly, "here you are. As you have brewed, so shall you drink, my boy. Heaven knows, I cannot find it in my heart to blame you, but this much I will say, be it kind or unkind: when Captain Smollett was well, you dared not have gone off; and when he was ill and couldn't help it, by George, it was downright cowardly!"

I will own that I here began to weep. "Doctor," I said, "you might spare me. I have blamed myself enough; my life's forfeit anyway, and I should have been dead by now if Silver hadn't stood for me; and doctor, believe this, I can die -- and I dare say I deserve it -- but what I fear is torture. If they come to torture me -- "

"Jim," the doctor interrupted, and his voice was quite changed, "Jim, I can't have this. Whip over, and we'll run for it."

"Doctor," said I, "I passed my word."

"I know, I know," he cried. "We can't help that, Jim, now. I'll take it on my shoulders, holus bolus, blame and shame, my boy; but stay here, I cannot let you. Jump! One jump, and you're out, and we'll run for it like antelopes."

"No," I replied; "you know right well you wouldn't do the thing yourself -- neither you nor squire nor captain; and no more will I. Silver trusted me; I passed my word, and back I go. But, doctor, you did not let me finish. If they come to torture me, I might let slip a word of where the ship is, for I got the ship, part by luck and part by risking, and she lies in North Inlet, on the southern beach, and just below high water. At half tide she must be high and dry."

"The ship!" exclaimed the doctor.

Rapidly I described to him my adventures, and he heard me out in silence.

"There is a kind of fate in this," he observed when I had done. "Every step, it's you that saves our lives; and do you suppose by any chance that we are going to let you lose yours? That would be a poor return, my boy. You found out the plot; you found Ben Gunn -- the best deed that ever you did, or will do, though you live to ninety. Oh, by Jupiter, and talking of Ben Gunn! Why, this is the mischief in person. Silver!" he cried. "Silver! I'll give you a piece of advice," he continued as the cook drew near again; "don't you be in any great hurry after that treasure."

"Why, sir, I do my possible, which that ain't," said Silver. "I can only, asking your pardon, save my life and the boy's by seeking for that treasure; and you may lay to that."

"Well, Silver," replied the doctor, "if that is so, I'll go one step further: look out for squalls when you find it."

"Sir," said Silver, "as between man and man, that's too much and too little. What you're after, why you left the block house, why you given me that there chart, I don't know, now, do I? And yet I done your bidding with my eyes shut and never a word of hope! But no, this here's too much. If you won't tell me what you mean plain out, just say so and I'll leave the helm."

"No," said the doctor musingly; "I've no right to say more; it's not my secret, you see, Silver, or, I give you my word, I'd tell it you. But I'll go as far with you as I dare go, and a step beyond, for I'll have my wig sorted by the captain or I'm mistaken! And first, I'll give you a bit of hope; Silver, if we both get alive out of this wolf-trap, I'll do my best to save you, short of perjury."

Silver's face was radiant. "You couldn't say more, I'm sure, sir, not if you was my mother," he cried.

"Well, that's my first concession," added the doctor. "My second is a piece of advice: keep the boy close beside you, and when you need help, halloo. I'm off to seek it for you, and that itself will show you if I speak at random. Good-bye, Jim."

And Dr. Livesey shook hands with me through the stockade, nodded to Silver, and set off at a brisk pace into the wood.



31

The Treasure-hunt -- Flint's Pointer

"JIM," said Silver when we were alone, "if I saved your life, you saved mine; and I'll not forget it. I seen the doctor waving you to run for it -- with the tail of my eye, I did; and I seen you say no, as plain as hearing. Jim, that's one to you. This is the first glint of hope I had since the attack failed, and I owe it you. And now, Jim, we're to go in for this here treasure-hunting, with sealed orders too, and I don't like it; and you and me must stick close, back to back like, and we'll save our necks in spite o' fate and fortune."

Just then a man hailed us from the fire that breakfast was ready, and we were soon seated here and there about the sand over biscuit and fried junk. They had lit a fire fit to roast an ox, and it was now grown so hot that they could only approach it from the windward, and even there not without precaution. In the same wasteful spirit, they had cooked, I suppose, three times more than we could eat; and one of them, with an empty laugh, threw what was left into the fire, which blazed and roared again over this unusual fuel. I never in my life saw men so careless of the morrow; hand to mouth is the only word that can describe their way of doing; and what with wasted food and sleeping sentries, though they were bold enough for a brush and be done with it, I could see their entire unfitness for anything like a prolonged campaign.

Even Silver, eating away, with Captain Flint upon his shoulder, had not a word of blame for their recklessness. And this the more surprised me, for I thought he had never shown himself so cunning as he did then.

"Aye, mates," said he, "it's lucky you have Barbecue to think for you with this here head. I got what I wanted, I did. Sure enough, they have the ship. Where they have it, I don't know yet; but once we hit the treasure, we'll have to jump about and find out. And then, mates, us that has the boats, I reckon, has the upper hand."

Thus he kept running on, with his mouth full of the hot bacon; thus he restored their hope and confidence, and, I more than suspect, repaired his own at the same time.

"As for hostage," he continued, "that's his last talk, I guess, with them he loves so dear. I've got my piece o' news, and thanky to him for that; but it's over and done. I'll take him in a line when we go treasure-hunting, for we'll keep him like so much gold, in case of accidents, you mark, and in the meantime. Once we got the ship and treasure both and off to sea like jolly companions, why then we'll talk Mr. Hawkins over, we will, and we'll give him his share, to be sure, for all his kindness."

It was no wonder the men were in a good humour now. For my part, I was horribly cast down. Should the scheme he had now sketched prove feasible, Silver, already doubly a traitor, would not hesitate to adopt it. He had still a foot in either camp, and there was no doubt he would prefer wealth and freedom with the pirates to a bare escape from hanging, which was the best he had to hope on our side.

Nay, and even if things so fell out that he was forced to keep his faith with Dr. Livesey, even then what danger lay before us! What a moment that would be when the suspicions of his followers turned to certainty and he and I should have to fight for dear life -- he a cripple and I a boy -- against five strong and active seamen!

Add to this double apprehension the mystery that still hung over the behaviour of my friends, their unexplained desertion of the stockade, their inexplicable cession of the chart, or harder still to understand, the doctor's last warning to Silver, "Look out for squalls when you find it," and you will readily believe how little taste I found in my breakfast and with how uneasy a heart I set forth behind my captors on the quest for treasure.

We made a curious figure, had anyone been there to see us -- all in soiled sailor clothes and all but me armed to the teeth. Silver had two guns slung about him -- one before and one behind -- besides the great cutlass at his waist and a pistol in each pocket of his square-tailed coat. To complete his strange appearance, Captain Flint sat perched upon his shoulder and gabbling odds and ends of purposeless sea-talk. I had a line about my waist and followed obediently after the sea-cook, who held the loose end of the rope, now in his free hand, now between his powerful teeth. For all the world, I was led like a dancing bear.

The other men were variously burthened, some carrying picks and shovels -- for that had been the very first necessary they brought ashore from the HISPANIOLA -- others laden with pork, bread, and brandy for the midday meal. All the stores, I observed, came from our stock, and I could see the truth of Silver's words the night before. Had he not struck a bargain with the doctor, he and his mutineers, deserted by the ship, must have been driven to subsist on clear water and the proceeds of their hunting. Water would have been little to their taste; a sailor is not usually a good shot; and besides all that, when they were so short of eatables, it was not likely they would be very flush of powder.

Well, thus equipped, we all set out -- even the fellow with the broken head, who should certainly have kept in shadow -- and straggled, one after another, to the beach, where the two gigs awaited us. Even these bore trace of the drunken folly of the pirates, one in a broken thwart, and both in their muddy and unbailed condition. Both were to be carried along with us for the sake of safety; and so, with our numbers divided between them, we set forth upon the bosom of the anchorage.

As we pulled over, there was some discussion on the chart. The red cross was, of course, far too large to be a guide; and the terms of the note on the back, as you will hear, admitted of some ambiguity. They ran, the reader may remember, thus:

Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to the N. of N.N.E. Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E. Ten feet.

A tall tree was thus the principal mark. Now, right before us the anchorage was bounded by a plateau from two to three hundred feet high, adjoining on the north the sloping southern shoulder of the Spy-glass and rising again towards the south into the rough, cliffy eminence called the Mizzen-mast Hill. The top of the plateau was dotted thickly with pine-trees of varying height. Every here and there, one of a different species rose forty or fifty feet clear above its neighbours, and which of these was the particular "tall tree" of Captain Flint could only be decided on the spot, and by the readings of the compass.

Yet, although that was the case, every man on board the boats had picked a favourite of his own ere we were half-way over, Long John alone shrugging his shoulders and bidding them wait till they were there.

We pulled easily, by Silver's directions, not to weary the hands prematurely, and after quite a long passage, landed at the mouth of the second river -- that which runs down a woody cleft of the Spy-glass. Thence, bending to our left, we began to ascend the slope towards the plateau.

At the first outset, heavy, miry ground and a matted, marish vegetation greatly delayed our progress; but by little and little the hill began to steepen and become stony under foot, and the wood to change its character and to grow in a more open order. It was, indeed, a most pleasant portion of the island that we were now approaching. A heavy-scented broom and many flowering shrubs had almost taken the place of grass. Thickets of green nutmeg-trees were dotted here and there with the red columns and the broad shadow of the pines; and the first mingled their spice with the aroma of the others. The air, besides, was fresh and stirring, and this, under the sheer sunbeams, was a wonderful refreshment to our senses.

The party spread itself abroad, in a fan shape, shouting and leaping to and fro. About the centre, and a good way behind the rest, Silver and I followed -- I tethered by my rope, he ploughing, with deep pants, among the sliding gravel. From time to time, indeed, I had to lend him a hand, or he must have missed his footing and fallen backward down the hill.

We had thus proceeded for about half a mile and were approaching the brow of the plateau when the man upon the farthest left began to cry aloud, as if in terror. Shout after shout came from him, and the others began to run in his direction.

"He can't 'a found the treasure," said old Morgan, hurrying past us from the right, "for that's clean a-top."

Indeed, as we found when we also reached the spot, it was something very different. At the foot of a pretty big pine and involved in a green creeper, which had even partly lifted some of the smaller bones, a human skeleton lay, with a few shreds of clothing, on the ground. I believe a chill struck for a moment to every heart.

"He was a seaman," said George Merry, who, bolder than the rest, had gone up close and was examining the rags of clothing. "Leastways, this is good sea-cloth."

"Aye, aye," said Silver; "like enough; you wouldn't look to find a bishop here, I reckon. But what sort of a way is that for bones to lie? 'Tain't in natur'."

Indeed, on a second glance, it seemed impossible to fancy that the body was in a natural position. But for some disarray (the work, perhaps, of the birds that had fed upon him or of the slow-growing creeper that had gradually enveloped his remains) the man lay perfectly straight -- his feet pointing in one direction, his hands, raised above his head like a diver's, pointing directly in the opposite.

"I've taken a notion into my old numbskull," observed Silver. "Here's the compass; there's the tip-top p'int o' Skeleton Island, stickin' out like a tooth. Just take a bearing, will you, along the line of them bones."

It was done. The body pointed straight in the direction of the island, and the compass read duly E.S.E. and by E.

"I thought so," cried the cook; "this here is a p'inter. Right up there is our line for the Pole Star and the jolly dollars. But, by thunder! If it don't make me cold inside to think of Flint. This is one of HIS jokes, and no mistake. Him and these six was alone here; he killed 'em, every man; and this one he hauled here and laid down by compass, shiver my timbers! They're long bones, and the hair's been yellow. Aye, that would be Allardyce. You mind Allardyce, Tom Morgan?"

"Aye, aye," returned Morgan; "I mind him; he owed me money, he did, and took my knife ashore with him."

"Speaking of knives," said another, "why don't we find his'n lying round? Flint warn't the man to pick a seaman's pocket; and the birds, I guess, would leave it be."

"By the powers, and that's true!" cried Silver.

"There ain't a thing left here," said Merry, still feeling round among the bones; "not a copper doit nor a baccy box. It don't look nat'ral to me."

"No, by gum, it don't," agreed Silver; "not nat'ral, nor not nice, says you. Great guns! Messmates, but if Flint was living, this would be a hot spot for you and me. Six they were, and six are we; and bones is what they are now."

"I saw him dead with these here deadlights," said Morgan. "Billy took me in. There he laid, with penny-pieces on his eyes."

"Dead -- aye, sure enough he's dead and gone below," said the fellow with the bandage; "but if ever sperrit walked, it would be Flint's. Dear heart, but he died bad, did Flint!"

"Aye, that he did," observed another; "now he raged, and now he hollered for the rum, and now he sang. 'Fifteen Men' were his only song, mates; and I tell you true, I never rightly liked to hear it since. It was main hot, and the windy was open, and I hear that old song comin' out as clear as clear -- and the death-haul on the man already."

"Come, come," said Silver; "stow this talk. He's dead, and he don't walk, that I know; leastways, he won't walk by day, and you may lay to that. Care killed a cat. Fetch ahead for the doubloons."

We started, certainly; but in spite of the hot sun and the staring daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate and shouting through the wood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath. The terror of the dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits.



32

The Treasure-hunt -- The Voice Among the Trees

PARTLY from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to rest Silver and the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon as they had gained the brow of the ascent.

The plateau being somewhat tilted towards the west, this spot on which we had paused commanded a wide prospect on either hand. Before us, over the tree-tops, we beheld the Cape of the Woods fringed with surf; behind, we not only looked down upon the anchorage and Skeleton Island, but saw -- clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands -- a great field of open sea upon the east. Sheer above us rose the Spyglass, here dotted with single pines, there black with precipices. There was no sound but that of the distant breakers, mounting from all round, and the chirp of countless insects in the brush. Not a man, not a sail, upon the sea; the very largeness of the view increased the sense of solitude.

Silver, as he sat, took certain bearings with his compass.

"There are three 'tall trees'" said he, "about in the right line from Skeleton Island. 'Spy-glass shoulder,' I take it, means that lower p'int there. It's child's play to find the stuff now. I've half a mind to dine first."

"I don't feel sharp," growled Morgan. "Thinkin' o' Flint -- I think it were -- as done me."

"Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he's dead," said Silver.

"He were an ugly devil," cried a third pirate with a shudder; "that blue in the face too!"

"That was how the rum took him," added Merry. "Blue! Well, I reckon he was blue. That's a true word."

Ever since they had found the skeleton and got upon this train of thought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they had almost got to whispering by now, so that the sound of their talk hardly interrupted the silence of the wood. All of a sudden, out of the middle of the trees in front of us, a thin, high, trembling voice struck up the well-known air and words:

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest --  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

I never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the pirates. The colour went from their six faces like enchantment; some leaped to their feet, some clawed hold of others; Morgan grovelled on the ground.

"It's Flint, by  --  -- !" cried Merry.

The song had stopped as suddenly as it began -- broken off, you would have said, in the middle of a note, as though someone had laid his hand upon the singer's mouth. Coming through the clear, sunny atmosphere among the green tree-tops, I thought it had sounded airily and sweetly; and the effect on my companions was the stranger.

"Come," said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get the word out; "this won't do. Stand by to go about. This is a rum start, and I can't name the voice, but it's someone skylarking -- someone that's flesh and blood, and you may lay to that."

His courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the colour to his face along with it. Already the others had begun to lend an ear to this encouragement and were coming a little to themselves, when the same voice broke out again -- not this time singing, but in a faint distant hail that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the Spy-glass.

"Darby M'Graw," it wailed -- for that is the word that best describes the sound -- "Darby M'Graw! Darby M'Graw!" again and again and again; and then rising a little higher, and with an oath that I leave out: "Fetch aft the rum, Darby!"

The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from their heads. Long after the voice had died away they still stared in silence, dreadfully, before them.

"That fixes it!" gasped one. "Let's go."

"They was his last words," moaned Morgan, "his last words above board."

Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.

Still Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his head, but he had not yet surrendered.

"Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby," he muttered; "not one but us that's here." And then, making a great effort: "Shipmates," he cried, "I'm here to get that stuff, and I'll not be beat by man or devil. I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by the powers, I'll face him dead. There's seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a mile from here. When did ever a gentleman o' fortune show his stern to that much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug -- and him dead too?"

But there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers, rather, indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.

"Belay there, John!" said Merry. "Don't you cross a sperrit."

And the rest were all too terrified to reply. They would have run away severally had they dared; but fear kept them together, and kept them close by John, as if his daring helped them. He, on his part, had pretty well fought his weakness down.

"Sperrit? Well, maybe," he said. "But there's one thing not clear to me. There was an echo. Now, no man ever seen a sperrit with a shadow; well then, what's he doing with an echo to him, I should like to know? That ain't in natur', surely?"

This argument seemed weak enough to me. But you can never tell what will affect the superstitious, and to my wonder, George Merry was greatly relieved.

"Well, that's so," he said. "You've a head upon your shoulders, John, and no mistake. 'Bout ship, mates! This here crew is on a wrong tack, I do believe. And come to think on it, it was like Flint's voice, I grant you, but not just so clear-away like it, after all. It was liker somebody else's voice now -- it was liker -- "

"By the powers, Ben Gunn!" roared Silver.

"Aye, and so it were," cried Morgan, springing on his knees. "Ben Gunn it were!"

"It don't make much odds, do it, now?" asked Dick. "Ben Gunn's not here in the body any more'n Flint."

But the older hands greeted this remark with scorn.

"Why, nobody minds Ben Gunn," cried Merry; "dead or alive, nobody minds him."

It was extraordinary how their spirits had returned and how the natural colour had revived in their faces. Soon they were chatting together, with intervals of listening; and not long after, hearing no further sound, they shouldered the tools and set forth again, Merry walking first with Silver's compass to keep them on the right line with Skeleton Island. He had said the truth: dead or alive, nobody minded Ben Gunn.

Dick alone still held his Bible, and looked around him as he went, with fearful glances; but he found no sympathy, and Silver even joked him on his precautions.

"I told you," said he -- "I told you you had sp'iled your Bible. If it ain't no good to swear by, what do you suppose a sperrit would give for it? Not that!" and he snapped his big fingers, halting a moment on his crutch.

But Dick was not to be comforted; indeed, it was soon plain to me that the lad was falling sick; hastened by heat, exhaustion, and the shock of his alarm, the fever, predicted by Dr. Livesey, was evidently growing swiftly higher.

It was fine open walking here, upon the summit; our way lay a little downhill, for, as I have said, the plateau tilted towards the west. The pines, great and small, grew wide apart; and even between the clumps of nutmeg and azalea, wide open spaces baked in the hot sunshine. Striking, as we did, pretty near north-west across the island, we drew, on the one hand, ever nearer under the shoulders of the Spy-glass, and on the other, looked ever wider over that western bay where I had once tossed and trembled in the coracle.

The first of the tall trees was reached, and by the bearings proved the wrong one. So with the second. The third rose nearly two hundred feet into the air above a clump of underwood -- a giant of a vegetable, with a red column as big as a cottage, and a wide shadow around in which a company could have manoeuvred. It was conspicuous far to sea both on the east and west and might have been entered as a sailing mark upon the chart.

But it was not its size that now impressed my companions; it was the knowledge that seven hundred thousand pounds in gold lay somewhere buried below its spreading shadow. The thought of the money, as they drew nearer, swallowed up their previous terrors. Their eyes burned in their heads; their feet grew speedier and lighter; their whole soul was bound up in that fortune, that whole lifetime of extravagance and pleasure, that lay waiting there for each of them.

Silver hobbled, grunting, on his crutch; his nostrils stood out and quivered; he cursed like a madman when the flies settled on his hot and shiny countenance; he plucked furiously at the line that held me to him and from time to time turned his eyes upon me with a deadly look. Certainly he took no pains to hide his thoughts, and certainly I read them like print. In the immediate nearness of the gold, all else had been forgotten: his promise and the doctor's warning were both things of the past, and I could not doubt that he hoped to seize upon the treasure, find and board the HISPANIOLA under cover of night, cut every honest throat about that island, and sail away as he had at first intended, laden with crimes and riches.

Shaken as I was with these alarms, it was hard for me to keep up with the rapid pace of the treasure-hunters. Now and again I stumbled, and it was then that Silver plucked so roughly at the rope and launched at me his murderous glances. Dick, who had dropped behind us and now brought up the rear, was babbling to himself both prayers and curses as his fever kept rising. This also added to my wretchedness, and to crown all, I was haunted by the thought of the tragedy that had once been acted on that plateau, when that ungodly buccaneer with the blue face -- he who died at Savannah, singing and shouting for drink -- had there, with his own hand, cut down his six accomplices. This grove that was now so peaceful must then have rung with cries, I thought; and even with the thought I could believe I heard it ringing still.

We were now at the margin of the thicket.

"Huzza, mates, all together!" shouted Merry; and the foremost broke into a run.

And suddenly, not ten yards further, we beheld them stop. A low cry arose. Silver doubled his pace, digging away with the foot of his crutch like one possessed; and next moment he and I had come also to a dead halt.

Before us was a great excavation, not very recent, for the sides had fallen in and grass had sprouted on the bottom. In this were the shaft of a pick broken in two and the boards of several packing-cases strewn around. On one of these boards I saw, branded with a hot iron, the name WALRUS -- the name of Flint's ship.

All was clear to probation. The CACHE had been found and rifled; the seven hundred thousand pounds were gone!



33

The Fall of a Chieftain

THERE never was such an overturn in this world. Each of these six men was as though he had been struck. But with Silver the blow passed almost instantly. Every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a racer, on that money; well, he was brought up, in a single second, dead; and he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the others had had time to realize the disappointment.

"Jim," he whispered, "take that, and stand by for trouble."

And he passed me a double-barrelled pistol.

At the same time, he began quietly moving northward, and in a few steps had put the hollow between us two and the other five. Then he looked at me and nodded, as much as to say, "Here is a narrow corner," as, indeed, I thought it was. His looks were not quite friendly, and I was so revolted at these constant changes that I could not forbear whispering, "So you've changed sides again."

There was no time left for him to answer in. The buccaneers, with oaths and cries, began to leap, one after another, into the pit and to dig with their fingers, throwing the boards aside as they did so. Morgan found a piece of gold. He held it up with a perfect spout of oaths. It was a two-guinea piece, and it went from hand to hand among them for a quarter of a minute.

"Two guineas!" roared Merry, shaking it at Silver. "That's your seven hundred thousand pounds, is it? You're the man for bargains, ain't you? You're him that never bungled nothing, you wooden-headed lubber!"

"Dig away, boys," said Silver with the coolest insolence; "you'll find some pig-nuts and I shouldn't wonder."

"Pig-nuts!" repeated Merry, in a scream. "Mates, do you hear that? I tell you now, that man there knew it all along. Look in the face of him and you'll see it wrote there."

"Ah, Merry," remarked Silver, "standing for cap'n again? You're a pushing lad, to be sure."

But this time everyone was entirely in Merry's favour. They began to scramble out of the excavation, darting furious glances behind them. One thing I observed, which looked well for us: they all got out upon the opposite side from Silver.

Well, there we stood, two on one side, five on the other, the pit between us, and nobody screwed up high enough to offer the first blow. Silver never moved; he watched them, very upright on his crutch, and looked as cool as ever I saw him. He was brave, and no mistake.

At last Merry seemed to think a speech might help matters.

"Mates," says he, "there's two of them alone there; one's the old cripple that brought us all here and blundered us down to this; the other's that cub that I mean to have the heart of. Now, mates -- "

He was raising his arm and his voice, and plainly meant to lead a charge. But just then -- crack! crack! crack! -- three musket-shots flashed out of the thicket. Merry tumbled head foremost into the excavation; the man with the bandage spun round like a teetotum and fell all his length upon his side, where he lay dead, but still twitching; and the other three turned and ran for it with all their might.

Before you could wink, Long John had fired two barrels of a pistol into the struggling Merry, and as the man rolled up his eyes at him in the last agony, "George," said he, "I reckon I settled you."

At the same moment, the doctor, Gray, and Ben Gunn joined us, with smoking muskets, from among the nutmeg-trees.

"Forward!" cried the doctor. "Double quick, my lads. We must head 'em off the boats."

And we set off at a great pace, sometimes plunging through the bushes to the chest.

I tell you, but Silver was anxious to keep up with us. The work that man went through, leaping on his crutch till the muscles of his chest were fit to burst, was work no sound man ever equalled; and so thinks the doctor. As it was, he was already thirty yards behind us and on the verge of strangling when we reached the brow of the slope.

"Doctor," he hailed, "see there! No hurry!"

Sure enough there was no hurry. In a more open part of the plateau, we could see the three survivors still running in the same direction as they had started, right for Mizzenmast Hill. We were already between them and the boats; and so we four sat down to breathe, while Long John, mopping his face, came slowly up with us.

"Thank ye kindly, doctor," says he. "You came in in about the nick, I guess, for me and Hawkins. And so it's you, Ben Gunn!" he added. "Well, you're a nice one, to be sure."

"I'm Ben Gunn, I am," replied the maroon, wriggling like an eel in his embarrassment. "And," he added, after a long pause, "how do, Mr. Silver? Pretty well, I thank ye, says you."

"Ben, Ben," murmured Silver, "to think as you've done me!"

The doctor sent back Gray for one of the pick-axes deserted, in their flight, by the mutineers, and then as we proceeded leisurely downhill to where the boats were lying, related in a few words what had taken place. It was a story that profoundly interested Silver; and Ben Gunn, the half-idiot maroon, was the hero from beginning to end.

Ben, in his long, lonely wanderings about the island, had found the skeleton -- it was he that had rifled it; he had found the treasure; he had dug it up (it was the haft of his pick-axe that lay broken in the excavation); he had carried it on his back, in many weary journeys, from the foot of the tall pine to a cave he had on the two-pointed hill at the north-east angle of the island, and there it had lain stored in safety since two months before the arrival of the HISPANIOLA.

When the doctor had wormed this secret from him on the afternoon of the attack, and when next morning he saw the anchorage deserted, he had gone to Silver, given him the chart, which was now useless -- given him the stores, for Ben Gunn's cave was well supplied with goats' meat salted by himself -- given anything and everything to get a chance of moving in safety from the stockade to the two-pointed hill, there to be clear of malaria and keep a guard upon the money.

"As for you, Jim," he said, "it went against my heart, but I did what I thought best for those who had stood by their duty; and if you were not one of these, whose fault was it?"

That morning, finding that I was to be involved in the horrid disappointment he had prepared for the mutineers, he had run all the way to the cave, and leaving the squire to guard the captain, had taken Gray and the maroon and started, making the diagonal across the island to be at hand beside the pine. Soon, however, he saw that our party had the start of him; and Ben Gunn, being fleet of foot, had been dispatched in front to do his best alone. Then it had occurred to him to work upon the superstitions of his former shipmates, and he was so far successful that Gray and the doctor had come up and were already ambushed before the arrival of the treasure-hunters.

"Ah," said Silver, "it were fortunate for me that I had Hawkins here. You would have let old John be cut to bits, and never given it a thought, doctor."

"Not a thought," replied Dr. Livesey cheerily.

And by this time we had reached the gigs. The doctor, with the pick-axe, demolished one of them, and then we all got aboard the other and set out to go round by sea for North Inlet.

This was a run of eight or nine miles. Silver, though he was almost killed already with fatigue, was set to an oar, like the rest of us, and we were soon skimming swiftly over a smooth sea. Soon we passed out of the straits and doubled the south-east corner of the island, round which, four days ago, we had towed the HISPANIOLA.

As we passed the two-pointed hill, we could see the black mouth of Ben Gunn's cave and a figure standing by it, leaning on a musket. It was the squire, and we waved a handkerchief and gave him three cheers, in which the voice of Silver joined as heartily as any.

Three miles farther, just inside the mouth of North Inlet, what should we meet but the HISPANIOLA, cruising by herself? The last flood had lifted her, and had there been much wind or a strong tide current, as in the southern anchorage, we should never have found her more, or found her stranded beyond help. As it was, there was little amiss beyond the wreck of the main-sail. Another anchor was got ready and dropped in a fathom and a half of water. We all pulled round again to Rum Cove, the nearest point for Ben Gunn's treasure-house; and then Gray, single-handed, returned with the gig to the HISPANIOLA, where he was to pass the night on guard.

A gentle slope ran up from the beach to the entrance of the cave. At the top, the squire met us. To me he was cordial and kind, saying nothing of my escapade either in the way of blame or praise. At Silver's polite salute he somewhat flushed.

"John Silver," he said, "you're a prodigious villain and imposter -- a monstrous imposter, sir. I am told I am not to prosecute you. Well, then, I will not. But the dead men, sir, hang about your neck like mill-stones."

"Thank you kindly, sir," replied Long John, again saluting.

"I dare you to thank me!" cried the squire. "It is a gross dereliction of my duty. Stand back."

And thereupon we all entered the cave. It was a large, airy place, with a little spring and a pool of clear water, overhung with ferns. The floor was sand. Before a big fire lay Captain Smollett; and in a far corner, only duskily flickered over by the blaze, I beheld great heaps of coin and quadrilaterals built of bars of gold. That was Flint's treasure that we had come so far to seek and that had cost already the lives of seventeen men from the HISPANIOLA. How many it had cost in the amassing, what blood and sorrow, what good ships scuttled on the deep, what brave men walking the plank blindfold, what shot of cannon, what shame and lies and cruelty, perhaps no man alive could tell. Yet there were still three upon that island -- Silver, and old Morgan, and Ben Gunn -- who had each taken his share in these crimes, as each had hoped in vain to share in the reward.

"Come in, Jim," said the captain. "You're a good boy in your line, Jim, but I don't think you and me'll go to sea again. You're too much of the born favourite for me. Is that you, John Silver? What brings you here, man?"

"Come back to my dooty, sir," returned Silver.

"Ah!" said the captain, and that was all he said.

What a supper I had of it that night, with all my friends around me; and what a meal it was, with Ben Gunn's salted goat and some delicacies and a bottle of old wine from the HISPANIOLA. Never, I am sure, were people gayer or happier. And there was Silver, sitting back almost out of the firelight, but eating heartily, prompt to spring forward when anything was wanted, even joining quietly in our laughter -- the same bland, polite, obsequious seaman of the voyage out.



34

And Last

THE next morning we fell early to work, for the transportation of this great mass of gold near a mile by land to the beach, and thence three miles by boat to the HISPANIOLA, was a considerable task for so small a number of workmen. The three fellows still abroad upon the island did not greatly trouble us; a single sentry on the shoulder of the hill was sufficient to ensure us against any sudden onslaught, and we thought, besides, they had had more than enough of fighting.

Therefore the work was pushed on briskly. Gray and Ben Gunn came and went with the boat, while the rest during their absences piled treasure on the beach. Two of the bars, slung in a rope's end, made a good load for a grown man -- one that he was glad to walk slowly with. For my part, as I was not much use at carrying, I was kept busy all day in the cave packing the minted money into bread-bags.

It was a strange collection, like Billy Bones's hoard for the diversity of coinage, but so much larger and so much more varied that I think I never had more pleasure than in sorting them. English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Georges, and Louises, doubloons and double guineas and moidores and sequins, the pictures of all the kings of Europe for the last hundred years, strange Oriental pieces stamped with what looked like wisps of string or bits of spider's web, round pieces and square pieces, and pieces bored through the middle, as if to wear them round your neck -- nearly every variety of money in the world must, I think, have found a place in that collection; and for number, I am sure they were like autumn leaves, so that my back ached with stooping and my fingers with sorting them out.

Day after day this work went on; by every evening a fortune had been stowed aboard, but there was another fortune waiting for the morrow; and all this time we heard nothing of the three surviving mutineers.

At last -- I think it was on the third night -- the doctor and I were strolling on the shoulder of the hill where it overlooks the lowlands of the isle, when, from out the thick darkness below, the wind brought us a noise between shrieking and singing. It was only a snatch that reached our ears, followed by the former silence.

"Heaven forgive them," said the doctor; "'tis the mutineers!"

"All drunk, sir," struck in the voice of Silver from behind us.

Silver, I should say, was allowed his entire liberty, and in spite of daily rebuffs, seemed to regard himself once more as quite a privileged and friendly dependent. Indeed, it was remarkable how well he bore these slights and with what unwearying politeness he kept on trying to ingratiate himself with all. Yet, I think, none treated him better than a dog, unless it was Ben Gunn, who was still terribly afraid of his old quartermaster, or myself, who had really something to thank him for; although for that matter, I suppose, I had reason to think even worse of him than anybody else, for I had seen him meditating a fresh treachery upon the plateau. Accordingly, it was pretty gruffly that the doctor answered him.

"Drunk or raving," said he.

"Right you were, sir," replied Silver; "and precious little odds which, to you and me."

"I suppose you would hardly ask me to call you a humane man," returned the doctor with a sneer, "and so my feelings may surprise you, Master Silver. But if I were sure they were raving -- as I am morally certain one, at least, of them is down with fever -- I should leave this camp, and at whatever risk to my own carcass, take them the assistance of my skill."

"Ask your pardon, sir, you would be very wrong," quoth Silver. "You would lose your precious life, and you may lay to that. I'm on your side now, hand and glove; and I shouldn't wish for to see the party weakened, let alone yourself, seeing as I know what I owes you. But these men down there, they couldn't keep their word -- no, not supposing they wished to; and what's more, they couldn't believe as you could."

"No," said the doctor. "You're the man to keep your word, we know that."

Well, that was about the last news we had of the three pirates. Only once we heard a gunshot a great way off and supposed them to be hunting. A council was held, and it was decided that we must desert them on the island -- to the huge glee, I must say, of Ben Gunn, and with the strong approval of Gray. We left a good stock of powder and shot, the bulk of the salt goat, a few medicines, and some other necessaries, tools, clothing, a spare sail, a fathom or two of rope, and by the particular desire of the doctor, a handsome present of tobacco.

That was about our last doing on the island. Before that, we had got the treasure stowed and had shipped enough water and the remainder of the goat meat in case of any distress; and at last, one fine morning, we weighed anchor, which was about all that we could manage, and stood out of North Inlet, the same colours flying that the captain had flown and fought under at the palisade.

The three fellows must have been watching us closer than we thought for, as we soon had proved. For coming through the narrows, we had to lie very near the southern point, and there we saw all three of them kneeling together on a spit of sand, with their arms raised in supplication. It went to all our hearts, I think, to leave them in that wretched state; but we could not risk another mutiny; and to take them home for the gibbet would have been a cruel sort of kindness. The doctor hailed them and told them of the stores we had left, and where they were to find them. But they continued to call us by name and appeal to us, for God's sake, to be merciful and not leave them to die in such a place.

At last, seeing the ship still bore on her course and was now swiftly drawing out of earshot, one of them -- I know not which it was -- leapt to his feet with a hoarse cry, whipped his musket to his shoulder, and sent a shot whistling over Silver's head and through the main-sail.

After that, we kept under cover of the bulwarks, and when next I looked out they had disappeared from the spit, and the spit itself had almost melted out of sight in the growing distance. That was, at least, the end of that; and before noon, to my inexpressible joy, the highest rock of Treasure Island had sunk into the blue round of sea.

We were so short of men that everyone on board had to bear a hand -- only the captain lying on a mattress in the stern and giving his orders, for though greatly recovered he was still in want of quiet. We laid her head for the nearest port in Spanish America, for we could not risk the voyage home without fresh hands; and as it was, what with baffling winds and a couple of fresh gales, we were all worn out before we reached it.

It was just at sundown when we cast anchor in a most beautiful land-locked gulf, and were immediately surrounded by shore boats full of Negroes and Mexican Indians and half-bloods selling fruits and vegetables and offering to dive for bits of money. The sight of so many good-humoured faces (especially the blacks), the taste of the tropical fruits, and above all the lights that began to shine in the town made a most charming contrast to our dark and bloody sojourn on the island; and the doctor and the squire, taking me along with them, went ashore to pass the early part of the night. Here they met the captain of an English man-of-war, fell in talk with him, went on board his ship, and, in short, had so agreeable a time that day was breaking when we came alongside the HISPANIOLA.

Ben Gunn was on deck alone, and as soon as we came on board he began, with wonderful contortions, to make us a confession. Silver was gone. The maroon had connived at his escape in a shore boat some hours ago, and he now assured us he had only done so to preserve our lives, which would certainly have been forfeit if "that man with the one leg had stayed aboard." But this was not all. The sea-cook had not gone empty-handed. He had cut through a bulkhead unobserved and had removed one of the sacks of coin, worth perhaps three or four hundred guineas, to help him on his further wanderings.

I think we were all pleased to be so cheaply quit of him.

Well, to make a long story short, we got a few hands on board, made a good cruise home, and the HISPANIOLA reached Bristol just as Mr. Blandly was beginning to think of fitting out her consort. Five men only of those who had sailed returned with her. "Drink and the devil had done for the rest," with a vengeance, although, to be sure, we were not quite in so bad a case as that other ship they sang about:

With one man of her crew alive, What put to sea with seventy-five.

All of us had an ample share of the treasure and used it wisely or foolishly, according to our natures. Captain Smollett is now retired from the sea. Gray not only saved his money, but being suddenly smit with the desire to rise, also studied his profession, and he is now mate and part owner of a fine full-rigged ship, married besides, and the father of a family. As for Ben Gunn, he got a thousand pounds, which he spent or lost in three weeks, or to be more exact, in nineteen days, for he was back begging on the twentieth. Then he was given a lodge to keep, exactly as he had feared upon the island; and he still lives, a great favourite, though something of a butt, with the country boys, and a notable singer in church on Sundays and saints' days.

Of Silver we have heard no more. That formidable seafaring man with one leg has at last gone clean out of my life; but I dare say he met his old Negress, and perhaps still lives in comfort with her and Captain Flint. It is to be hoped so, I suppose, for his chances of comfort in another world are very small.

The bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where Flint buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me. Oxen and wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island; and the worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about its coasts or start upright in bed with the sharp voice of Captain Flint still ringing in my ears: "Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!"

<eob>

More Jataka Tales

By

Ellen C. Babbitt



I

The Girl Monkey And The String Of Pearls


One day the king went for a long walk in the woods. When he came back to his own garden, he sent for his family to come down to the lake for a swim.

When they were all ready to go into the water, the queen and her ladies left their jewels in charge of the servants, and then went down into the lake.

As the queen put her string of pearls away in a box, she was watched by a Girl Monkey who sat in the branches of a tree near-by. This Girl Monkey wanted to get the queen's string of pearls, so she sat still and watched, hoping that the servant in charge of the pearls would go to sleep.

At first the servant kept her eyes on the jewel-box. But by and by she began to nod, and then she fell fast asleep.

As soon as the Monkey saw this, quick as the wind she jumped down, opened the box, picked up the string of pearls, and quick as the wind she was up in the tree again, holding the pearls very carefully. She put the string of pearls on, and then, for fear the guards in the garden would see the pearls, the Monkey hid them in a hole in the tree. Then she sat near-by looking as if nothing had happened.

By and by the servant awoke. She looked in the box, and finding that the string of pearls was not there, she cried, "A man has run off with the queen's string of pearls."

Up ran the guards from every side.

The servant said: "I sat right here beside the box where the queen put her string of pearls. I did not move from the place. But the day is hot, and I was tired. I must have fallen asleep. The pearls were gone when I awoke."

The guards told the king that the pearls were gone.

"Find the man who stole the pearls," said the king. Away went the guards looking high and low for the thief.

After the king had gone, the chief guard said to himself:

"There is something strange here. These pearls," thought he, "were lost in the garden. There was a strong guard at the gates, so that no one from the outside could get into the garden. On the other hand, there are hundreds of Monkeys here in the garden. Perhaps one of the Girl Monkeys took the string of pearls."

Then the chief guard thought of a trick that would tell whether a Girl Monkey had taken the pearls. So he bought a number of strings of bright-colored glass beads.

After dark that night the guards hung the strings of glass beads here and there on the low bushes in the garden. When the Monkeys saw the strings of bright-colored beads the next morning, each Monkey ran for a string.

But the Girl Monkey who had taken the queen's string of pearls did not come down. She sat near the hole where she had hidden the pearls.

The other Monkeys were greatly pleased with their strings of beads. They chattered to one another about them. "It is too bad you did not get one," they said to her as she sat quietly, saying nothing. At last she could stand it no longer. She put on the queen's string of pearls and came down, saying proudly: "You have only strings of glass beads. See my string of pearls!"

Then the chief of the guards, who had been hiding nearby, caught the Girl Monkey. He took her at once to the king.

"It was this Girl Monkey, your Majesty, who took the pearls."

The king was glad enough to get the pearls, but he asked the chief guard how he had found out who took them.

The chief guard told the king that he knew no one could have come into the garden and so he thought they must have been taken by one of the Monkeys in the garden. Then he told the king about the trick he had played with the beads.

"You are the right man in the right place," said the king, and he thanked the chief of the guards over and over again.



II.

The Three Fishes


Once upon a time three Fishes lived in a far-away river. They were named Thoughtful, Very-Thoughtful, and Thoughtless.

One day they left the wild country where no men lived, and came down the river to live near a town.

Very-Thoughtful said to the other two: "There is danger all about us here. Fishermen come to the river here to catch fish with all sorts of nets and lines. Let us go back again to the wild country where we used to live."

But the other two Fishes were so lazy and so greedy that they kept putting off their going from day to day.

But one day Thoughtful and Thoughtless went swimming on ahead of Very-Thoughtful and they did not see the fisherman's net and rushed into it. Very-Thoughtful saw them rush into the net.

"I must save them," said Very-Thoughtful.

So swimming around the net, he splashed in the water in front of it, like a Fish that had broken through the net and gone up the river. Then he swam back of the net and splashed about there like a Fish that had broken through and gone down the river.

The fisherman saw the splashing water and thought the Fishes had broken through the net and that one had gone up the river, the other down, so he pulled in the net by one corner. That let the two Fishes out of the net and away they went to find Very-Thoughtful.

"You saved our lives, Very-Thoughtful," they said, "and now we are willing to go back to the wild country."

So back they all went to their old home where they lived safely ever after.




III

The Tricky Wolf And The Rats


Once upon a time a Big Rat lived in the forest, and many hundreds of other Rats called him their Chief.

A Tricky Wolf saw this troop of Rats, and began to plan how he could catch them. He wanted to eat them, but how was he to get them? At last he thought of a plan. He went to a corner near the home of the Rats and waited until he saw one of them coming. Then he stood up on his hind legs.

The Chief of the Rats said to the Wolf, "Wolf, why do you stand on your hind legs?"

"Because I am lame," said the Tricky Wolf. "It hurts me to stand on my front legs."

"And why do you keep your mouth open?" asked the Rat.

"I keep my mouth open so that I may drink in all the air I can," said the Wolf. "I live on air; it is my only food day after day. I can not run or walk, so I stay here. I try not to complain." When the Rats went away the Wolf lay down.

The Chief of the Rats was sorry for the Wolf, and he went each night and morning with all the other Rats to talk with the Wolf, who seemed so poor, and who did not complain.

Each time as the Rats were leaving, the Wolf caught and ate the last one. Then he wiped his lips, and looked as if nothing had happened.

Each night there were fewer Rats at bedtime. Then they asked the Chief of the Rats what the trouble was. He could not be sure, but he thought the Wolf was to blame.

So the next day the Chief said to the other Rats, "You go first this time and I will go last."

They did so, and as the Chief of the Rats went by, the Wolf made a spring at him. But the Wolf was not quick enough, and the Chief of the Rats got away.

"So this is the food you eat. Your legs are not so lame as they were. You have played your last trick, Wolf," said the Chief of the Rats, springing at the Wolf's throat. He bit the Wolf, so that he died.

And ever after the Rats lived happily in peace and quiet.




IV

The Woodpecker, Turtle, And Deer


Once upon a time a Deer lived in a forest near a lake. Not far from the same lake, a Woodpecker had a nest in the top of a tree; and in the lake lived a Turtle. The three were friends, and lived together happily.

A hunter, wandering about in the wood, saw the footprints of the Deer near the edge of the lake. "I must trap the Deer, going down into the water," he said, and setting a strong trap of leather, he went his way.

Early that night when the Deer went down to drink, he was caught in the trap, and he cried the cry of capture.

At once the Woodpecker flew down from her tree-top, and the Turtle came out of the water to see what could be done.

Said the Woodpecker to the Turtle: "Friend, you have teeth; you gnaw through the leather trap. I will go and see to it that the hunter keeps away. If we both do our best our friend will not lose his life."

So the Turtle began to gnaw the leather, and the Woodpecker flew to the hunter's house.

At dawn the hunter came, knife in hand, to the front door of his house.

The Woodpecker, flapping her wings, flew at the hunter and struck him in the face.

The hunter turned back into the house and lay down for a little while. Then he rose up again, and took his knife. He said to himself: "When I went out by the front door, a Bird flew in my face; now I will go out by the back door." So he did.

The Woodpecker thought: "The hunter went out by the front door before, so now he will leave by the back door." So the Woodpecker sat in a tree near the back door.

When the hunter came out the bird flew at him again, flapping her wings in the hunter's face.

Then the hunter turned back and lay down again. When the sun arose, he took his knife, and started out once more.

This time the Woodpecker flew back as fast as she could fly to her friends, crying, "Here comes the hunter!"

By this time the Turtle had gnawed through all the pieces of the trap but one. The leather was so hard that it made his teeth feel as if they would fall out. His mouth was all covered with blood. The Deer heard the Woodpecker, and saw the hunter, knife in hand, coming on. With a strong pull the Deer broke this last piece of the trap, and ran into the woods.

The Woodpecker flew up to her nest in the tree-top.

But the Turtle was so weak he could not get away. He lay where he was. The hunter picked him up and threw him into a bag, tying it to a tree.

The Deer saw that the Turtle was taken, and made up his mind to save his friend's life. So the Deer let the hunter see him.

The hunter seized his knife and started after the Deer. The Deer, keeping just out of his reach, led the hunter into the forest.

When the Deer saw that they had gone far into the forest he slipped away from the hunter, and swift as the wind, he went by another way to where he had left the Turtle.

But the Turtle was not there. The Deer called, "Turtle, Turtle!"; and the Turtle called out, "Here I am in a bag hanging on this tree."

Then the Deer lifted the bag with his horns, and throwing it upon the ground, he tore the bag open, and let the Turtle out.

The Woodpecker flew down from her nest, and the Deer said to them: "You two friends saved my life, but if we stay here talking, the hunter will find us, and we may not get away. So do you, Friend Woodpecker, fly away. And you, Friend Turtle, dive into the water. I will hide in the forest."

The hunter did come back, but neither the Deer, nor the Turtle, nor the Woodpecker was to be seen. He found his torn bag, and picking that up he went back to his home.

The three friends lived together all the rest of their lives.




V

The Golden Goose


Once upon a time there was a Goose who had beautiful golden feathers. Not far away from this Goose lived a poor, a very poor woman, who had two daughters. The Goose saw that they had a hard time to get along and said he to himself:

"If I give them one after another of my golden feathers, the mother can sell them, and with the money they bring she and her daughters can then live in comfort."

So away the Goose flew to the poor woman's house.

Seeing the Goose, the woman said: "Why do you come here? We have nothing to give you."

"But I have something to give you," said the Goose. "I will give my feathers, one by one, and you can sell them for enough so that you and your daughters can live in comfort."

So saying the Goose gave her one of his feathers, and then flew away. From time to time he came back, each time leaving another feather.

The mother and her daughters sold the beautiful feathers for enough money to keep them in comfort. But one day the mother said to her daughters: "Let us not trust this Goose. Some day he may fly away and never come back. Then we should be poor again. Let us get all of his feathers the very next time he comes."

The daughters said: "This will hurt the Goose. We will not do such a thing."

But the mother was greedy. The next time the Golden Goose came she took hold of him with both hands, and pulled out every one of his feathers.

Now the Golden Goose has strange feathers. If his feathers are plucked out against his wish, they no longer remain golden but turn white and are of no more value than chicken-feathers. The new ones that come in are not golden, but plain white.

As time went on his feathers grew again, and then he flew away to his home and never came back again.




VI

The Stupid Monkeys


Once upon a time a king gave a holiday to all the people in one of his cities.

The king's gardener thought to himself: "All my friends are having a holiday in the city. I could go into the city and enjoy myself with them if I did not have to water the trees here in this garden. I know what I will do. I will get the Monkeys to water the young trees for me." In those days, a tribe of Monkeys lived in the king's garden.

So the gardener went to the Chief of the Monkeys, and said: "You are lucky Monkeys to be living in the king's garden. You have a fine place to play in. You have the best of food -- nuts, fruit, and the young shoots of trees to eat. You have no work at all to do. You can play all day, every day. To-day my friends are having a holiday in the city, and I want to enjoy myself with them. Will you water the young trees so that I can go away?"

"Oh, yes!" said the Chief of the Monkeys. "We shall be glad to do that."

"Do not forget to water the trees when the sun goes down. See they have plenty of water, but not too much," said the gardener. Then he showed them where the watering-pots were kept, and went away.

When the sun went down the Monkeys took the watering-pots, and began to water the young trees. "See that each tree has enough water," said the Chief of the Monkeys.

"How shall we know when each tree has enough?" they asked. The Chief of the Monkeys had no good answer, so he said: "Pull up each young tree and look at the length of its roots. Give a great deal of water to those with long roots, but only a little to those trees that have short roots."

Then those stupid Monkeys pulled up all the young trees to see which trees had long roots and which had short roots.

When the gardener came back the next day, the poor young trees were all dead.




VII

The Cunning Wolf


Once upon a time the people in a certain town went out into the woods for a holiday. They took baskets full of good things to eat. But when noontime came they ate all the meat they had brought with them, not leaving any for supper.

"I will get some fresh meat. We will make a fire here and roast it," said one of the men.

So taking a club, he went to the lake where the animals came to drink. He lay down, club in hand, pretending to be dead.

When the animals came down to the lake they saw the man lying there and they watched him for some time.

"That man is playing a trick on us, I believe," said the King of the Wolves. "The rest of you stay here while I will see whether he is really dead, or whether he is pretending to be dead."

Then the cunning King of the Wolves crept up to the man and slyly pulled at his club.

At once the man pulled back on his club.

Then the King of the Wolves ran off saying: "If you had been dead, you would not have pulled back on your club when I tried to pull it away. I see your trick. You pretend you are dead so that you may kill one of us for your supper."

The man jumped up and threw his club at the King of the Wolves. But he missed his aim. He looked for the other animals but there was not one in sight. They had all run away.


Then the man went back to his friends, saying: "I tried to get fresh meat by playing a trick on the animals, but the cunning Wolf played a better trick on me, and I could not get one of them."




VIII

The Penny-Wise Monkey


Once upon a time the king of a large and rich country gathered together his army to take a faraway little country. The king and his soldiers marched all morning long and then went into camp in the forest.

When they fed the horses they gave them some peas to eat. One of the Monkeys living in the forest saw the peas and jumped down to get some of them. He filled his mouth and hands with them, and up into the tree he went again, and sat down to eat the peas.

As he sat there eating the peas, one pea fell from his hand to the ground. At once the greedy Monkey dropped all the peas he had in his hands, and ran down to hunt for the lost pea. But he could not find that one pea. He climbed up into his tree again, and sat still looking very glum. "To get more, I threw away what I had," he said to himself.

The king had watched the Monkey, and he said to himself: "I will not be like this foolish Monkey, who lost much to gain a little. I will go back to my own country and enjoy what I now have."

So he and his men marched back home.




IX

The Red-Bud Tree


Once upon a time four young princes heard a story about a certain wonderful tree, called the Red-Bud Tree. No one of them had ever seen a Red-Bud Tree, and each prince wished to be the first to see one. So the eldest prince asked the driver of the king's chariot to take him deep into the woods where this tree grew. It was still very early in the spring and the tree had no leaves, nor buds. It was black and bare like a dead tree. The prince could not understand why this was called a Red-Bud Tree, but he asked no questions.

Later in the spring, the next son went with the driver of the king's chariot to see the Red-Bud Tree. At this time it was covered with red buds.

The tree was all covered with green leaves when the third son went into the woods a little later to see it. He asked no questions about it, but he could see no reason for calling it the Red-Bud Tree.

Some time after this the youngest prince begged to be taken to see the Red-Bud Tree. By this time it was covered with little bean-pods.

When he came back from the woods he ran into the garden where his brothers were playing, crying, "I have seen the Red-Bud Tree."

"So have I," said the eldest prince. "It did not look like much of a tree to me," said he; "it looked like a dead tree. It was black and bare."

"What makes you say that?" said the second son. "The tree has hundreds of beautiful red buds. This is why it is called the Red-Bud Tree."

The third prince said: "Red buds, did you say? Why do you say it has red buds? It is covered with green leaves."

The prince who had seen the tree last laughed at his brothers, saying: "I have just seen that tree, and it is not like a dead tree. It has neither red buds nor green leaves on it. It is covered with little bean-pods."

The king heard them and waited until they stopped talking. Then he said: "My sons, you have all four seen the same tree, but each of you saw it at a different time of the year."




X

The Woodpecker And The Lion


One day while a Lion was eating his dinner a bone stuck in his throat. It hurt so that he could not finish his dinner. He walked up and down, up and down, roaring with pain.

A Woodpecker lit on a branch of a tree near-by, and hearing the Lion, she said, "Friend, what ails you?" The Lion told the Woodpecker what the matter was, and the Woodpecker said: "I would take the bone out of your throat, friend, but I do not dare to put my head into your mouth, for fear I might never get it out again. I am afraid you might eat me."

"O Woodpecker, do not be afraid," the Lion said. "I will not eat you. Save my life if you can!"

"I will see what I can do for you," said the Woodpecker. "Open your mouth wide." The Lion did as he was told, but the Woodpecker said to himself: "Who knows what this Lion will do? I think I will be careful."

So the Woodpecker put a stick between the Lion's upper and lower jaws so that he could not shut his mouth.

Then the Woodpecker hopped into the Lion's mouth and hit the end of the bone with his beak. The second time he hit it, the bone fell out.

The Woodpecker hopped out of the Lion's mouth, and hit the stick so that it too fell out. Then the Lion could shut his mouth.

At once the Lion felt very much better, but not one word of thanks did he say to the Woodpecker.

One day later in the summer, the Woodpecker said to the Lion, "I want you to do something for me."

"Do something for you?" said the Lion. "You mean you want me to do something more for you. I have already done a great deal for you. You cannot expect me to do anything more for you. Do not forget that once I had you in my mouth, and I let you go. That is all that you can ever expect me to do for you."

The Woodpecker said no more, but he kept away from the Lion from that day on.




XI

The Otters And The Wolf


One day a Wolf said to her mate, "A longing has come upon me to eat fresh fish."

"I will go and get some for you," said he and he went down to the river.

There he saw two Otters standing on the bank looking for fish. Soon one of the Otters saw a great fish, and entering the water with a bound, he caught hold of the tail of the fish.

But the fish was strong and swam away, dragging the Otter after him. "Come and help me," the Otter called back to his friend. "This great fish will be enough for both of us!"

So the other Otter went into the water. The two together were able to bring the fish to land. "Let us divide the fish into two parts."

"I want the half with the head on," said one.

"You cannot have that half. That is mine," said the other. "You take the tail."

The Wolf heard the Otters and he went up to them.

Seeing the Wolf, the Otters said: "Lord of the gray-grass color, this fish was caught by both of us together. We cannot agree about dividing him. Will you divide him for us?"

The Wolf cut off the tail and gave it to one, giving the head to the other. He took the large middle part for himself, saying to them, "You can eat the head and the tail without quarreling." And away he ran with the body of the fish. The Otters stood and looked at each other. They had nothing to say, but each thought to himself that the Wolf had run off with the best of the fish.

The Wolf was pleased and said to himself, as he ran toward home, "Now I have fresh fish for my mate."

His mate, seeing him coming, came to meet him, saying: "How did you get fish? You live on land, not in the water."

Then he told her of the quarrel of the Otters. "I took the fish as pay for settling their quarrel," said he.




XII

How The Monkey Saved His Troop


A mango-tree grew on the bank of a great river. The fruit fell from some of the branches of this tree into the river, and from other branches it fell on the ground.

Every night a troop of Monkeys gathered the fruit that lay on the ground and climbed up into the tree to get the mangoes, which were like large, juicy peaches.

One day the king of the country stood on the bank of this same river, but many miles below where the mango-tree grew. The king was watching the fishermen with their nets.

As they drew in their nets, the fishermen found not only fishes but a strange fruit. They went to the king with the strange fruit. "What is this?" asked the king. "We do not know, O King," they said.

"Call the foresters," said the king, "They will know what it is."

So they called the foresters and they said that it was a mango.

"Is it good to eat?" asked the king.

The foresters said it was very good. So the king cut the mango and giving some to the princes, he ate some of it himself. He liked it very much, and they all liked it.

Then the king said to the foresters, "Where does the mango-tree grow?"

The foresters told him that it grew on the river bank many miles farther up the river.

"Let us go and see the tree and get some mangoes," said the king.

So he had many rafts joined together, and they went up the river until they came to the place where the mango-tree grew.

The foresters said, "O King, this is the mango-tree."

"We will land here," said the king, and they did so. The king and all the men with him gathered the mangoes that lay on the ground under the tree. They all liked them so well that the king said, "Let us stay here to-night, and gather more fruit in the morning." So they had their supper under the trees, and then lay down to sleep.

When all was quiet, the Chief of the Monkeys came with his troop. All the mangoes on the ground had been eaten, so the monkeys jumped from branch to branch, picking and eating mangoes, and chattering to one another. They made so much noise that they woke up the king. He called his archers saying: "Stand under the mango-tree and shoot the Monkeys as they come down to the ground to get away. Then in the morning we shall have Monkey's flesh as well as mangoes to eat."

The Monkeys saw the archers standing around with their arrows ready to shoot. Fearing death, the Monkeys ran to their Chief, saying: "O Chief, the archers stand around the tree ready to shoot us! What shall we do?" They shook with fear.

The Chief said: "Do not fear; I will save you. Stay where you are until I call you."

The Monkeys were comforted, for he had always helped them whenever they had needed help.

Then the Chief of the Monkeys ran out on the branch of the mango-tree that hung out over the river. The long branches of the tree across the river did not quite meet the branch he stood on. The Chief said to himself: "If the Monkeys try to jump across from this tree to that, some of them will fall into the water and drown. I must save them, but how am I to do it? I know what I shall do. I shall make a bridge of my back."

So the Chief reached across and took hold of the longest branch of the tree across the river. He called, "Come, Monkeys; run out on this branch, step on my back, and then run along the branch of the other tree."

The Monkeys did as the Chief told them to do. They ran along the branch, stepped on his back, then ran along the branch of the other tree. They swung themselves down to the ground, and away they went back to their home.

The king saw all that was done by the Chief and his troop. "That big Monkey," said the king to the archers, "saved the whole troop. I will see to it that he is taken care of the rest of his life."

And the king kept his promise.




XIII

The Hawks And Their Friends


A family of Hawks lived on an island in a lake not far from the great forest. On the northern shore of this lake lived a Lion, King of Beasts. On the eastern shore lived a Kingfisher. On the southern shore of the lake lived a Turtle.

"Have you many friends near here?" the Mother Hawk asked the Father Hawk.

"No, not one in this part of the forest," he said.

"You must find some friends. We must have some one who can help us if ever we are in danger, or in trouble," said the Mother Hawk.

"With whom shall I make friends?" asked the Father Hawk.

"With the Kingfisher, who lives on the eastern shore, and with the Lion on the north," said the Mother Hawk, "and with the Turtle who lives on the southern shore of this lake."

The Father Hawk did so.

One day men hunted in the great forest from morning until night, but found nothing. Not wishing to go home empty-handed, they went to the island to see what they could find there.

"Let us stay here to-night," they said, "and see what we can find in the morning."

So they made beds of leaves for themselves and lay down to sleep. They had made their beds under the tree in which the Hawks had their nest.

But the hunters could not go to sleep because they were bothered by the flies and mosquitoes. At last the hunters got up and made a fire on the shore of the lake, so that the smoke would drive away the flies and mosquitoes. The smoke awoke the birds, and the young ones cried out.

"Did you hear that?" said one of the hunters. "That was the cry of birds! They will do very well for our breakfast. There are young ones in that nest." And the hunters put more wood on the fire, and made it blaze up.

Then the Mother bird said to the Father: "These men are planning to eat our young ones. We must ask our friends to save us. Go to the Kingfisher and tell him what danger we are in."

The Father Hawk flew with all speed to the Kingfisher's nest and woke him with his cry.

"Why have you come?" asked the Kingfisher.

Then the Father Hawk told the Kingfisher what the hunters planned to do.

"Fear not," said the Kingfisher. "I will help you. Go back quickly and comfort my friend your mate, and say that I am coming."

So the Father Hawk flew back to his nest, and the Kingfisher flew to the island and went into the lake near the place where the fire was burning.

While the Father Hawk was away, one of the hunters had climbed up into the tree. Just as he neared the nest, the Kingfisher, beating the water with his wings, sprinkled water on the fire and put it out.

Down came the hunter to make another fire. When it was burning well he climbed the tree again. Once more the Kingfisher put it out. As often as a fire was made, the Kingfisher put it out. Midnight came and the Kingfisher was now very tired.

The Mother Hawk noticed this and said to her mate: "The Kingfisher is tired out. Go and ask the Turtle to help us so that the Kingfisher may have a rest."

The Father Hawk flew down and said, "Rest awhile, Friend Kingfisher; I will go and get the Turtle."

So the Father Hawk flew to the southern shore and wakened the Turtle.

"What is your errand, Friend?" asked the Turtle.

"Danger has come to us," said the Father Hawk, and he told the Turtle about the hunters. "The Kingfisher has been working for hours, and now he is very tired. That is why I have come to you."

The Turtle said, "I will help you at once."

Then the Turtle went to the island where the Hawks lived. He dived into the water, collected some mud, and put out the fire with it. Then he lay still.

The hunters cried: "Why should we bother to get the young Hawks? Let us kill this Turtle. He will make a fine breakfast for all of us. We must be careful or he will bite us. Let us throw a net over him and turn him over."

They had no nets with them, so they took some vines, and tore their clothes into strings and made a net.

But when they had put the net all over the Turtle, they could not roll him over. Instead, the Turtle suddenly dived down into the deep water. The men were so eager to get him that they did not let go of the net, so down they went into the water. As they came out they said: "Half the night a Kingfisher kept putting out our fires. Now we have torn our clothes and got all wet trying to get this Turtle. We will build another fire, and at sunrise we will eat those young Hawks." And they began to build another fire.

The Mother Hawk heard them, and said to her mate: "Sooner or later these men will get our young. Do go and tell our friend the Lion."

At once the Father Hawk flew to the Lion.

"Why do you come at this hour of the night?" asked the Lion.

The Hawk told him the whole story.

The Lion said: "I will come at once. You go back and comfort your mate and the young ones." Soon the Lion came roaring.

When the hunters heard the Lion's roar they cried, "Now we shall all be killed." And away they ran as fast as they could go.

When the Lion came to the foot of the tree, not one of the hunters was to be seen. Then the Kingfisher and the Turtle came up, and the Hawks said: "You have saved us. Friends in need are friends indeed."




XIV

The Brave Little Bowman


Once upon a time there was a little man with a crooked back who was called the wise little bowman because he used his bow and arrow so very well. This crooked little man said to himself: "If I go to the king and ask him to let me join his army, he's sure to ask what a little man like me is good for. I must find some great big man who will take me as his page, and ask the king to take us." So the little bowman went about the city looking for a big man.

One day he saw a big, strong man digging a ditch "What makes a fine big man like you do such work?" asked the little man.

"I do this work because I can earn a living in no other way," said the big man.

"Dig no more," said the bowman. "There is in this whole country no such bowman as I am; but no king would let me join his army because I am such a little man. I want you to ask the king to let you join the army. He will take you because you are big and strong. I will do the work that you are given to do, and we will divide the pay. In this way we shall both of us earn a good living. Will you come with me and do as I tell you?" asked the little bowman.

"Yes, I will go with you," said the big man.

So together they set out to go to the king. By and by they came to the gates of the palace, and sent word to the king that a wonderful bowman was there. The king sent for the bowman to come before him. Both the big man and the little man went in and, bowing, stood before the king.

The king looked at the big man and asked, "What brings you here?"

"I want to be in your army," said the big man.

"Who is the little man with you?" asked the king.

"He is my page," said the big man.

"What pay do you want?" asked the king.

"A thousand pieces a month for me and my page, O King," said the big man.

"I will take you and your page," said the king.

So the big man and the little bowman joined the king's army.

Now in those days there was a tiger in the forest who had carried off many people. The king sent for the big man and told him to kill that tiger.

The big man told the little bowman what the king said. They went into the forest together, and soon the little bowman shot the tiger.

The king was glad to be rid of the tiger, and gave the big man rich gifts and praised him.

Another day word came that a buffalo was running up and down a certain road. The king told the big man to go and kill that buffalo. The big man and the little man went to the road, and soon the little man shot the buffalo. When they both went back to the king, he gave a bag of money to the big man.

The king and all the people praised the big man, and so one day the big man said to the little man: "I can get on without you. Do you think there's no bowman but yourself?" Many other harsh and unkind things did he say to the little man.

But a few days later a king from a far country marched upon the city and sent a message to its king saying, "Give up your country, or do battle."

The king at once sent his army. The big man was armed and mounted on a war-elephant. But the little bowman knew that the big man could not shoot, so he took his bow and seated himself behind the big man.

Then the war-elephant, at the head of the army, went out of the city. At the first beat of the drums, the big man shook with fear. "Hold on tight," said the little bowman. "If you fall off now, you will be killed. You need not be afraid; I am here."

But the big man was so afraid that he slipped down off the war-elephant's back, and ran back into the city. He did not stop until he reached his home.

"And now to win!" said the little bowman, as he drove the war-elephant into the fight. The army broke into the camp of the king that came from afar, and drove him back to his own country. Then the little bowman led the army back into the city. The king and all the people called him "the brave little bowman." The king made him the chief of the army, giving him rich gifts.




XV

The Foolhardy Wolf


A lion bounded forth from his lair one day, looking north, west, south, and east. He saw a Buffalo and went to kill him.

The Lion ate all of the Buffalo-meat he wanted, and then went down to the lake for a drink.

As the Lion turned to go toward his den for a nap, he came upon a hungry Wolf.

The Wolf had no chance to get away, so he threw himself at the Lion's feet.

"What do you want?" the Lion asked.

"O Lion, let me be your servant," said the Wolf. "Very well," said the Lion, "serve me, and you shall have good food to eat."

So saying, the Lion went into his den for his nap. When he woke up, the Lion said to the Wolf: "Each day you must go to the mountain top, and see whether there are any elephants, or ponies, or buffaloes about. If you see any, come to me and say: 'Great Lion, come forth in thy might. Food is in sight.' Then I will kill and eat, and give part of the meat to you."

So day after day the Wolf climbed to the mountain top, and seeing a pony, or a buffalo, or an elephant, he went back to the den, and falling at the Lion's feet he said: "Great Lion, come forth in thy might. Food is in sight."

Then the Lion would bound forth and kill whichever beast it was, sharing the meat with the Wolf.

Now this Wolf had never had such fine meat to eat, nor so much. So as time went on, the Wolf grew bigger and bigger, and stronger and stronger, until he was really proud of his great size and strength.

"See how big and strong I am," he said to himself.

"Why am I living day after day on food given me by another? I will kill for my own eating. I'll kill an elephant for myself."

So the Wolf went to the Lion, and said: "I want to eat an elephant of my own killing. Will you let me lie in your corner in the den, while you climb the mountain to look out for an elephant? Then when you see one, you come to the den and say, 'Great Wolf, come forth in thy might. Food is in sight.' Then I will kill the elephant."

Said the Lion: "Wolf, only Lions can kill elephants. The world has never seen a Wolf that could kill an elephant. Give up this notion of yours, and eat what I kill."

But no matter what the Lion said, the Wolf would not give way. So at last the Lion said: "Well, have your own way. Lie down in the den, and I will climb to the top of the mountain."

When he saw an elephant the Lion went back to the mouth of the cave, and said: "Great Wolf, come forth in thy might. Food is in sight."

Then from the den the Wolf nimbly bounded forth, ran to where the elephant was, and, howling three times, he sprang at the elephant.

But the Wolf missed his aim, and fell down at the elephant's feet. The elephant raised his right foot and killed the Wolf.

Seeing all this, the Lion said, "You will no more come forth in your might, you foolhardy Wolf."




XVI

The Stolen Plow


At one time there were two traders who were great friends. One of them lived in a small village, and one lived in a large town near-by.

One day the village trader took his plow to the large town to have it mended. Then he left it with the trader who lived there. After some time the town trader sold the plow, and kept the money.

When the trader from the village came to get his plow the town trader said, "The mice have eaten your plow."

"That is strange! How could mice eat such a thing?" said the village trader.

That afternoon when all the children went down to the river to go swimming, the village trader took the town trader's little son to the house of a friend saying, "Please keep this little boy here until I come back for him."

By and by the villager went back to the town trader's house.

"Where is my son? He went away with you. Why didn't you bring him back?" asked the town trader.

"I took him with me and left him on the bank of the river while I went down into the water," said the villager. "While I was swimming about a big bird seized your son, and flew up into the air with him. I shouted, but I could not make the bird let go," he said.

"That cannot be true," cried the town trader. "No bird could carry off a boy. I will go to the court, and you will have to go there, and tell the judge."

The villager said, "As you please"; and they both went to the court. The town trader said to the judge:

"This fellow took my son with him to the river, and when I asked where the boy was, he said that a bird had carried him off."

"What have you to say?" said the judge to the village trader.

"I told the father that I took the boy with me, and that a bird had carried him off," said the village trader.

"But where in the world are there birds strong enough to carry off boys?" said the judge.

"I have a question to ask you," answered the village trader. "If birds cannot carry off boys, can mice eat plows?"

"What do you mean by that?" asked the judge.

"I left my good plow with this man. When I came for it he told me that the mice had eaten it. If mice eat plows, then birds carry off boys; but if mice cannot do this, neither can birds carry off boys. This man says the mice ate my plow."

The judge said to the town trader, "Give back the plow to this man, and he will give your son back to you."

And the two traders went out of the court, and by night-time one had his son back again, and the other had his plow.




XVII

The Lion In Bad Company


One day a young Lion came suddenly upon a Wolf. The Wolf was not able to get away, so he said to the Lion: "Please, Great Lion, could you take me to your den, and let me live with you and your mate? I will work for you all my days."

This young Lion had been told by his father and mother not to make friends with any Wolf. But when this Wolf called him "Great Lion," he said to himself: "This Wolf is not bad. This Wolf is not like other Wolves." So he took the Wolf to the den where he lived with his father and mother.

Now this Lion's father was a fine old Lion, and he told his son that he did not like having this Wolf there. But the young Lion thought he knew better than his father, so the Wolf stayed in the den.

One day the Wolf wanted horse-flesh to eat, so he said to the young Lion, "Sir, there is nothing we have not eaten except horse-meat; let us take a horse."

"But where are there horses?" asked the Lion.

"There are small ponies on the river bank," said the Wolf.

So the young Lion went with the Wolf to the river bank when the ponies were bathing. The Lion caught a small pony, and throwing it on his back, he ran back to his den.

His father said: "My son, those ponies belong to the king. Kings have many skilful archers. Lions do not live long who eat ponies belonging to the king. Do not take another pony."

But the young Lion liked the taste of horse-meat, and he caught and killed pony after pony.

Soon the king heard that a Lion was killing the ponies when they went to bathe in the river. "Build a tank inside the town," said the king. "The lion will not get the ponies there." But the Lion killed the ponies as they bathed in the tank.

Then the king said the ponies must be kept in the stables. But the Lion went over the wall, and killed the ponies in their stables.

At last the king called an archer, who shot like lightning. "Do you think you can shoot this Lion?" the king asked him. The archer said that he was sure he could. "Very well," said the king, "take your place in the tower on the wall, and shoot him." So the archer waited there in the tower.

By and by the Lion and the Wolf came to the wall. The Wolf did not go over the wall but waited to see what would happen. The Lion sprang over the wall. Very soon he caught and killed a pony. Then the archer let fly an arrow.

The Lion roared, "I am shot."

Then the Wolf said to himself: "The Lion has been shot, and soon he will die. I will now go back to my old home in the woods." And so he did.

The Lion fell down dead.




XVIII

The Wise Goat And The Wolf


Once upon a time, many, many wild Goats lived in a cave in the side of a hill. A Wolf lived with his mate not far from this cave. Like all Wolves they liked the taste of Goat-meat. So they caught the Goats, one after another, and ate them all but one who was wiser than all the others. Try as they might, the Wolves could not catch her.

One day the Wolf said to his mate: "My dear, let us play a trick on that wise Goat. I will lie down here pretending to be dead. You go alone to the cave where the Goat lives, and looking very sad, say to her: 'My dear, do you see my mate lying there dead? I am so sad; I have no friends. Will you be good to me? Will you come and help me bury the body of my mate?' The Goat will be sorry for you and I think she will come here with you. When she stands beside me I will spring upon her and bite her in the neck. Then she will fall over dead, and we shall have good meat to eat."

The Wolf then lay down, and his mate went to the Goat, saying what she had been told to say.

But the wise Goat said: "My dear, all my family and friends have been eaten by your mate I am afraid to go one step with you. I am far safer here than I would be there."

"Do not be afraid," said the Wolf. "What harm can a dead Wolf do to you?"

These and many more words the Wolf said to the Goat, so that at last the Goat said she would go with the Wolf.

But as they went up the hill side by side, the Goat said to herself: "Who knows what will happen? How do I know the Wolf is dead?" She said to the Wolf, "I think it will be better if you go on in front of me."

The Wolf thought he heard them coming. He was hungry and he raised up his head to see if he could see them The Goat saw him raise his head, and she turned and ran back to her cave.

"Why did you raise your head when you were pretending to be dead?" the Wolf asked her mate. He had no good answer.

By and by the Wolves were both so very hungry that the Wolf asked his mate to try once more to catch the Goat.

This time the Wolf went to the Goat and said: "My friend, your coming helped us, for as soon as you came, my mate felt better. He is now very much better. Come and talk to him. Let us be friends and have a good time together."

The wise Goat thought: "These wicked Wolves want to play another trick on me. But I have thought of a trick to play on them." So the Goat said: "I will go to see your mate, and I will take my friends with me. You go back and get ready for us. Let us all have a good time together."

Then the Wolf was afraid, and she asked: "Who are the friends who will come with you? Tell me their names."

The wise Goat said: "I will bring the two Hounds, Old Gray and Young Tan, and that fine big dog called Four-Eyes. And I will ask each of them to bring his mate."

The Wolf waited to hear no more. She turned, and away she ran back to her mate. The Goat never saw either of them again.




XIX

Prince Wicked And The Grateful Animals


Once upon a time a king had a son named Prince Wicked. He was fierce and cruel, and he spoke to nobody without abuse, or blows. Like grit in the eye, was Prince Wicked to every one, both in the palace and out of it.

His people said to one another, "If he acts this way while he is a prince, how will he act when he is king?"

One day when the prince was swimming in the river, suddenly a great storm came on, and it grew very dark.

In the darkness the servants who were with the prince swam from him, saying to themselves, "Let us leave him alone in the river, and he may drown."

When they reached the shore, some of the servants who had not gone into the river said, "Where is Prince Wicked?"

"Isn't he here?" they asked. "Perhaps he came out of the river in the darkness and went home." Then the servants all went back to the palace.

The king asked where his son was, and again the servants said: "Isn't he here, O King? A great storm came on soon after we went into the water. It grew very dark. When we came out of the water the prince was not with us."

At once the king had the gates thrown open. He and all his men searched up and down the banks of the river for the missing prince. But no trace of him could be found.

In the darkness the prince had been swept down the river. He was crying for fear he would drown when he came across a log. He climbed upon the log, and floated farther down the river.

When the great storm arose, the water rushed into the homes of a Rat and a Snake who lived on the river bank. The Rat and the Snake swam out into the river and found the same log the prince had found. The Snake climbed upon one end of the log, and the Rat climbed upon the other.

On the river's bank a cottonwood-tree grew, and a young Parrot lived in its branches. The storm pulled up this tree, and it fell into the river. The heavy rain beat down the Parrot when it tried to fly, and it could not go far. Looking down it saw the log and flew down to rest. Now there were four on the log floating down stream together.

Just around the bend in the river a certain poor man had built himself a hut. As he walked to and fro late at night listening to the storm, he heard the loud cries of the prince. The poor man said to himself: "I must get that man out of the water. I must save his life." So he shouted: "I will save you! I will save you!" as he swam out in the river.

Soon he reached the log, and pushing it by one end, he soon pushed it into the bank. The prince jumped up and down, he was so glad to be safe and sound on dry land.

Then the poor man saw the Snake, the Rat, and the Parrot, and carried them to his hut. He built a fire, putting the animals near it so they could get dry. He took care of them first, because they were the weaker, and afterwards he looked after the comfort of the prince.

Then the poor man brought food and set it before them, looking after the animals first and the prince afterwards. This made the young prince angry, and he said to himself: "This poor man does not treat me like a prince. He takes care of the animals before taking care of me." Then the prince began to hate the poor man.

A few days later, when the prince, and the Snake, the Rat, and the Parrot were rested, and the storm was all over, the Snake said good-by to the poor man with these words:

"Father, you have been very kind to me. I know where there is some buried gold. If ever you want gold, you have only to come to my home and call, 'Snake!' and I will show you the buried gold. It shall all be yours."

Next the Rat said good-by to the poor man. "If ever you want money," said the Rat, "come to my home, and call out, 'Rat!' and I will show you where a great deal of money is buried near my home. It shall all be yours."

Then the Parrot came, saying: "Father, silver and gold have I none, but if you ever want choice rice, come to where I live and call, 'Parrot!' and I will call all my family and friends together, and we will gather the choicest rice in the fields for you."

Last came the prince. In his heart he hated the poor man who had saved his life. But he pretended to be as thankful as the animals had been, saying, "Come to me when I am king, and I will give you great riches." So saying, he went away.

Not long after this the prince's father died, and Prince Wicked was made king. He was then very rich.

By and by the poor man said to himself: "Each of the four whose lives I saved made a promise to me. I will see if they will keep their promises."

First of all he went to the Snake, and standing near his hole, the poor man called out, "Snake!"

At once the Snake darted forth, and with every mark of respect he said: "Father, in this place there is much gold. Dig it up and take it all."

"Very well," said the poor man. "When I need it, I will not forget."

After visiting for a while, the poor man said good-by to the Snake, and went to where the Rat lived, calling out, "Rat!"

The Rat came at once, and did as the Snake had done, showing the poor man where the money was buried.

"When I need it, I will come for it," said the poor man.

Going next to the Parrot, he called out, "Parrot!" and the bird flew down from the tree-top as soon as he heard the call.

"O Father," said the Parrot, "shall I call together all my family and friends to gather choice rice for you?"

The poor man, seeing that the Parrot was willing and ready to keep his promise, said: "I do not need rice now. If ever I do, I will not forget your offer."

Last of all, the poor man went into the city where the king lived. The king, seated on his great white elephant, was riding through the city. The king saw the poor man, and said to himself: "That poor man has come to ask me for the great riches I promised to give him. I must have his head cut off before he can tell the people how he saved my life when I was the prince."

So the king called his servants to him and said: "You see that poor man over there? Seize him and bind him, beat him at every corner of the street as you march him out of the city, and then chop off his head."

The servants had to obey their king. So they seized and bound the poor man. They beat him at every corner of the street. The poor man did not cry out, but he said, over and over again, "It is better to save poor, weak animals than to save a prince."

At last some wise men among the crowds along the street asked the poor man what prince he had saved. Then the poor man told the whole story, ending with the words, "By saving your king, I brought all this pain upon myself."

The wise men and all the rest of the crowd cried out: "This poor man saved the life of our king, and now the king has ordered him to be killed. How can we be sure that he will not have any, or all, of us killed? Let us kill him." And in their anger they rushed from every side upon the king as he rode on his elephant, and with arrows and stones they killed him then and there.

Then they made the poor man king, and set him to rule over them.

The poor man ruled his people well. One day he decided once more to try the Snake, the Rat, and the Parrot. So, followed by many servants, the king went to where the Snake lived.

At the call of "Snake!" out came the Snake from his hole, saying, "Here, O King, is your treasure; take it."

"I will," said the king. "And I want you to come with me."

Then the king had his servants dig up the gold.

Going to where the Rat lived, the king called, "Rat!" Out came the Rat, and bowing low to the king, the Rat said, "Take all the money buried here and have your servants carry it away."

"I will," said the king, and he asked the Rat to go with him and the Snake.

Then the king went to where the Parrot lived, and called, "Parrot!" The Parrot flew down to the king's feet and said, "O King, shall I and my family and my friends gather choice rice for you?"

"Not now, not until rice is needed," said the king. "Will you come with us?" The Parrot was glad to join them.

So with the gold, and the money, and with the Snake, the Rat, and the Parrot as well, the king went back to the city.

The king had the gold and the money hidden away in the palace. He had a tube of gold made for the Snake to live in. He had a glass box made for the Rat's home, and a cage of gold for the Parrot. Each had the food he liked best of all to eat every day, and so these four lived happily all their lives.




XX

Beauty And Brownie


Two Deer named Beauty and Brownie lived with their father and mother and great herds of Deer in a forest. One day their father called them to him and said: "The Deer in the forest are always in danger when the corn is ripening in the fields. It will be best for you to go away for a while, and you must each take your own herd of Deer with you."

"What is the danger, Father?" they asked.

"When the Deer go into the fields to eat the corn they get caught in the traps the men set there," the father said. "Many Deer are caught in these traps every year."

"Shall you go away with us?" Brownie said.

"No, your mother and I, and some of the other old Deer will stay here in the forest," said the father. "There will be food enough for us, but there is not enough for you and your herds. You must lead your herds up into the high hills where there is plenty of food for you, and stay there until the crops are all cut. Then you can bring your herds back here. But you must be careful.

"You must travel by night, because the hunters will see you if you go by day. And you must not take your herd near the villages where hunters live."

So Beauty and Brownie and their herds set out. Beauty traveled at night and did not go near any villages, and at last brought his herd safely to the high hills. Not a single Deer did Beauty lose.

But Brownie forgot what his father had said. Early each morning he started off with his herd, going along all through the day. When he saw a village, he led his herd right past it. Again and again hunters saw the herd, and they killed many, many of the Deer in Brownie's herd.

When crops had been cut, the Deer started back to the forest. Beauty led all his herd back, but stupid Brownie traveled in the daytime, and again he took his herd past the villages. When he reached the forest only a few were left of all Brownie's herd.




XXI

The Elephant And The Dog


Once upon a time a Dog used to go into the stable where the king's Elephant lived. At first the Dog went there to get the food that was left after the Elephant had finished eating.

Day after day the Dog went to the stable, waiting around for bits to eat. But by and by the Elephant and the Dog came to be great friends. Then the Elephant began to share his food with the Dog, and they ate together. When the Elephant slept, his friend the Dog slept beside him. When the Elephant felt like playing, he would catch the Dog in his trunk and swing him to and fro. Neither the Dog nor the Elephant was quite happy unless the other was nearby.

One day a farmer saw the Dog and said to the Elephant-keeper: "I will buy that Dog. He looks good-tempered, and I see that he is smart. How much do you want for the Dog?"

The Elephant-keeper did not care for the Dog, and he did want some money just then. So he asked a fair price, and the fanner paid it and took the Dog away to the country.

The king's Elephant missed the Dog and did not care to eat when his friend was not there to share the food. When the time came for the Elephant to bathe, he would not bathe. The next day again the Elephant would not eat, and he would not bathe. The third day, when the Elephant would neither eat nor bathe, the king was told about it.

The king sent for his chief servant, saying, "Go to the stable and find out why the Elephant is acting in this way."

The chief servant went to the stable and looked the Elephant all over. Then he said to the Elephant-keeper: "There seems to be nothing the matter with this Elephant's body, but why does he look so sad? Has he lost a playmate?"

"Yes," said the keeper, "there was a Dog who ate and slept and played with the Elephant. The Dog went away three days ago."

"Do you know where the Dog is now?" asked the chief servant.

"No, I do not," said the keeper.

Then the chief servant went back to the king and said, "The Elephant is not sick, but he is lonely without his friend, the Dog."

"Where is the Dog?" asked the king.

"A farmer took him away, so the Elephant-keeper says," said the chief servant. "No one knows where the farmer lives."

"Very well," said the king. "I will send word all over the country, asking the man who bought this Dog to turn him loose. I will give him back as much as he paid for the Dog."

When the farmer who had bought the Dog heard this, he turned him loose. The Dog ran back as fast as ever he could go to the Elephant's stable. The Elephant was so glad to see the Dog that he picked him up with his trunk and put him on his head. Then he put him down again.

When the Elephant-keeper brought food, the Elephant watched the Dog as he ate, and then took his own food.

All the rest of their lives the Elephant and the Dog lived together.

<eob>

The Night Before Christmas And Other Popular Stories For Children

By

Various Author



The Night Before Christmas.


'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap;

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of midday to objects below --  When what to my wondering eyes should appear But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted and called them by name --  "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer! Now, Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Dunder and Blixen! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! Now, dash away! Dash away! Dash away! All!"

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too. And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each tiny hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. His eyes -- how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up in a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings -- then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"



The Night After Christmas.


'Twas the night after Christmas, and all through the house Not a creature was stirring -- excepting a mouse. The stockings were flung in haste over the chair, For hopes of St. Nicholas were no longer there. The children were restlessly tossing in bed, For the pie and the candy were heavy as lead; While mamma in her kerchief, and I in my gown, Had just made up our minds that we would not lie down, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter. Away to the window I went with a dash, Flung open the shutter, and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave the lustre of noon-day to objects below.

When what to my long anxious eyes should appear But a horse and a sleigh, both old-fashioned and queer; With a little old driver, so solemn and slow, I knew at a glance it must be Dr Brough. I drew in my head, and was turning around, When upstairs came the Doctor, with scarcely a sound, He wore a thick overcoat, made long ago, And the beard on his chin was white with the snow. He spoke a few words, and went straight to his work; He felt all the pulses, -- then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose, With a nod of his head to the chimney he goes: --  "A spoonful of oil, ma'am, if you have it handy; No nuts and no raisins, no pies and no candy. These tender young stomachs cannot well digest All the sweets that they get; toys and books are the best. But I know my advice will not find many friends, For the custom of Christmas the other way tends. The fathers and mothers, and Santa Claus, too, Are exceedingly blind. Well, a good-night to you!" And I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight: These feastings and candies make Doctors' bills right!"



Santa Claus Does Not Forget.


Bertie was a very good boy. He was kind, obedient, truthful, and unselfish. He had, however, one great fault, -- he always forgot.

No matter how important the errand, his answer always was, "I forgot." When he was sent with a note to the dress-maker his mother would find the note in his pocket at night. If he was sent to the store in a great hurry, to get something for tea, he would return late, without the article, but with his usual answer.

His father and mother talked the matter over, and decided that something must be done to make the little boy remember.

Christmas was near, and Bertie was busy making out a list of things which Santa Claus was to bring him.

"Santa Claus may forget some of those things," said his mother.

"He cannot," replied Bertie; "for I shall write sled, and skates, and drum, and violin, and all the things on this paper. Then when Santa Claus goes to my stocking he will find the list. He can see it and put the things in as fast as he reads."

Christmas morning came, and Bertie was up at dawn to see what was in his stocking. His mother kept away from him as long as she could, for she knew what Santa Claus had done.

Finally she heard him coming with slow steps to her room. Slowly he opened the door and came towards her. He held in his hand a list very much longer than the one he had made out. He put it in his mother's hand, while tears of disappointment fell from his eyes.

"See what Santa Claus left for me; but I think he might have given me one thing besides."

His mother opened the roll. It was a list of all the errands Bertie had been asked to do for six months. At the end of all was written, in staring capitals, "I FORGOT."

Bertie wept for an hour. Then his mother told him they were all going to grandpa's. For the first time he would see a Christmas-tree. Perhaps something might be growing there for him.

It was very strange to Bertie, but on grandpa's tree he found everything he had written on his list. Was he cured of his bad habit? Not all at once; but when his mother saw that he was particularly heedless she would say, "Remember, Santa Claus does not forget."

M. A. Haley



The Fairy Christmas.


It was Christmas Day, and Toddy and Tita were alone. Papa and mamma had gone out West to see their big boy who was ill. They had promised to be home for Christmas, but a big snow had blocked the railroad track, and nurse was afraid the train would be delayed until the day after Christmas. What a dull Christmas for two little girls, all alone in the great city house, with only the servants! They felt so lonely that nurse let them play in the big drawing-room instead of in the nursery, so they arranged all the chairs in a row, and pretended it was a snowed-up train. Tita was the conductor, and Toddy was the passengers. Just as they were in the midst of it, they heard music in the street, and, running to the window, they saw a little boy outside, singing and beating a tambourine.

"Why," said Tita, "his feet are all bare!"

"Dess he hanged up bofe stockin's an' his shoes, too," said Toddy.

"Let's open the window and ask him."

But the great window was too high to reach, so they took papa's cane and pushed it tip. The little boy smiled, but they could not hear what he said, so they told him to come in, and ran to open the big front door. He was a little frightened at first, but the carpet felt warm to his poor bare feet.

He told them that his name was Guido, and that he had come from Italy, which is a much warmer country than ours, and that he was very poor, so poor that he had no shoes, and had to go singing from house to house for a few pennies to get some dinner. And he was so hungry.

"Poor little boy!" said Tita. "Our mamma is away, and we're having a pretty sad Christmas, but we'll try to make it nice for you."

So they played games, and Guido sang to them. Then the folding doors rolled back, and there was the dining-room and the table all set, and Thomas, the black waiter, smiling, just as if it had been a big dinner party instead of two very little girls. Nurse said: "Well, I never!" when she saw Guido, but she felt so sorry for the lonely little girls that she let him come to the table. And such a dinner as he ate! He had never had one like it before. "It is a fairy tale," he said.

Just as dessert came on, the door opened and in rushed mamma and papa; the train had gotten in, after all. They were so glad to see their darlings happy instead of moping that they gave them each some extra kisses. You may be sure little Guido never went hungry and barefoot after that. Long afterward he would say: "That was a fairy Christmas!"

That night, after Tita had said her prayers, she said:

"Mamma, I know something. Whenever you feel sad and lonely, if you will just find somebody sadder and lonelier than yourself and cheer them up, it will make you all right."

And I think that that was the very best kind of a Christmas lesson of love. Don't you?

Etheldred B. Barry.



The Ball Game.

Did you ever know a boy Make believe he had a toy? That's the way Babies play; Babies who are young and small Make believe they play at ball!



Christmas Day.


"Boys," said Mrs. Howard one morning, looking up from a letter she was reading, "I have had a letter from your grandmamma. She writes that she is returning to England shortly."

The boys went on with their breakfast without showing any great amount of interest in this piece of news, for they had never seen their grandmother, and therefore could not very well be expected to show any affection for her.

Now Mrs. Howard, the mother of two of the boys and aunt to the third little fellow, was a widow and very poor, and often found it a hard task to provide for her "three boys," as she called them, for, having adopted her little orphan nephew, she always treated him as her own son. She had sometimes thought it strange that old Mrs. Howard should not have offered to provide for Leslie herself but she had never done so, and at last Mrs. Howard had ceased to expect it. But now, right at the end of her letter, Grandmamma Howard wrote: -- 

"I have been thinking that perhaps it would come a little hard on you to support not only your own two boys, but poor Alice's son, and so, on my return to England, I propose, if you are willing, to adopt one of them, for I am a lonely old woman and shall be glad of a young face about me again."

After thinking the matter over, Mrs. Howard decided she would say nothing about their grandmother's intention to the boys, as she thought that it was just possible she might change her mind again.

Time passed on, and winter set in, and full of the delights of skating, the boys forgot all about the expected arrival of their grandmother.

During the Christmas holidays the boys one morning started off to Broome Meadow for a good day's skating on the pond there. They carried their dinner with them, and were told to be sure and be home before dark.

As they ran along the frosty road they came suddenly upon a poor old woman, so suddenly that Leslie ran right up against her before he could stop himself. The old woman grumbled about "lazy, selfish boys, only thinking of their own pleasure, and not caring what happened to a poor old woman!"

But Leslie stopped at once and apologized, in his polite little way, for his carelessness.

"I am sorry," he said. "I hope I did not hurt you; and you have such heavy parcels to carry too. Won't you let me help you?"

"Oh! come on, Leslie," said his cousins; "we shall never get to the pond at this rate!"

"Yes, go on," said the old woman sharply; "your skating is of a great deal more importance than an old woman, eh?"

But Leslie's only answer was to take the parcels and trudge merrily along beside his companion.

On the way to her cottage the old woman asked him all sorts of questions about himself and his cousins, and then, having reached her cottage, dismissed him with scarcely a "thank you" for the trouble he had taken. But Leslie did not take it much to heart.

He raced along, trying his hardest to overtake his cousins before they reached the pond, and was soon skimming about with the rest of them.

Squire Leaholme, in whose grounds the boys were skating, afterwards came down to the pond to watch the fun, and, being a kind-hearted old gentleman, offered to give a prize of a new pair of skates to the boy who should win the greatest number of races.

As it was getting late, it was arranged that the racing should come off on the following day, and the Squire invited all the boys who took part in it, to come up to his house to a substantial tea, after the fun was over.

How delighted Leslie was, for he was a first-rate skater, and he did so want a new pair of skates!

But the Squire's skates were not to be won by him, for on the following day as he and his cousins were on their way to the pond, they came across the queer old woman whom they had met on the previous day.

She was sitting on the ground, and seemed to be in great pain. The boys stopped to ask what ailed her, and she told them that she had slipped and twisted her foot, and was afraid that her ankle was sprained, for she could not bear to put it to the ground.

"You musn't sit here in the cold," said Leslie; "come, try and get up, and I will help you home."

"Oh! Leslie," cried both his cousins, "don't go. You will be late for the races, and lose your chance of the prize."

Poor Leslie! He turned first red, then white, and then said, in a husky tone of voice -- 

"Never mind -- you go on without me."

"You're a good laddie," said the old woman. "Will you be very sorry to miss the fun?"

Leslie muttered something about not minding much, and then the brave little fellow set himself to help the poor old woman home, as gently and tenderly as he could.

She would not let him come in with her, but told him to run off as quickly as he could, and perhaps after all, he would not be too late for the skating. But Leslie could not bear to leave her alone and in pain, so he decided to run home and fetch his Aunt.

When Mrs. Howard arrived at the cottage, you can think how surprised she was to find that Leslie's "poor old woman" was none other than Grandmamma Howard herself, who wishing to find out the real characters of her grandsons, had chosen to come in this disguise to the little village where they lived.

You will easily guess which of the three boys Grandmamma chose to be her little companion. And oh! what a lovely Grandmamma she was, as not only Leslie, but his cousins too, found out. She always seemed to know exactly what a boy wanted, and still better, to give it to him.

Walter and Stanley often felt terribly ashamed of the selfish manner in which they had behaved, and wished they were more like Leslie.

But Grandmamma told them that it was "never too late to mend," and they took her advice, and I am quite sure that at the present moment if they were to meet a poor old woman in distress by the roadside, they would not pass her by, as they once did Grandmamma Howard.

Anna Morrison.



The Dolls' Christmas Party.


It was the week before Christmas, and the dolls In the toy-shop played together all night. The biggest one was from Paris.

One night she said, "We ought to have a party before Santa Claus carries us away to the little girls. I can dance, and I will show you how."

"I can dance myself if you will pull the string," said a "Jim Crow" doll.

"What shall we have for supper?" piped a little boy-doll in a Jersey suit. He was always thinking about eating.

"Oh, dear," cried the French lady, "I don't know what we shall do for supper!"

"I can get the supper," added a big rag doll. The other dolls had never liked her very well, but they thanked her now. She had taken lessons at a cooking-school, and knew how to make cake and candy. She gave French names to everything she made, and this made it taste better. Old Mother Hubbard was there, and she said the rag doll did not know how to cook anything.

They danced in one of the great shop-windows. They opened a toy piano, and a singing-doll played "Comin' through the Rye," The dolls did not find that a good tune to dance by; but the lady did not know any other, although she was the most costly doll in the shop. Then they wound up a music-box, and danced by that. This did very well for some tunes; but they had to walk around when it played "Hail Columbia," and wait for something else.

The "Jim Crow" doll had to dance by himself, for he could do nothing but a "break-down." He would not dance at all unless some one pulled his string. A toy monkey did this; but he would not stop when the dancer was tired.

They had supper on one of the counters. The rag doll placed some boxes for tables. The supper was of candy, for there was nothing in the shop to eat but sugar hearts and eggs. The dolls like candy better than anything else, and the supper was splendid. Patsy McQuirk said he could not eat candy. He wanted to know what kind of a supper it was without any potatoes. He got very angry, put his hands into his pockets, and smoked his pipe. It was very uncivil for him to do so in company. The smoke made the little ladies sick, and they all tried to climb into a "horn of plenty" to get out of the way.

Mother Hubbard and the two black waiters tried to sing "I love Little Pussy;" but the tall one in a brigand hat opened his mouth wide, that the small dollies were afraid they might fall into it. The clown raised both arms in wonder, and Jack in the Box sprang up as high as me could to look down into the fellow's throat.

All the baby-dolls in caps and long dresses had been put to bed. They woke up when the others were at supper, and began to cry. The big doll brought them some candy, and that kept them quiet for some time.

The next morning a little girl found the toy piano open. She was sure the dolls had been playing on it. The grown-up people thought it had been left open the night before; but they do not understand dolls as well as little people do.

Viola Roseborough



Grandma's Christmas Gifts.


Grandma Burns sat knitting busily in the sun one bright morning the week before Christmas. The snow lay deep, and the hard crust glistened like silver. All at once she heard little sighs of grief outside her door. When she opened it there sat Peter and Jimmy Rice, two very poor little boys, with their faces in their hands; and they were crying.

"My patience!" cried grandma. "What can be the matter with two bright little boys this sunny morning?"

"We don't have no good times," sighed little Peter.

"We can't slide. We haven't any sleds," whimpered Jimmy.

"Why, of course boys can't have a good time without sleds," said grandma, cheerily. "Let us look about and see if we can't find something." And grandma's cap-border bobbed behind barrels and boxes in the shed and all among the cobwebs in the garret; but nothing could be found suitable.

"Hum! I do believe this would do for little Pete;" and the dear old lady drew a large, pressed-tin pan off the top shelf in the pantry. A long, smooth butter-tray was found for Jimmy. Grandma shook her cap-border with laughter to see them skim over the hard crust in their queer sleds. And the boys shouted and swung their hands as they flew past the window.

"I do expect they'll wear 'em about through," murmured grandma; "but boys must slide, -- that's certain."

And the pan was scoured as bright as a new silver dollar and the red paint was all gone off the wooden tray when Peter and Jimmy brought their sleds back.

Grandma knitted faster than ever all that day, and her face was bright with smiles. She was planning something. She went to see Job Easter that night. He promised to make two small sleds for the pair of socks she was knitting.

When the sleds were finished she dyed them red and drew a yellow horse upon each one. Grandma called them horses, but no one would have suspected it. Then the night before Christmas she drew on her great socks over her shoes to keep her from slipping, put on her hood and cloak, and dragged the little sleds over to Peter and Timmy's house.

She hitched them to the door-latch, and went home laughing all the way.



Mama's Happy Christmas.


It had seemed to the little Wendell children that they would have a very sad Christmas. Mama had been very ill, and papa had been so anxious about mama that he could not think of anything else.

When Christmas Day came, however, mama was so much better that she could lie on the lounge. The children all brought their stockings into her room to open them.

"You children all seem as happy as if you had had your usual Christmas tree," said mama, as they sat around her.

"Why, I never had such a happy Christmas before," said sweet little Agnes. "And it's just because you are well again."

"Now I think you must all run out for the rest of the day," said the nurse, "because your mama wants to see you all again this evening."

"I wish we could get up something expressly for mama's amusement," said Agnes, when they had gone into the nursery.

"How would you like to have some tableaux in here?" asked their French governess, Miss Marcelle.

"Oh, yes," they all cried, "it would be fun, mama loves tableaux."

So all day long they were busy arranging five tableaux for the evening. The tableaux were to be in the room which had folding-doors opening into Mrs. Wendell's sitting-room.

At the proper time Miss Marcelle stepped outside the folding-doors and made a pretty little speech. She said that some young ladies and a young gentleman had asked permission to show some tableaux to Mrs. Wendell if she would like to see them. Mrs. Wendell replied that she would be charmed.

Then mademoiselle announced the tableaux; opening the doors wide for each one. This is a list of the tableaux: First, The Sleeping Beauty; second, Little Red Riding Hood; third, The Fairy Queen; fourth, Old Mother Hubbard; fifth, The Lord High Admiral.

Miss Marcelle had arranged everything so nicely, and Celeste, the French maid, helped so much with the dressing, that the pictures all went off without a single mistake.

Mama was delighted. She said she must kiss those dear young ladies, and that delightful young man who had given her such a charming surprise.

So all the children came in rosy and smiling.

"Why, didn't you know us?" asked the little Lord Admiral.

"I know this," said mama, "I am like Agnes; I never had such a happy Christmas before."

Miriam T. Barnard.



The Christmas Carol Of The Birds.


Do you know, when we are having such good times at Christmas, what sweet music they have in Norway, that cold country across the sea? One day in the year the simple peasants who live there make the birds very happy, so that they sing, of their own free-will, a glad, joyous carol on Christmas morning.

And this is why they sing on that morning more than on any other. After the birds have found shelter from the north wind on Christmas-eve, and the night is still and bright with stars, or even if the storm be ever so severe, the good people bring out sheaves of corn and wheat from their storehouses. Tying them on slender poles, they raise them from every spire, barn, gatepost, and gable; then, when the Christmas sun rises over the hills, every spire and gable bursts forth into joyous song.

You can well believe that these songs of the birds make the people of Norway very happy. They echo, with all their hearts, their living, grateful anthem, "Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good-will to men!"

Mrs. G. Hall.



A Turkey For One.


Lura's Uncle Roy is in Japan. He used to take Christmas dinner at Lura's home. Now he could only write her papa to say a box of gifts had been sent, and one was for his little girl.

The little girl clapped her hands, crying, "Oh, mamma! don't you think it is the chain and locket dear uncle said he would sometime give me?"

"No," replied her papa, reading on. "Your uncle says it is a turkey for one."

"But we do not need turkeys from Japan," remarked the little daughter, soberly.

Her papa smiled, and handed the open letter to her mamma.

"Read it aloud, every bit," begged Lura, seeing her mamma was smiling, too.

But her mamma folded the letter and said nothing.

On Christmas eve the box, which had just arrived, was opened, and every one in the house was made glad with a present. Lura's was a papier-mache turkey, nearly as large as the one brought home at the same time by the market-boy.

Next morning, while the fowl in the kitchen was being roasted, Lura placed hers before a window and watched people admire it as they passed. All its imitation feathers, and even more its red wattles, seemed to wish every man and woman, boy and girl, a Merry Christmas.

Lura had not spoken of the jewelry since her uncle's letter was read. It is not nice for one who receives a gift to wish it was different. Lura was not that kind of a child.

When dinner was nearly over, her papa said to her, "My dear, you have had as much of my turkey as you wanted; if you please, I will now try some of yours."

"Mine is what Uncle Roy calls a turkey for one," laughed Lura. She turned in her chair towards where her bird had been strutting on the window-sill, and added, in surprise, "Why, what has become of him?"

At that moment the servant brought in a huge platter. When room had been made for it on the table it was set down in front of Lura's papa, and on the dish was her turkey.

"Oh, what fun!" gayly exclaimed the child. "Did uncle tell you to pretend to serve it?"

"I have not finished what he directs me to do," her papa said, with a flourish of the carving-knife.

"But, papa -- oh, please!" Her hand was on his arm. "You would not spoil my beautiful bird from Japan!

A hidden spring was touched with the point of the knife. The breast opened, and disclosed the fowl filled with choice toys and other things. The first taken out was a tiny box; inside was a gold chain and locket; the locket held Uncle Roy's picture.

It was a turkey for one, -- for only Uncle Roy's niece. But all the family shared the amusement.

Lavinia S. Goodwin.



Little Christmas Carollers.


We are a band of carollers, We march through frost and snow, But care not for the weather As on our way we go.

At every hall or cottage That stands upon our way, We stop to give the people Best wishes for the day.

We pray a merry Christmas, Made bright by Christmas cheer, With peace, and hope, and gladness And all they may hold dear.

And for all those that happen To pass us on our way We have a smile, and wish them A merry Christmas-day.

L.A. France




What Happened Christmas Eve.


It was Christmas Eve and the frost fairies were busy getting ready for Christmas Day. First of all they spread the loveliest white snow carpet over the rough, bare ground; then they hung the bushes and trees with icicles that flashed like diamonds in the moonlight. Later on, they planned to draw beautiful frost pictures on the window panes, to surprise the little children in the morning.

The stars shone brightly and the moon sent floods of light in every nook and corner. How could any one think of sleeping when there was such a glory outside!

Jessie and Fred had gone to bed very early so they might be the first to shout "Merry Christmas!" but their eyes would not stay shut.

"Oh dear! it must be 'most morning," said Fred; "let us creep softly down stairs and maybe we'll catch Santa Claus before he rides off."

Hand in hand they tiptoed to the dining-room and peeped out the big window; -- surely, surely, that was something climbing up the roof of cousin Nellie's house; it must be old Santa. Fred gave a chuckle of delight; to be sure the reindeer were very queer looking objects, and the sleigh such a funny shape, but the children were satisfied.

The old fir tree, whose high branches almost touched the roof, knew all about those shadows, but it was so old no one could ever understand a word of the many tales it told.

"There's something scratching on the door," whispered Jessie; but it was only a mouse, who had sniffed the delightful odors of the Christmas goodies and was trying his best to find a way into the pantry and test them with his sharp teeth.

"Come," said Jessie, "we'll turn to icicles if we stay here much, longer"; so up-stairs they quickly scampered.

Papa had been to town on an errand, so it was quite late when he came home. As he was hunting in his pockets for his key, he heard a pitiful cry, and looking down he saw a big, white cat carrying a tiny kitten in her mouth.

"Poor thing," said papa, "you shall come inside till morning."

Santa Claus had been there with the nicest wagon for Fred and a warm, seal-skin cap that lay right in the middle of it. When papa left the room, puss and her kitty were curled up comfortably on the rug singing their sleepy song.

The sun was shining brightly in the dining-room window when Jessie and Fred made their appearance; then Fred just laughed with delight, for right in the crown of his new cap lay the cutest white kitten, with big, blue eyes and wee pink nose, while standins close by as if to guard her darling from danger, was good old mother puss.

"I never had a live Christmas present before," said Fred, "now I know Santa Claus read the letter I threw up the chimney because I told him to bring me a kitten and here it is."

Papa smiled and looked at mamma, and then everybody said "Merry Christmas" at once.

Oliver Herfold.



Susy's Christmas Present.


"Tell us a story, nursie; please do", begged two little golden-haired girls, as they snuggled on the soft rug before the fire. "Did you ever have just what you wished for at Christmas, when you were a little girl?"

"Yes, I did once. I was the oldest, and had two brothers and three little sisters. We did not have a beautiful home like this. We lived in a little cottage. It was pretty, though, in the summer time, when the roses and pinks were in bloom. My father was dead, and mother worked for the rich people around the village. There was plenty to do about holiday times.

"It was the day before Christmas. Mother was at the house of a very rich and kind lady. She was going to have a grand party in the evening.

"Mother told me, when she went away, to mind the children, and perhaps I might have a nice Christmas present. I knew we should have plenty of candy and cake, and other nice things, from Mrs. Reid's. We often had pretty clothes, too, that Mamie and Robbie Reid had outgrown.

"I had been wishing for a muff; but I knew Mother could not afford to buy me one. It was hard enough even to get shoes for us all. I thought I should have to be satisfied with mittens.

"It was quite dark, and we all sat around the fire. I had rocked Tilly to sleep and put her to bed. Willie and Joe were playing cat's-cradle. The rest of us were making believe we were rich and could have all we wanted for Christmas.

"All at once there was a heavy step on the porch, and a knock at the door. I opened it, with Margie and Amy clinging to my dress. A boy shoved a big box into the room and shouted, 'A merry Christmas to you!' He then ran out at the gate.

"The box had all our names on the cover, and the children were wild to see what was inside.

"'Wait till mother comes,' I said; and pretty soon we heard her at the gate, She seemed surprised, and said Santa Claus had remembered us early.

"Mother advised us to go to bed and wait until morning to see our presents. It was pretty hard; but we had some oranges and candy, and I put the boys to bed. Margie and I wondered and guessed what was in the box; but at last we fell asleep.

"You may be sure we were up early in the morning. There were dolls and toys for the little ones, with hoods and mittens, and for me a lovely squirrel muff, lined with blue, with a soft little boa for my neck. I was a happy girl that Christmas, I can tell you.

"And now, my dears, you must go to bed, or Santa Claus will not be able to find your stockings."

"Oh! I hope I shall have what I want to-morrow!" said Gracie.

"And I, too," echoed Helen. "And your story was very nice, nursie."

"Good-night, and call us early in the morning."



Santa Claus's Letter.


Christmas was coming. Jamie and Ted had already begun to write long letters to Santa Claus. But one thing was rather queer: both boys asked him for the same things.

Each little letter ended with, -- "Just like Brother's."

They agreed to ask for only one sled. They would rather ride together. Now was not this very sweet and loving?

One night, after they had gone to bed, Jamie said, "Ted, if Santa Claus brings us skates, Jim can teach us how to use them."

"Oh, yes; and if we get fur mittens it will be such fun to make a fort."

"And a snow-man," Jamie answered.

Ted went oh: "I'll always ride the sled down a hill, and you can ride it up."

"I guess you won't," Jamie said, speaking loudly.

"Why not?" Ted asked.

"Because it'll be as much my sled as yours."

"Yes, of course," Ted replied; "but I chose it first."

"You are a selfish boy!" said Jamie.

"Well, then, so are you!"

"I don't care. I won't sleep with you. I'll ask mamma if I can't have the first pick; I'm the biggest," roared Jamie, bounding out of bed.

"You're a big, cross cry baby," Ted shouted, jumping out after his brother.

Away ran Jamie to mamma, with Ted at his heels. Both were angry. Both talked at once.

Mamma was grieved. Her dear little boys had never been so unkind to each other before. She kissed their hot faces and stroked their pretty hair. She told them how their naughty words hurt her. She showed them how displeased God was to see two little brothers quarrel.

That night they went to sleep in each other's arms, full of love and forgiveness.

Christmas morning came at last. Very early the boys crept out of bed, just to "feel" their stockings.

Papa heard them, and, remembering that he was once a boy lighted the gas.

Each little red stocking was full from toe to top. Boxes and paper parcels were piled around them. Such shouting! Such a good time! It seemed as if all their letters had been answered.

Suddenly Jamie cried, "O Ted, here's a letter!"

They put their little heads together, and with papa's help spelled this out: -- 

"My dear Boys, -- No sled this year. It quarrelled so I was afraid to bring it. I dropped it off the load about a week ago. Get ready for it next year. Merry Christmas! SANTA CLAUS."



A Ragged Christmas Feast.


On Christmas day there is a great feast in Dublin. This, you know, is the chief city of Ireland. The feast is made for the children. There are in that city a great many little ones who are very very poor. There are kind people there, also, who look after these poor children. They have what they call "ragged schools," where many of them are taught to read, and to sew, and other useful things.

Dr. Nelaton is a famous minister in Dublin, and every year he, with other good people, gets up this great feast for the children. About eight hundred of them came last year. Some of these were only half-clad, and all were very ragged. They were seated at long, narrow tables, which were covered with a white cloth, The children from the ragged schools wore aprons in bright colors, to hide their rags. Each school had a color of its own. These aprons were only lent them for the day, and the children felt very fine in them. But there were two long rows without any aprons. These were little ones who had been picked up along the streets. Each ragged scholar had permission to bring all the children he could find. And, oh, how ragged and dirty these two rows were!

But they brightened up, just like the children with aprons, when they saw the feast. A huge mug of steaming tea and an immense bun to each child! Rarely did they have such a treat as this. And how they did eat! Each child had all he wanted. It would have done you good to see their poor, pinched faces beam with delight. During the meal a large throng of orphan children in the gallery sung some sweet songs. Then, after the feast, there were small gifts, and little speeches and prayers, and more songs. The little ragged ones seemed like new beings in this atmosphere of love. Such a glad day as that Christmas was a rare event in their sad lives. Children who live in happy homes know little about the sufferings of the poor. Perhaps, if they knew more, such little ones would try harder, by gifts and kind acts, to carry sunshine to sorrowful hearts.

<eob>

The Tale Of Grunty Pig

By

Arthur Scott Bailey



I

The Runt


He was the smallest of seven children. At first his mother thought she would call him "Runty." But she soon changed her mind about that; for she discovered that even if he was the runt of the family, he had the loudest grunt of all. So the good lady made haste to slip a G in front of the name "Runty."

"There!" she exclaimed. "'Grunty' is a name that you ought to be proud of. It calls attention to your best point. And if you keep on making as much noise in the world as you do now, maybe people won't notice that you're a bit undersized. You certainly sound as big as any little shote I ever saw or heard."

So that was settled -- though Grunty Pig didn't care one way or another. He seemed to be interested in nothing but food. There is no doubt that he would have been willing to change his name a dozen times a day for the slight bribe of a drink of warm milk.

His mother sometimes said that he had the biggest appetite -- as well as the loudest grunt -- of all her seven children. And she was glad that he ate well, because food was the very thing that would make him grow.

"You won't always be runty, Grunty, if you eat a plenty," Mrs. Pig often told him. And then he would grunt, as if to say, "You don't need to urge me. Just give me a chance!"

Grunty Pig soon learned that being the smallest of the family had one sad drawback. His brothers and sisters (all bigger than he!) could crowd him away from the feeding trough. And they not only could; but they often did. Unless Grunty reached the trough among the first, there was never a place left where he could squirm in. If he tried to eat at one end of the trough he was sure to be shouldered away and go hungry.

So whenever he did succeed in getting the first taste of a meal he took pains to plant himself in the exact middle of the trough. Then there would be three other youngsters on each side of him, all crowding towards him. And though he found it a bit hard to breathe under such a squeezing, at least he got his share of the food.

Poor Mrs. Pig! Her children had frightful manners. Though she talked and talked to them about not crowding, and about eating slowly, and about eating noiselessly, the moment their food was poured into their trough they forgot everything their mother had said.

That is, all but Grunty Pig! If he happened to be left out in the cold, so to speak, and had to stand and look on while his brothers and sister stuffed themselves, he couldn't help remembering his mother's remarks about manners.

"It's awful to watch them!" he would gurgle. "I don't see how they can be so boorish." He thought there was no sadder sight than his six brothers and sisters jostling one another over their food, while he couldn't find a place to push in among them.



II

A New Way To Eat


One thing, especially, distressed Mrs. Pig. Her children would put their fore feet right into the trough when they ate their meals out of it. Nothing she said to them made the slightest difference. Even when she told them that they were little pigs they didn't seem to care.

"We're all bigger than Grunty is," said one of her sons -- a bouncing black youngster who was the most unruly of the litter.

"You're all greedy," Mrs. Pig retorted. "Do try to restrain yourselves when you eat. Remember -- there's plenty of time."

"But there's not always plenty of food," Grunty Pig told his mother. "Sometimes there isn't any left for me."

"I know," said Mrs. Pig. "I know that your brothers and sisters eat your share whenever they can. Farmer Green furnishes enough food for you all. And if you children didn't forget your manners everybody would get his share -- no more and no less."

Now, Mrs. Pig was not the only one that noticed how piggish her youngsters were at the trough. One day Farmer Green himself remarked to his son Johnnie, as they leaned over the pen, that that litter of pigs did beat all he had ever seen.

"They come a-running at meal time as if they were half starved. It's a wonder they don't get in the trough all over."

Johnnie Green liked to watch the pigs.

"That black fellow's the greediest of the lot," he declared. "He's getting to be the biggest. He's almost twice the size of the little runt."

"The runt doesn't get his share," said Farmer Green. "We'll have to do something to help him, or he'll never be worth his salt."

Grunty Pig looked up at Farmer Green and gave a plaintive squeal, as if to say, "Hurry, please! Because I'm always hungry."

And Blackie, his greedy brother, looked up at Farmer Green too. He said nothing. But his little eyes twinkled slyly. And afterward he told his brothers and sisters that Farmer Green needn't think he could keep him from drinking all the skim milk he pleased.

"If Mother can't make me behave, surely Farmer Green won't be able to," he boasted.

Of course Blackie Pig was very young. Otherwise he would never have made such a silly remark. And he soon learned that Farmer Green was more than a match for him.

The next day Farmer Green made a long lid that dropped over the feeding trough and covered it completely. And in the lid he cut seven holes -- one for each of Mrs. Pig's children.

There was no more jostling at meal time. There was a place for everybody. And Mrs. Pig was delighted with the improvement. When Farmer Green filled the trough, each of the children stuck his head through a hole and ate in the most orderly fashion. To be sure, there was some squealing and grunting, and some snuffling and blowing. But it seemed to Mrs. Pig that no youngsters could have behaved more beautifully.

And Grunty liked the new way of eating, too. But Blackie made a great fuss. He complained because he couldn't stick his nose through two holes at the same time!



III

The Loose Board


After Farmer Green put the lid with the holes in it over the top of the feeding trough, Grunty Pig began to grow. At last he was getting as much to eat as his brothers and sisters. And the bigger he grew, the more food he wanted. He was always on the watch for some extra tidbit -- always rooting about to find some dainty that others had overlooked. Many a delicious piece of carrot, or turnip, or potato-paring rewarded him for his eager searching.

Still, Grunty Pig was far from satisfied. He had a great longing to get outside the pen where he lived with the rest of Mrs. Pig's seven children.

"Out in the wide world there must be many good things to eat," he thought. "I'd like to find the place where the potato-parings grow."

But of all this, Grunty Pig said nothing to anyone. If the chance ever came to slip out of the pen, he intended to take nobody with him. He had not yet caught up with his brothers and sisters in size, even if he had outstripped them in the matter of brains. And he feared that any one of them would crowd him away from the good things that he meant to find beyond the walls of the pigsty.

Little did Mrs. Pig dream what plans filled the head of her son Grunty. When she saw him sniffing around the walls of the pen she never once guessed that he could be looking for anything except something to eat. How could she know that Grunty -- the littlest of the family -- was searching for a place to escape?

Now, it happened that there was one loose board in a corner of the pigpen. The nails that once held it had rusted away. Nobody but Grunty Pig had discovered that by pressing against an end of this board one could bend it outward.

It was too bad -- for him -- that he had grown so rapidly. Had he been just a bit smaller he could have squeezed through the opening.

Here Grunty met the first real problem of his life. For some days he puzzled over it. One thing was certain: he couldn't make himself smaller, unless he stopped eating. And that was out of the question. In the end he made up his mind that there was only one thing to do: he must make the opening bigger.

Day after day Grunty Pig crowded against the loose board. And at last came his reward. Two more rusty nails gave way all at once. Under Grunty's weight the board opened wide. And as he slipped through the space, to freedom, the board snapped back into place again.

There he was, with the wide world before him. And there was the pen, with no opening anywhere to be seen.

With a grunt of delight Grunty Pig trotted out of the low building and found himself on the edge of Farmer Green's orchard.

He noticed that there was a fragrant smell of apples in the air.



IV

The Wide, Wide World


It was the first time Grunty Pig had ever been outside his pen. And since he didn't know how long it would be before Farmer Green found him and took him back home, he decided that he had better make the most of his outing while it lasted.

Hurrying into the orchard, Grunty ate heartily of the fruit that lay upon the ground. After he had devoured a few dozen apples he began to lose his appetite for that sort of food. So he started to root beneath the trees. It was fun to dig. Besides, he found a good many tender roots that tickled his taste. They were different from anything he had ever eaten before.

After a while Grunty Pig learned something. He had always supposed that he could go on eating forever, if he were only lucky enough to have the chance. But to his surprise he found that there was a limit to the amount he could consume with comfort. He began to have a tight feeling about his waistband. At first he dared hope it would go away. But the more he ate, the worse he felt. And at last he gave a grunt of disappointment.

"I can't eat any more," he whined. "Here's a whole world full of food just going to waste. And I can't even hold one half of it!"

Still, there were other pleasures to be had besides eating. Grunty crawled through the fence into the lane. And near the barn, where the cows had trampled, he beheld such beautiful, sticky, deep mud as he had never dreamed could be found anywhere.

Grunty Pig gave a deep sigh of happiness as he wallowed in the mire. He lay on his stomach, he turned upon each side. He even squirmed through a puddle and rolled over in it, so that there wasn't a clean patch on him, anywhere. Little did he care that his silvery bristles were smeared with black. The mud felt delightfully cool upon his piggy, pinkish skin.

"This is almost better than eating," Grunty squealed.

At last his gurgles and grunts attracted the notice of a proud creature known as Henrietta Hen. She had been scratching for worms in the farmyard. And now she came running around a corner of the barn and peered through the fence at Grunty.

"You careless child!" she squawked. "Stop playing in that mud! Don't you know that it's very dangerous to get your feet wet?"

Grunty Pig stood up and looked at her.

"Goodness! You're a sight!" Henrietta Hen exclaimed. "Does your mother know you're here?"

Now, Grunty Pig didn't answer a single one of Henrietta's questions. He merely stared at her and said nothing. So it was no wonder that she thought him stupid.

"Poor Mrs. Pig!" thought Henrietta Hen. "It's bad enough to have a child so untidy as this youngster. But it's far worse to have a dull-witted one."

Then to Grunty she said sharply, "You'd better get out of that mudhole and go dry yourself in the sun."

He actually obeyed her. And as soon as Henrietta Hen saw that he was sunning himself she walked out of sight around the barn, stopping now and then to pick up some tidbit or other.

"Good!" Grunty Pig grunted. "She's gone. This was the easiest way to get rid of her."



V

Sixes And Sevens


Not until feeding time came did anyone discover that Grunty Pig was gone from the pen. It may seem strange that neither his mother nor any of his brothers and sisters missed him. But when there are seven children in a family it is no wonder that one of them could slip away without having his absence noticed. It is specially easy, in such a large family, to overlook the littlest.

If Mrs. Pig had known there was a loose board on the pen she would certainly have counted noses to find out whether her children were all safe at home. But nobody knew about that loose board except Grunty himself.

It was lucky that Farmer Green had made the lid for Mrs. Pig's children's feeding trough -- the lid with the seven holes in it. When he poured the children's supper into the trough and slammed down the lid he stood and watched Mrs. Pig's youngsters as they scrambled to the trough and stuck -- each of them -- a nose into a hole.

All at once Farmer Green noticed something queer. "Hullo!" he cried to his son Johnnie. "There's an empty hole here. We've lost a pig!"

He looked closely at the row of six squirming bunches of squeals.

"I declare!" said Farmer Green. "It's the runt that's gone."

Mrs. Pig, who was enjoying her own supper a little way off, did not hear what Farmer Green said. Her children were making a good deal of noise. And to tell the truth, Mrs. Pig herself wasn't exactly a silent eater. When Farmer Green jumped into the pen and began to poke at the sides of it she wondered what he was doing. Soon he found the loose board and pushed against it with his foot, exclaiming, "Here's where he got away! Who'd have thought that the runt was the smartest of the family?

"Run and get me a hammer and a few nails," said Farmer Green to his son Johnnie. "We must fix this pen before any more of the pigs crawl out."

Well, when she heard the news Mrs. Pig nearly choked over a bit of something or other that she was eating. Grunty was gone! If she hadn't spent most of the afternoon dozing perhaps she would have missed him. And poor Mrs. Pig began to reproach herself for what wasn't really her fault at all.

"I hope you'll find him," she told Farmer Green as he drove a nail into the loose board. "I hope you won't leave my son out to-night. There's no knowing what might happen to a child of his tender years."

Maybe Farmer Green heard her request. Anyhow, as he handed the hammer to Johnnie he said, "Come and help me, after you put the hammer back. We'll have to find that pig. If a bear happened to come down from the mountain to-night he'd treat himself to a feast. That runt would make a nice, tender meal."

Mrs. Pig must certainly have heard -- and understood -- Farmer Green's remark. For she gave a loud squeal of alarm.

"Hurry!" she begged him. "Please, Mr. Green, do find Grunty before dark!"



VI

Mr. Crow Helps


It was a wonder that Johnnie Green and his father ever found Grunty Pig.

Soon after Henrietta Hen left him, Grunty crept out of the lane and wandered into the cornfield. He had an idea that Henrietta might go and tell his mother that she had seen him wallowing in the mud behind the barn. And he did not want to be dragged back to the pigpen.

Grunty had no way of knowing that Henrietta Hen forgot all about him before she had crossed the farmyard. She fell into a loud dispute with a neighbor. And she never thought of Grunty again.

Grunty Pig enjoyed his ramble into the field of waving corn. The corn was sweet; and the dirt was loose -- just the finest sort to root in that a body could possibly want. He had the place all to himself until at last a black gentleman came flying up in a great hurry and ordered him in a hoarse voice to "get out of the corn -- and be quick about it!"

On him Grunty Pig tried the same trick that he had used on Henrietta Hen. He looked up with a stupid stare at the newcomer and said never a word.

Old Mr. Crow -- for it was he that had commanded Grunty to leave -- old Mr. Crow abused him roundly. Mr. Crow was not empty-headed, like Henrietta Hen. He was not to be deceived so easily.

"Why don't you answer me?" he bawled. "You make noise enough when you're at home. I've heard you often, way across the cornfield." Mr. Crow cawed so angrily that a dozen of his cronies flew over from the woods to see what was going on. And the whole thirteen made such an uproar that Farmer Green couldn't help noticing them. He and Johnnie were in the orchard, hunting for Grunty Pig.

"Those crows are up to some mischief," Farmer Green declared. "You don't suppose -- do you? -- that they're teasing that pig?"

Well, Johnnie Green was willing to go and find out. And sure enough! he found Grunty in the cornfield.

Johnnie Green picked him up, tucked him under his arm -- plastered with dried mud as he was -- and brought him in triumph to the barn.

Farmer Green laughed when he saw Grunty Pig.

"He looks as if he had been enjoying himself," he remarked as he dropped Grunty into the pen with the rest of Mrs. Pig's children.

"Are you going to feed him?" Johnnie Green inquired.

Again his father laughed.

"No!" he replied. "That pig has stuffed himself so full he can scarcely waddle."

As for Mrs. Pig, she didn't know whether to laugh or to weep. She was glad to have Grunty safe at home again; but he was a sad sight.

At first Mrs. Pig thought Farmer Green had made a mistake. She thought he had found somebody else's child. For Grunty was so daubed with black mud that she actually didn't know him until she heard him grunt. "Where have you been?" she asked him in her sternest voice.

"I've been out in the world," he answered. "And I've had a fine time."

"It's easy to see," said Mrs. Pig, "that you're a born wallower. It's a pity that you haven't your brother Blackie's complexion. The dirt does show so dreadfully on silver bristles!"



VII

The Grumbler


All the farmyard folk agreed that Farmer Green took the best of care of everybody. Mrs. Pig often told her children that they were lucky to have so good a home. And not having lived anywhere else, they never imagined that anything could be finer than their pen.

After the day when he escaped from the pen, however, Grunty Pig began to complain. He wasn't satisfied with the food that Farmer Green gave him, he grumbled because there was no good place to wallow in mud, and especially did he object because there wasn't a tree to rub against. "The orchard," he often said, "is a much pleasanter place than this pen is. There are trees enough in the orchard for every member of our family to rub against -- all at the same time."

Somehow, when Grunty talked in that fashion every one of Mrs. Pig's children began to crowd against the sides of the pen. And even Mrs. Pig herself felt an annoying tickling along her back. She did wish that Grunty wouldn't mention such matters.

But nothing Mrs. Pig could say seemed to do any good. He was always prattling, anyhow. She could no more stop his flow of grunts and squeals than she could have kept the water in the brook from babbling down the mountainside to Swift River.

And even more annoying to Mrs. Pig was the way her son Grunty tried to rub his back against her. She said "Don't!" to him so often that she became heartily sick of the word.

What bothered Mrs. Pig most of all was Grunty's behavior whenever Farmer Green came to the pen. It was mortifying to her to have her son actually try to scratch his back against her in the presence of a visitor.

"I do hope," said Mrs. Pig to Farmer Green, "I do hope you don't think that I haven't tried to teach this child better manners." And then, when all the rest of her family began to squirm and fidget against the sides of the pen she added with a sigh, "Look at them! Anyone would suppose they had had no bringing up at all!"

Farmer Green smiled as he leaned over the pen and watched the antics of Grunty Pig and his brothers and sisters.

"There's something that I can do for your family to make them happier," he told Mrs. Pig. "To-morrow -- if I can spare the time -- I'll make a change here. A lady who's raising such a fine family as yours deserves the best there is. She ought to have a home with every modern improvement."

"There!" Mrs. Pig exclaimed to her children as soon as Farmer Green left them. "Did you hear what he said? Farmer Green is a kind man. I shouldn't have blamed him if he had put us into the poorest pen on the place, after seeing your unmannerly actions. You'll have to behave better -- especially after we have our new improvements."

Well, the next day Farmer Green brought a stout post and set it firmly in the center of Mrs. Pig's pen.

"That's for you and your family to rub against," he informed Mrs. Pig.

Really, he needn't have explained what the improvement was for. No sooner had he climbed out of the pen than Mrs. Pig and her children began to put the rubbing post to good use. Grunty was the first of all to try it. And to his mother's delight, he stopped grumbling at once. Nor did he ever again disgrace her by scratching his back against her. Instead, he always walked up to the rubbing post like a little gentleman. At least, that was what Mrs. Pig said.



VIII

Fearful News


There came a day at last when Farmer Green gave Mrs. Pig and her family a great treat. He let them out of their pen and turned them loose in a little yard out of doors. Such gruntings and squealings hadn't been heard on the farm for a long time. It was just like a picnic. And everybody had the finest of times. Still, Grunty Pig wasn't content to stay in the yard with the rest of the family. It wasn't long before he found a hole in the fence big enough to wriggle through. And off he went. And he was actually glad, for once, that he was the littlest of the family. There wasn't another of Mrs. Pig's children that could squeeze through the opening.

Grunty Pig trotted the whole length of the lane. When he reached the pasture he found himself face to face with the Muley Cow, who acted much surprised to see him there.

"You'd better go back home at once," she advised him. "There are bears on Blue Mountain. Sometimes they come down this way. Only last week I had an adventure with one in the back pasture." She did not tell Grunty that she had run away from Cuffy Bear, down the hillside. "A bear," said the Muley Cow, "would be delighted to meet a tender little pig like you."

Grunty Pig did not even thank the Muley Cow for warning him.

"I'd like to meet a bear," he declared stoutly. "I hope I'll meet one to-day."

Leaving the Muley Cow, he zigzagged up the hill through the pasture, stopping now and then to dig up many a juicy root.

Although Mrs. Pig missed her runaway son after a time, she was not greatly disturbed.

"He can't be far off," she thought. "He'll come back before dark." And when Grunty did at last come crawling into the little yard Mrs. Pig was merely vexed with him for having gone off without her consent. She was just about to give him a well deserved scolding. But before she could speak to him, Grunty greeted her with a loud squeal.

"I saw a bear in the pasture!" he cried.

Mrs. Pig promptly forgot her displeasure. Although her son was certainly unharmed, she couldn't help being startled. It gave her what she called "a turn" to learn that Grunty had met a bear.

"A bear!" Mrs. Pig gasped. "A bear is a terribly dangerous creature. It's a wonder that you ever got home.... What did you do when you saw him?" Mrs. Pig demanded.

"I walked away," said Grunty.

"He couldn't have noticed you," Mrs. Pig declared. "If you had squealed it would have been the end of you."

Grunty Pig felt that he was the most important member of the family. Not one of his brothers or sisters had ever seen a bear. At least they had never claimed to have enjoyed so fearsome a sight.

"It was nothing," he boasted. "I'd as soon meet a bear as the Muley Cow."

His mother, however, was of another mind. She kept looking about in an uneasy fashion.

"I wish Farmer Green would come and put us into our pen," she murmured. "It will soon be dark. And I shouldn't like to spend the night out here -- not with a bear in the neighborhood."



IX

A Great Adventure


The next outing that Farmer Green gave Mrs. Pig's family in the little yard proved to be anything but a picnic -- for Mrs. Pig. That poor lady had a dreadful time. Grunty ran away again. And he hadn't been gone long before his mother heard a loud squealing in the nearest field. The sound rapidly grew louder. And as she stood still and listened, Mrs. Pig knew that it was Grunty's squeal and that he was drawing nearer every moment.

"Dear me!" she cried. "He must be in trouble."

Soon Grunty tumbled through the fence. And scrambling to his feet he ran to his mother, crying at the top of his voice, "A bear chased me!"

"Oh! Oh!" shrieked Mrs. Pig. "It's a mercy he didn't catch you. Oh! Oh! It's lucky you're no fatter, else you couldn't have run so fast." Being more than fat, herself, and greatly excited, Mrs. Pig had to stop talking for a time, because she gurgled and wheezed and panted in a most alarming fashion.

At last, when she had somewhat recovered from her flurry, she called to Grunty. And looking at him severely Mrs. Pig said to him, "Let this be a lesson to you. Never, never stray away from the farmyard again!"

"Yes, Mother!" was Grunty's glib reply. Then he sidled away. Somehow he felt uneasy under his mother's gaze.

"Perhaps it was a good thing, after all, that the bear chased him," Mrs. Pig muttered. "Maybe this fright will keep him at home."

She soon discovered that it would take more than a mere fright -- more than a command -- to stop Grunty from running away. For it wasn't long before she missed him again.

If Mrs. Pig hadn't been so upset she might have been vexed -- and with good reason.

"Oh! that dear little Grunty!" she wailed. "The bear may have caught him already, in the cabbage patch."

Then piercing squeals fell once more on Mrs. Pig's ears.

"Dear! Dear!" she cried. "I ought to have watched him. I ought to have kept an eye on Grunty. After all, he's little more than a baby."

Again the squeals grew louder. Again Grunty Pig burst through the hole in the fence and romped up to his mother.

"He chased me another time!" he grunted. "The bear chased me almost as far as the fence."

"Sakes alive!" his mother shrieked. "Somebody ought to tell Farmer Green! This farm is not a safe place to live, with a bear prowling about it."

"Do you want me to go and tell Mr. Green?" Grunty inquired.

"You?" his mother exclaimed. "No, indeed! You stay right here with me! Don't you dare stir out of this yard!" And to Grunty's astonishment, Mrs. Pig bowled him right over, to show him that she meant what she said.

He jumped to his feet in a jiffy. And he was all ready to slink away into a corner of the yard; but his mother bade him wait.

"This bear -- " she said -- "what did he look like?"



X

A Queer Bear


Grunty Pig's little eyes fell away from his mother's when she asked him what the bear looked like -- the bear that had chased him.

"Er -- he was whitish, with brown spots, like Johnnie Green's dog," said Grunty; "and -- er -- he had a long tail like the old horse Ebenezer's; and he had six legs."

Mrs. Pig suddenly made a most peculiar sound. It couldn't be called a squeal, nor a grunt, nor a gurgle, nor a gasp. It was a little like all four. And springing clumsily upon her son, Mrs. Pig upset him before he could dodge her.

Grunty Pig began to whimper. "What have I done?" he whined.

"You've deceived me!" his mother cried. "You haven't seen a bear. You've never seen a bear in all your life."

"Ouch," Grunty howled, as his mother sent him sprawling once more. "I didn't mean any harm. I was only having fun with you."

"Well," said his mother. "Turn about is fair play. I'll have a little fun with you, now."

Mrs. Pig gave her wayward son such a punishing that he remembered it all the rest of that day. At least, he stayed at home. And Mrs. Pig dared hope that at last she had cured him of two bad habits -- running away and telling fibs.

The next day, however, the fields called again to Grunty Pig. They called so plainly that he couldn't resist answering.

"I'll slip away for just a little while," he said to himself. "If I'm not gone long no one will miss me." So when his mother was taking a nap he stole through the hole in the fence. "I'll be back before she wakes up," he chuckled.

In the garden, up the lane, through the pasture he made his way. And he enjoyed his holiday to the full -- until he remembered suddenly that he had been gone a long time -- a much longer time than he had planned to spend away from the farmyard.

"Oh, dear!" he whined. "Mother must be awake now; and she'll punish me if I go back." The more he thought about returning, the less he liked the idea.

"I won't go home at all!" he cried at last. "I'll stay in the pasture the rest of my life. There's plenty to eat here; and plenty of fun, too."

It was afternoon when Grunty Pig made up his mind that he would never go home. When the Muley Cow warned him once more to beware of the bears he actually jeered at her.

"There are no bears in Pleasant Valley," he scoffed. "And you needn't trouble yourself to mention them again to me. I'm going to live in this pasture and there's no use of your trying to frighten me away."

The Muley Cow said nothing more to him. She merely looked at him and smiled wisely.

"He'll sing a different song," she thought, "when it begins to grow dark."



XI

Locked Out


The Muley Cow was right. She had said to herself, with a smile, that Grunty Pig, the runaway, would be glad enough to go home when night came. He had decided to stay right there in the pasture for the rest of his life, where there was plenty to eat and plenty to do. He felt sure that he would have a much pleasanter time there than at home. For one thing, he knew well enough that there was a punishing waiting for him at the piggery -- if he ever went back to get it.

Not until Johnnie Green and old dog Spot came to the pasture to drive the cows down the lane did Grunty Pig begin to feel the least twinge of homesickness. And even then he tried to forget it. He hid in a clump of brakes near the fence while Johnnie Green and Spot were in the pasture, for he didn't want them to spy him and take him home with them.

There was a delicious, damp, woodsy smell in the cool shade of his hiding place.

"How much nicer this is than our stuffy pen!" Grunty exclaimed under his breath.

Now and then he peeped out to watch the procession of cows moving slowly towards the barn to be milked. And when the last one had entered the lane, hurrying to catch up with the rest -- and to avoid Spot's nips at her heels -- Grunty crept out into the open.

Then, strange to say, he hurried towards the lane himself. All at once the pasture seemed a great, lonesome place. Who knew when a bear might rise out of a clump of bushes near him?

He was careful not to follow too closely after the herd as they meandered down the lane. At the same time, he was careful not to fall too far behind. And he took many a quick backward glance, to make sure no bear was creeping up on him.

Not far from the barn Grunty left the lane and hurried toward the little yard outside the piggery, where he had run away from his mother and his brothers and his sisters.

When he reached the fence through which he had crept while Mrs. Pig was enjoying a nap, he met with a great surprise. The hole in the fence was no more! Somebody had mended it. And there he was, outside the yard!

Grunty Pig squealed for his mother. But no one answered. The fence was too high for him to look over it. It was too tight for him to peep through.

"I want to get in!" Grunty cried. "Why doesn't somebody answer?"

The silence from the other side of the fence was dreadful. Grunty Pig would have been glad to have his mother scold him then, just for the comfort of hearing her voice.

"Oh! Oh!" he wailed. "What shall I do? Whatever shall I do? Farmer Green must have put the family back in the pen. And I'll have to spend the night out here alone!"



XII

Woof!


Night found Grunty Pig huddled close to the outside of the piggery. Many times he had walked around the low building, snuffing at the doors and trying in vain to find some opening through which he might crawl. To his dismay, all was snug and tight. There wasn't a hole big enough even for Miss Kitty Cat to creep through.

Though Grunty had called a good many times, nobody had answered him. Inside the piggery, in their pen, Mrs. Pig and her other children were sound asleep. Now and then Grunty could hear a throaty snore, which he knew to be his mother's.

"How can she sleep, when I'm missing?" he cried.

Now, Mrs. Pig had been much upset by Grunty's absence. And when Farmer Green came to put her family into the piggery for the night she had tried to explain to him that Grunty had run away. Unfortunately, it happened that Farmer Green was in a great hurry. He didn't stop to find out what was troubling Mrs. Pig, but hustled her and her children inside and closed all the doors.

Try as she would, Mrs. Pig hadn't been able to stay awake. Her eyes would close, in spite of all she could do. Though she slept, she dreamed about the truant Grunty. Now and then she cried aloud in the darkness, when some terrible creature seemed to be chasing him. But Mrs. Pig never quite waked up.

Once Grunty Pig thought he heard his mother speak his name. And he called out in as brave a voice as he could muster, "Here I am, just outside the piggery! Won't somebody please let me in?"

He called in vain. At last he fell asleep, for he was about as tired as any little pig could be.

In the middle of the night Grunty Pig awoke with a start. Somebody said "Woof!" And somebody came sniffing and snuffing around the corner of the piggery. Dimly Grunty could see a dark, burly form. And he was so frightened that he bawled right out, "It's a bear! It's a bear! It's a bear!"

Almost at the same instant old dog Spot ran out of his kennel, barking furiously. And like magic the prowler -- whoever he was -- vanished into the night.

"Keep still!" Grunty's mother called to him; for the noise had half roused her. "Don't you mention the word bear again, or I'll attend to you in the morning."

Drowsy as she was, Mrs. Pig actually thought Grunty was right there in the pen with the rest of her children. And in no time at all she was snoring again.

Grunty Pig didn't dare open his mouth nor close his eyes the rest of the night. And when morning came, Farmer Green found him huddled against the door of the piggery.

It was a joyful meeting -- for Grunty Pig.



XIII

Home At Last


"What's this?" Farmer Green exclaimed, when he went to unlock the piggery in the morning and found Grunty Pig lying up against the door. "Did you get locked out last night? Was it you that old Spot was barking at?"

Grunty Pig didn't dare answer. When Farmer Green dropped him into the pen he said nothing to anybody -- not even "Good morning!"

A little later Farmer Green found something more outside the piggery. In the loose dirt he discovered -- bear tracks!

"Aha!" he cried to his son Johnnie. "Look here! We had a visitor last night. It was no wonder old Spot woke us all up. A bear called on us! And he'd certainly have had that pig if Spot hadn't scared him off."

Naturally the news soon spread all over the farmyard. And when Mrs. Pig heard it she began to tremble.

"To think," she quavered, "that my littlest child spent the night out of doors, with a bear prowling about the neighborhood! And I slept through it all!

"Tell me all about it, Grunty!" she commanded that young gentleman.

It is not surprising that Grunty Pig was puzzled. Hadn't his mother told him, during the night, not to mention the word bear again? And now she was urging him to talk about that very animal.

"Squeak up!" said his mother sharply -- which was the same as saying, "Speak up!"

So he told his story. And when he had finished Mrs. Pig fairly covered him with caresses.

"It seems to me -- " she sniffed -- for she was quite upset -- "it seems to me that I remember your saying something about a bear last night. But I wasn't wide awake at the time. And I thought you were fibbing again.

"Perhaps," she added, "this will teach you a few things that you needed to learn.... Always mind your mother!" said Mrs. Pig. "And always tell the truth!"

Her children all repeated the words after her. And Grunty Pig's voice could have been heard plainly above all the rest.

His mother looked at him fondly. She had always claimed that she had no favorite among her children. But now she couldn't help thinking what a promising youngster Grunty was, even if he was the runt of the family.

"That's a good Grunty," said Mrs. Pig. "You won't forget this lesson, will you?"

"No, Mother!" Grunty answered.

Now, that very afternoon Mrs. Pig took it into her head to have her children say the morning's lesson again. So she called her youngsters together. And she asked Grunty the first of all to recite what she had taught him.

"I think it was something about a bear," he stammered, "but I can't remember exactly."

"Dear me!" said poor Mrs. Pig. "I don't know what I'll do with this lad."

Then she asked the other children, one by one, what they had learned that very morning.

There wasn't one of them that hadn't forgotten everything.

"Dear me!" said unhappy Mrs. Pig. "I don't know what I'll do with all of them. But I'll treat them all alike. I have no favorite. There isn't one of them that's stupider than another."

When Grunty Pig heard that he felt quite proud. It was something, anyhow, to be as stupid as the rest, even if he was smaller.



XIV

An Odd Thought


"Umph! Umph!"

Farmer Green had fenced off a piece of the old orchard. And into this new yard he turned Mrs. Pig's children.

"Umph! Umph!"

They had a fine time there, rooting down under the sod, rubbing their backs against the trunks of the old apple trees, and sprawling in the shade when they were sleepy.

"Umph! Umph!"

Sometimes an apple dropped from a tree. And then there was a mad scramble.

"Umph! Umph!"

"Dear me!" said Jolly Robin's wife as she sat in the apple tree where she and her husband had a nest every summer. "Don't Mrs. Pig's children make a dreadful noise? I never knew half-grown pigs to have such loud voices. Their grunts certainly are full-sized."

Jolly Robin, who had perched himself beside his wife, looked down at their new neighbors.

"They're having a good time," he observed cheerfully. "We ought not to complain. We may be thankful that they don't climb trees and try to sing."

Jolly Robin had a way of looking on the bright side of things. It was seldom that he couldn't act cheerful. Even when he felt quite downhearted, inside, he managed usually to appear happy, outside. And now his remark put his wife in a pleasanter frame of mind.

"Imagine a pig up a tree!" Mrs. Robin tittered.

"Umph! Umph! Are you talking about me?" a voice inquired right beneath them. It gave Mrs. Robin such a start that she almost tumbled off the limb.

"No! No! We're not talking about you -- not exactly!" Jolly Robin answered.

It was Grunty Pig that had spoken.

"Pardon me!" he said. "I thought I heard you mention the name, 'Pig'."

"Er -- yes! We did speak of your family, in a general way," Jolly Robin admitted.

"Ah!" said Grunty Pig. "And what was it you said about us? Weren't you and your wife laughing about our climbing trees?"

Somehow Jolly Robin thought that Grunty's little eyes had a spiteful gleam as he looked upward into the tree top. And Mrs. Robin couldn't help moving to a higher limb. Grunty's glare sent a most uncomfortable shiver over her.

Jolly Robin tried his best to act at his ease.

"It was just an odd thought that popped into my head," he assured Grunty Pig. "It made Mrs. Robin giggle when I mentioned it." He laughed merrily enough. And his wife managed to smile faintly. But Grunty Pig frowned.

"I thought so!" he cried. "You Robins were poking fun at me and my brothers and sisters. Yes! And no doubt at my mother, too!"

"Oh, no!" Jolly Robin assured him. "We weren't thinking of any one in particular."

"Aha!" Grunty snorted. "You were laughing at all of us, then." And Jolly Robin could say nothing to change his opinion. "You can't fool me," Grunty declared. "You have insulted my whole family. And it's time that you learned better manners. I see that I shall have to teach you a lesson."

Well, when they heard that speech Jolly Robin and his wife had to laugh. The idea of a lesson in manners from Grunty Pig was the funniest thing on the farm.



XV

Grunty Means Mischief


Jolly Robin and his wife told all their friends that Grunty Pig was going to teach them a lesson. The birds had many a laugh over the matter. Not till old Mr. Crow visited the orchard one day did the Robin family cease chuckling over what they called "the joke of the season."

"Don't laugh too soon!" Mr. Crow croaked. "This Grunty Pig means mischief. He isn't going to teach you the sort of lesson you've been snickering about. What he intends to do is to harm you in some way."

Now, nobody in Pleasant Valley could look gloomier than old Mr. Crow. And when he hinted darkly, in his hoarse way, that there was trouble ahead for the Robin family, he threw Jolly Robin's wife into a flutter.

"Oh, what does Grunty Pig mean to do to us?" Mrs. Robin quavered.

"I'd rather not tell you," said old Mr. Crow. "I don't want you to worry."

Mr. Crow left them then. Of course he couldn't have chosen a better way to upset Mrs. Robin. Even Jolly himself had to admit after a while that he could think of nothing that seemed to cheer his wife in the least. "I'll speak to Mr. Crow again," he told his wife. "I'll ask him just what he meant."

Alas! Mr. Crow couldn't tell him. The truth was that Mr. Crow had already told all he knew.

"I'll ask Grunty Pig himself what he means to do to us," Jolly then declared to his wife. "I've noticed that he digs every day at the foot of our apple tree. The next time he comes here I'll have a talk with him." So that very day Jolly put his question to Grunty Pig.

"What is it," he asked, "that you intend to do to us?"

"You'll find out later," said Grunty Pig. "I expect to be in the top of your apple tree before fall. And then -- "

Jolly Robin couldn't wait for him to finish. He had to laugh right out, on the spot. And his wife, who had been listening eagerly, burst into the first giggle that had passed her bill for days and days.

So Grunty Pig expected to climb a tree! Mr. and Mrs. Robin gave each other a merry look. It was all too funny for words.

"Umph!" said Grunty Pig. "You won't laugh when I'm in your tree top."

"How are you going to get up here?" Jolly Robin asked him, with a wink at Mrs. Robin. "Are you going to fly?"

"No!" Grunty Pig said. "No!"

"Then you're going to climb," cried Mrs. Robin. And both she and her husband choked, as they pictured fat Grunty Pig scrambling up the trunk of the old apple tree.

"No!" Grunty Pig said. "No!"

"Well, well!" Jolly Robin exclaimed. "Don't be so short with your answers! Explain how you expect to get up into the top of our apple tree."

"I never said I expected to get up there," Grunty Pig corrected him.

"What?" cried Jolly Robin. "What?" cried his wife.

"No!" said Grunty Pig. "I said I'd be in the tree top before fall. If I work here every day around the foot of the tree I'll have it uprooted at last. And when it topples over and falls on the ground I'll have no trouble getting into the top of it."

When they heard that, Jolly Robin and his wife stopped laughing.



XVI

Danger Ahead


Jolly Robin and his wife were terribly worried. Grunty Pig meant to uproot the apple tree where they had their nest. Every day he came and dug at the foot of the tree. Every day, just before he went away, he looked up at them and said, "I hope you'll sleep well to-night. You'd better enjoy your home while you have it, for the tree will be flat on the ground before fall."

Sleep! Mrs. Robin complained that she never had a good night's rest any more. She said that she had bad dreams. She dreamed that the tree was falling. And then she was sure to wake up with a start. And her husband wasn't there to calm her, because he was roosting in a thicket over in the pasture with their first brood of the season.

They both agreed -- Jolly and his wife -- that they must get their second brood of children out of the nest as soon as they could.

"The moment they're old enough, we must teach them to fly," Mrs. Robin told her husband.

"Yes!" he said. "And we'll have to be careful of them, too, with all these seven young porkers in the orchard."

"Suppose -- " said Mrs. Robin -- "suppose Grunty Pig should bring our tree toppling to the ground before the children leave the nest!"

"Oh! There's no danger of that," Jolly assured her. She was always looking on the dark side of things. But he didn't tell her so.

"I don't know how we're going to be sure the children are safe," Mrs. Robin continued. "How long do you think it will take Grunty Pig to uproot our tree?"

Jolly Robin had to confess that he couldn't answer his wife's question.

"Then ask somebody who knows something about such matters!" Mrs. Robin cried. And there was a tart note in her voice that made Jolly Robin say hastily, "Yes! Yes, my dear! I'll go right now and find an answer to your question."

Off he flew. And not knowing where else to go, he sat down on a bush in Farmer Green's garden, to ponder. Who could tell him how long it would take Grunty Pig to uproot the old apple tree? Although Jolly Robin thought and thought, he could think of no one whom he might ask. To be sure, there was Tommy Fox, who was known to be an able digger. But Jolly Robin didn't trust him. Tommy Fox was tricky. And there was Billy Woodchuck, who came from a famous family of burrowers. But everybody knew that old dog Spot had chased him into his hole that very afternoon, and was watching Billy's front door.

While Jolly Robin sat there in the garden he happened to look down at the ground. And right before his eyes a long snout suddenly rose out of the dirt, followed by the squat form of Grandfather Mole.

Jolly Robin gave a cheerful chirp. Everybody knew that Grandfather Mole was the champion digger of Pleasant Valley. And if he couldn't answer Mrs. Robin's question, then no one could.



XVII

A Puzzle Solved


"Good morning, Grandfather Mole!" Jolly Robin called.

"What!" cried Grandfather Mole. "Have I made the mistake again of coming up on top of Farmer Green's garden?"

"You certainly have," Jolly told him.

"I must be getting old," said Grandfather Mole. "I'm growing more careless every day. I didn't mean to dig my way above ground." And then, thrusting his long nose right into the dirt, he began to burrow out of sight.

"Stop! Please stop!" Jolly Robin besought him. "I want to ask you a question about digging."

Grandfather Mole pulled his nose out of the ground.

"What's your question?" he inquired.

"It's about Grunty Pig," Jolly Robin began.

"I thought you said it was about digging," Grandfather Mole grumbled. And he started to burrow once more.

"So it is!" Jolly exclaimed. "I want to know how long it will take Grunty Pig to dig up the apple tree where I live."

Again Grandfather Mole paused.

"It all depends," he muttered. "It all depends on how much of his time he spends at digging."

"He works every day," said Jolly Robin. "A good, long while every day!"

Grandfather Mole appeared to be thinking deeply.

"He boasts -- " Jolly Robin explained -- "he boasts that he will have the tree uprooted before fall."

"Nonsense!" Grandfather Mole snorted. "If Grunty Pig says that, he doesn't know much about apple trees. He may be a fair digger; but he must be stupid."

"That's what I've always thought!" Jolly Robin exclaimed.

"He can't go very deep into things, or he'd never have made such a boast," Grandfather Mole declared. "When Grunty Pig digs, does he dig right down out of sight?"

"Oh, no! Never!" said Jolly Robin.

"Ah! He merely scratches the surface!" Grandfather Mole remarked with a wise nod of his head. "Well, it's no wonder that he made such a mistake."

"Mistake!" Jolly Robin echoed. "Do you mean that Grunty Pig won't have our apple tree down by fall?"

"I do," Grandfather Mole answered. "The roots of a big, old apple tree spread out a good rod in every direction. And it would take a hundred Grunty Pigs a whole summer to dig them free."

A broad smile spread over Jolly Robin's face.

"Then -- " he ventured -- "then wouldn't it take Grunty Pig a hundred summers to dig up our tree, if he worked alone?"

"No doubt!" Grandfather replied. "Or, to be on the safe side, I'll say he could uproot your tree in ninety-nine summers."

"Hurrah!" Jolly Robin shouted. "Hurrah -- and thank you, Grandfather Mole!" And leaving the old gentleman to dig himself out of sight, Jolly Robin hurried home to his wife.

Mrs. Robin was glad to see him. She knew, as soon as she caught a glimpse of his face, that he had good news for her. And she needed cheering, poor soul! For Grunty Pig was beneath the tree again, digging away in a most businesslike fashion.

"Let him dig!" Jolly Robin whispered to his wife. "Grandfather Mole says it will take him ninety-nine summers to topple our tree over. And you know that Grandfather Mole is the greatest burrower in Pleasant Valley."

Mrs. Robin felt better at once. Looking down at Grunty Pig, she said to her husband, "How stupid this son of Mrs. Pig's is! He has turned up at least a dozen angleworms while you've been gone. And he has let every one of them get away from him!"



XVIII

The Luckiest Of All


Grunty Pig found that being the smallest of the family wasn't all fun. Not only could his brothers and sisters crowd him at the feeding trough. Even when they were playing in the pen they often knocked him down and walked right over him. And if he objected -- as he usually did -- they were sure to laugh and call him "Runt."

Try as she would, Mrs. Pig couldn't rid her children of these boorish ways. But she shouldn't be blamed for that. It must be remembered that she had seven youngsters, all of the same age.

At least, Mrs. Pig did what she could to make Grunty's lot easier.

"Don't feel unhappy!" she said to him one day as he picked himself up, whimpering, after a hard knock. "Don't feel unhappy because you are the littlest of the family. In one way you are the luckiest of all my children."

Grunty Pig didn't stop weeping. He saw no reason -- yet -- to feel more cheerful.

"Did you know -- " his mother asked him -- "did you know that in one respect you are the handsomest one of the whole litter? You have the curliest tail of them all!"

Grunty Pig gazed, open-mouthed, at his mother. He stopped snivelling. Up to that time he had scarcely given his tail a thought. So long as it followed him wherever he went he had been satisfied with it.

From that moment Grunty began to think a great deal about his tail. He was always turning his head to look at it, to make sure it hadn't lost any of its kink. Now and then he was even late for a meal, because he was feasting his eyes on his tail when Farmer Green came to the pen with food for Mrs. Pig's family.

It must be confessed that Grunty sometimes boasted before his brothers and sisters about his beautiful curly tail. And just before meal time his brother Blackie was known, upon occasion, to mention the subject of tails. He did that in the hope that Grunty would be late at the feeding trough.

Sad to say, Grunty Pig was fast becoming vain. He even talked about tails with the neighbors, taking pains to explain that his own was the handsomest one on the farm.

Old dog Spot sniffed when Grunty boasted about his tail one day.

"Why, your tail is of no use whatsoever," Spot told him. "You can't use it to switch a fly off your back. The Muley Cow can do that. And so can the old horse, Ebenezer."

"Ah! But my tail is so pretty to look at!" Grunty Pig exclaimed.

"You can't puff it up to show you're angry, as Miss Kitty Cat does," said Spot.

"Ah! But my tail has a beautiful curl!" said Grunty Pig.

"You can't wag it, to let folks know you're friendly, as I can," said Spot.

"Ah! But my tail is so handsome!" Grunty Pig exclaimed.



XIX

Dog Spot's Plan


When Grunty Pig insisted that his own tightly curled tail was the most beautiful one in the neighborhood, old dog Spot yawned.

"If that's the case," he remarked, "I should think you'd want your tail where you could see it more easily. Don't you find it a nuisance to have to turn your head around every time you want to look at your tail?"

Grunty Pig admitted that his tail wasn't in the most convenient place in the world.

"If Farmer Green should cut off your tail and nail it up on the outside of the barn," old Spot suggested, "you could look at it easily enough. And it would give others a better chance to see it, too. Even the people that drive along the road could enjoy it. Everybody spoke about the tall corn that we nailed to the barn last fall. And I'm sure that folks would admire your tail."

When Spot spoke of Farmer Green's cutting off his tail, Grunty Pig winced. But as the old dog talked on and on Grunty forgot the painful part of the plan.

"There's no doubt," he agreed, "that my tail would be a fine sight, fastened up on the barn where everybody could gaze at it. But don't you think, Mr. Spot, that I'd look very queer without any tail?"

"N -- no!" Spot told him. "N -- no! I've seen plenty of pigs without tails. They didn't look queer at all. Really, they looked better without tails than they would have looked with them."

Grunty Pig had listened carefully to what Spot said. Yet somehow he couldn't quite make up his mind to part with his beautiful tail, even if it would delight many more people when nailed to the outside of the barn.

"I'd like to see one of those pigs," he said to Spot. "I'd like to see how they look."

"That's easily arranged," old Spot told him. "I can show you a dozen of them -- all as pink and white and happy as they can be. And not a single one of them with a tail!"

"I'd certainly like to see them," Grunty Pig murmured.

"They're a pretty sight," Spot assured him. "Don't you think you'd feel uncomfortable if you appeared before them with a tail? Don't you want to have yours cut off before you go to see these tailless little fellows? It seems to me you'd be more at your ease. It would certainly be polite of you."

Grunty Pig, however, cared little for politeness. He said that nobody was polite to him. His brothers -- and even his sisters -- were always knocking him down and trampling on him.

"Very well!" said Spot. "Squirm through that fence and follow me."

It was a tight squeeze. When Grunty Pig was half through the hole in the fence he found himself stuck fast. He could move neither forward nor back. "Oh, dear!" he wailed. "What shall I do?"

"Keep perfectly still!" old dog Spot cautioned him -- as if Grunty Pig could do anything else. "I'll jump the fence and help you."

Now, Grunty Pig thought that old Spot intended to give him a push. Instead, Spot nipped him smartly.

It was exactly the sort of help that Grunty needed. He gave a frantic plunge forward and fell, sprawling, on the ground outside the yard, where Spot soon joined him.

"It takes old Spot to hurry 'em along," said the old dog gleefully.

Grunty Pig said "Umph! Umph!"

Old dog Spot was not quite sure what he meant.



XX

A New Kind Of Pig


"Stop grunting and squealing and follow me!" old dog Spot growled. And Grunty Pig, who had just tumbled through a hole in the fence, scrambled to his feet and trotted after his guide.

Old Spot had promised to show Grunty a dozen pink and white pigs, all without tails. He wanted Grunty to see how handsome they looked.

"You'll like them," Spot told Grunty over his shoulder as they jogged across the farmyard. "You'll ask Farmer Green this very day to cut off your tail and nail it up on the barn. I tell you, these pigs look neat. There's style about them."

"Umph! Umph!" said Grunty Pig as he shuffled along behind.

"Now, I wonder what he meant by that!" Spot mused. It was sometimes hard to tell whether Grunty's umphs stood for yes or no.

Around the corner of the farmhouse, near the woodshed door, old dog Spot came to a halt before a two-storied cage, the front of which was covered with fine-meshed wire netting.

Stopping beside Spot, Grunty Pig peered inside the cage. He saw a number of odd little creatures running about upon the sawdust-strewn floor of the tiny house, one or another of them giving a faint squeak now and then as if ordering the two unasked callers to move on.

Whoever they were, they were a bright-eyed little family. But Grunty Pig thought, as he stared at them, that they had a most peculiar look. There seemed to be something missing about them. Yet he couldn't tell just what it was.

Together Grunty and Spot stood there, silent, for a time; until at last Grunty said, "Come along! Let's not stay here any longer. I want to see those twelve pigs without tails."

Old dog Spot snorted.

"You want to see them!" he cried. "Well, nobody's stopping you. They're right here in front of you!"

Grunty Pig's mouth fell open -- he was so astonished. He knew, now, what made the little, pudgy, white strangers look so queer. There wasn't one of them that had even a hint of a tail!

Then all at once Grunty turned angrily upon old dog Spot.

"These aren't pigs!" he squealed. "You needn't think you can fool me. They're not pigs at all."

"Oh, yes -- they are!" Spot insisted. "You didn't suppose that all the pigs in the world were exactly like your family -- did you?"

Grunty didn't know what to say. He looked at the odd little creatures again. And then he looked at Spot once more.

"If these really are pigs," he faltered, "they must be very, very young. They're certainly smaller than any day-old pigs I ever saw.... Maybe their tails haven't sprouted yet."

Old dog Spot seemed to choke over something. He turned his head away for a moment or two before he spoke.

"These pigs," he said, "won't ever have tails. Not one of them would know what to do with a tail if you gave him one. They don't want tails. They have no use for them. And now that you see for yourself how happy they are without tails, you ought not to delay any longer about having yours cut off. I hope," Spot added, "I'll see your tail nailed up on the barn to-morrow, where everybody can admire it."

Then Grunty Pig said something that surprised him.

"Why don't you have your own tail cut off?" he asked old Spot.

And before old Spot could think of an answer, Johnnie Green came running out of the woodshed.

"Get away from my guinea pigs!" he shouted.

Grunty and Spot both turned and ran in opposite directions. Grunty didn't see Spot again for more than a week. When they did at last meet, old Spot never mentioned tails at all. To tell the truth, he seemed to feel somewhat ashamed of himself for having tried to play a trick on Grunty Pig.

Or maybe he felt ashamed because he was caught at it.



XXI

Beechnuts


Down the hill, a little way from Farmer Green's house, a great beech tree stood beside the road. In the fall, when the nuts were ripe, Johnnie Green often visited the tree. And so did Frisky Squirrel. And so, likewise, did that noisy rascal, Jasper Jay. They liked beechnuts -- all three. And somehow they got the notion that the beech tree belonged to them -- and to nobody else.

One fine, crisp fall day when Johnnie Green was in school, a fourth nut-lover wandered down the road, stopped right between the wheel tracks, and sniffed. It was Grunty Pig. "I smell beechnuts!" he cried with a joyful squeal. And crashing into the light underbrush along the roadside, he began to search among the fallen leaves with his long nose.

Soon Grunty came upon a cluster of the three-sided nuts, clinging inside a bur that the frost had split open. He ate the sweet nuts, shells and all. And with many a grunt of delight he grubbed beneath the tree from which the nuts had fallen. His keen nose led him to burs that Johnnie Green had trampled over that very morning, and missed.

"I wonder -- " said Grunty Pig aloud -- "I wonder why nobody ever told me about this beech tree."

"Perhaps it was because you are a pig," said a voice right over his head.

He looked up. And there on a low branch sat Frisky Squirrel. Grunty knew him; he had sometimes seen him around Farmer Green's corncrib.

"Of course I'm a Pig," Grunty retorted. "I'm Mrs. Pig's son."

"Well, Mrs. Pig's son, I notice that you have helped yourself freely to beechnuts."

"I've eaten all I could find," Grunty told Frisky with a grin.

"I don't hear any thanks," Frisky Squirrel remarked. "Don't you know that these beechnuts belong to me and Jasper Jay and Johnnie Green?"

"Umph!"

"You did?" Frisky inquired.

"Umph!"

"Oh, you didn't!" Frisky exclaimed. "Then I suppose I shall have to pardon you. But Jasper Jay wouldn't, if he caught you taking any of the nuts that fall from this tree."

There was truth in what Frisky said. Even as he spoke a patch of blue flashed in the top of the beech tree. And a harsh voice sang out, "What's going on here?"

Jasper Jay had arrived.

Grunty Pig, however, did not even give Jasper a glance. Instead, he began nosing about for another beechnut bur.

For a moment or two Jasper Jay watched him. And then Jasper began to squawk.

"Stop that!" he ordered. "Don't you dare to take any of our beechnuts!"

"Umph!" said Grunty Pig. "I can't find any more on the ground. So I suppose I shall have to obey him," Grunty muttered half under his breath.

"Don't mumble! Speak up!" cried Jasper Jay. "If you have any excuses to make, let's hear them!"



XXII

Jasper Jay Objects


While Jasper Jay, in the beech tree, waited for Grunty Pig, on the ground, to speak up and make his excuses for taking beechnuts, a bur dropped from a twig and landed right in front of Grunty's nose. He fell upon it greedily. And, tearing it open, he devoured the nuts with relish.

For a few moments his action struck Jasper Jay dumb. That blue-coated rascal turned to Frisky Squirrel, who clung to a limb near-by.

"Well, did you ever?" Jasper gasped. And then, having found his voice, Jasper began to use it on Grunty Pig.

Now, Jasper Jay was a wild fellow. He often used words that made the gentler folk in Pleasant Valley shudder. And he called Grunty Pig names that would have made many a person angry.

Grunty Pig, however, never even blinked. And after a while Jasper Jay used up all his special words, which he generally employed at such times. He gave Frisky Squirrel a helpless look.

"My! My! Isn't this chap thick-skinned?" he exclaimed.

"Certainly I am!" cried Grunty Pig. "That's why I like to wallow in mud."

"Ha!" Jasper Jay sniffed. And he spoke again to Frisky Squirrel. "This chap is thick-headed, too. I see that I'm going to have trouble making him understand what I say."

Frisky Squirrel merely grinned at his companion.

"Look here, young Porker!" Jasper called to Grunty Pig. "Doesn't Farmer Green feed you?"

The name "Porker" made Grunty Pig look up.

"I'm Mrs. Pig's son," he said. "Don't call me 'Porker'!"

"Well -- Pig, then!" Jasper Jay squalled. "Doesn't Farmer Green feed you?"

"Yes!"

"Well, then -- don't come here and take our nuts! Didn't your mother ever teach you that things that grow on trees -- such things as nuts -- belong to the people that live in the trees?"

"Does Johnnie Green live in this tree?" Grunty Pig inquired.

"He spends half his time here -- or a quarter, anyhow," Jasper Jay grumbled. "And you may be sure he gets his share of these beechnuts. Goodness knows he leaves few enough for me and my friend here.

"Now," Jasper Jay went on, "I want you to promise not to eat any more of our nuts."

Grunty Pig shook his head.

"I can't promise that, exactly," he said. "But I'll promise not to eat any that I don't find on the ground."

"Huh!" Jasper Jay scoffed. "That means that you won't eat any nuts that you can't reach. That's no promise at all. It's nothing but a threat. It's the same as saying that you're going to eat every nut that drops off this tree."

Grunty Pig made no reply. He would have wandered on, but for a fresh breeze that had begun to whip the branches of the beech tree. He decided to wait there. More burs might fall. And Grunty wanted to be on hand to meet them when they dropped.

"Go home!" Jasper Jay shrieked at him. "Go back to your pigpen where you belong. We don't want you here." And he said many more things that were still ruder.

But Grunty Pig never showed the least sign of anger. He didn't even let Jasper Jay know that he had heard. When the wind died down he waddled off down the road. And Frisky Squirrel followed him through the tree tops. When they had travelled out of Jasper Jay's sight and hearing, Frisky asked Grunty Pig a question.

"I should like to know," he said, "how you managed to keep still when Jasper was abusing you. I know that I should have lost my temper. Can it be that you didn't hear what he said?"

"Oh, I heard him clearly enough," said Grunty. "But there was no sense in my getting angry with him. If he had been standing on the ground near me he would never have dared talk to me as he did. Jasper Jay called me names because he was safe in the tree. If he hadn't had that tree to help him he'd never have dared say what he did.

"To tell the truth, I am a bit out of patience with that beech tree," Grunty confessed. "It played me a mean trick. And I hope there'll be a raging wind to-night that will rob it of every bur it has.... I'd uproot the beech," he added, "if I didn't like beechnuts so much."

"Well, you are an odd one," said Frisky Squirrel.

"If everybody was as odd as I am there'd be fewer Jasper Jays in the world," Grunty Pig declared.



XXIII

Moses Mouse's Way


One day when Grunty Pig was at home, in the pigpen, a squeaky voiced piped "Good morning!" to him. Looking up, Grunty saw a plump little gentleman clinging to the top board on one side of the pen.

"Good morning!" Grunty answered. "May I inquire what your name is?"

"I'm Moses Mouse," his caller replied.

"Do you live in the piggery? -- or in the barn?" Grunty asked him.

"Neither!" said Moses Mouse. "I live in the farmhouse. My wife and I have a nest in the wall.... The cat's away," he explained. "That's why I decided to stroll across the yard and visit you folks out here."

"Some people," said Grunty Pig, "have all the luck. You live in the farmhouse. Miss Kitty Cat lives in the farmhouse -- when she's at home. And old dog Spot spends a good deal of his time there -- especially in cold weather. It must be pleasant to have your home where there's always plenty to eat, whenever you happen to feel hungry."

"Miss Kitty Cat and old dog Spot always fare well," Mr. Mouse admitted. "But I've often gone to bed half starved. Maybe you didn't know that Mrs. Green is terribly neat. She doesn't leave much food around for us Mice."

"Well," Grunty remarked, "it's an honor, anyhow, to live in the farmhouse. You ought not to complain about the food, even if it is a bit scarce at times. I'd be glad to live there. And I dare say I'd find a plenty to eat. The farmhouse is where the sour milk comes from."

"If you feel like that," said Moses Mouse, "why don't you join us? Why don't you come to the farmhouse for the winter, anyhow?"

Grunty Pig shook his head.

"No!" he said, half to himself. "No! I can't do it."

"Why not?" Mr. Mouse wanted to know.

"I've never been invited," Grunty told him, with something like a frown.

Moses Mouse surprised him with a merry laugh.

"Ho!" he exclaimed. "Neither have I. If I had waited for an invitation I wouldn't be living in the farmhouse. I'd have shivered my days out in the barn."

Grunty Pig looked at his caller with growing interest. He would have said that so tiny a gentleman would be too timid to crowd in where he wasn't asked.

"Don't wait any longer for an invitation," Moses Mouse urged him. "Go to the farmhouse and walk right in."

"Oughtn't I to rap?" Grunty inquired.

"Certainly not!" said Moses Mouse. "Make yourself right at home. Act as if the farmhouse belonged to you. That's the way I do. And nobody ever bothers me, except Miss Kitty Cat -- or Miss Snooper, as we Mice call her. Even she can't drive me away from the farmhouse. I lived there before she ever came to Pleasant Valley."

"She certainly couldn't drive me away," Grunty Pig muttered. "Besides, didn't you say she was away herself?"

"Yes!" said Moses Mouse. "And I hope she has gone for good."

"Then," said Grunty Pig, "it ought to be quite safe for me to go to the farmhouse. And as soon as I have a chance to get out of this pen I'll do as you suggest."

"Good!" cried Moses Mouse. And he said that he hoped to have many a chat with Grunty, at the farmhouse.

"Umph!" said Grunty Pig. And Mr. Mouse was much pleased, for he took that to mean "Yes!"



XXIV

A Pig In The Parlor


Grunty Pig had got out of his pen and out of the piggery, too. Ever since his talk with Moses Mouse the day before he had been hoping for a chance to escape. And shuffling across the farmyard somewhat heavily -- for he was growing longer and taller and fatter every day -- Grunty went straight to the woodshed door. It was open. And he walked through it. Then he clattered over the woodshed floor and peered into the kitchen. There was no one there.

For a few moments Grunty stood sniffing in the doorway. A delicious odor greeted him. He wasn't sure what it was. A pan sat near the edge of the table. And Grunty Pig had no trouble upsetting it with his nose.

Doughnuts rolled in every direction -- crisp, brown, freshly fried doughnuts. And Grunty Pig showed that he was thoughtful. He went to the trouble of picking them all up off the floor. But he forgot to drop them back into the pan. Instead, he put every one of them into his own mouth.

"That Moses Mouse was all wrong," he murmured. "He complained of the food here. When I see him I'll have to tell him that he was mistaken. Why, I never ate anything that tasted better than these rings!"

After making sure that there was nothing else for him to devour in the kitchen Grunty Pig pushed through a door that stood ajar. He found himself in a long, dimly lighted hall. There were doors on both sides of it. Grunty nosed around each one in turn. Not till he came to the last of all, at the further end of the hall, did he find one that wasn't shut tight. This door yielded to a little gentle pushing. And Grunty then found himself -- though he did not know it -- in the parlor of the farmhouse.

As he stood still and gazed about him, who should come stealing into the room but Moses Mouse.

"Ah!" said Moses in a whisper. "So you've arrived at last?"

"Yes!" said Grunty Pig. "Isn't this a fine pen? Now that I've come to the farmhouse to live I believe I'll make this pen my headquarters."

"That's a good idea," Moses Mouse told him. "Farmer Green's family don't use it often. They seldom come here unless they have company."

While he listened, Grunty Pig sidled up to a table in the center of the room and began, in an absent-minded fashion, to rub his back against it. To his surprise, the table tipped over and a lamp that had stood upon it crashed into a hundred pieces on the floor. Then a door slammed somewhere. And steps sounded in the hall.

Moses Mouse tried not to look startled.

"I must be going now," he said abruptly. "I'll see you later." Then he dashed into the fireplace and ran up the chimney.

"The accident was really your fault," Grunty called to him. "If you hadn't talked so much I'd have noticed what I was doing."

Moses Mouse, however, did not reply. And a moment later Farmer Green's wife appeared in the doorway. When she saw Grunty Pig she gave a scream. Mrs. Green couldn't help being surprised at first. But soon she began to laugh as if she would never stop.

"A pig in our parlor!" she cried. "Who ever would have thought it?"

Grunty Pig tried to explain that the broken lamp was really Moses Mouse's fault. But Mrs. Green wouldn't listen. She ran out of the room and came back at once with a broom in her hand. Then, opening the front door, she drove Grunty Pig into the yard.

"Now, I wonder why Mrs. Green put me out of the farmhouse," he muttered.

Suddenly an idea popped into his head. "It must be," he cried, "because I told tales. I tattled on Moses Mouse; and Mrs. Green didn't like it. Next time I'll be careful about what I say to her."

There never was a next time. Perhaps Farmer Green took pains to keep the door of Grunty's pen shut. Perhaps Farmer Green made the fence outside the piggery "hog tight," as he would say. Or perhaps Grunty Pig grew so fat that he couldn't squeeze through any ordinary opening.

Anyhow, Grunty never set foot inside the farmhouse again. After a while he didn't care. The bigger he was, the less he liked to roam about. And at last Farmer Green began calling him his "prize hog."

So you can see how very fat he must have been.

<eob>

The Story Girl

By

L. M. Montgomery



Chapter I. The Home Of Our Fathers

"I do like a road, because you can be always wondering what is at the end of it."

The Story Girl said that once upon a time. Felix and I, on the May morning when we left Toronto for Prince Edward Island, had not then heard her say it, and, indeed, were but barely aware of the existence of such a person as the Story Girl. We did not know her at all under that name. We knew only that a cousin, Sara Stanley, whose mother, our Aunt Felicity, was dead, was living down on the Island with Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia King, on a farm adjoining the old King homestead in Carlisle. We supposed we should get acquainted with her when we reached there, and we had an idea, from Aunt Olivia's letters to father, that she would be quite a jolly creature. Further than that we did not think about her. We were more interested in Felicity and Cecily and Dan, who lived on the homestead and would therefore be our roofmates for a season.

But the spirit of the Story Girl's yet unuttered remark was thrilling in our hearts that morning, as the train pulled out of Toronto. We were faring forth on a long road; and, though we had some idea what would be at the end of it, there was enough glamour of the unknown about it to lend a wonderful charm to our speculations concerning it.

We were delighted at the thought of seeing father's old home, and living among the haunts of his boyhood. He had talked so much to us about it, and described its scenes so often and so minutely, that he had inspired us with some of his own deep-seated affection for it -- an affection that had never waned in all his years of exile. We had a vague feeling that we, somehow, belonged there, in that cradle of our family, though we had never seen it. We had always looked forward eagerly to the promised day when father would take us "down home," to the old house with the spruces behind it and the famous "King orchard" before it -- when we might ramble in "Uncle Stephen's Walk," drink from the deep well with the Chinese roof over it, stand on "the Pulpit Stone," and eat apples from our "birthday trees."

The time had come sooner than we had dared to hope; but father could not take us after all. His firm asked him to go to Rio de Janeiro that spring to take charge of their new branch there. It was too good a chance to lose, for father was a poor man and it meant promotion and increase of salary; but it also meant the temporary breaking up of our home. Our mother had died before either of us was old enough to remember her; father could not take us to Rio de Janeiro. In the end he decided to send us to Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet down on the homestead; and our housekeeper, who belonged to the Island and was now returning to it, took charge of us on the journey. I fear she had an anxious trip of it, poor woman! She was constantly in a quite justifiable terror lest we should be lost or killed; she must have felt great relief when she reached Charlottetown and handed us over to the keeping of Uncle Alec. Indeed, she said as much.

"The fat one isn't so bad. He isn't so quick to move and get out of your sight while you're winking as the thin one. But the only safe way to travel with those young ones would be to have 'em both tied to you with a short rope -- a MIGHTY short rope."

"The fat one" was Felix, who was very sensitive about his plumpness. He was always taking exercises to make him thin, with the dismal result that he became fatter all the time. He vowed that he didn't care; but he DID care terribly, and he glowered at Mrs. MacLaren in a most undutiful fashion. He had never liked her since the day she had told him he would soon be as broad as he was long.

For my own part, I was rather sorry to see her going; and she cried over us and wished us well; but we had forgotten all about her by the time we reached the open country, driving along, one on either side of Uncle Alec, whom we loved from the moment we saw him. He was a small man, with thin, delicate features, close-clipped gray beard, and large, tired, blue eyes -- father's eyes over again. We knew that Uncle Alec was fond of children and was heart-glad to welcome "Alan's boys." We felt at home with him, and were not afraid to ask him questions on any subject that came uppermost in our minds. We became very good friends with him on that twenty-four mile drive.

Much to our disappointment it was dark when we reached Carlisle -- too dark to see anything very distinctly, as we drove up the lane of the old King homestead on the hill. Behind us a young moon was hanging over southwestern meadows of spring-time peace, but all about us were the soft, moist shadows of a May night. We peered eagerly through the gloom.

"There's the big willow, Bev," whispered Felix excitedly, as we turned in at the gate.

There it was, in truth -- the tree Grandfather King had planted when he returned one evening from ploughing in the brook field and stuck the willow switch he had used all day in the soft soil by the gate.

It had taken root and grown; our father and our uncles and aunts had played in its shadow; and now it was a massive thing, with a huge girth of trunk and great spreading boughs, each of them as large as a tree in itself.

"I'm going to climb it to-morrow," I said joyfully.

Off to the right was a dim, branching place which we knew was the orchard; and on our left, among sibilant spruces and firs, was the old, whitewashed house -- from which presently a light gleamed through an open door, and Aunt Janet, a big, bustling, sonsy woman, with full-blown peony cheeks, came to welcome us.

Soon after we were at supper in the kitchen, with its low, dark, raftered ceiling from which substantial hams and flitches of bacon were hanging. Everything was just as father had described it. We felt that we had come home, leaving exile behind us.

Felicity, Cecily, and Dan were sitting opposite us, staring at us when they thought we would be too busy eating to see them. We tried to stare at them when THEY were eating; and as a result we were always catching each other at it and feeling cheap and embarrassed.

Dan was the oldest; he was my age -- thirteen. He was a lean, freckled fellow with rather long, lank, brown hair and the shapely King nose. We recognized it at once. His mouth was his own, however, for it was like to no mouth on either the King or the Ward side; and nobody would have been anxious to claim it, for it was an undeniably ugly one -- long and narrow and twisted. But it could grin in friendly fashion, and both Felix and I felt that we were going to like Dan.

Felicity was twelve. She had been called after Aunt Felicity, who was the twin sister of Uncle Felix. Aunt Felicity and Uncle Felix, as father had often told us, had died on the same day, far apart, and were buried side by side in the old Carlisle graveyard.

We had known from Aunt Olivia's letters, that Felicity was the beauty of the connection, and we had been curious to see her on that account. She fully justified our expectations. She was plump and dimpled, with big, dark-blue, heavy-lidded eyes, soft, feathery, golden curls, and a pink and white skin -- "the King complexion." The Kings were noted for their noses and complexion. Felicity had also delightful hands and wrists. At every turn of them a dimple showed itself. It was a pleasure to wonder what her elbows must be like.

She was very nicely dressed in a pink print and a frilled muslin apron; and we understood, from something Dan said, that she had "dressed up" in honour of our coming. This made us feel quite important. So far as we knew, no feminine creatures had ever gone to the pains of dressing up on our account before.

Cecily, who was eleven, was pretty also -- or would have been had Felicity not been there. Felicity rather took the colour from other girls. Cecily looked pale and thin beside her; but she had dainty little features, smooth brown hair of satin sheen, and mild brown eyes, with just a hint of demureness in them now and again. We remembered that Aunt Olivia had written to father that Cecily was a true Ward -- she had no sense of humour. We did not know what this meant, but we thought it was not exactly complimentary.

Still, we were both inclined to think we would like Cecily better than Felicity. To be sure, Felicity was a stunning beauty. But, with the swift and unerring intuition of childhood, which feels in a moment what it sometimes takes maturity much time to perceive, we realized that she was rather too well aware of her good looks. In brief, we saw that Felicity was vain.

"It's a wonder the Story Girl isn't over to see you," said Uncle Alec. "She's been quite wild with excitement about your coming."

"She hasn't been very well all day," explained Cecily, "and Aunt Olivia wouldn't let her come out in the night air. She made her go to bed instead. The Story Girl was awfully disappointed."

"Who is the Story Girl?" asked Felix.

"Oh, Sara -- Sara Stanley. We call her the Story Girl partly because she's such a hand to tell stories -- oh, I can't begin to describe it -- and partly because Sara Ray, who lives at the foot of the hill, often comes up to play with us, and it is awkward to have two girls of the same name in the same crowd. Besides, Sara Stanley doesn't like her name and she'd rather be called the Story Girl."

Dan speaking for the first time, rather sheepishly volunteered the information that Peter had also been intending to come over but had to go home to take some flour to his mother instead.

"Peter?" I questioned. I had never heard of any Peter.

"He is your Uncle Roger's handy boy," said Uncle Alec. "His name is Peter Craig, and he is a real smart little chap. But he's got his share of mischief, that same lad."

"He wants to be Felicity's beau," said Dan slyly.

"Don't talk silly nonsense, Dan," said Aunt Janet severely.

Felicity tossed her golden head and shot an unsisterly glance at Dan.

"I wouldn't be very likely to have a hired boy for a beau," she observed.

We saw that her anger was real, not affected. Evidently Peter was not an admirer of whom Felicity was proud.

We were very hungry boys; and when we had eaten all we could -- and oh, what suppers Aunt Janet always spread! -- we discovered that we were very tired also -- too tired to go out and explore our ancestral domains, as we would have liked to do, despite the dark.

We were quite willing to go to bed; and presently we found ourselves tucked away upstairs in the very room, looking out eastward into the spruce grove, which father had once occupied. Dan shared it with us, sleeping in a bed of his own in the opposite corner. The sheets and pillow-slips were fragrant with lavender, and one of Grandmother King's noted patchwork quilts was over us. The window was open and we heard the frogs singing down in the swamp of the brook meadow. We had heard frogs sing in Ontario, of course; but certainly Prince Edward Island frogs were more tuneful and mellow. Or was it simply the glamour of old family traditions and tales which was over us, lending its magic to all sights and sounds around us? This was home -- father's home -- OUR home! We had never lived long enough in any one house to develop a feeling of affection for it; but here, under the roof-tree built by Great-Grandfather King ninety years ago, that feeling swept into our boyish hearts and souls like a flood of living sweetness and tenderness.

"Just think, those are the very frogs father listened to when he was a little boy," whispered Felix.

"They can hardly be the SAME frogs," I objected doubtfully, not feeling very certain about the possible longevity of frogs. "It's twenty years since father left home."

"Well, they're the descendants of the frogs he heard," said Felix, "and they're singing in the same swamp. That's near enough."

Our door was open and in their room across the narrow hall the girls were preparing for bed, and talking rather more loudly than they might have done had they realized how far their sweet, shrill voices carried.

"What do you think of the boys?" asked Cecily.

"Beverley is handsome, but Felix is too fat," answered Felicity promptly.

Felix twitched the quilt rather viciously and grunted. But I began to think I would like Felicity. It might not be altogether her fault that she was vain. How could she help it when she looked in the mirror?

"I think they're both nice and nice looking," said Cecily.

Dear little soul!

"I wonder what the Story Girl will think of them," said Felicity, as if, after all, that was the main thing.

Somehow, we, too, felt that it was. We felt that if the Story Girl did not approve of us it made little difference who else did or did not.

"I wonder if the Story Girl is pretty," said Felix aloud.

"No, she isn't," said Dan instantly, from across the room. "But you'll think she is while she's talking to you. Everybody does. It's only when you go away from her that you find out she isn't a bit pretty after all."

The girls' door shut with a bang. Silence fell over the house. We drifted into the land of sleep, wondering if the Story Girl would like us.



Chapter II. A Queen Of Hearts

I wakened shortly after sunrise. The pale May sunshine was showering through the spruces, and a chill, inspiring wind was tossing the boughs about.

"Felix, wake up," I whispered, shaking him.

"What's the matter?" he murmured reluctantly.

"It's morning. Let's get up and go down and out. I can't wait another minute to see the places father has told us of."

We slipped out of bed and dressed, without arousing Dan, who was still slumbering soundly, his mouth wide open, and his bed-clothes kicked off on the floor. I had hard work to keep Felix from trying to see if he could "shy" a marble into that tempting open mouth. I told him it would waken Dan, who would then likely insist on getting up and accompanying us, and it would be so much nicer to go by ourselves for the first time.

Everything was very still as we crept downstairs. Out in the kitchen we heard some one, presumably Uncle Alec, lighting the fire; but the heart of house had not yet begun to beat for the day.

We paused a moment in the hall to look at the big "Grandfather" clock. It was not going, but it seemed like an old, familiar acquaintance to us, with the gilt balls on its three peaks; the little dial and pointer which would indicate the changes of the moon, and the very dent in its wooden door which father had made when he was a boy, by kicking it in a fit of naughtiness.

Then we opened the front door and stepped out, rapture swelling in our bosoms. There was a rare breeze from the south blowing to meet us; the shadows of the spruces were long and clear-cut; the exquisite skies of early morning, blue and wind-winnowed, were over us; away to the west, beyond the brook field, was a long valley and a hill purple with firs and laced with still leafless beeches and maples.

Behind the house was a grove of fir and spruce, a dim, cool place where the winds were fond of purring and where there was always a resinous, woodsy odour. On the further side of it was a thick plantation of slender silver birches and whispering poplars; and beyond it was Uncle Roger's house.

Right before us, girt about with its trim spruce hedge, was the famous King orchard, the history of which was woven into our earliest recollections. We knew all about it, from father's descriptions, and in fancy we had roamed in it many a time and oft.

It was now nearly sixty years since it had had its beginning, when Grandfather King brought his bride home. Before the wedding he had fenced off the big south meadow that sloped to the sun; it was the finest, most fertile field on the farm, and the neighbours told young Abraham King that he would raise many a fine crop of wheat in that meadow. Abraham King smiled and, being a man of few words, said nothing; but in his mind he had a vision of the years to be, and in that vision he saw, not rippling acres of harvest gold, but great, leafy avenues of wide-spreading trees laden with fruit to gladden the eyes of children and grandchildren yet unborn.

It was a vision to develop slowly into fulfilment. Grandfather King was in no hurry. He did not set his whole orchard out at once, for he wished it to grow with his life and history, and be bound up with all of good and joy that should come to his household. So the morning after he had brought his young wife home they went together to the south meadow and planted their bridal trees. These trees were no longer living; but they had been when father was a boy, and every spring bedecked themselves in blossom as delicately tinted as Elizabeth King's face when she walked through the old south meadow in the morn of her life and love.

When a son was born to Abraham and Elizabeth a tree was planted in the orchard for him. They had fourteen children in all, and each child had its "birth tree." Every family festival was commemorated in like fashion, and every beloved visitor who spent a night under their roof was expected to plant a tree in the orchard. So it came to pass that every tree in it was a fair green monument to some love or delight of the vanished years. And each grandchild had its tree, there, also, set out by grandfather when the tidings of its birth reached him; not always an apple tree -- perhaps it was a plum, or cherry or pear. But it was always known by the name of the person for whom, or by whom, it was planted; and Felix and I knew as much about "Aunt Felicity's pears," and "Aunt Julia's cherries," and "Uncle Alec's apples," and the "Rev. Mr. Scott's plums," as if we had been born and bred among them.

And now we had come to the orchard; it was before us; we had only to open that little whitewashed gate in the hedge and we might find ourselves in its storied domain. But before we reached the gate we glanced to our left, along the grassy, spruce-bordered lane which led over to Uncle Roger's; and at the entrance of that lane we saw a girl standing, with a gray cat at her feet. She lifted her hand and beckoned blithely to us; and, the orchard forgotten, we followed her summons. For we knew that this must be the Story Girl; and in that gay and graceful gesture was an allurement not to be gainsaid or denied.

We looked at her as we drew near with such interest that we forgot to feel shy. No, she was not pretty. She was tall for her fourteen years, slim and straight; around her long, white face -- rather too long and too white -- fell sleek, dark-brown curls, tied above either ear with rosettes of scarlet ribbon. Her large, curving mouth was as red as a poppy, and she had brilliant, almond-shaped, hazel eyes; but we did not think her pretty.

Then she spoke; she said,

"Good morning."

Never had we heard a voice like hers. Never, in all my life since, have I heard such a voice. I cannot describe it. I might say it was clear; I might say it was sweet; I might say it was vibrant and far-reaching and bell-like; all this would be true, but it would give you no real idea of the peculiar quality which made the Story Girl's voice what it was.

If voices had colour, hers would have been like a rainbow. It made words LIVE. Whatever she said became a breathing entity, not a mere verbal statement or utterance. Felix and I were too young to understand or analyze the impression it made upon us; but we instantly felt at her greeting that it WAS a good morning -- a surpassingly good morning -- the very best morning that had ever happened in this most excellent of worlds.

"You are Felix and Beverley," she went on, shaking our hands with an air of frank comradeship, which was very different from the shy, feminine advances of Felicity and Cecily. From that moment we were as good friends as if we had known each other for a hundred years. "I am glad to see you. I was so disappointed I couldn't go over last night. I got up early this morning, though, for I felt sure you would be up early, too, and that you'd like to have me tell you about things. I can tell things so much better than Felicity or Cecily. Do you think Felicity is VERY pretty?"

"She's the prettiest girl I ever saw," I said enthusiastically, remembering that Felicity had called me handsome.

"The boys all think so," said the Story Girl, not, I fancied, quite well pleased. "And I suppose she is. She is a splendid cook, too, though she is only twelve. I can't cook. I am trying to learn, but I don't make much progress. Aunt Olivia says I haven't enough natural gumption ever to be a cook; but I'd love to be able to make as good cakes and pies as Felicity can make. But then, Felicity is stupid. It's not ill-natured of me to say that. It's just the truth, and you'd soon find it out for yourselves. I like Felicity very well, but she IS stupid. Cecily is ever so much cleverer. Cecily's a dear. So is Uncle Alec; and Aunt Janet is pretty nice, too."

"What is Aunt Olivia like?" asked Felix.

"Aunt Olivia is very pretty. She is just like a pansy -- all velvety and purply and goldy."

Felix and I SAW, somewhere inside of our heads, a velvet and purple and gold pansy-woman, just as the Story Girl spoke.

"But is she NICE?" I asked. That was the main question about grown-ups. Their looks mattered little to us.

"She is lovely. But she is twenty-nine, you know. That's pretty old. She doesn't bother me much. Aunt Janet says that I'd have no bringing up at all, if it wasn't for her. Aunt Olivia says children should just be let COME up -- that everything else is settled for them long before they are born. I don't understand that. Do you?"

No, we did not. But it was our experience that grown-ups had a habit of saying things hard to understand.

"What is Uncle Roger like?" was our next question.

"Well, I like Uncle Roger," said the Story Girl meditatively. "He is big and jolly. But he teases people too much. You ask him a serious question and you get a ridiculous answer. He hardly ever scolds or gets cross, though, and THAT is something. He is an old bachelor."

"Doesn't he ever mean to get married?" asked Felix.

"I don't know. Aunt Olivia wishes he would, because she's tired keeping house for him, and she wants to go to Aunt Julia in California. But she says he'll never get married, because he is looking for perfection, and when he finds her she won't have HIM."

By this time we were all sitting down on the gnarled roots of the spruces, and the big gray cat came over and made friends with us. He was a lordly animal, with a silver-gray coat beautifully marked with darker stripes. With such colouring most cats would have had white or silver feet; but he had four black paws and a black nose. Such points gave him an air of distinction, and marked him out as quite different from the common or garden variety of cats. He seemed to be a cat with a tolerably good opinion of himself, and his response to our advances was slightly tinged with condescension.

"This isn't Topsy, is it?" I asked. I knew at once that the question was a foolish one. Topsy, the cat of which father had talked, had flourished thirty years before, and all her nine lives could scarcely have lasted so long.

"No, but it is Topsy's great-great-great-great-grandson," said the Story Girl gravely. "His name is Paddy and he is my own particular cat. We have barn cats, but Paddy never associates with them. I am very good friends with all cats. They are so sleek and comfortable and dignified. And it is so easy to make them happy. Oh, I'm so glad you boys have come to live here. Nothing ever happens here, except days, so we have to make our own good times. We were short of boys before -- only Dan and Peter to four girls."

"FOUR girls? Oh, yes, Sara Ray. Felicity mentioned her. What is she like? Where does she live?"

"Just down the hill. You can't see the house for the spruce bush. Sara is a nice girl. She's only eleven, and her mother is dreadfully strict. She never allows Sara to read a single story. JUST you fancy! Sara's conscience is always troubling her for doing things she's sure her mother won't approve, but it never prevents her from doing them. It only spoils her fun. Uncle Roger says that a mother who won't let you do anything, and a conscience that won't let you enjoy anything is an awful combination, and he doesn't wonder Sara is pale and thin and nervous. But, between you and me, I believe the real reason is that her mother doesn't give her half enough to eat. Not that she's mean, you know -- but she thinks it isn't healthy for children to eat much, or anything but certain things. Isn't it fortunate we weren't born into that sort of a family?"

"I think it's awfully lucky we were all born into the same family," Felix remarked.

"Isn't it? I've often thought so. And I've often thought what a dreadful thing it would have been if Grandfather and Grandmother King had never got married to each other. I don't suppose there would have been a single one of us children here at all; or if we were, we would be part somebody else and that would be almost as bad. When I think it all over I can't feel too thankful that Grandfather and Grandmother King happened to marry each other, when there were so many other people they might have married."

Felix and I shivered. We felt suddenly that we had escaped a dreadful danger -- the danger of having been born somebody else. But it took the Story Girl to make us realize just how dreadful it was and what a terrible risk we had run years before we, or our parents either, had existed.

"Who lives over there?" I asked, pointing to a house across the fields.

"Oh, that belongs to the Awkward Man. His name is Jasper Dale, but everybody calls him the Awkward Man. And they do say he writes poetry. He calls his place Golden Milestone. I know why, because I've read Longfellow's poems. He never goes into society because he is so awkward. The girls laugh at him and he doesn't like it. I know a story about him and I'll tell it to you sometime."

"And who lives in that other house?" asked Felix, looking over the westering valley where a little gray roof was visible among the trees.

"Old Peg Bowen. She's very queer. She lives there with a lot of pet animals in winter, and in summer she roams over the country and begs her meals. They say she is crazy. People have always tried to frighten us children into good behaviour by telling us that Peg Bowen would catch us if we didn't behave. I'm not so frightened of her as I once was, but I don't think I would like to be caught by her. Sara Ray is dreadfully scared of her. Peter Craig says she is a witch and that he bets she's at the bottom of it when the butter won't come. But I don't believe THAT. Witches are so scarce nowadays. There may be some somewhere in the world, but it's not likely there are any here right in Prince Edward Island. They used to be very plenty long ago. I know some splendid witch stories I'll tell you some day. They'll just make your blood freeze in your veins."

We hadn't a doubt of it. If anybody could freeze the blood in our veins this girl with the wonderful voice could. But it was a May morning, and our young blood was running blithely in our veins. We suggested a visit to the orchard would be more agreeable.

"All right. I know stories about it, too," she said, as we walked across the yard, followed by Paddy of the waving tail. "Oh, aren't you glad it is spring? The beauty of winter is that it makes you appreciate spring."

The latch of the gate clicked under the Story Girl's hand, and the next moment we were in the King orchard.



Chapter III. Legends Of The Old Orchard

Outside of the orchard the grass was only beginning to grow green; but here, sheltered by the spruce hedges from uncertain winds and sloping to southern suns, it was already like a wonderful velvet carpet; the leaves on the trees were beginning to come out in woolly, grayish clusters; and there were purple-pencilled white violets at the base of the Pulpit Stone.

"It's all just as father described it," said Felix with a blissful sigh, "and there's the well with the Chinese roof."

We hurried over to it, treading on the spears of mint that were beginning to shoot up about it. It was a very deep well, and the curb was of rough, undressed stones. Over it, the queer, pagoda-like roof, built by Uncle Stephen on his return from a voyage to China, was covered with yet leafless vines.

"It's so pretty, when the vines leaf out and hang down in long festoons," said the Story Girl. "The birds build their nests in it. A pair of wild canaries come here every summer. And ferns grow out between the stones of the well as far down as you can see. The water is lovely. Uncle Edward preached his finest sermon about the Bethlehem well where David's soldiers went to get him water, and he illustrated it by describing his old well at the homestead -- this very well -- and how in foreign lands he had longed for its sparkling water. So you see it is quite famous."

"There's a cup just like the one that used to be here in father's time," exclaimed Felix, pointing to an old-fashioned shallow cup of clouded blue ware on a little shelf inside the curb.

"It is the very same cup," said the Story Girl impressively. "Isn't it an amazing thing? That cup has been here for forty years, and hundreds of people have drunk from it, and it has never been broken. Aunt Julia dropped it down the well once, but they fished it up, not hurt a bit except for that little nick in the rim. I think it is bound up with the fortunes of the King family, like the Luck of Edenhall in Longfellow's poem. It is the last cup of Grandmother King's second best set. Her best set is still complete. Aunt Olivia has it. You must get her to show it to you. It's so pretty, with red berries all over it, and the funniest little pot-bellied cream jug. Aunt Olivia never uses it except on a family anniversary."

We took a drink from the blue cup and then went to find our birthday trees. We were rather disappointed to find them quite large, sturdy ones. It seemed to us that they should still be in the sapling stage corresponding to our boyhood.

"Your apples are lovely to eat," the Story Girl said to me, "but Felix's are only good for pies. Those two big trees behind them are the twins' trees -- my mother and Uncle Felix, you know. The apples are so dead sweet that nobody but us children and the French boys can eat them. And that tall, slender tree over there, with the branches all growing straight up, is a seedling that came up of itself, and NOBODY can eat its apples, they are so sour and bitter. Even the pigs won't eat them. Aunt Janet tried to make pies of them once, because she said she hated to see them going to waste. But she never tried again. She said it was better to waste apples alone than apples and sugar too. And then she tried giving them away to the French hired men, but they wouldn't even carry them home."

The Story Girl's words fell on the morning air like pearls and diamonds. Even her prepositions and conjunctions had untold charm, hinting at mystery and laughter and magic bound up in everything she mentioned. Apple pies and sour seedlings and pigs became straightway invested with a glamour of romance.

"I like to hear you talk," said Felix in his grave, stodgy way.

"Everybody does," said the Story Girl coolly. "I'm glad you like the way I talk. But I want you to like ME, too -- AS WELL as you like Felicity and Cecily. Not BETTER. I wanted that once but I've got over it. I found out in Sunday School, the day the minister taught our class, that it was selfish. But I want you to like me AS WELL."

"Well, I will, for one," said Felix emphatically. I think he was remembering that Felicity had called him fat.

Cecily now joined us. It appeared that it was Felicity's morning to help prepare breakfast, therefore she could not come. We all went to Uncle Stephen's Walk.

This was a double row of apple trees, running down the western side of the orchard. Uncle Stephen was the first born of Abraham and Elizabeth King. He had none of grandfather's abiding love for woods and meadows and the kindly ways of the warm red earth. Grandmother King had been a Ward, and in Uncle Stephen the blood of the seafaring race claimed its own. To sea he must go, despite the pleadings and tears of a reluctant mother; and it was from the sea he came to set out his avenue in the orchard with trees brought from a foreign land.

Then he sailed away again -- and the ship was never heard of more. The gray first came in grandmother's brown hair in those months of waiting. The, for the first time, the orchard heard the sound of weeping and was consecrated by a sorrow.

"When the blossoms come out it's wonderful to walk here," said the Story Girl. "It's like a dream of fairyland -- as if you were walking in a king's palace. The apples are delicious, and in winter it's a splendid place for coasting."

From the Walk we went to the Pulpit Stone -- a huge gray boulder, as high as a man's head, in the southeastern corner. It was straight and smooth in front, but sloped down in natural steps behind, with a ledge midway on which one could stand. It had played an important part in the games of our uncles and aunts, being fortified castle, Indian ambush, throne, pulpit, or concert platform, as occasion required. Uncle Edward had preached his first sermon at the age of eight from that old gray boulder; and Aunt Julia, whose voice was to delight thousands, sang her earliest madrigals there.

The Story Girl mounted to the ledge, sat on the rim, and looked at us. Pat sat gravely at its base and daintily washed his face with his black paws.

"Now for your stories about the orchard," said I.

"There are two important ones," said the Story Girl. "The story of the Poet Who Was Kissed, and the Tale of the Family Ghost. Which one shall I tell?"

"Tell them both," said Felix greedily, "but tell the ghost one first."

"I don't know." The Story Girl looked dubious. "That sort of story ought to be told in the twilight among the shadows. Then it would frighten the souls out of your bodies."

We thought it might be more agreeable not to have the souls frightened out of our bodies, and we voted for the Family Ghost.

"Ghost stories are more comfortable in daytime," said Felix.

The Story Girl began it and we listened avidly. Cecily, who had heard it many times before, listened just as eagerly as we did. She declared to me afterwards that no matter how often the Story Girl told a story it always seemed as new and exciting as if you had just heard it for the first time.

"Long, long ago," began the Story Girl, her voice giving us an impression of remote antiquity, "even before Grandfather King was born, an orphan cousin of his lived here with his parents. Her name was Emily King. She was very small and very sweet. She had soft brown eyes that were too timid to look straight at anybody -- like Cecily's there -- and long, sleek, brown curls -- like mine; and she had a tiny birthmark like a pink butterfly on one cheek -- right here.

"Of course, there was no orchard here then. It was just a field; but there was a clump of white birches in it, right where that big, spreading tree of Uncle Alec's is now, and Emily liked to sit among the ferns under the birches and read or sew. She had a lover. His name was Malcolm Ward and he was as handsome as a prince. She loved him with all her heart and he loved her the same; but they had never spoken about it. They used to meet under the birches and talk about everything except love. One day he told her he was coming the next day to ask A VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION, and he wanted to find her under the birches when he came. Emily promised to meet him there. I am sure she stayed awake that night, thinking about it, and wondering what the important question would be, although she knew perfectly well. I would have. And the next day she dressed herself beautifully in her best pale blue muslin and sleeked her curls and went smiling to the birches. And while she was waiting there, thinking such lovely thoughts, a neighbour's boy came running up -- a boy who didn't know about her romance -- and cried out that Malcolm Ward had been killed by his gun going off accidentally. Emily just put her hands to her heart -- so -- and fell, all white and broken among the ferns. And when she came back to life she never cried or lamented. She was CHANGED. She was never, never like herself again; and she was never contented unless she was dressed in her blue muslin and waiting under the birches. She got paler and paler every day, but the pink butterfly grew redder, until it looked just like a stain of blood on her white cheek. When the winter came she died. But next spring" -- the Story Girl dropped her voice to a whisper that was as audible and thrilling as her louder tones -- "people began to tell that Emily was sometimes seen waiting under the birches still. Nobody knew just who told it first. But more than one person saw her. Grandfather saw her when he was a little boy. And my mother saw her once."

"Did YOU ever see her?" asked Felix skeptically.

"No, but I shall some day, if I keep on believing in her," said the Story Girl confidently.

"I wouldn't like to see her. I'd be afraid," said Cecily with a shiver.

"There wouldn't be anything to be afraid of," said the Story Girl reassuringly. "It's not as if it were a strange ghost. It's our own family ghost, so of course it wouldn't hurt us."

We were not so sure of this. Ghosts were unchancy folk, even if they were our family ghosts. The Story Girl had made the tale very real to us. We were glad we had not heard it in the evening. How could we ever have got back to the house through the shadows and swaying branches of a darkening orchard? As it was, we were almost afraid to look up it, lest we should see the waiting, blue-clad Emily under Uncle Alec's tree. But all we saw was Felicity, tearing over the green sward, her curls streaming behind her in a golden cloud.

"Felicity's afraid she's missed something," remarked the Story Girl in a tone of quiet amusement. "Is your breakfast ready, Felicity, or have I time to tell the boys the Story of the Poet Who Was Kissed?"

"Breakfast is ready, but we can't have it till father is through attending to the sick cow, so you will likely have time," answered Felicity.

Felix and I couldn't keep our eyes off her. Crimson-cheeked, shining-eyed from her haste, her face was like a rose of youth. But when the Story Girl spoke, we forgot to look at Felicity.

"About ten years after Grandfather and Grandmother King were married, a young man came to visit them. He was a distant relative of grandmother's and he was a Poet. He was just beginning to be famous. He was VERY famous afterward. He came into the orchard to write a poem, and he fell asleep with his head on a bench that used to be under grandfather's tree. Then Great-Aunt Edith came into the orchard. She was not a Great-Aunt then, of course. She was only eighteen, with red lips and black, black hair and eyes. They say she was always full of mischief. She had been away and had just come home, and she didn't know about the Poet. But when she saw him, sleeping there, she thought he was a cousin they had been expecting from Scotland. And she tiptoed up -- so -- and bent over -- so -- and kissed his cheek. Then he opened his big blue eyes and looked up into Edith's face. She blushed as red as a rose, for she knew she had done a dreadful thing. This could not be her cousin from Scotland. She knew, for he had written so to her, that he had eyes as black as her own. Edith ran away and hid; and of course she felt still worse when she found out that he was a famous poet. But he wrote one of his most beautiful poems on it afterwards and sent it to her -- and it was published in one of his books."

We had SEEN it all -- the sleeping genius -- the roguish, red-lipped girl -- the kiss dropped as lightly as a rose-petal on the sunburned cheek.

"They should have got married," said Felix.

"Well, in a book they would have, but you see this was in real life," said the Story Girl. "We sometimes act the story out. I like it when Peter plays the poet. I don't like it when Dan is the poet because he is so freckled and screws his eyes up so tight. But you can hardly ever coax Peter to be the poet -- except when Felicity is Edith -- and Dan is so obliging that way."

"What is Peter like?" I asked.

"Peter is splendid. His mother lives on the Markdale road and washes for a living. Peter's father ran away and left them when Peter was only three years old. He has never come back, and they don't know whether he is alive or dead. Isn't that a nice way to behave to your family? Peter has worked for his board ever since he was six. Uncle Roger sends him to school, and pays him wages in summer. We all like Peter, except Felicity."

"I like Peter well enough in his place," said Felicity primly, "but you make far too much of him, mother says. He is only a hired boy, and he hasn't been well brought up, and hasn't much education. I don't think you should make such an equal of him as you do."

Laughter rippled over the Story Girl's face as shadow waves go over ripe wheat before a wind.

"Peter is a real gentleman, and he is more interesting than YOU could ever be, if you were brought up and educated for a hundred years," she said.

"He can hardly write," said Felicity.

"William the Conqueror couldn't write at all," said the Story Girl crushingly.

"He never goes to church, and he never says his prayers," retorted Felicity, uncrushed.

"I do, too," said Peter himself, suddenly appearing through a little gap in the hedge. "I say my prayers sometimes."

This Peter was a slim, shapely fellow, with laughing black eyes and thick black curls. Early in the season as it was, he was barefooted. His attire consisted of a faded, gingham shirt and a scanty pair of corduroy knickerbockers; but he wore it with such an unconscious air of purple and fine linen that he seemed to be much better dressed than he really was.

"You don't pray very often," insisted Felicity.

"Well, God will be all the more likely to listen to me if I don't pester Him all the time," argued Peter.

This was rank heresy to Felicity, but the Story Girl looked as if she thought there might be something in it.

"You NEVER go to church, anyhow," continued Felicity, determined not to be argued down.

"Well, I ain't going to church till I've made up my mind whether I'm going to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian. Aunt Jane was a Methodist. My mother ain't much of anything but I mean to be something. It's more respectable to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian, or SOMETHING, than not to be anything. When I've settled what I'm to be I'm going to church same as you."

"That's not the same as being BORN something," said Felicity loftily.

"I think it's a good deal better to pick your own religion than have to take it just because it was what your folks had," retorted Peter.

"Now, never mind quarrelling," said Cecily. "You leave Peter alone, Felicity. Peter, this is Beverley King, and this is Felix. And we're all going to be good friends and have a lovely summer together. Think of the games we can have! But if you go squabbling you'll spoil it all. Peter, what are you going to do to-day?"

"Harrow the wood field and dig your Aunt Olivia's flower beds."

"Aunt Olivia and I planted sweet peas yesterday," said the Story Girl, "and I planted a little bed of my own. I am NOT going to dig them up this year to see if they have sprouted. It is bad for them. I shall try to cultivate patience, no matter how long they are coming up."

"I am going to help mother plant the vegetable garden to-day," said Felicity.

"Oh, I never like the vegetable garden," said the Story Girl. "Except when I am hungry. Then I DO like to go and look at the nice little rows of onions and beets. But I love a flower garden. I think I could be always good if I lived in a garden all the time."

"Adam and Eve lived in a garden all the time," said Felicity, "and THEY were far from being always good."

"They mightn't have kept good as long as they did if they hadn't lived in a garden," said the Story Girl.

We were now summoned to breakfast. Peter and the Story Girl slipped away through the gap, followed by Paddy, and the rest of us walked up the orchard to the house.

"Well, what do you think of the Story Girl?" asked Felicity.

"She's just fine," said Felix, enthusiastically. "I never heard anything like her to tell stories."

"She can't cook," said Felicity, "and she hasn't a good complexion. Mind you, she says she's going to be an actress when she grows up. Isn't that dreadful?"

We didn't exactly see why.

"Oh, because actresses are always wicked people," said Felicity in a shocked tone. "But I daresay the Story Girl will go and be one just as soon as she can. Her father will back her up in it. He is an artist, you know."

Evidently Felicity thought artists and actresses and all such poor trash were members one of another.

"Aunt Olivia says the Story Girl is fascinating," said Cecily.

The very adjective! Felix and I recognized its beautiful fitness at once. Yes, the Story Girl WAS fascinating and that was the final word to be said on the subject.

Dan did not come down until breakfast was half over, and Aunt Janet talked to him after a fashion which made us realize that it would be well to keep, as the piquant country phrase went, from the rough side of her tongue. But all things considered, we liked the prospect of our summer very much. Felicity to look at -- the Story Girl to tell us tales of wonder -- Cecily to admire us -- Dan and Peter to play with -- what more could reasonable fellows want?



Chapter IV. The Wedding Veil Of The Proud Princess

When we had lived for a fortnight in Carlisle we belonged there, and the freedom of all its small fry was conferred on us. With Peter and Dan, with Felicity and Cecily and the Story Girl, with pale, gray-eyed little Sara Ray, we were boon companions. We went to school, of course; and certain home chores were assigned to each of us for the faithful performance of which we were held responsible. But we had long hours for play. Even Peter had plenty of spare time when the planting was over.

We got along very well with each other in the main, in spite of some minor differences of opinion. As for the grown-up denizens of our small world, they suited us also.

We adored Aunt Olivia; she was pretty and merry and kind; and, above all, she had mastered to perfection the rare art of letting children alone. If we kept ourselves tolerably clean, and refrained from quarrelling or talking slang, Aunt Olivia did not worry us. Aunt Janet, on the contrary, gave us so much good advice and was so constantly telling us to do this or not to do the other thing, that we could not remember half her instructions, and did not try.

Uncle Roger was, as we had been informed, quite jolly and fond of teasing. We liked him; but we had an uncomfortable feeling that the meaning of his remarks was not always that which met the ear. Sometimes we believed Uncle Roger was making fun of us, and the deadly seriousness of youth in us resented that.

To Uncle Alec we gave our warmest love. We felt that we always had a friend at court in Uncle Alec, no matter what we did or left undone. And we never had to turn HIS speeches inside out to discover their meaning.

The social life of juvenile Carlisle centred in the day and Sunday Schools. We were especially interested in our Sunday School, for we were fortunate enough to be assigned to a teacher who made our lessons so interesting that we no longer regarded Sunday School attendance as a disagreeable weekly duty; but instead looked forward to it with pleasure, and tried to carry out our teacher's gentle precepts -- at least on Mondays and Tuesdays. I am afraid the remembrance grew a little dim the rest of the week.

She was also deeply interested in missions; and one talk on this subject inspired the Story Girl to do a little home missionary work on her own account. The only thing she could think of, along this line, was to persuade Peter to go to church.

Felicity did not approve of the design, and said so plainly.

"He won't know how to behave, for he's never been inside a church door in his life," she warned the Story Girl. "He'll likely do something awful, and then you'll feel ashamed and wish you'd never asked him to go, and we'll all be disgraced. It's all right to have our mite boxes for the heathen, and send missionaries to them. They're far away and we don't have to associate with them. But I don't want to have to sit in a pew with a hired boy."

But the Story Girl undauntedly continued to coax the reluctant Peter. It was not an easy matter. Peter did not come of a churchgoing stock; and besides, he alleged, he had not yet made up his mind whether to be a Presbyterian or a Methodist.

"It isn't a bit of difference which you are," pleaded the Story Girl. "They both go to heaven."

"But one way must be easier or better than the other, or else they'd all be one kind," argued Peter. "I want to find the easiest way. And I've got a hankering after the Methodists. My Aunt Jane was a Methodist."

"Isn't she one still?" asked Felicity pertly.

"Well, I don't know exactly. She's dead," said Peter rebukingly. "Do people go on being just the same after they're dead?"

"No, of course not. They're angels then -- not Methodists or anything, but just angels. That is, if they go to heaven."

"S'posen they went to the other place?"

But Felicity's theology broke down at this point. She turned her back on Peter and walked disdainfully away.

The Story Girl returned to the main point with a new argument.

"We have such a lovely minister, Peter. He looks just like the picture of St. John my father sent me, only he is old and his hair is white. I know you'd like him. And even if you are going to be a Methodist it won't hurt you to go to the Presbyterian church. The nearest Methodist church is six miles away, at Markdale, and you can't attend there just now. Go to the Presbyterian church until you're old enough to have a horse."

"But s'posen I got too fond of being Presbyterian and couldn't change if I wanted to?" objected Peter.

Altogether, the Story Girl had a hard time of it; but she persevered; and one day she came to us with the announcement that Peter had yielded.

"He's going to church with us to-morrow," she said triumphantly.

We were out in Uncle Roger's hill pasture, sitting on some smooth, round stones under a clump of birches. Behind us was an old gray fence, with violets and dandelions thick in its corners. Below us was the Carlisle valley, with its orchard-embowered homesteads, and fertile meadows. Its upper end was dim with a delicate spring mist. Winds blew up the field like wave upon wave of sweet savour -- spice of bracken and balsam.

We were eating little jam "turnovers," which Felicity had made for us. Felicity's turnovers were perfection. I looked at her and wondered why it was not enough that she should be so pretty and capable of making such turnovers. If she were only more interesting! Felicity had not a particle of the nameless charm and allurement which hung about every motion of the Story Girl, and made itself manifest in her lightest word and most careless glance. Ah well, one cannot have every good gift! The Story Girl had no dimples at her slim, brown wrists.

We all enjoyed our turnovers except Sara Ray. She ate hers but she knew she should not have done so. Her mother did not approve of snacks between meals, or of jam turnovers at any time. Once, when Sara was in a brown study, I asked her what she was thinking of.

"I'm trying to think of something ma hasn't forbid," she answered with a sigh.

We were all glad to hear that Peter was going to church, except Felicity. She was full of gloomy forebodings and warnings.

"I'm surprised at you, Felicity King," said Cecily severely. "You ought to be glad that poor boy is going to get started in the right way."

"There's a great big patch on his best pair of trousers," protested Felicity.

"Well, that's better than a hole," said the Story Girl, addressing herself daintily to her turnover. "God won't notice the patch."

"No, but the Carlisle people will," retorted Felicity, in a tone which implied that what the Carlisle people thought was far more important. "And I don't believe that Peter has got a decent stocking to his name. What will you feel like if he goes to church with the skin of his legs showing through the holes, Miss Story Girl?"

"I'm not a bit afraid," said the Story Girl staunchly. "Peter knows better than that."

"Well, all I hope is that he'll wash behind his ears," said Felicity resignedly.

"How is Pat to-day?" asked Cecily, by way of changing the conversation.

"Pat isn't a bit better. He just mopes about the kitchen," said the Story Girl anxiously. "I went out to the barn and I saw a mouse. I had a stick in my hand and I fetched a swipe at it -- so. I killed it stone dead. Then I took it in to Paddy. Will you believe it? He wouldn't even look at it. I'm so worried. Uncle Roger says he needs a dose of physic. But how is he to be made take it, that's the question. I mixed a powder in some milk and tried to pour it down his throat while Peter held him. Just look at the scratches I got! And the milk went everywhere except down Pat's throat."

"Wouldn't it be awful if -- if anything happened to Pat?" whispered Cecily.

"Well, we could have a jolly funeral, you know," said Dan.

We looked at him in such horror that Dan hastened to apologize.

"I'd be awful sorry myself if Pat died. But if he DID, we'd have to give him the right kind of a funeral," he protested. "Why, Paddy just seems like one of the family."

The Story Girl finished her turnover, and stretched herself out on the grasses, pillowing her chin in her hands and looking at the sky. She was bare headed, as usual, and her scarlet ribbon was bound filletwise about her head. She had twined freshly plucked dandelions around it and the effect was that of a crown of brilliant golden stars on her sleek, brown curls.

"Look at that long, thin, lacy cloud up there," she said. "What does it make you think of, girls?"

"A wedding veil," said Cecily.

"That is just what it is -- the Wedding Veil of the Proud Princess. I know a story about it. I read it in a book. Once upon a time" -- the Story Girl's eyes grew dreamy, and her accents floated away on the summer air like wind-blown rose petals -- "there was a princess who was the most beautiful princess in the world, and kings from all lands came to woo her for a bride. But she was as proud as she was beautiful. She laughed all her suitors to scorn. And when her father urged her to choose one of them as her husband she drew herself up haughtily -- so -- "

The Story Girl sprang to her feet and for a moment we saw the proud princess of the old tale in all her scornful loveliness -- 

"and she said,

"'I will not wed until a king comes who can conquer all kings. Then I shall be the wife of the king of the world and no one can hold herself higher than I.'

"So every king went to war to prove that he could conquer every one else, and there was a great deal of bloodshed and misery. But the proud princess laughed and sang, and she and her maidens worked at a wonderful lace veil which she meant to wear when the king of all kings came. It was a very beautiful veil; but her maidens whispered that a man had died and a woman's heart had broken for every stitch set in it.

"Just when a king thought he had conquered everybody some other king would come and conquer HIM; and so it went on until it did not seem likely the proud princess would ever get a husband at all. But still her pride was so great that she would not yield, even though everybody except the kings who wanted to marry her, hated her for the suffering she had caused. One day a horn was blown at the palace gate; and there was one tall man in complete armor with his visor down, riding on a white horse. When he said he had come to marry the princess every one laughed, for he had no retinue and no beautiful apparel, and no golden crown.

"'But I am the king who conquers all kings,' he said.

"'You must prove it before I shall marry you,' said the proud princess. But she trembled and turned pale, for there was something in his voice that frightened her. And when he laughed, his laughter was still more dreadful.

"'I can easily prove it, beautiful princess,' he said, 'but you must go with me to my kingdom for the proof. Marry me now, and you and I and your father and all your court will ride straightway to my kingdom; and if you are not satisfied then that I am the king who conquers all kings you may give me back my ring and return home free of me forever more.'

"It was a strange wooing and the friends of the princess begged her to refuse. But her pride whispered that it would be such a wonderful thing to be the queen of the king of the world; so she consented; and her maidens dressed her, and put on the long lace veil that had been so many years a-making. Then they were married at once, but the bridegroom never lifted his visor and no one saw his face. The proud princess held herself more proudly than ever, but she was as white as her veil. And there was no laughter or merry-making, such as should be at a wedding, and every one looked at every one else with fear in his eyes.

"After the wedding the bridegroom lifted his bride before him on his white horse, and her father and all the members of his court mounted, too, and rode after them. On and on they rode, and the skies grew darker and the wind blew and wailed, and the shades of evening came down. And just in the twilight they rode into a dark valley, filled with tombs and graves.

"'Why have you brought me here?' cried the proud princess angrily.

"'This is my kingdom,' he answered. 'These are the tombs of the kings I have conquered. Behold me, beautiful princess. I am Death!'

"He lifted his visor. All saw his awful face. The proud princess shrieked.

"'Come to my arms, my bride,' he cried. 'I have won you fairly. I am the king who conquers all kings!'

"He clasped her fainting form to his breast and spurred his white horse to the tombs. A tempest of rain broke over the valley and blotted them from sight. Very sadly the old king and courtiers rode home, and never, never again did human eye behold the proud princess. But when those long, white clouds sweep across the sky, the country people in the land where she lived say, 'Look you, there is the Wedding Veil of the Proud Princess.'"

The weird spell of the tale rested on us for some moments after the Story Girl had finished. We had walked with her in the place of death and grown cold with the horror that chilled the heart of the poor princess. Dan presently broke the spell.

"You see it doesn't do to be too proud, Felicity," he remarked, giving her a poke. "You'd better not say too much about Peter's patches."



Chapter V. Peter Goes To Church

There was no Sunday School the next afternoon, as superintendent and teachers wished to attend a communion service at Markdale. The Carlisle service was in the evening, and at sunset we were waiting at Uncle Alec's front door for Peter and the Story Girl.

None of the grown-ups were going to church. Aunt Olivia had a sick headache and Uncle Roger stayed home with her. Aunt Janet and Uncle Alec had gone to the Markdale service and had not yet returned.

Felicity and Cecily were wearing their new summer muslins for the first time -- and were acutely conscious of the fact. Felicity, her pink and white face shadowed by her drooping, forget-me-not-wreathed, leghorn hat, was as beautiful as usual; but Cecily, having tortured her hair with curl papers all night, had a rampant bush of curls all about her head which quite destroyed the sweet, nun-like expression of her little features. Cecily cherished a grudge against fate because she had not been given naturally curly hair as had the other two girls. But she attained the desire of her heart on Sundays at least, and was quite well satisfied. It was impossible to convince her that the satin smooth lustre of her week-day tresses was much more becoming to her.

Presently Peter and the Story Girl appeared, and we were all more or less relieved to see that Peter looked quite respectable, despite the indisputable patch on his trousers. His face was rosy, his thick black curls were smoothly combed, and his tie was neatly bowed; but it was his legs which we scrutinized most anxiously. At first glance they seemed well enough; but closer inspection revealed something not altogether customary.

"What is the matter with your stockings, Peter?" asked Dan bluntly.

"Oh, I hadn't a pair without holes in the legs," answered Peter easily, "because ma hadn't time to darn them this week. So I put on two pairs. The holes don't come in the same places, and you'd never notice them unless you looked right close."

"Have you got a cent for collection?" demanded Felicity.

"I've got a Yankee cent. I s'pose it will do, won't it?"

Felicity shook her head vehemently.

"Oh, no, no. It may be all right to pass a Yankee cent on a store keeper or an egg peddler, but it would never do for church."

"I'll have to go without any, then," said Peter. "I haven't another cent. I only get fifty cents a week and I give it all to ma last night."

But Peter must have a cent. Felicity would have given him one herself -- and she was none too lavish of her coppers -- rather than have him go without one. Dan, however, lent him one, on the distinct understanding that it was to be repaid the next week.

Uncle Roger wandered by at this moment and, beholding Peter, said,

"'Is Saul also among the prophets?' What can have induced you to turn church-goer, Peter, when all Olivia's gentle persuasions were of no avail? The old, old argument I suppose -- 'beauty draws us with a single hair.'"